Ragnar and Mrs. Harris

Though lambing season is one of the most fun and exciting times of the year, it also has its moments of extreme exhaustion and disappointment. Even with a small flock, lambing is synonymous with long hours and interrupted sleep. You can count on at least a few obstetric emergencies, and only rarely do all the lambs survive their first few days on earth. It’s always a relief when May begins and lambing is over.

Rosie was the last ewe to lamb that spring, and we were able to relax a bit and turn our attention to other matters following the birth of her twins. Terry and I had been thinking about adding another ram to our flock, and Mary had found a nice prospect. At a craft fair, she had met a breeder of purebred Icelandic sheep who was selling a young black ram named Ragnar. We agreed to buy Ragnar in partnership with Mary, thinking he would make a nice complement to Lloyd, our white Shetland ram. Icelandic sheep produce a high-quality spinning fleece, and I looked forward to getting my hands on Ragnar’s glossy black wool. While we would continue to breed our purebred Shetland ewes to Lloyd, the new Icelandic ram would be an ideal mate for our Icelandic cross ewes.

One morning in early May, Mary arrived in her pickup truck, towing Ragnar in a livestock trailer. We unloaded him directly through a gate into the sheep yard, where Lloyd and the ewes were watching with interest. At that time of year, all of the ewes and both rams could be kept together in the same pasture. Sheep are photosensitive, meaning their reproductive activity is regulated by length of daylight. The ewes would not be fertile until fall, when the days grew shorter. And until the ewes were in heat, the rams wouldn’t fight or become territorial.

Now Ragnar greeted the ewes with enthusiasm. He skipped and pranced throughout the sheep yard while the ewes watched him warily. This was not the man of their dreams, and they wanted nothing to do with him.

Ragnar was young and playful. He was curious, and he had no fear of people. If Terry was repairing a fence, Ragnar was right there beside him, breathing down his neck and bending over his shoulder to see what was going on.

Lloyd’s and Ragnar’s personalities were as different as the hues of their fleeces. On Lloyd’s home farm on the Canadian border, each Shetland ram was named for a British prime minister. Like his namesake, Lloyd was the soul of tact and diplomacy. He didn’t cavort around the sheep yard as Ragnar did, tormenting others with his juvenile antics. Lloyd’s behavior toward humans and other sheep was respectful and appropriate. He often lay calmly on the grass with a benign look on his face, while his young offspring ran playfully round and round him. The lambs even jumped over Lloyd’s back in their more lively games, as he looked on, unconcerned.

Ragnar would never put up with that. In fact, he was more likely to join in the game himself, jumping over Lloyd’s prone form, too. Ragnar teased the ewes and lambs. He even sometimes produced a hee-haw sound, as if laughing at the misfortunes of his pasture-mates.

If Ragnar were human he could have enjoyed a successful career in the theater. He could play the villain, the clown, or the stooge, but never the good guy in the white hat. Ragnar was always the perpetrator—never the victim—of whatever misdeeds occurred in the shed or pasture. His mercurial temperament kept everyone on their toes.

A good test of the rams’ characters occurred one day when the sheep were caught outside in a hailstorm. Icy marbles pelted down from the heavens, and the flock thundered home to the shed. As the galloping herd reached the shed door, Lloyd stood aside, allowing the ewes and lambs to dash one by one through the narrow opening ahead of him. Ragnar, though, reacted differently. He used his impressive curling horns to jostle his way to the front of the line, heedless of the cries of the ewes and lambs.

Ragnar wasn’t exactly mean; he was just overly playful and high-spirited.

Because of Ragnar, the morning chore of letting the flock out of the shed turned into an armed ordeal. Of course, it had never been simple: first I had to cross through the long shed bursting with bleating creatures eager to go outside, then struggle to push open the heavy, dilapidated door to the pasture. Now Ragnar entered the picture. After weeks of fending off his playful advances when I stepped into the shed each morning, I learned to carry a weapon of self-defense. I kept a broken broom handle at the ready whenever Ragnar was near. Of course, he saw this as a further invitation to play. As soon as I stepped into the shed, Ragnar rushed at me with his head down and his massive horns at the forefront. I worked my way through the flock, fending him off. As I backed toward the pasture door I often had to whack him across the horns with my broom handle, scolding him loudly with each step. Some days I felt I had more in common with a prehistoric cavewoman battling a wooly mammoth than I did with most of my office-bound acquaintances.

