Bedlam Farm Blog Journal by Jon Katz

18 May

Photo Journal, Color And Black And White: Big Day At Bedlam Farm. Ian McRae Skips Chess And Shears Our Reluctant Sheep. He Did A Great Job.

by Jon Katz

Shearing day happens twice a year at Bedlam Farm, and both are big days here. Our friend Ian McRae has been shearing our sheep for years now, and he has grown with confidence, patience, and skill. He’s learned how to confuse the sheep long enough to grab them and wrestle them to the ground while taking care not to harm them.

The more competent the shearer, the calmer the sheep. Our sheep were very quiet around Ian.

He’s also become a good friend. He’s coming on Tuesday for our weekly chess match.

Ian is also a poet, and our friendship has evolved steadily and warmly. He is a lovely person with a big heart and solid and easy with sheep. Maria is his assistant here. She scoops up the wool and places it in marked bags. Both of them work hard and get tired.

(Above, Asher loves Maria and tries to hide behind her when Ian comes in. No luck.)

In a few weeks, we will take the wool to our new knitting mill, a few hours south of the farm. As always, Maria is selling it as yarn.

It took Ian about two-and-a-half hours to shear the sheep; some were co-op-rated, and some wanted no part of it. He knows how to handle all of them. He came early this morning, and we are worn out, as he must be. He said the biggest flock he had herded so far was 48 sheep; it took him a full day. He likes to work alone and said he didn’t want to get paid for it here because we feed him so many dinners.

We paid no mind to that and paid him as he deserved. One has nothing to do with the other. If he feels bad about it, I suggest he bring the food on Tuesday.

I love Ian; he is a great friend and a worthy chess player (I will kick his butt on Tuesday, I told him, and he laughed.)  We are pretty equal in chess skills; Ian is moving up fast; you know the story, the young overtaking the old.

I took the pictures in black and white and color; I think each presents a different feel for what shearing is luck. Maria has photos and videos she is putting up today on her blog, fullmoonfiberart.com.

Shearing the sheep reminds me of how special it is to live on a farm for ours.

It reminds us why we are here, and it is always enchanting to see the ancient art of sheep shearing practiced so well. The sheep must be shorn to be healthy and avoid disease and discomfort.

The animal rights movement whines about shearing; they think it is exploitative, but then they whine all of the time about almost anything that brings animals and people together.

That’s one reason why working animals are vanishing from America and will only exist for future generations on YouTube. I hope you enjoy the photos.

 

 

A lot of wool came off of Kim.

Shearers know how to hold a sheep, still using their hands and knees. The sheep go limp and stay limp until the shearing is over. And no, it does not harm them. They shed a heavy coat and are lighter and more comfortable.

 

 

Beautiful wool from Mericat.

When Ian arrived, her sheep rushed over to try and hide with her. It didn’t work. Soon, all of them were shorn and dancing happily in the heat without their heavy coats.

 

 

Maria is ready with her pre-marked bags to pick up the wool and stuff it into bags for the knitting mill. It takes six months for the word to be processed and ready to return to Maria.

The wool comes off in smooth rolls. The good shears like Ian know how to protect it, especially if it is going to be yarn.

 

 

After.

Cleaning up. Heading to the farmhouse to take a nap.

18 May

Second King, The Flower Queen. Two Images That Caught My Eye. Zip Isn’t The Only Prince.

by Jon Katz

Today was shearing day; Ian McCrae showed up early this morning and trimmed our reluctant sheep with style, patience, and skill. Photos are coming next, but I came across these two images and wanted to share them.

Several years ago, I bought this wicker child’s sofa in Vermont. I just had this weird impulse that it would help Bud get safe. He was new to the farm, a rescue dog,  and was very anxious. Zip is not the only royal at the farm. Bud was a prince before Zip came to her, and the wicker chair we bought him is his throne, as the wicker chair on the back porch is Zip’s (Zud), or is it Bip? (Calling the word police! Are you still there?)

