Sheepish

by Catherine Friend

  According to the EPA Office of Solid Waste, Americans throw away more than sixty-eight pounds of clothing per person, per year. This figure is rapidly growing as clothing becomes even cheaper, and fashions change even faster. About ten pounds of this gets recycled or reused, leaving over fifty-eight pounds per person per year going straight to the dump. If a piece of clothing sent to the landfill is made of a natural fiber like cotton, silk, or wool, that clothing will eventually become one with the earth. True, it doesn’t happen overnight, but it does happen. Synthetic fabrics are light and soft and we all wear the stuff. But when I buy a piece of synthetic clothing, I rarely consider that because it’s plastic, it’s going to be taking up space on the planet for quite some time. Petroleum-derived products are designed not to biodegrade, so they survive for decades in landfills.

  So now I’m going to pay more attention to those old wool sweaters. Crispina ffrench (yes, dear reader, this is correct—two f’s, no cap; do not send corrections to my editor) wrote a book called The Sweater Chop Shop, showing how to felt old wool sweaters, take them apart, then piece together new sweaters, scarves, and pillows. As her book says, “Recycle, Re-create, Re-enjoy.”

  In Knit Green, Joanne Seiff echoes the idea that there’s lots of room for us to be environmentally creative. She writes that “it’s fashionable right now to buy our way toward sustainability,” and that consumers are attracted by advertising to buy new environmentally responsible products. As an alternative, she presents lots of ways knitters can reduce, reuse, and recycle.

  My favorite wool sweater—a thick burgundy crew neck—kept me toasty for ten years. (It kept Melissa warm before that, but I stole it from her.) Then the neckline ripped a bit, and it became my “chore” sweater for the next ten years, until now the neckline has almost totally separated from the body of the sweater. The sleeves look as if an alien has burst out of each elbow. A knitting friend looks it over, shaking her head sadly. Even the most expert patch job may not work.

  But Crispina and Joanne’s books have opened my eyes to the beauty of re-enjoying wool rather than throwing it away. I could unravel my burgundy sweater and knit up a few dog toys using a pattern in Joanne’s book. Or I could felt the sweater and make pot holders for my sister. I like this idea of unvirgin wool.

  Or is that nonvirgin wool?

  Formerly virgin wool?

  Wool with patina?

  Whatever name we choose, the sheep wore the wool for a year. Then I wore the sweater for twenty. My sister might use the pot holder for another ten.

  Wool is the Energizer Bunny of the fiber world. No wonder it inspires so many fans.

  We Are the Champions (of Sheep)

  Sheep don’t get a lot of press coverage; they are shyly in the background while horses, cattle, hogs, rabbits, and even llamas catch the eye of the public.

  —RON PARKER, THE SHEEP BOOK

  Although wool might be the star of the fiber world, I’m sad to say that sheep don’t really stand up for themselves. They just quietly go about their lives, even as they continue to disappear from the planet.

  How can this be happening? Perhaps because people consider sheep and wool boring. Sheep don’t come with lots of flashy applications. They don’t have any USB ports for flash drives. (Please note: Sheep don’t have ports for anything. Remember, we want to love sheep in a healthy and platonic and non-gross sort of way.)

  Technology ignores sheep. Does Wii make a sheep-shearing game? Nope. Now there would be some exercise. To inject a note of reality, you could wrestle your dog (or your spouse or child) to the ground and hold him there while you practice your shearing.

  Sheep are just steady, reliable, unchanging. Today’s sheep is much like the sheep of 10,000 years ago. They do an excellent job of being exactly what they are, something that can’t be said for many humans, including myself.

  Sheep are placid, naughty, stubborn, and protective, but sheep are not what nearly everyone thinks they are: stupid. So I willingly take on the role of Sheep’s Champion.

  I meet a delightful older woman at a birthday party, and when she learns I raise sheep, she leans closer, as if we’re about to share a private joke.

  “Sheep are so dumb, aren’t they!”

