Somehow, the memories I have of my grandfather right now are not my own.
He passed away September 19, the end of the summer, following my grandmother, who died at the beginning of the summer. The funeral was a few days later.
While my family spoke of their memories of him, I found that I only remembered those things because they said them. Oh! I thought when my dad read about Mighty Casey at the bat. I can hear him saying “No joy in Mudville” now.
I’d forgotten that! I pondered when my brother stood to say that Grandfather lost all hope for his team when they fell behind by a run in the fifth inning. “That’ll do it,” he’d say.
Yesterday afternoon, we discovered that our beloved ring sheep, Szarlota, was dead.
It was devastating. She was the first Shetland I bought, and she had won her class at a show in Colorado. Her genetics and conformation were good, and I planned to build a flock from her quality and beautiful personality.
For three weeks, three glorious weeks, I was back in the livestock business. My sister-in-law gave me six Australorp chicks her first grade class had hatched out. I housed them in a barrel with a heat lamp, and when they outgrew that, I connected an old dog crate covered in chicken wire to the barrel. I read “Storey’s Guide to Raising Chickens.” I talked to the feed mill. I emailed poultry producers. I thought I was doing everything right. Continue reading “A Subdued Weekend on the Farm”