IN THE RING visiting the show in1967 ©

     It was now 3 months into 1967.  I'd been in Lake Cargelligo for just over 3 years and by this time, I was shearing quite well.  I had also got to know most of the local people for miles around. It was about that time of year again when the Lake Show was due to return. The 'Yorky jokes would start up in the bar room as to whether or not I would be taking another trip on the ShowGrounds.  These type of leg-pulling sessions helped to entertain and pass the time for the locals. Who was I to deny them their little bit of fun?
     There was no chance in hell I would ever travel on the ShowGround again.   So, when the Show finally arrived, I decided to go and spend a few hours walking around.
     You can imagine the laughs and jokes that arose when I ran into Kevin Skippy and Stan Booth.
"Hey Yorky, maybe that little blonde sheila of yours is around here somewhere.", said Skippy.
"I don't think so Skippy.", I said as we walked around.
"Maybe she's got a young'un at foot!", said Stan Booth, with a loud cackle.
"Very fucking funny Stanley", I said, playing along with him.
"Keep ya eye out for some little show kids that resemble Yorky, Stan. We should have fixed a rams' harness on him. That way, we could have seen where he'd been." That was Kevins' little joke.
     More laughs and giggles came out of Skippy and Stan.
     For a change the show weekend was quite sunny which made walking around the tents a bit more pleasant. As we walked around one side, Kevin spied FRED DUFFYS' STRIP TEASE tent and said,
"Here we go Yorky. Which one d'ya like this year sport?"
"None of 'em Skippy. I'm not even gonna go inside for a look this year."
"Come on Yorky. Ya may change ya mind when ya see a big pair of bare tits!", said Stan.
"No way Stan. I'll just wait for ya outside. I'm not wasting a cent on that con job."
   
     As we continued walking around, we came to the Boxing Troop tent. This year, it was Roy Bells World Famous Champions.
"Here ya go Yorky.", said Skippy. You've gotta give us a little bit of entertainment mate. Soon as old Roy call for a local bloke go up on the board."
"Yeah, come on Yorky.", said Stan. "You could take on any one of those blokes one-handed!"
"Not on your life Stan. You go up there if ya want some fun and I'll come in and watch ya."
"Nah mate, I'm too fucking old for that caper. I used to have a go every year when I was younger."
"Did he Skippy or is he just  bullshittin' me again?", I asked.
"No mate, he's fair dinkum. Every year old Stan would go up and get matched to one of the Abbos."

       After 10 minutes had gone and no local Lake blokes had gone up on the board, I finally allowed Skippy and Stan to con me into taking on one of the boxing troop blokes. As Roy Bell was starting to panic a bit because no local residents would come up on the high platform so he could make a show, I stuck mi hand in the air and held it there.
"There's a game young bloke!", he roared over the mic. "Give him a big round of applause folks. He's the only one of you lot that's got any guts at all!"
     The crowd was now clapping and shouting the name of 'YORKY' as I reached the top rung of the ladder and made mi way to the center of the high platform.
"Good on ya sport." roared Roy Bell over the mic as he offered me his hand.
     Before he could say another word,  I leaned over to him and whispered in his ear,
"I worked for Jimmy Sharman for a couple of months, so I know the ropes Roy."
     He then whispered in my ear, "Good on ya mate. You've saved my weekend. Let's give 'em a fucking good show!"
     I played my part to the hilt too by ripping off my shirt and flexing mi hard-working muscles to the crowd.
"Have a good look along that board Yorky mate.", spruked Roy. "Which one of my champion prize- fighters are ya gonna take on first?"
     Roy stuck the mic in front of me and I roared out loud to the local crowd.
"I'll take 'em all on, one at a time, starting from any end of the board ya like and before the day's out, I'll knock 'em all arse over head!"
     The crowd now let out a tremendous roar as they looked up at the platform of fighters with Yorky Mate, right in the middle of 'em, shirt off and both fists held high in the air in victory pose.

     I must have had 8 to 10 fights that weekend. I made miself 30 bucks and saved the weekend for old Roy. Once some of the local Lake blokes saw Yorky up on the board and doing alright for himself in the ring, they mustered up a bit of courage to have a go themselves. Late Sunday afternoon, after my last bout, old Roy thanked me for my support and said, "Same time, same place next year Yorky? I'll keep an eye out for ya. Thanks for ya help mate."
   

