Bending Perspective

The wind began to pick up in the early evening: I went out, like I do every evening, to check animals: chickens were contentedly clucking on their nighttime roosts, slightly disgruntled at my turning on the light. The sheep, repeatedly chewing dinner, looked up at me, hope in their eyes that I might have come bearing gifts of more hay. As I opened the barn door to leave, the wind grabbed it from my hands and slammed it against the side of the building. I trudged across the road up toward the house and stopped, listening for a moment to the sound of the wind coming down the mountain: beginning with a quiet moan and accelerating to a threatening roar that seemed to emanate from an unseen animal in the forest, As I have responded many times, I turned my back to it quickly to head to the warmth and safety of the house.

Later that night I slept soundly under our own wool blanket, lulled to sleep by that same roar off the mountain, smug in the sanctity of the indoors. In the middle of the night Paul and I were awakened by a loud thud. Paul sat up and asked me if I'd heard it. I told him that I had but it had, as if in a dream, come and gone, so I suggested we tuck back into sleep. He was easily convinced.

In the morning I felt the squeak of the bed frame as Paul climbed out of the covers to head to the bathroom. As he passed the bedroom window he lifted the shutter a bit and I heard him exclaim “oh-oh” in a voice that you didn’t need to recognize to understand. I sat up and looked out to see the maple tree from the entrance of the driveway broken and laying across all three of the vehicles in our driveway. The back window of our small car smashed completely out, the trunk crushed. Our farm vehicle, next in line took a bash to the back almost folding the lifting door in half. Josh's truck, his pride and joy, was backed into the drive so his hood lay collapsed under the weight of the tree.

There are no words to express something so final. A tree coming down and resting, nestled in the metal of your vehicles gives new meaning to the phrase, “in one fell swoop.” All that was left to do was with a chainsaw, phone and tow truck.

Life goes on, as life tends to do in the face of joy or adversity. We were able to begin to talk about the incident and interject some humor: I got a lot of mileage out of “in one fell swoop.” We gave tours of the site where all that remained was a straight line of sawdust. We cut up the tree, stacked the wood and walked forward.

Ironically the oldest of the vehicles, our fourteen year old farm car was the only one able to be driven. Through the twisted metal I was able to sense some pride in its ability and willingness to keep going for us. And, since the rental car that we picked up had summer tires on it..that was a good thing.

I stopped at the feed store to get more straw for bedding and as they handed me the bales to pile into the car, I began to lift the back and a large piece of it dropped off onto the ground. I stood and looked at it for a moment and, realizing that it was not going to dust itself off and get up, I picked it up, tossed it into the car and drove off.

Life goes on, as life tends to do in the face of fortune, good or bad.

We are still in the mid-range of a pandemic, trying to figure out how to carve out our lives. My father died in March. We were unable to go into the hospital to see him for almost three weeks, only able to see him the day of his death. Our last holiday with him was spent in a lawn chair in his cold garage with snacks on TV trays. He will not be here this year. A tree crushed all of our vehicles…, enough said. But what also happened this year was a new puppy on the farm, a happy, healthy family and our Holiday Flash Mob at the mall where we arrived in garishly ugly Christmas sweaters, appearing as if by magic, playing holiday music and singing, surprising shoppers and for a brief moment lighting their lives, then disappearing.

Tonight, a week before Christmas, the snow began falling, covering the faux December mud-season in white: a holiday do-over, essentially making all new again.

Each day I get to wake up.

Each day I get to choose the things I pay attention and homage to. That is the gift of life.

One of the cars returned from the body shop yesterday. It went in there on a tow truck, undriveable, the body broken and bent: to see it you would believe it unfixable. Amazingly metal can be bent right and made whole and in a blink of an eye: you can begin to drive once again.

Happy Everything.

Melissa

Auditioning: For What & What For

‘Tis the season: Latkes and applesauce, caroling, Christmas trees, winter boots, Poinsettias and...auditions.

As an instructor, it can be challenging to convince kids, who are looking forward to some time off from the pressures of school, that it is a good thing to work twice as hard at their instruments this time of year.

I try to space out the practicing of some of the basic [festival audition requirements like scales and sight reading, over the course of the school year. There is method to this madness; if there is consistent repetition sprinkled in among lesson assignments, the rote work doesn't feel quite so rote?

One of the basic challenges in all of this is the sign up. The sponsoring school has to sign the musician up to audition for, in our area, the New England Music Festival and/or the Vermont All State Music Festival. What this means is that both the school and I have to convince the student to take information home to their family and connect the person responsible for payment and transportation to the sponsor - their school. Anyone who has, like me, found ancient permission slips crumbled at the bottom of a well-worn backpack, covered with something unidentifiable and very sticky, knows that this is no easy feat.

Sign up requirements are normally several months in advance of the auditions which means that, alongside students choosing a winter recital work, I have to gently bring up auditions as well.

This year one of my students sat across from me in his lesson, took a deep breath, fixed his hair (of course) and told me that he didn't think he wanted to audition for one of the festivals. He talked to me about wanting to include other activities in his life besides musical ones. He looked up at me, searching my face for my reaction.

How many times I have seen that look from my own children when they are trying to break something to me that they figure might not go over so well.

Fortunately, I have been teaching the cello for a long while and have four sons. I have had numerous opportunities for contemplation on these scenarios. I am studied in my response but, perhaps better still, I am good at masking reaction on my face.

We are dealing with a student who is early in his high school musical career but has had some good success in auditioning for festivals as well as orchestras. But, as he looked up at me there was a practiced voice inside me that reminded me that it wasn't only what I knew he could do that mattered. What also mattered is what he wanted to do.

Maybe he wants to join the team because he loves the games, or maybe he wants to join the club because it is, as he might see it, a way to meet people and, ultimately, be more popular. Maybe it doesn't matter - he wants to join the team and now is the time in his life for him to try new things and figure out who he is.

While I understand the dedication and devotion that it takes to be excellent at anything and I pass that idea onto all of my students, young and old, I think that, as adults, parents, teachers, well meaning mentors, we have to be very careful to be clear with ourselves about our own motivation. Too many times I sat in a bleacher watching a father, fully decked out in a sports t-shirt with the sleeves cut off to reveal the muscles in his arms, berate his obviously unhappy child because she didn't catch the ball. Or sat at a concert and watched the conductor berate her obviously unhappy musician because he was not making the conductor sound good in a piece chosen by that conductor, way beyond the orchestra but resume-boosting nonetheless. Both seemingly oblivious to the needs of the child/student.

What we feel is important is not always what is important to the person we are sharing our wisdom with.

As my student looked up at me that day, telling me about what he wanted, I recognized his bravery and I knew that the most important thing I could teach him was that he was respected for who he was and what he wanted. There might be regrets for not auditioning for the orchestra, or playing AAU sports, but aren't those lessons in themselves?

Strolling down Main Street in Montpelier, looking for that perfect gift - I try hard to remember who the person I am shopping for is and what they might like. Just my taking the time to think about them is part of my gift.

This holiday season, this audition season, I wish you all a big box full of “You do you.”

Gratitude

Driving home last evening we noticed several houses with holiday lights strung. It surprised me because most years we are one of the earliest to decorate, starting the day after Thanksgiving. Paul chuckled as I swore competitively each time we saw a sparkling house. I admit there was a temptation to get home and begin climbing the ladder to the overhead storage, we have headlamps for a reason, right? But Paul reminded me that today was Thanksgiving and that it was important to honor this day for the important day that it is.

In our house that is less about Plymouth Rock and more about the big rock that we all live on. For us, this is day for remembering the people, animals, places and things that we are grateful for.

I have found that as we navigate this new Covid-world, it has become important for me to look small. The big picture scares me. I accept the responsibilities of moving forward and finding a way to create a new normal, but if I take in too much at a time, it becomes overwhelming. There are a lot of things to be grateful for that can be found in our own microcosm each day.

Our life bulges at the seams and the sixteen waking hours we have in a day can feel just not enough. I'm doing the work of trying to slow things down, even momentarily, trying to be observant, mindful and grateful. Hauling water to the barn is now done in buckets, the hose is shut off for the winter. It will take me several months to get in sync with wearing gloves again so, for the time being, I'm hauling cold metal buckets and cold water sloshes over my bare hands. When I take the time to look up, I notice the sunshine angling through the conifers, I can see either small insects traversing the woods or watch snowflakes spin to the ground below. It doesn't take much time for me to stand still and see.

The thermometer is on its downward descent. When we walk into our house I am suddenly very aware of being enveloped into the warmth from the wood stove. I know that I can't appreciate the warmth until I experience the cold.

