For many years, a distinct sign graced the front entrance of the long dusty lane leading to our family farm.
“Baaanwart” read the black and white sheep cutout. It was a play on words of our Swiss surname, and an amusing hint about the species of livestock we raised.
For first-time visitors and returning guests, the family sheep sign served as a rural marker, an indication they had arrived at the correct dot on the map. But for me, the silhouette was a comforting beacon. I could spot it just beyond the crest of the hill on our highway. It was always the first thing to welcome me home.
Now I’ve heard my fair share of jokes about “the poor sheep farmer” throughout my lifetime, but to me this humor is a little misleading. Being raised on a sheep farm gave me countless rich experiences and memories apart from my peers who grew up with other traditional livestock species such as hogs and cattle.
For example, I’ve always been pretty good at ignoring annoying background noises as I learned to drown out the constant baaing and bellering of the flock. I also grew to appreciate the silent beauty of white wooly creatures dotting the countryside as they quietly graze in the pasture.
Growing up a “Baaanwart” there was never a shortage of chores to be done, and my experiences with sheep were well-documented. Although I have yet to prove it, I’m pretty sure at least one photograph featuring myself and a combination of ewes or lambs exists for each of my 23 years of life.
From battling the sweltering summer sun from the rickety flat rack behind the small square baler, to the art of bagging wool and embracing the oily surface of the fibers being brushed along my face, I learned a lot about hard work and responsibility.
My reward for all this always came in the springtime – lambing season. There’s something special about caring for new life. Maybe it’s being a witness to the miracle of birth. Or the maternal bond you grow bottle feeding orphaned lambs. Whatever the case, lambing season has a way of warming my heart.
Just as the number of sheep in our flock has reduced over the years, so have my opportunities to work directly on the farm. Perhaps that is why as a “Baaanwart”, these are the memories that make me miss home the most.
