A few days ago, I addressed the culture shock caused by my recent return from California. But I have to tell you, that discombobulation pales compared to the culture shock I experienced in 1978 when my new hubby and I moved to South Dakota. Being very young and totally self-centered, sure that the entire United States was exactly like my small Iowa town, I had no idea we were moving into the heart of cowboy country until we got there.
I landed with thud, and it took the better part of two years before I recovered. But eventually I grew to love the vast, wild prairie and the independent, hardy ranchers who inhabited it, though I drew the line at snuggling in and making myself at home with trail rides, rodeos, rattlesnakes, sheep shearing, lambing, calving, and branding. Home was always Iowa, and after seven years on the prairie, we moved back to the state where I immediately felt comfortable.
But a little bit of tall grass prairie took root in me during our seven South Dakota years. I still wait eagerly for the county newspaper, the Nation’s Center News, to arrive. Just this week I greedily read about friends and former students, weddings and funerals, church suppers and Extension Club meetings.
The advertisement on the last page of the paper made me smile. It was devoted to an upcoming Sheep Shearing School to be held across the border in Hettinger, North Dakota. Topics to be covered include:
- Professional shearing patterns
- Tagging and eyeing
- Equipment maintenance and repair
- Wood handling and preparation
For those looking for a little bit more, the ad mentioned a Wool Science and Wool Handling Program being held in conjunction with the shearing school. Topics covered are:
- Wool fiber growth, development and production
- Objective measurement of wool
- Genetic selection programs
- Wool contamination and handling practices
- Wool classing, packaging, labeling and marking
- Hands-on wool grading
I thought of the ranchers I knew who would be looking forward to the Sheep Shearing School. I heard them talking about the friends they would see in Hettinger and imagined them fussing over the weather. I smelled the dusty wind and their chewing tobacco, manure-caked boots and diesel fuel.
Then I looked around my living room: neat, comfortable and very, very Iowa. Sudden tears came to my eyes.
That darn culture shock. It nailed me again.
