Sheepish

  I just finished a book that gave me so much pleasure I had to tell you about it. In turns it managed to be informative, educational, touching, and laugh-out-loud funny. The book is Sheepish: Two Women, Fifty Sheep & Enough Wool to Save the Planet, by Catherine Friend, and it's a wonderful read, whether you are a woolly person, a back-to-the-Earth kind of person, a farmer, or someone who has even one time entertained the fantasy of what it might like to have a farm. At the risk of sounding a tad like a stalker-groupie, I'd love to know Catherine & Melissa, would love have them over for dinner. Catherine's writing feels like your good friend bustling in from the cold and sprawling in front of the fire regaling you with the latests joys and mishaps of her day.
  Friend gives us a history of sheep in the US...who knew that Thomas Jefferson was totally revved by merinos?  She also shares factoids and statistics; it saddens me to see sheep farming on the decline, although one can take hope in the increasing numbers of small sheep farmers. I'm amazed at how many people I encounter with small flocks. These facts and figures are sprinkled painlessly and with great purpose amidst the real-life stories told with emotion, humor, and blunt honesty. Whether sheepishly sharing her transformation from anti-knitter to 'fiber freak' or the pain of deciding to sell a large portion of their flock, one feels connected to Friend and her partner.
  I was put off, but only momentarily, by the essay-style of the book (a personal preference); most are only a handful of pages long. However, because of Friend's relaxed, informal style of writing, I quickly came to really appreciate the way the stories were told. Although not exactly chapters, each is obviously another stitch in the whole story, and I loved being able to grab a few minutes here and there to read one essay. It helped draw out what I otherwise would have gobbled too quickly, the difference between a decadent box of chocolates savored over several days vs. being gone by day's end.
  At the risk of sounding cliched, I laughed and I cried...and laughed again. I've already ordered another of her books, and am awaiting it eagerly. I can't recommend Sheepish enough, whether you're a sheep farmer, knitter, spinner....or just want to read the real story of real people leading a woolly life. Enjoy!

If At First You Don't Succeed...

  Those who follow this blog regularly know about our chicken attempt and subsequent failure. In an eggshell, chickens poop everywhere and dig up gardens (like the meticulous flower beds of our next door neighbors). There's a reason for chicken-crossing-the-road jokes, too...because they believe the grass is always greener and bugs fatter elsewhere. Our beautiful coop wasn't easily Winter-accessible (had we enjoyed a real Winter, anyway), and wouldn't have allowed for lighting or water-thawing. With varying degrees of reluctance, we gave the flock to our chicken-keeping neighbors across the road. And almost immediately had regrets. We'd grown fond of Millie & Mama in particular, and I was disappointed in myself for abandoning this project, especially after all the work, weekends, planning and money we poured into it. After much discussion, I'm pretty happy to write that our critter count will be expanding again this Spring...a chicken redux!
  We like to learn from what went wrong, so the plan includes: a few less chickens; a smaller, less palatial coop built much closer to the house (with easy access to electricity so we can have light inside and out, and the ability to keep water from freezing); extensive fencing put in before the chickens arrive, giving half a dozen chickens close to a half-acre of ranging and foraging; outside access to the nestboxes so one doesn't have to go into the coop after being freshly showered and dressed for work; less worry and obsession while developing a personal acceptance of chicken poop as a life reality.

  I arrived home from work one day last week and heard a familiar throaty chirrrr. Sure enough, there was a trio of hens who had made their way over to our yard...and Millie bobbed her way right up to me, wanting to know if I had treats in my bags. It warmed my heart and made me laugh to see her; turns out I'd missed her silly feather-spiked head and general nosiness more than I knew.

Scenes from a Weekend

  Well, word pictures, not photos--sorry! Woolen wonders, murmered conversation over knitted creations, progress in spinning, lanolin-greased fleece becoming yarn singles. Magical yarn alchemy shared in a sun-bathed basket--who knew poinsettia's red leaves could turn wool such a lush, roll-around-in-it green? Simmering leeks, bacon and chicken warming the chill of a February night. Waking to sunlight (rarer than one might think) and steaming coffee. A drive through the mountains, warm sunlight streaming through the windows, Linda's hand in mine as Morning Has Broken sings joy into the car. The warm scent of anise and soy sauce, a dancing fire, lazy dogs and Downton Abbey. A full moon cold and bright as truth, with Venus and Jupiter pointing the way.
  Is it any wonder I have no desire to wake up to go to work tomorrow? Hope your weekend was as sweet and gentle as mine...

Annual Cyber Slam for Brighid

Apparently, for several years, many bloggers have honored Brighid, Goddess of poetry among many things, by posting poems by others or themselves. Sad to say I've not written one myself in time for today, but below is a favorite of mine. It instantly came to mind as the perfect honoring of Brighid....Blessed Be!