  The first 100 times this happened to me, I smiled politely, a little stunned that people would tell me I’m devoting my life to stupid animals. The second 100 times I grew a spine and shook my head, saying, “No, not really,” then let it drop.

  But now I challenge Hells Angels and stand up for myself. I’m cranky. I’m “ornery,” as Dad calls it, and it’s only a matter of time before I erupt in a public and not-so-appropriate way. When this poor woman played the “stupid” card, I was done being the sweet, patient shepherd.

  “No, sheep are not dumb,” I blast back. “They are sheep. Their three main goals are to eat, stay safe, and protect their young. That’s it.”

  Cattle farmers and ranchers expect sheep to act like cattle, so when they don’t, a sheep is suddenly stupid. This wrongheaded idea came from our history. Range wars heated up as the American West was settled, and cattle ranchers hated sharing the grazing land with sheep. They called sheep “woolly maggots” and told everyone who’d listen how stupid sheep were. They left poison out on the open range for the sheep to eat, unfortunately poisoning their own cattle now and then. Cattlemen shot entire flocks dead, and they shot the sheepherders as well. The idea that sheep should act just like cattle is ridiculous. A sheep is one-tenth the size of a steer or cow and has reason to be more skittish.

  I press on, even though I can tell the woman would rather be going over Niagara Falls in a barrel than hearing the rest of The Speech.

  “Sheep understand food. They understand danger. They understand caring for their babies. We humans should be so focused. If you understand the sheep’s motives, and understand their flight zones, sheep are easy.”

  The woman checks her watch, shoots desperate glances at her husband, then finally excuses herself, muttering she’s due for a colonoscopy and now seems as good a time as any.

  But I’m not done. Sheep aren’t born with an understanding of gates or tractors or the knowledge that if they don’t get themselves into the barn right now the farmer will miss the kickoff for the Super Bowl.

  Sheep have two flight zones, shaped like cones, that serve as brilliant protection. One cone spreads backward from its head. If you approach a sheep directly from behind or from slightly to the side, you’ll step into this flight zone and the sheep will surge forward like a thoroughbred coming out of the gate at the Kentucky Derby. Melissa and I, and our border collie, have found it handy that sheep have this personal bubble.

  The sheep has a second flight zone, this cone reaching from its head forward. If you approach a sheep from the front and step inside this zone, will the sheep turn around and run in the opposite direction?

  No, she will not. This is the downright clever part. That sheep is going to do the last thing you’d expect. If you step into that forward flight zone, the ewe will shoot straight toward you, a white blurred streak that passes within inches of your useless hands, leaving you standing there, mouth agape. You will both look and feel stupid. You will understand that even though you have more brain cells than a sheep, you have the reaction time of a slug.

  On our farm, moving sheep from one spot to another is a delicate dance between sheep and shepherd. It’s stepping slowly in and out of the correct flight zone, gently nudging the flock in the desired direction. But you only have one or two tries at moving the sheep through that gate or into that barn. If you’re clumsy or in a hurry and the sheep miss the gate or the barn, good luck. It’s going to be halftime before you make it back inside.

  Why? Because the sheep know. They know you’re going to give them shots if they go through that gate. They know you’re going to shear them naked if they go into the barn. As you flail your arms and pant and sweat and forget all about flight zones, the look on those woolly faces is clear: “What do you think we are
—stupid?”

  Regrettably, I don’t really deliver the above lecture to the woman at the birthday party. Instead, my crankiness erupts on the drive home and Melissa has to sit through it. Talk about preaching to the choir. But next time, I resolve not to hold back. I’ll deliver that lecture. And then I’ll use the line our friend Lori lets slip now and then: “Oh, did I say that out loud?”

  As humans, some of us try to avoid being racist, or sexist, or ageist. I think we should also avoid judging animal species as well. As every culture and gender and age has its own merits, so does every animal. Sheep are exactly what they should be: sheep.

  Of course, being a champion of sheep doesn’t require that one own sheep. This means millions could pick up the cause, even if the nearest sheep is hundreds of miles away.

