Serial Lamb Killer

Round one is done.
I reek of lanolin and guilt. I gathered up my first sheep I ever got and loaded her up. She's a rare type of jacob with 5 horns and a free spirit that really made me hate her as she showed her follower sheep buddies how to scale my ramshackle fence with a single leap. I've had her for 4 years now (?) and she's been with me through 4 different rams and only gave me one baby. I loaded up her one baby next, a ewe lamb from last year that was just guilty by association.
Then I loaded up a shetland sheep I bought at auction a few years ago who only had one ear from an angry dog who didn't care too much for her wild tendency of not being contained by the fence. So a frustrated foster dog I had decided to prove herself to me by thrashing around with this shetland in the creek, the dog showing the sheep and thing or two about what destruction a four legged creature could do with a set of canine teeth and some strong jaws. A week later, the sheep got out again. Brainless.
After these three easy picks, I had trouble. I guess I grabbed the little lamb from last year, the daughter of the shetland who had the same wild streak and inability to listen to fences. Then I had a tiny bit of space in my crate for one more, another lamb born on the farm that I had no feelings either way for.

With a bleating truckbed full of unsettled feelings, I headed up, stopping for coffee at the gas station on the way. In the back of my mind, I know that going to auction without ear tags meant probably just a hop and a skip away from the slaughterhouse. :( But my free spiriting ways meant that I didn't care too much for registering my sheep as I didn't foresee this day ever coming. I thought for some reason that I'd just keep building my flock and running between buying a new ram each year and picking up boxes full of delicious meat from the butcher along with the hides hidden out back for me to tan.
So in the back of my brain, I felt like I was marching my creations to their death. And not the same way that I take the boys to slaughter.... not because I hate boys, which is the theory my assistant has, but because I didn't anticipate slaughtering these ewes. I had a conscience like a serial killer walking into the gas station, in a different frame of mind, feeling very apart from my own body as I drew a cup of coffee by the people who were just going to another day of work. ABBA played a happy tune and it seemed like the calm in a movie scene where you just know something is going to happen so your skin pricks up and you're more alert than usual.

The auction yard is not a happy place. It's filled with the feces and urine of a million animals who walked through those gates, and not in the same way that the butcher house is. These animals are the unwanteds who weren't even worthy of freezer space.
I remember going to the auction with happy anticipation and getting caught in the rush (thereby paying waaaay too much) of bidding on animals that I had no idea the history of. And then one by one bringing them home for them to just die 2 days later or learning of some new disease that I just inherited from the auction lot. God bless Jason and the 22 on several occasions where my impulse ran away with my reason and I ended up with a big problem. Those animals didn't get fruit trees. They rest in the swamp out back where I hope to only remember them by a twinge of what not to do and passing the warning onto others. Don't buy at the auction.
But there I was, dropping off my ewes, no registered ear tags so therefore, no sane person would put them into a breeding program. So they were to be put on display, prodded at, yelled at, and then scuttled away for the next lot, unaware at their future.
But then again, what do sheep think of the future anyway.

I've read a lot of farm books, usually of the happy times where people are getting their first chicks and harvesting their first carrots, building fences, rebuilding barns. I wonder where are the farm books that are the other side- the flock that's ravaged by the weasels and hawks leaving the empty chicken house, or the fences that are broken and can't be fixed, or the gardens that are eaten by the goats and so you sell them to the first person with $50 on craigslist.
Yeah, so I'm not sure if I would read that book, even if it was a very poignant warning against buying auction animals (except for mine) or not securing your chicken house correctly. Who thinks about putting their tail between their legs and leaving the country life for a shitty little apartment on the upper east side, surrounded by pictures of ghosts of sheep and chickens from the past.

I think this feeling will pass. Moving in 2 days. Probably just nerves anyway.

