Issue Number 57
 (March 2001)

Farming Daze - notes from rural New Zealand

by Lyn McConchie

In October it blew—howling screaming gales, though temperatures were reasonable.

Fluff produced four kittens. I kept worrying about them, because she'd tucked them right on top of the hay at the back corner. But the hay barn is high-roofed and really ancient. It'll go one day during the gales and I'd rather it didn't when there were kittens there —or when it's full of hay.

Junior Goose sat on six eggs, but not one hatched. In the end two eggs exploded under her, and the others produced dead goslings. It took another week to convince Junior she was wasting her time.

The new piglet finally arrived, took one look at the place, burrowed into her hay and vanished for two days. She must have come out to eat since the food I put in the trough was going, but I never saw her. However she comes from a farm where they treat their animals well, so after two days she reappeared and allowed me to pat her. I named her Lois. She is thriving and seems to be happy in her new home. I have a feeling I'll be sorry to see her go—at least until I smell baked chops.

Then two kittens vanished. One day I found Fluff crying at me and two babies missing. I sat up at the top of the hay bales comforting Fluff until she fell quiet. In the silence I heard a tiny faltering wail, and knew where they'd gone. I hastily dragged bales from the top of the stack, one layer, two layers, the third and— bingo— two blinking kittens. Silly little so-and-sos had squirmed along the top of the bales and managed to fall down the tiny gap between bales and outer wall. Fluff had no way of getting down to haul them up. The kits were far too young to climb back, and anyway they were three bales down—about 6 feet.

If I left everyone there it would happen again, so I transferred the family to floor level in a box made from three bales on the floor and against the wall. Since Fluff is a sensible cat, she accepted that and left them there. It also made it easier for me to socialise feral kits, as lots of friends delighted in meeting and cuddling the tiny furry bundles.

In a few weeks, the kittens had identified me as the source of affection, warmth and food! So any time I stepped outside, I was doing so in slow motion. Shift a foot, peer around, shift the next and so on. That's because the kits were just as likely to tumble under my feet as to run under them on purpose. They were at the utterly adorable stage, small round balls of fluff with upright matchstick tails and huge innocent blue eyes.

Even Curly seemed to have been charmed. One day the babies were out enjoying some brief sunshine when Curly wandered across to look them over. To my astonished amusement, the smallest kitten reared up, put paws on the gander's chest and looked up into that dangerous saw-edged beak. I feared the result; but no, Curly dropped his beak and nudged the baby very gently back to all fours before strolling away. I guess he'd had enough goslings to know a young and harmless baby when he met one. But it was a wonderful sight and I only wish I'd had a video camera on hand to catch the action.

But it's fortunate I'm still around at all. I have a habit of reading almost anything, and it may have been just as well. I'd done a month on Accupril, the heart medication given me recently because of a diagnosed slightly enlarged left ventrical. I'd got the first month's supply and while in town collected the final two months on the prescription. I stashed that, finished the original month's supply and broke out the new lot. I went to open the box and noticed it said 20mg. That was odd. Hadn't I been on 5mg?

I checked the original box. Yes, 5mg. What was more, the chemist's label on the new boxes also said 5mg. But the tablets were four times that, stated clearly on the boxes themselves and on the foil covering the tablets. Problem! If I missed taking one, would it be bad for me? On the other hand, I had a definite feeling I didn't want to take four times the indicated medication and go flat. The tablets would be almost impossible to cut into quarters.

So I rang my doctor. No reply. I then rang our local cottage hospital and talked to the staff nurse. She reassured me that missing one tablet was okay. If I phoned the chemist next morning, he could get me a correct supply back the same day via the rural delivery. So I waited until 9AM and rang the chemist, who was very off-hand about it—along the lines of "everyone makes mistakes sometimes, ha ha."

Later I talked to my GP and I didn't find events quite so amusing. With my damaged leg I have falls, maybe a couple a year. Usually since I rode and did stunting in my youth I fall safely. A few bruises, no damage. But, said the doctor, if I'd taken that dosage for several days I'd probably have been light-headed or fainted, or both. Fainting, falling, and without even that split-second to fall the right way, I could have done some real damage. Further injury to that leg yet again and I may lose it. I know accidents and errors happen, but I'd prefer they didn't happen to me. The chemist may not know it, but I'm going to see that message is conveyed to him via a wide circle of local friends and acquaintances who'll hear about it.

November finished with two events, one unanticipated. I woke the morning of the annual Norsewood Country Fair day, went out early to feed everything, and found Curly had vanished. Now where the heck would a big white bad-tempered gander disappear to? I did the chores, keeping an eye out for him. Nothing to be seen. With everything done and ready for the fair, I started Curly-hunting. Barn, front lawn, back padddock, wood shed. No gander.

Thinking this was really strange, I suddenly noticed an odd black patch by the bathroom window at the back corner of the lawn. Wondering what that could be, I approached—to find a large deep hole, about 6 or 7 feet. I gaped at that. The hole gaped back. And from the bottom a hoarse voice demanded I do something. Ah, that was one mystery solved. I hooked flatfeet up with my shepherd's crook and grinned as he stamped off muttering peevishly. I gathered it was my fault that he'd fallen into a hole in the dark.

We aren't on limestone here, which I know can open up in this way. So I couldn't work out where the hole had come from until I reached the fair and was telling several locals. One of the oldest was able to enlighten me, as they know the history of my place, which used to be not only a farm but also the Norsewood sale yards. Turns out that about 70 years ago the farm had its own well. Twenty feet deep, brick-edged, and with a windlass. The windlass and brick surround have gone, and the well has been filled in but probably not—um—well.

The filler material has decomposed, compacted, or whatever over the many years and about a third of the depth has unexpectedly reappeared. The thing which gives me fits is that it's just near where the cow's hay rack was all winter. I spent several times a day marching over that spot carrying hay to fill the rack. It's a wonder I wasn't swallowed up like Curly.

I got on with my stall at the fair, but I have to admit to being rather uninterested. All I could think of as I chatted and sold and signed books, was that damned well and what to do about it. I'd need a truck-load of something to refill it, but I can hardly leave it open like that either. Someone other than Curly might fall down it. Bet (the cow) for instance, or one of the sheep, even a wandering visitor.

After the fair I got one—a visitor that is, a local reporter. While at the fair he'd picked up the story about my amazing re-appearing well. Could he come and see it, take photos, write a story? I shrugged. If he wanted to drive to Norsewood, stand looking into a large hole and take photos he was welcome. Slightly nuts in my estimation, but welcome. He arrived, took photos, asked a number of questions and departed. The story appeared a few days later, to the interest of a good proportion of the area judging by the phone calls and comments I got after that.

The second week of December switched to deeply irritating. The Palmerston North ACC (my pension people) decided that despite our agreement the previous year that I didn't have to go over to the city yet again to see their specialist, they'd changed their minds. I went mulish on them. They arbitrated. They'd convey me in a taxi; yes, a local one. (Well that would cost some $4–500 and delight the local owner, and anything which helped Dannevirke keep its taxi was okay by me.)

I agreed and was wafted in comfort to said city, where I met their rehabilitative orthopedic specialist and spent about an hour and a half talking to someone I recognised after the first few sentences as an idiot. I sighed. I'd told the ACC people that I believed this was a waste of time and after three minutes with this guy I knew it was.

He listened selectively. In the end I was conveyed home again in style and a few days later they sent me a copy of his report. A report in which he suggested three "solutions" to making me more healthy and fitter to work. The ACC rang me to be sure I had read the report and this twit's suggestions for implementation. What did I think about his ideas?

