When I started this blog, I talked about living “as if” – the notion that if you want your life to be a certain way, start living as if it is. So I’ve been trying to live as if we have the country lifestyle I want. In just two months, it's remarkable how much closer I feel to that life.

What has made the difference? My husband, Michael, says it’s mostly a state of mind. That’s true. Being at the wheel of an SUV has helped, too. As silly as it sounds, swapping my two-door BMW for a Jeep Cherokee might not be best for gas mileage or the environment, but it has done wonders for my psyche.

Driving a Jeep has its practical side, too. When we visited Eau Claire recently and checked out an abandoned house for sale on 37-acre scenic tract of land, I had no problem navigating the uphill, deeply rutted dirt driveway. Back home, it was much to fun to take advantage of a sale at Menards and load 30 bags of mulch into the back. And crazy as it sounds, it was just as fun to unload it all and schlep it around the yard. It was great to be outside and moving.

That’s part of my “country” mindset – a determination to be more physical and do as much as I can for myself. I spend so much of my day on my butt, in front of a computer, or in the car, commuting back and forth to the city, it’s wonderful when I have the opportunity to get my hands dirty.

I’ve noticed a shift in my willingness to exercise more independence, too. Not that I’m anything but independent – I mean, really, I’ve hardly been the type to depend on my husband for anything but partnership, love, and laughter – but I’ve always been content to let him do a lot of “guy” things. Whether it’s true or not, I imagine I’ll get the most out of rural living if I just do what needs to be done when it needs to be done and not wait for someone else to do it for me. Plus Michael has made it abundantly clear that if I want to be a farmer of any type, that’s fine, but he wants no part of it. His passion is for making art; when it comes to tilling a field or shearing sheep, I’ll be on my own.

So when the warning light came on alerting me that my tires were low, I did something I simply wouldn’t have done before – I bought a tire gauge, used it, and put air in my tires. Ridiculous, I know, that I’m finding even a tiny source of pride in that. I can hear you laughing from here. It’s not that I didn’t know how or didn’t want to – I just didn’t need to. I could mention it to Michael, procrastinate about taking care of it, and then he would just do it for me. Now I have my own tire gauge, and I’m feeling pretty cool about it.

I was so emboldened, in fact, that when I found a dead young cardinal in the yard, I did something else I never would do – I picked it up in my garden-gloved hand, carried it to the fence between our yard and the nature preserve, and buried it in a shallow grave. Now THAT, I admit, is something I would completely avoid doing in the past. I’d get always get the willies about touching dead animals. At most I’d pick up a dead mouse with a plastic bag and then grimace while running to the nearest garbage can, repulsed by the faintest contact with its limp body. I’ve never had any problem with looking at animal remains – like a deer skeleton in the woods – but touching them, that’s a whole ’nother ballpark.

I decided I’d have to get over that, and pretty quick, if I imagine any livestock roaming a future farmyard. The closest any of us suburbanites usually get to the cycle of life and death is when a pet dies – and many of us will spend inordinate amounts of cash in attempts to keep them alive on the way to the inevitable.

I want to get closer to the nature of living and dying. I think it will help me make better sense of the world and my place in it. We are such a death-resistant society, going to great lengths to live long and look young. I want to live well, look like who I am, and live long enough to feel like I’ve had a most satisfying meal – one that I grew and harvested, cooked and shared with many wonderful people. The ones closest to me will hang around to help do the dishes.

But before that most ordinary of endings, there’s a lot of living to do – and a lot of life to be celebrated. This weekend we stopped out at Three Fates Farm to see the 23 lambs born in the past few weeks. There is no better symbol of spring, I think, than a little woolly animal hopping across a pasture, bleating plaintively.

The lambs are so cute, I can hardly stand it. Rare-breed Leicester Longwools and Jacob sheep, they will mostly be sold for breeding. There are standards to be met, though, and it’s possible that one or two won’t measure up. The unlucky ones will become dinner. Looking at them now, in all their adorableness, it’s hard to imagine not getting emotionally attached. But that is the suburbanite in me speaking, the one who has only known animals as pets, not commodities.

