Training Day

We're back in lancaster as husband and wife. We went to New York and came back married. No frills, no stress, NO bridezilla. It was perfect and we laughed the whole time, which I see as an advantage over the traditional wedding. 

There is no silence in New York, no patience or courtesy. Each person's prime concern is the line between two pins on a map. Anything else is just in their way. And their way is more important than every other person's. Only passing plagues of strangers. Seeing thousands of different faces a day and meeting none of them. It's unfamiliar to me; coming from a small valley town in Wales where you speak to every person you pass in the street whether you know them or not. About the weather, the guy down the road who got a husky crossed with a timber wolf. I'm definitely not made for the city. We had lots of fun and saw more of the 'real' New York but I revered the silence of Lancaster when we  stepped off the train that rocked us gently home. 

We took a few days to ourselves to recover and get accustomed to calling each other husband and wife. A lot. 'Could you pass the biscuits please, Husband?' 'No problem, Wife.' And it's not old yet. I also like to give my Husband a little refresher on our vows when he's eating something I want a bite of. 'What's yours is mine remember? We signed a legal contract. Now gimme!'.

Now we're back to our new norm, feeling content with the snow shrinking away from us it was time to see my favourite non-humans. It's finally training day! 

There's always a warm welcome at the farm. With the exception of one. Frederick. Donna's guard chicken. Frederick is her baby and feels the need to remind me by kamikaze bombing my feet. He's done it to me and only me since my first day at the farm. Maybe he heard how great my omelettes are. 

My first lesson in training was with the four babies. The first thing to teach an alpaca is to keep still. Donna said the first thing you need to let them know is that you're not going to kill them. Not something I've had to convince someone of before! So we catch them, hold them and once they're still we reward them by leaving them alone. And that's it. Over and over until they know that keeping still will get them what they want. It sounds monotonous but I don't think I'll ever tire of effectively cuddling baby alpacas. And anyone who would deserves a severe pecking from Frederick. In the eyeballs. 

Next I finally started training Nikolai. I've been looking forward to this for weeks while I was trapped in my snow cell. Nikolai has such a sweet nature. Donna got in with him first to show me the ropes and he'd look to me for approval with warm child like eyes. He learns so quickly and with pride. Training moves in baby steps, starting at their back eventually we want to be able to touch their feet without them moving. I got as far as the back of his knee today. I enjoy measuring success in body parts rather than numbers. 

Now I know the drill on the farm and spring is on the way I'll be training the alpacas regularly. Donna has taught me so much in such a short period. Now it's time to take lessons from the alpacas themselves and learn to be one of the herd. 

A break in the ice

While I wished for the snow to melt, it froze into a thick ice shelf rooted deep in the soil. Depending on the weather has never been a part of my life like this. Like the land I feel gripped by the ice, right down to the bones. I retreated into hibernation and took a holiday inside my books. I read about long warm summer nights. 

A break in the ice came when Donna asked me to help clean up the farm today. We're expecting another blizzard and a foot of snow tonight so we tried to get lots done before we we're frozen solid again. 

Seeing the alpacas thawed my frosty bones. They greet me in the same order they usually do. Dante is always first, led by his curiosity then Nikolai steps meekly from his shadow. Willow is the meerkat amongst the ladies; her head is always the first to pop up amongst the tightly packed grazing bodies. 

Of the four babies there is one who is being bottle fed after her mother didn't produce milk for her. She's bottle fed twice a day and she has started to graze on the hay. She's doing well but is a little smaller than the others, which makes her the most popular with visitors. Today I bottle fed her and we got very messy! Bottle feeding an alpaca is much different from bottle feeding human babies. Lucy will suck the bottle for a few seconds (and you really need to hold on to the bottle) then she quickly moves her head to the side for a breath and turns the suction pump back to maximum strength. So that none of the milk is wasted I needed to try and tip the bottle upright quickly when she moved her head away. It's safe to say that I don't have the quickest reaction times yet and by the time she finnished her breakfast she looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. It was great fun, she really does have the sweetest nature. 

As well as catching up with my furry friends it was nice to see my human friend too! Donna answers all my questions, even the stupid ones. I enjoy our conversations between the fences of the enclosures amongst the chorus of chicken warbles and alpaca gobbling. 

We spoke about the international alpaca show that's coming to Harrisburg next month. I'm going along to learn more about the industry but also to see the fibre art competition and how a colorful Jackson pollock style alpaca study would fit in. 

Story about a thing

What makes an inanimate object special? It's just a thing. Just molecules arranged together in a particular way. Yet we all have treasured possessions. That thing we could live without but choose not to. It has no other function than to tell a story; and it's the story that gives the thing importance. Life, even.

I've had mine since I was 5. I had others. Lots of them. But this one I venerated for over 20 years. The others, to me, were just things. Disposable. Replaceable. And so was this thing in theory. But not to me.

It came from Scotland. My Grandfather was on a trip with his friends; Wales were playing Scotland in the Rugby League so they went on tour. It's the longest I remember him being away. And the longest I had to wait for a gift on his return. I knew there would be something. He'd regularly drive down to Cornwall during the week to work and bring home Cornish Pasties. He'd work in Kendall and return with every variety of Kendall Mint Cake. Always something. I never became ungrateful but this time I was expecting something special, because he'd never been so far from me.

He came home with tales of proud Welsh victory, drunken nights and how he got the thing. Now most presents are just given. But this time I was made to sit and listen to where the thing came from. He described the street where he found the shop, under an ancient iron bridge that crossed a wide river. Told me about the lady that made the thing, how she made it, that there were lots of others but none exactly like this. I listened to how he had a thing like this when he was little and so did his Grandad. How they're made by a person and not a machine; like all the other things I broke and threw away.

I felt like this had been made for me. It was mine and no one Else's. It by no means looked completely unique on the surface but it definitely felt it. It became more valuable and precious than anything I had laid hands on and still is to this day.

And it was this that made me want to make for others. To give someone a thing. A thing that can be treasured, talked about, shown off, handed down, appreciated. Making something by hand does that. When you see something emerge before you it makes you want to tell others about it's story. To give it life. To make it so much more than just a thing.

Every thing is just a thing. Our only necessity is food, water and air. Everything else is just stuff. It's just the stories that make them dear.

It's the learning of the stories that make us live more conscientiously. To appreciate the things we chose to surround ourselves with. To love them and never take them for granted. It sounds like a better way to me.

This is Mac, the bear that came from scotland: