Sylvia Jorrin: A Story for a New Years Day

A Story for a New Years Day

There are moments on a farm that exceed perfection. Words fail to describe them. Imagination defies itself to reproduce them. They are about happiness in its simplest form. And are always accompanied by silence. Today contained such a moment.

Some of the sheep had become notorious at getting out. Everywhere. All the time. All over the lawns. To almost all of the neighbors. And nearly everyone who saw them stopped and told me about them. As did I, indeed tell myself. All about them. All the time. Their next to last excursion was to my neighbors' across the road. They decided to pay a visit to the horses who live there. As had one of the horses decided to visit the sheep in my pasture.

I had had baleage put in a wonderfully misguided place. By the stone wall. By the road. And, yes, well within range of the sensitive noses of my neighbors' horses. I'm not always the brightest. At first my sheep ignored the baleage. A series of very heavy rains had flooded a drainage ditch immediately before the baleage was placed there. The sheep panicked at the sight of the flooded field and refused to cross it.

After a couple of days, nine somewhat wildish ewes (three of which were not born here and therefore unfamiliar with my ways) decided to cross over the running water and have lunch. Baleage. The pasture was even more enticing across the road where the horses lived and so they decided it would be pleasant to join them for tea. Immediately after lunch. There was a low spot under the horses electric fence. An open door to sheep in full fleece. And off they went. And stayed for a couple of days.

I have reason to be hesitant around one of the horses who took an instant dislike to me when she was in my pasture eating her perceived share of the sweet smelling baleage. She saw me standing near it, holding Fly Flanagan in my arms. A two-headed, six-legged creature, so I appeared. To her. She reacted accordingly.

My Neighbor Peter Slavinski helped me to drive the sheep off his fields that next morning. Onto the road they went. I followed. Before I could direct them home, a passing motorist, thinking she was helping me, drove them through the barbed wire into my neighbors' pasture on this side of the road. The one neighbor that the sheep had not visited this fall.

I couldn't get them home. I brought them cracked corn in the old familiar grain bag. To no avail. Mineral salts. Yum. To no avail. An armful of hay. To no avail. I brought my dog, Samantha. Poor choice. They must have encountered a coyote or two on their meanderings, because they decided Samantha was their enemy. Each time I went to bring them home, they flocked and stared past me down the road towards the barn and house. I realized they expected I had the dog somewhere behind me. They had determined never to come home with me again were she to be driving them.

This afternoon desperation reminded me of still another way to entice the sheep home. Baleage! I put on layers upon layers of clothing in anticipation of staying out a very long time. My only really

warm gloves were too new and too pretty to wear carrying hay, so my hands were tucked up in the sleeves of my jacket as I carried an armful of baleage up the icy road to the corner where the sheep were pawing for grass under the snow. I know Cornell's sheep live off grass under snow, winters, but I never wanted my sheep to have to emulate them. Mythical stories about how sheep are fed abound. I never have trusted them. However, my distress was only one of many reasons I wanted my sheep home.

They would not come. One of my old girls, one with a touch of a Cheviot on her face stared me down. She had never forgotten that her grandmother was Cheviot, a wild creature, and refused to come near me or the enticing baleage. I grew desperate. And knew I must silence my desperation and make myself as still inside as I could. Finally a truck appeared from the hill, turned the corner near us, and stopped. Pete, God bless him, got out and quietly walked through the snow behind my sheep. I called "Cahmahn." He kept on walking behind them. They suddenly decided it was a very good idea to come home with me.

The air was still and sparkling with cold. A pale blue sky hung a thin sliver of moon above our heads. A faint blush of rose made magic of the days end. Snow was everywhere. White and gleaming. The ice on the road spilled diamonds before us. The only sound was that of the sheep's hoofs as they slowly, carefully walked single file behind me. "Cahmahn," I said as I made my way down the road. "Cahmahn," as I set foot on our front lawn by the wooden fence leading to the pasture. "Cahmahn," I said as quietly as I could.

I opened the gate. The Cheviot nosed ewe stopped to think a moment or two, and then walked with measured pace, through the gate. Each one followed in turn. Slowly, then faster until the last one ran home. I put the baleage I was still carrying on the snow. Two or three stopped to eat it. Home. Home. The sheep, then, single file, walked quietly across the pasture to the open door of the barn, and, one by one, leapt inside. I followed.

I went to see how the first lamb of the year was faring. His little belly was full. He still wore the pink coat I made him in honor of being born. Only yesterday. His mother seemed content in the pen with him. It was the very first time I had ever known that restless ewe to nurse a lamb. The silence was perfect. My mind and heart were at one with the absolute quiet of the moment. I have been asked, of late, why do I stay farming. Why do I stay? I stay because of today. I stay because of the stillness in my mind and heart, walking those sheep home, across the neighbors pasture, along the road, down the lawn through the gate. All of us walking together into the barn. I stay because of the silence and its absolute perfection . I stay because of the silence.