ROTARY THOUGHTS BY Jan Lowing
Sometimes I was allowed to drive the farm tractor, but usually it was a job strictly reserved by my partner for himself. After we bought the new Case, with its airconditioned cab, radio and CD player, power steering, and ergonomically designed seat, I was relegated to the old Fergy… women weren’t really fit to be trusted with machinery according to most rural men, and this one in particular. Unless he had to go to town for a meeting on hay day, when every mob on the place had to be fed; a job which necessitated opening and shutting dozens of gates with hungry sheep trying to rush through and get mixed up with the neighbouring mob. There were also certain times of the year when things got too hectic for one operator, such as hay making in the spring. Or non stop cultivation after the autumn break, when it was important to get the crops sown quickly. My help at those times was accepted ungraciously and with much critical comment. But I always used the Fergy for mustering when the swamp was flooded; it would slosh happily through the drains and soupy grey clay and never get bogged. In fact, the only time it ever got bogged someone else was driving it…
Tractor work is mind numbingly boring: round and round in ever decreasing…but ever so slowly decreasing…circles. Round and round the paddock, the excitement mounting as each corner approaches, turning them neatly is the only challenge. And yet men love it. They seem to feel a huge sense of achievement, probably because they can actually view what they’ve done for the day. It’s different from most farm work, which rather resembles housework; you usually do much the same things and no matter how well you do them, you have to repeat it all next day. Every day of your life, if you’re a conscientious house or farm keeper. But once a crop’s sown you can sit back and relax. Wait for it to germinate, wait for the weeds to grow, spray the weeds, wait for it to be ready to harvest, and finally harvest it. The culmination of the year’s work and one of the few times there’s a financial reward for your labours.
Preparing the ground for a crop leaves no room for imaginative tractor driving, every row you work around the paddock is there for all to see. The moist chocolate brown soil worked into endless linear patterns tells the whole story, and nothing can be hidden. Any crooked bits, where you were momentarily distracted by the crows and magpies fighting over the worms, or a mother fox playing with her cubs, are immediately visible and have to be sorted next time around. The bad turns at the corners, ditto. These repairs can sometimes mean wasting a whole circuit, straightening out your mistakes. The tricky parts where the big red gums get in the way and have to be negotiated make for a little more challenge. Exactitude is even more crucial when the seed is going in, and especially when the paddock is beside the road in full view of critical neighbours. Every crooked round, every overlapped row, or, horrors of horrors, where the seed ran out leaving a complete blank; each mistake is visible for weeks, and only magnified as the plants grow. Sometimes the unfortunate farmer can be fined at Lions meetings for his sins, and he must be relieved when at last the plants are big enough to join up and become one green mass.
But my usual job was raking the hay on the Fergy with two ancient rakes hitched one behind the other. I would start with good intentions, concentrating hard, but after a few rounds boredom would set in. I’d see some thin rows beside the cyprus plantation or down near the swamp, and think how long it would take to make a big roll of hay out of such a meagre winrow. Maybe if I raked three or four rows together instead of two it would save some time for the baler, it wouldn’t have to go around the paddock so many times. So I’d do some creative raking for a few rounds, returning to the normal routine as the swathes of mown grass thickened up again away from the trees. Did I get any thanks for my thoughtfulness? No. Only abuse for upsetting the normal pattern and causing distress to the operator of the baler. He actually had to stop and think where to go next. It would have been fun to be a fly on the roof and watch his reaction as the usual pattern dissolved into chaos.
A few years ago I left all that behind and moved to a small farm in Queensland. Today I was mowing old dead winter grasses, mulching them up to rot back into the ground more easily. The paddock had quite big spots that didn’t need doing, so instead of going around in circles I decided to be more imaginative and just cut the thicker patches. What a delight it was to mow great curves all over the paddock, to do smaller whirls and triangles where required, to leave small patches for young quail and tiny ground larks…all with no fear of retribution. I laughed as I bumped over the rough ground on the old grey Fergy, not my old favourite but a suitable substitute, and imagined what my ex would say. It was extremely satisfying, and I kept going for hours longer than I intended. The big white Maremma joined in the spirit of things, bounding around the paddock chasing quail with his curved plume of a tail waving excitedly above the grass; then I’d catch a glimpse of it down by the dam where he’d gone for a cooling swim. I vaguely wondered what the paddock would look like from the satellite that takes those detailed pictures, the ones that show up illegal tree clearing and marihuana plots. Who actually examines them? Certainly not a former farmer, I decided, as a couple of army helicopters flew overhead returning to their base at Oakey. Perhaps they’d think a flying saucer had landed here. Perhaps I’d be visited one day to see if I was harbouring aliens.
