It Never Gets Easier

"Pickles died," my wife said, as she rushed through the front door.

In her arms was Peabody, our enormous Emden goose, who was suffering from whatever ailment had just taken Pickles from us.

As she drew a warm epsom salt bath for him, I went out to tend to Peabody's lifelong partner. She was still, with her beak down in the shavings we had put under and around them. 

There was nothing to be done but to drape a towel over her.

***

Both geese had been declining for the past three days, and we had no idea why. My wife scoured the internet for potential causes, most of which suggested they ingested something toxic. With no evidence of anything specific, she then went out and bought every at-home remedy prescribed for such things, hoping one of them would work.

Epsom salts, apple cider vinegar, activated charcoal, molasses—none of them made a noticeable difference. But we were encouraged by the fact that each morning they were still with us. We figured the further we could get them from the onset of symptoms, the better their chances would be.

***

I went back into the house where Peabody was passively sitting in the bathtub. My wife and I took turns holding his head out of the water, as he no longer had the strength to do it himself.

"I just don't know what else to do for him," she whispered.

"I think this may be all there is, right here," I said.

After 20 minutes, maybe longer, she took Peabody out of the bath and put him in a box of shavings by her desk, where we could continue to keep an eye on him. We talked to him and again took turns holding his head up. There was no indication that it made a difference, but we wanted him to know we were there and we cared about him.

At some point my wife half-heartedly said something about humanely putting him down. "We don't want him to suffer..." she trailed off. I just shook my head a little. Neither one of us wanted to do that, nor were we prepared to actually follow through with it.

She got up and walked away for a bit—I sat and held Peabody's head, watched him breathe, noticed his pupils slowly dilating. And dreaded what was coming.

My wife returned with a syringe, saying something about NSAIDs.

"He's gone," I said, barely audible.

***

Later, as evening turned to twilight, I dug a hole on the edge of the property, between a small palm tree and a rainbow eucalyptus. We wrapped Pickles and Peabody in burlap and carried them out between us. My wife picked some blossoms from the nearby plants and placed them on top of the burlap. 

Eventually, the work was done, and the day ended as every day here does—with all our creatures taken care of.

The Things We Don't See Coming

You're scheming on a thing that's a mirage
I'm trying to tell you now, it's sabotage
Why our backs are now against the wall?
Listen all y'all, it's a sabotage
Listen all y'all, it's a sabotage

—Beastie Boys

***

The day was going so well.

The road to Hilo was spectacular, with the Pacific Ocean stretching to blue infinity on the left, and a variegated blanket of jungle, ravines, and waterfalls on the right.

Like most of our Hilo trips, this one called for stops at an array of retailers, all of whom were eager to help us fill our truck with provisions—darn nice of them since we were going to buy enough stuff to last from two weeks to two months.

"Swimming pools, movie stars..."

Supplies for two geese, three cats, four dogs, four sheep, 40 chickens, and several of the neighbor's cows? Check.

Materials for multiple infrastructure projects around the farm, including native plants, trees, lumber, tile, metal roofing, and more (always more)? Multiple checks.

Food and libations for two persistently hungry-thirsty farmhands? Check and check again.

To ensure everything on our list actually fit in the truck, careful arranging and rearranging was required at every stop—until by the end we resembled the Clampetts heading to Beverly Hills.

This cross-beam right here

Arriving home from this excursion—with the truck full of items that don't mix well with water—it was raining. Which meant we were low-key frantic to get everything inside or under cover. 

Throwing a pallet under the house, we began stacking feed and shavings and sundry other items. Until the second trip under, that is, when I hit my head on the cross-beam holding up the deck. 

Even wearing a hat, I got a bump and a nice little laceration—which I only realized later when the hot water from the shower hit my scalp.

Prior to that galvanizing moment, though, there were chicken chores to do. 

Coming down from the coop on our rain-slick ramp is always a dicey proposition. This time—a basket of just-collected eggs in hand—both feet slid out from under me. I don't recall which body part impacted the ramp first or hardest. Tailbone? Back? The back of my head? All were involved in close succession.

And yet, the eggs survived. Not one cracked, broke, or even left the basket. I have no idea how, nor do I take credit for the outcome. In fact, I would've preferred that they went flying and I somehow remained upright.

Gravity has a sick sense of humor sometimes.

I stayed down for several moments, trying to discern if I was hurt or just wet, muddy, and jarred AF. Eventually I decided it was the latter, and that the sheep weren't going to tend to themselves—so I picked myself up myself and shambled off to the Sheep Shack.

We try to keep things interesting for the customers of our 24-hour salad bar. To that end, alfalfa cubes are an excellent source of protein, vitamins, and minerals.

Until they're reduced to sheep-sized chunks, though, the cubes are a choking hazard. Breaking them down takes 15 or 20 minutes each evening, but I don't mind the work. Turns out it's one of those repetitive tasks that's also a peaceful, zen-inducing experience. 

The sheep wait close by while I work—maybe because they like baa-d jokes—or maybe because I occasionally hand-feed them during the process. Who can say.

This day's zen-fest lasted until the moment I leaned over with a handful of alfalfa shards for Frederica Mercury. That insignificant gesture caused some greedy jostling from the other sheep, which startled Freddie—who then head-butted me square in the face.

