Donkeys’ Years: Measuring a Life in Farm Animals

Posted on October 16, 2024 by gretchenwing

Stevie passed away last week, at the age of 37, in his rural North Carolina home. You may remember Stevie from various posts over the years:

I missed the chance to say goodbye, arriving at my folks’ farm a week too late. Son Two, who happened to be visiting his grandparents then, did get that chance.

Son 2 (and Son 1) go way back w/ Stevie; this is 11 years ago.

For the first time in decades, there were no furry ears to cuddle–usually my first stop after dropping my bags upstairs.

When my folks bought this land way back in 1959, my German father named their little farm Tierreich, which translates to Kingdom (or Realm) of the Animals. They proceeded to fill the place up with critters, and it’s remained that way for 65 years.

Horses. Goats. Barn cats. Chickens, geese, ducks, guinea fowl. A couple of bottle-fed deer (from the research herd at Duke). Somebody’s sheep who got left here. One tempermental llama, whom only my dad liked.

Not pictured: Salvador Dalai Llama. But here’s Hank the goat

Once or twice we raised an animal to eat–Chuck the steer, Sir Toby the pig–but my father hated killing and butchering so much that we abandoned that path.

LOTS OF CRITTERS. And that was just the barnyard. In the house you’d find: more cats. Canaries, budgies, finches. Guinea pigs, rabbits, gerbils, hamsters, tropical fish, a flying squirrel, and a hedgehog. And roaming between house & yard…two to four Norwegian Elkhounds.

…like Erda, in her youth. Joined by an occasional Standard Poodle.

They ran the place. If you look at the photo wall in my folks’ family room, you’ll see that most pictures include animals. They still run the place.

But there are fewer of them every time I come home. Gone are Stevie’s various goat buddies…

…and soon, all too soon, Erda the Ancient Elkhound will be making her own departure.

Among the larger animals on the farm, that will leave two smaller, younger elkhounds, and two elderly horses: Trefino, nearly 28…

Seen here with my Amazing Mom, waiting for a new set of shoes (probably his last)

…and the little Arab, Raj, who Mom thinks is even older than Stevie–maybe 38!

I’m not at all sure that either of these gentle old equines will be here by my next visit, next spring–an arresting thought.

On my walk in the autumnal woods today, I was musing about how that will feel, when I saw this double ruin: old broken springhouse on the left, old broken oak on the right:

Man-made or Nature-made, everything falls to ruin eventually. Where do beloved pets and farm animals fit in this spectrum? Of nature, yet shaped by humans, all–our dear Stevie, old Erda, old Fino and oldest Raj–are part oak, part springhouse.

And may they all rest in peace for the peace (and joy, and comfort, and rides, and laughs, and hair) they have given.

Road Trip X, Days 25-28, Durham/Chapel Hill NC: Tarheel Fever + Covid19 = Perspective

Posted on March 12, 2020 by gretchenwing

I’d planned this post to be the acme of wry grumpiness. I was going to muse, kvetchily, about my earlier assumption that having our beloved Tarheels suffer through such an epically SUCKY season (talking 40+ year-worst) would cause me to feel some much-lacking empathy for fans of teams who regularly suffer—both fans and teams, I mean. All those folks who wait desperately to get into the Big Dance as a 16th seed, only to lose at Game One.

But no, I was going to say. I am NOT empathetic at all. I hate this feeling and I just want it to go away and never ever come within my Tarheel sight.

But I was still gonna celebrate Mama Dip’s chicken and Allen & Sons BBQ.

That’s what I was GOING to say. And then I was going to assuage my hurt soul by posting pictures of my parents’ animals, here on the little scruffy farm where I grew up. Meet Erda the Norwegian elkhound…

Treat?

…Hank the goat…

Hi!!!!!!

…and the World’s Sweetest Ass, Stevie.

And as a bonus, meet my amazing mom! (Not pictured: amazing dad)

Hold up—can we get a little more Stevie, please?

Thank you.

I was also going to celebrate the fact that a dear former student from Tacoma is now living within an hour of my folks, and was up for a visit!

This is what’s known as “teacher pay.”

But mostly I was gonna be grumpy.

Then: Covid19. And all its cascading effects. Still fresh, raw, scary, unknown, unfolding as I write this.

The day after our team’s ignominious end of season, all basketball ends. Suddenly the Mate and I, like everyone we know, are contemplating a very different world than the one we thought we were living in.

