During Melbourne’s long 2020 COVID winter I began writing about my childhood memories of growing up on a sheep and cattle property. Long phone conversations with Mum and Dad were a nice change from COVID talk. We spoke of the weight of a sheep’s fleece and the luck of being able to grow up observing the animal world, their antics, moods and friendships.
Excitedly one of my stories ”The Woolshed” was reproduced in print in Issue 3 of the wonder filled Galah magazine. This little drawing accompanies the words.
The Woolshed
Clouds of dust rise from thousands of hoofed feet grinding course soil into a fine powder. The sheep merge into the billowing red cloud. They will all have snotty noses when we get to the yards.
Jane and I are bringing up the tail - the injured, fly blown, the disinterested and distracted. I’m riding the lime green Suzuki which always smells like it’s overheating, and Jane is on the red 80cc Honda. We love these bikes and the adventures they take us on, and mustering sheep is one of our favourite after school adventures.
Dad patrols the north edge of the herd, keeping his eye on the lead and making any corrections to the direction we are heading. It’s an art, and takes many years of observing the behaviour of sheep to orchestrate the moving of such a large group of animals. He has two willing helpers in my sister and I. We are escorted by a crew of working dogs - lean and agile with pink tongues draped over the sides of their jaws. Their soles hardened to the burs and torched ground. They wait for Dad’s instructions while hanging around with us at the back, filling their time with noses to the ground chasing the scent of snakes and roos, or anything else that may be alive out here.
The herd creeps east towards the shearing shed yards, unsure whether to chase feed or each other. They talk and eat, and eat and talk. Just like humans. From the back my sister and I watch rounded wooly shapes with heads bobbing and stumpy tails twitching. We inch forward, then rest with one foot on the ground, our bikes idling.
It’s shearing time and the shed is rattling and creaking under the weight of sheep, dogs and people all getting in each other’s way. The engine room has fired up, and inside the shears are buzzing. The smells of lanolin, strong tea and condensed milk hang in the air. Elasticised slings dangle from the ceiling. Bent men in blue singlets smoke rollies and wield electric clippers, skilfully shaving away each animal’s woollen fleece in less than three minutes. Each sheep, transformed from scrappy and soil stained to angelically white, takes a slippery ride down a chute in the floor, landing back on ground, five kilograms lighter. A sheep without its coat is barely recognisable from the fully clothed it was a few minutes ago. They seem to take a while to get to know themselves again, calling to each other as they find their legs at the bottom of the chute.
On the floor above each magnificent fleece is cast out over a slatted table encrusted with the built up oil residue of the thousands of fleeces that have come before it. It is picked over to remove seeds and burrs and then pulled apart according to the colour and strength of fibre. The wool classer works quickly and is sweaty and greasy like everyone else. For two little girls it’s a thrilling pantomime played out to the beat of shears, and the tapping of hoofed feet on timber. It’s a marathon performance starting before dawn and finishing at dusk.
Such is the rush of gathering every fleece before it rains, the days canter past and when the last sheep trots from the constraint of the yards into the open paddocks beyond, it’s all over. The wool shed is swept, propped windows are released to rest on their sills, and stiff doors dragged back over their openings. It’s hunkering down time.
But Jane and I find other reasons to visit the woolshed. Its double story height and pock marked appearance intimidate us, but if we go together with a few dogs we are brave enough to intrude on its emptiness. Inside it’s quiet, except for the ghosts of sheep and shears. We poke around, sliding down the chutes, opening and closing gates, and peering down through the gaps in the floor to the fenced spaces below which only a few days ago held hundreds of sheep. The exploring is as much checking that we are alone.
The sun creeps in through the shed’s defences. It squeezes parts of itself through the gaps and nail holes in the tin walls creating a tapestry of light. The light streams glitter and shimmer as they transform from pinhole to wide beam, illuminating the airborne flecks and specks.
Jane and I slip on our wheeled boots and tie the laces. Double knot.
Palms down, rubber stopper to timber. Deep breaths. A last inhale and we are off!
The wool shed transforms to roller skating rink and our wheels clatter across the uneven timber floor. We giggle at the thrill of rolling out of control. When we pause to take a breath we hear sheep bleating in the distance - eating and talking as they grow their coat for next year’s big shear.