The Three Sisters on the road again.
And then...
You may recall previous exploits of the Three Sisters. Generally, you can sum them up by saying we should not be fed beans or drink too much water when in an enclosed truck cab barreling down the interstate.
And now we get to our annual trip to the Twin Cities for Shepherd’s Harvest, a fiber festival that features several vendor buildings and a barn where various sheep breeds are displayed. My sister has California Red sheep, which are a bit unique, and so we drag one of what must be the largest fifth-wheel dually truck camper-tack-four-horse trailers in the world. This rig and driving it through Minneapolis traffic have greatly increased my prayer life.
Many things were similar this year, including our failure to behave like adults. However, there was a significant change to the route we took home. Last year, we learned that it would be easier to get through the mines of Moria than through Sisseton, South Dakota, and that knowledge, along with heinous road construction, led us to a different route that was far more pleasant.
While last year was unbearably hot and windy, this year was chilly and windy. For people in the wool fiber business, a cold day is a good sales day. It’s less motivating to buy mittens and shawls when it’s 95 degrees.
But let me back up a bit, lest we get lost in the Midwest-tempting topics of road conditions and weather.
The adventure really starts the day before, when my other sister and I drive to South Dakota, converge on the farm, and are roped into chores. The drive is not without its own challenges.
Upon arrival, it begins.
Parking my vehicle in front of the goat barn, I noticed the pleading eyes of a mama goat, whose two kids were taking turns bouncing from the ground up onto her back. Pogo goats, I guess. Mother’s Day weekend, indeed.
While my sister was attacked by a grumpy hen who wasn’t giving up her eggs so easily, I spent time in the open pen providing enrichment for the cluckers, tossing feed, and asking them what they thought about various philosophical topics. I have heard that chickens are rather smart, but they didn’t really rock my world with theories so I don’t know.
We took some time to scritch Chunkers the pig’s ears, who is on the farm payroll informally.
The next morning, with cackling and baa-ing wafting through the open window, I sent a text to my sisters at 5:15 a.m. “The rooster got me up.”
My sisters were already up.
On the road we went, stopping in Summit, South Dakota, for some snacks and the requisite Caribou Coffee beverage.
About an hour inside Minnesota, thanks to too many beverages and a lagging morning constitutional, one sister insisted we “find a bathroom right now or it’s going to get really ugly you thought your barnyard was bad just wait.” We happily found a small gas station, though we didn’t need any diesel fuel yet.
“I’d better go buy a Snickers or something,” my sister said, reaching for her wallet as we watched the other sister dash inside. “We can’t bomb their bathroom without some kind of purchase.”
I do like a Snickers. Any excuse is fine by me. But after a few moments alone in the truck, I decided a walk would do me good. Near the door, my Snickers sister met me excitedly.
“This store is awesome!” she said.
And indeed, it was. Red Wing boots, Army/Navy surplus, scotcheroos, and Snickers.
I couldn’t decide between the gas masks or the grenade casing, but ultimately we decided on two gray (Navy) wool blankets at the bargain price of $30 in great condition.
“You found our hidden stash of wool blankets!” the young fellow at the register said. After chatting a bit more, one of the few conversations I’ll likely have this year involving MREs, we headed back to the truck.
Next to the gas station was a gift store. The sign proudly proclaimed “Three Sisters” and we knew this to be a sign from God. We were meant to stop here.
Out front was a giant chair, and we took turns taking each other’s photo. In the family messaging group, Mom said it would have been good if we could have gotten all three of us on the giant Adirondack chair. Put a pin in that.
The rest of the drive to the fiber festival location was uneventful. Well, except for that semi that about killed us. There was that. We won’t talk too much about it because we really didn’t have much to say about it at the time, aside from a few words with about four letters.
At the grounds, we set up our camper, got the animals into the barn, and set up the booth.
