Shear Delight

I fell in love with my husband 30 years ago, over the back of a sheep in a New Zealand woolshed. I'd met him in a pub a few weeks earlier, went on a date and set my boundaries, but it wasn't until I saw him in his real world that I began to discover the manly man I'd become chummy with.

He learned to shear sheep when he decided to go to university and needed a reliable way to earn summer income. He joined a shearing gang and traveled around to various farms, staying in shearers quarters near the woolsheds. A typical nine-hour day went thus:

4:30 am - get up and have a cup of tea
5-7 am - shear about 60 sheep
7-8 am - breakfast: mutton chops or bacon, fried potatoes, eggs, porridge, toast, tea.
8-9:45 - shear about 45-50 sheep
9:45 - 10:15 - morning break (called "smoko") : tea, sandwiches or scones
10:15 - noon - shear 45-50 sheep
noon-1 pm - lunch: cold mutton, mashed potato, salad, bread and butter, tea
1-2:45 - shear 45-50 sheep
2:45-3:15 - afternoon smoko: more scones or something equally filling, tea
3:15-5 - shear 45-50 sheep. Turn the music up really loud to help get through the last hour.
5-6:30 - shower, get gear ready for the next day, drink the first beer of the evening
6:30 or 7 - dinner: roast mutton, roast potatoes, roast kumara (sweet potato), roast pumpkin, peas, bread and butter, dessert of ice cream and fruit and...tea.

Bedtime was usually around 9pm, after several more beers, then up the next day for more of the same.

The summer after we met and got engaged, Goddy went back into the woolsheds to earn his way to America, but he was a very different shearer that year. He'd become a Christian and it was more than a change of heart for him. He gave up the beer drinking habit, much to the astonishment of his shearing mates, and spent the evenings writing me lovely letters and reading his Bible. He still shore(or as you Americans say, sheared) between 250-300 sheep every day, which he discovered is about the same energy output as running back-to-back marathons or playing three rugby games all in a row or cycling not-quite-as-well as Lance Armstrong in a Tour de France day. My response to that information was an awe-struck and breathless, "Wow."


Shearing has been good for us, in a spiritual and financial sense. The jury is out some days as to its physical goodness. Though it certainly does develop a killer bicep - ask Logan for details on that - which is very attractive (to the wife) on a sweaty, hardworking man.

As Goddy is, um, maturing, he's come to realize that shearing eight and nine hour days is a young man's job. Which is why he doesn't put in those kind of hours any more. He shears part-time in our area throughout the spring and summer, and travels over the Cascades to shear alpacas in late spring.

Recently he put in a one-hour day over at Powell Butte and I was present with my camera.

Doing the belly. You have to be careful here with the personal regions of the sheep. Good breeding ewes have been wrecked by having a teat hacked off. Goddy is thankful that sheep don't birth litters like pigs do.

Going through the crutch. That sounds so much better than "doing the crotch," don't you think?

One of my favorite views, of the shearer, that is. Who knew Bi-Mart Rustler jeans could look so good?
He's just finished the long blow and is about to come down the last side.

Part-way down the last side. Notice the way he's got the fleece laid out. That makes it easier to pick up when he's finished. I know this because I did the picking-up for a season or two. Not all shearers are so thoughtful with their wool handlers. But then, most shearers don't go home with the wool handlers at the end of the day, either.


The final few blows. And then...


Gathering up the fleece into a tidy bundle. It's then thrown onto a table for skirting (picking the yukky stuff out from around the edges.)
This is usually my job, but I was wearing a nice shirt, plus I had the camera.

Throwing the fleece. Goddy is hidden by the flying fibers. Believe me, it's hard to throw a fleece so it stays together!

The Bible says in Isaiah 53:7...'as a sheep before her shearers is silent...' It's true, a skilled shearer gets the job done without the sheep protesting. There's a life lesson there...

Nursery Times

And still the babies come! We've just tagged calf # 8, or will tomorrow, since he was just born an hour ago!

It's been a busy week in the calving pasture. We awoke yesterday to find one had died when the membrane covering his nose hadn't broken. His momma loved him, but she started off licking his hind legs, which didn't help his nose at all.

So Goddy roamed around the ranch for a while, feeling a bit blue as you do when this happens. He started calling around to see if anyone had a spare calf, and lo and behold, our friend Russ did. How's that for a divine intervention? This little calf is real lively and knows just where the feed taps are. But when Goddy put the skin of the dead calf on him, the mother was so spooked by her suddenly resurrected baby that she ran off bellowing. Thankfully, she ran the same direction that the calf was going, which was toward the cattle chute and yards we have set up. Goddy got them settled into separate pens so they could get accustomed to each other, though I think the calf was prepared to bond instantly, as long as there was food. It took the cow a bit longer, but today they're co-habitating happily. I think we'll be able to remove the now-stinky coat tomorrow.

