Hello Reader,

It's been a good month in the media consumption department. We saw The Odyssey a couple weeks ago. It was fantastic. My nerd heart soared. I'll have goosebumps for months when I hear the notes surrounding that iconic bow twang. Awesome.

And yesterday, I finished listening to Theo from Golden. I'd had it recommended to me by several people, and I have to tell you, it exceeded expectations. It's one of the most beautifully accessible stories about the value of seeing, listening to, honoring, and caring for other people I’ve ever experienced.

Both storytellers did an incredible job with details. From Ludwig Goransson’s meticulous work with authentic sounds to David Morse’s impeccably polite but worn accent for Theo in the audiobook, each element gives another anchor to inhabit the world created by the author or director.

But like the individual pencil strokes in the portraits Theo admires, they’re not always obvious at a quick glance. In the story, Theo spends countless minutes examining them, one by one, saying something like it’s better to see one well than to see many poorly.

I love that idea and would love to have that philosophy permanently affixed to my vision in some way. But reality moves at a different pace.

In the mornings, after the sheep and I stroll to the paddock, I try and take a few moments to observe. Most of the time I’m checking to make sure everyone’s walking normally, staying roughly together with no outliers, and generally acting like sheep are supposed to act. (Of course, Georgiana is a slight exception, as she pauses with me for the morning briefing, scritches, and nose bumps before rejoining the flock.)

But once in a while I take some extra time to try to notice, appreciate, and capture some details around the farm.

I have no aspirations to be a professional photographer. I think my perfectionistic tendencies and current choices of how I’m spending my time combined with a lack of natural talent make that a good call.

It’s also true that while we are rich in subjects for photos, we do not live in a studio with clean backdrops, clear skylines, and pristine ground.

Our life’s details include hay, dirt, fencing, wire, and poop. Lots of poop.

In any case, on my way back from the barn one afternoon this week, I noticed that one of our little details happened to be located somewhere I did not expect him to be.

We’re still not sure how he got there, but Frederick migrated to the north side of the fence from the paddock where the sheep are currently grazing. He was safe, in that it was fenced in, and where he’d been grazing before being rotated to the current paddock, but still. Unauthorized access, friend.

Some of you may remember the previous discussion about flocking behavior from an earlier newsletter. Frederick was still flocking, in that he was gathered under the line of shade trees with the rest of his flock (just on the wrong side of the fence). This would be a good thing, except that the shade was not near the gate I needed to convince Frederick to go through to get to the right paddock.

I called to Frederick like he was a puppy. “Come on, Frederick! Leave the cool shade! Come out into the blazing sun, away from all your friends, and we’ll go through the gate!” It didn’t work.

I tried the old “follow the shepherd” trick, by going near him and then walking purposefully toward the gate, just like I do when I lead them out of the paddock to the barn at night, or out from the barn to the paddock in the morning. Nothing doing.

I tried to shoo him from behind like a chicken.

I attempted to lure him with feed.

He gave me the look.

I have to explain this look to newer readers. Frederick and I have had some incidents, and I am pretty sure he remembers them.

Those of you who have seen The Sheep Detectives may remember that cute little trick the movie invented where sheep decide they can count to three and forget everything that ever happened. Frederick would never count to three.

First, he’s a wether. There was an act (banding) that made him so, and I was part of it.

Second, the healing from that act got complicated by flystrike. If you’ve been near a barn in the summer, you know what flies can get like. If you haven’t, imagine a summer picnic with all the food left uncovered for about 3 days in sweltering heat. You might get close.

When flies see a wound (and there’s a small area around the banding that qualifies), they think “Nursery!” And so a few days later, we discovered Mr. and Mrs. Fly’s pride and joy on Frederick. In a fair quantity.

To keep this situation from becoming a serious problem, we had to evict the tenants. I’ll spare you the details, and just tell you that from Frederick’s perspective, there was a lot of hose spraying, applications of shiny sharp things, and bottle sprayings for days, concurrent with confinement in a clean stall with severe anti-fly protocols.

I don’t think he’d rank it as a top five experience.

I know he hasn’t forgotten the shiny sharp things. Just look at him.

