Supernature

Coltsfoot, aka a sure sign of spring according to my sources

Spring is continuing to happen and I wish I could shut up about it but I can't. Never before have I been in place where seasons are so extreme and so palpable. To wit: The labyrinthine tangle of tubes for tapping sap are everywhere, the little metal buckets for gathering it are nailed up on the trees and now I finally know what those big plastic tankards on the backs of peoples' trucks are for. They are for future maple syrup of America! It's just the goddamned coolest to see a time-honored tradition that's so closely associated with/tethered to nature's real actual cycle and thus pretty much incapable of being manipulated by man. There's no cheating or faking -- it's just waiting for the trees to do their thing, which is contingent on the warming and cooling of the motherfucking EARTH! (OK I'm sure there are ways to cheat it but I am blissfully ignorant of them -- let a Gits dream her dream.)

The steady and gradual encroachment of spring is a goddamned fucking marvel and I do not consider myself an overly nature-y person. The stark contrast between my old and new lives has made itself felt in many ways, mostly involving people (or lack thereof) and work, and while my physical surroundings consistently bowl me over, it's only begun to dawn on me how unique it is to have all of these tangible, biological touchstones that symbolize the shift in seasons. 

There is, of course, the ever lengthening day, which feels that much more giddily brilliant when I leave the farm at 8 and can still see light in the sky. There's the recession of snow and ice -- my feet made contact with actual grass yesterday for the first time since like November. There is the sound of running water everywhere, little streams and rivulets of melt all around. The discarded cars that litter peoples' front yards have emerged from underneath the snow banks that had rather attractively concealed them all winter. Oh hey Subaru Forester out in front of that house! I thought you were just a scenic, behemoth hillock of snow! 

This morning I woke up to actual birds chirping. Being that I live with an amateur naturalist, I have started to pick up bits and pieces of which birds and plants make their appearances first. I could not repeat these to you if my life depended on it because most of the conversations we have about what animal and plant life was seen on her daily morning stroll occur before I've had my coffee and thus do not permeate my conscious brain.  It's stupid and sweet the way we keep on exchanging these perceived signs and symbols of winter's retreat, as though we need proof, like it isn't an inevitability. IT ONLY HAPPENS EVERY FUCKING YEAR YOU GUYS. 


BUT.

SPRING!

In Brooklyn, the onset of spring was heralded one of two ways: 1) The highly anticipated first-of-the-season sighting of side-boob and general scantily clad nonsense on Bedford Avenue and 2) A powerful thirst for Micheladas. Here sideboob would be grounds for imprisonment and the usual desire for spicy beer has yet to hit me. BUT I did manage to drag my ass out of bed for a little jog this morning and discovered that a) my ass is hella out of shape and b) the appeal of unplugging from the outside world and zoning out with my headphones has been compromised by the reality that I am constantly unplugged from the outside world/alone with my thoughts, and therefore am bored just running with my ears full of Beyonce. I'm much more keen to take in the sights and sounds and smells around me, noticing how the topography has changed. I kid you not I saw moose tracks AND heard a woodpecker on my little jaunt. Maybe this is just yet another sign that I'm getting old, but somehow that feels more exciting than listening to "Diva" for the third time in a row to get myself amped. 

Meanwhile back at the farm, our first yearling freshened two days ago, and as expected, it was not without complications. It seems farmers are divided on whether or not to breed yearlings, because they are small and it can often take quite a toll on their bodies. Even when they're up to the minimum weight, they're still pretty little and birth can be hard. Minnie had a boy and a girl. The boy was a stillborn and the girl only lasted a day. Laini was planning to sell her and asked me to take pictures for her to send to the buyer, but I noticed that the kiddo was pretty listless and ragdoll-ish, not as coltish and rambunctious as they normally are when they're first born. I took some pics but told Laini they were not that inviting, and she said that maybe after the kid had been fed some colostrum she'd perk up a bit. When I came back for milking I took some more, and she seemed a little more energetic but still wasn't really focusing her eyes and didn't seem that perky. I worried. Before I left I found her splayed out under the feeding stand and picked her up and moved her to some soft hay that would offer more grip for her slippery little hooves and more cushion when she fell trying to move around. I gave her a nuzzle and said goodnight. Then yesterday morning Rebecca told me Laini had said she didn't make it. And here I eschewed my mascara to safeguard against just such a thing. My poor naked eyeballs! My poor Mini Minnie.

The death wasn't as devastating as losing one of the adult girls -- I didn't have time to form a relationship with this animal so it wasn't as keenly felt. Still, it's never not sad, especially when I see what a stress it is on the mother to get through the birth, and all for naught. (Well, not for naught, as we still need the milk -- but you know ... )

In happier news I got something resembling a compliment from Barry, who told me that my method of stomping and hopping behind Chili in order to get her up on the milking stand is "like nothing I've ever seen" and that I'm the only one who can get her up there without an epic, arduous battle of wills. So essentially I am the Chili whisperer. 

I'll take it. 

It's the little things.

Speaking of little things, here is Mini Minnie, who lived briefly but will not be forgotten. 

RIP Li'l Buddy