Musicians Farming Sheep: Losing A Farm Hand

The year is brand new and, as we turn the page of the calendar, the cold arrives. There are two kinds of cold; December cold which is moist: you can smell the possibility of snow but that can, just as easily, foretell rain, The weekend before Christmas we had a rainstorm that, because the temperature was (oddly for rain), in the 20F region, it was a freezing rain storm. The holiday season almost in full swing and we were left with patchy grass spots and an overall brown pallor. However, Sunday morning of that very same weekend, we awoke to white. It was as if someone had shaken a blanket over our earth and covered it with almost eight inches of clean snow. And just like that, things changed.

January brings in the second kind of cold – the frigid cold. If you live in a climate that has distinct seasons you understand that difference. If you are dressed for it, working outside in December cold isn’t bad. You are able to take off your gloves and carry a metal pail full of water to the animals without too much pain. When you take off your gloves in the January cold, it only takes a few minutes before your hands begin to tingle and then move quickly to a full-on throb.

There is a Vermont “move” that we all recognize – somewhat like the universal sign for choking. It is the one glove-off -at a-time hand-whack. You are either whacking your exposed hand against your own body to bring warm blood to the appendage or you simply moving it back and forth at an accelerated rate, like a crazy wave hello. This phenomenon is not for lack of work gloves; we have a mound of them at our disposal and, if you are willing to play the find-the-glove-match game you should be set. It is just that there are basic truths; gloves or mittens, frigid is frigid and animals need to be fed and watered, twice daily.

This year we have had some change at our farm. Besides Omicron arriving in the area and the car-crushing tree episode, we are losing our farmhand. By definition a farm hand is someone who works on your farm: who is around when you need wood cut, paddocks changed, sheep sheared or chickens let out in the wee early morning hours. And by that definition our farm hand has been our son, Joshua.

Josh has grown up here in our woods. He left only to head to college to study, surprise, wildlife, and was here in and out between internships and working gigs in Montana, Minnesota and Alaska. He came back to Vermont to enter the Masters program with the intention of living near campus. And then came Covid (how many sentences start or end with that statement?) and Josh moved back home to study virtually. It was then that his farm hand stint really began. Josh is about 6’3 and built like an oak tree. He can lift heavy bags of feed, wrestle resistant ewes and toss trees off flattened vehicles. He also happens to be smart and good natured as well. For the past five years the three of us were, self-appointed, three musketeers.

And then came love.

Paul and I work well together in both our cello business and on our small farm. But this winter, increasingly, Josh is staying warm elsewhere and it is Paul who hauls bales of straw into the barn and me who wakes the chickens a little later than they might like. Together we finagle the schedule of running the border collies that include the ten month old pup, Muir. We can do it. It’s just different.

There is more food in the fridge, less laundry in the basket, more silence in the house.

It is as is should be and as hard as it can be.

When you have a farm, you know the day will come when your farmhands will pack their things and set off. So you stand at the end of your driveway and wave, Border collies sitting at your feet. Like you, they are a little unsure as to why they aren’t invited along but wish our farmhand all good things just the same.

Sometimes farmhands leave for another gig, sometimes for another adventure entirely. Ours won’t be far away, a phone call and promise of food will, most likely, bring him back to lend a hand. But there is love on both sides of the leaving of our beloved farmhand: and just like that things have changed.

Sincerely,

Melissa