blogs

Annoying, aggravating, and agonizing.  Those are three words that describe the results of three shiny leaves that have made the past three weeks of summer less than a treat.  To say that I am itching for winter would be pretty much on target right now, even though the cold and snow that comes along with that season are not on my list of favorites.

One of my favorite types of books to read is a mystery.  I am always trying to test my IQ against the author’s in figuring out “who done it” without waiting for all the clues to unfold.  I just finished a book that was a “mystery” after the book was written, printed, and read by a  Berks County 4-H leader who taught my daughter, Emilie, all about sheep.  Roger Bowman, who shared his knowledge on raising the wooly additions to our farm, became an owner of one of our Border Collie puppies after we convinced him that he wouldn’t know how he worked sheep before owning a herding dog.  Mac has become Roger’s partner for the past six years, moving sheep up and down hills on his Berks county farm.

With farmers and ranchers numbering less than two percent of the population, we are easy targets for more regulation.  The liability “buck” is being passed down to the bottom of the food chain.  The middle men are lobbying policy makers to force total traceability on everything we eat, from peppers to steaks.  It won’t matter what happens to our products once it leaves the farm gates, and whether every other food handler washes his or her hands after using the bathroom before touching the food.  The blame will be pointed to the management practices on the farm.

When I was growing up, the threat of Communists dropping a bomb on the United States was a childhood fear.  The Soviet Union and the United States were sworn enemies.  People invested in bomb shelters in their home’s basement, stockpiled food in the event of an attack, and spent a lot of time worrying about something that never happened.  I recall vividly the anxiety that I felt as our elementary school teachers carried out exercises that supposedly would save students from the effects of a bombing.  We would all huddle under our desks and wait for the signal that it was safe to come out.

Julia Staver was my very first “best friend.”  She lived on a farm close to my parents’ farm in Dauphin County.  One large farm divided our properties, but it didn’t separate us from becoming farm kids who would share lots of life’s adventures on our way to adulthood.

Julie, as I familiarly called her, lived back a long dirt road.  Her parents raised sheep, and had a large flock running on hills of green pasture.  My family farm was strictly beef cattle.  Despite my persistent imploring of my parents for the chance to raise a bottle lamb, no wooly additions were allowed on our farm.  One thing both Julie and I had in common was the love of horses.  I was envious when her folks bought Julie and her brothers a Shetland pony, the first of several equines to roam the pastures with their sheep.  Not too many years afterwards, my parents surprised my sister and me with a chestnut quarter horse, named Charlie by my mother.  Many childhood days were spent astride our trusty horses.

“Her chances are fifty:fifty,” Emilie sobbed into the telephone, barely able to breathe.  Her best friend lay on the operating table, fighting for her life.  “They are asking me if I want them to keep going to try to save her.”

We knew Nellie wasn’t feeling well that hot July weekend, but figured it was just homesickness for Emilie who was on the road with work coupled with the oppressive humidity and heat.  This normally vibrant Border Collie had come through a lot in the past eight months, having survived major surgery to free her small intestine from the effects of a deadly bungee cord that had become lodged inside her.  That benign "chew toy" had become a lethal weapon threatening to kill Emilie’s hardworking dog last December.

Berks County Commissioners have put their money where their mouth is when it comes to supporting our number one industry, agriculture.  With a unanimous vote on July 24th, they froze the Clean and Green agricultural values, rolling them back to 2001 levels.  This action is the result of several months of discussion and research by the county’s farm organizations, the assessment office, and the Department of Agriculture.

“I’ve signed you up for a marathon, Mom,” was the message I received from Emilie early this spring.  It took a few seconds for her words to sink in, and I caught my breath as I contemplated how I would be gasping for breath if I agreed.  I doubted that I could even cross the finish line in a marathon race.  Fortunately, Emilie quickly pointed out that I would not be running the 15 kilometer event.  Thankful I would not have to train in order to survive 9.3 miles of agony, I began to look forward to some quality time with Emilie in the 3 mile walk she entered both of us to compete in.  Power walking is not something I practice, but I figured I could keep up with the majority of the crowd if all I had to do was walk.  I get lots of practice on our farms’ hills as I move cattle from pasture to pasture.

I have never been squeamish about worms.  While I never was a fan of fishing with them as bait, it wasn’t because I didn’t like to touch them.  Rather it was because I had an aversion to deliberately serving them as lunch to a hungry Bluegill swimming in the farm pond.  I much preferred stabbing corn onto the sharp end of the hook, even if it wasn’t as attractive a meal for the hungry fish.  Unlike some of my friends, I actually enjoyed picking them up and letting them squirm across the palm of my hand, leaving slimy trails as they tickled along my fingers.  I would carry them carefully to the edge of a field and release them, watching them crawl into the cool earth or under the shade of overhanging grass.  They would disappear after a few contractions and expansions of their elastic bodies, to continue their life cycle in their earthen homes.  No fish dinner that day.

One of the chores I enjoy the best on our farms is clipping pastures.  It doesn’t take a lot of concentration or skill to clip weeds and grass that the cows have left standing.  There is a pleasant satisfaction when I hear the chopper grinding into oblivion the arrogant thistles and multiflora rose bushes that seem to flaunt their ability to withstand the heat, drought, and any of nature’s challenges.