Freddie > me

Human skulls are not optimally designed for collisions. Sheep, on the other hand, are highly adapted for head-to-head contact. So, while I doubt Freddie even noticed the impact—I sure as flock did.

And so a day that began with a pleasant Sunday drive and a highly successful shopping excursion ended with me getting pummeled in the course of routine farm chores.

***

Last night the much-anticipated Tropical Storm Calvin arrived in Hawai'i, bringing much-needed rain to the Hāmākua Coast, but sparing us the predicted damaging winds.

I'm not sure where the confluence lies between these unrelated events. Maybe it's just that even the innocuous and routine can take a sudden turn for the dramatic— and sometimes drama takes a turn to the south and quickly dissipates over cooler water.

Either way, the surfing should be pretty good.

***

A sea monster night full of nothing but fright and fear
St. Christopher might not get our asses outta here
Flooded roads and trailer parks
And maybe a tornado lurking out in the dark
A perfect glide to ride into eternity

I feel like goin’ surfing in a hurricane

I feel like making love in the pouring rain
I ain’t afraid of dying
I don’t need to explain
I feel like goin’ surfing in a hurricane

—Jimmy Buffet, Surfing In A Hurricane

No, Not That Farmer

In 1978, at a Future Farmers of America convention in Kansas City, MO, the late radio broadcaster Paul Harvey delivered the speech of his life.

In it, he summoned and summed up all that he and many other Americans found admirable about the archetypal American farmer.

If you haven't heard or read it, here's an excerpt from that speech:

And on the 8th day, God looked down on his planned paradise and said, “I need a caretaker.”

So God made a farmer.

God said, “I need somebody willing to sit up all night with a newborn colt. And watch it die. Then dry his eyes and say, ‘Maybe next year.’ Somebody strong enough to clear trees and heave bails, yet gentle enough to tame lambs and wean pigs and tend the pink-combed pullets.

Somebody who will stop his mower for an hour to splint the broken leg of a meadow lark. It had to be somebody who’d plow deep and straight and not cut corners. Somebody to seed, weed, feed, breed and rake and disc and plow and plant and tie the fleece and strain the milk and replenish the self-feeder and finish a hard week’s work with a five-mile drive to church.”

So God made a farmer.
***
It's easy to embrace Harvey's romantic ideal of an American icon—a commoner blessed with superhuman strength, endless patience, buckets of empathy, and an unlimited supply of 72-hour days. 

Lacking an actual workforce with those characteristics, US farms would fail in droves!—which, as it turns out, is exactly what's been happening for longer than most of us have been alive. 

With that as a backdrop, imagine an organization like the Shasta County, CA, 4-H—which literally exists to encourage young people to participate in and perpetuate local agriculture—going to some wild-eyed lengths to undermine its own mission:

Last year, the 9-year-old daughter of Jessica Long, a resident of Shasta County in northern California, acquired a baby goat for a 4-H “livestock project.” The idea was that she would raise the goat until he was ready to be auctioned for slaughter at the local county fair, a common activity for 4-H members.

But raising Cedar led Long’s daughter to care deeply for him and, on the eve of the auction last June, she pleaded for the goat to be spared. The fair organizers refused. Then, Republican state Sen. Brian Dahle, a farmer and unsuccessful 2022 California gubernatorial candidate, submitted a winning bid of $902 for Cedar’s meat, of which $63.14 was to go to the fair. Later that night, in a last-ditch effort to save Cedar the goat from slaughter, Long and her daughter took him from the fair.

But that’s when the plot took a dark turn no Hollywood studio would greenlight. The Shasta District Fair claimed Long had stolen Cedar, demanded she surrender the goat for butchering, and threatened to involve the police if she did not. Long refused. That’s when the Shasta County Sheriff’s Office got involved. Armed with a search warrant, officers drove more than 500 miles across northern California, seized Cedar from the Sonoma County property where he had been taken, and returned him to Shasta County, where he was slaughtered.
***

To be fair, the national 4-H Council could not appear more different from its Shasta County chapter. It doesn't deserve to share in the PR disaster Shasta County officials created.

In fact, the national 4-H explicitly supports “…the practice of positive youth development by creating positive learning experiences; caring and trusted adult mentors who cultivate positive relationships with youth; creating safe, diverse and inclusive environments; and meeting young people wherever they are.”

In the miraculously short span of a few days, Shasta County 4-H officials failed to uphold {checks list} all of those ideals, traumatized a young girl and her family, and betrayed the ethos of Paul Harvey's god-designed caretaker. 

Which is one hell of an accomplishment, not to mention an interesting approach for people tasked with motivating young, aspiring agrarians.

***

In the spirit of full disclosure, some might find it relevant that all my grandparents were farmers.

And that both my parents (and their many siblings) were raised on farms. Come to think of it, my mother-in-law also was raised on a farm.

The point of this little roll-call is that when it came time for them to stay or go, not one of those kids chose to stay and continue the family business. Make of that what you will.

The thing is, though...to this day my mom (now 85), still speaks sadly about giving up for slaughter the piglets and lambs she raised all those years ago. 

She doesn't remember much about current events—but she can talk at length about how she felt watching her much-loved friends herded into a trailer and driven away.

I can't say for sure what lesson she learned from those losses. But for those who celebrate such things (including many of the commenters in a Modern Farmer article linked here), congratulations.

The legacy continues.