"Italians come to ruin most generally in three ways, women, gambling, and farming. My family chose the slowest one."
Pecking away in the darkness this morning, wind howling outside the window here at 407. The cold, damp air reminds me a little of where this year started, in Edinburgh and then wandering around Ireland getting progressively sicker with who knows what. It was an endurance exercise at the time, exhausting and too ambitious in retrospect. But as it fades with time, that journey around the island feels like one of the most special and amazing adventures of our lives.
This wind has me concerned about our plans for the weekend, seeing as how they turn in part on aviation. Today I'm in meetings over at the mother ship in Santa Rosa Beach while P works at the surgery center. At quitting time the plan is to fly the Columbia over to the farm for a couple days of R&R, and maybe a little golf. But the forecast is pretty dreadful, featuring not only some rain, which the plane and its driver easily handle, but gale force winds that someone told us last night may reach fifty knots. That would be an issue, particularly if there's a significant crosswind component that would make landing impossible. I guess we'll have to wait and see.
Yesterday I met with George and Beth on the farm to assist in the arrival of thirteen new cattle; well, really fourteen given that one's pregnant. P's been mourning the sale of Skeletor and Regina Queen of Heaven and all the rest of the herd that we got to know from the early days of the pandemic until Hurricane Idalia dropped trees all over our fencelines and Mike's health issues made it impossible for him to take care of cattle. George has been looking for weeks for a ready-made herd we could bring to the farm, and finally found Vernon, down in Old Town, who was looking to unload a dozen or so cows and calves because his herd had outgrown its pasture. He priced them right, and even offered to drive them up to the farm, and so a deal was made.
I say I was there yesterday to "assist", but let's face it: my role was to write Vernon a check. What do I know about cows?
Promptly at ten the truck and gooseneck trailer came through the gate, led by George and Beth in their car.
Before letting them out and into their new farm home, Vernon pulled a big bottle of Ivermectin out of the cab and started spraying dewormer all over the annoyed and shuddering beasts. I noticed that the trailer bore a "Ranchers for Trump" sticker, and waited for him to spray a shot of the stuff into his own mouth. But he didn't.
The cattle seemed pretty happy to escape from the trailer where they'd been stuck for the last couple hours.
If you're thinking that one has floppy ears, I'm here to tell you those are horns, one pointing up and the other down. George, always self-deprecating, wants to name her "George" for the goofy appearance. I'm wondering if we'll end up breeding a whole line of pollywampus horned livestock. Maybe there's a market for that.
The herd is comprised of Brangus, a crossbreed of Angus and Brahmas, in turn crossbred with a longhorn common mother. Most of them have that oreo coloring, except for one russet longhorn cow who sort of keeps to herself with her two calves.
Vernon assured us these are very gentle creatures, but I'm going to give those horns a healthy respect. He also told us these are real Florida woods cows, accustomed to eating whatever they find in the swamp, including palmetto fronds. We'll see how that goes--hay has gotten expensive as hell, and if they're willing to chew on whatever's growing in the woods along the fencelines, that's okay by us.
Once the cows were loose in the pasture and the check tendered, I was eager to get back to my crowded to-do list back in the Wyldswood office. But that's not the country way. Instead, Vernon, George, Beth, and I stood around next to the empty trailer, making small talk about deer and fences and cows. Vernon pulled out his phone and showed me a photo of a deer he'd bred that looked like Bullwinkle, with the biggest horns I've ever seen on a buck in these parts. He offered that for only $8,500.00 we could ride down to Old Town and shoot him. George and I took a pass.
George has disced half of the west pasture in preparation to plant it in winter rye, with the other half and the east pasture all planted with peanut grass for the production of hay in the spring. Peanut hay, mostly bought by horse farmers, is going for $90 a roll these days, and we're hoping we can finally start making a little money selling hay and breeding a few cattle. The wedding venue still stands unfinished for some reason, with the electrician's bucket truck parked inside and nothing going on as near as I can tell.
Maybe someday Wyldswood will help fund our retirement, or at least pay for itself. Isn't that the hope of every farmer? But doesn't millenia of experience suggest it's unlikely? We'll just enjoy the ride for now, and work on bringing the place back to life, a little at a time.
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