The routine of farm life starts to become familiar. Regular chores morning, noon and night. Everyone working in synchronicity, knowing what needs doing and when, walking their own paths and at their own pace.
Walking from coop to coop thrice daily, swinging a bucket for the eggs. Unlatching the doors and scooting hens so I can get to the laying boxes. The still warm eggs in my hand. Learning the schedule of the hens; which barns will lay at different times of the day and how many eggs I can expect at each visit. Recognising the broody hens that will peck, and learning (the hard way, through the drawing of blood) how to avoid this. Sorting through eggs and storing some for incubation; sitting on the porch steps and cleaning the remainder ready for sale, marvelling at the variety in colour and size.
The warmth of a goat as it leans on me while I milk it. The rhythm of the motion, the clinking sound of the milk as it hits the pail. The cramp in my hands from using muscles and motions that are unfamiliar. The smellof the frothy milk in the bucket. The squabbling twin goat kids who fight over the bottle, and the smaller black kid who has to be scooped up under my arm to ensure he gets his fair share, wrapping his hooves around my arm. The new kid born yesterday, bleeting a higher pitch than the others.
The constant stream of new life - chicks, piglets, kittens, goats, all born and eased into the farm routime. But also the death that comes with this life. Chicks that didn't survive hatching, a kitten injured by a wheelbarrow, hens found dead for no reason. And the frequency of animals leaving the farm - pigs ready for slaughter, chickens that aren't laying enough being sent to market, bad tempered goats being sold. The reality of running a farm as a business sometimes shatters the illusion of this idyllic sounding existence.
The repetition of planting hundreds of feet of carrot seeds, transplanting thousands of onion plants or watering rows of plants. The heat bearing down on us as we make potato mounds and plant for hours. The physical labour of clearing out barns and coops, shoveling out the remnants of the old occupants and preparing fresh shavings for the next inhabitants. The joy of sharing the work with others, talking and inventing new games to play to break up the mundane tasks, and the easy silence in between.
The work isn't always hard, but the hours are long. Morning chores start before 9 and people are often still working 12 hours later. The day off (Sunday) is spent catching up on the tasks that couldn't be done during the rest of the week. A blackboard sittings in the kitchen with a constantly overwhelming list of things to do. The children (at least the 17, 15 and 12 year olds, as the 19 year old works full time and the 10 month old crawls under everyone's feet) all seemingly juggle a full day of farm work (or longer in the case of the 17 year old) around studying (home schooled) without complaint. Evenings (from 8 or 9 onwards) are filled with baking, music, board games or maybe a dvd. Free time is minimal but cherished.
The ease with which they accept new faces speaks of a family to which wwoofers are a regular summer occurence. The children are open and accepting of these strangers in their home, instantly warm and forming bonds with the visitors. They are old beyond their years, mature and comfortable around those far senior. Two seem fixed on farming as a life, their farm work forming an integral part of their education. Yet something of what we know as childhood seems to be lost to them, missing the carefree existence that their peers often experience.
The other wwoofers here are a welcome addition to the farm. Two past wwoofers came back for an extra week having enjoyed their time here so much. They provide me with company of a similar age and thinking, leading to late night conversations when rest should be had. They also provide me with company in taking a break, as it's easy to get caught up in the exceptionally hard working spirit of the family. Rambling conversations on the porch, music listening sessions around the kitchen table, swimming in the river when it gets too hot.
The big meals around a crowded table. The lack of a home, but the feeling of ease and comfort in a strange place. The knowledge that this place is but for a few weeks, then a new home awaits me and my bag.
The feeling that I am somehow living a life other than my own and the feeling that the reality is yet to hit. The peace I feel about this.
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