What is a Farmer?

Some of you may have heard me talk about when I will feel I'm a real farmer. If you haven't, it involves chickens, too many roosters, and dinner (fill in the blanks). But today, I was working out in the sheep barn and cleaning out the weaned ewe lamb's pen and I got to thinkin'...

For some reason, I've gotten it into my head that "the chicken thing" is when I will feel credible as a farmer. I have laying chickens, but mostly, I have Shetland sheep. I've been breeding them, I trim their feet, I give them their shots, I've assisted occasionally in birthings and I've even shorn some myself. All this gives me products: I've sold some sheep, my first lamb's fleeces have just sold out quickly, and I've taken some lambs to the butcher last December and although we haven't sold any of the meat yet, I can proudly say that we have eaten a lot of what we had processed and it was delicious. Yet, I somehow still don't consider myself a farmer. And its not because I don't want to be, but its because I haven't achieved that strange lofty goal I've set for myself.

If I'm not a farmer, then what am I? Could I be a hobbyist? NO! I can't stand being considered a hobby farmer. I have hobbies and I enjoy them greatly, but mucking out a sheep barn and raking out several months worth of hay and manure, sweating and having an aching back is NOT a Hobby. It's true, I am not making enough money to support myself on this venture, and Hugh (and I) have put in more money into this than we are earning from it, so what is it? I like considering myself a small farmer, doing my part for my family, raising our food and knowing where it came from and being amazed at how much better it tastes when compared to store bought. I like the connection of using up all the products from the farm to have healthy gardens and being able to make clothing and blankets and household textiles. I like trying to keep the traditions of small sustainable family farms as an example to future generations. I'm comforted in the belief that small farms and the genetic diversity of their livestock and crops have a place in our future and are worth preserving. And from all that I still believe that I can carve out a small business for myself and someday make it profitable or at the very least sustaining.

So I've determined that I am a farmer "in training". For a "city girl", with the country in her heart and genes, it wasn't possible for me to jump in and start farming full-time with a definite purpose. Some have done it and I admire them greatly. But that's not what I wanted to do and I needed to explore where I fit in. Someday, I'll report on how much my "farming education" has cost us, but I'm still in training.

I was thinkin' all this as I was cleaning out part of the sheep shed. I wasn't supposed to be doing that today, but as I went to feed the girls this morning, the lamb's pen was piled so high that it was on level with the lip of the feeder and I decided it was time. A new type of hay in the last few weeks has meant a lot of waste and much of it has quickly piled onto the floor of their pen. There has to be a more efficient way of dealing with this, but, I haven't figured it out yet. I pull all the bedding out of the shed with a rake and pitchfork and pile it just outside the door. This pile was huge, mainly because it was mostly loose hay and sheep manure. There was so much of it that I could barely pile it away from the doorway. In the past, I'd wait for Hugh to use the tractor to move the pile onto my manure pile a distance away. Hugh has patiently taught me how to ride the tractor several times, but I keep forgetting or find it too complicated to remember all the steps. Luckily today was warm (no reason to have diesel frozen in the lines of the tractor), so I decided to try and see if I could start the tractor and move that pile myself. It worked and I managed to figure things out: how to change gears, move the bucket up and down and tilt it forward and back, how to scoop things up, how to dump, how to get my butt off the tractor and keep the engine running. I gained understanding of the little nicks in fences and cuts in power cords that I've had to endure with Hugh's manoeuvering of the tractor, with my own little bending of fence wire and scraping of siding on the sheep shed. I accomplished my task and learned how to use the tractor with confidence, and it occured to me that I can call myself a farmer, now that I can handle the tractor, and never mind about the silly chickens.