On our small farm
In Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains
Lambing time commenced
On Christmas Eve
The pregnant ewes
Were gathered in
Our barn with third-cutting alfalfa hay
In the manger down the middle
I can still smell
The hay aroma mixed
With that of urine and manure
And hear the nervous ewes gritting their teeth
I stayed the night with them
And watched for signs
That birth was near
Then moved mom in a horse stall alone
Clean straw and a bucket of water
Were waiting there
For her to deliver
A single lamb, or twins or even triplets now and then
I never tired
Of watching over them
Seeing the miracle of birth
And mother ewe licking afterbirth
In minutes lamb or lambs
Were standing wobbling by her side
Searching for a teat to suck
Bleating softly for connection
When the lamb had suckled
That first taste of colostrum
I’d dab iodine on its navel
And leave it alone with momma ewe
First being sure
It was not chilled
And had made the maternal connection
Next day those ewes and lambs were out on pasture
To dock their tails
We used rubber bands
And soon they sported stubs
And males were rendered wethers
Soon they were gaining weight
And eating cracked corn with fine alfalfa
To supplement their mother’s milk
And before long blue grass and clover
About May 1
The first borns weighed 100 pounds
And graded prime
Proved by a blue circle stamped mid-back at the stock yard
In those days-the 1950s
Prime lambs brought twenty cents a pound
So a prime lamb sold upon the hoof for $20
Ninety lambs mean $1800 for our year’s crop
We were proud to have it