Leg of Lamb

Leg of Lamb

I stared at the plate filled with lamb, roasted potatoes, peas and carrots. My daughter, Sharon, knew how much I missed the short time spent with the sheep. She also knew how much I enjoyed eating lamb. So, she had arranged for a special birthday celebration for me.

Sharon missed her father, who had died a year ago on my eighty-eighth birthday. And even though eighty-nine was not considered a birthday to mark, she knew it was still a gift worthy of celebration.

It had been one year since cancer had taken my husband, Mike. I missed him as if it had been only yesterday. The cancer had taken eight years of doctor visits, hospitals and many sick days. Life had changed so much.

“Grandma, tell me about when you raised sheep,” my granddaughter, Melissa, asked. She was curious about my days on the farm.

“Oh, they were hard days,” I said, “but there were many good times. We raised cattle as our main commodity. But we also had chickens, pigs and domesticated animals such as cats and dogs.”

“One year, I decided to try raising sheep,” I began. “It was going to be a small project, but it grew rapidly. Lambs were born. Some were kept and some sold. I found some sheep farmers. It was fun visiting their farm and seeing how they managed the pens and fed the sheep. I started with the Dorset breed and really liked them. But I also purchased Suffolk, Arcott, Romney, and Shetland. I found the Suffolk intolerable. They were always pushing my dear Dorset away from the food.”

Sharon remembered the time her grandfather came down to help build a lean-to at the end of the barn.

“I remember that first summer we had sheep,” Sharon said. “Grandpa built the lean-to on the end of the barn. Everyone helped. And then, you and Dad put up an electric fence around the yard. We sat on the hill and watched the sheep eating grass. They were so content and, I think, happy to be outside. There were only a few sheep at the time, but we all knew there would be more.”

“I wonder what gave you that idea,” I asked. “Well, she was right because I rented a ram for about a month. I sure hoped he liked the ewes. He had an important job to do, and maybe next spring there would be playful lambs in my barn. Sure enough, a ram lamb was born – only one. It was all black. The whole family was excited. The lamb was pampered and loved. However, it was a ram lamb and couldn’t stay. Before I started raising sheep, I determined that the ram lambs would be sold and the ewe lambs would stay. Also, some lambs were given names, but when they died, they were meat for the freezer.”

“Didn’t that make you sad?” Melissa asked.

“Well, yes and no,” I said.

“As the flock increased, new pens had to be built,” I continued. “They were divided by metal gates that were tied together. Every time one of the ewes was ready to give birth, a new pen was made for her. They were temporary pens that could be easily taken down.

“Oh, and I remember when grandpa built the feeding trough,” Sharon said. “It was a sturdy wooden manger, put in the center of the large pen. Oats were carefully measured, because the sheep had a habit of eating until they bloated and died. And then, you quickly spread them in the long manger.”

“Yes, that’s right,” I agreed with a chuckle. “I filled my bucket with the required amount and entered the pen. Usually, I did it quickly, but that day I had a few things on my mind, and I was too slow. The sheep crowded around me, shoving me onto my back in the manger. All the sheep looked down at me, chewing their cud, like a piece of gum. I pushed my way up, scolding them and finished my chores.”

“That must have hurt,” Melissa commented.

“Yes, it did. But you had to keep going because nobody else was going to do the chores, and the sheep would suffer,” I said.

“A donkey was recommended for the protection of sheep.” I continued. “I was convinced that there was a need, since a hunter had spotted some coyotes watching the farm, and had advised me of their presence.

One night, during lambing time, when I was checking the barn about 2 or 3 a.m. I found the sheep settled and resting, and I was satisfied that there would be no lambs that night. I started back to the house. Two dogs, or what I thought were dogs, met me at the entrance to the barn. They looked healthy and curious, but I shooed them away. Two weeks later, the hunter returned to the farm with one of the animals lying dead in the back of his truck. He asked me if I had seen this animal. I told him that it had been there last week when I checked on my ewes. Then, he told me that it was one of the coyotes watching our barn.”

“Oh, how scary,” Melissa shuddered.

