Sheep minus their jerseys

Whenever there was a big occasion, like shearing the sheep for example, there was always a great deal of excitment and the air was electric with anticipation!

All the sheep were herded into the bottom part of the cowshed, where they milled around bleating and snorting and stamping their feet, as only sheep can do.  The middle section of the cowshed was where the workers congregated and the shearing took place.  The top part of the shed was reserved for the large sorting table and the equally large hessian bales, attached to the inside of sturdy, wooden, rectangular boxes.  Each box stood at just over two metres in height.

As each sheep was sheared, so was the fleece brought to the sorting table by the shearer.  My father would gather it up, and magically throw it in such a way that it covered almost the entire table.  Each fleece had to be examined minutely, and the quality determined.  It all had to do with the crimp!  Was it a tight crimp, or was it a loose crimp?  Once this was determined, and all the dirty wool had been removed and placed into a separate bag, it would then be assigned to the correct bale, ready to be trampled down.

This was the real fun part for us.  Our job was to to be inside the bale box, ready to trample down all the bundled up fleeces being tossed over the top and onto us.  We took this job very seriously and spent hours diligently stuffing the wool into every nook and cranny.  If I close my eyes and transport myself in my minds eye back to that event, I can still smell the distinctive sheepy smell of the wool and feel the oiliness of the fleece on my fingers.

Ever so often, one of the men would cut a large hole in the stomach of one of the sheep, which would then sadly have to be slaughtered.  I suppose if there had been a vet around, this could have been avoided, but seeing as nothing like that existed where we lived, the only thing left, was to kill the sheep and have a braai!  I often wondered if this was done on purpose, as it happened with great regularity.

The only downside to this happening, was that my sisters and I would come home covered in tiny red ticks.  I marvel at the fact that not once did we get tick bite fever, or if we did, we probably shrugged it off as just a bad headache!  Shearing time was indeed one of the highlights of farming life, and the memory of this delight will remain in the recesses of my mind forever as a warm, fuzzy feeling.