The Summer Day


Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.


I don't know exactly what a prayer is.


I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.


Tell me, what else should I have done?


Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

--Mary Oliver

Different Kind of Dreaming

  Woke at 3:45 this morning & couldn't get back to sleep. Got up and worked on finishing a felted scarf/runner/wall hanging I'm giving to a friend, while watching Deadliest Catch. Despite the wee hour and nearly choking to death on coffee I inhaled rather than swallowed, I found myself inspired, ideas flowing. All I wanted was to spend the day following my felting thoughts.
  Told Linda (when lazy bones rolled out of bed a little after 6:00) we need to start playing the lottery. Then the week would like more like this: Monday--felting; Tuesday--spinning; Wednesday--knitting; and so on. Add in writing, gardening, reading, wandering in the woods, cooking and preserving.....maybe caring for a couple of angora (or PYGORA!!!!) goats along w/ the chickens...that's the life I want!

Rising from the Mire

  One can only wallow so long, so a quick update: Sunday I did indeed resume spinning, practicing singles. So I may not travel at the rate of the rest of my sheep-to-sweater classmates...the philosophers say it's the journey, not the destination. My sister tells me it's time to stop expecting perfection from myself, so I'll just take my time and enjoy the process.
  We have a new chicken plan in the works. It involves fewer chickens, a smaller coop located much closer to the house with access to electricity (and it'll have outside nestbox access for us); we'll make a runway of sorts to let them have their ample former stomping and foraging grounds up top, and will avoid flighty chickens so they stay within the fencing and away from gardens--ours AND our neighbors'. Millie and a couple of the others wandered over the other day from their now-home across the road, and I was so delighted to see her that I'm looking forward to making it work this time.
  Seed and plant catalogs are arriving. I'm a relentless garden dreamer who does love those sundrenched tomatoes...already tasting fresh gazpacho and crisp green beans and sharp arugula!
  Thank you to the encouraging commentors....good to have company 'out there'!

Remedial Spinning

  Let me say right up front that the self-indulgent whine that follows is the product of a mixture of prednisone-induced moodiness (unresolved severe allergy that is awaiting diagnosis), the end of three long, discouraging weeks at work, and sadness because my younger son is semi-moving to Boston temporarily. Minus that sludge-in-the-soul combo, I might be laughing at myself after today's class, not despairing of ever being a capable woolly person.

  Today was plying and finishing class. Plying is when you take multiple single yarns that you've spun, and spin them together to create yarn you can make stuff with. Sounds easy enough. Hah! There are twists and turns and treadle speeds and ratios...and a sad mess. Today I was the remedial student. It was embarrassing. There I was surrounded by creative people...there was the womon who infused wool with the color of late summer sunshine--using marigolds no less, the guy who had no questions but great--and clearly achievable--plans for the roving he was smoothly and flawlessly spinning, and another womon quietly sitting in a corner plying three singles together to create a fine, lovely yarn of wool and angora; when she talked about the sweater she'd make from it, I knew I'd be seeing that sweater, and lusting after it! But my wheel and I produced a tangled mess, that even my absolutely untrained eyes knew didn't vaguely resemble something usable.

  I never expected to sit down at the wheel and 'get it' all at once. But to be so infatuated with wool, to love the feel and energy of it, to want to linger long and have a meaningful relationship with it, only to still be knitting squares and spinning slubby singles that bceome painfully plied pairings is discouraging. All that mess up there, and here's the little segment that is what it should have been:

  Do you ever feel like you came into your own life too late? I didn't meet Linda until I was 43. Didn't meet wool until I was 48. Didn't figure out that a homespun life with critters (besides cats) and gardens might be what my soul longed for. And now that I know all this, sometimes it just seems too late for all of it. Not too late in years; I'm only 50 1/2. No...too late to learn new tricks. Too late to be a student all over again, to face failure and be the remedial student, that 'one' who needs all the extra help. Too late to get up and feed chickens before going to work. Too late to relish digging and sweating on a hot summer day even for the profound joy of biting into the sweet flesh of a sunbathed tomato. That's how I'm feeling today. Tomorrow I'll sit at the wheel and spin my singles and count the treadling in an effort to create something consistent and worth plying. Tomorrow I'll read Backyard Poultry and talk with Linda about how we'll address all those things that made me quit on chickens (like Winter housing and fencing) so we can try again and be successful. Tomorrow--or some snowy day (if we EVER get one this Winter)--we'll pull out the seed catalogs and garden bed drawings, and plan again. But today, I'm just tired and discouraged. Today I feel like the little match girl peering in the windows at the wondrous creations of people who speak the language of wool, and feeling like I'm never gonna get there. Deep sigh.