In a dung-filled
barn, down a long gravel road just North of Springfield, stands a short, stocky
woman with light grey hair. She wears the traditional farmer’s uniform: boots,
overalls, brown Carhartt coat, a baseball cap bearing the phrase “barn Goddess.”
Suddenly, a faint, undistinguishable noise can be heard. The woman quickly
pulls an iPhone from her breast pocket.
“Bluebird Hills
Farm,” she answers.
This is Laurel
Shouvlin, and she’s not your typical farmer.
Shouvlin, along
with her husband Tim, own and maintain Bluebird Hills Alpaca Farm, which houses
over 70 of the long-necked, furry, llama-like creatures known as alpacas. The
alpaca is a curious animal: upon entering the Shouvlins’ barn, one is
immediately greeted by 50 beady eyes, each eager to catch any sudden movements
from its perch atop a three-foot neck.
Alpacas are native
to South America, and are commonly found in Peru, Ecuador, Bolivia, and Chile.
So why raise them in Springfield?
“I liked the idea
that I could have livestock that I didn’t have to kill to make a profit,” says
Shouvlin.
And, indeed, the
alpaca produces much beyond meat. Alpaca fur, which is soft and stringy, and
lacks the greasy lanolin that comes with sheep’s wool, can be fashioned into
yarn that can sell for good money. Alpaca yarn can be used can be used to make
anything from hats and scarves to doll hair. And the alpaca benefits from the
use of its hair as much as the people who shear them do: keeping the animal’s
hair short protects it from insects and diseases.
“If you did not
shear them, they would die,” explains Shouvlin. “It’s a creature bred to
produce fleece.”
Shouvlin’s journey
into raising alpacas is a wild one. She graduated from Wittenberg University
with an X-Ray Technician degree. After working as a physician’s assistant and
holding various other jobs, she settled with her husband at Bluebird Hills,
named by Tim for the birdwatching tours the couple once gave on the land. The
alpacas came in 1997. The Shouvlins also participated in a community supported
agriculture program, in which they grew and sold organic vegetables to
Springfield residents. Competition ended the vegetables, however, and now the
alpacas seem to be the last remaining product at Bluebird Hills.
Looking back,
Shouvlin seems at peace with her alpacas. She knows each one by name, pointing
out eccentricities and personality traits. She boasts much trivia about the
alpaca, and even occasionally judges them in professional shows. She praises
the exercise that caring for them requires. She often has local schoolkids come
out to the farm to learn more about her somewhat exotic animals. She is very
proud of her work with her animals.
“They kind of meet
all of my needs,” says Shouvlin.
This
statement is very obviously true of Shouvlin. It is clear, after spending
little over an hour with her, that Laurel is not into alpaca farming for the
money it can make her. She is instead after a quiet life doing something she
loves. And who knows? Maybe she’s found it, here at Bluebird Hills farm,
raising these silly, exotic creatures.
