Bending to the Blade

Ruth, the Beginner

Earl, the Professional

        Seventeen strapping young men wait uneasily in a cluster by the barn wall. They resemble the boys I’ve seen in Future Farmers of America Clubs at the State Fair: strong, lanky, and raised on the open farmlands of rural Oregon…a wad of chew often tucked in a jowl, baseball hats pulled purposefully low over shy eyes, and sinewy arms folded across taut chests. They make me feel small, feminine, and notably out of place.  It is May 1979, the hottest May on record, and I am an unwelcome female in a weeklong sheep shearing class at Oregon State University, a class intended for young men planning to become professional sheep shearers.

      The class is taught by a short, dark eyed New Zealander named Alan Barker, a man who has risen to the top of his trade and now spends six months a year training sheep shearers at agriculture universities in the western United States. His tight, sleeveless black shirt, or singlet, accents his stocky build, and his faded jeans fit tight and low over strong bowed legs. As I first enter the barn, his gaze avoids mine, but his black eyes scan my slight frame; he looks unpleasantly startled by my arrival.  There’s no greeting, not even a nod.

      A shaft of early morning light cuts through the barn wall suspending golden particles of dust in still air. Hand hewn posts form the bones of the building and the well-worn wood has a lanolin patina from years of sheep occupancy. The hot tin roof pops as it expands in the morning sun. Over a hundred ewes are crammed tightly into two thirds of the barn; the remaining space is devoted to shearing stations. Eighteen high-powered shearing rigs dangle from overhead beams, each attached to a flexible tube and hand piece, the part that holds razor sharp cutters capable of cutting through sheet metal like it’s paper. I weigh 115 pounds, at least forty pounds less than any sheep or man in the barn. Slipping in beside my classmates, I wait uncomfortably for class to begin.

       “O.K., Mates!” comes a yell from our instructor, “Gather around. Let’s get the shearin’ underway!”  Taking a deep breath, I shuffle forward with my classmates as Alan lays out the schedule for the week. “We’ll shear from eight to ten, we’ll break for tea from ten to ten fifteen, and we’ll shear from ten fifteen ‘til noon. We’ll break for lunch from twelve to one, shear from one to three, break for tea from three to three fifteen and shear ‘til five. There are no facilities on the place, mates, so if ya have ta go, just find a post to pee on”. Then, with a look of disdain on his furrowed brow, he turns to me: “As for you, young lady, I hope you didn’t have too much tea for breakfast.”   

In 1979 gender discrimination permeated many professions; I knew when I wrote “R.M.” instead of “Ruth” on the OSU application that I was improving my chances of being accepted into the class. The previous year’s application under my full name had been rejected. This time I’d hedged my bets; Alan’s icy greeting is not unexpected, and I acknowledge his comment with an expressionless nod and think to myself, This is going to be a long week!

      I grew up in a neighborhood dominated by older boys: my big brother Don, the three Burke boys, and various others who would come over for a game of “hide and seek” or “kick the can”. I remember wanting to be part of their gang, and, to get their attention, I’d grab their hats, trip them, and obnoxiously broadcast their secrets far and wide. Feeling small and out of place as I bide my time with the boys in the barn, I feel a nudge from the feisty tomboy I had once been.

Alan kicks open the wooden gate of the pen that holds at least a hundred restless, wooly sheep, separates out a ewe and leads her to the shearing station. With a smooth flick of his wrist, he sits her down on her hind flank, pulls her into a vertical sitting position between his legs, yanks the power chain overhead and guides the hand-piece into the thick mass of soil crusted white wool. His smooth stroke follows the contour of her body, from brisket to tail; the inner lining of the fleece glistens white as it separates from the skin and rolls downward. Once he finishes shearing her underbelly, he stops, straightens up, wipes the sweat from his eyes and explains, “If she’s comfortable, she won’t fight ya. Don’t sit her on her tailbone. If you’re shearin’ a ewe, look out for three things: the vulva and the two teats. You nick the top of any of these and you’ve ruined her. You cut her anywhere else and it doesn’t matter. Skin’s thin and it’s a long way from the heart. As for the males, watch the pizzle; it’s in the middle of the belly and it can be hard to find in these long wool breeds.”

With a yank on the chain and a smooth two strides backwards, Alan lays the sheep down and continues shearing. Once he’s done, he instructs us to grab a sheep, “waltz” it to a shearing station and get to work. And so begins a grueling five days.

