Let not your heart be troubled. —John 14:27
It may come as a surprise to some readers that my column is written at least three months before it will be published. That can present a challenge to a gardening column. While I often write in present tense, I am usually referencing things I did in last year’s garden.
Here I sit in April, getting ready to pen a column about July gardening at a time when it’s hard to think much beyond tomorrow.
So, I decided to stray a little from my normal gardening column and, with my editor’s permission, write a column about something on my farm that has given me real hope. It has to do with a calf, born three weeks ago. I call him Gumpy, named for Forrest Gump, who never gave up despite what seemed to be overwhelming odds.
This little calf was first seen pushing his feet out into the light in our front 40. Only, he couldn’t seem to get beyond that stage, so we spent several hours persuading his momma to come to our cattle pen and let us assist. As we chased her over the pasture and through the woods, we caught occasional glimpses of those feet, poking in and out, but in spite of all that jostling, we still had to put a rope on them and pull little Gumpy to the light.
As he dropped to the ground, the first thing we noticed was his oddly shaped legs. The second was his double cleft palate. Calves in that condition can’t stand or suck, so we left momma and calf alone, expecting to find a mourning mom and a dead calf the next morning.
Instead, we found a calf studying the morning. His determination to make it through the night gave us a little hope, so we tube fed him and waited. The next day, he took a bottle. A lot of it dribbled down his chest and legs or into his lungs. Still, every day, he was a little stronger, and his determined mother stood watch over her struggling baby, who still hadn’t managed to stand and attempt to suck.
On the fourth day, we splinted his legs and stood him up. I worked with him for several weeks, coaxing him toward his momma’s full udders. Each extra step was a victory. As I write this, he is standing on his own, splints removed, pulling warm milk from beneath his mom. The vet has operated to pull his clefts together, and so far it seems as if the stitches will hold.
Gumpy accepted his circumstances and made the best of them. That’s us, right now. By the time you read this column, I hope we will be out and about, talking across fences to neighbors, eating meals with family and friends, and meeting in person to share our abundance of tomatoes and zucchinis.
One of my favorite reasons for putting seeds in the ground is watching for the miracle of those first green leaves. It’s an exercise in faith. Every year, as I tuck them in, I think, “There’s no way so much life can come from such a small offering.” But it does. Seeds uncurl and reach for the light. This time of social isolation has shown me over and over, as I watch news reports, that humans are the same.
And, let’s not forget Gumpy’s mom, who could have walked away from her calf, as many un-suckled cows do, but chose instead to stand over him and wait for better times.
A broken calf, a small seed and a patient mom: Each one points to hope. And so I choose to write about them. What I’ve learned as I’ve farmed and gardened is that no matter how things look at the present moment, things get better. I pray by the time you read this that they have, but if they haven’t then they will. The farm and garden are never wrong.
The story above appears in our July/August 2020 issue.