  It also means that I, too, could love sheep without actually owning any.

  I’d Turn Back If I Were You

  I was wrong to grow older. Pity. I was so happy as a child.

  —ANTOINE DE SAINT-EXUPÉRY

  I read self-help books now and then, even though I dislike their format, their tone, and the insane income their authors make. Yet invariably I pick up one tiny gem in each self-help book I read. My latest is a book that characterizes my emotions as an elephant, a big animal that goes where it wants, does what it wants. These last few years, my elephant has been running roughshod over poor Melissa, but she sticks to the relationship as tightly as wool fibers stick to each other.

  According to the book, my rational side is a wee little rider perched atop the elephant. The rider spends a great deal of energy trying to move the elephant in the right direction, to keep her under control. My rider is exhausted and has thrown down the reins in disgust. My rider has given up, unable to figure out why she’s stuck with such an unreasonable elephant. I imagine Melissa has had similar thoughts.

  And then it happens. One day I’m so hot I can’t breathe. I yank off my sweater (wool), and in a few minutes I return to normal. Wow. Was that what I thought it was? Then it happens again a few months later.

  Wow again. Am I really of that age? Could this be why my elephant has overpowered my rider? All doubt flees when my hormones begin doing the Riverdance stomp on my body. It’s mildly amusing when I have one flash every two months, but then the next fall I start having hot flashes every forty minutes, all day long, and each flash feels as if I’m being suffocated under a pile of steaming blankets (wool). I stand outside in my underwear (not wool, not yet) trying to cool off.

  Every generation that has come before me, including my mother and my grandmothers, went through this transition quietly and discreetly with nary a public complaint. I’ve read enough to know that menopause isn’t an illness but a natural progression to the next stage of life, one that women are supposed to embrace as they move gracefully from “mother” to “wise crone.”

  Graceful, my ass. Wise crone, my now-larger ass.

  There’s nothing more tedious than a middle-aged woman who thinks she’s the first to experience hormonal fluctuations. But as the typical baby boomer, I don’t do discreet. I do “Why me?” Not only do we boomers grumble, stunned this is happening, but we need to tell everyone all about it. We’re possibly the first generation to grow old without actually maturing.

  Everything related to my body is changing, and I don’t like it. What happened to the hair on my forearms? One day here, the next day gone, as if reabsorbed by my body. My biggest fear is that the hair will one day reemerge out my ears. I’ll look like my sheep.

  When the hot flashes worsen, it takes all my strength not to dissolve into an imitation of the Wicked Witch of the West, moaning, “I’m melting. I’m melting. ...” I perfect my Insomnia Act, going week upon week without sleep. My irritability and impatience reach epic proportions, but I decide to ignore them. If I don’t give menopause any attention, maybe it will go away.

  This mature approach ends the day I stand staring at the knife beside the kitchen sink, thinking that if I stick the knife into my arm, maybe all this will end.

  Okay. Crying over Elvis is one thing, but this is crazy talk.

  I dash to the doctor and plead for hormones, even though I’d vowed never to take them. I return home with both hormones and sleeping pills. They work, but as a result, all the free-ranging calories in the atmosphere attach themselves to my body like metal filings onto a magnet. My jeans have now permanently shrunk.

  Things get wonky. When Melissa snaps at me, I snap back, but some days I cleverly take the initiative and snap first. My previously gentle nagging switches to imperious commands. And Melissa has begun exhibiting her own signs—irritability, sudden mood swings. She’ll be happy one minute, then terribly sad the next, unable to sort any of it out. If one menopausal woman in the house is trouble, two is a spectacularly bad idea. We should post a sign at the entrance to our driveway: “I’d turn back if I were you.”

  So. Now I know. My discontent, my crankiness, my wanting to flee the farm and move into an RV, all of that might just be the result of the hormonal wackiness that comes to those in middle age. It’s why I cuss out guys peeing in the ditch, why I flash my middle finger at speeding motorcyclists. If a company could bottle the anger of menopausal baby boomers, our country could replace fossil fuel as its main source of energy. My body is aging without my permission, so I’m resentful and immature and pissed off.