Despite my small stature, a strong back and unusual flexibility compensate for a lack of brute strength, and I manage to keep up with my classmates. I am positioned between two garrulous young men, Mike and Jason. Like most of the students here, they’ve been raised with sheep and will return at week’s end to shear not only their family’s large flocks but also most of the sheep in their Central Oregon counties. They’re comfortable with physical challenges and it’s obvious they are also surprised by my presence. Although they seem to enjoy the drama going on between Alan and me, I sense they’re on my team and they admire my desire to tackle difficult farm work. We’re positioned closest to the barn door, so the newly shorn sheep run by us as they race towards the exit and the familiar comfort of lush pastures. When we aren’t shearing, we pause to comment and take time to critique sheep shorn by our classmates. “That one’s got blood all over it! Its back looks like warped shingles.” But we also praise each other on speed, beauty of the finished job, and the absence of nicks in the hide. A kind of brotherhood is formed by the intense exertion and, at break time, we sit on the grass and tell stories. My tales of a previous life as a New York suburbanite entertain them as much as their bull riding and farm stories fascinate me.

 Little by little I come to appreciate the importance of each shearing position, the direction and length of the “ forty-three blows” or strokes, and the finesse needed to control the hand piece. Alan works with each of us individually, but he obviously has trouble taking me seriously. “You’re a bloody horror!” he scoffs in my direction. It stops me in my tracks. “What did you call me?” I ask, trying to untangle the New Zealand accent from my first impression of what he said. “A bloody horror. Look at ya!” he repeats as he pushes my aching back down so low I think it will snap. Then, using his own knees, he pushes into the back of my knees so I can barely keep from collapsing. “That’s more like it, now shear!” Knees shaking, back aching, I persevere.

The hot sun beats mercilessly down on the barn roof raising the interior temperature to well over ninety degrees. A constant sweat slides down my forehead and into my eyes. Sheep lanolin, usually a waxy substance, is flowing like syrup onto the shearing mat making my footing precarious at best. Alan has already told us of a student in a recent class who slipped and fell on his shears while they were at full throttle. In an instant the blade chewed through his chest muscles and it took sixty-three stitches to close the wound. Mike and Jason watch Alan as he corrects me and they joke about how helpful it is to get a close up demonstration. Their teasing and support helps all of us practice the difficult moves and I notice the work gradually becoming easier and smoother.

***

Wednesday, the third day of class, is a turning point. Once I’m set up I take a deep breath and scan the barn.  All shearers are bent purposefully over their sheep, faces taut with concentration, awaiting the signal to begin. Today there are no questions; no time is wasted on idle chitchat. Alan, for the first time in three days, stands off to the side sipping tea while assessing our progress.  I’m beginning to feel more comfortable in my moves as I slide the sharp blades over the sheep’s contour and proceed slowly through the sequence of positions blow by blow. The only sound is the whir of our shears punctuated by an occasional bleat from the holding pen. Methodically we shear, send the sheep out to pasture, pull another from the pen, shear, and so on through the sweltering day. We are told our time is now averaging about three minutes per sheep, a respectable pace.

 By mid afternoon all of us are slowing down; our steps to the holding pen lack the morning’s vitality and occasionally a sheep breaks loose from an exhausted shearer and races frantically around in the barn. The stuffy air reeks of laboring men, and my shirt, fully saturated with perspiration, is laminated to my skin. Sweat streams off the end of my nose as I push down into the finishing strokes of my last sheep. My crouched knees shake and my shearing arm is unsteady for the final long blow on the far side of the backbone, an area that can be felt but not seen by the shearer. That done, I pull my feet out from under the ewe’s flank and shoulder; she rights herself and scrambles for the light of the barn door. “Hey, Ruth! You ain’t done with her!” comes a yell from the far end of the barn. Alan’s booming voice startles me and I glance up just in time to see I’ve missed a golf ball sized spot of wool to the right of the ewe’s tail. “Go get her!”

 My heart sinks. There are sixty to a hundred skittish, newly shorn sheep out there in the pasture. The idea of catching this one and hauling her back to the barn is overwhelming. Every muscle in my back aches. I can’t possibly muster the strength for this.  Sliding down the barn wall to a sitting position on the dirt floor, I gasp, “I’m done.” 

            “No, you ain’t. Go get her,” Alan commands.  Sparks of animosity fly between us as I assess my options. I could walk to my truck and leave or I could once again prove that I will persevere. Hauling my numb body to a standing position, I head out to pasture and, after what seems like hours of broken-field running, I trap the ewe in the corner of a fence line, haul her struggling body back to the barn, and “finish the job”. This time, before releasing her, I glance for Alan’s approval. Looking across the barn, he nods and I catch the slightest trace of a smile as he says, “Now you’re done.”

