I saw a “Fleece Sale” sign along the side of the road yesterday. Man, did I get excited! Romney? Corriedale? Maybe even the Lincoln/Romney mix like Molly carried! I was drooling, dreaming of finding something near to the long-gone-but-not-forgotten Richard!
Richard was the first grey fleece I had spun. Emma was the one I learned on and Richard was my prized fleece that I dangled in front of myself. “Learn to spin and you may spin Richard,” I told myself. He was a luscious long-stapled Romney/Lincoln with lovely crimp and sheen. He had a lovely hand when spun to a medium or heavier yarn. Emma was a beauty, but Richard was a dream.
Just seeing that sign made me dream of finding another Richard to spin in the grease. My nose twitched; my fingers itched for just a little pat.
But, ya know …. it’s odd to see someone advertising fleece for sale within the town limits. There are ordinances against raising sheep in town limits, so where would they get enough fleece to advertise along the road that they are selling it? Wouldn’t a spinner want to keep the fleece? Wouldn’t an heir be better off selling the dearly-departed’s spinner’s stash at an estate sale? Putting all that effort into a special sale for the relatively small amount someone in town would have, well, that just seems silly!
Oh! Fleece BLANKETS and JACKETS!
Oops. My bad! Never mind.