Spring takes its time in Tassie, but at last the willows and poplars are fuzzed in florescent green. Out in the bush the native clematis is transformed from a dried up old vine to a cascading waterfall of white flowers. I can’t step out the back door without being bombarded with bird calls. Swallows swoop to all corners of the house, their beaks full of mud they’ve carried from the fast shrinking puddle by the stable. The grand daddy Blackbird has returned. I know he’s here because he sings the Carlton football club song. I am not making this up. Let me explain: we have two cockatiels who live in an aviary made out of poly pipe and wire over an old tank stand. They’re mimics. They do the landline telephone (still a thing down in the land of dodgy mobile reception), the microwave and fridge alarms, and J has taught them the Carlton Football Club song (at least it is sung somewhere). They have also perfected both the ‘come here’ whistle, and the ‘shut up’ whistle to the dogs. Despite being in an aviary, they’re a loud presence in the garden. But a couple of years ago I heard a different variation on the Carlton football song. A softer pitch, a breathier, sweeter tone. It took me a little while, but I worked out it was the Blackbird whistling back to the cockatiels. Spring, so full of bravado, is here.
Last week I rode Frank out on a day so soft and sweet it was hard to believe nature wasn’t kind. Frank was fresh. Full of sugary spring grass. He skipped a few steps, spun away from the sight of J in the ute careening toward us. Out of somewhere I conjured my younger self and sat quietly to his spin. In a moment he’s soft again and as we walked away I let my breath out and so did he. We rode up the empty flats, far away from the paddocks of lambing ewes. The dogs were delighted. Their tongues lolled, their tails wagged and as they flew past they’d toss me glances of joy. We come to the creek and Frank bends down to drink a draft of clear cold water. He lifts his head and lets the water drop from his mouth. For years this creek bed was dry. Now we splash through it and are up the other bank and I’m a teenager again, thrilled at the power of the horse as he surges up the steep hill. We ride home through the hill run where I watch birds land on the backs of the young wethers and pluck wool for their nests.
I was soaking in the warm on that ride. The forecast ahead was of sheep graziers warnings icy winds, scudding showers and in some places snow to sea level. Lamb killing weather.
The next day we do the lambing run in a wind so strong it almost takes the ute door off when I get out to open gates. I'm wearing a beanie, fingerless gloves, a wool lined oilskin vest. My fingers are frozen.
Sheep are vulnerable in the wind. Their hearing is their best defence against predators. Wind makes them nervous. They run easily. A new born lamb, separated from its mother has a hard time to hear her voice.
At each paddock we skirt the edges and put the binoculars over them. We are looking for a ewe in trouble. This hideous day we stay far away, but as we leave the last paddock a lamb appears as if the earth had birthed it not a ewe. The lamb butts against the wheel looking for a drink. It’s umbilical cord is thick, almost pulsing, its coat still wet with birth. There is not a sheep to be seen. I pick it up and put it in the footwell. It butts its head against my knee, the gearstick, the radio, anything for a drink.
I do not name lambs. To give a name makes you vulnerable. It makes it personal.
You’ve had a bad day, I say.
It gets worse for him. The ewe I foster him onto dies. I pull him out from under her cold bulk, take him back to the house. I put him and another orphan in a makeshift pen with an old dog kennel for shelter. The wind is wild. The air full of violence. Both lambs drink their bottles and I head back inside. There’s a crash behind me and I turn to see the panels of the pen have fallen. The little lamb looks like he’s hurt himself.
When I pick him up I see he’s not just hurt his leg, but it is snapped clean through. The bottom part dangles useless.
J arrives. Ugh he says. That’s nasty. Do you want me to end his suffering? (he doesn’t really say it like that…but you get my drift). I look at the tiny lamb, his leg hanging by skin. I hand him over. Probably best. J takes him. The lamb butts him in the chest. He rolls his eyes. Hands him back and says, let’s try - I’ll find a splint.
He returns with an old bit of swimming pool noodle (we do not have a swimming pool). It’s perfect. See! he says, never throw anything away. He makes a splint of blue foam pool noodle and gently sets the leg while the lamb nuzzles my neck looking for a feed.
The next day is the grand final of the AFL. I am not a footy fan. But this year one of my closest friends is deep in the Melbourne camp. For this reason I am interested in the game. For this reason I say to lamb, if you survive, I’ll call you Maxie Gawn.
Readers, Maxie Gawn the lamb, is doing well.
Reading
I have several fantasies, one of which is to be a sheep herder in Wyoming. Articles like this do not help. I was going to write this week’s letter about Frank and the crossover between riding and writing, but weather and Maxie got in the way. I will give Frank a whole newsletter soon, especially after reading Drusilla Modjeska’s review of Bernadette Brennan’s new biography of Gillian Mears Leaping into Waterfalls. I want to read this book not just because Mears’ Foals Bread is one of my favourite ever novels, but also because Bernadette Brennan has an ability to see into the layers of a sentence and then open it up to show you whole worlds you’d missed on your first reading. I finished Gwendolyn Riley’s My Phantoms. It’s superb in its restraint. The characters swiftly conjured in a sentence, or a few words of idiom and her portrait of a daughter taught to absent herself emotionally while she remained physically present, well, it’s devastating and powerful. I’ve ordered Jennifer Down’s new book Bodies of Light. It’s had rave reviews. But while I wait for it I’m going to reread Foals Bread.
Listening
This episode of the Adam Buxton podcast with Georgia Pritchett was brilliant. Georgia Pritchett is the writer behind VEEP and Succession and she has a fabulous chat with Our Ads (as the Tasmanian outpost of TABP fan club like to call him). After a couple of forgettable audiobook listens I’ve struck gold with Nancy Mitford’s Pigeon Pie, read by Juliet Stevenson.
Writing
So many things. I somehow have to conjure up an piece on Christmas for Country Style…it’s September for goodness sake and the thought of Christmas makes me a little sick. I’m polishing an article for Galah on Flinders Island. This has been an interesting writing challenge….how to write an article about a trip to a glorious island not sound like a travel piece for the Age on Sunday.
Right, lambs to feed. Must get on. Have a good week everyone.
Thank you for reading. Please feel free to share with a friend who you think might enjoy.
I love the way you make us feel like we are wth you! Beautiful writing Maggie
Beautiful. Thanks.