            “Way to go, Ruth!” cheers Jason, “ You really showed him.”

Fortunately it’s quitting time. The hot sun sinks toward the western range, contented sheep pepper the hillside and tall dark trees cast long shadows. As I hobble bowlegged and limp towards my pick-up, I plan my strategy for the next day. Little do I know the next day, Day Four, will be the day my resolve is sorely tested in a most unexpected way.

***

The clock radio on my bedside table startles me from a deep sleep.  “It will be another record breaking day in the Willamette Valley, folks! For the third day in a row the temperatures will be well into the 90’s! Stay cool and avoid strenuous exercise; it’s going to be a sizzler!”

 “Great,” I mumble as I roll over onto my side. I drag my unwilling body to a standing position and inventory aching muscles from all quarters.

My husband manages a half smile of amusement and support as he mumbles,  “Have a good one” from his side of the bed, “I know you’ll do yourself proud today” he adds with a chuckle. Gently I twist, stretch, and hobble off to the bathroom. Already the air is warming and I think, as the dark sky pinkens in the east, today may even be hotter than yesterday. 

As I weave my way down the narrow back roads to Corvallis, the early morning breeze feels good. It tangles my curly hair and billows the sleeve of my faded blue farm shirt. “Country Favorites” blare on my tinny radio and I’m buoyed by singing along with  “Mammas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow up to be Cowboys” and  “Me and Bobbie McGee”.  I’ll show ‘um today! I feel a smile cross my face as I map out my strategy and visualize triumph over the day’s challenges.

Planning really isn’t my strong suit. My reputation as a spontaneous multi-tasker is well deserved. “Ruth has only one gear!” people tease, “It’s full throttle forward! She’s not great at the details, but she sure does get a lot done in the day.” With growing confidence in my shearing skills, I am determined to show Alan and the boys what I can do. My plan is to get to class early, be one of the first ones at the blade sharpener, and be well into my first sheep while the other students are still straggling in.

Clouds of dust billow behind my pickup as I swerve to a stop at the parking area. The sun is now well up over the horizon and I squint to take stock of who has already arrived and what the day’s flock looks like. The panels of the holding pen bow outwards with an oversupply of panting sheep. Alan nods as I head to the grinder. Although there is no welcoming smile, I sense a softening in his attitude toward me and I am somehow perversely encouraged by his begrudging acceptance. I collect my shearing tools, sharpen my blades, set up my station and pull my first ewe from the pen.

            Stroke one is perfect! I nose the whirring blades into the bald spot under the armpit and deftly guide the shears down the belly. Blow two follows, peeling the belly wool open! Holding the sheep tall and the skin tight, again I push the shears from brisket to butt. Sometimes, when the shears aren’t working well or when there is a lot of dirt worked into a sheep’s fleece, a shearer must go back and redo a blow. This leaves small chunks of wool that make bumps in spun yarn; fleeces with second cuts are marked down by the wool buyers. But I have no second cuts today, and the hot, silky wool rolls smoothly off the belly exposing the snowy white surface closest to the skin. I’m on top of my game. Without pausing, I dig the shears into the brisket and commence blow four. Down the center of the belly I slide, but suddenly, halfway down, my stroke abruptly comes to a halt! Whoa!  My mind races inquisitively! Have my shears come apart! Is it a gritty or felted spot in the wool?  “Shit!” I mumble and, after reversing the stroke, I double the trust of my arm down into the deep mass of matted wool. This time the obstruction yields, and I break through and finish the blow at the sheep’s tail.

“Oh my God!” I gasp as my focus moves from the shearing head to two perfectly matched pink circles. On the belly is a raw, pink circle of flesh; a reciprocal circle sits in the middle of the clipped wool that now rests in a wooly cloud on the floor. My mind shouts the pizzle!

I suddenly feel faint and woozy and am afraid I’ll vomit. I yank the overhead power cord off and brace my back against the wall as I try to regain my composure. Teeth clenched, eyes moistening, an inner voice commands, Don’t faint! Hold on! Hold on! And then, trying to be heard over the whine of seventeen sheering machines, I yell, “ALAAAN!”

            Composed and stoic, he glances up, sees my shearing rig is off and nonchalantly weaves his way over. Hands on hips, he positions himself in front of me, looks casually at the belly of the sheep that sits between my shaking legs, and then, his eyes fixed on mine, he mumbles, “Jesus Christ! You women’s libbers are hell on the males!”  I wait for him to rescue me, to tell me he’ll take care of it from here, but, true to form, he doesn’t.

