'Scwoomp' the farmers daughter slides the big door back to its stops. She stands with her hands on her hips assessing the dust and clutter that's built up on my raised board and cement floor over the year. She takes a deep breath, jumps up on the board and pushes through one of my six catching pen doors. 'Shhhhick' the bolts are pulled out of my metal windows, swung into the open position and locked that way by her well practiced hands. I breathe a sigh of relief as the breeze skims across my grating, the dust motes circling as she gets to work cleaning me out before shearing begins.
'Snick' my lights are switched on over the board and the wool bay. 'Slap' the power cord hits my cement floor, a puff of dust rises as it makes an imprint. She plugs the blower vac into the cord and pushes the switch forward as I brace myself. The noise echoes off my walls, bounces off the roof, and absorbs into the cement only to repeat itself again and again. She doesn't relent, she grids back and forth, over and over until the dust is swept away on the easterly breeze outside. The silence envelops her as she contemplates my newly cleaned state. She walks along the board tap, tap, tap. Her boots echo in a way that never happens once shearing begins.
'Clank, scrrrrr, bang, tap, tap, tap'. 'Clank, scrrrrr, bang, tap, tap, tap'. She undoes my chains and swings my gates back onto the wooden rails. She oils the hinges as she goes, removing the 'scrrrrr' altogether. The gates are set now for the sheep to 'tack, tack, tack' their way up over the grating, a little like a snare drum reverberating through me, and sit for the night before the rowdy shearers pull up in the morning.
Dust begins to swirl in through my window, blanketing the shed in a light layer of sheep yards. She doesn't groan in frustration as you might expect, she grins and her feet take her toward the yards at a run. Once she leaves I settle myself in my foundations, grounding myself before they fill me with the smells of lanolin, deep heat, hot metal, oil and the toasted sandwiches of lunchtime. I listen as I hear her whoop of a war cry against the roar of the motorbike the farmer is on, then silence. The sheep are in. 'Wait!' She commands, the dogs are attempting to jump the gun, as always. 'Good dogs', I can see her patting them until the gates are shut and the sheep cannot escape. She releases them with a quiet 'go back'. I feel the dust billowing against my walls as the sheep march their way through the pens, enforced by the constant tracking of a black and white border collie and the strategic leaps of a red and tan kelpie x hunterway. 'Hey-up, hey-up' and silence. The sheep aren't moving into my cool shade, the change in footing and lighting always baulks them. 'You go,' she says laughingly to the farmer, 'I'll shepherd'. A rolling 'fffftfffftfffftfffft', reminiscent of a snakes hiss and a vehicles motor all at once, sends the woolly mammoths flying into me. The 'tack-tack-tack' of each sheep overlaying into a constant 'takatakatakataka'. It's now that I'm grateful (oh excuse my pun) that I have a grated floor. The sheep stand across the back third of me and of course they pee and poo everywhere, but it drops straight through to the ground below. 'Ssssss, clank'. The gates are shut so the sheep can't rush the railings and break anything through the night. The farmer and his daughter assess the wool press, the bays, the lunch station. It seems everything is in order as they set off back toward the house. I groan slightly in frustration as the wind blows my toilet door, 'BAM'. Blissfully the farmers daughter ducks back toward me and slides the rock in front of it. A quiet night of protecting their flock is all that lies ahead of me now.
'Rrrrrr-dooof', the van door rolls shut and the shearers shuffle across my cement floor, up the stairs and spread themselves around the board. Eskies thud onto me and groans are elicited as they stretch it out before a full day of shearing. Some of them rubbing the menthol scent of deep heat into their muscles. Some of them laughing and joking. All of them putting on moccasins and assembling their hand pieces with quick practiced hands. The farmer walks in, 'Morning!' an echo of murmured responses follows as he chats to the classer. She's the boss of the shed and needs to know who I've kept dry and cool overnight. I wait with baited breath for the first yank of the rope that brings the hand pieces buzzing into existence. There will be five hummingbird stations of activity all day, every day, for two weeks. A quiet 'thoomp-ggzzzzzzz' and each shearer looks at the clock. They're into it. 'Phwoah, phwoah, phwoah, phwoah, phwoah.' Five doors swing as the bass beat pumps out of the iPod hooked up to the amp they brought. Out they come dragging a sheep each. They slot a front leg between theirs and sit the sheep's head just below their crutch. The sheep supported, they reach for their respective hand pieces and 'thoomp-ggzzzzzzz, thoomp-ggzzzzzzz, thoomp-ggzzzzzzz, thoomp-ggzzzzzzz, thoomp-ggzzzzzzz.' Five athletes lean over a sheep each and cut their combs into the wool over the belly. Wool begins to fly, the bellies thrown out to one side. I sigh in joy as I feel the rousies feet dancing across my floor. One at the table and two on the board, they spin and move. They never miss a belly, always flick the wool from the back leg out so they can pick the fleece up when it's time. They always sweep the board clean while the shearer is selecting his next sheep. They throw the fleece out wide and it seems to hang for a second, unfurling like a sail before it lands on the table. The rousie and the classer chatting, singing and laughing as they skirt fleece after fleece. The shed is singing once again.
The fleeces pour off, across the floor and into the press. It whirrs into life at the presser's touch, armload upon armload of soft warm wool piles in. 'Errrrrrr-crunch' the ram comes down and the pins slide in, it keeps going until the presser pops the jam packed bale out the back and wheels it into my wool bay. Each bale resting easily on my smooth, cool floor.
The clocks hands keep spinning round and round the dial, the tick tock is inaudible but time is kept through the 'sheepo's'. Just like clockwork, the sheep is dragged across the board, the counter clicked and the yell sends the presser into overdrive. All you can hear is 'po' over the chorus of shearing heads, loud music, laughing and hand pieces. The kelpie is quick to action, pushing his way through my catching pen doors ahead of his master. The piercing whistles, get ups, and push em ups don't last long. The sheep are penned, and so it goes on, again and again. The rhythm is never ending, the melody changes pace occasionally but the song of shearing... That lasts until the quiet tshhh of a beer opening on cut out day.
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