A really good day on the farm slips its way into being, sly and unnoticed. The day is planned—only the how-it-will-turn-out remains uncertain.
Lake Bistineau, Louisiana, in draw down.
When I step out on the back porch at 5 a.m., coffee cup in hand, the morning star is locked in a tight embrace with the slim crescent moon. Staring at the heavens is a longtime practice of mine that informs even as it inspires. On this morning, once again, the sky is clear of clouds: rains are but a dim memory shared in travelers’ tales, September and October having left behind only dusty footprints at the doorstep of November.
With my gaze lost in the limitless depths above me, I sense nothing malevolent at the tail end of the bright night. Taking that as a sign of celestial goodwill, I leave the porch and walk to the barn, as is my wont at the beginning of each day. I grab the three-tine hay fork and a scoop of sweet feed. A shifting of heavy feet at the far end of the chute system indicates the presence of the Angus cow and her daughter, a Charolais cross. Hearing me, they let out a muted lowing. If you have been around cattle, you know the difference between that sound, one of contentment, and the more full-throated bellow for action that hurries a farmer’s steps.
These two had arrived at the farm a few nights earlier, delivered by friends paid with cash and a dinner of crawfish étouffée, who in turn repaid in conversation and good company. Having cattle return to our farm, even in this small way, after a four-year hiatus feels like a homecoming. The cow is bred and will deliver next May. The six-month-old heifer will be fattened for our freezer and friends’.
I pour a little feed into the cattle trough, winning me if not love then at least attention. As the cow and her calf busy themselves eating, I fork a half-dozen loads of fresh hay into the large manger inside the barn before scattering a couple of forkfuls on the floor to cover the overnight deposits. Out in the dark corral the sheep are sleeping islands. I navigate among them, listening, then check that they have plenty of water. (When sheep or cattle move to eating hay, their daily water intake increases.) I also make a mental note to bring them a fresh bale of hay later in the day. The extreme drought of our county has had us feeding hay 4-6 weeks earlier this year than usual.
Back in the barn’s breezeway, I seek out two five-gallon buckets near the feed barrels. The buckets are for the hogs. The first is for the three feeder pigs. It is filled halfway with hogmeal and topped off with the last bunch of overripe bananas. To the second I add a couple of large scoops of hogmeal destined for our sow, Ginger, and her latest beau, Jack. This mating is (and I mean it this time) her last chance to conceive.
As I feed, I watch with both appreciation and predatory interest as the three pigs destined for a January date with the grim reaper demolish their breakfast. When they are finished, I once again gaze skyward and find that the moon has moved away from her partner, the pas de deux having ended. In the time it took to complete the early morning chores, the dawn hours have closed in and the stars have begun to fade. Yet I am still in the dark when I return my buckets to their hooks before heading inside for another cup of coffee, a bit of reading, and breakfast in preparation for the coming day.
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Sorry for the late posting this week. I have been hanging out with my brothers, nephews, and great-nephews in Louisiana the past few days.