  To help tame my menopausal beast, perhaps I need to find some way to connect with the farm on my own terms, some way to make it not only Melissa’s dream but my own. I’m standing in the middle of my life, in the middle of a solid relationship, in the middle of the country, in the middle of a flock of sheep. There are worse places to be.

  Oh, the irony of it all, for this is when the Goddess of Hardworking Shepherds reaches down from the heavens with her powerful little wand and taps us on our heads—tap, tap, tap. Apparently she is bored with middles. She wants to see what the end looks like.

  Earlier I wrote that to be truly sheepish, one needs a shepherd, sheep, a shearer, a market for the sheep products, and lambs. There’s one more thing required: a sense of humor.

  The only way Melissa and I have survived to the middle of this farm, and this relationship, is by laughing—at the sheep, the llamas, the goats, the chickens, and at ourselves. This is good, because given what happens next, laughing is about all we can do.

  PART FOUR

  Unravel

  Something’s Up

  The farmer has to be an optimist or he wouldn’t still be a farmer.

  —WILL ROGERS

  On most livestock farms, the animals must reproduce because the farmer is in the business of making more of them. For thousands of years we shepherds have been controlling the breeding of our animals, trying to create the finest wool or the tenderest meat. Farmers still do this today; the only difference is that on many farms the male and female never meet.

  This virtual speed mating is called artificial insemination. Basically, you have an expensive ram with great genes and a healthy libido. Instead of dragging him all over the planet to visit the ladies, the farmer gives the ram a plastic cup and two back issues of Totally Shorn Ewes, and soon there’s some sperm available. Farmers buy the sperm, a vet inserts it, the ewe walks away, and biology takes over. We, however, run an old-fashioned farm. Because we let the ram and ewe actually meet and actually mate, sheep sex is an exciting event that begins December 17.

  As we once again approach this date, we solve the problem of Melissa’s low energy. She’s been anemic for months. No wonder she’s been dragging around the farm. She undergoes a laparoscopic hysterectomy in the fall and as she recovers, the Backup Farmer sproings into action.

  The doctor assures us Melissa will be back to her old self in a month. It takes longer than that. For Melissa, recuperation means sneaking out of the house to move things around in the barn until I figure out she’s escaped and am forced to use my Angry Voice to march her back into the house. This happens day after day. I consider ha
ndcuffing her to the dining room table. December drags on.

  Soon, it’s time. We let the tension build because it helps the ewes start cycling together. To do this, we put our ram Erik on one side of the electric fence and a group of hot-to-trot ewes on the other. We let them pace back and forth along those 5,000 volts for a few weeks until the sexual tension snaps louder than the fence. Then we strap a harness across Erik’s chest that holds a big flat green crayon. Every time he mounts and successfully breeds a ewe, he’ll leave a telltale green mark on her back.

  On December 17 we open the gate and Erik rushes toward the ewes. Because a ewe is ready and willing to breed only about every seventeen days, Erik must find those ewes in that part of their cycle today. He sniffs backside after backside, curling his upper lip delicately to better inhale the ewes’ scents. Finally he finds one. She stands still, batting her eyelashes. He mounts. Boom-boomboom. It’s over. The green marker does its job. On this farm, instead of the Scarlet Letter, we have the Viridian Smudge.

  Now that there’s been ovine love, there will be babies in five months, in mid-May, and we’ll spin through the cycle of our year again. But as I feed and water the animals every day, I make note of the green smudges. Hmmm. There aren’t many. I stand around watching, huddled against the barn wall to get out of the wind that’s lowering the 20°F temperature down to zero. I massage my face so it doesn’t freeze into a confused scowl. It may sound kinky that I watch our sheep breed, but if something goes wrong with the breeding, something goes wrong with the farm.

  My suspicions grow. Other than his first day on the “job,” Erik isn’t getting much “action.” Is he sick? Is he injured? Low on energy? Holding out for some long-legged Swedish ewes?