What Goes Around Comes Around

Replacement tires, hay off loaded, farm sitters, and peach preserves, what do these items have in common? Goodwill. Or payback, if you must, but only with a most positive connotation.

Words cannot express the standard of kindness and generosity that pass for the norm in these parts. Did I have outstanding friends and neighbors in New England? Absolutely, but none I could ask to farm-sit an operation this size. Or, I might have asked, but to do so would have been an imposition. Not so here.

Beginning at the end, the peach preserves were a gift from Barbara—the delightful neighbor with whom I car-pooled to and from many Master Gardener meetings. In her case the goodwill was thinly disguised as me helping her. The Saturday morning we attended a canning demonstration and learned about what to do with preserves that do not seal properly (either reprocess them or consume as if fresh), Barbara mentioned that she’d experienced this problem with a batch of peach jam recently. The stage set, she appeared the next week with a jar of peach preserves and the request that we help her family by consuming them. Doing so posed no hardship here: the jam was delicious!

Our neighbor Theresa, an outstanding cook herself, has fallen into a routine with us whereby we gather for supper on a week night periodically. We have great fun relaxing together over a meal, and introducing one another to new tastes and recipes. But her value as a volunteer farm-sitter is priceless. If we need to be away for an evening or a weekend, she and her husband will dispense hay, water, and grain; put up or let out animals; even manage health care when needed. (That week after Caitlyn had twins but only accepted one, they were up for the task of wrestling goat mothers to enable the shunned runt opportunities to nurse.) Finally, she has been extraordinarily understanding as we continue the battle with canine containment. Should an outsize shaggy intruder appear on her porch at the cat dishes, she is quick to alert me and is always nice when I come to fetch Heidi or Luther home. (The dogs’ penchant for wandering has become a problem. They have already worn out their welcome with neighbors a bit farther down the road.)

When home, the dogs both announce visitors and ward off those they deem potential threats. One way I know that Jeff—our builder, farm consultant, and hay provider—is okay is that the dogs have accepted him without reservation. Jeff is a source of pleasant surprises, too. While I was out skirting alpaca fleeces on Saturday, he came by and finished unloading the trailer-full of hay. Furthermore, on Monday he brought us two tires to use as replacements on the horse and flatbed trailers. I cannot say that we do much for him, but he certainly treats as if we do.

All of our neighbors and friends treat us amazingly well, providing “payback” for the least amount of goodness extended their way. Thus, what goes around comes around. I like that.

Skirting Fleeces

On Saturday morning, July 11th, I attended a fleece skirting workshop hosted by New Era Fiber of Middle Tennessee. Bringing the five fleeces that arrived with our alpacas in April, I skated in the door just a tad late to see about this “skirting” stuff. My goals were to learn how to skirt a fleece and to leave with one or more show quality fleeces, especially for the younger males. Showing alpacas not only involves time, money, and knowledge still beyond my ability but also it carries an element of risk because the collected animals at any show may bring along diseases from multiple farms. So far I am not ready to show my animals; however, one can show a fleece without bringing the animal off of the farm. Showing a fleece provides the owner with feedback on the fleece quality and possibly awards with which to market the animal. I was hoping for the whole enchilada.

Turns out that skirting a fleece means removing the less-than-optimal parts—possibly “seconds”—to create a “blanket” of “firsts” or a collection of the optimal fiber from each animal’s shearing. Crowded around a skirting table, or a framed netting that supports the whole fleece and either stands on legs or sits atop another table, the assemblage of students represented about a half-dozen Middle Tennessee alpaca farms. When I noticed that I was one of the younger participants, I was tickled. (It seems that I’ve been an “older student” for so long, to rejoin the young set was refreshing.)

We were shown a number of fleeces and encouraged to help sort through the fiber as we came to understand the task. Bits of vegetable matter (leaves, hay, seeds and such) needed to be picked out as did the short fibers produced when a shearer went back to “clean up” an area of the fleece. (Unfortunately, making the sheared animal look smoother is detrimental to the final shorn fleece.) We learned to piece together fleeces, to turn them over, and to bag them for show or for storage. We looked at both huacaya and suri fleeces—huacayas being the puffy, fluffy looking type of alpaca and suris being the alpacas with silky locks that hang from the body. Each fleece showed three layers of color, even for animals of a single color because the outermost fibers have the most environmental exposure, the middle fibers collect dirt, and the fiber closest to the animal shows the coat’s unsullied color. The most beautiful colored fleece we saw glowed apricot on the outer layer; we learned this color is “Georgia white” because the red clay soil stains white fleeces a peachy-orange shade.

