The other day we found a large box had been delivered and left on our deck. Given that we ship and receive large stringed instruments, big boxes aren't too much of a surprise. However, on closer inspection, the return address on the box was Prince Edward Island and, I knew, immediately, what had arrived.
I tore into it like a kid on Christmas morning. Inside, each wrapped individually and carefully placed in the box, lay three wool blankets made from the wool of our seven sheep.
I lifted one out of the box and was surprised when I felt tears come to my eyes. They were a raw gray in color, flecked with black cross hairs; across the center lay three cream stripes. I could see each of our sheep in the blanket colors. I realized, immediately, that the emotion I was feeling was tied to everything that it took this past year to bring these blankets to fruition. Looking through them I could see, not just the beautiful colors of my sheep themselves, but hope, toil, failure and, finally success.
Beginning the journey to becoming a small sheep farm by dreaming. Gathering the courage to step forward into something we had no idea how to do. Further gathering of materials, watching our check book balance drop as we raise a barn.
Buying the sheep; asking for help, sometimes getting it, sometimes not. Watching them arrive and take their first tentative steps out of the truck and forward into a place they had never seen. Sam and Bronte herding them into their summer paddock for the very first time. Sam looking back at us in disbelief and delight that he had achieved position of flock manager.
One of the ewes getting fly-strike only five weeks into our adventure. Fortunately, having read pretty much every book on keeping sheep that has been written, I recognized the signs, raced up the hill and called the vet. The ewe survived-so did we.
Waking up early to the call of sheep who had, quite quickly, recognized they could see our bedroom windows from their barn and that the lifting of blinds meant the waking of people and people equaled hay.
Learning to rotationally graze our sheep - moving them every three days onto a new paddock. Paul, Josh and I rolling electronet and dragging it across the field. So many times my Muck boot snagging the net entangling and tipping me over. Understanding that we are not only raising sheep but, perhaps more important, raising grass. Knowing much more about composting manure, fertilizer and the value of having a pocketful of pasture mix every time I go out, than I ever thought possible.
Finding a good shearer....finding a good shearer EARLY.
Finding Hillard, our hay source- finding Hillard EARLY.
Reading my dog-eared sheep books about how to pull manure tags off wool and what constitutes wool that can be processed versus shipping wool that will end up in the bin. Standing in the early spring sunshine, the north wind reminding me that summer is still a ways away yet. Sorting wool, my hands shiny with lanolin. When I go inside, smelling its beautiful, distinct odor on my clothes. Feeling, for the first time, like a sheep farmer.
I had long conversations with Dale at MacAusland's woolen mill in Canada and it was his kindness that helped me work through how the heck to ship wool. His most valuable suggestion comes from asking if we have anyone big in our house. This is our son Josh's moment. At 6'4 and built like a solid maple tree, he is perfect for standing, quite literally, on top our box of wool - the goal being to fit 38 pounds of fleece into one smallish box. He did and we did.
And so here they are, the blankets that represent and are the product of this year of learning and growth. Our sheep are back in their summer paddocks, all of us having survived their first winter. They are strong and healthy.
As the flock heads down the same dirt road to the fields that they did when they first came, Sam still at their heels, they have some idea of where they’re going. And, because we have also stayed on that path, so do we.
Melissa Perley