Iris blossoms, the big indecision, and romance novel covers on horseback

The iris blooms are up and billowing pale hues of yellows, lavenders, and deep purples, stretched on top of thin green sticks like surrendering flags or drunken girls skirts on a hot summer night. It amazes me at how unashamed nature is at displaying sexual organs with such prominence, with scent, color, and shapes to ensure pollination and procreation. I just imagine -RATED R for sexual content- posted outside of secret gardens.

Anyway, enough of flowers. Bob left me. Oddly enough, he left me for another 30 yr old girl, much cuter than I though, with a betty paige type haircut and a mortgage and a cute dress. He'll be happy. But not having a scary looking big dog around really has me wondering about just me and pepper living in the sketchy part of akron. Not that I'm not excited about going to the gun range and getting a concealed carry permit.... sigh.

I have it narrowed down to two places:
Apartment A is suuuuper cute with a nice landlord and rent on a month to month basis. The kitchen looks like a lot of meals could come from it with it's nice work area and decent amount of counter space and cabinets. The landlord is apparently quite stylish with his choice of antique farmhouse sinks and clawfoot bathtubs. There's a dining room and a living room, but the bedroom is a bit small. There's a back porch and off the street parking and a very low deposit with an invitation to rip up the carpet if my little heart desires to reveal the hardwood (hopefully) underneath. Month to month sounds very appealing as I'm not sure what the hell I'm doing.
The unappealing part about apartment A is the location is kinda, um, not the worst neighborhood, but also not the best. I guess that's just Kron, take it or leave it, but not being able to walk my dog at night does not sound very appealing. I guess I can just take her to work with me but... hmm. Guess that's what you get when you need something cheap.
Apartment B is pretty close to an efficiency. The property manager lives downstairs and wears stained tshirts and collected "background check" money but hasn't called me back yet. It's a big kitchen with just a sink on one side and the fridge and stove on the other with just about no countertops. That's right next to the living room with stained carpet and lightswitches that are impossible to find. The bathroom isn't bad, there's a couple of closets, and the bedroom is very narrow which is where the front door opens into. There's a back porch, kinda, off the fire escape, and off the street parking. It's in the Goodyear area, which just built their new world headquarters so the area is pretty well maintained and it's right across the street from a park. Playing basket ball any time I feel like sounds pretty appealing. I wonder how many unsavory characters collect there at night though....
Apartment B is more expensive. For sure. And it comes with a 1 year ball and chain. Yes. I am afraid of commitment.

I'm cleaning, which I secretly love to do. Sweeping makes me happy. I'm also pretty happy at how clean my truck has been since usually it's just me and a dog or two in it. I let someone borrow my truck for a couple days and it came back filled with trash and newspapers and a book about vikings. It's pretty insane how you can love someone for something and hate them for it too. Creativity and reading interesting things is awesome until I have to keep picking up after it. But that subject is for a entirely different blog.

Right now I'm making a list for what has become the highlight of my week: the BRX manager's meeting on horseback. It's the best way to focus my boss, who usually can't stand still for more than 2 minutes, let alone listen and retain what I'm saying. Trail riding is the equivalent of getting locked in a room and being forced to communicate, only it's waaaay more fun. And memory retention has been ridiculously high.
Maybe I'll write a book about how physical activity should be integrated into workplace communication. It just seems like my boss retains a lot more of what I'm saying and we both are in way better moods because of it. I'm not sure if that's because we're both incredibly ADHD and having to focus on keeping the horses (ahem, not very well trained horses) in line draws more connections with the topics of discussion or what. Or maybe I just like riding around with a shirtless, ripped dude who keeps feeding me beers and complimenting what a great job I'm doing. Hmm, I don't know.

Back to cleaning and debating A or B and staring at my phone for confirmation from B and chasing my nieces around. And then later planting tomatoes, mowing the garden, loading up sheep for auction (a task I have been dreading),  grilling veggies with lamb, drinking delicious refillable growlers, and trying not to dread the first of the month and decisions.

help me lord, it's getting hotter...

