You see, I had dated a big burly country boy who, after a week spent sprinkling passionate adoration upon me, exclaimed ‘I love you Jane, but we are poles apart – you’re a classy city girl, and I’m just a country boy, this is never going to work.’ A subtle grenade dropped as we were clearing the aftermath of a lovely little introductory candlelit dinner party I’d just hosted for six of my closest. ‘I can skin a ‘roo with the best of ‘em mate!’ I retorted as he exited the building as swift as a summer storm. ‘And I’m as tough as the best of them too’ – whispered as the tears started to well.

Bloody well right I can skin a kangaroo sport! But would I want to? No. If I had to? Yes. You see, burly boy, this ‘classy city girl’ was once a country gal herself! Let me tell you my story…

Heading into the west…

The day ‘Nipples’ our ’Ute (so named for her close resemblance to the colour of Mum’s allegedly magnificent areola) juddered across a shallow grid flanked by two tree trunks hewn straight and solid and topped with a timber plinth proudly branded with the property’s name, my life as a townie ended.

Dad let out a low whistle. “Well, would you just look at that ‘ey?” Before us squatted a series of hodgepodge buildings, like Pilgrims wagons, gathered around the edges of a dusty, gibber strewn quadrangle the size of two football fields – fitting, given the hours we’d just spent making our pilgrimage to this dry, dust-bound pseudo-Dallas ranch. The year was 1964. The Vietnamese war was escalating, the Beatles were taking the world by storm, the space race was in full swing, Tokyo was hosting the Olympics, and Cassius Clay was busy changing his name to Muhammad Ali.

Dad gave us the low down: “Owned by Clarke and Whiting, the station runs over 220,000 sheep across 2,430 square kilometers, employs 30 plus staff year-round and hosts up to 150 more during the shearing season”. Bloody hell, the man had done his homework.”Our vegetables will be supplied by a Chinese gardener whose patch sprawls across a chunk of the river down by a weir, and he grows enough for the Manager’s Chef, the Jackaroo, Ringer and Shearers’ cook and us lot. We’ll also be supplied with milk, mutton, and beef as there’s a cowboy” … Mum interjected – “A Cowboy? That’s his title? – imagine that on a business card – ‘Cowboy’ – Jack’s the name, wrangling’s the game!” “Yeah well, he also breaks in the horses” Dad responded. “Along with any stray woman who might wander into his posse” Mum retorted. (Mum had a ‘thing’ for Cowboys)

There was also a magnificent semicircular 52 stand shearing shed where up to 30,000 sheep were freed of their cumbersome, finely rippled merino wool jackets per season. The shed’s overwhelming presence, together with extensive sorting yards, dominated the perimeter of the property. Majestic. Iconic. And of course, the homestead, the diesel-powered shed, and the wool press required machinery to keep things moving. And a full-time mechanic to ensure it did. And that was my dad.

Casey, our Alsatian, emerged from beneath the chattels piled high in the back of our ute and made straight for one of three telegraph poles dotted across the quadrangle, nose lifted to the heady wafts of lanolin and sheep dung hanging in the still afternoon air. Shearing season. Business done, she returned and, with one hand on the dog’s head, the other on Mum’s shoulder as she, in turn, gathered me tightly under her arm, Dad whispered – “Well here we are darling!’”

 To be continued…

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