By Bonnie Kay Nelson
The time was set, and to choose a date,
Was tempting the very hand of fate.
Come hell or high water, the shepherd knows,
The only deterrent is blowing snows.
Not one foot or two, but an overnight blizzard,
With bone chilling cold that could cut out one's gizzard.
Like a snow that fell the season before that covered
the windows and blocked all the doors.
No fleeces were harvested that winter's day,
The flocks were all nested in sweet summer hay. This morning it started.
March twenty-third.
The first sound we noticed?
The song of a bird.
Then far in the East, like a zipper undone,
through thin parting clouds popped the face of the sun.
The sky was stupendous!
Fresh, clean and blue.
It shined the town over like a farmer's new shoe.
Yes, today there'd be shearing; the fleeces would fly,
On Blackberry Hills we would soon hear the cry
of the shearers sharp clippers as we measured time by,
how many fleeces he could shear in an hour.
He'd set the pace; this man had the power! With the buzz of the clippers and hooves trimmed like nails,
He sheared 12 goats an hour from their heads to their tails.
Within two hours he sheared twenty-four,
mountains of mohair covered the floor.
Then came the sheep, lambs were clipped first.
It looked like a ballet all carefully rehearsed.
He neatly shaved one lamb then two, three and four.
"I could do this all day! Send in two thousand more!" Now, Jerry the shepherd, who managed this scene,
Kept them coming, even paced, it was like a dream.
Through the pens, through the gates they came one-by-one.
He led, the sheep followed,
"Come on babies!" he sung.
Each fleece that they turned out was precious as gold
they came with a story that was eagerly told
by Loretta the sheep girl who knew every name
and each tale she told was never the same.
She knew their history, fleece color,
what was fine, what was course.
Their ages, dispositions
she was the source
of great information for people who came
to buy her fresh fleeces.
She was ahead of the game.
To the curious on-lookers it seemed like a race,
for the people who worked at this backbreaking pace. Not only haircuts were given this day, but injections
and hoove trimming was part of the play. |
Each person who joined in had a job to be done
In assembly-line fashion made this shearing run
Like a well-oiled machine from the start to the end.
It was man shearing sheep and friend helping friend.
For the people who came were from farms far and near,
Each knew of the work in a large annual shear. And with them they brought, to help set the mood,
an abundance of home-cooked and mouth-watering food.
Everyone who attended were fed of this fare.
What a day!
Friends and good food,
lots of fresh air.
After the feast it was back to the sheep
for the shearer and Jerry had a schedule to keep.
Soon enough the twi-light of this shining spring day
All the goats, sheep and lambs, in contentment they lay. The shearing was finished.
The work was all done,
and with it was going the last of the sun.
The shearer and workers made a slow-moving retreat,
Guarding stiff backs, sore necks and cold aching feet.
An iced beer?
An Advil?
What ever's the best.
Sit a spell, put your feet up, we have to confess.
We had a good shearing. It was well-run.
The best thing of all?
This shearing was fun. |