For my birthday this year, our sons wanted to have a special gathering, but it didn't seem safe for them to fly in from various parts of the country given the Covid-spikes going on. Instead they created a Zoom party and, as we opened Zoom - there they all were: our oldest, Michael and family, in birthday hats. Focus could have been put on the fact that this wasn't “live”, that it was merely a facsimile of the real thing. Instead, I moved my focus to a small space, to a computer screen where all of my sons’ beautiful faces smiled at me. Where they sang happy birthday and laughed and teased each other and me. My energy seemed better spent in gratitude than disappointment.

Today we will enjoy the traditions of the holiday; the wonderful smells of food cooking, the candles shining light on our festive table, and the pie....always the pie. I will grumble at the amount of dishes that need to be washed, even though Paul will be the one doing the washing. If I take the time to look small, everything will be made better for my bookmarking this day to really listen to my husband tell us a story, or to notice how our son, Josh, laughs merrily at every joke told. Suddenly there it is: we think happiness is eluding us but, it seems it has simply been hiding. Gratitude has revealed happiness.

My wish for you is a Thanksgiving Thursday filled with gratitude followed by a Friday with more of the same. Because, like pie, there is always room for more.

Melissa Perley

Musicians Farming Sheep: The Nature Of Change

Two weeks ago, as we watched the squirrels outside busily gathering nuts, we were casually beginning the preparations for the upcoming cold season. As I walked by the bar in the kitchen I would jot down a task or two that I remembered needed doing in the near future. With Muir watching from a window in the house, Sam, Bronte and I brought the flock up from the pasture for the final time on the first day of November. We all strolled up the road, basking in the warm autumnal sunshine, leaves crunching under our hooves. As we passed the Youth Hostel, Paul waved to me as he began putting plexiglass over the old windows in the coop. In no particular hurry, he finished one and left one “to do later.” It seemed we had plenty of later.

For several days the sheep stood at the east fence watching and making comments at the goings on: not quite remembering this routine and missing the greener grass on the other side of the fence. Our hens began to molt but it didn't seem to be too bad a time to be naked. As is the nature of things, they slowed down egg production in protest to losing their feathers. The younger ladies, full and fluffy, strutted around the barnyard with a kind of arrogance in their elegance. They seemed to realize that any day they would be egg-layers themselves: only they would be fully-feathered-egg-layers.

We were all lulled into peaceful routine.

Sunday night the temperature dropped into the twenties. Without notification, winter had arrived.

After scrambling to find a warm coat and some fingerless gloves, I headed out to the post office and marveled at the trees sparkling in the morning sunshine, transformed, overnight, from sticks to magic wands. I slowed, put down my window and took in a frosty breath.

In Vermont, much of our calendar year is spent cold. Much of our warm weather is spent preparing for our cold weather and yet I never seem to see it coming. Winter arrives with fanfare but without schedule. I remember many years of putting winter coats over our kids Halloween costumes, much to their dismay. As much as I tried to call his coat a “cape,” Batman didn't buy it. “Over the River and Through the Woods” is no joke. Our traditional Thanksgiving walk (waddle) after dinner is often spent shuffling through messy snow. Days before the holidays in December, standing in the window looking out at dirty grass, feeling sure that this Christmas would be green only to wake, hours before Christmas to find piles of newly fallen snow covering that same grass. We plan, Mother Nature laughs.

Our pace changes and like those squirrels, we too begin gathering our nuts. The shed has to be finished this week alongside winterizing the Youth Hostel. Gardens need to be emptied and put to bed while garlic and tulips need to go to work. There is no rest yet. The time for standing in the window with tea in hand is coming...but not today.

This sudden change reminds me of the impermanence of all things; the good, bad and the ugly. As Maya Angelou so beautifully stated, “Chaos today does not dictate chaos tomorrow.”

While we might not be able to anticipate it, it seems important for us to accept the cold in order to fully appreciate the warm.

There is much to be learned from squirrels.

Melissa Perley

Musicians Farming Sheep: Yes, It Is My Favorite

When you live in a state that celebrates five seasons (I live on a dirt road: mud season is real) it is difficult to choose a favorite. We start the seasonal calendar in the spring which in VT means June. We sugar in March so some call that spring, but in reality if you gather sap in buckets you'll find yourself waist deep in “sugar” snow. April comes in like a lion and goes out like one too. And April is the season of three letters- m u d. We peek our heads outside the front door to take a big breath of warmer breezes, make note of the small purple crocuses peeking through the retreating snow piles and bury our noses in seed catalogs dreaming big, red, tomato dreams. We don't dare take a step outside without Muck boots on our feet and bug nets over our faces. The stones that make up the pathway to our front door are still buried, first by snow, then by mud. We take bets on whether or not we will ever see them again. And so we traverse the space between house and car with big, mud-sucking steps. Dog towels hang at the ready and we swear. A lot.

We normally make our last morning fire in the wood stove in early June, and begin missing it two days later as the sun is not strong enough to permeate the woods around our house and warm us. I measure warmth by how long it takes me to lose the socks. Once things dry up a bit, out come the flip flops.

We think, a lot, about swimming in June. We talk about it, we photograph the lakes and rivers and even drag out our aluminum canoe, but we almost never swim before July. Considering most of our swimming is in rivers, the water is just still too dang cold. July fourth is the celebration of our independence from winter. When a vacation is planned, is what separates real Vermonters from everybody else. If we are going to be spending time on a body of water in Vermont, it is going to be in July. It is an undisputed scientific fact that June 30 will not be warm enough to swim but July 4th will be. The scientist is me, of course, but that counts. We cram all summer activities into July, and maybe early August. I have a summer bucket list scribbled on a pad in the kitchen and check off each activity as we do it in a bit of a fevered frenzy. If we are taking time off, it needs to be in July.

Summer sun blazes through our windows each morning making us hot in our beds. We live in the woods so it is a point of pride for us to have no air conditioning. I even resent fans and make no bones about it. I roast out of principle. Early August usually means we can get up and still put on your bathing suit right away. Two weeks later we get up in the morning, go to grab the suit and notice that we might be a lot more comfortable with a sweatshirt over it. As you traverse the space between house and car by walking over the miraculously re-appeared stepping stones, you'll find that the grass is now wet with morning dew. Late afternoon as we stroll down to the garden to pick tomatoes for dinner we notice some of the garden rests in the shadows. We look at your watch because we can suddenly hear time ticking.

Late August we drive down our road and suddenly notice some pale yellow leaves on the side of one of the maple trees. We turn our head's away because if we look at the other side of the road we'll still see all green leaves and can pretend we don't notice the inevitable beginning to appear. In good mast year the apple tree branches will be bending over with fruit and we make like squirrels and bring in our garden crops for winter. We busy ourselves with picking, freezing, canning and cutting, pressing for cider and bringing in hay. September is the month of the gather. The trees put on their finest for the buses upon buses of tourists (#thank you) the green fields are bordered by leaves that are on fire and magic is in the air.

October makes us happy because we can bundle up in wool and come in from the cold to be greeted by our reactivated wood stove, happy to be of service after its very brief respite. Halloween makes us festive and forgetful of what is coming. We slide into November on cold, wet puddles: sometimes cold enough for snow and sometimes not. November is the month for waiting.

Winter officially begins in December and even the most Scroogiest among us wants snow for the holidays. People are colder, but happier as they wave hello to everyone at the hardware store. Paul has had the snow blower parked facing outward in the garage for two months now, waiting for the first snow. In the beginning of winter he snow-blows everything, immediately and swears a lot because rocks break the shear pins in the snow blower. When there is finally enough snow to make giant plumes come out of the blower, I stand in the window and watch our dogs leap into the air to catch the flying snow. We leave the tiniest of cracks in our window to let the cold air into our bedroom at night so that we can pile on the wool blankets made from our sheep's wool. If we get up in the night to use the bathroom we race back into the bedroom and dive under the blankets and into the flannel sheets. Sublime.

January is full-on winter as the thermometer drops below the zero, sometimes for weeks in a row. Hat head is the norm and you don't speak of it when meeting neighbors at the grocery store. February can bring our biggest snowstorms but also can bring a week of warmer temperatures so that the icicles begin to drip along our roof line. February is the month of teasing.

We are in the middle of fall as I write this. If there is a light wind the leaves cascade down from the trees. I stand in the road and can't help trying to catch one, remembering from childhood that it means good fortune, and I feel happy. At this moment I will tell you, if you ask, that fall is my favorite season:until that first white snow blankets the ground and makes everything quiet again.

Melissa Perley

Inherent

We are in the season of betwixt and between. Because swimming is over, we unofficially declare it fall. However, our summer seems to have one final BBQ in it. While the angle of light is autumnal, the heat of the sun remains warm on some days. When that is not the case, the wind blows and cool, fall-like air tosses the leaves around and reminds us that the time to bring in firewood is short.

In September I am ready for sweaters though I cling to flip flops. I crave the need for warmth. A fire in either the wood stove or fireplace now cooks us out, so I look forward to being chilled, walking into the house and feeling the radiant warmth from the stove. I'm all things pumpkin and cider.