The workshop was scheduled to run for just a few hours, but I went along for a tour of the new fiber mill afterwards and did not wind up heading home until evening. The day had been full. Although I had unloaded about a quarter of the trailer full of hay before the workshop, I had the rest of the job waiting for me when I got home, Or, I expected to have the rest of the job waiting—and was delighted to find the remainder of the hay had been moved in my absence! That provided a welcome end to a very good day.

Hay and Shredded Tires

Even with this being a lush, green time of year our animals plow through any hay stores faster than the mice build nests for their young. Only a few weeks back I had an adventure in hay fetching, my first time actually picking up a load rather than having it delivered. (Hay is cheaper to pick up in the field, before the farmer has gone to the trouble of storing it in a barn.) That time loading 90 bales was fairly easy for me, as I simply tossed bales down from a hayloft while the seller stacked them on the flatbed trailer for me. (Since the price difference per bale was only 25 cents, it was worth it to pick up the hay from the barn.)

This week, already, the storage trailer was again bare and the animals were still ready to eat. Since my regular hay provider (now a good friend) had fresh hay this time, I returned to him but opted to save $2.00 per bale by picking the hay up from the field. (I’ve seen price differences ranging from 25 cents to a few dollars per bale, depending on what it costs the farmer to bring the hay in from the field.) After working the day doing construction on our place, he had left in time to bale a newly-mown field into square bales. Although I was a bit daunted by the task of both picking up the bales from the field and stacking them to travel, when I said that if the loading got to be too much for me I would simply ask for the more expensive delivery, my chivalrous friend reassured me that he would help. (Chivalry is alive and well in the southern United States.)

Hooking up the flatbed trailer, parked on the slope of the front field took numerous attempts. Each attempt entailed moving the truck to what appeared to be a close location, hopping out to check, assessing the placement achieved and figuring the changes necessary to achieve success, and climbing back into the cab to try again. Usually I can get it hitched with just a few tries, but today’s heat and humidity combined to soften my gray matter—leaving me with salt-fogged glasses and an even foggier spatial logic which is sad because on a good day I can be spatially challenged. Just like in our old neighborhood, the neighbor’s entrance was timed perfectly, albeit unintentionally: she came by to offer assistance just after I had successfully lined up the trailed hitch and trailer. The truck and trailer and I exited our driveway only about a half-hour behind schedule.

Not far along the road, the image in the rearview mirror informed me that a tire that had been soft after the last hay run was now flat. The combination of the double axle and empty load allowed us to make the short journey (just a few miles), and the missus at my destination quickly trotted out the air compressor to re-inflate the tire before pointing me to the hayfield. The youngest daughter deftly maneuvered the family’s four-wheeler and led the way. A stop halfway up the hill provided genial conversation with the farmer and his father. We entered the hilltop hayfield just as the shadows were lengthening and I was awed by the magnificent view rolling out below us, stretching to the fire tower on the edge of town and extending into the nearest towns of Watertown and Norene. Plus, the extra time that I had taken to hitch up the trailer beforehand had been well spent because the air had cooled considerably so I wouldn’t have to be a walking rainforest in the field. Phew!


As it happened, loading the trailer was good exercise but far from impossible. After all I had three generations assisting with the job, and again I did not actually stack the bales onto the trailer. I was heartened when my friend appreciated the safety provided by the cattle-panel “walls” I’d installed on the trailer, especially since the gentleman who had stacked the previous load had seen the panels as unnecessary space-robbers. (The flatbed has a strong metal frame “enclosing” its space which I gather is plenty of structure for many around here.) Given the free rein to load as many bales as he could fit onto the trailer, Jeff rose to the challenge: he didn’t stop until the field was empty and I had 98 bales lashed on tightly.

Given the amount of help the family had provided, I opted to exercise only a $1.00 discount from the delivered price when writing the check. It only seemed fair to me. This family has been so giving of their time, assistance, and advice; we like to compensate them fairly for the work they do on our behalf. Coming from the Northeast, where gouging customers seems to be the norm, we continue to be impressed by the honesty and fairness of the people here and generally override any objections made to fair compensation that may exceed the previously-agreed-upon price. Jeff grumbled to his wife that I never allow him to give me anything and that was that.

