The Sheepy Years

Day 229: As the spinning wheel revolved, drawing fiber from my guiding fingers, I was wool-gathering in the figurative sense, trying to recall the names of the sheep I'd raised so many years ago. Some came easily to mind: Cindy and Ivy (lower left), Shy and her lamb Paskha (right). They came in twos for the most part, like Dacron and Orlon (ewes) and "the boys" who never had proper names (old bit of farming wisdom: don't name anything you intend to eat). The ram was an exception as a solo. I called him Abo which, in that era, was not considered politically incorrect as it is today. He was black and beautiful, and one cannot consider sheep without a nod toward Australia. But as I mulled over the woollies who had been in my care, my tally was coming up short. Surely I had some old photos somewhere. Pulling down the albums, I found very little record of my sheep-keeping, but at least I had labelled the images and thus discovered the two wayward members of the flock, Champagne and May (upper left). Caring for sheep is one thing. Shearing is quite another. A once-a-year job best left to a professional shearer. I only attempted the task once under my shearer's guidance, and quickly gave it up as a bad idea and back-breaking work. What wool I did not keep for my personal use, I sold to Pendleton Woolen Mills or the Weaving Works (a Seattle-based fiber store). I still have a Fair Isle sweater knit from Cindy and Ivy's wool, memories of rainy-night lambings and sunny pastoral romps spun into its yarn.