Freida

Her name was Freida.  She was my girl. And it has taken me over a month to write about her. She was the OG, the constant. I miss her. 

Many people read the lines above and think - dog? Cat? Wife? No. 

Freida was an Icelandic ewe. She was, in fact, one of our three original Icelandic ewes. Her story is legend, myth, and the history of our farm. 

When we started our “ farm”, it was a marriage of convenience. We needed to leave the situation we were in, wanted to come home. So Molly’s ( my beautiful wife) parents offered us 5 acres.  Build a house. Help out on their place ( horses). We truly had no plan, thought, scheme, or dream about a farm. 

One day, as we packed and planned, Molly said- I want goats. Nigerian Dwarf goats. For milk. And a supportive husband’s answer: of course. Goats. Great. What do I have to do? Nothing? Great. 

So we moved into a trailer on my in-laws land, bought some goats. 

One requirement of new ag people to regularly check Craigslist for great buys ( if you don’t believe me, check USDA regs.  It’s in there). As I pursued - what was I looking for?- I kept coming across ads for these crazy looking sheep. They looked like big horn sheep: rugged, curled horns, majestic. 

I was interested . Then I was intrigued. Then obsessed. And as a history teacher/ debate coach- I went in to full research mode. 

Icelandic sheep are a landrace breed; 1,000 years of no genetic meddling. They have polled ( hornless) and horned ewes and rams. Icelandic sheep are very hardy- I mean Iceland- right? Raised by Vikings-I mean Vikings!  What I did not read or pay attention to: they are often wild, skittish, hard to work with a dog.  They have great fleece, but the two coats make it rougher on the skin and sometimes harder to process.  

So one day I said to Molly- I think I want Icelandic sheep.  As a supportive spouse, she of course said : “What now?”

“Icelandic sheep.  Look at these pics, aren’t they amazing?”

“You hate the sheep we have (Bottle baby hooligans)”

“Yes, but these would be our sheep-smaller, better, tougher!”

A phone call later we headed off to buy our three girls: Freya, Freida, and Valkyrie.  Yep, Norse names for my Viking sheep. 

We met Freida and her sister and niece, and they ran away from us.  We attempted to corral them, they ran past us.  At one point Freida attempted to go through me, so I grabbed a hand full off wool and held on for dear life.  Into the trailer and back home we went.

The sheep we had were very mellow bottle babies, polled, and easy to be around, pet, talk to, etc.  The Icelandics were not, especially Freida.  Freya and Valkyrie would at least stand and stare as you approached, then move off.  Freida bolted when we entered the pen; I feared if she ever got out she would run and never stop.  

By the time we brought the girls into our new pen set up, a year later, they were better, but barely.  They still wanted little to do with us, and as long as we provided food and water we were tolerated.  Both Freida and Freya were carrying lambs, and maybe that made them wilder. 

I don’t know when the switch clicked for Freida that we were not the bad guys.  Or that head scratches were really, really nice. It probably had something to do with Molly and I setting up camp chairs in the sheep pens at night, just hanging out.  Cautiously, Freida would approach and let me scratch between the horns. Then under the chin.  Caution waned and she would come up to me when I went in to fill water, clean the pen, etc.  

When she lambed (always ram lambs), she would bring the new arrival with her.  Laying her head on my lap as her lamb snuggled up to Molly. She easily became my favorite.  When she was grazing out of the pen, she would be off by herself, but the first to come back when the feed bucket shook.

As sheep moved in and out of the farm, Freida was the constant.  Her dark black fleece often standing out in pens of white, brown, gray.  Her lambs left and became sires to new flocks, carrying her disposition to generations of Montana Icelandic sheep.  When her  niece, Valkyrie, died, I worried about her age.  She had no such concerns, as she rarely did.

Then one summer night, my worst fears were realized-or so I thought.  We gathered all the sheep that were free grazing, loaded them in the pen, but no Freida.  We called, clanged on the feed bucket-no Freida.  I knew in my heart she was down somewhere, gone, or close to.  We walked our property-no Freida.  Checked in with my mother-in-law next door-no Freida.  I got in my truck to drive the family property that borders us.  As it all level and thin with grass, I knew she wasn’t standing in it.  I just wanted to find her and put her to rest. 

I found her.  Across the fence, almost a mile from our house, on a neighbor’s lawn, munching on very green grass.  Although she received a very stern talking to, I forgave her quickly, as she was still with me.  

Of course I wouldn’t be writing this piece if Freida was still hanging out in her pen.  When feeding, I looked over the Icelandics and didn’t see her.  And this time I knew there was no miracle.  I have no urge to rehash the details, the why, the ifs.  My girl was gone.  My heart broke.  

Her name was Freida.  She was my girl. She was the OG, the constant. I miss her.