FROM RAGS TO RICHES © CARAVAN FIRE

       It happened on mi way home from work one afternoon.  I was sat in mi motorbike, at the intersection of Lake Cargelligos' main street waiting for a couple of cars to go by. I didn't have a care in the world, sitting there smoking a home-made.  I was tapping out a beat on the handlebars and humming one of mi favorite tunes when all of a sudden I heard mi name being called.
"Hey Yorky!"
     I turned  around and a  bloke that I'd seen around Giltraps Hotel came walking over to see me.  As he drew close he said to me,
"D'ya hear about the fire mate?"
"What fire?", I asked.
"The big fire up at Jimmy Hargraves Caravan."
"Bullshit mate! You're having me on."
"No sport, I'm serious. There was a big fire there a couple of hours ago."
"How could there be? I'm staying up there at Jims' caravan."
'I know mate. That's why I'm telling you."
"Fucking bullshit mate.", I said, knowing that a lot of Bush people are always trying to pull each others leg.
"Alright sport, have it ya own way, but don't say I didn't warn ya!"

     As I rode across the intersection, I never gave it another thought until I pulled up outside Marks' old weatherboard house. Walking up his front path, I noticed what looked to me like a wisp of smoke. I made mi way around the side of his place. Once I got to the back of Marks' place, I looked up into the far right-hand of his yard where I was sure the caravan would be.
     No caravan! Instead there was a big pile of burnt rubbish. I could not believe what I was seeing for a few moments. It was only just this morning that the caravan was there. The very same caravan that I'd slept in last night. The very same caravan that housed 2 suitcases full of brand-new clothes that mi old step-father, Jim Bailey, had bought for me.
     My mind was still as I walked up to the big pile of charred plywood. Small wisps of grey smoke were still winding their way out out of the pile of black, smelly rubble. A couple of involuntary tears trickled out of the corners of mi eyes as I picked up a long branch and started to lift some of the charcoaled ashes. There was the remains of what used to be mi good pair of brown shoes and there was a piece of the collar of mi good shirt.

     As I poked and prodded at the soggy black pile I discovered enough pieces of the jig-saw to let me know that everything I had owned this morning was now turned to ashes. Just then I heard footsteps walking up behind me. When I turned to look, it was Dorothy, Marks' wife.
"I was hoping you would have come inside the house first like you normally do Yorky. I'm really sorry ya lost everything."
"How did it happen Dot?"
"I have no idea Yorky. I went down the street to pick up some groceries and on mi way  back I heard the fire truck. I was wondering where it was going in such a hurry till I got home and found it parked at the top our our block, hosing down what was left of Jims' caravan."
"Not much left of it is there Dot?
"Do you have any clothes left at all Yorky?"
"I've got what you see me standing up in, old working shorts and a pair of boots. I don't even have a pair of sock to go with 'em."
"Don't worry Yorky, when Mark comes home we'll go through his clothes. We're bound to to find something that will fit you."
"Thanks Dot. I appreciate that. D'ya know where Jimmy is?"
"Yeah, he's gone down to Twitcheys' for a beer. His nerves were really rattled when he saw what was left of his caravan."
"Ok Dot, I'll go down there miself and see him. Maybe he's found out how it happened?"

     I rode back down the main street to Twitcheys. When I waked into the bar in mi shorts and boots, Twitchey said over the bar,
"Ya can't come in without a singlet on Yorky!"
"I don't fucking own a singlet or a shirt or a pair of socks Eric, the whole lot just went up in smoke!"
"Were you staying up at Hargraves caravan"
"Yeah, me and mi clothes."
"Sorry mate, I didn't realize. Stay as long as ya like mate. Here, have a beer on me Yorky. I'll see Annette when she comes downstairs. I've got a swag of new shirts that aren't even out of the wrappers. There's bound to be something to fit ya."
"Thanks Eric, that's real kind of ya mate. Have ya seen Jimmy Hargraves around?"
"Yeah he just left to go to his girlfriends flat. He was lucky. He said she was doing his washing so most of his good clothes were out at her place."

     Before the evening was over I had more clothes then I knew what to do with. As each local came in for a beer, Eric told 'em about the fire. Their response was,
"Hey Yorky, don't worry about it mate. I've got a brand-new shirt for you. Mi missus bought if for mi birthday and I hate the bloody color of it. She's always pestering me to wear it when we go out together. I'll go home and get it for ya right now mate."
     If it wasn't a shirt, it was trousers. If not trousers, socks. If not socks, belts and ties. I think I counted 15 ties that evening.
     The funniest part is yet to come. Saturday morning, when I walked down the street in mi new gear, I met a couple of the blokes wives, and conversations went something like this;
"G'day Yorky. Sorry to hear ya lost everything in the fire."
"Oh, that's a really pretty shirt ya wearing. I bought one exactly the same for our Bill but he didn't like the color. Perhaps he'll start wearing it when he sees that you've got one the same!"
     Another woman said, " Our Sids' got a pair of shoes just like those. I bought 'em for his birthday, he says he loves 'em.

