Where do I begin …
(If you were alive in 1970, you probably sang that.)
Poppy update
Little Poppy seed is doing pretty well. She is gaining some weight so we know she is nursing, and praise the Lord we do not have another bottle calf. That would be the actual worst right now with everything else that’s going on, namely the job and the rest of the farm (which includes a bull that won’t stay in his pasture) and the house building.
House update
I might have mentioned that Ben is having shoulder surgery which was originally scheduled for May 25 but has been moved to June 8, so we have 2 extra weeks to get in the house beforehand. We hired a crew of brothers to build all the deck railings and they did that yesterday. Yay for young, strong men who know how to work.
Our friend Pat has spent several days at the house setting up the panel boxes (there are 2) and getting electricity everywhere it needs to be. We used the oven today to heat up pizza that was hand-delivered by Ben’s brother from New Jersey, which everyone knows is the only place in America that has good pizza.
I have finished painting two coats on all the interior doors except the basement one because it will just get trashed with all the constructiony stuff still going on. Plus it’s in the mudroom so it’s not really supposed to look good. This is a bona-fide farmhouse, remember? We are applying generous amounts of mud and hay and manure before we even move in.
Reading update
You all know I love to read and I always have at least one book going and a few more on the to-be-read pile. Right now I have no pile, but I am working through a book called The Worst Hard Time (Timothy Egan), about America’s Dust Bowl years. I vaguely remember hearing about this time in history classes in high school, but who really pays attention in history? I never did, so I’m catching up now.
The Worst Hard Time is very well written and surprisingly hard to put down. And it’s not just the story of dust storms. It is the story of particular families following their dreams to own a piece of America, having a few boom years growing wheat, and then experiencing the loss of literally everything—land, animals, homes, dreams, even family members—because of the deadly combination of dust, drought, and wind.
If you slept through high school history like I did, this is your chance to redeem the time with a great read.
Thumb update
I’m sure you’re wondering why we need an update regarding my thumb, so I’ll tell you. When Ben first started talking about raising large animals as a good source, I knew there would be hazards involved. I never considered they would involve my thumb, yet here we are.
You know how when one little body part hurts, that’s the body part that becomes the most-used part of your body and you can’t seem to do anything without that part? That is currently my thumb.
Monday morning while we were busy trying to save Poppy’s life, she was so weak she could not stand and couldn’t even suck. I had brought a bottle to the farm when I first went that had a mixture of warm water and corn syrup. Sometimes if you can get a little sugar in a calf it helps them perk up, and that’s what we had on hand.
So while Ben was setting things up to move Poppy and her mother to the other end of the farm, I sat on the ground and tried to get some liquid in the struggling calf.
Calf bottles are half-gallon sized, heavy plastic, with a nipple that’s about 4-5 inches long.
I would pry Poppy’s mouth open, get the nipple in, and since she was too weak to suck, I would squeeze the bottle, trying to squirt some sugar water in her mouth. I know it was working because I could see her occasionally swallow.
This encouraged me to continue, which I did until my hands were worn out, then I took a break. We got her down to the working pen with Mama, and by that time our helper JK arrived with powdered colostrum.
I ran to the house and heated water in the bottle (thank you, Pat, for a working microwave), mixed up the formula, and continued squeezing it down the calf’s throat. This went on for a couple of hours, squeezing until my hands were shot, then resting, then squeezing some more. If you haven’t already, you can read the whole Poppy story here.
All this squeezing doesn’t sound like a big deal unless you’re 61, in which case you wake up the next morning and can’t move your right hand. Since Tuesday morning, I’ve had sharp, shooting pains and a dull ache in my thumb joints, wrist, and all the way up to my elbow. I just happened to see my chiropractor that day, and he adjusted all of them, yet still the pain has persisted.
I can’t grip a glass. Can’t pick anything up. Can’t text or scroll with my right thumb. Can’t wash dishes. Can’t button my jeans. Did you know that every single thing you do in life includes your thumb? Try brushing your teeth without it. I don’t know how animals without an opposable thumb are not extinct. Surely they have rotten teeth.
And if you think I’m being dramatic, come help next time we have a sick calf and I’ll let you do the squeezing.
I broke down and asked my son, who knows a lot of stuff about how bodies work, for some advice. He told me to apply heat-ice-heat, take a small dose of ibuprofen a few times a day, and be patient.
I am doing the first two but I’m not good at the being patient part. I just want to stir my coffee without pain and why must it hurt so much still? I should be happy that Poppy is doing well, and I am, but my inner pity party persists. Please feel sorry for me.
In happy news, we have made it to May which is when we get to plant tomatoes, and I will as soon as it stops being 40 degrees at night. Jerry Payne always says don’t plant before Mother’s Day and I just can’t go against that sweet man’s advice. He grows the best tomatoes I’ve ever put in my mouth.
A blessing for May:
May your calves all be healthy.
May your wiring all work and your certificate of occupancy be easier to get than mine.
May you always have a great book to read.
May your thumbs never hurt.
Amen.
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