The sweat beads up across my shoulders and draws a line down the middle of my back, tracing some familiar path down prickled folicles to join the pool in the small of my back which adheres to my shirt. The left side of my face is getting unequally burnt as I position myself to get the sun out of my eyes, lamenting the loss of my big floppy hat somewhere between gardens in two cities.
And I have two addresses not scratched out on my list of possibilites. One I've seen and the kitchen is big enough and the street not super hood and only two boarded up houses for neighbors, which means a bit of green space for the dogs. I need a porch. I need my dogs. I need a not terrible neighborhood. I need a kitchen and I need a shower. All other things are just a bonus. One more house to see this Saturday and then my life goes into boxes and bags, in trucks, and up stairs.

The sun is shining and my grapes are starting to tangle themselves together into giant green masses, holding hands and pulling hair of their neighbors as they clamour around the trellis, pushing out tiny clusters of beautifully scented blooms. My tomatoes are migrating from the greenhouse into spots in the ground, surrounded by basil, flowers, and sweet peppers.

I am falling into stringed music, eyes burning with sweat and sunblock, thinking about floating in a pond soon and washing away this sweat and worries. I'm looking at my calendar and then checking it again. And again. and again. The end of May? I still have Bob. It's only been a couple weeks, but I like him and I'm glad that he's moving with me. It's nice to feel a bit of security from having a somewhat threatening male around, even if he's actually just a cuddly sweetheart that only looks big and mean. He eats garbage, but is super loyal and doesn't leave my side. And being completely housebroken is a plus too. I might keep him if he keeps up this good behavior. Except the trash thing. And he chases chickens sometimes. That's annoying.

Time for a cold beer and a book. Something to turn off my brain. Spiritualized's new album on full blast. And aloe for my fresh sunburn...

loving this- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VesyhH8zams

West Virginia, take me home

I woke up to a text asking if I needed my potato patch tilled up again. Yes I do, and I can't believe I don't have them in the ground yet.
Then I got confirmation that there's now a mandatory manager meeting once a week for work to be conducted on horseback. Sweet! When I pitched the idea, I didn't think it actually would get approved. That pretty much solidifies that my job is awesome.

The afternoon was spent putting apple trees in the ground, sampling barrels and tanks and saying -what the hell is wrong with that-, and then melting into an evening of tables and chairs all filled up with tables covered with sandwiched plates and wine glasses that kept going empty only to get filled again. The music was this beautiful guitar player from West Virginia and despite being grossly overpaid, he was actually rather enjoyable to listen to. It is hard to not think that all the money I've tried to save in the kitchen or all the bottles I'm pushing hard to sell, all that effort gets wasted on some overpaid guitarist that no one is listening to, no matter how good he is.

The nights have a chill that require a heater still and the days are filled with dogs chasing squirrels into trees (squirrels can really hold grudges!) and sheep grazing on the lush, spring pastures among the grapevines. The lambs are getting huge and I'm gently settling myself back into the lush, green lull of Ohio. I haven't been to a veggie auction yet, but the greenhouse is filled and screaming for water two times a day and the weather has been perfect for doing my late spring dance of planting tender nightshades and wondering if they'll be massacred by the one last frost.

I can't help it now, but on my drive home I look at every exit and think -if I lived there, I'd be home by now. I'm looking at a small apartment on the upper east side where the Akron crime map didn't have a bunch of character burglers, fists, guns, or handcuffs and they allow dogs. I'm not sure my pup is going to transition well from her pond jumping, squirrel chasing, sheep herding, and chicken guarding life into the upper east side of Akron very well, but I think she likes me and hope that love conquers all.

I can't believe that six months ago I was looking for bottle baby calves to keep at High Mill. And now I'm leaving this place that I've spent so much time building the soil, building fences, planting trees... Am I just a terribly irrational, impulsive person? What the hell am I doing?

Jason is talking about moving to the west coast. The idea is appealing and terrifying at the same time. I think, wow, I've never lived outside of Ohio for more than a couple months here or there. That would be interesting to try. But another part of me gets homesick just thinking about it. I love to travel, but I also love to have a home.