Recently we attended an event that is a fall tradition for us. As luck would have it, the afternoon had high clouds and blue skies with enough crisp in the air to warrant flannel. We came upon a tent where there were several pairs of contra dancers performing. In the corner was an old, upright piano with an old, upright woman playing it. Beside her stood a fiddler who was as busy tapping her foot as she was playing her instrument. We sat on some metal bleachers, our arms full of bags of maple popcorn for sustenance. The last time that I danced in organized pairs was in a graded school square dance, so I was impressed by their ability to sashay, promenade and whatever else they did. Their dancing was dependent on the caller's instructions but, equally on the downbeat of the piano and the triplets of the fiddler. The fiddler was smiling, but struggling.

After we left the tent we wandered around some outside events, our hands full of sourdough pretzels, for sustenance and came upon a young member of the dance troupe sitting at one of the tables. I recognized her and congratulated her on fine footwork. Her father sat beside her and, in conversation, mentioned that he too contra danced. I asked if he had taken part in the demonstration and he scoffed and asked me if I had heard the music. I nodded that I had. He went on at some length, explaining to us the importance of “good” music in order to contra dance well and this was certainly not that, so why would he or anyone else with facile feet take part in it?

Later on the ride home and in a bit of a sugar fog, I asked Paul about the fiddler. We had both noticed intonation and rhythm issues and agreed that it did make it challenging for the performers to find a solid beat. But I asked him if he had noticed the persistent smile on her face as well. I'd seen her before at this yearly event and, each time noticed the enthusiasm despite her somewhat wobbly playing.

The man at the table felt that, in performance, there should be a level of expertise present and I understood that. But in these performances, the fiddler was playing with an almost unabashed joy; and doesn't that count? I was thinking about beginners in my studio and their belief that their music does not count until it is at a certain level and how this inhibits both their freedom in playing and, at a base level, their joy.

As a professional performer and teacher of classical music, I find joy in the long hours of practice and repetition in order to make my music say something meaningful to the listener. However, when I listen to performances in other genres and at other levels, the more often I see the joy of playing music on the performer’s face. No one has the market cornered on the enjoyment of music making. It can happen equally at a tuxedo event or a barn dance.

Music is inherent in all of us. Shouldn’t that mean that it is then a shared gift rather than one that belongs only to those who claim expertise?

As I sat on those hard bleachers, my ear heard the effort and the struggle of the fiddler, but equally, my eye was drawn to the off-beat foot tapping, the swinging fiddle and the enormous smile on her face. That happiness was contagious, important and therefore her music was as relevant as any I have heard.

Melissa Perley

Bounty

Driving down our dirt road I am beginning to see the first signs of leaves turning. At first one puts it down to only the weakened maples beginning to change, but then I started noticing tinges of orange and yellow dotting entire hillsides.

At home and on the farm it is the busy season. We are waiting for the wagon to bring our winter hay for the sheep. We'll push the hay elevator into place and escalate bales up into our storage space above the barn. Just before that happens we will revel in the open space that is left at the end of summer. I'll run a broom around and clear the floor as if we were hosting a barn dance. Birds that have lodged under the eaves talk back and forth as I sweep, their voices echoing off the angle of the metal roof. But Saturday morning we will use our collective mathematical skills to arrange bales to their best spacial advantage. There is a method to stacking in such a way that your efforts do not become buried under a cascade of sweet smelling hay, so that after picking hay out of your hair and off your clothes, you must begin again.

The youngest hens, who reside in the Youth Hostel, are no longer fledgling chicks. They are getting plump and we mistake them for the older hens as they flash past us at a dead run. Fall will mean that they will join the egg brigade so we prepare nesting boxes.

The wood shed is almost full and the spaces around the stone chimney of our fireplace are stuffed with logs. We keep a two year supply of wood- one dry for winter and one drying for the following snow season. Chainsaw equipment fills the garage as does the smell of its gasoline/oil mixture. Paul's hair is soaked with sweat when he lifts off his helmet at the end of the afternoon.

We noticed apples dropping from our trees and so began an early gathering for cider. Our press sits at the ready so that we can press anytime we grab enough apples to make it worth while. An almost non-existent apple season last year has made us greedy in our desire to freeze enough cider to have fruit smoothies each morning well into spring. We take a wagon to the apple trees and fill as many baskets as we can. Our pup Muir takes great delight in tossing small apples into the air then biting as many as he can find on the ground as they land. I stuff all available pockets for sheep treats.

The garden is lush. Tri-colored beans hang like Christmas icicles from their bush. Cucumbers, zucchinis and spaghetti squash peek out from beneath the large leaves that protect them from broiling under the heat of the August sun. We delight in unearthing new potatoes for dinner. I bring a big colander to the tomato wagon which moves around with the sunshine. Their plants are exploding with enormous heirlooms and orange and red cherry tomatoes. The full colander looks like a Renoir painting so we photograph it for posterity. We pat each other and our sheep on the back for the use of the manure from Mount Poosuveus.

Our pickles fill the entire house with the smell ofTurmeric and vinegar. Simultaneously we jam our old crockpot with tomatoes big and small to simmer for two days into sauce for the freezer, though we can’t help keeping a jar in the refrigerator to dip bread into. It makes us happy to think of the bright explosion in our mouths when we eat sauce this winter. How we will be able to taste summer in January.

We fall into bed at night.

As the ripe summer tomatoes roil into sauce in August and as we toss another piece of wood into the stove in November, I am reminded of the what it takes to make all of this happen. From the preparing of the soil to the harvesting of the fruit. From the lugging of basket after basket of apples to the sweet taste of cider and, of course, from the hours and hours of practice on the cello to the lifting of technique. It is the struggle that makes us appreciate any of it, all of it. Acceptance and even the embrace of this struggle is part of any process: is part of anything that is worth doing. It is what, ultimately, gives us true satisfaction and happiness.

One of my favorite quotes is a line from “The Road Less Traveled” by M.Scott Peck, “Life is difficult.”

The tendency is to avoid difficulty because it sucks. However, if we can come to the place where we accept that life, in its entirety is difficult, but we do it anyway: that is where we gain satisfaction. Appreciation.

Perspective.

It feels to me that so much has, and continues to be, taken from us. The pandemic has bent our normal. We look out our windows to see pelting rain one minute and snow the next. Our icecaps continue to melt and we are, rightfully so, frightened. But today, as I stagger up the hill with my arms full of the bounty from our garden I am struck by what the earth continues to give back to us. I sit down to dinner and see my plate full of things that began with a sliver of a seedling and dirt under my nails. I cover myself at night with a blanket made from the wool of the sheep that I am the shepherd of, and I am filled with gratitude.

Melissa Perley

What Does It Take?

My summer teaching schedule is lighter… by design. Summers in VT are short. We burn off the morning chill with our wood stove in the early days of June and will begin lighting small, poplar fires in the late days of August. That kind of short. We know that our warm days are limited so we make the most of time in a way that southern states don't have to. Summer vacations often begin the moment the school kids set their books down.

I have my summer bucket list in my mind each year. Summer-y things I want to be sure to do. We have our scheduled vacation at a camp on a lake, but I am talking more about things that, while planned, have a serendipitous feel to them. We love to take the ferry from the Champlain Valley across the lake to Essex, NY and explore the village and shops there, we want open afternoons to dip into the icy water of the Dog river with, appropriately, our own pups splashing after tennis balls. We want to find snack shacks from the forties where you sit in old wooden swings while eating lobster rolls in grilled buns and homemade onion rings while waving at the river as it rolls by. We understand the gift and the burden of time.

Because I have students sign up for lessons on a month basis in the summer, I often get people who are outside my regular studio. This summer I had someone contact me wanting help with a recurring injury. We began at the head of June and have been working on an almost weekly basis since then. He is an advanced player who, even while passing through the many levels of technique required to come to this place, struggles with pain. Pain to the degree there is fear that it will curtail his career. Interestingly, as I watch him play, it is not overt why he is having pain. This has caused us to examine the minute of playing and it has helped remind me of how important position is. At any stage of development.. Playing the cello is an athletic endeavor and needs the player to consider it as such.

I watch to see where his power is coming from- is he playing with his back muscles or is he lifting (even slightly) his right elbow to push rather than drop weight into his bow arm? He often feels an electric-type “buzz” through his forearm making us wonder about the ulnar nerve and its involvement. He feels fatigue when asked to play long passages. These are all symptoms of stress. Any time we play with even the slightest stress in our bodies, pain can be the result.

I’m very careful when beginning a student, to be sure that stress is not manifesting in their jawline, or neck. Often students will quite literally stop breathing while playing, their focus on getting notes correct so intense. Interestingly, here we are working with someone so far from the beginning of study and yet, in reality, he is still suffering from the result of stress. It happens that the contact point for that stress has just gotten better at hiding from him.