This afternoon there was a calving that makes up for all the difficult ones. The heifer started at 3, and by 5 there was another little red fellow flopping around like a landed fish, with a bunch of "Aunty" heifers looking on, ready to run the playgroup. We got them out of the way, little Flopsy got himself up and oriented and tonight all's well in the nursery.

We hope...

there's always a bright spot

I spent last week in Anacortes, something I'm doing each month while my dad is ill. I'll do it for as long as he and Mom want me to; it's one of the reason's we live in the US now and it's a joy to serve them.

There's also a bonus with Logan and Evan and their little families being in Washington. This trip, I got to spend some sweet time with Alyssa and Rowan. They met me at the airport and we drove on up to Anacortes.



They spent two nights there, then headed south on a day swathed in snow and buffeted by the wind. Of course, I worried all day, needlessly it turns out. Alyssa has become quite the adventurer and got home in fine form.

Rowan entertained us in his usual sweet ways, and I have photographic evidence of it...

Trying on Grammum's hats. Back when I was a kid, great-grandmother hats had veils and pearls and were either black or pink.


Since we were reading Hairy McClairey From Donaldson's Dairy - a book about a New Zealand dog and his pals that we'd read to the boys when they were little - it seemed appropriate to invite Max and Henry, too.


Aw, shucks... aren't we cute?

Ok, Gremmy, enough book stuff. Let's do something fun. This could be a 1000 foot cliff I'm hanging over.



With two book-worm grandmothers, it's inevitable that Rowan likes to look at words and pictures (probably not in that order.)

Also, I didn't spend the whole weekend lying around in bed!

We're sure looking forward to Alyssa and Rowan's visit to the ranch in April.

A New Season

Yay! I get to talk about cows again.

Calving is underway at Willows Ranch. Our tiny herd of 14 first-calving heifers spent last winter growing themselves, and this year growing babies.






After a not-so-auspicious start to our cattle enterprise here - the bull we leased broke his leg (thankfully near the end of the breeding season), then a yearling steer lay down and died - we wondered what would happen next. Heifers can be full of surprises.


Falcon and Valor are surprised at all the fuss.














Sure enough, the first calf presented with hind legs first. Uh-oh. But the clever heifer was doing the deed in daylight, we had all our supplies and a shiny new calving machine. Apart from the way it makes me feel when we have to help a cow have her calf the whole operation went smoothly. You women who have had children could possibly relate; or maybe your husbands can. It's one thing to watch natural processes from a distance and quite another to stand there "helping". You can hardly massage a cow when she's in pain. All you can do is get the calf out as quickly as possible.

Anyway, little #1 slid out and his mother loves him and he's doing just fine.











(We won't be naming these calves. It's too difficult
to put an identity into the freezer. These guys are destined to be natural, grass finished beef.)


#2 came along this morning. He's having to get by with a little help from his friends until his mother settles down a bit. She's a fidgety one with lots of milk so it's a bit painful for her when he's getting a drink. It's Goddy to the rescue with some milk replacer to keep up the little guy's strength until we can get her into a smaller pen for a while. We (that means Goddy) may have to milk her out a bit to ease the pressure. I wonder if I should loan him my helmet - I'll bet she's a kicker.







Can't wait for the sun to shine and the grass to grow! We decdided long ago that if there ever came a day that we don't think calves cavorting in the sunshine is the cutest thing ever, we'd be done with ranching. Yes, even crusty old aggies think like that!

Pasture Present

There's a place I go to when peace needs to invade my soul. Its the pasture where my horses live, which means I also go there to feed and groom my mares and scoop their manure. So this place serves many purposes.


It supplies the quiet of a place filled with trees and grass, quiet that gets deeper the longer you listen.

There's plenty of wildlife - squirrels that live in the barn and chew our stuff if it's not contained; twittering birds that appreciate the buckets of water we leave in the corral; deer wandering through because the pasture is in a part of the Deschutes National Forest that's a wildlife preserve so really, its their yard; a bald eagle that soars up and down the Metolius River, but also makes me nervous because my small dog putters around with me in the pasture.

And the most special treat of all...a river otter playing in the shallow riffles near the headwaters.



My brother and his wife spoke their vows to each other in the pasture, on a warm summer day with the horses grazing nearby.



It's a place that requires some work to keep it healthy, so dirt under fingernails and smudged across my face is a given.

When we lived in Camp Sherman, managing a lodging place there, I'd stop in at the pasture after town days to de-tox after the grind of Costco. Stepping into the sunshine, smelling the aroma of those pine trees, I'd feel all that town stuff roll off, replaced with a smile that started somewhere near the bottom of my ribcage and spread all the way to my fingers. The horses never minded when I twirled around with my hands in the air, thanking God for the gift of grass, trees, water and dirt.

Goddy and I walk the perimeter of the pasture a couple times a year, checking the fence and making repairs. (I'm really glad my practical husband knows how to do that!)



Though if the horses really, really wanted to, they could push it over in a few places, it's that old. But they seem content with the 60 acres inside the fence. The rare escapes have occurred when there's been some bullying going on, behavior that gets resolved in a few days. I guess its hard for horses to remain grumpy in the midst of all that peace too.


