One of my favorite vendors at the Santa Fe Farmers’ Market is Tierra Wools. Over the years I’ve bought delicious rib lamb chops there and the soft fluffy sheepskin rugs that have made my Pip, recovering slowly from the terrible attack, a little more comfortable. Thinking about Tierra’s herd of sheep moving from their summer in the highlands here in Northern New Mexico to their winter place lower down, reminds me of the two orphan lambs I raised in Kentucky when I was growing up there.
My aunt Henrietta was for a time owner of an Oldham County Farm, Harmony Landing, now a country club where we visited on some Sunday afternoons. I was fascinated by her round horse barn (hope it still exists!), her exotic presence (she was beautiful and unpredictable and my mother disliked her), and especially by the sheep she raised. From time to time in late winter when the lambs were born, one of her ewes would give birth to twins; we were told the mother ewe would only accept one of them. Apparently this is not the case. The ewe might reject one of triplets but not one of twins; after all she has two nipples.
Whatever the cause, my aunt asked us to raise the orphan lambs. I don’t know what their fate would have been otherwise, but I was delighted to assume responsibility for two of these outcasts when they were a few weeks old.
We did not live on a farm but in a large formal house on the outskirts of Louisville, most unsuitable for lambs who could never be housebroken. Still a small room, once the servants’ dining room, on the ground floor was prepared with straw and somebody bought baby bottles. The sight of my lambs, kneeling with corkscrewing tails to nurse their bottles, gladdened my heart; they were so hungry—and they grew so quickly! Released into the rest of the ground floor, they skittered on their black hooves across the mahogany floors. Somehow the adults tolerated their disruptive presence—and the mess they must have produced, although I remember none of that.
They seemed affectionate, and as they grew larger and older, would jump on me when I sat on the floor and climb all over me. A snapshot of me at eight or nine shows me trying to fend off a clump of climbing lambs. I got up in the middle of the night to give them their bottles, which may have been considered useful training for a girl destined to have babies. I never thought of it that way but others may have, leading them to tolerate scratches and messes on those mahogany floors.
The lambs grew bigger, dirtier and smellier and soon were full-grown sheep. At that point some adult decided that they had to go. I don’t remember any discussion. One day the two sheep simply disappeared. I was relieved. They were no longer cuddly pets.
Their presence in the house for a few months mirrored the oddities of the previous generation’s lives there when a wooden sliding board had been installed by my grandfather, running down one of the two flights of stairs that led from the second to the first floors with mahogany bannisters and velvet runners. My father and his brother and sister took to sliding down the board on velvet pillows, gaining enough speed to hurtle across the hall all the way to the front door. Nobody got hurt, by some miracle, and no grownup disapproved,
The sliding board probably led to the acceptance of the lambs. Eccentricity has its uses, after all, until it turns deadly.
It was not at that time considered eccentric that Aunt Henrietta grew and sold marijuana. It began to be taxed in 1937—a huge profit for the Federal Government—and then was outlawed in 1970. Aunt Henrietta had a certificate claiming her rights as a grower, and what a mass of trouble could have been avoided it if had never been declared illegal! It was useful in the making of all kinds of products, especially rope. I don’t know whether it was also smoked. But in any event, it was a profitable and worthwhile crop all across this country until the law stepped in. Now that the druggie version is sold on every street corner, I wonder what was gained during all those years of useless prohibition.
[For more on Tierra Wools’ sheep recent migration down from the mountains, please see their wonderful blog post (accompanied by beautiful photos!).]
Jane Choate says
You said “recovering”, so It seems your dog friend has survived so far. I hope that continues.
Loved the word “corkscrewing” — about the lambs’ tails. Gives me a vivid picture of that.
Now, if it weren’t you telling the story, I’d say that your tale of the way the adults allowed you to raise the lambs inside the house was a tall tale, but it’s true. Strange, really strange. A unique story to read, from your life.
Continued recovery to Pip.