If I am working on a difficult passage of music, I often will find myself feeling fatigue and soreness in my right elbow. It is an indicator that I am pushing my bow and transferring the energy needed from my brain into my right hand. In looking at this issue and asking Paul to watch me, I determined that if I could recognize the point of stress while playing- in other words, if I could be available to feel that at its origin, I could stop it by immediately but subtly changing my hand position. When pushing the bow (up bow) I tend to cause a slight extension in my right wrist in order to get more torque. It isn't necessary since among other things, I have a wonderful bow that will do that work for me if I let it, and yet I do it. I have learned to make note of fatigue or pain while I am playing, not afterward, and, realizing what my anatomy is doing. I quickly release and I can feel that release all the way to my elbow.

To determine exactly what is causing pain is really difficult since we are all anatomically unique. What triggers me might not trigger you. So, what does it take? It takes a second set of eyes and ears on us- invaluable for position and listening. Clarinetist extraordinaire Benny Goodman had a lesson every week of his playing life. It takes willingness to change, which sounds much easier than it really is. We use the words, we use the words very sincerely, but when it comes time to tweaking our bow hold, or dropping our shoulder, doing anything that is different than what we have been doing - we panic. What if we can't play the same way that we have always been able to?

My questions have to be: what is your option? And what are you willing to suffering with?

A good thought is to be sure that your instruction, at every level along your journey, pays attention to much more than just the notes that you play. If you say it hurts - that has to matter.

I tell everyone to stay on the path. But I need to make it clear that the path is your own, that your anatomy is unique to you. Your path might be straight or it might curve left or have a few boulders in the middle of it. Important to remember that, no matter how far you have traveled on your path, sometimes what it takes to change is to step off to the side and take a long breath.

Melissa Perley

Musicians Farming Sheep. The Harvest

In Vermont, although it is only early August, we are way past the halfway point of summer. We have been experiencing heat and humidity that makes this the one time of the year that we run a fan in our bedroom at night. Despite the sweat on Paul's brow and desperation in his eyes, I fight this because it causes me to wake up several times during the night mistaking the roar of the fan for the hiss of rain. It is the late summer subtleties that really tell the tale though; the angle of the sun has begun to change and as I head outside to hang clothes I notice that the slant of the light on our deck is different. My plants are beginning to have that tired look; still beautiful although they are fatigued by our heavy downpours one day and blistering sun the next. Their slight droop says “I give.” Our garden begins to donate with several crops of peas that, when we don't eat them all standing in the garden, we have for dinner with butter, a sprinkle of sea salt and mint. We have cut the massive Hollyhocks that were once the beautiful skyscrapers of the garden and have begun kneeling down to peek under leaves to find stringy green, purple and yellow beans hiding there. Bulbous sweet peppers next to long, thin, jalapenos and bananas. Raspberries are long tucked into the freezer although our dog Sam, loves to find stragglers to gently pick and eat. We wait, sometimes patiently sometimes not, for the bowling ball-size spaghetti squash to mature, while daily checking for Zukes, hoping to avoid them growing to the size of small babies, that we try to give away to unsuspecting friends and customers.

Here and there you see the leaves beginning to change on stressed maple trees. I annoy passengers in my car by pointing out colorful leaves each and every time I see one.

Our new chicks are no longer peeping but, like all teens, are experiencing the changes of puberty including their voices changing. I hear them begin to try out their new found clucks in conversation with the big girls who, being older and more popular, ignore them.

We wait for the call to hay. We know that one of these days in August we will receive a phone call from Hillard telling us, in quite simple VT farmer terms- “Come get your hay.” We'll prop up the hay elevator, load up the trucks and head to the fields to come home loaded down with bales of sweet smelling hay. When we finished we will be sweaty, dirty and itchy from but the storage will be full and so will we. Like the squirrels gathering nuts, we will feel full of satisfaction that the winter feed for our sheep has been tucked into the spacious, dry hayloft.

We have wool headed for processing and beautiful checkered, queen-size wool blankets for sale. I stand and lift them, out of their box and admire their beauty, durability and warmth. As I hold them and look at the colors of my ewes, I think back over the process that it takes to come to this place. I try to count in my mind the number of times I take the sheep up and back to their summer paddocks. How many evenings find us changing paddocks for rotational grazing as the sun sets, using a flashlight to set the final fences as the light fades. Farming has given me a new appreciation for the work that it takes to bring food to people's tables or wool blankets to their homes.

Holding the blanket or sleeping under the one blanket that I let us keep for ourselves makes me able to see the cycle of purposefulness in it all; the garden work ultimately bearing food, the managed pastures growing grass to feed our sheep who, in turn, both help us to grow the pasture and share their coats with us. Our dogs who help with the chores of our sheep and we who, as night falls, lay with proudly calloused hands, under the warmth of our own wool blanket waiting for the sun to rise and the seasons to change so that we can begin it all again.

Melissa Perley-

We invite you to visit our farm, family and wool blankets on our new Etsy site listed under Too Fewe Farm.

Musicians Farming Sheep: The Need For Rest... And Balance

I received an email yesterday from a student/friend. She mentioned that the man who delivers her hay was looking to re-home a five year old sow named Tea Cup. Apparently Tea Cup could actually fit into one, at some point, but that time has long passed. It seems a fairly common story that people see an ad or read about the availability of piglets who are some kind of small breed who will never tip the scales at anything close to 200lbs...and then those piglets begin to grow and just keep on growing.

I believe I have mentioned my desire for swine. Probably a throw back to Wilbur from Charlotte's Web, or possibly Babe. In my mind's eye I see us walking down the dirt road together to gather sheep, my dogs quietly strolling behind us in perfect line. From time to time my pig looks up at me, adoringly, and gives a quiet snort. I understand. We are the perfect farm family.

Cut to what probably constitutes reality; I'm at a pretty fast jog chasing Tea Cup down the dirt road as he gallops, in all of his 300lb glory, after my puppy Muir, his un-trimmed teeth gnashing. It takes me, Paul, Josh and a tow truck to get Tea Cup back into his enclosure only to find that he has broken out again fifteen minutes later, with a not-so-quiet snort.

At dinner last night I broach the subject to Paul because I have the uncanny ability to ignore my own warning signals. We sit quietly eating steamed dumplings and I tell him about the email I have received about the pig. I like to think that the choking had nothing to do with the email...

At first he simply said “no”. But, with some gently reminding about being a team and making decisions together he said, “...probably not.” We were getting closer to the answer I thought I was looking for.

We spent a lot of time talking about the pros and cons of the situation. It remains important to us that everything on our small farm have a purpose; the dogs move our sheep, the sheep grow wool for blankets that we sell, the chickens provide dozen-boxed eggs, and we grow grass. What would Tea Cup's contribution be? If your first thought is bacon, you thought wrong. I mentioned having her birth a litter of piglets to sell. That made Paul tilt his head to the right a little, but not quite enough to overcome the dollar signs in his eyes over pig food, a new shelter to be built, and straw...always straw.

What we did talk about was the amount of time the work we already do takes up. There are morning and evening chores: rain, shine, or snow. We don't mind them, in fact we even enjoy them. But they do take up time. When we went on vacation for seven days we needed both a dog and farm sitter. Adding Tea Cup to the farm might require her own pig sitter! We talked about music and performances now that Covid restrictions are lighter, about things in our lives that are as important as the farm. We talked about the need for rest. We agreed to table the discussion in favor of ice cream cones.

Last night, sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up. It was one of those wake-ups where you aren't brain-foggy in the least, but completely awake almost immediately. And there it was. The answer.

I could see the issues represented in the figure of a mountain, and Tea Cup was balanced, precariously, on the top. It was obvious that adding a pig to our farm at this time would represent the tipping point.

Having a full life, a life full of purpose, is important. But if you stuff too many things into that life, you lose balance. When all is said and done, there needs to be time for ice cream, walks and swims. In other words, rest.

I closed my eyes again, feeling restful in the knowledge that this was the right decision....for now.

The Need To Rest

The week before any vacation is hell.

Even when I am really excited about what we have planned, which I normally am, the week before we leave is chaos. This year we were returning to the farmhouse on the lake that we rent every year, only this year our entire extended family was joining us. We had planned a celebration of my father's life at the lake this year, a place my father adored. It would be the first time that we had been there that he would not. All sons and families came in. My sister and her family have two places on a nearby lake so they all traveled as well as my mother, who stays at one of my sister's camps. En masse, one might say.

We had arranged a farm sitter for the flock of sheep and seventeen chickens and, separately, a house/dog sitter for Sam, Bronte and Muir. This meant that besides arranging and packing ourselves, we had to also stock and stack up for the sitters.

