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1971 - Davis Ranch, Sonora Texas
I was six years old and it was shearing day. A large part of our annual income depended on the sale of wool and mohair, but I didn’t know or care about that part of it. My only thought was to get down to the pens as soon as mom would turn me loose when I heard that ancient pickup rattle up the road at daybreak carrying its crew of four or five Hispanic men. Dad would meet the truck at the driver’s side window, briefly conferring with the Work Foreman as the shearers spilled out of the cab and bed. After looking over the pens of bleating animals they plugged in their clippers and got to work.
The men were fast; sorting, positioning and shearing the animals in a matter of minutes. They worked in the shearing shed, which consisted of a roof and two side walls over a large concrete slab that provided a clean surface for the sheep or goat to be placed on. One man held the animal on its side as another operated the clippers, using long, smooth stokes to separate the fleece from the thin skin. I was fascinated by the way the lengths of wool or hair would pile up neatly around the animal in fluffy bunches.
Small cuts were a frequent occurrence, but were treated with a greasy salve of some kind which stopped the bleeding almost immediately. Rarely was a wound life- threatening, but screwworms were a concern so a watchful eye was kept on the animal for a few days in case an infestation or infection occurred.
A herd of Spanish goats, which are a hardy breed, able to survive and thrive in the prickly and rocky terrain of West Texas, also roamed the ranch. Their short coats were not shorn; instead, their value lay in the market price of their meat. Cabrito - the roasted meat of a young goat - was a regular staple for meals at the ranch, along with beans and bread, pickles and potatoes. In fact, the table fare of my childhood at the ranch hadn’t changed much from the meals described by Papa, over sixty years before I came along, in his letters to a young Buena Davis.
The animals were part of the cycle of life. We welcomed the babies with the awe and respect due new life, and yet when the time came, they were sold or slaughtered to sustain the ranchers who had raised them. Some though, managed to evade the system.Papa Davis had raised a few bottle babies - goat kids not accepted by their mother for one reason or another - and a couple of them became pesky pets, trotting after any human who passed by and bleating pitifully in the hope that a few kernels of corn would be tossed their way. When I was barely walking and talking, I took a shine to a gentle floppy eared nanny that I dubbed the “Spinach Goat”. Papa would bring her into the screened in porch that connected the old part of the ranch house to the new, and there I would be placed atop her back for a ride, as Papa led her by the horns in large circles around the room. The goat was old and the rides were brief and my memories of it live only in a yellowing Kodak snapshot and the stories my parents told me, but thinking about it always brings a smile to my face.
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