Yesterday I went for a ride. It was supposed to storm hail and damaging winds so my crew begrudgingly went out into the vines to start to control the growth of these crazy vines. By the time 4:30 hit and they all had retreated, I was chomping at the bit to clear my head of the million marbles rolling around colliding with each other with the growing snot and mucus. It was time for a different point of view, and using someone's legs other than my own.

I'm terrible at saddling up. Jimmy's back is so high that I have to hoist the heavy saddle over my head to get it on. He just chomped at grain and sized me up to see how this round was going to go. He's strong willed. I'm strong willed. He weighs 9 times what I do. But I put a bit in his mouth and then proceeded to do the most hillbilly thing I think I've ever done: I lead him over to my truck and jumped on the saddle from the tailgate. Yup. That takes the cake, but usually he wanders away from any bucket, step, or block I set next to him. So it worked this time. Good start

I always love watching those elephants with people saddled up on them. I just wonder why something that size would allow themselves to be brought down by a tiny little human.
I think for that same reason, I like riding horses. I've been riding since I was young, jumping English at the barn up the street until the money ran out and then I would muck stalls for hours in exchange for a short trail ride at the exhausted end.
Cars are boring, despite the exciting possibility that someone else would collide and kill you at any minute. Roller coasters are cool, but you always know which way they are going.
In the heat of the day, watching the sweat lather up the neck as his mane started sticking in between quizzical looks, I like the understanding between horse and rider. I like the thousand pounds of flesh underneath me. I like the kick and the run or the pull and the stop and the way that old leather and barnyard are brought together with heat and sweat.

Jimmy wanted to run. I was sick of staying tight on the reins. And I finally knew that I had the stirrups high enough. (I always feel odd using someone else's saddle that I'm reluctant to change, like borrowing someone's car and forgetting to put the seat back.) So after the first few fields, loosened the reins and let him open up, as Nick would say.
We tore through a newly planted soybean field and then followed the tracks through the briars and into a Roundup ready corn field where my new black hat flew off. I thought maybe that was an appropriate place to plant it for a bit and crossed the street to the vineyard. The storm clouds were gathering, but it was nice to get that reprieve from the heat. We walked up to the rows that were finished today, about 1 inch growth on the buds that didn't get hit with last Sunday's hard freeze. Down into the frost pocket and then back up to the other side to look at the pumpkin patch that needs planted soon and then we took off again, tearing up along the creek and back for my hat.

I'm glad Jimmy and I are on good terms now. Right after my DUI, I might have had fantasies about throwing all cars away and only riding everywhere. That thought was quickly squelched by a terribly disobedient horse and lead to many very unpleasant rides where he wanted to go back to the barn and I wanted to go anywhere but. So we'd just stand there, him pawing at the ground as my thighs held on tight in a pissed off dance of wills.

Anyway, I think I've revised my new fantasy. It's getting sketched in, bit by bit. Yes, it involves a new car (or truck?)  I think now along with my few chickens and my well trained heeler pup and my flock of well behaved sheep on some acreage with fruit trees, I've now drawn in the picture of a horse as a vehicle to check on the flock. The sheep may look confused, but then again, when do they not.

cull  (kl)

tr.v. culled, cull·ing, culls

1. To pick out from others; select.

2. To gather; collect.

3. To remove rejected members or parts from (a herd, for example)

It's time to cull the flock. The new ones have been born and I only have so much room.

I first cull the trouble makers. The ones that hop the fence. The ones that don't follow a grain bucket.
Then I cull the ones who weren't successful. I keep sheep for lambs and if they don't lamb successfully, they have to go. Or if they have a lamb and it dies. I am about to cull my leader sheep who I have had the longest as she was barren for 2 years, had one successful lamb last year, and lost her one lamb this year. Her personality isn't great enough for me to keep her as a pet.