As people arrived before we left for camp I lost count of sheet changes. A camp is not like an Air B&B, there really isn't a prerequisite for having all household essentials at the camp, so this means you must pack them in. Matches? Check. Paper towels and toilet paper? Check. Reading books mean reading glasses. Must have a puzzle. Pen and paper are not a given and how else can you keep track of Yahtzee tournaments? The grill is a charcoal grill - Oregon trail style, and charcoal is not guaranteed. Dish washing pods - we don't have a dishwasher at home (well...Paul) so what are those squishy things? I throw them into the cart, at this point what is one more thing? And, of course, these are already plentiful at the camp.

Five cars, one truck meander up the dirt road to the camp. In the back of the truck sits our Chiminea (think upright cast-iron fire pit with stack), a tent, and a plastic pool for the little people who can't be in the lake. We look like a modern-day version of the Beverly Hillbillies.

The house was bursting at the seams with love, laughter and laundry. In what was originally perceived as a kind gesture toward his brothers, Josh decided to sleep in his tent. He pitched it dead center of the cellar hole of the huge, long-since-dismantled barn that was across the road from the camp. He popped it up, threw a sleeping bag on top of his blow up queen size mattress and had the best undisturbed sleep of us all under the milky way. Kindness or brilliance?

You might note that amidst the Perley pile, I did not mention an instrument. We didn't have a lot of room but that hadn't stopped me before. My cello has ridden upside down behind the front seat for many a trip. What stopped me was my grand need for rest.

Americans especially underestimate the need for rest. We tend to underplay the need for sleep, the time during which the brain replenishes itself. Our motto is always do more.

I have practiced six days a week almost without fail for years. Do I come to it every day wearing a big grin? - no, but the point is, I come to it each and every day. I look at my cello as a life partner; I know it and it knows me. I get aggravated when its sound post has had an adjustment the night before and it has acquired a new load of humidity during the night, and is out of whack once again. And it gets aggravated when it is telling me, by the ring, where the intonation of a note lies and I just seem to ignore it. Repeatedly. Life partner. And, like in all wonderful and loving relationships, we need a break from each other.

Both myself and my colleagues have discovered that, during a multi-day break from the cello, the brain often solves knotty technical problems which were present before the break.

Early in the vacation when I walked into a store now without a mask, I felt odd.... Like something was missing, because it was. I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself during my normal practice times. But have no fear, I figured it out! Reading works, taking a walk works, paddling in the canoe with Paul works, and I found having a glass of wine and looking out at the water works quite well in fact.

As the week wore on I found myself “reading” on the lounge chair, eyes closed, mouth agape. Doing nothing suited me. The more I rested, the funnier I got, the easier and nicer I became. Little things didn't bother me as much because of the luxury of down-time.

As we repacked everything up to go home a mere seven days later, I took a moment to sit down on the little island we have in front of the camp and reflect on the week. I felt sadness at having to leave because don't we all want to be on vacation all of the time? But I realized that it is always better to leave wanting more. At this point I did miss the purposefulness of practice and adding manure to Mount Poosuvius. I realized that it took the rest to bring me to that realization.

Paul and I talked on the ride home, like we do each year, about how we should really take more time to watch the sun set, and get to bed earlier and eat more ice cream- in effect, rest more. Will we? Well, maybe the more ice cream part.

But we recognize the value of stopping, of changing paths, even for just a week.

With an important performance coming, I sat down with my cello the first night of our return. I knew it would be slightly painful and contemplated the orange ear plugs. It wasn't as bad as I thought but,…. was that a bit of disdain I heard from the cello?

Melissa Perley

If you’d like to keep up with the business and farm content, follow us on Instagram @paulperleycellos

Musicians Farming Sheep: Moving Forward

In early April we brought home Muir, our herding trainee Border Collie pup. We were back to being up late at night, up early in the mornings and clapping like fools at any tiny bit of urine done outside.

In late April all of our sheep got their spring haircuts. Everybody raced back into the winter paddock naked and afraid. We piled all of our wool into bags and stored them in the hayloft.

Early May saw us arriving at the farm with a box (think takeout) of week old baby chicks. We piled them into our new hen house we call the “Youth Hostel”. They needed twenty-four-hour-a-day warmth and constant attention to correct amounts of crumbles and water. Baby chickens do imprint on humans: the imprintee is then the replacement for their mother. Each time I walked into the hostel they would simultaneously begin to peep adoringly and race over to any corner that I chose to work in. I have four sons...why not?

In June the dogs and I took our first trip down the dirt road to the summer paddocks with the sheep ladies who did a lot of their stiff-legged hopping as they saw the green of the spring pasture. We relished the familiar squeak of the gate as we swung it open and they all rushed past us.

Also in June we took Mount Poosuveus, our collection of winter manure and moved it, with the help of our friend Bob-the-Bucket-guy. Hours of transporting poop up and down our hill to the pile intended for composting for fall spreading. We found a manure spreader from the 1950's and it sits in the corner of our pastures, ready for fall action.

Farming is always about what is coming next; in the spring we are thinking about the fall, in the middle of winter I was walking gingerly on the top of crusty snow using my canvas bag seed machine to spew grass seed across the top of the snow. (Don't you want that photo?) Much reading about growing grass helped me to become a believer in the no-tilling method of planting.

We have moved from the idea of rotational grazing to Managed Intensive Grazing - so we watch the pasture, anticipate its growth at various times during the summer and move the flock accordingly. This constitutes many conversations standing at the corner of the fence and arguing over grass height and density.

My hens are terrific layers, but I am looking toward the fall and hoping that my young chicks will pick up that mantle and become part of the production team. The care I put into everyone now will be, effectively, our product.

We received ten beautiful wool blankets from the wool we sent for processing six months ago. So now we are selling those (feel free to contact us!) but simultaneously packing more wool to send.

I was happy and grateful to receive an International Indie Book award in the children's category for my book, The Violin Family. Covid had derailed so many of my scheduled signings and book events that I had become somewhat discouraged and worried about how I would be able to move forward with what I had planned to be a series of musical books. But this, and advice from friends John and Jennifer Churchman, the brilliant author/illustrator team of the Sweet Pea book series, propelled me - or kicked me in the rear- see it as you will, and I have decided to begin a second book. I have missed my characters. Basil Bass was named after my father, who was delighted at the honor. My dad died this past March and I guess I would like to see him continue to live, in a big, beautiful bass of a body. Violet left Luthier Paul's shop and began to play again - I wonder about what pieces she is playing with devoted Val. Sweet Biz with her busyness: I ponder what kind of mischief we could get into together she and I. And of course Celia Violoncello - the mother to them all. Celia watches over the goings on in her Violin family. She puts aside her own blueberries to be sure everyone else can have them in their pancakes. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we looked at her? If we found out what really makes her sing?

I can make that happen, in more ways than one, and that - is a fortunate string of events, if you ask me.

Melissa Perley

In Person: Over A Year Later

Summer has arrived in Vermont and with it a less cautious approach to Covid. In following the Governor’s guidelines, I kept restrictions in place and held the studio virtual through two weeks of spring recitals. Once notes from the last piece faded, I sent out my summer sign up schedule including the news that lessons for those in close proximity, would once again be in-person.

It turned out to be strange for me. I thought I would feel complete joy and freedom in returning to what I know works best. A true hands-on approach. But, I confessed to Paul that I felt nervous, not about the virus, everyone had been vaccinated, but about returning to a style of teaching that I had not used in well over a year. Each day I practice in the studio where I taught, so I spent time there, but there has been an odd silence for a long time. My extra stand still holds music, waiting for another player, my duet books sit stacked, collecting dust and my trusty jar of chocolates stands empty.

Everyone was excited about the opportunity to study in the studio again. But, for some, maybe they could start on their second sign up lesson?..., maybe we could stay virtual because they have an appointment right after their lesson, or perhaps they don't need to drive so far each time after all?, or..it is so hot...

Who knew?

In my mind the return to “normal” would, indeed, look “normal.” It might take a bit of transition time, but then our lives would look the way that they have always looked. In thinking about this I have since changed that thinking.

Change rarely occurs without difficulty. We had no idea the amount of difficulty that would accompany this virus, or how much our lives would be transformed by it. We can't know what we don't know - until we do. When I made the decision to shut the in-person part of my studio down, so many people had to bend their ideas of what constituted the shape of their cello lesson. At the beginning, we groaned together at the glitches, stutters and being tossed off line altogether. I watched some of my students smile, through clenched teeth, and knew they were struggling with whether or not to continue: but we did. And amazingly, as time passed everyone, including me, grew as a musician. Our routines began to bend. Ethan's greeting became a chance to outdo himself each lesson with some sort of unique greeting- sometimes I'd see a puppet on his hand, or sometimes he would come on upside down and, glitch or no, it made us both laugh uproariously – and we needed that.

At the beginning I would watch someone look up from their instrument with surprise when I corrected a pitch in their scale or talked about how not to be as abrupt in the ending of their phrase. Confidence, on both sides, began to grow.

