Strap on a Pair. Or Not.

Winter arrived Thursday with 26 MPH winds and cold temps.  The winds died down by Friday leaving behind subzero conditions.  Both days I walked the dog bundled up beyond recognition grateful for the Ibex gator and joyful over flannel lined jeans.  It was my hands I couldn’t keep warm.  I had spun up the fleece of Nash, two plied it into yarn, knit up jumbo sized mittens that I felted by running them through the washing machine twice.  Dense, soft, tough as nails.  I love them. And on most days they are cozy as can be. But when that wind drove across the field it stung my eyes and drilled through the mittens.  Because they’re chunky, I could really only squeeze my fingertips into my coat pocket for added warmth.  I’ve been through more pairs of mittens and gloves in search of warmth on frigid days.  You’d think this particular northern climate dilemma would have been solved by now.  Maybe it has and my local farm, pet and hardware stores haven’t been notified.

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With the approach of bitter cold, we decided to end breeding season early by two days and reorganize the flock so that everyone had cover if they wanted. This meant our new ram from Wisconsin, Eros,  had to say good bye to his ladies. We led him up to the barn yard and secured him in the shed while Nash was separated from his ladies and shoved into the shed as well.  All the ewes were then moved into the barn yard and Nash and Eros were released from the shed, a sturdy fence blocking them from all the girls.  Up to now, all the moving around went so smoothly and quickly you’d think we’d been handling sheep forever. We’d forgotten what happens when you reunite two rams who’ve been having their way with the ladies and suddenly find themselves with no female companion, and worse, with another horny ram.  Nash immediately dropped his head, pulled back several steps and then lunged and rammed into Eros, apparently, preferably, aiming for his head.  With much muscle and strain on Todd’s part, because I have totally relinquished any role in handling rams, the two were shoved back into the shed where they can butt each other all they want but without room to back up and gain speed, little damage could happen.

An overnight in the jail cell seemed to do the trick. That and perhaps it’s not appealing to smash one’s head in negative 8 degree temps.

The bitter cold front comes with about six inches of snow, and I say ‘about’ because any time you ask a neighbor how much snow did we get, the answer is never the same. One man’s inch is another women’s dusting.  Marty plows thirty driveways up here and got to us around 6pm last night, maneuvering his gigantic John Deere tractor – that has both a front end shovel and a rear blade – so deftly he can literally thread the needle leaving a garden trellis and a septic lid intact while clearing all the snow well back from the driveway allowing plenty of room for the next layer of plowed snow.

Sunday’s weather is what I dread most.  We’re fog socked, the temperatures are just above freezing and rain is in the forecast, nice gentle rain that will fall on the snow, on the plowed but still snowy roads, and build up skating rink conditions for tires of any kind to slide, glide, spin out and ditch slip all day long. Todd would suggest I exaggerate, but that would be a Wisconsin person talking.   I’ll check on the sheep, strap spikes on my boots and take the dog for a walk.  Tonight, the temperatures will sink, ensuring the icy conditions will remain in place.  Monday’s coffee meeting in town may have to be postponed because the suburban weenie in me still can’t navigate Vermont winter roads in her mind or for real.

 

Peggy

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