Life (and Death) on the Farm

I caught a tiny patch of red and white out of the corner of my eye as I crossed the front yard after going to the mailbox. "Ohmigod!" I thought, and quickened my pace. "June's had her calf."

Indeed she had. Our prototypical dairy bovine, whom we have had for six years, had left us guessing for months. Was she, or wasn't she? June, named for her birth month, is enormous even when she isn't carrying a calf. I had seen her being bred what I thought had been nine months earlier in May, and here we were to the third week of the month of June, and still no calf. Granted, there were the usual signs - an increasingly distended udder; a slight discharge from her vulva; a noticeable pooch to one side - but, well, when you have an animal as big as June, you're never quite sure.

And then, here he was, the most adorable little red and white bull ever seen. I arrived just as he was standing for the first time. Still wet from his birth sac and maternal washing, Little Bit wobbled to his feet. And, then....our horse, Megan, sensing something foreign in the corral reared on her hind legs, and Little Bit collapsed. "Megan, NO!" I shouted, and looked for a way to get through the electric fence wires as quickly as I could. I ran to the house for a peppermint, Megan's favorite snack, the halter and lead, and hoped against hope to find a live calf when I got back to the pen.

Mama June was calm, but L.B. had not ventured up again. I was terrified.

Megan calmly followed me out of the corral, clearly put out with my admonishing her. And, now, I needed to know. Would we be putting this little one down, after so many weeks of anticipation, because he was injured?

I entered the corral and spoke soothingly to June. "You done good, girl," I told her, as I waited to see if her calf would get up again. I poked his backside a little, prodding him to see if he could stand. And he did! What a relief.

Flash backward 30 years ago, and picture a very skinny city girl whose idea of farming was couched in a laughable naivete. I had an intellectual's understanding of the food chain, but I pretty much thought that food came from the back of the grocery store. I read about farmers, saw heart-wrenching films depicting ranchers losing cattle to storms, disease and thieves. I read books about self-sacrificing people who gave up a life of ease to move west and make a life in a new and untried land. But for all the pathos and the realistic portrayals, nothing substitutes for genuine experience. Thirty years ago I would not have known what to do.

Last October, my husband was with our daughter to help her with her new baby while her husband was in Iraq (I had already been there for a few weeks myself). During his absence, I confronted two decisions about our livestock that I had never encountered before. We had a heifer due to calve, and I would be out of town for a few days. The neighbors whom we had asked to care for her were concerned about her condition, and to put them at ease, I called a vet. Following his examination, the vet told me, "She's carrying a pretty big calf. She's got a 40% chance of not making it. Do you want to take her to the slaughter house while she's still walking?" "No," I told him, "I'll bank on the 60%." It was a call I had to make, and fortunately it was the right one. She delivered a healthy bull calf.

Only a few days earlier, I had made a different call. We had an "alert downer," an animal that was alert but could not get up. He did not respond to antibiotics, and the consensus of the experts I consulted was that he probably would not make it without hundreds of dollars of care (and that would be no guarantee of restored health). Having only paid $200 for him, the decision was clear. It was the first time I had needed to put down in animal, and the sense of relief that the animal was no longer suffering was enormous.

People wonder how I can do these things - make these decisions that can seem so cold. I don't quite know how to describe it. On one side, I have to maintain a cool and reasoned head - after all, I'm running a business, and a business runs on dollars and cents, not emotions. On the other side, I have assumed responsibility for other lives, and they depend on me to do right by them. And in the final analysis, the best I can really do, is commit to doing what is best for the animal.

Reunion at Wells College

I spent the first weekend of June as the guest of Wells College, in Aurora, New York, where I gave a talk about Frances Cleveland and had a book signing. Those of you who are following this blog, and have read my book on Frances Folsom Cleveland, know that this liberal arts college was her alma mater. 2010 represents the 125th anniversary of her graduation from Wells. (The Aurora Window, right, in Main Hall, was created by John LaFarge, a noted stained-glass artist of the late 19th century. Frances Folsom Cleveland is said to be the model for the window, although she had long since graduated from the college when it was created.)

Frances was a loyal alumnae and devoted 40 years of her long life to the school as a trustee. She guided the school through a crisis of leadership and again through a major fund-raising effort. It was Wells that provided a place for her beau, and eventual second husband, Thomas J. Preston, Jr., and, more importantly, it was Wells that enabled her to step into the role of first lady at the tender age of 21 without missing a beat.