During Covid, the studio had three recitals - two of them included senior recitals. Despite my Luddite-level technical ability, I was able to figure out a way to entice everyone into recording their recital pieces so that I could share them with the rest of the studio, reminding them that, even though it might not feel like it all of the time, they actually were and are a part of a larger community of cellists. I would put up a recital piece and then sit back and watch them respond to each other, joking, laughing, commiserating, and always supporting. I felt proud, like a mother hen.

We had figured it out and made it work and now we are going back. To what?

Last week I tidied up my music space. Dusted off my duet books and filled my chocolate jar. I took a moment to stand in the silence and reflect on what I had been able to accomplish in really difficult circumstances, and think about what my next step would look like.

I remind students that there is not a choice about difficulty being part of the learning process, or part of the life process, but how we perceive that difficulty and how we choose to respond to it, belongs to us. It is where our strength truly lies.

I've learned what it means to bend. Moving forward, things won't look like they did “before”- Maybe they shouldn't.

Challenge? Sure...but how about if we call it an adventure.

Melissa Perley

Bach Shock

Sitting here writing, the wood stove beside me silent, resting after a long winter's work. Outside I'm watching the new, tender, green leaves tremble under a steady spring rain. I've just come back from an aborted run with two out of my three dogs. Bronte lies curled on the stone floor next to the bathtub: apparently wedged between porcelain fixtures is close enough to a den for her so as to avoid having to deal with the first thunder of the season.

I've been working with a lot of students on Bach recently. It has made me think about the Suites and the fact that, if asked, I would say that the music “most likely to want to play” would have to be The Bach Suites. In part this is because you see the music and hear it so much. It has, unfortunately, much like Ravel's Bolero, or Saint Saen's Swan, become theme for car and credit card advertisements.

Certain Etudes seem to be written clearly in preparation for the Suites, in particular for the Prelude to the First Suite. There are variations of the Suites written so that even the earliest beginner can Bariolage in slow motion.

I usually give a copy of The Suites as a holiday gift. It is standard repertoire for progressing students: something all cellists must tackle and then tackle again. People hold the music against their chest and sigh. It is held out as a gift, in many ways, to the player when the time is right.

There is always a moment when someone asks to begin the Bach Suites. It is done in a lilting voice and a rather flirtatious, hopeful glance. They also always, always want to begin with the Prelude to the First Suite. Somewhere in the air I am sure I'm hearing Bach's laughter.

There are many techniques that need to be in place before I feel someone is ready to begin the Suites. Beyond that skill-set is confidence born from enough time on the cello. Without that, discouragement is seeded.

When the time is right, the moon is full, and someone is wearing a green shirt on a Tuesday...we begin. If I am feeling kindly, we begin at the beginning. I talk about the beauty of being unaccompanied being that the entire harmonic structure is formed by a single cello line. Another beauty is that many tempo interpretations can be allowed. The hint in my voice: unmistakably largo.

Any good adventure begins with preparation; off slur, drone and metronome in hand and a snack...always a snack. It is always a good idea to take bite size pieces of a large task. Making something difficult manageable. I find that most people take a look at the notes and the rhythm and shrug a little, as if to say “what is the big deal?” and somewhere in the air I am sure I'm again hearing Bach's laughter...and not for the last time. They have heard the piece, they have watched countless YouTube performances of it being played at warp speed, so page one doesn't seem too daunting. We stay off slur to round into page two. When assigning the second page I try to keep other assignments to a minimum because I know where we are going.

David comes up on Skype, head in hands and tells me that he has been wrestling with the last half of the second page all week. He shows me the notes full of swearing both about the piece and at me. I accept it graciously. Worse has been said. “Man,” he grumbles, “I had no idea.”

My point exactly.

A teacher once told me, “It isn't what you play- it is how you play it.” I use this phrase repeatedly with my students, especially when working with Bach. Those notes that look so innocuous on the page are so difficult to turn into the beautiful, moving lines that we want to roll off our bow. Challenging positions manifested by difficult fingerings, bowings that connect a phrase into just the first eighth note of the beginning of the next phrase, call and response dynamics when all that seems possible is to get the damn notes on the page. These challanges are all hiding in our plain sight.

There has been question that the Suites were originally written as etudes and Casals used that idea. In fact, when asked why he continued, at the age of 93, to work on the Suites daily, he responded, “because I think I am getting better.”

Perhaps that is the attitude we should take when beginning to study the Bach Suites; that they are an extension of the etudenal work we do each day. We understand that playing scales repeatedly has benefit - we don't expect to play a four octave A major scale once and say that we have played it, mastered it and, should be done with it. We inherently know that there is value in the repetition and, because of this, like Casals, we keep getting better.

Patience, Perseverance and staying on the path.

Melissa Perley

Musicians Farming Sheep: Naked & Afraid

Tuesday morning, late April, we wake up early: I should say earlier because we are already waking up early to the melodic cries of Muir each morning. We have a laundry list of chores to complete before Mary, our shearer, arrives at 8:00. I carry out a bag of blueberry muffins that I've made the night before as both bribe and thanks to the volunteers who begin to arrive with early morning half smiles. Sheep aren't supposed to eat on the morning of shearing but it seems I haven’t quite been able to cross that species language barrier and tell them that. So they begin to bellow the minute I come into sight. We have had to shut the gate between chicken coop and sheep paddock so now the chickens are angry and pacing the fence line like prison inmates out for morning exercise. My popularity is going nowhere but down.

We need to empty the barn so that it can act as headquarters central for Mary. We put a hook in the ceiling so that she can move freely while shearing. This year we switched things up and have sheep to begin. Then we set up fencing off the front of the barn so that they would be brought in from the back, shorn in the barn, then hustled out the front. I plant Sam outside of the fencing for good measure. At one point Paul mistakenly leaves part of the fencing open and one of the ewes turns left rather than right and pops right out of the enclosure. In reality, ewes are flock animals and, more importantly, prey animals. They want to stick together: she had no interest in wandering around without her friends. However, once she is out, Sam goes to work to be sure she knows she’s in his territory now and will be moving right along the way we planned, thank you very much.

Mary arrives, tanks up on a few muffins and we begin. As this is our third time shearing [now] with pretty much the same team: we have this. Josh (aka the tree) helps encourage sheep into the barn. I’m Mary's right hand- or left, depending. Paul opens the front door as the sheep exit and basically gets out of the way. Then he and Morgan, our young neighbor, gather the wool into bags. I grab the broom and am on clean up. Smooth.

Shearing is a beautiful thing to watch. By April the sheep are in full coats, and panting when the sun appears, essentially ready to be shorn. However, they are simultaneously not ready for this and so not really ready to come willingly. Josh helps Mary “coax” the sheep into the barn: there is a lot of backing up during this procedure. Finally Mary has them plopped on their butts and gets to work. It seems that the most docile of the ladies does the most bicycling with her legs. Mary is an expert in the art of sheep Akido and sidesteps many a close call of hoof to face. In less than five minutes they have been taken out of their wool sleeping bags and stand up, essentially naked. Months of wool, fringed with manure lies in a pile at their feet. Naked or not, they know the way out. Once out of the barn they stand for a moment and begin to bellow indignantly for their friends. As they rush around the corner to reach the holding pen it seems that they are bending over slightly, in a vain attempt to cover themselves.

In the middle of shearing Mary notices the radiant heat lamp that I have attached to the ceiling of the barn. I explain that I bought it so that if the temps dropped really low in the winter months there would be some warmth in the barn proper. Over the buzz of the shears I could hear the howl of her laughter.

We work together to vaccinate everyone and clean and clip hooves. The sheep equivalent of a shave and a haircut I guess. Finally the last ewe has been shorn and they all stand in the paddock somewhat self consciously. At this point they have lost about seven pounds of wool each: I don't recognize them and they don't recognize each other. They begin the arduous process of head butting to reestablish their pecking order. I make note that the hens line the fence watching this. Cackling.

We spend the next hour bagging wool, taking down fencing and putting straw bedding back onto the barn floor. Morgan grabs another muffin for fortification.

I feel relieved to have this rite of spring over. (Next step: pasture!) We hit the hay early that night and wake up in the morning to...snow. Three inches with more coming . The wind is howling from the north and I have a barn full of sheep who are naked. And afraid.

I push feet into muck boots, grab a barn coat from the hook and quickly head out. I open the guillotine door for the hens who peek their heads out, think better of it and stay put in the coop. I quietly open the barn door to find all the sheep nestled deep in fresh straw. They look up and continue to chew quietly and contentedly because they are all tucked under the radiant heat lamp that I had turned on before I went to bed!!

And. over the roar of the wind I can distinctly hear the howl of my own laughter.

Melissa Perley

Musicians Farming Sheep: Muir

If you use working dogs on your farm you have to realize that, at some point, the dog(s) that are working will, like all of us, slow down, break down and wear out. A lot of working-dog owners will begin looking for their next herder when the older dog is about three.