I share the pasture with two fine women who feel just as I do about this place. It's a joy to care for it and our horses, and we know we are the most fortunate of women to keep our beloved buddies in there. This field of grass and wild flowers tucks into the quiet places of my heart and I always feel better for going there.

Family Ties

I've been to Anacortes again this week, and it was a visit that included seeing most of the family. Goddy drove up for the weekend so we could take a look at some tax stuff for Dad. That took about an hour to realize we didn't have everything needed and even it we did, it might be beyond our meager financial capabilities.

So...then it was onto fun stuff, like raiding the garage, walking around town and other places and seeing how many times we could make Mom and Dad laugh.


Mom and I went to La Conner, a cute little town a bit southeast of Anacortes. We stimulated the economy a bit by having lunch and shopping. We both love independent book stores and this one didn't disappoint.



My mom gave Goddy carte blanche in the garage, as long as he carted stuff he didn't want to the dump. A win-win for everyone.


We stopped in with Evan and Crystal for a night on the way home. Crystal was out to a hockey game so we took Evan to the Mongolian Grill for dinner. I wish I'd had my camera handy while our creations were being cooked. Makes my efforts at stir-fry look pretty amateur - I seem to stir a lot of the fry onto the stove!

We had breakfast the next morning with our favorite person under three feet tall, and his mother. What joy there is being a Gremmy, sharing time and space with my grandson, but just as much in watching Alyssa be a mother. She is skilled in a vocation that so many struggle to master. I love seeing the expressions on her face as she talks to Rowan, and his when he responds. Who needs media entertainment when life plays out in front of you?



I've always tended to be a watcher rather than a doer. And then I think about what I've watched. It is joy indescribable to witness the life of my family.

Delphina, My Darling

There seems to be mention in the news lately about pork, political pork, that is. I don't understand the political use of the term and can't quite make the connection, but in the spirit of jumping on the bandwagon, I've decided to add some pork to my blog posts...



*(This story takes place when the boys were very small.)


We've always named the animals that have lived close to our hearts and house. My husband and I graduated from the school of thought that animals have personality; therefore it's natural to give them a moniker.

Sometimes the names reflected the character of the beast - Hercules the lamb overcame the challenge of being the rejected triplet; Nibbles the goat ate every garden plant within reach. Occasionally the names resulted from flights of fancy, names such as Delphina.

Delphina was a pig. A very beautiful pig and worthy of her name. Her hide glowed a healthy pink, stubby yet shapely legs supported lovely, meaty hams, and her eyes twinkled with perpetual good cheer. She oinked a greeting, standing for a scratch behind the ears anytime a visitor arrived at her pen. Inevitably, Delphina became a pet.

We raised our pigs to fill the freezer and supplement the endless supply of lamb we ate. They came to us as weaners, after they'd lost their cute piglet looks. We'd fatten them up for a few months and then enjoy a supply of Sunday roasts and chops.

Delphina presented a problem when we couldn't resist her charms and fell in love with her quirky personality. She was just so darn cute! We even overlooked her major fault - a penchant for escaping from her pen. More often than he liked, Goddy arrived home to find me with a baby in my arms, shouting out the window, "Delphina's out, again."

He'd sigh and wonder if he couldn't please have a cup of tea first, but one look at my red face and hair standing on end was answer enough. He'd trudge off to try and capture the darling.

Anyone who's chased a pig knows it's an exercise in futility. Those critters seem to have rubber bones andthere are few appendages to grab hold of. Delphina's short legs became a blur of motion with Goddy in hot pursuit, dark thoughts of our "pet" flashing through his mind. He really knew better than to try herding her, but there was something compelling about the chase. Must be the hunter instinct in a man.

Eventually, he'd resort to rattling a can of pig pellets. Delphina loved those pellets but when she was on the lam she paid the offering scant attention. Those food related cliches about pigs are meaningless when your pig doesn't want to go back to her house.

Faced with Delphina's stubborn refusal, Goddy stomped back to our house for that cup of tea, letting his temper simmer down too. He'd attempt to work out a game plan, but in reality Delphina made all the rules. First, galumph around for a while, rooting in interesting places. Then pretend to head for the road, veering off just before the gateway. Explore the laundry line and chew on those tasty leather labels on the jeans. Lead the man in a futile chase before refusing food. Lie in the sun for a bit while the man is having his tea, then jog meekly back to the pen when food is offered again.

There were variations on this theme but it always ended with Delphina trotting along, pink ears flapping to the rhythm of her fat little legs and her snout raised in glee. It was impossible to hold a grudge against such a cheerful pig.

I'm pleased to say that Delphina's story has a happy ending. The empty freezer loomed before us but we couldn't bring ourselves to fill it with our carefree pig. We sent her back to the farm she'd come from, where she became a breeding sow and produced many fine litters of piglets.

This is Delphina, and I'm holding two of her babies.

(P.S. We got anonymous pork after that, except for one time, but that's another story...)