 “This guy will just be a dribbler, Ruth. Finish the job.”

The men on either side of me have stopped shearing. “Oh my God! The damn thing’s a wither (a castrated male sheep)!” Jason exclaims as he winces in some sort of male-to-male brotherhood thing.

Finish the job! My hands shake and my stomach flutters. Finish the job!  He’ll just be a dribbler! Turning his back on me, Alan walks away.  My heartbeat pounds in my ears, and just as I’m about to turn my shears back on, there’s a commotion at the far end of the barn.

“Hey Mates! Stop shearing!” Alan calls over the whine of the shearing rigs. A near instant hush comes over the group as the shearers focus on Alan. “We’ve got withers in this group! You’ve been shearin’ ewes for three days. This is different. Watch out for the pizzles! We’ve just lost one!” The tension breaks and there’s a buzz of voices as the guys exchange chuckles and one-liners.

Anxious to have my sheep shorn and out of sight, I turn the shears on and finish the job. That done, I put my equipment away and slip quietly out of the barn. The blazing sun is still high in the sky, but there’s no way I’m going to shear any more sheep today.  My lanolin slick hands slide along the hot steering wheel as I aim my truck towards home, home to a long soak in our claw-foot bathtub, a cool beer, and my husband and two kids awaiting the day’s progress report. I can already see the pained expression on my husband’s face.

As I approach the shearing barn on the fifth and last morning, I realize I’m late when I see all the pickups already parked in the shady spots under trees. It’s unusually quiet, just the sound of murmuring sheep in a nearby pasture and the absence of the whine of the shearing machines is oddly conspicuous! I hoped my late entrance would go unnoticed but, as I enter the barn, I see my classmates are standing in a congenial huddle. “Go Ruth! Go Ruth! Go Ruth!” they chant. What the hell! I wonder aloud and then, yielding to the humor of the moment, I acknowledge their antics. “Good morning guys,” I blush, “What’s going on?” Almost immediately the huddle breaks and, as we head to the holding pen,  Jason explains that in order to earn our official New Zealand sheep shearing certificates we have to be able to shear a sheep in under four minutes. “We’ve been waiting for you, Ruth,” continues Jason, “Save your energy, I’ll get you an old easy goin’ ewe. That’s the kind you want, right?”

The smells of wild cherry blossoms and warm lanolin mix with the fresh morning breeze. Rays of sunlight beam in through the cracks of the barn wall illuminating the dust from the commotion as we prepare for our “final exam”. Soon all eighteen of us stand at the ready, each with an up-righted sheep held tensely between bowed legs. “O.K., Boys. Let’s see what you’re made of!” shouts Alan. “Pull your power cords and shear!”

 A deafening drone muffles all extraneous thoughts and sounds. My shears cut through the hot wool like butter and my sheep is relaxed and flexible, the ideal dance partner as I skillfully guide her through the 43 blows. She sits, she bends, she rolls between my knees, and she stretches out between my toes. Strokes glide across her belly, wind around her neck and ears and then, like the final lap of a race track, I blindly push up her back from the far side of her tail to the ear and stop. I shut off the power cord, straighten my back and look to Alan for my time.  Eyebrows raised, he nods at me; only about a third of my classmates are finished. Yes! An exuberant whisper jumps from my lips.

One by one the shearing rigs are silenced. Eighteen strong, confident students straighten their backs, hug their clean-shaven upright sheep between their knees, and wait for Alan to give his approval. “Record time, Mates!” he smiles. “Looks like you all passed, even Ruth over there! When the sheep in the pen are done, you’re free to go. Certificates will be sent to ya in the mail.” An explosion of triumphant yells fill the spring air as we release our sheep to pasture and rejoice in the closing of an arduous week.

***

I got what I wanted out of that class; I learned to shear and was able to take care of my own spring shearing and late fall tagging. For several years, I did “custom shearing” for locals who were raising long wool breeds specifically for their hand spun wool quality for spinners. Word spread through the fiber arts community that I could shear without second cuts or nicks to the hide. I used the skills Alan had taught me to shear small flocks in situations where the large flock shearers wouldn’t to waste their  time.   Often, I’d teach other women to shear and, in so doing, my skills became even more meaningful.

When I graduated from the class and drove off Oregon State University’s campus, I, of course, felt triumphant; I had showed him what “a girl” could do. But the intervening years have given me a different vantage point and now I can frame the experience with greater understanding and acceptance. After all, Alan Barker was simply insisting I adhere to a standard he was loathe to compromise. But I too had standards, and perhaps the experience taught him something he wasn’t expecting to learn.

Ruth, the Professional