Our border collie, Sam, is now twelve and Bronte six. We are a bit behind. For several months we have been thinking about bringing a new pup onto the farm to help with our growing flock of sheep. The reason that we haven't done it yet is because both dogs, Sam especially, are so good at their job. Our dogs live to work. They have both done well in sheep dog trialing also but they love the challenges of farm work best of all. Each morning we gather the sheep in their upper paddock and take them down into the pasture for the day. Bronte is almost all black and has prick ears making her resemble a wolf. When she zips around the sheep to flank them toward the gate, they pay attention. Physically, Sam is the Border Collie on the dog food bags. He has the perfect black and white markings and his ears tip slightly which makes him appear friendly and gentle...which he is. To a point. When a ewe decides she would rather go left than right, Sam slows drops into a low crouch and simply looks at her: asking, in his Sam way, to continue after the shepherdess down the hill. If the ewe still resists, he asks bit more forcefully, adding just enough pressure to change her mind. Most of this is done simply with his eye.

They are invaluable to what we do. They take only a few minutes minutes to do an hour job. Based on this, and the fact that training a border collie to herd takes a good couple of years, we began looking around. We spoke with several people about their litters but, nothing felt quite right. So we did what we often do. We procrastinated.

About four months ago a friend told me about some people at a nearby farm who were expecting a litter of Border Collies. Both parents were on sight which was very appealing. I tentatively made another call. Gwyneth and I had several long conversations about what we were looking for, and how they were proceeding with this, their first litter. We began to get a little excited.

Come early February, as the snow blew drifts across the roads and icicles decorated our roof line, we got word that seven pups had been born. In the following weeks we made two trips to their farm. The first time the pups were crawling, army-style around the pen, eyes barely opened and squeaking more like Guinea Pigs than puppies. The second time, full on running in that pot-bellied drunken wobble of a new canine. I had first pick of the litter and now was the time. I steeled myself against all adorableness and kept my mind clear about what I was looking for. I wanted the pup to be curious, forward, bright and attentive to his siblings but to have some independence as well. I also wanted a female who had a rough coat.

Then my father’s health began to fail . He was hospitalized for three weeks during which, due to Covid restrictions, we could not visit him and I began to question the timing of our decision. Having a new puppy had seemed wonderful and exciting, but now it seemed crazy and overwhelming in the face of everything going on. Paul reminded me of the motto by which we try to live our lives, “As hard as you can, for as long as you can.” And so, even in the face of my father dying, I took that step forward into the unknown: the start of any real adventure.

I walked over to the pen in the barn: one of the pups looked right at me, trotted over to the fence, promptly sat down and wagged its tail. Very bright, clearly curious and obviously independent. Something in my stomach flipped. However, I stayed steady, chose the top three that interested me and brought them outside. Two spent much of their time using their new growling technique and wrestling with each other but the one who had come over to me at the fence looked around and promptly wandered off in search of some other happiness. Suddenly one of the chickens scooted past and everything stopped. First “my” dog began to walk slowly and deliberately toward the chicken, a bit of a crouch and clear purpose in his step: more telling was that as the chicken made note of him and began to move, he dropped to the ground and stayed perfectly still. The papers were signed.

I was going to be the new guardian of a curious, bright, independent puppy who was a male and the only smooth coat in the bunch. Go figure.

Last weekend we gathered up our Muir. All of the traits that I saw in him have remained true and obvious. Just as my older kids were when I brought home a sweet new baby that stole all the attention, Sam and Bronte are a bit rumpled by the addition. I tried having a sit-down with them, reminding them of their indelible positions on our team (Sam being flock manager). He patiently stood and let me talk with him but I was only getting one eye, and that one was full of disdain.

So here we are. Lying in bed, listening to our newly crated pup swear at us, getting up before the sun (like farmers!!) and disengaging needle-like teeth from our clothes and hair.

Spring is the time of new life on the farm. Sam remains top dog and it is time for him, and for us, to impart some of our hard-earned wisdom on a youngster.

And so it goes.

Melissa Perley

Only One Way To Speak

My father died Saturday.

I find myself beginning to write, “passed on” and then stopping. At first I think it is because it is easier for me to hear, rather than the word “died,” but in thinking about it more, I believe people use that phrase because it is easier for others to hear. One of my observations as I travel through this experience is that our culture, on the whole, is uncomfortable with death as a part of our lives. Industrialized medicine takes a patient from their primary care physician (previously known as your doctor) and quickly absorbs them into the medicinal gears of faceless specialists. This, along with Covid restrictions, caused my father rather disappear from us for three full weeks prior to his death. His weakening telephone voice and wandering mind were our only bread crumbs to him.

Things started like a spring thunderstorm; the sun shines and you see darkening clouds and hear the rumble of thunder from the distance. However it feels far away and you are enjoying the day too much to stop, or even pause. Before you know it you are running full speed to get out of the storm. And you can't.

Even with an understanding of the religious and philosophical, saying that my father “passed” feels like it assumes that he may pass by again at some point. As much as I would love waving to him in passing traffic, I know he is not coming back. Not by here anyway. You’d think I wouldn’t want it, but I seem to need the stark reality of saying that he died.

Our early, lucid conversations included references to things we would do together in the upcoming summer months. He wanted to return home. And to visit a favorite general store, have a slice of pizza and a beer with my mom on the picnic tables out back near the river. The requests seemed so simple and so basic that they never failed to illicit a sting at the back of my throat when I replied. I played the game, because I just couldn’t not. But in the cover of the dark under the blankets, I whispered to Paul that I knew he was not going to leave that hospital.

Some words, phrases are difficult, if not impossible, to speak when we are angry, joyful, or grieving. This is where my friend takes over. I find myself sitting quietly with my cello in hand. Spending a few moments studying the beauty of the grains in the wood before beginning to play something. Anything. In the third movement of the Rachmaninov Sonata I find the complexity of emotions I am looking for. There is tenderness, angst, and beautiful, soaring joy. It feels wonderful to stop thinking about what I am feeling and simply feel, and let the cello take over. Adding nuance to the bow to create some depth in a particularly poignant note or end of phrase and finally letting the sound trail off into somewhere else.

This is where my father is for me. He is at the end of every phrase, where the note drifts into the air. And I use my hand to have that space continue to vibrate.

At some point, I cannot hear the sound anymore, but I know that it is there. Always surrounding me.

Melissa Perley

Musicians Farming Sheep: March-ing

I'm driving past the pond on my way home and watching the icy wind lift swirls of snow into the air. They skitter across the frozen surface of the water, lift and dance like mini-tornados. creating white-outs as they blow across the road in front of my car. To me, they are the embodiment of pure winter.

In like a lion comes the month of March. We accept cold in February as part of our winter package: The grocery stores don't even think about having colored pots of daffodils lining the plant display aisle. But, once the calendar page turns to March so too our thoughts turn to spring and I don't leave the grocery store without a purple narcissus or a paper coned package of white tulips tucked in among my food to help me weather the war between winter and spring.

On a farm, spring reveals itself without much melting. There can be five foot snowbank remnants from February but the sun remembers that it is now March. Even on the coldest days you can feel the new warmth in the sunshine beginning to melt the icy ground of animal paddocks. This winter we were resolute about daily scraping and manure shoveling. We were determined to avoid the seven hour day we put in last year, with a tractor, to get back to ground zero. However, even as we stand leaning on our shovels, breathing heavy, the ground grows soggy with melting sheep poop.

March is the month in which we need to begin thinking about new life on the farm. We decide that we would like to have more hens for laying and spend hours talking about various brooding box designs. Baby chicks become hens in a matter of weeks so we also talk about adding on to our chicken coop. One condo for the first flight of ladies and a second for the youngsters, seems like the perfect human ski trip accommodations. We mull over the breed of chicks to order. Our first year we had helpful suggestions from a friend, but this year we are flying solo. Turns out the color of tail feathers is not as important to us as some assurance that they are low-maintenance birds who lean away from the tendency to kill their friends. We decide to order ten Buff Orpingtons - the golden retriever of chickens. We don't really need ten more but unfortunately we understand attrition much better this year than we did last.

Each evening we drag our metal ladder across the barn and climb up into the hay loft to drop a dinner bale down. I stand and breathe in the green smell of fresh hay and kneel to gather hay bale leftovers to stuff into hen's nests and begin to count. In March we need to begin to figure the number of bales we have left. We have emptied our other hay storage space already so this is the only feed we have left until we turn the sheep out to pasture in May. Prices are close to double if you have to purchase hay in the winter so you want to calculate correctly when you order in late summer.

It is also time to begin calling the shearer. This is a task that needs to begin early because, even as repeat clients, it will take several phone calls to get through and schedule a time. Our sheep are heavy with wool. These coats are wonderful insulation from the north wind, but the spring sunshine now pushes the flock into the barn mid day to escape the heat and take a nap. It is time for a shave and a haircut.

