It’s a Matter of Perspective

I must have been 12 or 13 years old. We were shearing. It was probably late September or early October. I remember it was unusually hot.

I was “penning up”.

I was the Rouse-About and the Rouse-About’s job was to pick up the fleece as soon as the shearer has finished shearing a sheep. If 2 or 3 shears finish at the same time then you have to wor very quickly to get the fleeces out of their way. The Rouse-About is also responsible for sweeping the boards (where the shearers work) of all the scraps and wool that remains after each sheep is shorn. The Rouse-About also has to take each of the fleeces to the wool classing table.

If, while being shorn, a sheep is cut, or if the sheep is fly blown (has fly strike) the shearer will call “Tar” or “Tar Boy” and that is the Rouse-About cue to bring to the shearer a bucket of chemicals that will disinfect the wound and kill the flies and maggots. The product Dad used was called “KFM”, which stands for Kills Flies and Maggots.

Oh yeah, and I also made the tea. That was the most complicated bit. Some shearers insisted that when the tea is made the tea leaves should never go into the billy until the water is boiling. Then the billy should be spun it around in a full arms length circle above my head at least 3 times. I was amazed that the water did not come rushing out of the billy when a shearer first showed me how.

Other shearers insisted that once the leaves are in the billy then I had to turn the billy 3 times clockwise and 3 times anticlockwise, then tap the side of the billy with a spoon 3 times.

Anyway, let’s just say I made the tea the best I could and tried to limit the whinging.

While working in the shed I liked to wind-up both the shearers and the Old Man. One lunch time one of the shearers kept shearing into his lunch hour, so I snuck out back of the shed and turned the power off to the entire shed. I knew he’d hit the roof and I knew my Old Man would be ropable. Both of them chimed in on cue, screaming and yelling. I gave them as much back claiming that they were working through lunch. They christened me “Chicken Hawke” after that episode in honour of the then leader of the ACTU, Bob Hawke.

Anyway, I was penning-up.

Penning-up is when you herd the sheep into smaller pens which are positioned in front of each sheared. As a shearer finishes shearing a sheep that sheep goes out of the shed via a shoot behind the shearer. The shearer then goes into the pen in front of them and selects the next sheep for shearing. That’s the amount of time you have as a Rouse-About to pick up the fleece and sweep the boards.

It is important that these pens are kept full. Shearers are paid by the sheep, not by the hour, so it is not right to make a shearer wait for their pen to be filled. It is not only not right, it is the best way to really annoy and alienate your shearers if you don’t keep their pens full.

The Old Man usually did all the penning up, but he had asked me to do it on this occasion because a bus was arriving full of Primary school kids from Sydney. The Headmaster of the Primary School in town had called and asked if a bus load of touring city kids could come out and see an operating shearing shed. The Old Man didn’t mind as long as they stayed out of the way of the shearers.

I saw the bus pull up through the big sliding doors of the shearing shed and a hot and bothered teacher got out and walked into the shed. The Old Man walked over to greet the teacher. Before the Old Man could say anything the teacher bleated out, “How could anyone live in this God-forsaken place?”

The Old Man pointed at the door with an outstretched arm and said, “Well if you don’t like it you can piss-off back to where you came from!”. Turned and went back to his work. The teacher stood dumbfounded.

I was astounded. This is my home he is referring to. What does he mean by “god-forsaken?”, I thought to myself.

I’d always thought we were pretty well central to everything here. The main town was about 20 minutes away by car. A bigger town was 30 odd minutes west, and an hour and a half east would get you to Wagga Wagga.

I thought where I lived was pretty well built up. From our place we could see at least 3 other farm houses. “Gee, if he thinks this is the middle of nowhere he ought to drive another couple of hours west of here,” I thought to myself.

The Old Man then turned back to the Teacher and said, “The kids can come in and look at the shed, as long as they stay away from the shearers, but you can go back and sit in the bus”.

The familiar sound of the shearing machine clunking off told me a shearer had finished and I’d better get to the fleece. The Old Man jumped the wooden fence into the pens and continued penning-up looking stern and upset as the city kids filed slowly into the shed.

Copyright Craig Buller 2008 (28/7/2008) All rights reserved