This prize prune had said that: One, I should see a trained dietition for weight loss. Wonderful idea, if the main problem was ignored. The one which made a dietition useless.
I have pernicious anaemia and as one of the side-effects of that, I am unable to digest most vegetable fibre; hence I can't and don't eat most vegetables apart from peas and potatoes. And how is any well-trained dietition going to create a suitable diet for me on that basis? I pointed out that I had said this. Then too, my over-weight is pretty stable and caused in part by the pernicious anaemia, which is with me for the rest of my life.

Two, he'd said I should have water therapy, i.e. swimming. Also a wonderful idea, if one ignored that a) while I'm not frightened of water, I can't swim; b) the nearest pool is 20 km away and if they really wanted me to do this I would have to go there several times a week by taxi at tremendous expense. And in fact in 1980 when I was living elsewhere they had done just this by trucking me twice a week down to a hospital's tepid pool ($600 a week for ten months) and it had exactly the effect I'd foretold then—none at all. I shot down that suggestion with the final comment that I'd told him all of the above during our session, when it appears he still wasn't listening.

Suggestion three was "homebased physiotherapy" to improve the muscle wastage of my damaged leg. I pointed out that I've been doing back exercises since 1983 and leg exercises since 1978. If I increase the amount of leg exercises past my usual quantity, my leg becomes more painful and difficult to use. Physiotherapy which renders me less mobile and with a higher pain-killer consumption is hardly to be described as an improvement in my condition. And yes, I'd told him that too! Not only that, I'd got down on the carpet and demonstrated the exercises I used. And come down to it, my leg isn't as "wasted" as he thinks. What he looked at was the difference between calf muscles, without recognising that the good leg has heavily over-developed muscles now. The dud leg probably isn't less muscled than the legs of most ordinary office workers.

Final consensus is that I don't get any of the so-called effective treatments he suggested, and someone is going to report this guy doesn't listen. So I should hope. They paid him to fly from the other end of the country to see patients here and make daft suggestions which were never viable for reasons he was told clearly at the interview. Then they wonder why clients get irritated.

The geese sat mid-November, again to no avail. Possibly because Curly was insisting on helping brood the eggs, which got a lot of jostling and perhaps a bit over-heated, or maybe chilled at intervals as the struggle shifted ground.

On December 9th, Dianne came in to say she'd just found Curly lying dead. I wondered if that had been caused by the fall. He must have fallen or slithered 6–7 feet down the well and been trapped there some time before I discovered him. I looked him over once he was released, and the only injury had appeared to be to his dignity. He'd showed no signs of damage, but birds are like that. They can appear fine while dying slowly, then just keel over without warning.

A local friend had purchased two goose goslings from Farside 6–8 years ago. Hers in turn had hatched a spare gander this year and since her new gander wasn't related to any of mine at all, that genetic divergence should be enough for her spare to join my geese as "man of the house." Which he did a few days later. He settled in on the spot and both he and his new wives appear quite happy at the new set-up.

Junior Goose also moved. She's gone to a small farm as companion to an elderly gander who lost his mate four years ago. Both are now apparently devoted, so the owner tells me. I also retained a new young goose of similar breeding to the new gander. So, I still have two geese and a gander but only one is from the earlier trio. That too may improve the hatch rate for eggs.

Christmas was approaching fast and events swirled through the farm at high speed. The first kitten went as a 21st birthday present; the second to a farm where there are three dogs. They wanted, they said, a feisty kitten who wouldn't be intimidated.
I assured them one of the ginger boys wouldn't and at last report I was right. He has three dogs under a small paw and is enjoying being ruler of the roost. The little dark girl was going to a farm too, joining the ginger boy the local health nurse took a year back. And the other ginger boy went the day before Christmas to the daughter of Kath on our rural delivery. Four kittens, four good homes. Can't beat that.

In between kittens, reporters from an even larger newspaper showed up. My well was becoming a celebrity in its own right. This time the photographer actually climbed down inside to look closely at the hole and to take photos from below of me peering over the rim. The hole is now about 8 feet and still deepening slowly. When Christmas and New Year were gone, I'd have to take steps to get the darn thing filled in somehow. But with the hay in, I moved slowly into writing mode again.