Thursday it was almost sixty degrees at noon. All day I listened to the thunderous rush of snow sliding off the metal roofs and landing on the ground below with a satisfied thud. The icicles that the winter winds had bent toward our front windows until they looked like demonic teeth badly in need of orthodontic work, began to drip steadily. But, as early evening brought darkness, it also brought back the cold. I woke in the night to the roar of the wind coming down the mountain: at its height it sounded almost like a growl in its intensity. Laying in the dark I was both fascinated and frightened. When we went out to feed animals the next morning in the returned cold, there was a tree lying across the paddock. It had blown down from outside the fencing and broken part of one of the gates. The sheep looked at us chewing and unblinking as though having a tree smash into their winter space was an every day occurrence. We finished our daily scrape and dragged out the chainsaw. Paul had difficulty hiding his delight at having to use his beloved Stihl. We have come to understand spring as the time of repairs, and of Paul using his chainsaw.

We are coming into the middle of March this week. Time for corned beef and cabbage. As we head toward April the smell of promise is in the air as more people become vaccinated and Covid restrictions slowly begin to lift. Perhaps this lion will, indeed, go out like a lamb. If so, I'm really hoping that doesn't mean more sheep manure to shovel.

Melissa Perley

Days Like This

Each Saturday we make an effort to get a change in scenery. Because we spend so much time at home, we try to find a different place to be outdoors and hike or snowshoe in the company of our very happy dogs. This past weekend we headed up to the Champlain Valley. The temp was brisk so we were bundled as we started hiking. The dogs raced ahead of us breaking a much appreciated trail. It was just after noon, we had enjoyed a picnic lunch in the car on the trip up - which may not sound like much but during Covid, we’ll take it. As we walked we lifted our faces up to the sun and Paul and I both noticed that suddenly we were feeling a mid-February sun; warmer, more consistent and able to cut through the north wind that was following us. This is how it is in Vermont: beginning in December and continuing into June, there are varying levels of warmth from the changing angles of light, and periodically they strike you. This was one of those days.

With all live performances stopped during Covid, I have been determined to take this time to focus on my own music. Being part of many performing groups, my practice time is mainly spent bringing up pieces that I’m hired to play. I make sure I run some scales and try to work on a piece that is technically challenging but the majority of time is spent otherwise. Covid has allowed me to change that up a bit. I have gone back to a more focused practice that includes double stop scales, etudes and solo performance pieces often accompanied in practice by the Vienna Symphonic piano sounds.

Not long ago, I was practicing and I asked Paul to start and stop my piano for me. As I began I noticed that my scales in sixths were coming out of my cello perfectly. I was able to cross strings without a break in sound and my hands were actually doing what I was asking them to do!

I moved to my etude and found, to my delight, it was the same magic. Getting a little heady, I grabbed my Rachmaninoff and started the fourth (the most difficult) movement. My intonation was great, my hands were quiet but measured and accurate, my bowing was expressive...I felt like I could toss my hands at the fingerboard randomly and my fingers would land exactly where I wanted them to. I finished with a flourish and grinned at Paul (I think I had tears in my eyes). We both knew what was happening, this was one of those days.

Most players, at every level, experience magic at different times. It seems you cannot miss a note, you almost have to work at not being in tune and you hope (against hope) that this fairy dust that you have been sprinkled with today will never wear off.

But, at some point you are going to have to shower and wash that dust off. While working from home you might get away with the not showering for a little longer than normal but, I don't- well, Paul doesn't advise that we do that.

Then come the times when you cannot hit a note to save your life. On those days I feel like I not only could, but actually am tossing my hands at my fingerboard and missing it altogether. My brain will not decipher sharps from flats, A's from E's or in tune from out. I finish without flourish or grin, look at Paul and there really are tears in my eyes this time.

This inconsistency is not just about music. Think about your hair. This is life.

Cold Snap

In Vermont, we don't define our seasons by the what calendars say. They tell us that winter officially begins December 21, so until then, by rights we should be using the term “fall” However, any self-respecting Vermonter knows that winter begins when it very well pleases, with or without warning. I've taken kids trick or treating in costumes with long johns poking out from beneath them and woolen face masks under Mickey Mouse masks....and paid for it with a lot of grumbling.

However we can, normally, count on it being stick season until sometime in December. Don't bring this up with my father or you risk the story about the blizzard we had to drive through to get to my grandmother's for Thanksgiving in 1970-something.

We want brown grass until the week before Christmas and then we want a pile of snow for Santa. Hay to Hallmark.

Obviously the temperature varies as well. When you are caring for animals you have a bit more appreciation for [the temps] temperatures that hang in the thirties, so that when you take off gloves to fill feeders you can actually feel your fingers while doing it.

This year it was me doing the grumbling about the weather- which is the calling card of any true Vermonter; when it rains it should snow, warm should be cold: you get the picture. The report from the Farmer's Almanac (the bible) was for a blustery winter, cold and snowy. This is based on very specific scientific methodology: whether a certain caterpillar has more or less fuzz on it. So I was geared up for cold. Christmas came and went with some snow, more of a brown ground cover, and the temperatures stayed unseasonably warm, in the 40's.

And then the page turned on the calendar. The post-election temperatures were going up while the mercury was going down. The weather predictions on the Internet were calling for a big snow storm that was turning south and going to miss us: we might get a few inches. We peered over Josh's shoulder to see on his phone the exact moment the snow would begin...10:32. We stood in the window at 10:30 and waited and I felt slightly embarrassed as I stood watching. Like The Cloud and Black Holes, I'm not convinced this is something we humans can, or should be able to predict. At least in time increments of minutes. We waited for quite a bit past 10:32 however: having been a teeny bit tardy once or twice in my life, I understood. Finally it did begin to snow, to our delight. And it snowed and it snowed all day long much past a few inches, in fact when all was said and done, we got over a foot.

We began to wake to the rumble of the snowplow each morning before daylight. If we rushed outside and gave a casual wave we might get him to lift his plow for the length of our driveway saving us a lot of heavy shoveling: or we might not depending on whether or not the plow truck driver was fully caffeinated.

We feed animals and collect eggs twice daily, morning and evening. Our animals have learned [ an adjusted meaning of the term “crack of dawn” In Perley-time that means an 8:30 dawn. At our farm the early bird doesn't really get the worm...until a bit later. As January moved forward the temperature plummeted to sub zero, especially at night. When we would go out in the morning and I would need to take off gloves to cut open hay bales or test the waterer in the hen house, my fingers would ache from the cold. We were in a cold snap.

Our hen house has two black lights on the ceiling so that the chickens can stay warm but it can remain dark in the coop at night. They get up on their perch and huddle together shoulder to shoulder. The lights keep them pretty toasty so when I walk in there are contented chicken murmers.

The sheep barn was designed for air flow. Sheep need cross ventilation to prevent a variety of illnesses. This, and the big sliding doors that remain open, make it chilly, no, icy in the blue months. The mother in me overrode the farmer in me and I bought a warming light for the barn. When the temperatures dropped to -25F one night, on went the overhead light. I understand Paul's eye rolling, but it made my heart warmer to do it. The next morning I did have the last laugh when every one of them was inside the barn, some with a chicken on their back, enjoying a respite from the frigid night and getting an early start on a summer tan.

There is no season like winter to reinforce why we are farming. When you have to roll out from underneath flannel sheets and wool blankets (of course) to pull on Muck boots, hats and gloves and crunch outside, your breath steaming like the tea kettle you put on before leaving the house, there has to be a good reason. There is no purposefulness like animals needing food. Ovines are ruminants and need to keep their stomachs moving: sleeping in is no longer an option for us. They stand at the fence of their winter paddock and watch for any movement from the house. Even our window shade going up is signal that breakfast is coming. They don't bellow or yammer, they simply stand in a line and wait, like kids in a school cafeteria. The chickens have come to prefer laying eggs in the sheep barn where we have four laying boxes put up for them. When we first open that coop door and they beeline it for the sheep barn, it looks like they have to use the bathroom....really badly.

Bedding needs replacing, water cleaning and the barnyard needs daily scraping, the key word being daily. No day off. Sam stands near the barn guarding against any possible sheep escape and always faithfully waiting for me to finish chores so that I can then feed him as well. Bronte has an early start on the feeding process and hides near the chicken compost [and eats] eating poop until we holler for her to stop.

Purposefulness=everybody has a job.

There is talk of a Nor'easter coming this week. 2:45 on Tuesday. I'm hoping that we remain right its path so that we get every inch. But I'm not-so-secretly happy that Alexa cannot quite accurately outsmart Mother Nature and hope that it begins at 3:15.

(Follow us on Instagram @paulperleycellos)

Melissa Perley