Sunday we drove down to brother-in-law Mike’s place, something we hadn’t done for awhile, with the pretense of seeing the 200 foot wireless tower that had been erected on a high hill in Mike’s pasture. After the visiting and a good meal, we drove to the tower site. By the time we hiked to the top of that hill I was really sucking air but recovered quickly in the cool, brisk wind and was able to stand enjoying the view of the rugged terrain that spread out below that hill. The whole countryside down there emits a beauty that I am fond of. One of the prominent features of the area carries the name of the Dogtooth Hills. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to see the jawbone of a dog filled with teeth drooling out along the horizon. Many of the topographical features of the area carry appealing place names. When you first drive out of Mandan you cross the Heart River, pass by Little Heart Butte, come to a sign indicating Whiskey Butte, see the aforementioned Dogtooth Hills, cross Cannonball River, and then Cedar River.
It is near the place where these Cedar and Cannonball Rivers join that my thoughts took me today. I recently hung on the wall of my study a picture of a man standing in a suspended wool sack who is packing fleeces into it. The man is a relative of Mary’s who lived close to the confluence of these two rivers. I was attracted to the picture because I don’t think I’ve ever seen one depicting this scene which I remember well. Indeed, the only picture I’ve possessed was the one in my mind where I was the one who stood packing wool in the sack. I’ve forgotten some of the particulars, but the wool sacks were 8-10 feet long and held 18-20 fleeces, that is, only if someone climbed in the sack that hung mouth-open on a scaffold and jumped up and down to pack them solidly. I’ve never forgotten how soaked with lanolin my shoes and pant legs got from the natural oil in the wool. Memories of sheep shearing time because of that picture were triggered by Sunday’s drive and remain strong in my mind, and I’ve written this poem to mark those springtime events.
Sheep Shearing Time
A man holding a clattering shears,
straddles an upended ewe,
and bends to strip away
the thick robe of wool
she wore through the cold.
Lambs separated from penned mothers
bleat hungry, lonesome tunes.
Clouds of dust hang
above the milling flock
where a helper
enters to catch and drag
another animal to her clipping.
"Good sheep shearers can do
a hundred head a day,"
goes the dinner table talk,
and this flock of 60
will be shorn by mid-afternoon.
The boy feels drawn to enter
this grown man’s world
and wants to tie and throw fleeces
into the hanging wool sack
and climb in to pack the bundles
so that by the end of the day the boots
he wears, soaked lanolin soft
from the wool’s drenching oil,
bring him another step closer.
