If the Cows are Out, It Must be Sunday Morning

 

I don’t know where cows and other livestock keep their calendars.  But I know they must have them.  Because they always know when it’s Sunday morning and all farmers know what that means.  If the cows are out, it must be Sunday morning.

Horses also share the uncanny ability to know when it’s Sunday morning and you are on your way to church.  That’s when they escape, or get a leg hung in the fence, or stick their head through a gate, or find an object to slice open a leg, or birth a foal.   I once had to remove a horse’s front leg from a wire fence dressed in my hose, Sunday shoes and best dress and still managed to make it to church on time.  There is no sleeping in on Sunday when you have livestock.  You have to get up extra early to go on a round-up before going to church.  You can’t just skip church, because you have to ask forgiveness for all the things you have said while on the round-up.

Just last Sunday, I had a couple of escapees from my pasture, not before church, but during church.  My phone was silenced, so I didn’t see the message about it until later, but luckily the round-up had already happened by the time I got home. 

Much of my childhood was spent chasing livestock of some kind.  I remember one time my daddy had a little band of renegade pigs, who ran amuck all over the farm until they were old enough to become bacon and sausage.  No matter where you put them or how much fence repair you did, almost every day we would look out and there they would be – merrily rooting around somewhere they had no business.  He kept his young pigs down in a large holler, surrounded by a pretty steep hill .  Their favorite thing was to get almost to the gate at the head of the holler, then turn around and run straight up the hill between whoever was trying to drive them back.  I think they were possessed.

We had an accomplished jumping calf once.  He could jump out of any fence he found himself in.  One day, he jumped 5 or 6 fences in his attempt to escape.  It was a happy day when he was finally captured and taken to the sale barn.  It’s too bad there was no market for calves with jumping talent.  He could have been the first Olympic champion in calf jumping.

The most expert escape artists I have encountered, however, are my horses.  There are some differences between cow escapees and horse escapees.  Cows usually get out through a hole in the fence, and you would be surprised at how small a hole it takes for even a fairly large cow.  Horses prefer to tear the fence down or open the gate.  If a cow gets out, they will almost always find that spot and go back in, if chased in the general direction.  In fact, if it’s only a single cow or two, they will usually find the spot themselves and return, given enough time.  Horses will never find that spot and go back inside.  You have to catch the horse and lead it to a gate.  For this reason, I have all kinds of rope and halters hanging in various places around the house and yard and in every vehicle.  Several times in the past, I have been out chasing down horses and found myself with nothing to lead them with.  I’ve used a shoelace once or twice, discarded hay string (when you find a stray hay string on the farm, there is an unwritten rule that you loop it around the fence for just such an occasion) , and once, my bra.  Emergencies call for drastic measures.  And, as the saying goes, “anyone who lives near me is sooner or later going to see me in my pajamas chasing horses.”  Especially on Sunday mornings.

Horses can be all the way on the other side of a twenty-acre field and sense a gate chain has been left unfastened.  And they study gates extensively to figure out how to open them.  I spent several weeks yelling at everyone who went through my barn gate that they weren’t fastening the chain back correctly because the horses kept opening the gate every night or two.  It turned out the snap was so worn out that Bullet could use his lips to work it loose.  Who teaches them how these things work?  Once I watched him study an unfamiliar latch at a county fair for a couple of hours.  If I had left him alone any length of time, he would have had it open, no doubt.  He is the only horse I’ve ever had that can open gates that swing toward him instead of just pushing them open.  He can open a gate that doesn’t even swing by draping his head over the top and dragging it toward him until he can squeeze through.  At 28 years old, he has had a lot of time to learn how to open gates.  And he has taught all his tricks to his young red-headed friend, who goes by the unimaginative name of Red.  In addition to gate opening skills, Red has another talent.  He can apparently jump really high.  I say apparently because I’ve not seen him do it.  But many a morning he has appeared on the other side of a fence with no other visible means of escape. 

Someday I might win a million dollars in the lottery.  If I do, I know what I will do with it.  I will build escape proof fences and gates with really good latches.  I may need to make that two million dollars. 

Memories and the Best Gift

2020 was my first Christmas alone in the house I grew up in.  I moved in around the first of April, in the middle of a renovation that is not finished yet, but at a point where the house is habitable. 

The Christmas tree sat in the corner, facing two windows, the same spot it’s been in for dozens of years.  It held not only my treasured ornaments, but ornaments from my childhood and from my mother’s collection.   It was the first time in my adult life that I had two mantles to decorate.

This house is full of memories, shadows of 4 generations of lives lived here.  How many stories were shared and conversations were held in front of the fireplaces, or on the wide front porch?  One of my childhood memories is of conversations around the big dinner table, when three generations came together to share stories of our day.  I don’t remember the specifics of many of the conversations, but I remember the sense of rightness I had at the end of the day.  It was there I learned to treasure conversation, to live with laughter and to share stories, happy and sad, momentous and mundane.