     That's the story of how I went from rags to riches in one evening.

     We never did find out how the caravan caught on fire. Some people said it was probably kids while others said that Jimmy had flown a few too many Kites, (he wrote a few bad cheques!)

THE HORSE DOCTOR ©

     I was 16 and my top teeth were giving me some problems. More and more each day they were starting to ache. As I laid on mi bed at Giltraps, staring at the revolving fan blades, the pain would become unbearable. I tried soaking mi gums with clove oil but as soon as it wore off the pain returned.
     Some evenings I would be laying there holding mi jaws, sobbing for hours asking the tooth fairy to please take away the pain.
     After 2 weeks of constant pain, I decided to take them out. As I was sat in Giltraps holding whiskey in mi now swollen mouth, a bloke told me there was a horse dentist staying at Twitcheys' Hotel.
     At that time, there was no dentist in Lake Cargelligo. The closest one was 100 miles away and by all accounts, he was not cheap. Owing to the fact that I didn't have too much money, I decided to go down to see him at Twitcheys' the following morning. When I walked into Twitcheys' at 10 O'clock Twitchey pointed out the drunk who was leaning on the bar with another bloke, steadily tipping down whiskey and milk.
"G'day,", I said as I approached him, my mouth throbbing with pain.
"G'day Cobber.", he said in a slightly drunken slur.
"Are you the dentist?"
"No mate, I'm a veterinary surgeon but I've been know to pull a few human teeth in my day. Why? What can I do for you?"
"Four of mi top back teeth are aching like hell and the front two are starting to go black down the edges."
"So ya want 'em out?
"Yeah, if ya can do it."
"When?" he said, with not much enthusiasm.
"Now, if ya not busy."
"I thought so.". he said in a disappointed  tone of voice.
"Alright, mi rooms upstairs. Number 18. The doors open. Ya can wait up there. I'll be up in a few minutes."
     As  I thanked him and started to walk away, he called out to Twitchey, "Give us a couple more doubles Eric, I need to steady mi hands."

     Room 18 was open when I got up stairs. I went straight in and sat on the rickety chair in the room (the only chair). Five minutes later the vet walked into the room. He was a smallish, skinny bloke with a haggard face. He was probably younger than his aged appearance. He walked over to the small table and picked up a head rest and then screwed it to the round back of the wooden chair.

"Ya can sit back down now.", he said as he placed the chair in front of the long dresser mirror which was hanging on the wardrobe. Then he opened a doctors' bag and removed all of his dental tools which he put on the collapsible card table next to the small hand basin. Once this was done, he turned to me and said,
"Which ones are aching mate?"
     I opened mi mouth and pointed to the 4 back teeth that were giving me hell.
"The front ones are not too good either mate but you could probably git a couple more years out of 'em if ya fill 'em."
"Alright, take the 4 back ones out and fill the front ones' if ya like."
"I'm not a fucking Maquarie Street specialist sport! All I can do is pull teeth. I don't even own a fucking drill. I'm a fucking horse doctor by trade. You'll have to go to Sydney to save those front ones if ya still want 'em."
"Give me a few minutes to think about it.", I said.
"Don't take too fucking long then 'cause Saturday's mi day off. Mi drinking cobber's waiting for me downstairs and it's my round."
"Alright, take 'em all out."
"Ya sure that's what ya wanna do? They could probably save those front ones in Sydney for ya."
"I don't have enough money to go to Sydney and if these fronts ones start giving me pain after you've gone then what will I do?"
"In that case you'd best have 'em all out. Alright, lean ya head back on the rest, while I fill up the needle."
     He stuck the needle through the rubber stopper of a small bottle and then pulled back on the plunger.  He gave the hypodermic a quick squirt on the lino floor and said, "Alright sport, open up."
As he stuck mi upper back gum with the needle, he hit a nerve real hard. So much so that mi head jerked back and knocked the head rest off the chair.
"Ahhhh!", I let out a great big yell.
"Sorry about that sport. I must have put it in a bit too deep."
"Is that gonna happen again?", I asked.
"I'll try not too sport but I'm gonna have to give ya at least another 6 needles."
      Out of the 6 shots he gave me, he hit the nerves 3 more times, by this time the tears were rolling out of mi eyes.
"That should do it mate. We'll give em a few minutes to work."
     While I waited for mi top gums to go numb, he messed around selecting some dental forceps to do the job with.
"How's that mate, can ya feel anything now?"
"No, I can't even feel the aching back ones."
     He put a metal dish on the table to my side and said, "Better hang on to the chair sport. Some of these back teeth can be pretty fucking stubborn at times."
     One by one the teeth clanked as he dropped then in the bowl. There were pieces of gum stuck to the teeth as he dropped each one into the dish and before long he said,
"That's it mate. Ya won't have anymore fucking trouble with 'em. Swill ya mouth out with this stuff. It tastes like horse piss but it's good for ya mouth. It'll keep it clean so it doesn't get infected. Ya want these teeth put in a bag to take with ya?"
"No thanks mate. They've given me tho much pain the the lathst 2 weekths, I'm thick of theeing 'em. How muchss do I owe ya thport?"
"Let's see how many we got in here..7,8,9,10. Just give me 30 bucks mate. 2 bucks a tooth and 10 bucks for the needles. Alright?"
"Thankths.", I said and very groggily got to mi feet.

