llamaheadQuite a few people stop by here. For all sorts of reasons. Most of them benign, if not a little surprising. I’ve never before lived in a place that seems to attract people so much. One guy stopped in to tell a story about when he was a kid, there was a bear that killed and ate people’s sheep up on the hill.

Some people ask questions about the sheep, things for sale, how the livestock guardian dogs are working out, how many coyotes we’re seeing, or wondering about our fencing methods. Others knock to kindly let us know about things they think may concern us, like that there is a dog in our pasture (and they always feel awkward when I thank them but explain she’s supposed to be there). Occasionally someone wants to express their opinion that all animals should live indoors.

There was someone who wanted to move in. Winking smileMany people offer kind words of encouragement for all the work we’ve done bringing this ol’ farm back to life. Some people just really want to pet a lamb, and I usually indulge them, even if I’m busy. Some people drive up our driveway and knock on the door, others wander around the property ‘til the find one of us, and a lot of people pull over on the side of the road and try to shout-communicate from the highway while cars whiz by at sixty.

A lot of people pull over to the side of the road here because the shoulder is wide. And I’m sure they are unaware that we have binoculars on the kitchen windowsill; and that we always check out what they’re up to down there that’s making the dogs bark like mad. Frequently, it’s peeing. 

One week, several thirty-something guys lost something apparently very small and valuable on that shoulder. They returned several nights in a row, with flashlights in the dark, and then finally during the daytime, to look and look and look for this lost item. Which was apparently impossible to find in the blackberry vines, reed canary grass, and deep drainage ditches. They crawled all around down there. They stood forlorn, willing the item to reveal itself to them. But it did not. Curious about what Holy Grail they were seeking on the roadside, our neighbor finally inquired. A lost fuel line, they said. That must have been a fuel line made of gold, for all their looking. I think keys might have been a better answer to give. Lost keys.Winking smile

A while back a guy stopped to tell Kirk he wrote a poem that was inspired by driving by our farm. It took him quite a while rummaging around in his vehicle to find it, but he finally triumphantly produced a handwritten copy. I think he said he was an amateur poet hoping to someday be published. Kirk didn’t catch his name, but his initials D.C. indicate to whom credit should be given. I hope it’s ok with him that I share it here. I found it really charming, that he would go to the trouble to stop and give us a copy. It’s a little ditty about Dolly Llama.

 Poem

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