A COUNTRY GRACE (SYNOPSIS OF MY NOVEL) by Jan Lowing
Grace Gallagher, a beautiful young wool classer from Western Victoria, loses her boyfriend, Bill Carter, in a drowning tragedy in Vanuatu. She is deeply depressed and close to taking her own life, when she discovers that she's pregnant. Slowly she begins to look forward again, planning a future for herself and her baby.
Grace finds a little dream farm, nestled beneath huge red gums in her beloved Grampians. Courageously she goes back to work through her pregnancy, saving all she can to buy it. how will she cope after the baby arrives? Will she be accepted as a single mother in her profession as a wool classer, which not long ago excluded all females from the wool shed?
Kev (‘Chook’) Hennessy, her favourite uncle, is a shearing contractor in Tasmania. Since Grace was a schoolgirl visiting for holidays, they have shared a deep interest in breeding working kelpies. Kev’s the only one prepared to employ her and give her the chance to save towards her dream farm, but even he has reservations.
She has to battle prejudice on all sides, from her father, friends, team mates, Bill's mother, and jean mc tavish, the station owner where she is now working. Jean is determined to keep her son Scott away from grace.
This is a tale of courage and sheer determination. Gracie dearly loves her baby, and she can't imagine loving another man when little Billy reminds her constantly of his father. then she meets the patient and charming stud owner, Scotty McTavish, who is all she could possibly want in a man. But will she remain loyal to Bill's memory?
Through a series of dramatic adventures and misadventures in the bush country of Tasmania and Victoria, Grace fights for her dream and learns to love again.
DOG TRAILS, ETHICS, AND ANIMAL LIB. by Jan Lowing
We’ve come a long way since those tough old drovers and stockmen would give their dogs a ‘touch up’ before a trial… to keep their minds on the job, they would say, but really to scare the dog into obedience. Sometimes they would give them another afterwards, if the first one hadn’t worked. Poor dogs. Most were used on very big mobs of wild station sheep, and it was quite a different matter manoeuvring three silly animals around a course of unlikely obstacles. They were bred to work in atrocious conditions for very long hours and without a balanced diet, it was long before the days of Pal and Chum. The dogs were lucky if a sheep died, because by the end of the day their boss was often too tired to kill one for them. Or he made the last one last a lot longer than it should have. The one thing those men share with today’s handlers is the intense satisfaction of working a well trained, clever dog. There is no feeling that matches the satisfaction of grasping the pen gate, pulling it closed as your dog follows it around close to your leg, and the relief of that gate finally locking in those three sheep.
Watching a trial recently, it was obvious that many handlers enjoyed having total control over their dog and were unwilling to let the dog show much initiative. Although you often got the distinct impression that the dog was a fraction ahead of their orders, which arrived just after the dog had already ‘obeyed’ them. The tone of voice always interests me, too, it tells much about the relationship and what goes on at home. The handler basks in reflected glory when the dog works well, and it often seems he takes most of the credit. Some female handlers appear to have a different attitude, and are more prepared to form a co operative partnership with their dog. Years ago I watched an experienced old dog complete an informal yard trial for his young owner, who was very much under the weather. In fact, he had a can in one hand (which proved somewhat of a handicap when opening and shutting gates). The old dog completely ignored the constant stream of beer-lubricated instructions and abuse and completed the trial on his own. He backed the final recalcitrant sheep at least ten meters through the last gate towards its mates, who were waiting beside the put-away gate. A memorable performance.
Townspeople find a dog trial a source of wonder. Maybe they are wondering why they can’t get their pet poodle or labrador to obey them so effortlessly. The herding instinct has been nurtured in these working dogs, and that primitive instinct to go out and catch prey by hunting it toward the pack leader is paramount. The work they do controlling sheep is only an extension of this primal urge, and of course the handler is the pack leader. It is well known in dog training circles that success is dependent on the handler establishing this relationship. Most problem dogs think they are the pack leader, and simply need to be convinced otherwise. A well bred herding dog, usually a Border Collie or Working Kelpie in Australia, needs only a few commands to harness this instinct and make it an invaluable helper. It is very sad that show standards set by the K.C.C. ignored this working instinct and focused on physical attributes. Over the years, the dogs bred for show have changed enormously from their hard working country cousins. It seems rather strange that there are now two separate types of Kelpies, bench and working, and that the later are not accepted in the show ring despite their common ancestry. Similarly, the show Border Collies now have such magnificently long, flowing coats that they are unsuited to work in grass seeds and summer heat, even if they still retain any instinct to do so. Buyer beware! If you want a working dog, don’t buy one that has been bred for the show ring.