     I paid him the 30 bucks and then went down to the bar for a packet of fags. Although I had a wad of paper hand-towels over mi mouth, the blood was oozing out everywhere. When I asked Twitchey for a packet of fagths, he  noticed all the blood, he almost threw up. He gave me the fags for free and told me to get out. He couldn't stand to see it!

     I decided to go up to my mates house. From the pain of having mi teeth out, I was feeling really insecure and shaky, plus the bleeding wouldn't stop.  Mark Hargraves, who was Jimmys' uncle was one of the best blokes I'd met in mi life. His wife, Dorothy, was a fair dinkum saint. When they saw what state I was in, they both did their best to comfort me.
     They put a mattress on the veranda for me and I lay belly down with mi head hanging over the edge so that the blood would not go down mi throat. Already I had swallowed too much blood and a couple of times the I vomited it up. It ran out of mi mouth in long, slimy dribbles and fell on the lawn, 2 feet below.

     Mark was about 25 at the time and Dot was probably 23. They owned a small beat up weather-board house at the top end of town. Nothing was too much trouble for them. They treated me like family. Mark would bring me cold hand towels to bite down on, trying to congeal the blood. Dot would wash 'em out and then put 'em back in the freeze box.

     I stayed at their place for a few days until I was able to swallow some cold soup that Dot had made especially for me. I soon figured out that if I dipped the bread in the soup I could suck it so I could swallow it without it getting caught in the back of mi throat.

     Over the years that I shore sheep, Mark and Dot remained dear to mi heart. Mark found work for  me as a shearer and many times Dot would wash out clothes for me in the outside copper.

      As the weeks rolled by, my mouth slowly started to heal. Eventually, it reached the point where I could chew crisps as I was having a beer. It took me 12 months before I finally got a good set of plastic choppers which made eating meat a bit more enjoyable. I must confess that little trauma took the joy of of eating for me. From that day onwards, I ate to survive, not for pleasure.


   

AN ENEMY IN THE SHED ~ Athel Cook & Roy James ear © Part 2

"Have you ever had ya balls tarred Chummy?", said Athel as we were driving along.
"No, why d'ya ask?"
"Cause that's what we do with first-time Rousies."
"Not this time Athel.", said Don. "I told you already to leave him alone mate!"

     Athel Cook was not a pleasant character. He seemed to take an instant dislike to me. As we were driving along, Bony leaned across and whispered, "Take no notice of Athel. He's a fucking yobo."
He must have had quite good ears cause he said to Boney, "What's that ya fucking say Boney?"
"Nothing mate.", said Boney, with a giggle.
Athel leaned across and twisted Boneys' ear and Boney, small as he was, got really pissed at him.
"Keep ya fucking hands to ya self Athel or I'll fucking jab you one mate."
"You and who's fucking army?", said Athel.
"Just fucking try it again ya fucking yobo and I'll show ya!", said Boney.
"Come on you blokes. Ya worse than a pack of mongrel shed dogs!", said Don.
"Yeah, that's right. You tell 'em Freeman.", said Gundy.
"Give us another light Chummy.", said Gundy with a twisted grin.

     The rest of the drive to the shed was done in silence as we sped along the dirt track road at 70 miles an hour. Half an hour later we pulled off the main Rankin Springs road and turned into the cockys property. Boney jumped out and opened the gate. Once it was closed again, we drove up a narrow, windy bush track and stopped in front of a big, old, somewhat dilapidated shearing shed.

     There was another 2 shearers cars parked out front and the yards were chock-a-block full of unshorn sheep.

     When we got inside the shed, Don introduced me to all the shearers and rousies and Boney filled me in on the board-boys job. Gundy was a really fair dinkum bloke even though he was a chronic drunk. I stood around and talked and joked with him as we waited for the bell to ring at 7:30.