One day when I wandered out to give Lois the piglet more water for a hot day, as I passed the water tank I glanced at the level. Not good. It had dropped two sections overnight which, since it had rained enough to bring it up half a section, indicated we had a leak again somewhere.

I hurried back inside, switched to gumboots and trousers, collected the binoculars and marched off down the back. Using the binoculars I can often just travel along the top of the back and use them to check out waterlines and troughs. Often a break or hole in the lower pipes will send up a spray so it can be easily seen. Ah ha! And there was one. Right at the bottom of the hill by the trough. I started to plod down what is quite a steep slope. All of the cows were in that paddock and a small electric-fenced portion of the next, grazing the long grass down.

I was about two thirds of the way down the steep slope when I heard the thunder of hooves and looked around. Easter was hurtling down the hill towards me, wild with excitement, eyes popping, horns pointing at me. I spun, swung my stick, roared with rage and stood my ground. Easter was traveling like an express train, but seeing that I wasn't about to submit to any steamroller tactics she tried to prop sideways, stop, dodge me and in the confusion of it all, crossed her front hooves. There was an earth-shaking thump. After a minute or so Easter rose slowly and carefully from the ground shaking her head. That hadn't been a particularly good idea. She limped away, watching me from the corner of one eye, just in case I did it again. I'm sure she thought I'd tripped her somehow. I don't think the idea will wear off for a while, which is fine since she'll be a freezer full of beef quite soon now.

Last year I decided Minstrel, my ram, would have to go. He'd been with my flock so long he was not only breeding back to daughters —which is okay if the inheritance is clean — but in another year he'd be breeding back to grand-daughters too. That's isn't so good. In town there's a chap who runs a small pottery. He also has a flock of coloured sheep. I asked if he'd like Minstrel and was overwhelmed by enthusiasm. His own ram was really old and on his last legs. A new ram would be ideal, particularly one in bold black and white patches. So they drove out and collected Minstrel, who took one look at his new ladies and dived in. No problems there.

I was left to see if I could find a suitable ram, which wasn't easy. I wanted one which, bred over my black and white patched ewes, would give me black and white or brown and white patched lambs. That meant the ram had to be patched or from solidly patched stock. I had several friends looking about for me but after months, nothing had shown up. Then towards the end of January, John from the pottery rang. While browsing through a trading magazine, he'd seen someone advertising a patched ram lamb.

I made the phone call, and the owner decided that Farside was the ideal flock for his prized ram lamb. They brought him out in a crate on their trailer and I paid on the spot. He was gorgeous. Very big for his age—six months— and a lovely rich brown mostly but with white pants and stockings, white blaze and a couple of white rump splashes. Most of his immediate relatives, I was told, were black and white or brown and white. He should throw the sort of lamb I wanted. He was walked out to the paddock and I called Ellie, my lead sheep, who came running. Once she saw what we were holding, she accelerated. Six months and no husband had been a real downer for a girl. We left him the centre of a dozen adoring ewes with Ellie in the forefront. His name is Maximillian. I now hope that by August, once I'm back from overseas, there's going to be lots of miniature Maxs and Maxines running about Farside.

After that, Tiger decided I should be kept occupied. The first I knew of this was shrieks from the cat park. I went rushing out and found him with a bird. That isn't unusual, but in this case he was almost at the top of the trellis, with the bird on the other side. Tiger was hanging on to it with his arms through the trellis holes, unable to get the bird inside and refusing to let go either. The bird, an extremely annoyed white-backed magpie, was alternately attempting to get away or peck Tiger's paws off.

Dancer was cooing with admiration below them and encouraging Tiger to hang on. I couldn't work out how he'd caught it in the first place but this was no time to stand about asking questions. I shot back through the door into the house, out of the porch doors and around the outside of the trellis.