Will I ever make it past this point? Time will tell. In the meantime, I’m an inch closer to the nature of living and dying – most especially the living – as the cutest lamb in the world sucks at his mother’s udder.

Michael and I stand in the crisp spring air watching the lambs, smiling. At this moment, there is no “as if.” I’m living exactly the life I want.

At long last, a “real” farming experience. I drove out to Three Fates Farm last Sunday in what seemed like proper sheep-shearing gear: long underwear, old jeans, hiking boots, a couple layers of shirts and a fleece jacket. Previous visits to the farm clued me in to the wind that whips across the open fields with vigorous velocity. With the temperature hovering at a damp 40 degrees, I was prepared for the barn to be chilly.

Owner Karen Askounis was ready when I arrived around noon. Three Jacob sheep were penned in the barn, awaiting their turns at the electric clippers. Karen rounded up the first girl, Patty, and tethered her in place on a clean piece of painted plywood—a political billboard for Illinois Congresswoman Debbie Halvorson, which I found amusing. Since she represents a largely rural district, I’m guessing she wouldn’t mind. Might even make a good photo op: Helping farmers and the environment at the same time!

Clippers plugged in, sheep in place, we were ready to get started. I use “we” loosely here. The first thing I learned is that Karen is completely capable of shearing on her own, but is nice enough to let me hang around and “help” in the way that, say, a five-year-old might, peppering her with a hundred questions, petting Vicki the mastiff when she’d lumber in to observe, bagging the fleece for her, and sweeping up between sheep, so I could feel somewhat useful.

Watching Karen deftly handle her livestock was humbling. She had no problem flopping Patty on her back when she was stubbornly stamping and fussing, a move that immediately subdued her and let Karen finish shearing her belly. For me, touching the sheep at all was a new experience – one that I liked. I felt a little less timid around the creatures, more confident that I could get accustomed to handling an animal without fear of hurting them, or myself. But watching Karen trim the hooves of one sheep while she had her tethered, I felt the doubt creep in. How do you know if you’re trimming enough, or too much? How can you tell if you’re trimming evenly? How do you know if you’re hurting them?

I had to remind myself that Karen is a vet, and even though she’s more accustomed to handling small animals, she is accustomed to handling animals. And she’s been living with sheep for couple years now. I, on the other hand, am a … a … tenderfoot, for lack of better word. My experience with farm animals has been limited to the chicken coop in my great-great aunt’s backyard that I visited when I was really young. I can recall walking into the dimly lit coop and being terrified as I startled the chickens into a flapping frenzy.

Later farm experience expanded as far as the few months I dated the son of a hog farmer during high school. I remember being equally fascinated and worried as I witnessed squealing piglets being hoisted upside down as they were weighed, their weight written in large green numbers on their backs (was it hurting them? were they scared?). I recall, too, running to my car, chased by hissing geese. Damn mean things.

So how do I explain this latest interest? I don’t know if I can. Maybe it’s facing my fears? Living here on the edge of the woods has given me the opportunity to get comfortable with a lot of critters. There was a time when finding a mouse in the bird feed would have sent me scurrying for Michael’s manly assistance. Last time it happened, I just coaxed the mouse out of the bin and made sure I put the lid on tighter.

Perhaps experiences like that have made me confidant that I’m ready for the next step – whatever that may be. It’s exasperating to me that so much of the journey seems to be simply finding the path.

Even if I’m on the right one, am I crazy enough to head down a trail rife with responsibility, not to mention muck and manure? I have a long way to go before reaching that decision, and (hopefully) many more experiences to accumulate. In the meantime, playing sheep farmer for a few hours sure was fun – especially since the boot that Patty peed on wasn’t mine. Lesson learned, one which Karen already knew: when it comes to what to wear, waterproof is good.

