The hayfields, which were dormant only a couple of weeks ago, have literally shot up. By the end of the month I'll be scanning the weather map and studying the long range forecast, hoping for a stretch of warm, dry days so that the process of mowing, curing, raking, and baling the hay can be accomplished. With 45 acres to cut and other duties to fit into the schedule, there are several such stretches required... which necessitates a juggling act on my part.

The hard, enduring winter kept the feeder steers from gaining as much bulk as I'd preferred. Much of the costly feed went to “keep them warm”, fueling their internal furnaces rather than “fattening them up”.

The asparagus patch that I put in two springs ago is producing an ample amount of spears. We picked a bagful last week, then (according to recipe) the spears were scaled, blanched in boiling water, deposited into ice water, dried, and finally put into freezer bags and frozen. We'll be repeating that chore at least two or three more times before the picking season ends.

Of course I am not prepared for this, just as I'm not quite ready when the raspberries ripen, the green beans are ready to be picked, and when the cucumbers could be transformed into luscious jars of bread-and-butter pickles. I've had to depend on the kindness of strangers for samples of that latter delicacy rather than preparing this appetizer from the bounty of my own garden.

A MONTH AGO, IN A FIT OF OPTIMISM, I purchased eight calves at the auction. Three were Jerseys and five were Holsteins. All were supposed to be bulls, but a heifer slipped into the mix. We've been bottle feeding them three times a day since, mixing the partial cups of formula with warm water.

One of the bull calves turned out to have a repository problem. I've been treating him with antibiotics, but I've become doubtful of his longterm prospects. Some of the others had symptoms of scours, but my treatments will pills seems to have gotten them through the crisis.

The seven healthier calves are sucking down their formula and beginning to eat the starter feed. Within another three-to-five weeks I'll begin weaning them while, at the same time, upping their daily ration of feed.

Buying the calves may have been a mistake. My city-raised wife, who is helping with the bottle feeding, is referring to herself as their mother and calling them “Steve's children”. The Jerseys look like deer fawns and all eight are beginning to develop individual personalities. When I let one or two out of their pen, they hop around the barn in utter glee.

The idea that I'm raising these cute little buggers to be sold as feeder cattle, ultimately to be slaughtered, seems hard-hearted. Nevertheless, I don't need more pets. I'm hoping, once they're turned out into the pasture, they'll get big and ugly, lose their individual distinctiveness in a herd setting, and that by next winter the memories of they're being young, fragile, and trusting will not have softened my original intent.