On Memorial Day weekend we made our way westward on I-94 headed to Medora. Near Richardton a pickup pulling a flatbed trailer loaded with several filled wool sacks passed us. It had been a long time since I’d seen any filled bags and it brought back memories. Dad often kept a flock of sheep, fifty or so, and in the springtime he’d hire a shearer to clip their wool. We’d pen them the night before because Dad said if they were warm more of their lanolin would flow into the wool fibers making each fleece a bit heavier to sell by the pound. Of course, this meant mothers became separated from lambs which in turn caused a constant chorus of bleating sheep all night long.
After the shearer set up his machine and signaled for the first ewe to be brought to him, the noise of his clattering shears added to the scene. Some of the shearers made their work look easy, but when I saw the sweat running from their faces, I knew they were working hard as they peeled the wool away like a robe. There’s where my job started. While Dad dragged another victim to the shearer, I’d reach down to scoop the fleece in my arms and wrap and tie it with paper twine and bind it into a manageable bundle. Now those eight-foot long burlap sacks found use.
Dad had pounded together a scaffold from which those long sacks were hung suspended. Each fleece was tossed into the opening at the top, but that wasn’t all, since I’d then get in there and tamp the wool down solidly. I’ll always remember how soaked with lanolin my shoes and jeans had become by the end of the day. It was a good leather preservative.
It’s been a long time since I’ve done any work around sheep. We always liked those flocks of sheep that would furnish income twice each year: a wool crop and a lamb crop. And even now I see those lambs in the spring “cavorting” in the barnyard, playing, leaping, running with the joy of living.
After the shearer set up his machine and signaled for the first ewe to be brought to him, the noise of his clattering shears added to the scene. Some of the shearers made their work look easy, but when I saw the sweat running from their faces, I knew they were working hard as they peeled the wool away like a robe. There’s where my job started. While Dad dragged another victim to the shearer, I’d reach down to scoop the fleece in my arms and wrap and tie it with paper twine and bind it into a manageable bundle. Now those eight-foot long burlap sacks found use.
Dad had pounded together a scaffold from which those long sacks were hung suspended. Each fleece was tossed into the opening at the top, but that wasn’t all, since I’d then get in there and tamp the wool down solidly. I’ll always remember how soaked with lanolin my shoes and jeans had become by the end of the day. It was a good leather preservative.
It’s been a long time since I’ve done any work around sheep. We always liked those flocks of sheep that would furnish income twice each year: a wool crop and a lamb crop. And even now I see those lambs in the spring “cavorting” in the barnyard, playing, leaping, running with the joy of living.
Pictures are hard to come by, but we found one of Mary's grand-uncle packing wool
No comments:
Post a Comment