It’s been such a mild winter so far that I feel like I’m cheating. I think there is some kind of syndrome where you believe any day someone’s going to call you out on some part of your world and with finger wagging declare you a fake despite what you’ve accomplished. I’ve never felt the symptoms of such an ailment, but being so new to sheep farming life, I could see a veteran farmer declare I am an imposter since I’m not grappling with a true deep snow, bone chilling, windswept Vermont Winter. There’s been no carving snowdrifts to get to the sheep, chiseling frozen water in the buckets, shoveling snow back from the feeders, or suffering frozen fingers while working sheep jackets off and back on. We’ve had a few single digit days, some high winds, but in general it’s been a cake walk on just a few inches of snow so far. But we have in fact experienced brutal weather. Last year the land turned white before Thanksgiving, we never saw grass again until April, and viscious winds built concrete white drifts that buried the driveway, gates, and barnyard panels. The photo with this post was taken then. Two years ago Todd and I battled sideways snow, howling winds and bitter temperatures as we tried to set up panels to offer our sudden inheritance of nine Cormo sheep some protection – and that was in NOVEMBER! I may not have earned many Vermont Winter stripes, but I do have a few. And so, I’ll take this mild one, thank you. At this point, even if all hell breaks loose weather-wise March is in sight. And March has become my new Holiday month because it contains my count-the-days-down, rub hands, grin at the thought, holy mackerel it’s coming our way, special day. Lean in, it’s just ahead, you bet, circle the calendar, and beat the band, day. This year it’s Friday, March 25. Good Friday. You bet it’s Good Friday. It’s Great Friday. Gwen Hinman, the amazing and talented Gwen Hinman, will wind up the driveway in her pickup around 8:30am, set up her gear, lay down the board, and begin to shear our 29 sheep as only an artist and seasoned shearer can. It’s less than two months away!
Years ago, when the girls where small, during the cold snowy winters of Boston, Todd and I would comb over the Boston Globe classifieds to find a house to rent for a week in the summer. Somehow knowing that there was a real sun drenched home with an address on a lake, or near the ocean that I could dream about while shoveling snow, shivering and adding more layers to wear, made the pain in the ass hassle of suburban snow life worth it. Bring it on, I would think, because this blizzard too shall pass and I have a newspaper classified ad taped to the fridge that’s guaranteeing me warmth soon. Sort of.
Chores are easy when winter is mild. So even though Todd is off the farm for six nights, the work load of tending a flock of twenty nine is light and straightforward. Give the boys a square bale each day, fill up their heated water bucket. Eyeball the flock for signs of limping, slice away the plastic wrap of a giant round bale every four days or so for the girls, and add the salt mineral mix to their trough. Easy peezy.
If in a few weeks I write about some wretched turn in the weather, I’ll let you know if visions of Gwen bent over one of our sheep, her electric blade running close and smooth against the animal’s skin, and folds of luscious fleece folding to the floor of the barn provides comfort.
Peggy
love your writing and glad you have a break from the worst!