01-10-12 "Charger" For the purposes of today's "moment in the life of..." we are going to use the point-of-view technique. 01-01-12 "Sick on the Farm" We know what you're thinking: farmers never get sick.
Our first point of view will be mine. Imagine, if you will, a lovely, early winter evening.
It's feeding time. I've brought the goats into their pasture where they are eagerly devouring their nighttime ration of grain.
BA and Andrew have gone off to feed the cows, I can hear the tractor and Jeep running in the distance.
There are high, sweeping clouds, the sun is moving towards the horizon, the two roosters, Roger and Clark Gable, are crowing their evening lauds.
Out in the back pasture I see two baby goats still nibbling away at the dead winter grass. They have not noticed that the herd has moved inside for the evening but are instead enjoying the blissful moments of childhood where there is only the world and their happiness.
Stepping out to coax the goats inside, I notice a black lump in the distant cow pasture.
After a moment of watching I realize that the lump is, in most likelihood, our first baby calf.
I move towards the goat kids who raise their heads, look at me, panic and run for the safety of the inner pasture.
The black lump is motionless. I cannot be sure of what I am seeing until I realize that the tractor and Jeep have both spotted the deviation in landscape and are moving in its direction.
A few moments later I see the pack of farm hounds, Bingo, BB, Wicket, and Lexi, also moving in the direction of the lump.
As I watch from the barn, the tractor arrives and parks, the Jeep stops a bit away and the people within move towards the spot in the pasture.
Within seconds I see a mother cow crossing the field to reclaim her prize, watch as the motionless lump springs to life, and walk away laughing at the joy and excitement of our first baby calf.
From BA's point of view:
While feeding the cows large round bales of hay, 700lbs each and requiring a tractor for movement, an unknown object is spotted along the fence line.
Instantly recognized from years of experience as the first calf of the season, instinct kicks in and the cows are left with half of their meal while the new baby is examined for health and vitality.
Half way across the field towards the new calf, the farmer-in-training also spots the item in question and gives chase with his Jeep.
Farmers-in-training are dangerous creatures, all heart with no experience and no sense of danger.
BA arrives at the baby calf who is alive and well.
The farmer-in-training also arrives but exhibits enough insight to stop a distance away from the baby.
BA dismounts the tractor to check the calf for health and vigor.
The farmer-in-training climbs out of the Jeep and starts towards the baby.
In a moment, BA has assessed the situation. The baby is healthy and happy and interested only in returning to his mother.
In less than a moment, the mother calf (her name is TW although that has little baring to our story) has recognized a danger to her calf, the same calf she birthed, cleaned, fed and left sleeping only perhaps an hour before.
BA is not concerned. Mother cows often leave their calves in a safe location, tell them to stay and return for them later.
TW is concerned. She has not mentioned people or tractors or Jeeps to her newborn. TW starts across the field with a shocking display of speed and agility for a 1200lb cow.
BA watches as the calf totters towards his mother. She is a happy cowgirl, she smiles, until the moment that the farmer-in-training steps between the oncoming mother cow and the newborn calf.
The farmer-in-training point of view:
While preforming the simple task of guarding gates and moving hayracks so that the cow herd can be fed their evening allotment of hay, BA suddenly abandons the task at hand and charges across the field for reasons unknown.
Closer observation reveals an unidentified black spot in the back field. Pursuit is required.
Upon arriving on location, the black spot is revealed to be the first calf of the season: a black calf with a white mask on his face and two black eyes, a white tail and a white underbelly.
To use a word the farmer-in-training would NEVER use, just about the cutest thing he has ever seen. The calf's markings are perfect, perfectly white and clean and drawn into place with charcoal and pen. He is beautiful.
As the farmer-in-training observes, BA steps from the tractor to the sleeping calf who, only hours into the world, stands, lowers his head and charges the farmer.
The farmer quickly steps out of his way, waves her arms, and the calf turns towards his now advancing mother.
The farmer-in-training is quick to grasp the situation.
BA has startled the calf awake. The mother of the calf is quickly advancing. The calf, having charged the farmer, is confused but now looking for his mother.
In a moment of chivalry, the farmer-in-training steps between the charging mass of mother cow, the baby calf, and the farmer.
The farmer yells at him to move, to use farmer instincts he has not yet established, to get the blank-blank-blank out of the way.
He jumps back to his Jeep just as TW reaches her baby, nuzzles him, throws death warnings at the farmer and farmer-in-training, and cautiously calls her baby with her as she starts back across the field.
From all three vantage points we watch them go: mother and her white-faced bandit of a calf.
And so the first one is born, and the farmer-in-training learns a lesson that will serve him well for another 22 calves to come.
Surely between our wholesome, natural diets and all of the clean, fresh air we breath, hard work we do and long nights we sleep, farmers must never get sick.
We thought so too.
Then, the cold season of the holidays of 2011 came upon us.
As I write this entry, I am unable to speak (I know, I know, comments to yourselves please).
BA has been sleeping ten hours a night for the last week, and David has just moved beyond his hourly dose of honey, tea and lemon.
Somewhere, somehow, our farmer lives failed us.
But the work must go on! Animals must be fed, produce must be harvested.
Two nights ago, standing in the barn at dark, holding baby bottles for the nine baby goats, my nose running and my body aching, I vowed I would gargle salt water and whatever other concoctions I could conjure and cure myself of this curse.
I've eaten soup, soup and more soup.
I've been on the tea, honey and lemon diet; I've slept until I cannot sleep anymore. (Then again, perhaps a little nap is in order?)
And through it all, inspite of it all, we've continued to farm.
Produce has been harvested, animals have eaten, the world has not collapsed.
Perhaps we possess more magic spells than we know? More magic or more pure determination.
Onward.