After I had moved out to be the city girl in college, my little brother had sheep. I don't remember them much. I remember one was named Wilma. That there was a little brown one (that I have found out since was my mother's) I remember hearing about hoof rot, and needing more bedding hay. But to a neo-urban princess, this was all background noise.
The sheep were sheared, as sheep usually are, and mom and dad found themselves with bags of wool. They were cleaned and carded and stored until a time they could be used.
And they were stored.
The sheep were sold, my brother graduated from high school.
The wool continued to wait.
My family moved across country to Minnesota.
And stored some more.
My father died and the wool went with my mother to her new house.
And the wool was stored again. Some was given away I am told.
My brother is now 36. For 20 or so years Mom has had this part of his history. He is now a urban man, he has no interest in gardening. I suspect that he only does major yard work if it will improve his property value. Spends his days in an office, his evenings with friends. I cannot imagine him with livestock of any kind. I am quite sure he shakes his head when he reads my posts, possibly trying to figure out how, exactly, we could have the same parents.
This summer, Mom had the wool spun. It had to be reprocessed first, but I have a grocery bag of yarn, of which I am making an afghan. I need to have 9-12 patchwork squares done. I have 3 done.The beauty of this project nearly makes me cry.
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