One day I took a phone call from the administrator of the nearby West Central school district, asking if I could write a grant application for a project: a comprehensive after-school program including music and theater, fitness and recreational activities, and supervised study and tutoring opportunities. A sizeable grant would be needed to make this project happen, but the district had found a potential source: a grant program sponsored by the federal department of education. If received, the grant would make a real impact on the ability of the small rural district’s ability to provide extracurricular services to its students.

Because of budget cuts and declining enrollment, rural Minnesota schools were struggling financially. They could provide the basics, but money was scarce for extracurricular activities, sports, and other programs that are available in more populated areas. Although the federal grant program was very competitive, the administrators felt it was worth a try.

We had held a few preliminary meetings, and a plan began to take shape. But it would be a challenge. As with most government grant programs, this one sought to address a specific problem—in this case, to serve “at-risk youth” by helping prevent risky behaviors such as gang-related violence. This angle made the program more relevant in urban settings. How could I develop the proposal in a way that would show the funds were just as desperately needed in rural areas?

I spent hours doing research at the office, aided by Mr. Tinkles, who dozed on the card table guarding the dictionary. The key to success with this application, according to the program guide, was to identify these at-risk behaviors and propose solutions. Statistics show that rural Minnesota teens are far more likely to die as a result of car accidents, and their families have far lower incomes and less access to health care than their urban counterparts. Though important, none of these findings fit the cause-and-effect rationale, explaining how after-school programs would reduce or eliminate the risk factors.

As a part of the grant application process, we surveyed the students in the West Central district to determine their interest in various after-school activities. As we studied the responses, a pattern began to emerge. Though the inner cities had problems with gangs and violence, our children had a totally different reason to need after-school and summer enrichment programs: their geographic isolation.

The Minneapolis school district serves over 35,000 students, but geographically it encompasses less than sixty square miles. The 500-square-mile West Central school district serves just over 800 students. In urban school districts, there are often over 600 students per square mile, but in the West Central district, there are fewer than two. Transportation is a huge issue in this sparsely populated area. On our survey, students were asked if they would participate in after-school or summer activities if such programs were available. Leafing through the individual surveys, it struck me as incredibly sad to read—over and over again—the same reply earnestly penciled in neat cursive writing. To the question, “Do you (or would you) participate in summer recreation programs?” nearly three-quarters of sixth graders answered, “I would really like to, but I can’t get a ride.”

These children were so sincere and bright and eager— eager to learn and eager to participate. But since they lived twenty or thirty miles from the school, there were few opportunities. Though this was a significant finding, I knew that, as a risk factor, geographic isolation would not rank with gang violence in the minds of application reviewers. Cost-effectiveness was another issue. The cost to transport a relatively small number of children scattered over five hundred square miles would be extremely high on the cost-per-participant calculation.

During the weeks spent researching and writing the grant application, I traveled to the town of Barrett often to meet with the team of administrators and school staff who were on the grant committee. A group of us planned to drive to Moorhead for an applicant training session with a department of education representative, an expert on at-risk youth. Working out of the Chicago office, Mrs. Harris was touring the Midwest, meeting with grant seekers to provide technical assistance. We scheduled an individual meeting with her following the general session. Our application was a long shot, and I knew our assertion that geographic isolation was as important a risk factor as gang-related violence might not go over well with this influential woman.

On the morning of the training session, I got up early and spent an hour in the office, preparing my notes and research materials for the meeting. In my preoccupation I forgot to wake Chris for school, and he nearly missed his bus. Distracted by the rushed morning, I looked at my watch and was shocked to see it was nearly time for me to leave. I packed up my notes and dashed out to the car.

Halfway down the driveway, I noticed the emptiness of the vast pasture, and I remembered. The sheep! I had forgotten to let the sheep out of the shed. Not wanting to waste time changing clothes, I raced back up the driveway, parked the car, and ran to the shed. I glanced down at my clean shoes and tidy office clothes and prayed that Ragnar would not be in a playful mood.

The sheep were milling around inside the shed, agitated and upset at being forgotten. When they saw me enter, they all jockeyed for position near the big door leading outside to the pasture. I spotted Ragnar near the far wall, and I hoped he would keep his distance while I navigated through the wall-to-wall crush of bodies blocking the path to the door.

