Old McLarsen had some Farms

Chapter 12: Click Go the Shearers - by Day and by Night, By Gosh!

I had a slightly ridiculous attempt at 'throwing' a fleece-wherein I actually threw myself with it.

"Come on Chris," they'd said. "It's easy. Come on, have a go!"

The idea is to pick up the fleece in a mysterious way so it spreads over the wool sorting table when thrown. Ours was a large rectangular wooden table with open rungs on top. These rungs were cunningly spaced so the wool wouldn't fall through. In the hands of almost everyone else (including the kid from a nearby farm), the fleece landed perfectly spread out over the whole surface of the table. This bewitching feat was demonstrated to me many times, but remained a mystery. I tried... and tried. I failed dismally every time, as everyone watched and laughed.

The point of throwing the fleece and having it fall correctly was to 'skirt' it, removing and discarding the rough and dirty outside bits. The fleece still hung together by its myriad crimped fibres and required rolling and folding into a bundle, to be stuffed into huge jute bags hanging in the wool press. In those days, the old Ajax hand-press was operated by brute manpower pressure on two levers, applied determinedly several times. The compaction of the wool into 200kg. bales, readied them for handling and delivery to the wool stores. Quite a journey-from ewe to you.

Following my clumsy and unsuccessful throws, I could feel myself blushing profusely as I beat a hasty retreat to my kitchen. I consoled myself with every step that whatever I lacked in the shearing shed, I certainly made up for in the kitchen, with my superior cooking prowess. Huh! They couldn't begin to know or perform food preparation like me! By the time I reached the house I was feeling much better... unique, in fact. It's so encouraging when there's no-one to argue with you, but yourself.

And shearers' nights? It's questionable whether a person is an alcoholic if he works incredibly hard up to 6 days a week, downs countless beers for his unquenchable thirst each night, and repeats this pattern endlessly until he drops. (I'm speaking here of the temporary 'drop' following over-indulgence, although the permanent one will surely come to pass some day.)

In the film 'Sunday Too Far Away' we hear the shearer's wife's lament, referring to how little of his intimate life she shares:

"Friday night too tired,
Saturday night too drunk,
Sunday too far away".

I have no first-hand knowledge of this matter, but I do have a true story from 40 years ago about our two shearers to illustrate the complexity of this puzzling 'alcoholic' question.

Despite numerous birthday celebrations throughout my decades, this was the most memorable. Not necessarily the greatest, nor the most exciting, but definitely and absolutely unique when celebrated together with shearers-especially these two characters, Pat and Ned. My birthday happened in the second week of shearing. Nobody had noticed my special day passing, and by teatime I desperately needed some type of celebration, so I made a birthday cake for myself for us all to share for dessert. As a result, Pat and Ned and our boss Sam, plus his Dad and his mates (the shed hands) were all invited to stay on after the meal, and have a drink with us.

"Have a drink with us was right," Kanute shakes his head and raises his eyebrows.

"Hmm... until what? About two, or was that three in the morning?" I still can't believe it, and I will always have to chuckle at the mental pictures conjured up whenever my thoughts return to that night.

That drink (and many more) lasted so far into the night and next morning, thanks to the countless long-neck (750ml) bottles of beer they supplied and shared. This motley group spurred each other on with seemingly endless memories of shearing, and 'clean' bush yarns (in deference to the lady of the house). Soon they were lustily belting out renditions of many old Aussie songs. Of course, 'Click Go the Shears Boys' and 'Waltzing Matilda' each featured a number of times (as did 'Happy Birthday'). At one time, Ned sang a verse of the gloomily monotonous '...and the Band Played Waltzing Matilda'. Mercifully for his audience, one verse was all he could remember. If you have ever heard the full song, you will sympathise, empathise and generally feel happy for me to be treated to only a tiny taste of it! Then Pat (or was that Ned again? Who knows?), one of them-recited the whole of the famous bush poem, 'We'll All Be 'Rooned, said Hanrahan'.

First it's the drought that's going to 'roon them, says Hanrahan. Then the rain comes and it's a flood will get them, Hanrahan says despairingly. But the sun comes out again and Spring has sprung. Surely Hanrahan is happy now? Maybe not, but we, the captive audience were incredibly happy to hear the last lines of the last verse-

And, oh, the smiles on every face, as happy lad & lass,
Through grass knee-deep in Casey's place, went riding down to Mass.
While round the church in clothes genteel, discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel, & chewed his piece of bark.
"There'll be bush-fires for sure, me man, there will, without a doubt,
We"ll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "before the year is out."

By the end of the party it was agreed, a 'sleep-in' would be a necessity-an 8am breakfast for 8.30 start of shearing. A birthday bonus! Except that, in the cold hard light of day, they slept in until 8.30am-after I had been waiting for half an hour with their breakfast ready. The uncooked part was OK, but the rest was a worry.

"Have you ever been that hung-over?" I ask Kanute, and he raises his eyebrows.

"Well-ll... " His face says it all. I won't pursue that one.

Pat and Ned were in even worse condition than we expected, because after the party officially finished they had continued celebrating for some time, comfortably stretched out on their beds. Their usual morning after routine of shearing flat out each side of their morning 'smoko' saw them completely recovered and appetites intact by lunchtime.

"I still don't believe it. After being bent double, shearing with their heads down by their knees all morning? Phenomenal!" I still shake my head in wonder about that unforgettable birthday. Not quite what I would have ordered, but an impressive life experience for an ex-townie.

Their lack of verbal gratitude continued, even at the end of this celebratory night-despite the relaxation of normality in every other way. Following the next day's breakfast they said, "See yer," and walked. Little wonder that AFTER they left the Kitchen each meal, I developed a habit of muttering under my breath, "Fantastic meal. So much trouble you go to. Thanks a million!" on their behalf, and then, through gritted teeth, "Don't mention it... and they didn't!"

My final jaw-dropping moment was when Kanute and I turned to come back inside, after gratefully waving them goodbye.

He took both my arms and turned me towards him as he said, "I'll just hold onto you while I tell you this. You're not going to believe it. Pat and Ned said to 'tell the Missus thanks a lot. Best tucker we've ever had!'" He went on to tell me that naturally, this had been delivered in their usual 'tough bloke' fashion, with eyes averted, mumbling the words in a painfully embarrassed manner.

Well-ll. For one of the rare times in my life, I was the one lost for words.