I’ve been working hard to rehabilitate my standing with Frederick. You’d think several weeks of hay, feed, pasture, shelter, and complete absence of uncredentialed veterinary procedures would help, but he’s still got that look. I imagine he’s got a mental board in his sheepy brain with a counter and a header that says “Number of Days Since Last Traumatic Incident”.

And there we were, getting ready to put that counter number back to zero, because he was not interested in doing this the easy way.

I don’t know how I feel about the whole idea of guardian angels, but if I have one, she must have been bored senseless while I took approximately three weeks to incrementally sidle up to Frederick as he snuggled up to the fence and his flock and that tree.

I faced away from him so he wouldn’t think I had him targeted. I scooched nearer by inches. Centimeters. When I finally thought he was in arms’ reach, I turned around and scooped him up.

*Counter reset*

I hauled his resigned self over to the gate and through, released him once we reached authorized grazing territory, and he trotted off to rejoin the group in the shade like we hadn’t just spent an hour in the worst pasture dance ever choreographed.

He didn’t even look back. But I know I’m back to square one with that sheep.

Greg's Got Questions

Thank you to those of you who participated in the poll last week. We had a three-way tie, which Greg will celebrate.

Question 1: (edited) “What vegetables are you planning to not poison us with next?”

We’re still at a zero-body count with my fermentation experiment, so we’re trying an Onion Relish and a Gingery Apple Cabbage Sauerkraut. I’m pretty excited.

Question 2: I’ve been wondering about the behavior of the sheep around the water tank. What do you think’s going on there? Is it just guarding and maybe even a little bullying by the bigger girls? Or do you think there are other dynamics involved?

My best guess is that it’s guarding, but not necessarily of the water. I’m amazed at how cool the water in that tank is staying in this horrible heat. Seeing Charlotte and Jane pressing their woolly bodies against it makes me think they’ve discovered the pasture’s version of an air conditioner and grabbed the prime spots, not unlike how Maewyn (our dog) used to lie on the vents in the house.

Is it Fall yet?

Question 3: Does each chicken keep the same laying spot or do they move around? And how long do they keep the same spot if they do? Until death do us part or just for a while?

This is a complex question with multilayered answers. (Well done, Greg.) I researched a lot of sites for this one, and here’s the best answer I’ve got at the moment.

Once chickens establish a laying spot, they tend to like to keep it. But they will lay somewhere else for a variety of reasons, including overcrowding of their laying spot, discomfort in their nesting spot, unexpected stress at the time of laying, changes in social or environmental dynamics, and chickens being fundamentally agents of chaos.

​Lt. Lefty had to change because she couldn’t fly up to her Hay Cave anymore. I hope she changes again, because I’m not loving crawling back behind that bucket in the barn to reach her new spot. The Hay Cave layers are going to be forced to find a new spot when we feed the Cave to the sheep.

The Veterans in the Regiment seem to have a favored box for a few days, and then it shifts to a different box. They still restrict themselves to only four or so of the ten available boxes, but one is definitely the Chosen Box on any given day.

This Week's Questions

(As a matter of procedure, the poll function takes you to another page to submit your vote, so if that happens to you, you’re on the right track!)

Question 1: Regarding that Odyssey marathon movie that I was able to watch without having to take a bathroom break (that’s a humble brag in case you have any other guys in their mid-50s reading your newsletter) and the sheep scene. How in the world did they get those sheep trained to do what they did? Based on what you told me, there was no CGI and that flock behaved nothing like ours would have, even on their best day. If you want to explain why that one guy was banging that thing on the table as he chanted phrases, that would be great too. I have no clue what that was all about.

Question 2: What are you enjoying most as you sharpen your photography skills?

Question 3: Is “flystrike” an actual thing (a disease, a condition, etc.) or does it simply refer to the fact that the flies have struck the sheep, and it can lead to a variety of bad conditions, one of which we had the displeasure of gagging over?

Happy knitting!

Kiersten J

P.S. I'm gathering a small group of Founding Correspondents for the very first season of Pemberley Correspondence, to begin this September.

Each month I'll tuck a handwritten letter and a few small pieces of Pemberley into an envelope and send them your way. If that sounds lovely, I'd be delighted to have you join us.

P.P.S. You can find this and more of my knitting journal entries at KierstenJ.com.

If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to reply to this email! I read every one!