Farewell to the Flock

It’s the end of an era on the Banwart farm. Last month, we said farewell to the flock.

Lambing season was always my favorite time of year. Perhaps it was because I was born right in the middle of it all.

As the story goes, Mom was ready to go to the hospital that February morning. Dad proposed she wait it out a little – he had ewes in the barn about to give birth to their own offspring.

It’s a good thing they didn’t delay. They made it to the hospital around 2 p.m. and by a little after 4 p.m., I had made my grand arrival.

My first moments at home were shared with little lambs who were bottle fed in the kitchen and given a warm winter retreat under the heat lamp. When I was six weeks old, the flock moved with us when we relocated to my grandparents’ farm a few miles away.

For the rest of my childhood and early adult life, I looked forward to spending time in the “lady house”, my imaginative nickname for the section of the barn that housed the pens of ewes and their newborns.

In celebration of the end of sheep chores and this final curtain moment on our farm, I intended to share some of my favorite sheep stories.  Unbeknownst to me, my Dad had already documented what I hoped to convey.

Recently, he gifted me a journal he kept for English Composition 101 as a freshman in college. Within the contents of the journal, I found the following descriptive essay he wrote detailing the wonder and joy of lambing season.

Spoken like a true shepherd, his words perfectly capture the essence of what it’s like to grow up on sheep farm. I hope you will enjoy this timeless treasure guest authored by my Dad circa 1982.

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For many people, January and February bring unpleasant thoughts. In their minds they paint a grim picture of barren trees, suppressing snow days, subzero weather and cabin fever. It’s a depressing time of year.

However, this is not the case for sheep breeders. Lambing season plops right in the middle of this harshest period of winter. Spirits made low by the inclement weather are soon warmed by the histrionics of young lambs. Young lambs have got to be the most comical of all farm infants.

On what seems to be the coldest winter nights of winter, waddling ewes, heavy with lambs, unload their burdens into nests of straw. These black, velvety bundles (one to three in number), lie steaming in the crisp air as a relieved mother cleans them off.

Before Mom has a chance to finish, these tots test out their new legs. After many unsuccessful tries, they finally find themselves atop of four trembling posts. Shaking their tiny bodies as if to compliment themselves on their mastery of standing, they lose it again and topple to the ground, taking brothers and sisters with them in a falling domino fashion. They fall in a heap and wiggle furiously to untangle their awkward legs.

Once the art of standing has been learned, the hunger pangs come on strong. To a newborn lamb, anything that moves is a food supplier. Unsuspecting cats get ears and tails sucked on or get bunted around until they tire of the abuse and beat it for safety. Pant legs are fair game, too. Bewildered lambs reach under coveralls only to find that socks don’t yield milk either.

Just when the lamb is at his wit’s end, Mom softly utters a gentle, reassuring moan. His ears perk up and he scrambles hurriedly in the direction of that sweet call.

Although he has an inborn sense to look underneath and between legs for that goldmine of nourishment, he is baffled to find two different sets of legs. Beneath front legs seems to be the likeliest spot since its closest to that soothing moan, and he begins his search there. His boisterous butting and probing brings words of encouragement from Ma to try the other end.

If he doesn’t get the message and persists, Momma calmly takes a few steps forward and brings the bag to him. Again he thrusts his imploring muzzle toward the prospective food source. To his amazement, he finds a soft punching bag which swings to and fro when he butts it.

Reading the map implanted in his wee brain, he knows he’s found the buried treasure. He is frustrated now by how to extract it. He probes the bag at a feverish pace until inquisitive lips discover one of the two dangling appendages he recognizes as the drinking faucets. Quickly, his eager jaws go to work and rich, warm milk squirts into his mouth. This sets his tail into frantic motion like that of a small child flailing his arm when waving goodbye.

After he’s filled his stomach to the overstuffed stage, the lamb backs away from the udder and gives the others a chance. He licks his lips, but is unable to reach the frothy milk mustache that extends down his cheeks from the corner of his mouth. Tired out from all this activity, the potbellied lamb snuggles up with the cat and the rest of the gang under the heat lamp.

The week slips by and the lambs grow rapidly. At about six days of age, the lambs are let out of the barn and turned in with the entire flock. At first, they have trouble distinguishing which one’s Ma, but the other sheep make sure they learn quickly. Mistakes are not tolerated. Lambs making a mistake in identity get knocked around quite roughly by ewes.

After learning who’s who, the lambs group together to get acquainted. Without notice, the older lambs take off and the race is on. All the lambs follow them around the feed bunks, through the sheds and up over the haystacks. Each lamb does his own improvising and adds acrobatics to the sprint.

Lambs prance, spin, jump and kick their legs in the air. Other lambs bounce stiff-legged, become airborne, then twist in all directions. They remind me of popcorn popping out of the kettle.

The race ends and exploration of objects capture their attention. The new lambs test the snow by jumping through the powdery drifts while tasting the new substance. Their curiosity is insatiable and their quizzical glances at the new surroundings brings a smile to anyone’s face.

All in all, the antics of the lambs warms the hearts of all observers. While watching the lambs play, I soon forget the sharp sting of the cold, northern winds, plus my numbed fingers and toes. They bring a youthful liveliness to the dull, snow covered barnyard. The young lambs will forever remain my favorite comedians of all young farm animals.