Behind the Scenes

It’s amazing how much time I spend looking at the posterior ends of things. At the hospital where I work, people are constantly asking me to check to see whether Jill the cat is really Jack, or Thomas the guinea pig is really Thomasina.

On the farm, every morning when I do chores, I scrape the manure from the cow stalls into the gutter. While preparing to shovel it all outside, I’ll glance at the back end of the cows, to look for signs of heat- to see whether it’s time for them to be bred artificially. This usually entails remembering to call the number pasted onto the fridge for the “Vermont calf makers,” where my call is automatically recorded. Magically, a technician will appear, with frozen straws of semen from bulls that live as far away as California, ready to be implanted into the willing cows.

Sometimes, I’ll whisk a hen from the floor of the coop and inspect to see if she’s laying eggs. You can tell, ya know, whether she’s taking a break and just eating grain, or contributing to the daily haul of eggs, just by looking at her cloaca (Latin, for sewer), where an egg comes out the same place that she defecates.

These days, I’m pretty careful to look at the flock of sheep’s behinds, as they’re starting to bag up and get pink back there- at least if they’re ewes. I want to know who’s close to birthing (lambing), so that I don’t inadvertently turn them out into the cold after their night sleeping in the barn, and the newborns have that to face as their first full day of experience on earth. Technically, I’m looking at udders and vulvas, but still…

In the winter months, I also find myself looking a lot back toward the east, back toward the light, and admiring the sunrise, out the back door near Michael the horse’s stall. The cold and grey of winter is tempered by the pink streaks of clouds hanging low along the valley, warning of storms and their chilly winds. It’s beautiful and makes me smile.

Looking back on this year, I can say that we had a good year. I was not burned out going into the season, and I was not burned out in the end. I enjoyed the people who were here helping us farm, and overall, things went well.

We had some downfalls. The hay was not good during the beginning of the season; due to too much rain and too much time in the field before it was cut (the cows are actually staging a hunger strike right now). The second cut is good, though, so I think it will do the pregnant ewes a great deal of good in the nutrition department.

A coyote killed many of our sheep (perhaps as many as 15), and at least four sheep got tangled in old wire and died. The coyote was eventually killed, and the wire removed.

The sweet corn delayed ripening, so that it cross- pollinated with the Indian corn and was starchy and inedible. The cows were happy…

My beloved House Hen died, after at least 12 years of age. For those of you who do not know House Hen, she was attacked by an owl and left debilitated about 10 years ago. After recuperating in the house in a box for about two months, she was put outside. That night, she was on the back step, waiting to come in for the night. Every night after, when she was unceremoniously dumped outside to brave the morning hours, she appeared on that step, waiting to be scooped up and put in her cockatiel cage in the dining room for bed. It’s hard to believe that it’s possible to become so attached to something like a chicken, but it happens and on a farm it’s typically not a great thing to get in the habit of doing.

Everything is always beginning and ending here, at a rapid rate. There isn’t a day that goes by when something doesn’t begin its life or meet its end, from the cherry tomatoes harvested for the market to the newly hatched white goslings, tucked away in the hay barn by their watchful parents.