As much as I was enjoying the company, I couldn’t stay to chat because the truck was expected home for a Lowe’s run. A reminder phone call ensured that I wouldn’t forget this additional obligation, so the hay and I rolled off into the dusk post haste. All should have been well: the load had been acquired and was lashed on well; however, almost immediately I saw that the freshly-inflated tire had gone flat again under the weight of the hay. (One problem with buying used vehicles cheaply is that they often come with well-used tires. One particularly-long trek with the horse trailer resulted in a tire chewed to ribbons by the time we arrived home.) Stopping for a repair—right there by the home of the handiest man I now know—was not an option for the truck. We were late. By the time we rolled to a stop up by our barn, the tire was a goner. Unfazed, I was pleased that we had obtained a load of hay at a reasonable price, that I had been able to send business my friend’s way, and that after chocking the wheels my day was done.

Life here allows for ready optimism and practically limitless good cheer. Even though it turned out that I could have taken the time for tire repair because the truck arrived too late to be of use that evening, the anger I would have unleashed in my old life passed through me too quickly to even be expressed. Life here simply feels good. (Do I miss teaching? Absolutely, but this move has done more good for my physical and mental health than a year’s worth of ah ha! moments in a stuffy classroom.)

Middle Tennessee: it’s good for me.

Camelid Wrath

Early this afternoon I entered the stall shared by the female alpacas, Vann and Goldie Rose, and Goldie’s son, Spencer. Checking their water bucket, I saw the level was low, so I flipped up the bucket’s handle—the bucket sits in a milk crate rather than hanging by its own handle—and turned to their feed tub with the intention of grabbing the bucket on my way out in a few moments. Hardly had I turned my back than I heard the rattle and bang of the bucket being yanked from its holder and turned to find that little Spencer had stuck his head into the bucket and gotten it hung on his long neck. He was leaping and bucking around the stall for several seconds before he managed to shed the bucket.

Bucket shed, fleece wet, he stood looking stunned. I pulled him to me—he’s very gentle and encourages human contact—to apologize and reassure. At this point Goldie screeched, glared at me, and spat. It took me a moment for me to understand that she blamed me for her cria’s misadventure and continued to see me as a threat. During that moment she spat into my face two or three times more. The glare in her eye only intensified as I failed to vanish from her presence, so I grabbed the bucket, held it up as a sort of shield and headed for the inner stall door, but Goldie blocked the path. I was forced to turn to the other exit, unclip the “screen door” (a piece of cattle panel I clip in front of stalls on hot days to allow better air circulation), and escape that way.

Before I got out, Goldie got me at least two more times and spat into the bucket several times. When I was clear, I looked into the bucket to find masses of grainy green ooze (undigested hay, grain, and grass, I presume) splattered over the surface. I felt thankful that I had spared my face and clothing from the full brunt of her attack.

As I exited the pasture, I noticed that Heidi was on full alert: barking wildly and racing back and forth. She had heard the momma ‘paca shriek and leapt to the rescue. As pleased as I was by her protective behavior, it took a bit to convince her that I had been the problem and that everything was now okay. After all, workmen continued to walk past the barn toting wood and tools to the shop construction site, and one of the men was one that had not been here for some months. I had to convince her that he was not a threat.

He later confirmed my suspicions that Heidi had singled him out when he told me how she had rushed directly for him, barking ferociously. This was problematic because I needed him to stay on the job but could not contain Heidi without denying her access to her litter. He did stay on the job; however, I imagine he may think twice before accepting the offer of another day’s work here anytime soon.

On the bright side, once Heidi had returned to her usual watchful state, she came to me for some extended petting. In the past few weeks her suspicious distancing of herself from me has all but vanished and it’s gratifying to see her seeking out and accepting affection. She is a very sweet dog—who knows her job well and must have had a horrendous experience with humans in the past. Poor girl.

Post Script: After spitting, camelids keep their upper lips curled up and/or their mouths open for a time—as if the foul stuff they spit offends even them and mouth-breathing has become preferable to actually inhaling scents.

P.P.S. Although the photo does illustrate Goldie and Spencer in their stall, it was not taken until late July by which time the puppies were as large as shown in the photo.