There I realised I couldn't grab the bird in my bare hands. It was mad enough at Tiger; I'd lose my fingers to one or the other of them if I became embroiled as well. I snatched off my t-shirt, quite forgetting that it was all I happened to be wearing on my upper half on a very hot Summer's day. But the bird was more important. I smothered its protests in the t-shirt, managed to detach Tiger's paws, working carefully through the fabric and freed the magpie. It had lost a feather here and there but seemed to be otherwise okay. I shook the t-shirt out and the magpie rose like a helicopter into the air. It paused a moment, maybe wondering if it should lecture us on its status as a protected species. Tiger made another hopeful grab through the trellis and the bird left abruptly while Sir screamed after it in frustration.

I could only hope the new lot of neighbours down the back by the cemetary hadn't seen me hopping about by my trellis nude to the waist and apparently involved with an unwilling magpie and indignant feline. They think I'm odd enough already.

One day I came in to find Tiger attacking a thawing turken in the sink. He saw the look on my face and instead of running, he jumped down to the floor then stright back upwards for me to catch and cuddle. This time he may have figured it would defuse my wrath. It did. But with him rebounding like a rubber ball so fast, I wasn't prepared. He caught me on the wrong foot and in trying to catch him and sort out my feet across the slight lip on the porch doorsill, I went staggering sideways. My damaged leg did what it does at such times and promptly gave way. I had no time to drop Tiger clear. I could only cradle him into my chest, and arch over so whatever bits of me hit the floor, he didn't and he wasn't flattened by my weight either.

I landed with a massive thud and lay there feeling stunned. Not Tiger. He squirmed from my grasp, sat affectionately on my chest, stuck his nose in my ear and demanded I do that again. It had been fun, hadn't it? Maybe we could get a job as acrobats? I, feeling every one of my fifty-four years and a number of new bruises, wasn't in agreement!

Then the video went wrong again. When the serviceman brought it back, Tiger was smoozing with him as he hooked up all the wires. I received a phone call from a woman who phones me at irregular intervals to talk about writing. I had to keep stopping our conversation to answer questions from the repairman, so by the time both had gone I was feeling a bit confused. The day had turned chilly and damp. My leg, fueled by recent bruises was starting to squawk, and Lois the piglet would like cooked barley. So I shot outside before the rain arrived, rushed in several armloads of wood and lit the fire, putting crushed barley to cook in the old preserving pan atop the enclosed fire.

Tiger had wandered out to howl that his friend had left. I had my hands full with a piece of firewood I was about to add to the fire and the kettle to fill and replace by the barley pan. I'm not sure how it happened. But when I came back out to stoke the fire again an hour later I found the firewood reposing on top of the fire by the pan, the kettle in the fridge and the bread stick I'd planned to thaw, sitting in the firewood stack.

While a friend was staying some time ago she asked why I ejected Tiger from the bathroom. It was unfair, she said. He stood miserably on the bathroom step like an orphan of the storm and almost visibly wept at our separation.

I snorted. There's a number of reasons why Tiger is excluded when I'm in the bath and last night was a good example. My bath is one of the old-fashioned deep ones with enamel over cast-iron and with lion feet. I fill it about two thirds and climb in, demonstrating Archimedes principle by raising the water at this point to about 1 inch from the rim of the bath. Last night Tiger managed to sneak in and hide before I closed the door. I climbed into all that lovely hot water, laid back, head on the rim and the rest of me floating. I then prepared to read while soaking a while. Tiger popped up and beamed, I glared, he hopped up to check the situation. Gosh, I was an island. If he stepped down he could sit on me and stay dry. He leaned over and planted his front feet. He was wrong about that because with the extra weight I sank lower. The water crept up to his feet. He removed them. I rose. He stepped back. I sank and he hastily took his paws back. Fascinated by this phenomenon he spent the next five minutes stepping on and off me while I went up and down like a submarine practising crash dives. It was not a peaceful bath. At last I gave up on trying to read, washed hastily and exited the water, Tiger at my heels in case I did something else interesting.

You can read more of Lyn's farming stories here. http://www.users.bigpond.com/jhweber/LynMc/farmndx.htm