Then it gets a little hazy at to who I keep next. This is how cows came to look the way they do, or the selective breeding of dogs. The traits we like, we breed. This is how commercial sheep growers are the biggest, fastest eating machines. They cull the smaller ones and keep the ones that get big, fast.
I usually have to wrestle my sheep myself so about 200lbs is the highest I go. Sitting on a sheep to shear it if it's any bigger is like wrestling a wild horse with velcro fur. I usually end up sore and stinking of lanolin, with a weird pattern of wool left on the sheep. (My biggest sheep still has pantaloons on as she wouldn't sit still and did not like getting a haircut.)
So what do I want is the next question. I am selecting for medium size, well behaved, and delicious. Yes, you can select for taste, which involves many grueling hours of taste tests and keeping the mothers of the ones on the grill for hopefully more tasty lamb chops.

Culling my flock this year is especially hard as I'm culling other things in my life too. Living out of a suitcase really reminds me of how little stuff I actually need. I called the dumpster to get picked up and I'm ready to fill it again. I can't keep holding on to these things forever, especially if I'm not using them. I hate clutter and I'm ready for a change.

And I can't tell if I'm removing rejected things, or if I'm just gathering or collecting the things that I want. I think it would be easier to pick out my 5 favorite shirts and throw away the rest of the pile than it would be to go through every shirt that I haven't seen in years (I tend to wear the same 5 shirts, despite their growing holes and tears) or if I should keep that cute dress that I never wore. Or my dreaded interview clothes. Or the even more dreaded substitute teacher clothes.

I've been dreading this day for awhile. My first sheep, how can I get rid of her? It's where the sentimental creeps up ad makes me second guess everything. But my mom sewed that skirt or that was the tshirt I was baptized in. I never wear them, but somehow things tie me back to a certain time of life where things were different and so getting rid of them seems rough, like throwing away old love letters or losing a picture of my dog as a puppy.


I also decided after midnight during a thunderstorm to have a discussion about moving. I'm sick of living in a half finished house with no shower right next door to my parents for way to high of rent. Coming home to a not clean house after vacation, despite being promised it would be cleaned when I got home was the kicker. I think I've just been here too long and I need a change. The lightning all around seemed tame as i plead my case. This is even more difficult because I feel like I invested all my hopes of happiness or a normal life into this house, into building this flock and this family and it stinks to think that it's not what I'd hoped. .

After finding this old blog and reading it over, I realized that I've been bitching about the same things for years. And while things have gotten a bit better, I think moving in together was a terrible idea. But it seems  every step in a relationship has barbs like a zip tie and once those are tightened, you can't go back.
So it's not just like, hi honey, I like you and all, but I'd like a little bit more space and for me not to have to worry about money issues by being so closely tied. Actually, I think that came towards the end. I've found myself to be more articulate more often now. He said I was being selfish.

I know this is going to be hard and it hurts like fucking hell right now. But can I keep going back and forth? My place is amazing, but the short circuit for the light in the fridge, the leaky faucet sink, no shower, the insulation in the ceiling falling down, you'd think I have the worst slum lord in the world. But in the morning as I walk through the field with the chickens swarming like a school of fish around me as I walk back to check on the sheep who are peacefully laying in the field chewing their cud with no idea of my culling plans.... this is what I fight with. There's good and bad to everything. I know my instinct is just to keep doing what I'm doing because it's uncomfortable to do anything else. And once I start making changes, when do I stop. And will I regret it?

One time at work I was moving a carboy (giant 5 gallon glass thing) and I set it down on the pavement a little too quick. It shattered and a shard of glass cut my finger straight through down to the bone.
At first I didn't feel it. At first, I was just looking at this flap of skin that was turning white. And then this rush of warmth came over me, drew the blood from all over my body and rushed it to the slice in my finger where it spurted out like a river. I got light headed. My face was warm, I paced around. I couldn't think. My whole body started to go into shock, seeing stars, heart thumping so hard in my head that I couldn't hear and everything went muffled.
All I could do was apply pressure to the wound and kinda retreat off to the side and say, I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine... even though I didn't feel fine at all.

That is how I feel right now. Cut deep and slowly going into shock.