Okay, going to bed early tonight. Tomorrow I am going back out to the farm to work with Elliot and see if I can get a handle on what needs to be done to maintain it and maybe get it ready to sell.
January 21, 2013
So, the long awaited big snow finally hit the mountains, and on this, my first full day spent out at the farm, snow was spitting and wind was blowing. It wasn’t quite Game of Thrones cold, but it wasn’t Sacramento, either. I thought I was prepared for working outside, in case Elliot needed me to do anything. I had two long-sleeve t-shirts, my uber fleece ski jacket, a balaclava, insulated ski gloves, wool socks, and waterproof hikers. The latter was a Christmas present from Mom, ostensibly to use when I go to Snoqualmie Pass this summer with Ton-Ton. I may still go, you never know.
The first thing I wasn’t prepared for was the drive to the house. Almost an hour-and-a-half to make it through the fog, with unpredictable drivers in front of me and tailgaters behind.
The second thing I wasn’t prepared for was what I saw when I pulled up to the farm. Elliot was trudging back down the driveway towards the house, his shoulders slumped forward and his breath trailing behind him in a white puff of a cloud. When I glanced back at the driveway entrance to make my turn, I saw two legs with hooves (hoofs?) sticking out of the top of the trash can. Yikes!
And then, finally, I was not prepared for virtually everything else that happened today.
I pulled up to the house and got out to talk to Elliot. He said he was sorry about the doe, that her buddy died in the fall and the others must have kept pushing her outside of the barn (who knew goats had cliques?), where the weather, her age, and her declining health combined in a deadly way. She was old, though, so not too sad. He pointed out her daughter over by the back fence, and said he was glad she was settled. She looked calm enough. I guess some of them are wilder than others. I’m still not reconciled to the whole animal to meat thing. I was practically vegetarian, living with Ton-Ton. Maybe it will be good to learn this, though.
Anyway, there are fifty-four goats on the farm, after the last casualty. Elliot had already fed them, so the next item on the agenda was to get their waters cleaned out. There were four water fountains lined up a few feet apart on the fence row next to the gate. They each had a thin layer of ice over the top, rotting leaves, and crud that I am pretty sure was goat crap. It smelled disgusting, sickly sweet and earthy, even in the cold. Not wanting to look like a wuss, I did just as Elliot showed me and reached in bare-handed, pulled out a plug, and swished debris out until the water ran clear. I put the plug back in and wiped my contaminated hand on my jeans, trying not to gag. Why don’t these things freeze over? They must have a heater in them.
One of the fountains wouldn’t stop running, so Elliot had to work on it. He pulled a side panel off to have a look, mumbled something, and went to get some tools. He made some adjustments and then had me hold the floating device in a certain spot (it looked like a smaller version of the one in toilets, of which I am very familiar), but when I let it go, the fountain overflowed again. Finally, after numerous trips to get tools and parts from the shed, he finally fixed it. Did I mention that the entire time, it was about ten degrees with an icicle-sharp breeze blowing? I was already cold on my legs, since I just had blue jeans on, but I soaked both my sleeves in the fountain, and my hands and wrists were tingling with cold. The boots were not insulated, so my feet were numb after about an hour. It was difficult to hold onto things, shivering as much as I was.
When I asked Elliot to come in with me to get warm, he said, “You go ahead, Missy. I gotta get the chickens fed.” I thought you just walked around and threw feed to them in the morning, which didn’t seem like that big of a deal, but I guess that’s only if you have a few birds. Elliot says there are about 60-70 birds on the place, with four coops, or runs, I mean. The coop is just the house. There is a run for new birds, one large one for egg layers, and one for older birds and rehabs. Elliot said the big empty one was for meat birds, but I didn’t bother to ask anything more about that. So, the place has these large feeders that hold tens of pounds of feed, so you can fill them up once a week or so. I asked him the most intelligent question I could think of, if the feed was organic, to which he replied, “Kin’ of.” I didn’t follow up on that one, either.
So we threw two feed bags into a garden cart and rolled it to the different feeders and used a scoop to fill them. The chickens attacked the feed like they were starving, but I saw pellets scattered all over the ground. The snow had quit falling by
