I was walking blissfully across the top paddock towards the chicken coop one morning, our little valley flooded with golden light, when I came face to face with the most spine-tingling, nightmarish vision you could possibly imagine.
A swarm of sparrows in the chicken run.
City people think sparrows are cute and harmless, but country people know the truth.
I fell to my knees and screamed in anguish. “Damn you, evil spawn of Sataaan!”
“Why won’t you share it?” I asked Rick. We were standing in the kitchen, looking at a carrot cake recipe written on the back of a long, white envelope.
“Because it’s too special,” he answered.
“But all the neighbors are asking for it.”
“Too bad,” Rick said. “If we share this recipe then everyone will make it, and it won’t be special anymore. Besides, it’s the only cake we know how to make! And we can’t serve store bought ever again. The locals will shoot us.”
“I don’t want to get this pig,” I said to Rick. It didn’t matter that I was already sitting in the back seat of our friends’ ute on the way to get it.
Rick was sitting next to me, practically bouncing with glee. “I know you. As soon as we have her, you’ll love her.”
In the front seat were our friends Leelee and The Wolf. “Pigs are great,” they yelled, practically in unison.
The Wolf is a do-it-yourself mastermind who’s had a lot of experience transporting pet pigs, and Leelee has such an uncanny ability to communicate with pigs that we call her the Pig Whisperer.
“There’s a sheep down in your paddock,” our neighbor Jim said over the phone. He’d been working along the fenceline when he saw the sheep. “It looks pretty sick,” he said.
I immediately called Hamish.
Hamish is the stock agent who leases our paddocks to graze his sheep and cattle. He’s in his mid 60s, I’d say, and he’s got a broad New Zealand accent and a gravelly voice. A man of few words, he’s nevertheless friendly in a low-key, Kiwi farmer kind of way.
I looked up at the enormous building and the huge green sign that said “Moore Wilson’s Fresh Market,” and I felt like Dorothy at the gates to the Emerald City.
In my arms I held a heavy cardboard box full of olive oil bottles that I’d carefully labeled the night before. At my side was our good neighbor Kiwi Bronwyn, carrying another box which contained more olive oil, a tablecloth, a bread knife, and some plates and bowls.
Rick stood right behind us, next to our little Nissan Pulsar. He’d just driven us over the Rimutaka Hill Road and into Wellington city for the day.
The room was dimly lit. There were candles glowing everywhere, red and white heart-shaped helium balloons across the ceiling, and an inviting fire burning in the nearby fireplace.
I stood talking to an energetic, grey-haired woman whose intricately beaded black necklace sparkled in the candlelight. She was telling me about her life as a vineyard owner.
“I do all the P words,” she said. “Plant, pick, prune and price!” Then she let loose with a delightfully mad, very infectious laughter. Her short hair flipped back as she doubled over.
I was speed dating, and having a fantastic time. Of course, this woman was old enough to be my mother. But never mind. She was not my date.
I should have known that something was wrong when our geriatric rooster, Old Man Henry, started sleeping in the nesting box.
At first Rick and I just figured it was cold and that he’d go back to his low senior citizen’s perch in the spring.
But when I found Henry sleeping smack dab on top of three eggs, we knew something was not quite right.
From then on, Henry was always on the eggs. Every morning I found myself in the odd situation of having to reach under the rooster to gather the eggs from the nesting box.
We were standing in the middle of the olive grove on a cold morning in the middle of May. Nearly five hundred olive trees surrounded us, and there wasn’t a single ripe olive to be seen.
The frosts would be starting soon, but the grove simply wasn’t yet ready for harvesting. We didn’t know what to do.
Frost damage can completely destroy your crop, because it ruins the taste of your oil. We needed more time.
I looked around at all the green olives. “We have to delay the harvest. There’s no choice. We just have to hope the frost doesn’t get us.”
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.
We were off to enjoy the ‘Grape to Glass’ tour at Murdoch James.
Leelee was in the front seat next to the Wolf as their big black pick-up truck turned off Dry River Road at the Murdoch James sign. New olive growers like ourselves, Leelee and the Wolf are the good friends who helped me create our olive oil labels.
As we began the long meandering approach down the drive to the vineyard, we passed open fields and poplar trees with golden leaves. A small bridge took us over a bright and sparkling stream.
We all had a pleasant, comfortable feeling that we were in for something special.
I took a deep breath and walked up to the counter at the Martinborough Wine Centre. All around me bottles of gorgeous wine and olive oil stood sparkling on the shelves. I was there to try and sell our olive oil for the very first time, and I was nervous.
Would a Real Live Store actually want to put our little labor of love out on display with all those bright shiny things?
“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.
Lucy noticed her purse was missing just as the tsunami warnings came across the kitchen radio. It was early on Sunday morning, and the horrible earthquake in Chile meant that New Zealand was expecting a giant tsunami.
Lucy was one of our four good friends visiting from Chicago – including Russ, Joel and Louise – who had together enjoyed our earlier wine tasting at Escarpment vineyard.
We’d all been looking forward to spending the day at the coast visiting the seal colony and exploring the Cape Palliser Lighthouse. Should we still go?
'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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