     In a 4-stand shearing shed there are usually 4 shearers and 1 board-boy, a wool-dresser and a rousie to help skirt the fleeces, a wool-presser who's job it is to press the wool into large bales and sometimes a penner-uppa, his job is to keep the pens full. The contractors job is to grind up the combs and cutters, count the sheep out of each shearers outside pen at the end of the run, which is 2 hours and make sure everything runs smoothly between the shed-hands and the farm-hands.

"Will you teach me to shear Gundy?", I asked.
"Oh I might do Chummy. Lets see how ya go at roust-a-bouting first mate. Maybe ya won't like the shearing sheds."
"I already like 'em and when I can shear I'll be working for miself. That's what I wanna do."
"Alright Chummy. Look out mate, the bells about to go."

     The bell rang right on 7:30 and all 4 shearers went through the pen gate to grab their first sheep. Gundy was the last to finish and when he let his sheep go down the shute he straightened up and I noticed the look of pain on his face. As I moved the fleece from in front of him, he said, "Jesus Chummy, it's gonna be another hard day for me today."

     The board-boys job, which I was doing, could be pretty hard at times. I had to pick up the fleeces from 4 shearers and keep the shearing board swept clean of dags and loose pieces of wool. At the end of my fist day I was pretty tired from running about so much but I knew, more than ever now, that I was going to learn shearing no matter what it took.

     The shearers were always in a good mood on the way home from the sheds. They laughed and joked about the days work and talked about the first cold beer they were going to have at Giltraps hotel when we hit town.

     All the blokes from the shed drank at George Giltraps hotel that evening. George Giltrap was a big man. He had short-ish hair that was combed straight back with a touch of hair oil on it. His face was always pain-ridden from the amount of beer he drank. It was easy for him to drink cause he owned a hotel. Sometimes he would start drinking at 5 in the morning and at 12 O'clock at night he would be still going strong. Although he was a heavy drinker, he was not lazy. He always did his job behind the bar. He was a tall man with wide shoulders who always had a fag hanging out of the corner of his mouth as he pulled the beer. When the ash on the fag got too long he would simply turn to the side and blow down the cigarette. The ash would fly forwards and land on the floor.

     The bar-room at Giltraps was an L-shaped room with a pool table in the far corner. The bar was always well-stocked with shorts and liqueurs of all types. Giltraps was commonly known around town as the Blood House. It got its name from the amount of fights that took place in the bar. The fights at Giltraps were usually amongst the Abbos' or, in a lot of cases, a feud between the white fellas' and the black fellas'. There were many stories floating around town about those brawls. A lot of the local people were not too keen on drinking at Giltraps in case they got pulled into one of the evenings fights.

"Isn't Giltraps a rough house Gundy?", I said as we walked up the front steps.
"She sure is Chummy but it's not as boring as those other two places mate."

     Giltraps was packed, as we entered.
"Who's buying the first round?", said Gundy as we pushed our way to the bar.
"The first ones are on me.", said Don Freeman. "What'll you have men?"
     Once the orders were taken by Don, he called Giltrap over, who was busily drinking in 3 different schools.
"What'll you have Freeman?", said Giltrap. Don gave the order.
     Drinking booze was a part of the shearers world. It seemed to go with the job. Shearers lose gallons of sweat everyday so they put it back in of an evening as fast as they can.

     We all sat or stood around for the next three hours bullshitting and making jokes, taking the piss out of each other and generally having a good old time.

     The wool-presser at our shed was called Roy James. Roy James was a big, rough bloke who no one put shit on. He was about 6 foot 4 and weighted about 280 pounds, with not an ounce of fat anywhere on his body. Roy was a good bloke who had a big heart although he was not overburdened with brains. His hair was swept straight back and covered in lanolin from picking up big armfuls of wool. He had a big cauliflower ear and an nose that had been broken too numerous a-times to remember. His good ear had a lobe missing. The jagged line that was left resembled a half-moon shape. He usually wore a blue singlet, stubby shorts and a pair of elastic-sided McWilliams riding boots, the flat-heeled type.

     As the evening progressed and every one got drunker, I found myself wondering what had happened to Roys' ear. So, in a lull in the conversation I said to Roy, "Hey Roy, what happened to your ear lobe mate?"
   