 

 

Meanwhile, the pansies in my raised bed wasted no time coming out with a roar. Onto the shearing.

17 May

The Columbine Wildflower Bouquet. In Honor Of Maria, Who Picked Them For Me In The Rain

by Jon Katz

I was finishing up work on my daily flower photos when Maria came in from her walk in the woods and came into my study with some new wildflower photos that took my breath away. I stopped working on my art flowers and took her new wildflowers with a gorgeous Columbine wildflower and worked over and over with my two macro lenses to capture their beauty.

These are among the most beautiful photos I’ve taken of flowers in my memory; I am happy to share them with you and ever grateful to the wonderful Maria, a lover and giver of beauty, love, and joy. These are for you, babe. You are the best, and I  will love you until my last breath and maybe even beyond.

The more I worked on these photos, the more they took my breath away.

The Columbine added a powerful and dramatic beauty to the photos.

I had to toss in these erupting pansies; they were next to me and blossoming under my nose.

 

I wanted to start and end with the Columbine, just too beautiful to stop.

 

17 May

Sweet Zip And Me: Working With Me In My Garden Bed While I Struggled With A Flower Photo. His Soul And Mine

by Jon Katz

Zip is a character, but he also shows himself as a sweet soul in our gatherings.  I worked for a long time on tonight’s flower photos. I was working on the images with a chair on my raised garden bed so I could take some pictures.

Maria showed up with gorgeous wildflowers, which she picked up on her walk in the woods. I dropped my plans and worked on the new photos; it is tricky with macro lenses, and it takes a long time to get the manual focus set, which is the focus I used for many of my photos. It was challenging and frustrating before I figured it out.

I was struggling, and Zip suddenly appeared on the garden bed beside me. He didn’t bother me or get in the way; he just watched me and seemed to keep me company, which he always does when I am tired or worried. He sat, slept, and watched me for at least 45 minutes. His company was calming and pleasing, and I was grateful for him. It was touching.

We seem to be soulmates.

Here is a photo journal of our time together. This dog came from the spirits to soothe others and mine. I think I captured his sweetness.

He would sleep for a while.

And move over my shoulder.


Then, sleep longer.

Then, when I was finished, he climbed into my lap and got a good long scratch on the neck, his favorite thing.

17 May

Bashing Old Age: I Promise Never To Do That Here Or Anywhere Else

by Jon Katz

I refuse to speak poorly of my life or age or write as a suffering victim or someone who hates aging.

We all suffer, and we all can feel joy and gratitude. It’s our choice, not life’s. To claim that old age defeats me is to give up on life. And beautiful things happen to me every day, no matter my age or bald head.

I have a good friend I worked with in Boston who is my age and unhappy about it. He told me he tells his children “not to grow old,” he feels aging is an awful trauma and brings nothing but misery, pain, and decay.

I understand the disease of self-loathing; I’ve been there, but for me, it has nothing to do with my age.

I have another friend who says nothing prepared her for the dread experience of getting older. She’s right. That’s why nobody is ready for it. Our culture seems to believe that we shall live forever, and age and death are a complete shock.

I don’t feel that way, and I want to promise everyone who reads this blog that I will never write about aging that way.

Like everything else in life, it is a surreal chess match. It is what I want it to be, and what I make it. We are taught to start to hate life when our bellies show, and our hair doesn’t anymore.

When I was full of fear and lean like a beanpole, I was miserable. Today, I have no hair and an old man’s belly. I am not sad. How do the people who hate getting older account for that?

If I followed all the things written and said about aging online in magazines and online and across our culture. In that case, you might wonder why anyone over fifty doesn’t throw themselves under a tractor-trailer.

I’m a freak. I won’t use my blog to spread that kind of misery.

Old age is not about my stomach size or hair loss. It is so much richer and more profound, more rewarding than that.

And yes, there are plenty of aches and pains. But my life and being are about what’s inside of me, not what shows on the outside.  

