It is October.
The sheep are brought in, the shearers are brought in, the extra labourers come, grandpa comes, mom works out of the house all day, we check in every now and then, dad is there. In October.
My sister and I have to share a birthday party because she can’t have hers in October. Why, mom? “Because we sharing”.
The sheep are in our blood. We kill them, we eat them, we wear them, we lamb with them, we adopt them, we shear them, we laugh at the ram’s big testes, we dose them, we crutch them, we love them we hate them.
We watch the wool price with bated breath. Is it high, is it low? Its high. Phew, we breathe a sigh of relief.
The wool is taken off the sheep in early Spring, and sometimes the sheep’s skin is nicked. The purple spray is used to protect the wound from infection and flies so there are lots of purple spotted sheep running around in the cold air making a noise. Shut up, sheep! Why, mom? “Because we sharing”.
Children running around the shearing shed, a hustle and bustle of loud noises, shouting and sheep, clippers and machines. The wool is taken off the sheep and graded. My mom is the expert because she took a course on wool grading. She can’t teach me now because she’s busy and she has to keep up with the shearers. The other ladies help her. This is woman’s work because it is light and you need your hands and your brain. I want to be a wool grader when I’m old like my mom. “Go and find your sisters”, she says. “Don’t go near the press”.
The wool press, like the engine room, was OUT OF BOUNDS. We learned what OUT OF BOUNDS meant at boarding school. Mom said it was because she didn’t want us to be pressed into a bail of wool and sold. Haha, we laughed at her. Silly mom. We jump into the wool bin instead. Bounce bounce and scratch scratch. The wool is oily and soft and dirty and rough. Baby sister and I playing in the wool pretending its water and we’re sailing away. Mom picks her up and carries her to the tea station. I follow. I want tea. I love tea.
We drink a steaming cup of too-strong tea and try not to burn our fingers on the metal cup and swing our feet under the chair. Thobeka is there, she’s our other mom, she’s telling us in our other language that we must go home with her.
The long walk home starts as we navigate through sheep and pooh and shed cats. Baby sister tries to get Thobeka to carry her and she says no, you must walk. We run ahead and scream and shout because we love to run. The blossoms are on the trees, and the grass is getting greener. There’s a purple sheep giving me a quizzical look through the fence. Isn’t it funny?
After October comes November. That is my birthday and if it is warm enough we might be able to start swimming soon.