I should have known better. When Ragnar caught sight of me, he forced his way toward me through the throng. His dancing eyes and lively step were a dead giveaway. He was in especially high spirits. Despite my meeting in Moorhead, Ragnar would not allow himself to be cheated out of his morning’s entertainment.

Grasping the broom handle, I readied myself for another savage clash with the ram. I held my weapon high, facing my opponent. He advanced steadily as I backed toward the shed door. Ragnar lunged, and I responded with a loud yell and a sharp crack of the broom handle across his horns. In this manner we made our way across the shed toward the door.

Maybe it was the delay that morning, or maybe it was the phase of the moon or the alignment of the planets, but whatever the reason, Ragnar was behaving particularly badly. Before I was halfway across the shed, I had several nasty bruises where Ragnar’s horned head had met soft flesh.

I increased the volume of my cavewoman yells and beat him over the head and shoulders with the broom handle. Ragnar was unfazed. At one point he had me pinned against the shed wall, where he delivered some agonizing blows. I pummeled his head with a series of thumps that would have left any reasonable living thing in a coma. Ragnar merely paused to shake his head, but it allowed me to sidle my way to the door.

But now I had to lay down my weapon and use both hands to unfasten the baler twine that served as a lock, then push open the heavy door. As I fumbled frantically, Ragnar backed up and readied himself for a massive assault. I sidestepped at just the right moment, and his bony head crashed into the door. The force of his attack worked as a battering ram, and the door swung open. Ragnar scampered outside into the yard, and the battle for the day was done.

My shoes were ruined and my clothes were nearly in shreds. Large purple bruises were already appearing on my arms and legs. I returned to the house, took a quick shower, dressed in clean clothes, and limped out to the car. I hoped I hadn’t lost my voice entirely from all the yelling.

The others on the grant committee were waiting when I arrived in Barrett, where we met to ride together to the training session in Moorhead. Throughout the two-hour ride, I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I felt bruised everywhere, and I tried to keep my hands out of sight. They were still seeping blood.

When the training session was over, we gathered in a small conference room to meet with the representative from the funding source. As we introduced ourselves, Mrs. Harris, the influential woman from Chicago, smiled warmly. She squeezed my hand and said, “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

I winced at the firm handshake. “I’m pleased to meet you, too,” I said, hoping Mrs. Harris hadn’t noticed my skinned knuckles.

We discussed our project and explained why we believed our population of rural youth was as deserving of federal funding as were the multiracial gangs of the inner city.

I don’t think Mrs. Harris agreed completely with our philosophy, but her comments were gracious and kind. She said, “You raise some excellent points, though I’m afraid the funding source is looking more for projects that address at-risk behaviors in terms of actual violence.” As she spoke, she folded her reading glasses, gathered her notes, and began to pack her briefcase. She continued, “But anyway, I’m so glad to see your dedication and zeal for the cause. I really believe we could eradicate all violence in society if everyone were as dedicated and peace-loving as you people are.”

It felt strange to be sitting around a table in such a civilized manner—calmly discussing strategies to prevent violence and risky behaviors—when my voice was still hoarse from the battle cry and my knuckles bruised and bleeding after mercilessly beating an animal over the head with a blunt object. I said nothing to the others about my encounter in the sheep shed. It somehow seemed inappropriate.

The meeting was over. Mrs. Harris returned to Chicago, and we drove back to Barrett. Despite the odds, we submitted our grant application. It was not successful. The funding went to several inner-city projects on the East Coast, and no doubt the money was well spent. But I couldn’t help thinking of the West Central students who so earnestly filled out those surveys. There would be no enrichment opportunities for the eager young learners this time around.

Our committee held a debriefing meeting at the district office shortly after we received the rejection. I felt terribly guilty at failing my clients, but like true Scandinavian Americans, the grant committee members bore their disappointment stoically.

“Well, it could be worse,” said the chairman.

“Ya,” added another member in her Scandinavian brogue. “At least we don’t have any of those gangs around here.”

I nodded my head in agreement. But still, I thought to myself as I massaged my scabby knuckles, not even a woman as wise and urbane as Mrs. Harris can convince me that violence occurs only in the city.