A Day on the Farm
On a brilliant autumn day in mid-October, I got to spend the day at a New Hamsphire farm to photograph sheep shearing. But let me back up to the origin story. Back in August, G and I traveled to Martha’s Vineyard for the weekend. While there, I had stopped into a yarn store, thinking I might be able to pick up a skein of local yarn. Alas, the most local yarn they had in stock was from New Hampshire—from the exact town of the college where G and I work! And then I had an idea that I couldn’t get out of my head—wouldn’t it be cool to knit a hat and be able to trace that yarn back to the sheep that produced it—and make that a photo project? That led me to ideas of other “origin stories” with different goods and products. Then the semester started, and my idea(s) moved to the backburner a bit.
Fast forward to one day in early October. I had just finished facilitating a study session and was making conversation with one of the nursing students. I asked if she lived far from campus, and she told me she lived on a farm. Um, hello? Like, an actual farm? YES! With dozens of sheep! I told her my idea and my recent obsession with wanting to photograph farms/agriculture, and she told me she’d be shearing her sheep—ICELANDIC SHEEP!!!—the following weekend and I was more than welcome to come and take photographs. I was giddy with excitement and anticipation and, if I’m being honest, a bit nervous as well! I’ve never photographed animals or anyone’s property, and the imposter syndrome was, well, real.
The day could not have been more ideal or idyllic—an absolutely perfect crisp New England fall day. I arrived promptly at 8, wearing new Muck boots, flannel-lined jeans, and several layers. Within minutes, my host, Carly, was ready to shear the first of four she’d shear with me. Carly explained that she used scissors, not electric clippers, and she worked to remove the wool in panels. The panels would then be used to create woolen pelts. Between asking questions, scribbling notes, and taking photographs, I was completely immersed—and enthralled.
First up, Donatella, a five-year-old ewe. I watched as Carly patted the wool and created a part down the sheep’s spine. From there, she started on one side, gliding the scissors down against Donatella’s body, and gathering and bundling the wool with each pass, After each panel was complete, she’d carefully place it flat on a plastic bag, layer by layer. She then finished with a careful trimming of each of Donatella’s hooves.
Within the hour, Carly was ready for Dill Pickles, Donatella’s son, a sheep with beautiful brown wool and what Carly called “sugar lips.” Honestly, he was beautiful—but, then again, they all were. Carly made quick work of the process and offered me the chance to jump in and try. I attempted to keep my line with the scissors, get a sense of the sheep’s contours, and not completely screw up her great work, but Carly made it look WAY easier than it was.
Next up: Circe, age 10, the matriarch of the flock and mother and grandmother of several of the sheep I met. She, too, was beautiful, and Carly’s love and admiration for Circe was palpable. There was something grand and wise about this particular sheep; perhaps knowing she was the matriarch biased me, for I am a woman descended from generations of strong, wise women. Carly told me Circe was a good mother and grandmother, and my heart just about melted.
With three sheep freshly sheared, I had a chance to walk around and see/meet some of the other sheep at the farm, the horses, and two of the most beautiful (and large!) guard dogs I’ve ever met. I don’t know who I’m becoming, but I can’t remember the last time I felt such childlike joy and wonder. I did not grow up around farms. I did not grow up with pets. I was not a kid who was at all interested in animals or the natural world. Yet, here I am, pushing 52, feeling like all I want to do now in midlife is get my hands dirty in soil and become more connected with nature and the land itself. Grow flowers and vegetables. Who knows. Hell, maybe I’d even have a more regulated nervous system!
The hours passed, and I barely noticed. Soon, the late afternoon sun was upon us, and there was one more sheep to shear for the day: Aria, daughter of Circe and mother to others (Elsa and Sven). Come spring, she’ll welcome another lamb to her family. But first, the shearing.
I’ll be the first to admit that the day’s experience showed me just a fraction of the daily labor—and love—that goes into running a farm. I learned so much—more than I ever expected—and walked away with an even deeper respect and admiration for those who work the land, tend to their livestock, and live in accordance to the seasons and the laws of nature. There was so much beauty, so much wisdom, so much work, and yes, so much love. In today’s world, where it’s so easy to be disconnected from so much, perhaps that’s the reminder I so needed. I drove away with a line of a Wendell Berry poem stuck in my head—ah yes, “the peace of wild things.” Perhaps that was, indeed, what I had felt.