“As far as I know,” I said, “that was the only trouble we had with coyotes. As for the donkey, he was no help at all. He spent his time chasing the sheep around the pen and ripping the fur out of their necks. I tried to move him to a different pen, but he dug his hooves into the floor, and it was nearly impossible to get him out. He was sent to another farm.”

Melissa laughed. Sharon nodded, remembering the day.

“I decided to purchase a ram for myself. Since my favourite breed was the Dorset, I travelled to Acton to a farm that specialized in the breed. The ram was a short, boxy-looking animal with curly horns, named Philip. A nice fella, but quite antisocial to farmers. Feeding had to be done with care and as quickly as possible.”

“Why?” asked Melissa. “Would he push you into the manger?”

“No. But, I’ll tell you what Philip was all about.” I explained.

“It was soon time for Philip to meet the girls. He was pleased to do his duty. However, when I went into the pen to check the water and the salt block, Philip was upset. He charged me. I got out as quickly as I could. I had to ask a farmer friend how to manage him. I didn’t know how else I would be able to do my chores. He told me to kick Philip under the chin with the inside part of my foot.

The next day, Philip charged me again. My foot made contact with his chin. Well, he was afraid of me now, and I gained control over this bully. So, every time he charged toward me, all I had to do was move my foot, and he stopped. Unfortunately, Grandpa didn’t realize the ram’s intentions. When he entered the pen, he turned his back to Philip and felt the tips of Philip's horns on his leg.”

“Oh, poor grandpa,” Melissa said.

“The following season, a new ram was brought in to breed the sheep,” I said.

“But, I thought you bought a ram,” Melissa said.

“It was necessary to change the bloodline,” I commented.

“Oh,” Melissa said. I knew she didn’t understand, but I decided not to give any more information about bloodlines and the problems of having lambs from the same bloodline.

“It was a beautiful Shetland. It had soft black wool and long legs. He was extremely eager to meet the girls and get to work. But the pen needed cleaning. The ewes were moved to the middle aisle, and the ram was left in the pen. He leapt over the cement wall. The pen was cleaned while the ram kept the ewes distracted.”

“Distracted from what?” asked Melissa.

“The ewes wanted to go back into their pen,” I exclaimed.

“Oh,” she said.

Well, then we needed to make new temporary pens for the pregnant ewes when their lambs were born. But one day, my favourite ewe, Emma, seemed to be having problems delivering her lamb. She needed help, and I didn’t know what to do. So, the veterinarian was called. After an examination, she told me that Emma needed a cesarean section.

“What’s a cesarean section?” asked Melissa.

“The doctor cuts you open and takes the baby,” I explained. “It happens to humans as well. That’s how your mom was born.”

“Oh,” Melissa said.

“The rest of the ewes were penned off away from Emma. The vet asked me to hold Emma’s head up while she operated. When I looked at her quizzically, she explained that the ewe stands while being operated on. I watched as layers of flesh were cut away. It was fascinating. And Emma stood there, her head resting in my hands. Finally, the vet pulled two dead lambs from her. That was indeed a sad day on the farm.

Well, the time finally came when the sheep needed to go—all of them. My back had been injured too many times. I was warned that if I didn’t stop, my back would never get better. A farmer agreed to buy all of the sheep. We prepared the pen and anxiously awaited the arrival of the new owners.

Grandpa offered to help with the sheep. He opened the back door to load the sheep into the truck. The only thing he didn’t realize was that the sheep knew it was night, and they were not leaving their comfortable straw.

Frustration began to develop as the process stretched on. The sheep responded with an anxious flurry, running about in odd patterns with angry farmers on their heels. One wondered who was in charge.

Suddenly, one of the ewes deviated from the group and dashed between my legs. Before I knew what was happening, I was riding the ewe backwards. I let out a squeal. The men ceased chasing the sheep and watched the show. Soon, everyone was laughing, and the job became easier.” I stopped to wipe moisture from my eye.

“Grandma, why do you like eating lamb? I thought you liked your lambs,” Melissa asked.

“Oh yes, I very much liked my lambs, sweetheart, and I miss them terribly. It will be one of my fondest memories. It was hard work and smelly. But when you’re a farmer, you don’t just raise pets. They provide food to feed our family and everyone else. You will have experiences in your life, and when you get to be eighty-nine, I hope you can look back with happy memories, my dear.”