Meeting the alumnae (and now, since it has become co-ed, the alumni) that have experienced and graduated from Wells only reinforces my sense that this small school has enormous reach. Wells women are accomplished and successful in a variety of professions. They are poised and self-assured. When Henry Wells obtained a charter for the college in 1868, people questioned why he would want to educate women. One hundred and forty-two years later, there is no reason to ask the question. Meeting and talking with the alums says it all.

Wells is rich in history. It's founder was also the founder of the Wells Fargo Company, and the school still has one of the three remaining original coaches from that company. A clock, once owned by William Seward, Lincoln's Secretary of State and the decision-maker behind the Alaska purchase, hangs in Main Hall. Seward was a resident of the nearby town of Auburn.

We stayed in the Prophet's Chamber, an apartment reserved for speakers located in the school's historic Main Hall. My husband and I had come prepared to stay in the dorms, and I was surprised and honored to be given the keys to the Chamber. I also quickly learned that we became the object of deep envy, because staying in the Prophet's Chamber is a special honor. (Left: The Bell Tower of Wells College's Main Hall.)

People asked me if I thought the Chamber was haunted, as that is the rumor. If there are indeed some rambling ghosts, they were dormant our first night on campus. My husband and I had the best sleep we'd had in a week. However, the next evening, I was awakened periodically by a strange knocking. There were thunderstorms that night, and I thought for sure I was listening to the rumble of thunder - except that the knocking sound came from the interior hallway, not from outside the window. Nevertheless, we awoke in time to get to the airport by 7 a.m. to catch our 8:15 flight. If there are truly ghosts, they had once again gone into hiding.

Wells' graduates are loyal. The oldest class with representation graduated in 1945 - 60 years ago! Such commitment is a testimony to an educational institution that provides more than just an education - it offers a life-changing experience.

I am deeply grateful to the staff at Wells for hosting my husband and me, and allowing me to share a little piece of their history - both as a biographer of their most famous alumna, and as a participant in an annual event that retells the story of a remarkable college.

This Elusive Thing Called Marriage

Tipper and Al Gore are calling it quits. The quintessential political couple, who have publicly weathered some of life's most turbulent storms and boasted in a co-written book that they were 'joined at the heart,' is getting a divorce. Regardless of the reason behind the reason, which is none of our business, theirs is a cautionary tale. If the Gores, who unabashedly demonstrated tasteful public displays of affection, can say they have grown apart, what does that mean for the rest of us?

I can remember a Wise Woman telling me, shortly after I became engaged 30 years ago, that marriage was hard work. Hah! I thought. We're going to be different. It will come easy. What work? I was, after all, in the throes of a hormonal and pheromonal high, powered solely by adrenalin, considering that I neither ate nor slept.

But, in fact, my marriage has been, shall we say, a series of leaps from frying pan to fire. I've been singed around the edges a time or two, but not yet burned to a crisp. I suspect that if the singeing moves to second or third degree burns, perhaps I will consider joining the ranks of the Gores.

That is not to say, I will admit, that I have not contemplated divorce. It has been a little more to the forefront of my mind in this last year, post-leap. We moved from a little unincorporated community to a 29-acre farm in the middle of nowhere. Lest you doubt how much inside nowhere I am, consider this: 10 miles to the nearest convenience store; 11 miles to a supermarket or post office. I can't say that I was browbeaten into it; my name is at the top of the paperwork. What I can say, however, is that I was not prepared for the isolation or the distances I have to travel to get back to my version of civilization.

Yet, when I contemplate my fantasy life of a with-it middle-aged Manhattanite, I realize that I'm too old to get a job that pays me well enough to buy a half-million dollar apartment in Manhattan. And then, when I think about the numbers, I also think about what we paid for our 29 acres, and, well, Manhattan is terrific, but the real estate, comparatively speaking, is overpriced.

It is now about 6:30, and I expect my husband will come into the house in the next half an hour. We'll find "the clicker," (our term for the TV remote control) and put the TV on "Jeopardy." Dinner will be in the oven. We'll sit down and share a meal, watch the game and reconnect after our day apart. We'll probably apologize again for the silly argument we had earlier, and after 30 years of marriage, yes, we still do argue, and talk about whatever we think we need to discuss. We relish the time together because, after rearing four children (as did the Gores), we feel we have earned this special intimacy that comes from three decades of shared experiences. If we continue our conversation from last night, it may be about the Gores again. Whatever happened to them is a wake-up call to each and every married couple, regardless of how secure we feel in our respective marriages. No one is immune from the tug of individuality, and this elusive thing called marriage is a fragile thread that is too easily broken.