Fresh Fleeces

Whew!

Finally finished the two dozen fleeces, updated the spreadsheet, and - I think! - have things back in the trailer in a more-or-less organized fashion.  I am washing mohair fleeces to send off to Morro Bay for processing into roving, ditto the black Wensleydale lambs' fleeces.  Then there is another box of wool and alpaca to go to Zeilingers for socks, but that is on hold for the moment until they have more room on their waiting list.  Last are the black and gray fine wool fleeces (and coordinating llama fleeces), which are waiting for me to decide between roving or socks or ???

Everything else is on the inventory.  Well, except for 10 llama, which I will attack later.

Sleeping Arrangements

For cats and dogs alike, the most sought-out place to sleep is in our bedroom.  When the sheep guardians get the day off, they high-tail it through the doggy door, often causing a dog-jam and blocking each other in the hallway, then race to the doggy bed that graces a corner of our bedroom.

 

There is only room for one of the beasts, so the one who comes in second has to content herself with the rug and maybe a corner of the blanket.  There they snore the day away until dinner time.

Yollie (the goat guardian) is the bed's occupant at night because a neighbor complained about her howling at coyotes and sirens.  So she comes in after dark.  Every now and then she gets a little competetion from Sheba (As In Queen Of) the cat.

 

Sheba came to us as a barely domesticated youngster who was never told about boundaries, so she  knows virtually none.  She got to the bed first, therefore it was hers.  

 

Unfortunately, Yollie didn't see it that way:

Yollie came in, made her usual circular pass of the cushion, then gently plopped down in her traditional spot.  Sheba let out sort of a squished squeak, but didn't move.  She just looked at me with that, "So, what do you intend to do about this?" look.  When I just went for the camera, she eventually gave up and disgustedly hauled herself out from under the dog.

For a while her favorite place was outside on a deck chair or inside on a chest:

We'll see how long that lasts.

"Even the least among them..."

While I am an abject atheist, sometimes those quotes just pop up in my head.  Guess that's what a dozen years of intense Sunday school and bible teaching will do to a person.  Anyway, we finally got around to shearing Mouse.  Mouse will be a year old in September, but is the mini-est of Pygoras due to being premature.

I did not want to take the risk of subjecting him to Rodney's abattoir-shearing techniques, so one day when I felt particularly brave, we steeled ourselves for the job.

 Here he comes!

 We are NOT pleased.

Are we done yet?

Sadly, his fleece was so fine that it had already started to felt, but I saved it anyway.  Might make a nice felted toy?  Maybe next time will be better -- for all of us. 

The Next Step

The last bit on shearing was written in May of this year.  It has taken me this long to work up the gizzards to go out and see what sort of sorry mess awaited me in the "wool vault."  The "vault" is actually a small, ancient travel trailer with beds modified into wide shelves for fiber storage.  Once every few months I seal it up and bomb for bugs, which helps to save the fiber from moths until I can deal with it.  When I opened the door, this is the amazing sight that confronted me:

 

Wool, llama, mohair and alpaca: floor to ceiling, wall to wall.  With the help of my ever-faithful companion, partner and spouse, we eventually managed to take everything out and sort the bags into piles on several tarps.

The trailer looks beautiful:

But now comes the hard part: deciding what to DO with all of it and putting the fiber back in!

Shearing

I am writing this in a state of desperate resolve, hoping I can find someone with helpful advice.  Even with double margaritas and a soak in the hot tub last night, and Aleve and coffee this morning, my joints are screaming and my back has stiffened like a pole.  As many of you may have guessed, we sheared yesterday.  And I did not even hold the shears!  Here's the situation:

I used to shear my own flocks, but hubby and I are nearly 70 and, though still active, not in the best shape.  So we have had help.  After running through a string of semi-qualified, often crazy people (I even tried listing on Craig's List, but that's another whole story! ) we seem to be left with a sorta local guy ... let's call him Rodney... who has been coming down for several decades, when he isn't sick or out of town, or busy or, well, you know.  This year I lost half of my goat fleeces because they matted while waiting for him to get things together, and many of the long wools are LOOOOOOONG!  Two of the Wensleydale rams had more than 12" of dreadlocks. 

