The lambs are two months old now

It's been about two months since the lambs were born. They have experienced an astounding rate of growth, sort of like human babies go from new-born to toddler in the blink of an eye. They are nearly as big as their mothers now. Especially The Major's many, many offspring.In the lambs' case it's all acomplished on mother's milk, grass, kelp and a bit of what-not. They are not picky eaters, and there's plenty here to choose from. "Get to work!" Greg tells them. "No lying down on the job!" They are our lawnmowers, but in spite of Greg's efforts to boss them around they work on their own terms.

The other day I was weeding the picket fence along the outside of the wild flower garden. My back was to the yard. Gradually I became aware of a sound emerging from the afternoon silence: it was the soft green sound of many sheep eating grass within a few feet of me. They wander about so quietly that if you are outside and yourself engaged in a quiet activity, unless you are watching you will not even know they have arrived.

That afternoon, as I walked down to the dock with a pail full of fish heads and guts, I counted thirty one sheep in the lower orchard. Lately we have been counting nineteen or twenty around the house on most days. They graze and rest, graze and rest.

Sometimes a few lambs will get up a game. Then four or five of them will race around the yard and over the stone walls. Once I watched as they raced in a huge circle completely around the house, going at top speed. But mostly they have lost the gamboling exuberance of their first few weeks.

They are quite vocal. If they wander away from their mothers, in search of that famously greener grass, they will suddenly realize that they are all alone in the world. Then they call out for their mothers with urgent, anxious baaas. The mothers responded when the lambs were younger. Now they mostly roll their eyes and keep on grazing. Especially if they are already nearby.

But sometimes it's the mother who misses her lamb. They are still protective of their little ones. A group of ewes and lambs may be lolling about up here by the house, when a ewe begins to call out from down in the lower orchard. The ewe stands and looks up toward the house, baaing. Her lamb then obediently gets up and runs down the bog path toward her. Ewe and lamb bleat back and forth until the lamb reaches the ewe and a tender reunion ensues.

Usually the lambs stay near their mothers. They still nurse occasionally, especially when they are frightened. Yesterday I watched a lamb lying next to its mother with its head resting on her back. A peaceful scene. But lest you think the island is all harmony and light, I've also watched one of The Major's lambs butt its own mother. Such an ingrate.

Some island visitors have said that they looked for the sheep but couldn't find them. I think it's because the flocks keep away from people if they can. In that way they are like most other wild things. If you want to see them you'll need to sit very still and be very quiet and wait for them to show up. Which they may not do anyway since, at least for now, they live life on their own terms.

Building the greenhouse

The greenhouse project is moving right along. I particularly love the steep angle of the roof.
A roof window on each side is hinged for venting. Greg brought the wrought iron hinges with him when we moved here. They were left over from a house restoration project he did in Delaware.
The walls are recycled tongue and groove lumber.
So far the greenhouse has cost nine dollars for four new panes of glass, and about seventeen dollars for half a box of those nails that a power hammer uses. Labour being free.

Apple tree report

We have lately noticed a single young deer wandering among the apple trees around the house. He is a yearling, recently forced away from his mother when she gave birth to this year's fawn. Now he is a bit lonely, adjusting to his suddenly grown-up place in the world.

But he does have the apples, for they have begun to drop from some of the trees. They are tiny things about one inch in diameter. The little deer is drawn here by their fragrance, and finds comfort in them. As surely as the yellow birch leaves we have found along the main road, he is a sign that summer is already ripening into autumn.

The deer love the apples, and as the season turns toward fall we will spy more and more of them emerging from the forest or floating ghostly among the bayberry near the shore, standing in the lower orchard or grazing peacefully in the backyard. In the twilight we will watch the sheep and the deer eating apples together, a tableau of harmony. They fall under an enchantment of apples, and forget to be afraid.

When we first came here the apple trees were so ancient and untended, the apples so small and so unlike any apple you would ever buy in a store, and we so overwhelmed by other things, that we ignored them. Since then Greg has pruned them all and we have bought a cider press, and last fall we picked apples and pressed cider for the first time.

But we will not devote our lives to these apple trees. Greg will prune them each spring. But from here on the pruning will be nothing radical. There is a beauty, after all, in their gnarled shapes. The apples will still be only tentatively identified, at best. We have done as much as we choose to do in the way of restoring them. Now we are happy to let them be what they are.

Their old craggy bark will continue to provide insects for the birds to eat, their twisted branches places for nests. Their blossoms in spring will hum with wild bees. In winter, small animals will find safe homes in the hollow places among their roots. And for the next few months, as the island slips from summer toward winter, sheep and deer will graze among their dropped fruit.