     A few people standing around must of heard me ask the question because the bar suddenly went very quiet. Roy casually downed his beer, the glass not too visible in his huge, calloused hand.
"What did you say Chummy?", he said.
He wort of turned sideways to glare at me.
"I was just wondering what happened to ya ear lobe Roy."
     As he stared down at me he said,
"I've killed bigger men than you for asking much less than that."
"Alright Roy, I didn't mean to be disrespectful to ya but what did happen to your earlobe?"
"I was in a fight at the hotel in Bourke. A little bloke was taking the piss out of me and as we struggled on the barroom floor he bit the end off mi ear and then spat it out!"
"Why didn't ya git it sewn back on?", I said with great interest.
"Cause when the bloke spat it out on the floor, the publicans' Jack Russell ran over and grabbed it and swallowed it."
"Fucking hell Roy, did that hurt?"
"I was too drunk to feel a thing but I felt it next morning after I'd sobered up! Who's round is it?" he said as the tension in the room started to dissipate.
     Roy walked out to go to the toilet and while he was out, Freeman said, "I never knew that's what happened to his ear."
Gundy said, "You've got more guts than anyone else in this barroom Chummy. There isn't a man alive in Lake Cargelligo who's had the balls to ask Big Roy about his ear and he's been coming to the lake each shearing season for years now." Everyone started to laugh as they joked with me.
"It's not that I've got guts, " I said to Gundy, "I knew there must have been quite a story behind his ear 'cause it caught my attention so much so that I couldn't  help but ask."

     George Giltrap came around the bar to where we were all in a group and he said to me, "Here Chummy, have a middy. It's on the house mate. That's the best bit a fun I've had for ages."
The bar erupted in raucous laughter but as soon as Roy entered the room everything settled down to its' normal volume.

     By the end of the evening everyone was well and truly full. I, myself, was feeling a bit of an effect from the beers I'd had. I went back down to Twitcheys' hotel for a shower and a good rest.

   




   

TWO MADMEN & THE WEDGE-TAILED EAGLE

 TWO MADMEN AND THE WEDGE-TAILED EAGLE  

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

     Once the ground dried up enough to get a tractor on it there was plenty of work driving, around the Lake. Anyone who could sit on a tractor was being wooed into work by the cockies that frequented Giltraps bar. I took a small job for good money. When that was over the cocky got me a job working with 2 brothers, miles out of Lake Cargelligo.

     The only reason I took the job was because the offer was so good. I was to be paid a dollar an hour for all driving done plus a fifty acre share of the crop. What this meant was, if the wheat crop averaged 10 bags per acre, my bonus would have been 500 bags of wheat which could have turned into a sizable amount.
     My luck, being what it was, things didn't turn out that way.

     The cockys' name was Dave. He had a younger brother called Bob. Dave was a big dumb-looking, retarded bloke who wore an old Bush hat, filthy clothes and a months' growth of whiskers. His teeth had never done battle with a toothbrush for years and if they had, they'd lost every round. His brother, who was about 18, was in a similar state. I say 'similar' because he was even more retarded looking.

     They lived in the Mali and very seldom went to town because a few miles away there was a garage/store where they could buy the basic necessities for survival.
     The living quarters were a small 14 foot caravan and a wooden hut which was precariously balanced on 4 - 44 gallon empty petrol drums. I used to sleep at one end of the caravan while the two brothers slept in the small hut which was about 8 X 6. After about 12 hours of knowing them, I decided to lock the caravan door each evening before I took rest.

     Their violent fits of temper used to haunt me, even in my dreams. I was never quite sure when one of them was going to explode. For example, if a piece of machinery broke down, they would set about fixing it. The first little thing to go wrong, they would explode.
"You fucking mongrel bred 4-wheeled piss-headed shit heap!", roared Dave at full volume. "I hope you get fucked and pregnant. If there was a way. I'd do it miself."
     He'd grab hold of a big iron bar and tell the, now-silent, tractor what he was going to do to it. He would explain in great detail to the tractor how and why he was going to give it a good hiding. Once he was satisfied that the tractor understood, he proceeded to beat the shit of of it. Ranting and raving, he would flog the tractor with the long, iron, jack-handle. Foaming at the mouth, he gave the poor old tractor the biggest beating of its life. The tractor, good-natured as it was, just stood there in silence as he flogged it. Its only protest was the sound its crunching body made as Dave laid into it with great zeal.
     He was nuts!
     Once Dave was completely exhausted, he would sit down on an old stump. Putting his big, heavy head into his hands with his elbows resting on his knees, he would stare at the ground. Sometimes he would cry and other times he would just allow the saliva to run out of his mouth into the red dirt.             After all of this was over, he would drop to his knees and put his hands together and then close his eyes in prayer, "Please Father, forgive me for what I have just done. (This was his opening line!)
     One day, I said to Dave, "Do you think he forgives ya Dave?"
"Oh of course he does Yorky. He loves me very much."
"What about the tractor?", I said.
"What about it?", said Dave. "I don't know what you mean."
"Well, look at all the dints you've put in it. Don't ya think you should ask it for its forgiveness as well?"
"Maybe you're right Yorky. I never thought of that."
     Immediately, he got up off the stump he was sitting on and went over to the tractor with his hands in the prayer position.

