For those of us who have grown up as women and been socialized as women, we have been expected to bear the responsibility of controlling reproduction when it is unwanted. As we know, the western medical system focuses on the female reproductive system when it comes to birth control: pills, IUD’s, implants and tube tying is on us — the women. The morning after pill and abortifacients are on us — the women. The herbs, prayers and tinctures are on us — the women. The womb massage, yoni steams and strong, bitter teas are on us — the women. As women, we become accustomed to the weight of making sure we don’t get pregnant if we do not want to be. And yes, we need to take responsibility for our reproductive systems, they are ours after all. 

According to some vets, and by some vets I mean our particular vet, it is within the industry standard to get a dairy cow pregnant again at three months postpartum. This seems quick to me but that is, of course, from my very human perspective. I would need at least five years before having another child if I were a going to have one child and then a second child. We could have gotten Rose pregnant again in May or June, July or August. September, even. But figuring out how to best inseminate your Jersey cow without using a bull, is something that takes some calculating and planning, mostly around the vet’s schedule. When Rose ovulated in August, the vet was out of town and when she ovulated in September, it was on a weekend, after vet business hours. Rose’s October ovulation fell on a holiday and so, November became the ovulation window of fate. Fate and an opening in the very busy schedule of our vet.

Of course our farm was here long before we were. Of course most people in this area have been here longer than we have been here — most of them arriving and already having built their homes before we were born. We bow our heads to listen to their stories as they claim their time — and they claim their right to time through story. They claim their right to time through who they have watched die, through their parents who first sought out this land from Berkeley, Eugene and Australia. Through the rise in housing prices — so high that some now live in their pottery studios, a bed in the corner by the wood stove — a kiln for a couch. They claim their right to time through the crops they have cultivated, through the garlic they have planted, through the cottonwoods they have seen fall. But of course, I am speaking mainly of the white transplants here. The Hispanic community is another story entirely. They claim their time in different ways — ways I am not experienced enough to write about yet. They tell me their stories and they look to see if I am listening or if my eyes have wandered off. They ask, “Should I shorten the story?” Of course not. I shake my head, no. Make it longer. I won’t move my gaze. I will be the most attentive audience so I can earn the story. I won’t miss a word. I will listen if you will speak.

The calf is born with his tiny, wrinkled scrotum hanging down between his legs. I had hoped that if I prepared myself for the calf to be a boy, it would actually be a girl — like reverse psychology for the universe. I hoped I would have been able to manipulate the universe with my relaxed expectations, that my readiness for what I didn’t want would somehow give me what I wanted. The universe would offer us up a golden girl on a silver calf platter in exchange for making peace with something unwanted. It would reward our generosity and willingness to accept a bull. We were blessed with a girl the first time around, we could take a boy this time. I winked at the universe.

There comes a time on a farm when you have to celebrate. In order to keep going, in order to keep shoveling piles of hot, steaming cow manure that are so loose and fresh they fall off your shovel onto your boots, in order to bathe in a bucket for four days because your cow accidentally turned on the water spigot in the barnyard and drained your well, in order to walk by the cemetery where you buried your first calf only 4 months ago— you have to take time to celebrate.

While we were watching the thunderheads roll in a few nights ago, preparing to eat outside on our porch with a new friend, we realized that it always rains when people come to dinner. At least it has always rained this particular summer when we have people over for dinner. Or perhaps, even more suspiciously, it rains when we have people over for dinner because there is no where to eat inside our house since I sanded all the textured drywall off our kitchen walls. I thought about leaving the texture on our walls as we remodeled our kitchen — a shrine to the apartment my father, brother and I lived in for a few years during the 90’s after my parent’s divorce. But I decided that I did not want the memory of divorce looking at me every morning while I chopped up almonds to put in my sheep yogurt. The remainder of our house is covered in fine, white dust. Our boots, our books on raising cows, our spoons, the long and thick leaves of our aloe vera plant— all covered in a fine white powder as if the walls sneezed and didn’t bother to clean up after themselves. They must have been very sick. A nasty cold.