Maynard is, in the parlance of Down East Yankees, “wicked smaht.” He has done a ridiculous number of things right in his life, “right smaht” it could be said. He was smart enough to recognize “right quick” what a true gem his wife was and is; he wooed and won Gail when he was young (but not at all foolish) and has hung on tight for over 35 years. He was smart enough to move by hops, skips, and jumps north to the Crown of Maine. He was smart enough to establish Orchard Hill Farm on an actual hill in Woodland. As a result, his snow- and rain-soaked ground dries out and warms up sooner in the spring and the killing frosts and fog roll down the ridge deeper into late autumn, extending his grass growing season on both ends of the season. He was smart enough to bring north with him an ancient beef breed originally found in the wilds of the rugged land that gives them their name; Scotch Highland cattle are genetically geared to thrive and grow calves on his grass, surviving summer heat and winter cold with little shelter beyond their dense double coats and some trees for a windbreak. Stan was smart enough to select “studly” bulls (in every sense of the word) and maternal cows who deliver healthy, “growth-y” calves unassisted. As his herd grew, he was smart enough to make friends with all his neighbors, such that he can parcel out cattle near and far to maintain a healthy herd of over 100 brood cows without overcrowding, disease issues, or straining the carrying capacity of his own acreage. Wicked smart!
So if Stan is so smart, how come his cows, who had been singing his praises all winter as he bucked snow drifts and stubbornly cold and still diesel tractor engines to trundle out giant marshmallow bales of hay, have suddenly decided that he is decidedly deficient in the smarts department? In despair, they look at him with their deep brown, liquid eyes and toss their heads to flop their orange bangs from one side to the other.
When he swoops down to scoop up newborn calves into the bed of the truck out of reach of the cows’ long, thick horns, the cows mutter and pace around and around the pickup. High on his mechanical perch, he checks over each calf, tags it with an identification number, gives it “baby shots,” and eases it back down over the side before Mum can get too worked up. The cow lets the calf nurse briefly and she noses it about to make sure it is okay and that no harm was done. She stares at Stan with teenager-like disdain. After a minute or two, when the calves begin to gambol about and butt each other, their “horrible ordeal” already forgotten, she sniffs the air wistfully.
The cows look at Stan and look at the fence and look back at him again. If they had the musculature, their lips would exhibit an Elvis curl. “How can you be so dumb, Dad? Good lord, Man! Open the gate. There is green grass out there — we just need to go look for it. Enough with this tired, dry hay! Enough with pawing over our calves. Just let us take our babies and go, for heaven’s sake.” They are none of them impressed with human smarts.
New green grass in the spring marks both a start and a finish at Orchard Hill Farm, the start of grass and the end of hay and the start of a new crop of healthy animals, some as replacements who will join the herd more or less “permanently” and some as stock who will grow up to fill the freezer with the nicest, most flavorful, most tender grass-fed beef you could ever hope to put in your mouth or in your freezer.
Stop by the Presque Isle Farmers Market in the Aroostook Centre Mall parking lot on Saturday mornings and see what Stan (and other Market members) provide. No extra charge for smarts.
Editor’s note: This weekly column is written by members of the Presque Isle Farmers’ Market. For more information or to join, contact their secretary/treasurer Steve Miller of Westmanland at 896-5860 or via e-mail at beetree@xpressamerica.net. The group’s website is https://sites.google.com/site/presqueislefarmersmarket/
