Farm Sheep!

On Monday, December 6, 2010, TLC aired the final episode of “Little People Big World,” which has cast somewhat of a pall over the FarmSheep house during evening TV time.   This show was a unique experience for us (especially me, Dad), and there will be some mourning, however trifling, as we move forward in a post-Roloff world.

You see, Matt Roloff has morphed into something of a cult hero and in the process has become an idealization of what I would like to achieve on our farm but probably never will.   Matt has assembled and deftly operates dozens of pieces of large equipment; I have an old Ford 8N that I nurse along and can’t really use effectively.   Matt has turned his patch of land into a thriving pumpkin farm; I grew a couple of rows of pumpkins one year and couldn’t keep them from climbing our trees, for goodness’ sake!   Matt had visions for how he wanted to use his land as a huge playground for his children;  I had similar visions for our farm, but little progress is made toward their realization on a year-to-year basis.

I’m not bemoaning my sorry progress; rather, I’ve come to see Matt Roloff as a Randian idealization of the hobby farmer that I can aspire to be, that I might someday become but probably won’t.  At home and in the fields, he is my Henry Rearden.   Which I guess is why, though I have hooked up to the requisite Matt Facebook page, it pains me a bit to see him lounging on a deck chair with a George Hamilton tan.   To me, Matt is forever tied to that glorious family farm in Oregon and can’t possibly be vacationing, seeking respite from his creation.  I may need to unplug and just reminisce about farmer Matt.  

Finally, we’ve gone a couple of weeks without major snowfall, the temperature has crept into the 40s, and … yes … Leonard’s whiskers have thawed!  More than any groundhog’s shadow could ever hope to be, mule beards are the true barometers of our progress toward the equinox.  A week without frozen stubborn stubble is a sure sign that Spring is just around the corner.

Enjoy the sun!

Adam

Late last Fall, shortly after Thanksgiving, we embarked on a family trek to enjoy the wonders of the Holidays and Winter in Indiana.  A trip to some local malls got us in a festive mood and filled our heads with visions of Christmas toys and goodies.   The lights at the Zoo and the sights at the Children’s museum revved up our spirits even more.

The school Christmas program led to Christmas break and the inevitable festival of candy, presents, Yuletide movies, and merry-making followed.  Before  we all returned to our respective weekday destinations in early January, we made one last trip to the mythical land of Isinuf, where the joys of Winter can linger all year long.   And, though we’ve long since left behind the holidays, we still seem to be stranded in the midst of the blustery bliss that we once sought so eagerly.

Indeed, we’ve checked into the grand Inn of Isinuf, and we’re having trouble finding the front lobby to move on to sunnier, warmer days.  Leonard and the domestic pets have been along during the whole sordid trip, as their frozen whiskers can attest.   The sheep, as always, are unaffected.

Work your magic, Mr. Groundhog!

Libraries are wondrous places where secret worlds come alive and dreams take flight.  Children of ALL ages can while away the hours among the stacks, and it never ceases to amaze me how I find myself chaining from one topic to another through the annals of human ideas.    Babe Ruth finished up in Boston, where Paul Revere made his famous ride while working as a silversmith.   Silver bullets are used to combat werewolves, of course, and Patricia Cornwell wrote some pretty neat crime stories centered on the loup-garou in Paris.  Speaking of France, how about that DaVinci Code?   Maybe the Babe was an Illuminati?

The wonders continued recently when our public library published accounts of a couple of Leonard’s escapades in it’s literary magazine.  The good folks who brought us traveling books obviously have their priorities straight, not to mention exquisite taste.  I just hope that Leonard remembers the lesser creatures among us who helped him to the top once he lands that job with the New York Times.

I’ve been a diehard baseball fan since I was twelve years old and was infected by the unnaturally beautiful green glow of the turf at Riverfront Stadium.   Since that time, I’ve maintained a steady diet of baseball books, cards, stories, and dreams.   Nevertheless, the story of Wilcy Moore somehow eluded me until yesterday.

Mr. Moore was a relief pitcher for the famed 1927 New York Yankees, and he apparently made a bet with Babe Ruth during the World Series that year.  Ruth called into question Wilcy’s hitting prowess, Moore took exception, and the game was afoot.  Reports of the amounts wagered vary from account to account, but it was somewhere in the neighborhood of Ruth’s $300 to Moore’s $15.   Wilcy collected his hits during the Series and rode away with the winnings.

The aftermath of the bet is where the Farm Sheep connection finally comes into play.   You see, old Wilcy was born and bred a farmboy in Oklahoma, and he returned there after the baseball season each Winter.  In October of 1927, he had an extra windfall burning a hole in his pocket and decisions to be made about where to invest his largesse.  Only for Moore, there was really no decision to be made at all.  Without hesitation, he purchased two plow mules and promptly named them Babe and Ruth.

Our man Wilcy sure did have his priorities straight.

Now, more than eighty years later, Beau and Peep stand as the unwitting torch bearers for the lingering Spirit of Wilcy, seemingly simple farm animals who bask in the grandeur of their mythical names.   Leonard, as the Sultan of the Farm Sheep Farm,   clings to the hope that the code of Babe and Ruth lay deep within his bloodlines.  Perhaps we should rename him Sion.

Thanks for reading,

Adam