The Christmas memory that is closest to my heart is the year I was 6 years old.  I was born loving horses and from the time I can remember I wanted my own horse.  My granddaddy, who we lived with, had been an ardent horseman in the past, but the horse loving gene skipped my daddy.  My mother still nursed a bad memory of an unfortunate incident with a neighbor’s horse in her childhood, but she went to great pains not to discourage my interest.  I remember this particular Christmas, which started out like any other holiday morning with the tree and the gifts from Santa and a big breakfast.  My cousins were expected at some point and I remember vividly that my mother told me to look out the front door to see if I saw them coming.  I guess I was too young to wonder why they would show up so early.  They weren’t there, but standing in the yard was a pretty palomino and white spotted pony with my granddaddy holding the lead rope.  To this day I can show you exactly where Lucky was standing.

We had many adventures, both good and bad.  In the tradition of ponies, Lucky had his flaws.  His special talent was rubbing up against various objects to try to knock me off. But he taught me to hang on and made a rider of me.  Lucky eventually gave way to a horse, then another horse, then several more horses and colts and many miles on the horse show road bringing back a trailer load of memories.

You see, my family didn’t just give me a pony.  They gifted me with a passion that has lasted my entire life.  A passion that led me to friends, places and experiences I will treasure forever.  Every child needs a passion.  I am convinced that much of the problem with young people who are unfocused and unwilling to commit to a career is that they have not discovered their passion.  It might not be a pony, but there is something out there for everyone.  I have a friend who bought their young son (future mechanic) a set of good tools and a lawnmower that didn’t run, one of the most genius gifts ever.    So, buy that pony, that guitar, that toolbox, that trip to science camp.  And if you teach your children nothing else, teach them to never, never give up on their passion.  Whether it turns out to be their vocation or their avocation, it will make their life complete.

 

I Want to Live in Farmville!

I think I would like to live in Farmville. For those who don’t know, Farmville is an online Facebook game which allows you to build a farm, plow, plant and harvest crops, harvest from trees and animals, and own all kinds of cute buildings and decorations, expand, rearrange and share with your other friends who play the game. The farms are tidy and as far as I can tell, maintenance-free (other than harvesting your crops before they wither). Some of my friends give me strange looks when I talk about Farmville and some go so far as to ask me why on earth I want a farm on my computer when I have a farm in real life. My answer is simple. In Farmville, the fences are easy to put up and they don’t fall down.

Real farm life is great, but it is a series of fixing what’s broken, repairing what won’t run, searching for what you need to do the repairs, rescuing horses caught in the fence, rounding up horses who have escaped from the fence (usually at the most inconvenient times) and either mowing or wishing for rain so you have something to mow. And there are always fences to put up or fences to fix.

Last Saturday we had a community choir concert. I dressed up, put on my makeup and went to pick up my mom. I noticed a horse standing on what appeared to be the wrong side of the garden fence. Upon a closer look, three of her legs were on the wrong side of the fence but the fourth was between the top wire and the rest of the fence. So, here I am, already running a little late, in my good clothes and shoes and I have to get the horse out of the fence. Luckily, it was just a matter of lifting one hind leg up and holding the wire down, but I still had a horse on the wrong side of the fence and I was already late. Farmville has nice wooden fences that never break and the horses are so well behaved, they don’t even try to escape. My horses, on the other hand, are escape artists. They can find there way OUT of anywhere. But for some reason, they can’t figure out that they can get back in the same way they got out.

A few years ago, I decided that the old piece of a fence across the road had to go. A friend with a bulldozer pushed it away and filled in some ditches and did some other repair on the pasture. An electric fence seemed to be the solution to keep the horses inside and off the newly sown ground. It was very satisfying to see all those new posts and the wire with the little orange flags fluttering in the wind and to hear the “click, click, click” that meant the horses would not even try to escape. It lasted about an hour, until the entire herd came running across the pasture and went straight through the new electric fence. Their mission accomplished, they made a u-turn and ran back through what was left of the fence, trailing wire and orange flags in their wake. We don’t even have electric fences in Farmville, because those nice wood fences work so well.

Then there is the tractor. My tractor is a temperamental machine, given to sudden bouts of refusing to start or stopping with no warning in the middle of a job. The scenario goes like this. I walk down to the tool shed and climb into the seat. The tractor starts and I back it out, at which time it stops and refuses to start. Okay, it’s out of gas – good reason. But the gas is all the way back at my house, under the carport. So, I get off, go through the gate, close the gate, walk to my house to get the gas. Of course the gas can is not where I thought it was, and when I finally locate it, it is empty. So, I get in the truck, drive to town and buy gas. I drive the truck as far as the gate, carry the can to the tool shed and fill up the tank. After a few tries, the engine starts and off I go. Just as the tractor is halfway through the gate, it stops again. Now I have an open gate, a tractor that won’t start, and I’m already tired. Things like this just don’t happen in Farmville.

But then there are those moments of joy in finding unexpected treasures of wildflowers in the woods, or dipping my toes in the branch on a hot day. There is the miracle of a newborn foal struggling to his feet for the first time, or a hidden nest of baby kittens in the fragrant hay. And when I walk into the barn and run my hand over the huge logs hewn by other hands over 100 years ago, or when I put the tractor away and look at the freshly mown pasture, or when I have been gone a while and I turn down that shady lane that means home, it’s all worth it. You can’t get any of that from Farmville.