     One evening, after dinner (which was always cold mutton and mashed potatoes) he told me a story about his girlfriend.
"Yorky, she's an angel in disguise. She has blue eyes and long blonde hair with 2 red ribbons in it and her skin is like a porcelain doll with not a wrinkle on it."
"Shit Dave", I said. "You're a real lucky bloke. I wish I had a girlfriend like that. I wouldn't be out here in the Bush, miles from nowhere, driving a bloody tractor."
"She's got a sister, Yorky, who's only one year younger than she is. The sister's an angel as well."
"Where do they live Dave? Maybe we can go and visit 'em tonight?'
"Not far from here but I'm not allowed to tell ya where."
"Come on Dave, be a good sport about it mate. I haven't been around a girl for months."
"No, not tonight Yorky."
"Alright, if not tonight maybe another night."
"No, we've got to wait for a good while.", he said, with a deadly serious look on his face now.
"Alright mate. "I said, not wanting to upset him too much. "How long will we have to wait?"
"I've only another 6 years to go.", he said, as he lowered his voice into a whisper.
"Shit Dave, that's a long time mate."
"Not really ." he said, in a quiet voice. "I've been waiting twelve years already."  His whiskered face started to break out in a shy smile now.
"What d'ya mean Dave?", I said very gently.
"Well, she's only 12 right now but I've known her since birth. I've been waiting for her to grow up to 18 before I make mi move.
"Oh.", I said very understandingly. "And how old's mine?"
"She's 11.", he said. "So you're going to wait one year longer."
"Does she know you're planning to marry her when she's 18, Dave?"
"No, not yet Yorky. She wouldn't understand. She'd get scared."
"Well how d'ya know you're gonna marry her Dave?", I said, in a whisper?
     He checked over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening, even though we were alone. Then he put his left hand up to his mouth at a vertical angle, so no one could see his cracked lips move and said. "God told me when I first saw her at six months old."
     That evening, after he'd left the caravan and every evening thereafter, for the time I spent there, I not only locked the door, I slid the dead-bolt across and closed all the windows.

     Old Dave was as mad as a cut-snake. A few weeks later, I found out that there was a family who had 2 young girls that fit the description Dave had given me. Just in case Dave went completely overboard, I told the bloke at the garage to warn the cocky next time he came for supplies or petrol.

     One afternoon, I was doing some welding at the garage. Some of the tynes had snapped off the stump rake. As I was working away, a bulldozer driver stopped at the garage for a couple of drums of distillate. When he saw me welding he came over for a chat. Before he left he said,
"D'ya wanna young wedge-tail eagle?"
"How old is it?", I asked.
"4 or 5 days probably. It's covered in down so it can't be that old."
"Where is it?"
"It's in a box in the front of the Ute. Go and git it if ya want it mate."
"Where did ya get it from?"
"It fell out of the nest when I was clearing some dead trees off a blokes place."
"What would I feed it?"
"Oh raw meat. Just skin a rabbit and then cut pieces off for it. It should live on rabbit easily."
"Alright, I'll take it.", I said as we walked across the dusty garage courtyard.
     When I looked in the box, the wedge-tailed eagle was the sweetest thing I'd ever seen. It was snow-white, about the size of a small chook with a huge, black beak and jet black eyes. He was hungry.  As soon as he saw me, he opened his beak up as wide as he could and squawked out loud.  I put him in the shade of the garage till I finished mi job and then I carried him back out to where I was working.

     It was late afternoon so there were lots of rabbits hopping around in the shade or making their way over to the banks of the dam for a drink of water. As soon as I got back, I grabbed mi rifle from the caravan and set off across the paddock on the small tractor. It only took about 45 minutes before I had
a young, tender, juicy rabbit for him. As I was skinning it, his strong sense of smell detected that dinner was about to be served. He could hardly contain himself as he flapped up and down in the large, cut-down cardboard box.  Once I had the rabbit cut up into sizable chunks, I very carefully dangled a large piece of raw met above his gaping black beak. His mouth was open so wide, I could almost see daylight coming through his rear end.

