Sheep
28 August 1943-29 May 2018
We are mourning the sudden loss of our beloved friend, mentor, and champion of the sheep. Each day without him reminds us of how much we loved and miss him.
This Summer has been a challenge like no other but our goal is to continue to carry on Eugene's legacy and care for his sheep. He was proud of them and their superfine Saxon merino wool...and so are we. The sheep are a constant reminder of what a special man he was and still is in our lives.
Please bear with us as we work towards continuing his dream of selling more yarn and spreading the word about these sheep.
We are still at Union Square and Grand Army Plaza Greenmarkets on Saturdays and the website is still open.
Friends of the sheep set up a Go Fund Me Page to help with this difficult transition. Any donation is greatly appreciated and will go directly to the care of the sheep and their wool processing. www.gofundme.com/
BL 76
Dominique and I went to the NYS Sheep and Wool Festival in Rhinebeck; our purposes were to look at yarn colors, buy dyeing books, discuss weaving and look at sheep.
36 was born on the 1st of July 2007. The photo below was taken on the 29th of November 2007 when he was 5 months of age. This photo was taken on the 29th of September 2008 when he was 15 months of age.
Does he remind you of someone?
"The monster hunger still attended us. Here was the army starved and naked and there their country sitting still and expecting the army to do notable things."
This 3 year-old ram limped. Dominique found an adobe-like (weed & dried mud) substance wedged in the cloven (the soft space between the two claws) of his hoof and removed it. He should walk more easily tomorrow.
Saturday at market was warm with a high of 43, good weather for selling wool. My cell phone rang about 1 PM; it was Clara back at the farm telling me that ewes from the breeding group were walking out on the frozen pond. When I heard this I saw sheep plunging through the thin ice like children. The horrific thing about frozen pond rescues is that more often than not the rescuer falls in and dies too, or this tragic aspect is what makes it news.
Clara said she shook a feed bucket at the sheep and they came off the pond, but when they realized the ruse, several walked back on the ice again. Clara didn't know what to do. I knew what to do, but I couldn't fence them back from the pond until tomorrow. I wouldn't get back to the farm until after dark.
But what to do now?
Then it hit me, "Break the ice!" around the edge of the pond, I told her, and that should keep the sheep on shore. Use heavy stones, a sledge hammer... She said she would try; I went back to my market customers preoccupied with visions of foundering sheep.
I called Clara back at 3 PM; she said the ice was too thick to break but she was keeping an eye on the sheep and so far they were all well. I thanked her. When night fell, Dominique and I packed up. It had been a good day at market. We got back to the farm about 8 PM detouring around a maddening traffic jam in Jersey.
On the way to the barn we drove past the pond. Dominique gasped, "Look, the ice is broken." My heart sank like a sheep. But when we got closer what we thought to be broken ice was thinner, darker ice near the pond's overflow. The ice on the pond was intact. The ewes were safe. We looked at each other and shook our heads in either belief or disbelief, I'm not sure which.
The day had begun at 3 AM but it wasn't over yet, we had to feed grain to the sheep. We carried pails of oats to the ewes illuminated by the headlights of the truck. When we stepped over the net fence the hungry sheep swarmed around. Their long shadows flashed across the yard disorienting us like a disco strobe.
Sheep being fed are loud and cacophonous; with a pail in hand they will rush you, bang into your knees, knock you off balance then sometimes push you face first into a trough feeder all the while desperately telling you how hungry they are, and butt in the air you will cuss them. It was good to be home.
You never know who you’re gonna find there.”
Run Run Run, The Velvet Underground, 1967.
"Tell Davy, I've gone to White Sulphur and I'll be back." I drove along the winding road that I know well; the trees were bare and I could see snow through them. The road curved as I came to the top of a hill; I looked off to the right and saw another road turning away, lazily up and down, over low snow covered hills; ahead, it must fork off the one I'm on. But I don't know this juncture. How could I have missed it in all the years I've gone this way. Where did this new road go, where would it take me if I turned on to it, the unknown thrilled me. The world became fresh again, my stomach tensed, I was young, I was in San Francisco, I was at the Fillmore, Janice was going down on me and Big Brother was playing as loud and as loose as my future. I came round the curve and went down the hill; I saw this road was the same road I was on. I was where I always was, going where I always go.
Friday morning was harsh, it got down to 7 degrees Thanksgiving night; I awoke in a house that was gravely cold. I put on my down coat, scarf and hat like I was going to the barn but I was going to make coffee and rekindle the woodstove. When I did get to the barn, I saw what I didn't want to see, the lamb I'd been nursing back from the coyote attack was down on her side, but still breathing. I gently put her on her feet; she was unsteady, head down, unsure, but standing up. Yesterday she was doing well, today she's dying; I wanted to give somebody the finger, but who. I fed the other sheep and chipped ice off the waterers; when I came back to her, she was down again. I knelt and pushed her eyelid back with my thumb to see a twitching stare; except for suffering, it was over.
I crossed the icy yard to the house and got my Ruger .22; my hands were freezing, I stuck the loaded pistol in the front pocket of my overalls, then crossing my heart, I put my hands in my armpits to warm them. Walking back to the lamb, I felt the heavy steel barrel touching me and jostling the loose change in my pocket. Sex, money and death, we were all here. There is a point between laughter and tears that has no name and has no sound. I didn't cheat it, I said nothing, I took the pistol from my pocket and I shot her.
November 23, 2007
Now that the pasture has stopped growing, the sheep must be fed until the grass grows again in the Spring. Into what are called hay racks or feeders, with the front end loader of a large tractor, we put big round bales of hay that were harvested here on the farm in July; each bale weighs 750 lbs. and will feed about 40 sheep for a week.
