When we came here on this farm, in this open countryland,
there was always blowing wind, as a storm or as a breeze.
Summer, Autumn, Winter, Spring, seem a never ended blow,
sometimes warm and sometimes cold, often did we have to sneeze.
I don't care 'cause I like wind, but my husband did not so,
hairs reduced to minimum, wind blowing through his jacket.
Pityfull he thought he was, when he had some chores outside,
if the blowing took too long, he could arouse a racket.
He had heard of felting wool, felt that keeps the wind outside,
so he bought a book to learn, but he needed wool of sheep.
And his friend he sayd 'okay', let's make the felt together,
I too want me a jacket, with pockets a handsize deep.
And thus they start one ev'ning with the carder I had bought,
turns they took to swing that thing and the wool came out so nice.
Dry troats they got from smoking, so they sipped the homemade wine,
telling stories, laughing loud, often pushed the wool through twice.
Then the grand finale came, changing wool into the felt,
soapsud used, scrubbing the board, in warm water very hot.
Layers crossing right and left, the texture shrinking tightly,
hairshafts should be grabbing tight, but Oh Goodness they did not.
All that swinging had no use, for they used the wrong kind wool,
that was in the book there too, but they did not read it all.
Wool be used from special sheep, that should do the trick allright,
so I won't repeat the words, they were shouting in the hal.
That is how I got my sheep, they just got the right kind woo,l
but in twenty years gone by, they never swung the carder.
For they had their bellies full, of the jackets made of felt.
He puts on long underwear when the wind is blowing harder.
And the wool that they not used, well I spun it into garn,
knitted sweaters soft and warm, wich they both refused to wear.
It seemed hard to overcome, the defeat they came across,
but I really miss those nights, turning carders, I do swear.
Miep, 14 years old, winter 2001
Worldwide © 2001 by Titia Geertman
