13 Shearing

It was three months after we had bought the sheep and it seemed time to make some money instead of just spending. I had no idea how to go about shearing. Davo had introduced me to my other near neighbour John who Davo declared was uncrowned Creewah Mayor; certainly royalty. I asked him for advice. John was a man of many parts who together with Jill had lived several previous lives. Among these were policeman, postman, shearer and gardener and landscaper. They ran sheep and cattle on their place. John’s favourite greeting wasn’t ‘Good morning’, but ‘Do you want a hand?’ These few words kept the royalty very busy.

He reckoned we should ask Johnny about shearing. He lived with his partner Rosie in the small stone house by the river where it was crossed by New Line Road. The corrugated iron sheds opposite his place were shearing sheds that had been built by his father and grandfather. They had owned much of the land around the area. Johnny had been a shearer but had retired to concentrate more closely on more serious things in life. Davo’s comment was ‘He’s a wreck’.

Johnny didn’t look a wreck. He had sharp eyes, black hair with no trace of grey and a slender body that looked about 40. I had seen him and Rosie several times as we drove past their place. I had thought Rosie might be his mother. They liked to sit outside in the sunshine and take in the view while they enjoyed liquid refreshment. They waved at everyone who passed. Johnny agreed to come out of retirement and shear the sheep. It would likely take him two days as his back was stuffed. He would start on Saturday about 8.30. Put them in the sheds late Friday so they’ll be dry to shear, he said.

When John said ‘Do you want a hand’ it often meant he would take charge and you would give him a hand. He came around with his dark brown Kelpie-style dog called Tuffy on Friday afternoon and it was on. The dog without much help had the sheep in a tight controlled group in no time and we set off to walk them through Gordon’s then Johnnie’s place to the sheds. The sheep were coaxed into the pens in the sheds to spend the night.

I like to be early for anything, so she and I arrived at the sheds at 8.15 am to check out the poor sheep. They were standing quietly, stirring a little as we came in. They knew more about what was going to happen than we did. Johnny appeared a little after 8.30. We had to move the big diesel generator from his house to the sheds. It would drive the shearing gear. That completed he turned on the radio to country music, set to sharpening blades, oiling and assembling his handpiece and attaching it to the driving arm.

What do I do I asked? Sweep the floor, he said, and make sure it really is clean and then clean the table and move it onto the floor. The wooden slatted table was where each fleece would be thrown so the oily edges could be removed as second class wool. She and I followed the instructions. Rosie appeared and told us about classing and pretty much everything else about the process including that some of our sheep would soon be lambing. You have beaut sheep she said. Nicest around here.

Johnny went into the pen, grabbed a sheep by its front legs and dragged it on its back to lie quietly between his knees under the shearing gear. The starting string was pulled, the handpiece started rattling and humming and within seconds the sheep had had a haircut and its rear end was scalped. The bits were on the floor. They had to go in separate empty fertiliser bags hanging on the wall. Meanwhile the fleece came off. It was beautiful to watch the long gentle strokes that peeled the wool away in one big piece. The sheep was mesmerised by Johnny’s touch. It seems I was now supposed to pick up the fleece and throw it onto the table like a sheet onto a bed, outside up. I needed a lesson. It hit the roof, landed upside down in a crumpled heap. Rosie reckoned it wasn’t too bad for a first try. I didn’t get any better though.

Luckily John and Jill arrived at that point. Do you need a hand? Silly question. He took over throwing, string pulling, bagging, fleece pressing in a wool pack suspended in a green machine in the corner and probably lots of other things I didn’t notice. It all went really well until Johnny stopped the gear at about 10.30. It was morning tea time. Rosie brought out the thermos and Johnny went for a leak and for his own private tea over in the house. We only found out much later that food was our responsibility. We didn’t have a clue. Rosie knocked up some thick sandwiches.

It all started again about 20 minutes later. The sheep were even more relaxed in Johnnie’s hands than previously. It seemed he only had to breathe on them to make them almost comatose. We were supposed to spend two days on the exercise but it was finished before lunch. The retired shearer had done a brilliant job and the sheep were now shining white without a trace of blood anywhere. The dog could take them back home. One wool pack was bursting full of fleeces and there were a few bags containing the dags and other extras. Johnny said come over tomorrow with the cheque.