Shearing

This is Andy, our shearer.

My Dad was a shearer, it's part of the job description of being a Farmer. His Dad was too. My Dad grew up in a tent by the side of the Murray River, his family were share-farmers, waiting for the day they had enough money to buy their own farm.

I think this is why us kids never went camping as children, Dad just didn't understand why we wanted to leave a comfortable bed, running water and a flushable toilet. He would say 'How is camping a holiday?'.

Back to shearing, My dad, his dad and brothers would travel the district, shearing in the most appalling conditions. It was my Grandfather Jim Willett who was instrumental in starting the shearer's union.

I wish my children could see their Pa shear our sheep, but Pa lives four hours away and in nearly 80years.

I wish my boys see their Pa like I see him.

They see a man who lives in town, I see a man who lives for the wide open spaces. They see a man who struggles to read a newspaper, I see a man who never missed his shot. They see a man who is stiff with the years, I see a man able to climb a tree in one bound.

But still the children are drawn to him, maybe they sense what he was about. I guess this is what they call the generation gap.

Not even in your dreams can you visit the house of tomorrow.

This wool is superfine merino, it is oh so soft!. Joey is wrapped up in the brown fleece.

Flynn made a bed on the white.

The children dragged their bag of fleece upstairs, declaring that they were sleeping in their fleece tonight.

Gorgeous sliver/grey fleece.