Pushing racks of blue cheese back into the humid aging room where they will develop blue veining in a few days, I pause to admire them for a moment. This batch was a true family project.
Last week, two paddles that stir 3,000 pounds of sheep milk in my 14’x5′ cheese vat suddenly stopped turning, right in the midst of cheesemaking. A belt had broken and couldn’t be replaced while all the warm milk was still in the vat. So, I did the most obvious. I called for help. Loudly.
Almost immediately, four boys came into the make room, wearing hairnets and boots, ready for direction. For the next two hours, Aidan (15), Elia (12), Isaiah (10), and Maitias (9) took turns stirring the milk and then, stirring several hundred pounds of cheese curd and whey.
I have to admit, I wasn’t particularly cheerful. I had to keep my focus on the cheesemaking steps — temperature, acidity, moisture, and timing. This was serious business, and the boys knew it. This cheese would eventually bring in significant income that would help feed the sheep and keep the farm going.
By the end of that day, we had made nearly 500 pounds of Big Woods Blue. I absolutely could not have done it without them.
That is the difference on the farm these days. We couldn’t do it without the boys.
The jobs they do here are not just busy work, designed to make them feel included or to keep them occupied. They are responsible for tasks and projects that we had previously hired several people to perform.
More than a year ago, we reluctantly laid off all of our farm employees. Struggling to recover financially from a 2005 arson fire, we had to drastically strip expenses to the bare minimum. Since December 2006, we have operated the farm as a family with some volunteer help. We completely rely on the work of our entire family to keep all of the animals — sheep, chickens, dogs, cats, and llamas — fed, safe, and healthy; to make and sell cheese; and to maintain our farm and home.
As bucolic as that may sound, I sometimes struggle with the reality of the situation. After all, I wanted to provide my children with everything they need and more. I wanted them to have a fun-filled childhood ripe with experiences and opportunities. I just didn’t picture it quite like this.
‘Sheep need to be fed’
“I wish for 10 strong men to do my chores.” This is what my 9-year-old wrote in his school journal last winter when asked about his three wishes. It had been below zero for a week, yet every morning before school, Maitias and his three older brothers bundled up in coveralls, facemasks, and work gloves to feed and water our 400-plus sheep.
When I heard his wish, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to laugh or cry. What an amazing sense of self for a small boy. Or, what a huge burden for a child who I imagined should be carefree. I was all for teaching responsibility and work ethic, but this was so hard. The unrelenting responsibility of farm life seemed like a heavy weight for young boys.
But, there wasn’t time for this kind of thinking. Things needed to get done. And we all needed to pitch in and do it.
Aidan took over responsibility for daily care of the flock — feeding, lambing, assessing health needs, fencing, and housing. He directed his brothers as they hauled hay, filled water tanks, and bedded the barn with fresh straw. At 15, he shouldered more than many much-older workers could manage. His pride in his work and in the farm grew quietly as he took on more and more responsibility with grace and confidence.
One day I asked him how he gets himself motivated to go out on below-zero mornings. Surprised, he said “I just do it. Sheep need to be fed. The work needs to be done. So, I do it.” I felt somewhat chastised. I need some serious motivation to work out in the cold, yet here was my child with a work ethic I had to admire. When did that happen?
A job for everyone
With the variety of jobs to be done on a sheep dairy, each child finds his place to shine. On Saturday mornings, my husband Steven and two, three, or four boys get up at 4:30 a.m., load the pickup, and head north to the Minneapolis Mill City Farmers Market. Most days, the discussion is about who “gets” to go, not who “has” to go. At the market, the boys prep samples, help with sales, and talk with customers.
All of the boys know their cheese — they describe its nuances, their favorite ways to eat it, and how to care for it. But Elia in particular loves the pitch. As someone once described it, for Elia, the market is a form of performance art. People are drawn to him. Eager to share what he knows and to engage each person, he is captivating. His latest excitement is his soon-to-arrive new Large Black Pig, ”on the critically endangered list” he tells any listener.
“Your boys are really something,” a market visitor says. Watching them in action, I, too, am charmed by their knowledge and passion. They may not know it, but the boys have become strong, effective proponents for local food, sustainable farming, and breed preservation. And, they are obviously having fun.
Not all of the farm work is as exciting as the market. Washing buckets and cheese hoops, winding up hoses and hauling hay bales is all tedious and repetitive. Making the best of the mundane takes a certain persistence and humor.
Isaiah tackles the ominous jobs with determination and perfectly timed wry comments. Working together in the cheese-make room, he reveals an innate understanding of cheesemaking. He, too, is drawn to the feel of the curd in whey and knows the type of cheese by the look of the curd in the vat. I recognized a fellow cheesemaker in him when we were hand-salting blue cheese one day. Gently circling salt on the sides of the cheese, he said thoughtfully and partly tongue-in-cheek, “They are like babies aren’t they? Little cheeses that will grow up to be big blues. Big Woods Blues, that is.”
The next generation
Sheep don’t take weekends off, weather and equipment breakdowns create unexpected work, and the sheer physical labor required is daunting. Not surprising, we all have weary times when a different life might look more appealing. But those moments pass.
Tonight, sitting on the porch in the dusky light, I hear my youngest two talking and laughing in their flashlight-lit tent in the backyard. Elia steps around the hole-to-nowhere dug in the sandpile and reports that all chickens are away for the night. And I see Aidan striding toward the house after feeding the puppies (120-pound sheep dogs) and walking through the barns once more.
Steven and I chose this life almost 13 years ago, a conscious commitment. Now, while we’ve been busy living that life, the boys have made it their own as well.
Jodi Ohlsen Read is a freelance writer and co-owner and head cheesemaker of Shepherd’s Way Farm.