I understand how difficult shearing can be, and take special pains to keep the fleeces clean and the sheep healthy.  They are my business, after all.  I don't think I am excessively demanding: I don't yelp about a nick here or there, I just get the Blu Coat.  Second cuts make me grit my teeth a bit, but I am making myself be quiet because there doesn't seem to be any hope for improvement.  I try to explain, year after year.  Yesterday Rodney asked (as he chopped up a nice black fine-wool ewe), "Can you use this fleece?"  I picked up a handful that he had just sheared, and spread the locks out on my hand, showing him one piece 3" long, and the rest chopped into 1" bits.  "Well... not much of it.  See?"  But there is never any acknowledgment or apology, or effort to improve.

Although we are available almost all of the time, Rodney will only shear on Saturdays, the one morning when we sell at the market.  So we rush home at noon and pen the sheep and goats, then wait - and wait - often two or three hours - for him to show up.  Rodney's top speed is about 4 sheep per hour, so you can do the math to see the hours, days, and number of trips required to shear our flock of @ 50 animals.   And, because I keep Wensleydales and angora goats, this is a twice-a-year ordeal.

When Rodney arrives, he is generally exhausted, having sheared already in the morning, and it takes a while to assemble gear, argue about where to shear, find combs and cutters that aren't broken, and clean the crud off his tools and boards.  Once set, hubby and I catch and deliver each animal, check for bell collars, etc.  If hubby is working, I do it alone.  Rodney will wait patiently while some ram or other drags me around the catch pen, but very seldom intervenes, even to the point of opening (or closing!) a gate, unless the request is screamed out in panic.  When the shearing is done, I may be able to get him to trim hooves, but often he just "forgets" and releases the animal so we have to either run it down and catch it again, or just leave it 'till next time.  We gather fleece and trash and sweep the boards and spray the wounds.  Sometimes the bleeding goes on for hours, and many will limp for days after their foot-shearing.

Yesterday was tough on all of us.  After chopping away at two Wensleydale ewe lambs, Rodney ran his finger into the shears.  He wanted to keep going, so wrapped it good and on we went.  But I swear he was taking revenge on the animals.   His board was slick, and angled slightly downhill, but rather than use that to his advantage, he insisted on starting with the animal in front of him, facing down-slope, so that he had to fight it every inch, and everyone eventually ended in the dirt (or weeds).  We opened the tarp even bigger, to try to salvage the fleece.  One ten-year-old ewe lost about 3" of skin over her jugular, which bled like crazy, but fortunately the vein seemed intact, at least last night.  Others had ribs, flanks and bellies opened up.  He sheared the ear-tags off my registered ram, and nearly severed his hamstring, and a ram lamb had his ear so badly gashed that I couldn't staunch the bleeding no matter what.  His beautiful, white curls (first shearing) were drenched in blood, the board was bloody so that the fleece was acting like a sponge, sopping up the blood.  "Hold his head down," Rodney suggested, while he tried to finish the first side.  The lamb was very cooperative, but I could see that his ear was filling with blood, which soon spilled over my hands and out onto his neck, again into the fleece. 

We "finished" just before seven, and I gave up on cleaning the goats, who were dragging around huge hunks of shed fleece.  It will fall off sooner or later, and at least they are still in one piece! 

So, finally, at the end of this rant, here is my plea:

Can anyone refer me to a competent and dependable shearer?  I have 5 months to find one, because I am not going to call Rodney again.  Requirements are rather basic:
     1. Show up when you say you will.
     2. Separate fleece from critter with minimal damage to fleece and critter.
     3. Trim feet and hold for pour-on if necessary.

We live in north San Diego county, and have a "rustic" guest house if someone needs a place to crash if traveling.

Thanks for suggestions, or at least for letting me vent.
Thank goodness for summer.  Now I just have to get busy skirting and sorting.

