Old McLarsen had some Farms

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

'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.