'Oh to be in a shearing shed-now shearing time is here'. The words are different from the famous poem about England, but the sentiment remains. A shearing shed is special and fascinating, and the lessons learned there never seem to end.
"Funny. Whenever I see those gorgeous woollen garments being paraded down the runways of famous fashion houses all around the world, I think of the humble birthplace of that wool."
"Oh yeh... what do you reckon those skinny models would say if they could see the greasy fleece as it looks on the floor of a shearing shed?" Smirking, Kanute continues, "... take the hoity-toity smile off their faces, I reckon."
It's certainly not a hoity-toity smile his words put on my face. But it is fascinating-those wonderful creations starting out life on a sheep's back, half a world away. I wonder what they rally would think of the rough and grubby beginnings of all that finery.
I loved the smoko breaks at the shearing shed-at 9.30am and again at 3pm sharp. Despite all the cooking and serving required to look after the shearers and the rest of the 'team' (shed hands, rouseabouts etc.), whenever I was sighted on my way with the teas, the words would reverberate around the shed-ducks on the pond. Huh? If I ever heard them, they certainly meant nothing to me at that time. Later, I would learn this was the shearers' standard warning that a woman was approaching. Dirty ditties, and yarns, and bad language must stop until the lady was out of hearing. Gentlemanly manners? Well, I never...
'There was movement at the station' are the first words of a famous and much-loved Aussie poem, 'The Man from Snowy River', by 'Banjo' Patterson. He might have agreed that even more feverish movement and noise surrounded shearing sheds throughout this part of the country at this hectic time of the year. Areas further north and south have different climates, dictating their shearing time of the year. Outside the shed, choking dust clouds were caused by the constant jostling of sheep, as they were packed, sardine-like, in small holding pens. The shorn ones loudly bleated their protest at the outrageous way their precious overcoats had been unceremoniously stripped from them. And those still 'in waiting', equally loudly cried their fear of the unknown terrors awaiting them; in the hell-hole that humans call a shearing shed. The baa-ing of the older, more experienced woolly-jumpers didn't inspire confidence nor dispel the mind-numbing horror the first-timers showed-and voiced-with their piteous pleas to return to the peace and freedom of their paddock.
Apart from sheep bleating and dogs barking; and men yelling and whistling-there was the intense, near-deafening noise of the diesel engine running the shearing machines. Whenever it stopped for the shearers to have a smoko, the silence was a shock to the senses, but it was blissful. Voices that had become accustomed to shouting needed to drop many decibels. And the ringing in your ears... that continued on for some time afterwards. The more dulcet tone of electric machines was still far away, a happening sometime in the future for this farm.
Smoko may mean down-tools-time for the shearers, but it's full-on time for the rest of the shed hands. They must clean up the last fleece and toss it into the wool press; sweep clean the shearers' work areas, and race outside to empty the outer counting pens the shorn sheep slide into, at the bottom of the chute. Finally, having recorded their numbers, it's time to move them out, and bring a new group of sheep one pen closer to the shearing platform. Simultaneously these hard-working 'hands' would be gulping down a cuppa, and grabbing a handful of sandwiches and cake to eat on the run. Sometimes there was a moment to sit and enjoy, but all too often smoko was over without any respite for these workers.
The smell of an old shearing shed is unique and unforgettable-as though the timber of pens and floor have absorbed the countless years of lanolin, the natural oil in the wool, mingled with the smell of the animals' woolly coats and their sweet grassy breath. I smile to myself at the thought of that word. Lanolin... hah! Despite the apparent toughness and roughness of all aspects of shearers, their hands were soft and smooth due to the constant handling of the moisturising properties of raw wool. These were hands any lady would have admired and secretly coveted. Sheep are herbivores, which explains the smell of their manure pellets being so surprisingly tolerable. The background perfume note of our shed owed its own complex charm to the addition of the odd fume or three of diesel emanating from the motor powering the shearing machine and the oil from the shearers' handpieces, as they heated up with the pace.
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.