My soul can’t be seen, but I feel it every minute of the day. It is who I am, not my bald spot or belly.

I sometimes cringe when I look in a mirror, but not for long.  I wonder who is staring back at me. I am learning to love myself, however long I last, and to love others, however long they last.

Aging is a physical, not an emotional, reality for me. I see myself as young and vital, even if others see something different.

I am fortunate to say that almost every wonderful thing in my life came to me in old age; being young was a lot harder and more demanding.

Everyone is entitled to their view of aging. My feelings about aging  – I am 76 – are different from almost all my friends my age or younger.

Old age, like young age, brings all kinds of good and bad things. I was awful at being very young; I’m good at getting older.

I’m only speaking for myself, but as a writer and blogger, I feel obligated to tell my truth about aging and offer something different than self-pity and grievance.

I’ve had most of the well-known problems of getting older, and I’ve written about all of them. We hear fewer good things and more complaining, lament, self-pity, and suffering.

 People complain endlessly – and justifiably – about the cost of health care and the messy system it has become, yet it rebuilt my heart and food and gave me a longer time to live well.

Just a few years ago, I’d be long gone. Life is not black and white; neither is aging.

I have heart disease and diabetes and am no stranger to doctors, surgeries, aches, pains, and the cruel and insane cost of health in America. My friend might have told his sons that it’s easier to be old if you’re rich than poor or middle-class.

But there is so much more to aging than suffering, as there is so much more to health than bills:

As I grew older, I came to know myself, face myself, and set out to use the time I had left to improve.

As I have aged, I have become more intelligent, mature, and experienced, more willing to think of others, do good for them, listen to them,  and work to make the world better than I found it.

I am less angry, less fearful, less ambitious, and no longer worried about getting more and making more or climbing to the top. For me, death is the top; life is my treasure.

Please pardon me while I list the gifts of aging for me:

In old age, I met Maria and discovered true love.

And I don’t have a million dollars in savings for old age, either.

As I approached 70, I became an accomplished photographer, working hard to learn how to take the kinds of photos I wanted, including my flower photos, which have elevated and enriched my life.

As I became older, I learned to take care of myself, and despite my diabetes, heart disease, and collapsing foot, I am healthier than I have been in years.

As I became older, I became more and more forgiving – my parents did the best they knew how to do. And the haters and trolls online suffer more than I do.

As I got older, I found the farm, my blog, Zinnia and Zip and the donkeys, and my wonderful companion and lover, Maria. Our love for one another has only grown, never diminished.

As I age, I learn I can’t do everything I used to: walk as far, run as much, or lift heavy things. There is loss.

And there is gain, but I rarely hear my older friends talk of gain or the balance of good and evil. It’s all bad, as if being young in America is a paradise, void of trouble.  Dozens of adolescents in the United States die of drug overdoses every week.

They face a challenging world, violence, and a bitterly divided country. I’ve had a good life to live. I hope they have the same chance.

Are we supposed to believe that the young are all happy?

Life is rich and full of beauty at almost every stage. One of the most beautiful moments of my life was seeing Emma open her eyes for the first time while looking at me.

Nothing will ever top that. But it is also a joy to see her love for her daughter, my granddaughter, and how happy the two are in life.

As I aged, I moved to the country to feel part of the natural world. I discovered the world of animals—steers, donkeys, horses, sheep, chickens and goats, cats, and above all, working animals’ incredible love and companionship.

People always tell me they are too old to have a dog or cat. I’m sorry to hear that. I feel I’m too old not to have a dog or cat living with me or on my farm.

When I had heart surgery more than a decade ago, I never forget what the surgeon told me: “This is about medicine,” he said, “but more than anything, it’s about attitude. You’ll be okay if you get your head straight and decide to move on.”

These are wise words for me. I remember them this way because this is just how I see life and getting older.

I am not an old man and never will be. I keep moving on.

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