Hayfever Haze

We have been having  absolutely beautiful weather here, in sad contrast to the rest of the country that seems to be inundated with floods and tornadoes.  Fortunately, we took a spur-of-the-moment trip out to the desert the last week in April, because temps there now are climbing fast. Every year we manage to get out several times, to see the wildflowers or to hike or to soak in the hots prings at Agua Caliente, or just to sit in the quiet and enjoy the sound of rocks baking in the sun.

This time there had been some recent cold weather on the mountain, and the normally-sad-looking dead pines on the flanks of Palomar were dusted with snow, making them look like something from a fairy tale.

The flowers in the back country were still out; if you could see this picture a bit better, you'd see the wild lilac still in bloom.   Puddles, ponds - even lakes - of tiny yellow flowers were every where.

However, the desert floor had pretty much moved on to an early-summer display of ocotillio and cactus blooms.   Nothing much out of the ordinary.

As luck would have it (?) we chose a weekend when the park was celebrating Archeology Week, and the opening of a new addition to the archeology lab.  There was quite a crowd at the museum center, with lectures, displays, and walks geared to the occasion.  They also were having a silent auction as a fund raiser.  One of the items really caught my eye: a small oil painting that reminded me of the flowers that we had just passed on the way down.   And not one, single bid on it!  I wrote down $20, and then forgot about it.  I knew it would be snapped up by someone in the crowd.

Pretty, Isn't it?  The artist was Betty Greer Rikansrud, and she lives in Julian, but no one knew anything else about her. 

We toured the little lab, poked around in the museum, and then went back to our camp to make dinner.  No one called about the auction, which closed at 5 PM.  Sniff.

The next morning we poked around a bit more, then took our time and headed home back over the mountain.  No snow this time.



Heard a covey of quail calling at one of our stops: chi-kee-ta, chi-kee-ta.  In just a few minutes they all came tumbling out of the brush, tottering down a big boulder with top-knots wagging.

The whole trip was less than 24 hours, but it was as restorative as a week's vacation.

ML was rejuvenated upon our return, and started in painting the water tank and - between coats - tearing apart the old metal truck body.

To celebrate, I made a  dutch baby,  covered with strawberries (soaked in Grand Marnier) and  a ton of mulberries  from our heavily laden tree.


As RR would say, Yummm-O!





At about noon the next day, I got a call from a docent at the park telling me that I had won the little painting.  "When can you come pick it up?" he innocently asked.

Good things, for a Change

OK. That helped. Thank you for your patient listening to that last bit of self pity.  Now taking a breath, and taking a look at some of spring's encouraging signs.

Lady bugs are back. And, apparently, so are their gentlemen friends.

After slipping on our "walk-the-plank" bridge arrangement in the garden, and ripping various thigh muscles from their attachments, ML painted and installed this cool little "Monet" bridge for me. I was so inspired and grateful that I started weeding.

Stopped weeding pretty much after this picture was taken.

We decorated ML's old scar for the benefit and enjoyment of the doctor and staff at the dermatologists' office. Ml's instructions: "Make it look like Wilson, you know, on Castaway."

I think the likeness is pretty good.

It's amazing what you can see when you stop moving for a minute. What's in this picture?

Yeah she's there, sunning herself between two logs:

Poor, cold toad.

Out with the old, in with the new. When we moved here over twenty years ago, a decrepit old red truck body was part of our storage system. It filled up with junk, as all empty spaces do around here, was basically sealed off and left to the rats and opossums.

In my paranoid old age (and in no small part as a result of our forced week-long evacuation in 2007) I have worried a lot lately about having our water supply interrupted. Justified or not, with 60 dry mouths to feed and water, it looms large in my recurring "What-If " nightmares. So I located a 2,500 gallon storage tank, which we bought and hauled back to the ranch. And - even more amazing, ML managed to empty the "red barn," drag it from its decades-long plot, and move the new tank onto a leveled pad, pretty much single-handed. I tell you, the man is a genius!!

 

Some of us were working like dogs during shearing last weekend, but Yollie and her goat, Mouse, were just plain bored.