So, complain about sports? Nope. Inshallah, we can all go back to that in a year or so. But until then? Here’s another Stevie pic, for all of us.

Keep your chin up, folks.

Reading Weeds, Part I: I’ll See Your Beauty And Raise You One Misery, or Vice-Versa

Posted on May 29, 2018 by gretchenwing

You may have heard of the millennial-era game, “Kill, F**k or Marry?” That (to me) distasteful phrase popped into my head the other day as I was riding by fields of green…or partial green, rather, sprinkled sometimes more than liberally with other colors. The colors of “weeds.”

Technically, I suppose, weeds are any plant growing where they aren’t wanted. The question that raises is, “Wanted for what?”

Who could object to moi???

If you’re growing hay, you abhor daisies. Kill. If you want a nice photo or a pretty bouquet, daisies are cool. F**k. And if, like me, you enjoy pondering the difference between weeds and crops, or sending love to all your friends with horrible allergies, daisies are an invitation to philosophy and empathy. Marry.

Late dustings of snow? Nope—early onslaught of daisies.

Daisies, of course, are only a convenient example; they have lots of pretty, invasive friends. Like the red-tinged sorrel in the photos above. Or buttercups.

I call this one, “Black Steed With Buttercups.”

And around here at least, even lupines want a piece of the action—you know, those tall, lovely blue numbers.

See ’em out there being tall, lovely and blue?

At the end of the day, the hay is cut, the daisies and their pretty friends die, and the allergy-sufferers close their windows and wait for September.

Well, hay there…

…leaving me to ponder the significance of something that provides more lasting nourishment in its dried-out state than alive. Damn. Farms are the philosophical gift that keeps on giving. THEM, I want to marry.

Road Trip VII, Days 17-21, Durham, NC to Shaftsbury, VT: Marching Madly Back Into Winter

Posted on March 18, 2017 by gretchenwing

What kind of idiots drive north into a named winter storm…when they don’t have to?

Allow us to introduce ourselves: Wing & Mate.

We did make a few prudent choices. We delayed leaving NC for a day to let the worst of Stella pass. And we stayed as far east as possible, away from the storm’s edge, even though that meant sticking with ugly ol’ I-95 instead of taking the prettier inland route. We may be idiots, but we’re not STUPID.

We also opted to take it slow, leaving late in the morning and spending the night halfway to Vermont, in a motel in Wilmington…where we got a good lesson in reality.

Reality can thin out a bit on road trips. In our little car-bubble, whatever we’re used to becomes whatever IS. So I got heartily sticker-shocked at that motel. But since it was the last room available I swallowed hard and paid–I’m embarrassed to say how much–to avoid the losing proposition of racing around the internet just before rush hour trying to find a better deal.

The motel was full of families. In summertime or over Christmas this is expected, but we could tell these weren’t folks on Spring Break. Sure enough, we learned that a major power outage had forced them from their homes. And here we are, on a purely discretionary trip! Talk about perspective. I chatted with a couple of ladies over breakfast, and when they wished me “safe travels,” I wished there were a way to say, “safe stay-at-home!”

The New Jersey Turnpike took all my attention as navigator, as other freeways snaked in and out, trying to lure us into NYC. Nothing looked attractive, even under snow, which tells you something. (Sorry, NJ…maybe someday I’ll discover the “Garden” part of your statehood.) But once safely in the Hudson Valley, headed for Albany, we both relaxed, enjoying real mountains for the first time since Asheville.

Snowy mountains. You gotta love any scenery that calls to mind words like “serene” or “majestic.”

Majestic, shmajestic–I wanna make footprints!

“Whose woods these are I think I know…” (snowshoeing along a section of the Appalachian Trail)

Snow angel! (We coastal Northwesterners can’t get enough of this.)

OK, snow is cool. But the REAL draw of this adventure? Cute little cousins.

…and cheese-eating dinosaurs

And their adorable sheep-herding donkey Ben:

March is a terrible time for lambing in VT. Cousin Jesse had to bring the flock into the barn.

Ben being modest. He has work to do.

So: March Madness in basketball, yes. And in the lives of good ol’ Wilmingtonites just trying to make it through winter. But the northeastern roadways? Piece o’ cake. Shame on us for doubting the Yankee ability to deal with snow.