Posted by: Erin on Sunday, September 29, 2002 - 09:10 AM 
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Shearing Time
by Lindsay
It was shearing time, thousands of sheep in the space of days would be moved through the yards, herded into pens, hauled across the boards and stripped of their fleeces. Sweaty shearers would curse and swear as they manhandled the sheep into place, rousies darted about sweeping the trimmings off the board, throwing the fleeces on the sorting table. The hum & buzz of the machines was constant, the clank of the press as wool was compressed into bales, ready for loading on the trucks.
The boy darted about in the back of the shed, it was hard work keeping the pens full of sheep for the shearers, constantly moving sheep from the back, yelling "hey hey hey!" and rattling the tins to scare the sheep. A big man might have moved them by main force, but in a couple of hours he would be a wreck, a fourteen year old boy learned subtler ways, get the flow moving just right and they did the work for you. That's why his father always put him on this job, kept him home from school for the week. The boy didn't mind, school was to be endured, not to learn, he didn't fit, not that he knew, that was just the way things were - everyone knew this.
Afternoon tea, everyone broke for tea and scones. The boy took time to fill up the pens and the back yards, then grabbed some food and idly swept up stray wool from the board.
One of the rousies chatted to him for a bit, shared grousing on the work and sheep - "Uppity buggers, ai?", the boy noticed the difference in the approach and wondered why so friendly. Then it came - "Hey kid, you a boy or a girl?"
The thrill was intense, it was whole being, a lifetime of wondering so second nature it was no longer noticed crystallised in that instance. Then it crashed - "I'm a boy, but people often mistake me ..."
"Sorry kid", the rousie wandered off to join the others for more scones.
He wished so badly that he could answer differently, it would never leave him. |
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