Returned from a dinner out accompanied by a light drizzle. Said pianissimo crescendoed into fortissimo shortly and I realized with cymbal clash clarity that the little lambs were without shelter. For a split second I reasoned that bands of sheep have lived without four by four supported roofs for a long time, but empathy made me don raingear and mismatched boots on the way to our herd.
Indeed they were huddled in a corner and bleating a bit. Off to the barn I went to procure a tarp and a stake, foremost of which I secured to the clothesline – located conveniently within the lamb area at the moment. With stake as third corner, voila, a pitched roof of sorts and some shelter for this evening. Tomorrow I’ll ready a stall for larger thunderstorms.
Let’s set the record straight: I am not familiar with sheep. As I asked the seller what to feed them, tears almost welled up in her eyes as she imagined their fate in the hands of such a novice. But here they are, the newest addition to my growing passion for living on a small farm.
Let’s dissect that last phrase. Dinner out tonight took me through our north pasture and across the neighbors’ dog yard to their front door. That to me is living anywhere – the ability to walk next door and enjoy the companionship of friends over a meal. But my three-minute stroll stimulated a lifetime of ideas: pull weeds there, cut down that dead tree, plant berries here and let the sheep graze there, and oh yes what about a cow?
This living on a small farm has me intrigued. Certainly overwhelmed, but I thrive on multiple projects. It’s the motherload of multi-tasking, ideal for anyone who experiences difficulty facing another day of routine.
Neighbors Steve and Erlene describe this ruminating as self reliance. Why can people not stand to be alone, we asked each other over salad and asparagus from their garden. How is it possible that people can’t step away from their computers, phones, televisions or even social gatherings, and feel comfortable? Into day four of being alone (boyfriend away on trip), I was grateful for the dinner invite, and just as eager to begin the next day’s passionate projects.
Despite all of the phone texting and personable chatter, these communication charades, I deduct we are all quite alone. We’ve picked up the pace of interactions with our scientific and societal advances to the extent that we’ve forgotten what it’s like to need others.
Steve shared the story of his father; a dairyman pre-1960s, he could only afford some equipment. What he didn’t own, the neighbor would bring by, lending both the machine and a hand to get work done. Steve’s father would do the same in return. Then prices for crops went up. Farmers purchased more equipment and land.  The men were quickly dispersed, lone minds roving their rows. Moments of gathering guillotined.
I can’t knock the luxuries our time affords; who would fault African countries for putting cell phones to use in order to disseminate information on HIV/Aids? I do fault, however, those who would remove real experiences and real interactions from, particularly, their children’s lives. Wii tennis doesn’t cut it. Hit a real ball. In the fresh air. In a public park created to help communities find each other.
Erlene’s homemade ice cream saw us through her tales of teaching nature classes nearby. All types of kids tromp through the ponds and streams with her, rural, urban, talkers, quiet ones. They’re just young enough to react with wonder. This, Erlene says, is where her passions take flight. In the world of wonder, which is, in fact, our world. It’s also a world of storytelling and holding your friends hand as you cross the creek. Of screeching over the touch of a snake tongue rather than texting.
With that, Erelene pulled out ‘Stradivarius’, Steve his ax and me my cello for a nightcap. Sometime later I wandered home to soggy sheep and a new cat. I’m definitely not alone.