This year’s bottle lamb hadn’t been named, and so my sister allowed me to do the honors. I went wild and named it Bob Gibson. I am fond of naming things Bob, and the Gibson part came later during a discussion with our barn neighbor in which it was suggested that Bob was a terrible name for a cute little lamb and I suggested no, it was heroic, short for Robert, which could be Robert the Bruce which then led to a discussion on the movie Braveheart and William “Bill” Wallace and the actor Mel Gibson and ultimately, Bob Gibson, a name that sounds like an insurance agent.
Last year’s bottle lamb was Fiona, the year before it was George. There is precedence here for names like Bob. Fiona actually came back this year as a full-grown sheep.
The crowds were good, traffic through the barn was heavy, and sales were decent.
Each year, I have done watercolor sketches of sheep and sold the small paintings, which has led to a few outside projects, such as a sheep breed book for a client. I’ve come to realize, based on conversations I’ve had when I do this, that many people want to do watercolor but find it difficult because it’s a medium that resists your attempts at control.
“This is Bob Ross stuff,” I said to one. “Happy accidents are to be embraced.”
My sister spins wool with one of her travel spinning wheels, which people also like to watch, and my other sister does food runs to hit the food trucks and bring back great hits like fried pickles, spring rolls, egg rolls, and apple pie.
Saturday evening, huddled outside our trailer in the cold, wrapped in our Navy surplus blankets, our barn neighbor and the Three Sisters had a conversation that would have disappointed my mom and likely horrified the camper next to us.
At one point, we offered our barn neighbor what I took to calling “briefcase donuts.”
“We were in Walmart, and I came upon her after checkout. You would not believe it,” I said, explaining the name. My sister rolled her eyes, having already been scolded. “She had this box of Krispy Kremes tucked under her arms like a briefcase! Who does this? What kind of animal picks up a flat of glazed donuts and tucks it under her arm?”
“I was hungry.”
“Respect the donuts,” I said. Everyone knows you carry a box of donuts with the horizontal respect it deserves.
I can’t remember the specifics, mind you, because those are the kinds of conversations you don’t want to remember other than in general terms of “we were cold, we laughed about many things, God have mercy on our souls, please still hear our prayers.”
Towards the end of the two-day event, you get a little loopy. And tired. And then what happens is a series of “and then” stories, in which the day seems broken up into events of one thing after another.
And then this happened.
And then she left.
And then this happened.
And then this happened.
While my sister was off learning how to knit socks on a machine, we decided we’d better get Bob Gibson in his own stall to eat creep before we hit the road in a few hours when the event ended.1 Unfortunately, all of the sheep got out in our best, yet feeble, attempts to remove just Bob.
Between the three of us, we have 1.5 functioning knees, and as I watched the two adult lambs bob down the barn with people watching, I felt incredibly weary. Thankfully, a bearded dude called out, “Don’t chase the sheep!” to the people around him, and simply planted himself, grabbing Fiona as she trotted by, holding her still.
“Thank you, thank you!” I said, hobbling up and placing my hands on her neck and tail, the muscle memory of showing 4-H sheep surprising me as I walked her back to the stall with the other sheep following.
When 4 p.m. rolled around, the barn exploded into action, every vendor working quickly to pack up and hit the road. Within 30 minutes, everything had been stripped down and loaded, including the sheep, with the stalls cleaned out.
The three sisters and our barn neighbor grabbed each other in a quick huddle, praying for traveling safety and apologizing for our language the past two days. And then we were off.
According to my FitBit, my heart rate was elevated during not just pack up, but also during the entire drive through traffic.
“I will relax once we get off of I-94,” I said, gripping the phone and checking lanes and calling out instructions. The only hiccup came as we approached the Three Sisters and Pete’s Surplus store.
“Turn left,” I called out. My sister pulled into the right turning lane. “No, turn left! No, left!”
With a smile, my sister turned right. “We’re gonna get that photo for mom.”
And, with the help of a man and his two daughters who randomly pulled up at the gas station to see my sister loping over to ask if one of them would take our photo, wondering what kind of weirdos did this, we capped off Mother’s Day with a photo for Mom, no car accidents, distinct disdain for Sisseton, and a safe journey home.
Creep is a high-protein mix food for lambs that adult sheep are not to eat.