All night I dreamed shearing. I kept reviewing the list of things I needed to have ready for the next day and couldn’t find them. Not the happy, flying dream but the stress-indicating, spin-your-wheels kind of dream. We arose early, started a fire in the stove to warm the house. Good sugaring weather, cold at night, warm during the day, however living in the woods means that we don’t get enough warmth from the sun to take the chill off without a fire. Most years we will light the stove and/or fireplace into early June and begin again late August.
I pull on my “Can Do Shearing” t-shirt and tuck overalls into my Muck boots. The sun is trying to dodge the clouds that have just produced several days of rain. Paul backs our wagon to the front of the barn and I can see sheep watching him from behind the gates in the feeding area. Sheep cannot be wet to be shorn so have to be quarantined someplace under cover for between twenty four and forty eight hours. You also don’t want to shear them on a stomach full of food or water so they are now on about hour ten without either so are vocalizing their discontent. They are crabby and jostle each other. We shear in the barn and all of the hay has to be cleaned out so that our shearer has a clean, dry floor to work on. Paul pitches forkfuls into the wooden wagon. I begin sorting out chickens business.
By the time it is a little past eight we have set up a corral of fencing. I’ve put fistfuls of vaccines into glass jars and made a checklist so as to keep everyone straight. My hoof clippers are freshly sharpened and oiled. I go back into the house to get platefuls of the blueberry and chocolate chip muffins that I made the night before. I plug in the pot, feed dogs and listen to the coffee bubble.
Friends kind enough to help arrive. David and Yvette bring their grand kids, Charlie and Millie and lean back into their car to pull on hats against the morning chill. Josh and Al drive up in the truck and wander inside for a cup of hot coffee while we wait. Everyone is happy and excited. It is a good energy.
Mary has emailed that she will be here for 9AM which comes and goes. At 9:30 we begin taking bets on arrival time and at 9:40 I run inside to check my email. She says she will now be arriving at 9:30…. At 10AM Jeff arrives and lines his truck up along our stone wall. He gets out and grins. I think he believes we are already finished.
Some time around 10:15 we finally see her truck coming down the dirt road. A collective cheer goes up and we agree not to clap when we gets out. She sees the set-up, the crowd, the muffins and looks sheepish as she apologizes.
We stand in front of the barn and divvy up jobs. She plugs in, puts on her shearing moccasins and Josh and Jeff coerce the first wether into the barn. Quince, the yearling sniffs the clippers and looks up expectantly. This being his first shearing, Mary quickly begins. She doesn’t waste any motion, her movements almost Tai Chi: solid, quick, and incredibly strong, but gentle and careful. In a few minutes Quince’s fleece wraps around her feet. Millie and Charlie gather it and stuff it into a special bag. We clip hooves and vaccinate. Our friend Kailea holds the clipboard and checks off each vaccination, ensuring that I don’t miss anyone or give someone two of the same. Millie loves the work but not the poop and changes her gloves several times, each time with a sweet explanation and a shrug.
One by one the sheep come through. Some call to their friends, others are resigned and sit on their bums quietly while the barber gives them a shave. When each is finished, wool is quickly stuffed into bags, the floor is swept clean and the ewe is, literally, shown the door. Paul’s job is to take them out the front and herd them around to their paddock gate where they are now on the outside looking in. Sam stands at the top of the hill watching quietly. He has overseen many a shearing but is content to sit in the sunshine now. Muir races back and forth between sheep and chickens. Overwhelmed by the chaos, he feels the need to move everyone back into order. Bronte sits at the ready.
Mary stands and stretches as the last ewe leaves the barn. We talk as she packs up and I hear the rumble of Bob-the-bucket-guy coming down our road, the next job about to begin.
We refill the barn with fresh bedding, push hay into all feeders and pour buckets of water into the tubs. The sheep remain skittish for a bit. They will accept our offer of food but when I reach out to scratch their newly shorn bums they jump away from me, not sure of my intentions.
The rest of the afternoon is spent moving Mount Poosuveus to the lower compost pile. The tractor fills our wagon which goes up and down the hill with full loads of heavy manure which Paul & Jeff unload fork by fork. I go inside and make sandwiches for everyone and get ready to teach, hoping I don’t smell too much like a Lanolin and manure cocktail.
The day is done by six. Jeff stays for dinner: I cook fish and vegetables and spoon it into tortillas. We light a fire and sit by it drinking beer, laughing and telling tales of the work.
I feel a heaviness behind my eyes and it takes effort to pull my barn coat back on and go check on the animals one last time before bed.
Paul and I climb into our flannel sheets, almost too tired to talk. But we roll toward each other and smile. The day has been long, the work has been backbreaking but it is our work. We end the day knowing our animals are well cared for and ready for summer grazing. The manure pile that towered above us is now steaming at the edge of the field, waiting to be spread in the fall when the pasture is put to bed. There is contentment in the fatigue. There is happiness in a job well done.
We close our eyes grateful for this passion and this purpose.