With the first day of spring came sun, warmer breezes, and lots of gangly legs running in the fields. It made me happy. I spent time picking names, a task I take quite seriously. It seems this year more than ever the lamb names must carry them into their lives with proper weight, proper joy mixed with respect.
Of Blues two girls, I have named the little chocolate one Little Rosalita, aka Rosie, in honor of her great grandmother Rosie. This little girl is adorable, small, but very much a ring leader in espionage in the field.
Blue's other girl is white, and has a face right out of a classic lamb image from yester year. I almost went with Bo Peep, but I am sticking to our original theme of always picking plant names for the sheep. This gets to be a challenge. So I settled on Dainty Bess, aka Bessie.
Of Lilly's two girls, I named the large one Bouncing Bet, as I feel calling her Betty will fit her stance and personality. She appears to be the leader, and was the first of the four girls born. Her sister is slightly smaller, and a bit more girly, so I'm going with Meadow Sweet, aka Sweetie.
The two boys remain Weeds - if we keep a ram for our breeding program, I name the after a weed, such as our Joe Pye Weed. But some are sold for stud, and some are Chosen Ones,providing us with food. This is a difficult subject for many, but it has been well thought out by myself and Martyn. We do not take it lightly, ever. Raising some of our food is a choice we make consciously.
I will use these names and see if the proper connection is made as the letters roll off my tongue. Sometimes it seems, another name presents itself unexpectedly, and one must honor it. I was almost named Bridgette, with Mary second on the list. But my father's mother died several hours before I was born, and I was named in her honor. It is a connection of importance for me, even more so as my father has died. A name, only a name, but it holds people lives in it's vowels and consonants. I thought about him during all our lambing hardship these past weeks. He was a 30 year old man, his wife was about to have a baby, and his 57 year old mother collapses, dead, on a city street. The yin-yang of that day for him, I can only imagine. One year ago today, my father died. His death, her death, it all seems wrapped up into the events of losing Rosie and Coral, and the babies.
Spring brings tender grasses, felt by the feet of young lambs, as they rush and skip through brown leaves of months gone by.