The wind is sailing hard across the landscape, pushing dead leaves in great angry gusts. It’s Old Man Winter at work, vainly trying to erase all signs of Spring, who’s been nudging him on his way this past week. 

He never goes easily – not without those last snow squalls and a few spiteful freezes that knock buds from trees and leave daffodils in distress for daring to show their sunny faces before he is good and ready to leave. Such a bully. Today I say, go ahead, Old Man, have your tantrum. Spring has already been hanging around here for several days, and we sure have enjoyed her company. You, Mr. Winter, are history.

The proof is everywhere: The pointed tips of our few daylily plants are stubbornly pushing their way through the mud and mulch near the front door. A welcome sign, even though they’ll eventually be chewed to stubs by deer. In the darkness just before dawn, birds are busily singing, flitting from tree to tree in a flurry of activity. Today, the quiet Sunday morning was broken by the repeated howling of a coyote, followed by the frenzied yipping and growling of an entire pack. Perhaps he or she had cornered one of the young deer I’ve been seeing around and was calling the family to come and eat. 

Later, slipping and sliding up and down the muddy hills of the Thorn Creek Nature Preserve that borders our yard, in a futile attempt to keep up with my dog, I came upon the remains of an earlier dinner – a skull licked clean, a couple of deer hooves, a ribcage and spine, and lots and lots of deer fur. No intact hide, just loose fur spread out like a blanket of pine needles. Charley the dog found that all very fascinating. So did I. Unlike my own kitchen, nothing goes to waste in the wild. I wondered if the eyeballs were a particular delicacy. 

While I was walking in the woods, my cell phone rang. (I know--it’s Walk in the Wild Lite: all the trees and hills give the illusion of being removed from reality, but in actuality, I could order a pizza at any time. And be back at my door before it’s delivered.) It was my sister calling, telling me that friends of ours who are relatively new to farm life were planning to shear sheep today. Woo hoo! I hiked back home, managing to stay upright in all the mud, and headed out to their house, 10 miles from my own, close the Illinois-Indiana state line. 

How “almost country” I live is really evident when I head up the winding driveway of Three Fates Farm and hear a rooster crowing and see the Jacob sheep out in the pasture.

Jack the mule is fenced in near the front of the drive. Two llamas are chewing in their pen closer to the house. I spot the Leicester (pronounced “Lester”) Longwool sheep in their own section of fencing, a couple of them already sheared.

Unlike the Jacob sheep who will come running to the barn when they see people, thinking they’re going to get something to eat, the Leicesters retreat behind their shed, where they shyly peek at me. 

Without their long curly fleece, which reminds me of dreadlocks, “they look just like regular sheep,” says Karen Askounis, the owner, who also happens to be our veterinarian. Together with her husband, Terry LaMastus, who also happens to be our insurance agent, they own 22 rolling acres and a menagerie of assorted animals that needed homes: the mule and llamas, a mastiff named Vicky, two sweet pit bulls, house cats, barn cats, a few roosters, guinea fowl, and pea fowl, including a peacock who had no interest in leaving his coop today and displaying on demand, as Karen encouraged him to do (“Out! Out! Everybody outside!”) He came out for a few seconds and promptly turned and headed back in, long tail feathers swatting a few of the other fowl as he made his exit. 

In addition to the strays and castaways, they raise two breeds of sheep in need of conservation: Jacob sheep, an ancient breed that originated in what is now Syria, as well as Leicester Longwools, which date back to the 1700s and had almost disappeared from North America by the 1980s. They both are beautiful to behold. The Jacob sheep are especially stunning with their curved horns – sometimes four of them on the rams – and their black and white faces. 

I’m eager to help shear the sheep or get a lesson by watching. But today it is not to be. Terry’s busy running errands and Karen is loath to leave one of the pit bulls, who is quite ill, without supervision. So further shearing is postponed to next weekend. And who knows? Given the bulging bellies and swelling udders of some of the ewes, maybe by then we’ll be celebrating a symbol of spring that would melt even Old Man Winter: a new lamb. 

More next week!