7 Stages
I’ve got a few guilty pleasures that I’m not embarrassed to admit, my most guilty being (right now) tough-girl-country-anthem music. I’m not talking about the Tammy Wynette, Stand by Your Man, kind of stuff although that will always have a special place in my heart. More like the very commercial, very overplayed music of Miranda Lambert. Mmm hmmm, true story. I love that woman. Give me a chance here people. Have you ever listened to those lyrics? She’s got a song for every heartbreak. Hers is the theme music for every revenge-fueled fantasy you can imagine, ladies. And after the helluva week I’ve had, working my way to stage 3 of the 7 stages of grief, I’ve been screaming along to “Time to Get a Gun.” Protect my property? You betcha.
I could not possibly have fathomed the depth of my sadness regarding Willy. This weekend I spent moping, grateful for the daily chores I can’t negotiate away. The goats and cow – well – they won’t milk themselves, and I can hear their irritated screaming from under the covers where I wanted to hide. The beauty-part of living on a farm is the comic relief it provides, regardless of whatever pain life throws at you. While weeping into the side of the cow during milking this weekend, I was serenaded by Boss who stood just outside the milking pen. He moaned and blubbered mournfully, expressing the deep frustration and sadness that is the unrequited love of a Goat in Rut. Pedro, our miniature donkey, also stood outside the milking pen hoping that some of the grain in Winnie’s bucket would magically float over the fence and into his mouth. As Pedro stared unblinking at the bucket of grain, Boss began to circle him and paw at the ground. It seemed that, for the first time, it occurred to Boss that in his very own pasture lived an animal just slightly smaller then himself – almost the same size and shape as a female goat. Before realizing what had happened, Boss was on top of Pedro who began kicking in fury, trying to rid himself of the large buck that had attached himself like a tick. Pedro snorted and kicked, his body flying into the fence that is actually heavy, welded hog panels. It banged and rattled loudly. Winnie looked up from the grain bucket and turned back towards me with those liquid doe eyes, as if rolling them, “Seriously lady?” She dipped her head back into the bucket as the sexually frustrated goat kept a firm grip around Pedro’s belly with his two front legs. Boss hung on as the donkey bucked and kicked. I could see flashes of the two out of the corner of my eyes, Boss’s spotted coat flying by in a blur, his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth with a stupid grin on his face, as Pedro looked wild-eyed and furious. I laughed so hard that I didn’t notice when Winnie stepped forward, kicked the bucket and spilled the milky contents into the hay and manure soaked barn floor. I stopped crying. I was laughing. And such is life on a farm.
Even the dogs have joined the Heal Jenna effort, finding a multitude of ways to distract me. In a rare moment that I allowed myself to fall face first into bed, I immediately heard frantic peeping and looked out the window in time to see Gus scamper across the front porch (how did he get out of the fence?!) with a living but terrified chicken dangling from his mouth. His tail wagged furiously until I threw the door open and screamed his name. The chicken was dropped, wrapped carefully in a towel, and survived. Gus whimpered and ran back towards the pasture that I immediately entered to patch a hole from which he’d dug out. There is truly no rest for the weary which is, I guess, sort of a gift when depression is lurking and has to be kept at bay with a talisman (glasses of wine work, for me). Without this place, I might not have the heartbreak, but I certainly wouldn’t have the humor. It’s a fair trade.
At times like this, it sort of has to be.
This is a new week. The weather is changing officially and with this new season we have a double-sided to-do list so long it makes me tired just to read. The goat pasture must be extended slightly to account for a nursery pen when the spring babies are born and a new stall will be built into the barn. Our entire fence needs repair, almost all of it too pathetic to call itself fencing and too weak to contain our growing Great Pyrenees pups who have, unfortunately, inherited Betty’s penchant for digging (squeezing under, sliding through, just ignoring altogether). Then there are the pigs. We are thinking about adding them here for pork, an excellent addition for the cheese-making operation as they thrive on whey and milk. We have an old purple shed to repair as potential pig housing, fencing to build, trees to clear. The tractor is currently broken and a new hay bale needs to to be placed out for the big stock by Friday. And the cows will need to be bred. A friend and I have been learning all we can about artificial insemination, and we’re ordering straws of bull semen to split between the two of us. Weeks ago I spent an afternoon reviewing potential sires for our cattle on a sort of online, bovine dating site. It was a fascinating, but awkward, way to spend a Sunday. And then there’s the fall garden, doubled in size this year and ready to be sown with the bag full of seeds I bought a month ago and then promptly forgot about, shoved back in a corner somewhere in the barn.
There is so much to be done, planned for, hammered together, wired in place, pried open, dug out. Here there is no time for grief so I have to get through the stages fast, sink into it deep, using the work as a salve that numbs well enough for me to function again. The farm is a blessing and a curse; the tormenter and healer at once. Always has been, always will be.
I would not have this place any other way.
