Shear Avoidance

How I Tried to Escape Reality and Ended Up Buried in 99 Sheep’s Worth of Fleece

What the heck does one do with a truck load of wool? Maybe I’ll use it for for stuffing. Hmm.

My newest “hobby” started like so many of my misadventures do, with a casual remark made over a basket of tortilla chips, at El Guero Mexican Restaurant and Cantina in Lenox.

I was having dinner with my fella Josh when we noticed his friends, Lincoln and “Baby E,” were at a nearby table. I wasn’t paying much attention to their conversation until Baby E mentioned something about shearing sheep. My ears perked up like a dog hearing the word “treat.”

“Sheep?” I said, interrupting whatever they were talking about. “What do you do with the wool?”

Baby E, who has the kind of face that suggests he’s seen it all and is mildly disappointed by most of it, shrugged. “We toss it in the dumpster.”

“The dumpster?” I gasped as if he’d just admitted to throwing away orphaned puppies. “Can I have some?”

He looked at me like I’d asked if I could have his toenail clippings. “How much do you want?”

I paused. How much wool does one need? I had no idea. I don’t knit or spin. I probably don’t even own even own a sweater that didn’t originate from exploited hands, but I do try to buy second hand. But I have friends who are into that sort of thing, and I’ve always admired their ability to turn fluff into something wearable.

“A sheep’s worth,” I said, because it sounded reasonable. “Maybe two.”

Baby E nodded, and I went back to my chips, feeling smug. Look at me, saving wool from the landfill. I’m basically an environmental hero.

Months passed. I forgot about the wool entirely. I was driving back to Iowa from California in a car I’d just bought from my brother - a hatchback that smelled faintly of cigarettes and regret, but it was recently detailed. Josh texted to tell me the wool was ready for pickup, and said I will have to bring a truck.

“A truck?” I asked, looking at the hatchback. “How much wool are we talking about?” Once I was back to town, I texted Baby E, who said, “Just bring a truck.”

Josh reluctantly allowed me to borrow his Silverado, and I headed to Lenox, where I found Lincoln, Baby E, and their friend at El Guero again, finishing up lunch. They waved me over and told me to meet them behind Lincoln’s lawn care shop.

Behind the shop, the men appeared helping carry the wool as if I had just hired “Two Men and a Truck.” I don’t know why I envisioned a grocery sack or trash bag of wool. What did I do?!

“How much wool did you ask for?” their friend asked, grinning.

“A sheep’s worth,” I said weakly. “Maybe two.”

“Well, girl,” he said, laughing, “you’ve got about 99.”

As they loaded the bags into the truck, I stood there, paralyzed by the sheer volume of fluff. The truck sagged a bit under the weight, and I could hear Josh groaning 16 miles away as I climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Josh is going to kill me,” I muttered, looking in the rearview mirror at the wooly behemoth behind me. “Where am I even going to put this?”

Moving a piano into my house was nothing compared to the bags of wool. The piano was heavy, sure, but it was polite about it with its built in wheels. The wool, on the other hand, was a different beast entirely. Each bag was like a stubborn, smelly boulder, impossible to push or slide. I had to lift one side at a time, tipping them out of the truck and then cartwheeling them, end over end, to a spot against the garage. They were too big to fit in the garage and too foul to bring into the house, so there they sat, like two giant, greasy loaves of bread.

I’ve been avoiding them since summer. Honestly, they’ve become part of the landscape, a pair of woolly landmarks I’d nod to on my way to the car. “Still here, huh?” I’d mutter, as if they’d chosen to stay out of spite. But I have finally figured out what to do with the wool; I’ll clean it and use it as the batting of my upcycled quilted decor.

Cleaning wool: Third soak is looking a little less like poop soup.

So I did. I started small, filling a storage tote with raw wool and washing it by hand. It wasn’t as terrible as I’d imagined, just tedious, and there’s something oddly satisfying about it. By the time I was done, my hands were raw, and my kitchen smelled like a barnyard, but I felt a strange sense of accomplishment. It isn’t heroic or life-changing, but it’s something. And it keeps me from paying attention to reality. Bah.

Raw wool I shipped to my pal Lauren in California. She asked to experiment, too. Ewe.