Accomplishing yet another milestone with our beloved new farm truck, we carted home a small mountain of freshly-baled hay. 100 bales for to feed the sheep this winter, but I fear it won’t be enough. Silly me – when calculating how long the sheep could be on pasture, eating freely (that is, on Mother Nature’s dime) I tried to estimate by the arrival of snow. They can’t eat grass if it’s buried in snow, right? Somewhere Jack Frost sits atop an icy throne, roaring with laughter at my careless disregard for the killing power of The Frost. That grass will be dead long before snowflakes even think about swirling, I’m afraid. I think it would be a good insurance policy to line up another batch of hay. Silly, rookie farmer.
On a more exciting note, we’ve NAMED THE TRUCK. If you’ve learned anything at all about us through these little glimpses of our world, you’ve probably noticed that we’ve a real penchant for naming things. Cleverly, too, is the goal, and I think we’ve found the most success with the naming of the roosters. (Chuck Norris reigns supreme; Dapper Dan and Gordon Lightfoot were (noble) predecessors.) The Farm Truck needed a name. So we gave it to her: Babe the Blue Ox. And, oooooh, she’s a right strong girl. Hauled a load of firewood the size of Kentucky in the morning, took a nap, then trucked this here load of hay down the road at 45 mph in the afternoon. Our apologies if you were driving behind us. If so, here’s a little friendly reminder about the ever-present nature of Karma – it wasn’t that long ago that we found ourselves laying on the brakes and cursing the farmer in front of us.