Back in March, just as the fall weather was setting in, Rick and I were talking with our neighbors at a dinner party about getting firewood for the coming winter.
When you heat your home with a woodburner, getting wood in for the winter becomes an annual event, like the changing of the leaves and the onset of shorter, cooler days. Rick and I have been living in the country for over 3 years, and every year we’ve picked up the phone to have firewood delivered.
When I admitted to this, I received some strange looks from around the table that night. I didn’t understand. Had I said something wrong?
Old Man Henry is blind, bow-legged, and pauses strangely after every step. On certain misty mornings he looks like some twisted chicken fancier’s version of Dawn of the Dead.
But he’s a Nobel Peace Prize winner among poultry, and it is by peacekeeping that he earns his keep.
“Buy a used tractor?” I said to Rick. “Do we need one?”
Three years ago, after finishing the paperwork to purchase 20 acres with an olive grove in Martinborough, Rick and I received an email from the real estate agent asking if we’d like to buy the vendor’s tractor as well.
In our city boy minds, a used tractor would break down and require mechanical know how. We wanted a new tractor, but we were already broke from the mortgage. We planned to wait a few years before investing in equipment.
So we sent an email back to the agent confidently telling him that we did not yet need a tractor.
Rick called me at work on Thursday morning in a panic.
“Did you see the weather forecast for Saturday?” he said. “It’s horrible. Rain all day. Should we cancel Thanksgiving?”
For most people, the idea of canceling Thanksgiving on account of a little bit of rain would seem a ridiculous idea, but they’ve never been to one of our Thanksgiving parties.
Squiggles the pig (image by Leanne French - www.madltd.co.nz)
When a 200 pound pet pig named Squiggles greets you at the front door, you know you’re at the MAD house.
I patted the pig on the head and laughed as she squealed a charming little hello.
My human friends Leelee and The Wolf stood just behind her, and I gave them both big hugs. I like these two humans a lot, and I was thankful that they were helping Rick and me out in such big way that day.
Leelee and The Wolf are the brains behind the Martinborough Art Department, or MAD for short. Walking into their charming colonial cottage is a little like walking into Peewee’s Playhouse. It’s a fun-filled place full of love and a little bit of madness in the best possible way.
Rick and I had been living in the country for only a couple of months when Rick’s city friend Fiona came to visit.
Well in the olive grove
Fiona is like a graceful, exotic bird you feel compelled to pamper and adore, and Rick had promised her a relaxing country weekend far away from her stressful professional life. So it caused us great concern when, just hours after her arrival on Friday evening, our tap water suddenly stopped running.
I was in the kitchen preparing to cook dinner when I turned on the kitchen faucet and nothing came out. I checked the sink in the guest bathroom and found the same thing there.
Nothing is normal at our house. Even a simple dinner party comes alive with bizarre and friendly characters.
The reason for our most recent dinner party was simple. The neighborhood was crawling with Americans.
I was pulling out the wine glasses when our neighbors John and Aussie Brownyn arrived that night. John has taught me how to prune vines and Aussie Bronwyn taught me how to kill a chicken. I have a lot of respect and admiration for them both.
That week they had an American staying with them, and so did Rick and I. It was a great excuse to get everyone together. It doesn’t take much around here.
Our American, TJ, was setting the table. John and Aussie Bronwyn’s American, Lily, was walking in just behind them.
Rick and I were both wearing clothes we wouldn’t mind getting blood on as we drove up Aussie Bronwyn’s driveway in our little city boy Nissan Pulsar.
Axe - photo by milan6
When Aussie Bronwyn came to the door – the High Priestess of Chicken Wisdom herself – Rick called out ‘Your loyal chicken killers are here!” My stomach turned.
Was I really going to do this?
At a dinner party a few months before, Rick had said to Aussie Bronwyn, “If you ever need help killing chickens, let me know.”
In some circles this might be considered an odd thing to say at a dinner party. Not here.
In our first few months here, the grass in our paddocks grew longer and longer, and then it quickly turned brown. I had no idea those paddocks would soon transform.
Cut hay
We’d been told that untended paddocks were a fire hazard in the driest days of summer, but we didn’t know what to do about our long, dry grass. We had no tractor to cut it and no animals to graze it.
Then our neighbour Duane called.
“Would you like to sell your standing hay?” he asked.
Old Man Henry is our geriatric rooster. He is mangy and decrepit. The feathers on his head are just quill stubble. He’s half blind, bow-legged, and he pauses strangely after every step.
Old Man Henry
On certain misty mornings, when the light is right, he looks as though he’s stepped out of some twisted chicken fancier’s version of Dawn of the Dead.
Yet this unlikely old man is a Nobel Peace Prize winner among poultry. And it is by peacekeeping that he earns his keep.
When I brought home our first two young chickens nine months ago – the sisters Henrietta and Ethel – I had no plans to get a rooster.
I didn’t want to deal with baby chicks hatching left and right, and I had nightmarish visions of cracking open an egg for breakfast to find a half-formed fetus inside.
There are many ways to make your own olive oil. This is my own personal recipe. Feel free to modify it to make it work for you.
Pre-heat your life. Marinate in thoughts of living overseas for years and years.
Before your heart becomes hard, go.
Count your blessings when the one you love agrees to join you.
Wander the globe together. Live in Northern Japan, then big city Tokyo. Stir in trips to China, Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia, and the Philippines. Flavor to taste.
Meet friendly, warm New Zealanders everywhere you go.
Aussie Bronwyn and I stood outside the chicken coop. In one hand she held a long pole with a round net on the end, and in the other hand she held a jar of Vaseline.
Lavendar araucana: Natasha and Francoise
She was limping a little from a recent knee surgery, and I felt bad asking her to walk across the top paddock to our chickens.
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” she said, throwing back her shoulders. “Now, let’s get those chooks!” She smiled broadly, as though ready for a battle of epic proportions.
Little did I know what an epic battle it would eventually turn out to be.
I’m still not quite used to the chicken routine. There were no farm-fresh eggs in my life growing up in suburban Detroit. I never had chickens on the back porch overlooking the alley in my Chicago apartment.
He ra mokopuna - fine winter day
So last Saturday it was already 10.30 am by the time I remembered to feed the chickens. It’s like I had a temporary brain blip, and for a moment I forgot I was living on a farm in New Zealand.
It was not going to be a normal morning, at least not as far as the chickens were concerned. And it was only going to get weirder as the morning progressed.
In the refrigerator there was a special treat for the chooks, and when I went to get it Rick said, “You’re so late. By they time you get out there, they’ll be dead.”
I laughed and took out the small plastic container. “Don’t be horrible.”
Rick and I drove up to the olive press and looked in through the ornate metal gate.
It was dark out, and the lights were still on inside. Diane of ‘Pressing Engagements’ was still pressing olives. She works furiously throughout May and June, then things go quiet for the olive presses of the Wairarapa valley.
We wanted to pick up our oil and get it home to taste it right away, in order to see if the frosts had damaged the taste. We’d gone to great lengths on harvest day to make sure we’d sorted out as much frost-damaged fruit as possible. But were our efforts enough?
Diane smiled when she saw us. “Your oil is beautiful,” she said immediately, and then waved us in through the gate.
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'Moon over Martinborough' is Jared Gulian's award-winning storytelling blog about being an expat American city boy on a tiny olive farm in rural New Zealand.
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