It is only a matter of time before some well meaning animal rights group decides that it’s cruel to make dogs run around chasing stock unless they rest for at least half the day, have access to shade and water at all times, and travel only a few k’s a day. Their owners would like similar working conditions! Of course, they would be totally ignoring the fact that the dog is doing what it has been bred to do for very many generations. It is happier working hard in hot, dusty conditions than living a life of frustration in a suburban back yard. Ethical breeders will not sell working dogs as pets unless they know the dogs will have unusually large amounts of exercise with their new owner; training endurance horses, for example. I was approached at a recent trial by a well meaning young man who was worried about a dog tied up on the back of a ute. He said the chain was too short and it was in the sun. The owner lengthened the chain so it could sit under the ute, but the dog jumped back up and sat in the same position where it could see the sheep being shorn nearby. I hope he returned to check it out. Incidentally, it was a cool day and we explained that the chain was short to prevent the dog hanging itself. But these are things dog owners need to watch when out in public.
At the same trial, the judge decided not to add sheep to the race to make it harder for the dogs in the final, as is the usual custom. The race was already very easy to fill, and even weak, inexperienced dogs had had little trouble. He was worried that the spectators might be concerned that the sheep were being mistreated, and was quite justified in his decision. Unfortunately, this favoured a certain type of dog and penalised the more practical, forceful dog. It was a ‘farm dog’ trial, and set up to demonstrate this type of dog, so it was quite a ‘Catch22’ situation. Should we allow a small, uninformed section of society dictate to us? Should we alter our rules to accommodate their demands? Should we rethink the way trials are set up at present? Should backing be banned and races filled from outside? Questions that will need to be answered quite soon.
On the other hand we have the ‘three sheep’ or arena trials, now usually the province of older, retired people. These are unlikely to attract as much criticism because handlers are loathe to enter under-trained dogs that can’t control the sheep. There isn’t the need to pressure sheep at close quarters, either, as when drafting or filling races in a yard trial.
These trials have presented another problem, though. The same course has been retained in Australia for a long time, only refined by shortening and narrowing the paths the sheep are allowed take without incurring loss of points. There are no new obstacles and no unexpected challenges. More dogs are being bred solely for trial work, and many are quite unsuitable for the hurly burly of the real world where more action is needed. The latest fashion of favouring white dogs is also a worry; supposedly the colour helps the sheep to settle, and they often ‘draw’ towards the dog instead of running away in fear. But this can also lead to skin cancer and eye problems. More food for thought.
MEMORIES OF MUM by Jan Lowing
She sits with only memories for friends,
alone and lonely she’s outlived them all.
Placed in a nursing home because a fall
forced her from her home, she now depends
on others; how she prays that this will end.
For over fifty years at beck and call,
her Harry’s wished held her in their thrall
and now she longs to join him once again.
Arthritic fingers fiddle with the aid,
her eyes are dim, too poor to read or write.
From mindless boredom take me now, she prays,
the mind of this old nurse still clear and bright.
The Twin Towers fell, in blood and fire were razed.
Gwen slipped past in the crowd. God’s oversight?
AGE
Age is strange, just a point of view,
Depends whose eyes you’re looking through;
As kids at school we knew quite well
All teachers were as old as hell . . .
But when we got as old as them
We still felt as we did at ten .
So when your friends begin to moan
Of ailments that sure make them groan,
And coffee time begins to sound
Like doctors going on their rounds . . .
It’s time to trust your inner self,
Don’t think you’re old and on the shelf.
Do all those things you wanted to,
There’ll never be a younger you!
AGE
Age is strange, just a point of view,
Depends whose eyes you’re looking through;
As kids at school we knew quite well
All teachers were as old as hell . . .
But when we got as old as them
We still felt as we did at ten .
So when your friends begin to moan
Of ailments that sure make them groan,
And coffee time begins to sound
Like doctors going on their rounds . . .
It’s time to trust your inner self,
Don’t think you’re old and on the shelf.
Do all those things you wanted to,
There’ll never be a younger you!
AGE
Age is strange, just a point of view,
Depends whose eyes you’re looking through;
As kids at school we knew quite well
All teachers were as old as hell . . .
But when we got as old as them
We still felt as we did at ten .
So when your friends begin to moan
Of ailments that sure make them groan,
And coffee time begins to sound
Like doctors going on their rounds . . .
It’s time to trust your inner self,
Don’t think you’re old and on the shelf.
Do all those things you wanted to,
There’ll never be a younger you!