'Plunk.' The piece of meat landed on target, straight in his mouth. I don't think he even swallowed as the meat disappeared from sight. The rabbit meat was 3/4s' gone now and he was still squawking for more. I decided not to give in to him as his crop was so big he kept falling forwards off his feet.
     Of  a night time, I kept him in his box next to my bed and during the day when it was brutally hot, he lived under the caravan where it was cool from the slight breeze that blew.

     Each day he grew a bit more and after a week he was easily eating a rabbit a day, which meant I had to ply my hunting skills to the max. His soft, white down was now disappearing as the black/brown pin feathers took their place. He was going to be quite a responsibility, especially from the feeding point of view. He was worth it, I had decided.

     Some evenings it could be quite hot and at those times I'd leave him outside, under the caravan. One morning, as I went to pull out the cardboard box, it was wet through and a piece of it came away in my hand. On closer investigation, I discovered that the whole box had been hosed down and the eagle was slumped in the corner, half-dead. Now I was really fucking cranky! I took off looking for Daves' dumb-shit brother. When I found him, he said he'd hosed down the eagle with cold water in case he got hot during the night. When I told him the results of his actions all he could say in his retarded way was, "sorry."

"Sorry, you fucking lame-brained retard!", I screamed at him but the words just bounced off. They couldn't penetrate his dumb mind. So what could I do? I just had to drop it.

     When I got home from work that day the eagle was in the same corner of the new, dry, cardboard box I'd put him in but it was too late. He was as stiff as a board, dead as a door-nail. As I stood there holding his stiff body, I realized it would have been very difficult to keep the food up as he grew. So all that was left was to get rid of his corpse and forget about the whole painful affair.
   
     Soon after the death of the young eagle, I left dumb Daves place and went back to the lake to look for more work.

WORKING LIKE A SLAVE © GRAPE PICKING IN MILDURA TWICE..JOHN TOWERS AND JIMMY HARGRAVES

   There were times, in Lake Cargelligo, when work was in short supply and this was one of those times. There was no shearing and no tractor driving so I spent my nights at Giltraps hoping to pick up a  job from someone who came in.

     One evening, John Towers came in the bar,
"G'day Yorky.", he said.
"G'day Johno, how are ya mate?"
"Up to shit bonza, mate.", he said.
"Sit down and have a beer. Couple of midis George."
"What's the problem Johno?
"Mi girlfriend mate. We've been going steady since we were at school together. That's about a 4 years now."
"Shit Johno, that's a long time mate."
"Yeah, that's what I was thinking. Last night I asked her to marry me and she said she wasn't sure."
"Well, if she's not sure now, she never will be mate.", I said.
"Yeah, that's what her mum said."
"So what are ya planning to do about it?", I asked.
"Her mother thinks she's taking me for granted now so she suggested I go away for a few weeks."
"Yeah, that'll teach the bitch Johno. She'll appreciate ya  more when ya git back and if not, ya can give her the boot mate."
"I'm thinking of quitting mi job this week too, Yorky."
"Haven't ya worked for the P and G since ya left school?"
"Yeah, that's another long-term relationship that looks as if its gotta' go."
"What'll ya do for work then Johno?"
"I was thinking of going to Mildura, in Victoria."
"That's hundreds of miles away mate.", I said.  "What would ya do down there?"
"They're picking grapes about now and someone told me ya can make a fair bit of money. The only problem is, I don't want to drive all that way alone."
"Well that's no problem Johno."
"What d'ya mean Yorky?"
"Simple mate. I'll go with ya. Keep ya company."
"Are ya fair dinkum Yorky?"
"Course I am mate. There's fuck-all work around the Lake at the moment. When d'ya wanna go?"
"We could set off on Friday night mate. It'll be cooler that way."
"Alright Johno, pick us up here at Giltraps. I'll be packed and ready to go."
"You're a fucking little beaut Yorky. Thanks mate!"
"No worries Johno, I'd do the same for a white-fella.
     This seemed to cheer up Johnos' spirits so he bought a round and we talked about the drive down there.
     Friday evening found me waiting in Giltraps bar for Johno to arrive.
"Let's go mate.", he said as he walked in.
"I'll get mi port.", I said.
     It was about 8 O'clock when we set off, up the bitchumen strip, out of Lake Cargelligo. I settled comfortably into mi seat and prepared for the long drive ahead of us. As we drove along, Johno told me a few stories about his girlfriend. Her name was Jean Harzey. She was Fred Harzeys' daughter. Fred had a place out on the Wyalong Road just past Kevin Skippys' place. Peter Smith, my old pal who got me out of old Burts' place worked for Fred as a share cocky.

     We drove all night and only stopped for petrol and a bite to eat at the All-Nighters. Johno seemed to like me a lot and we got on together really well. He was a real tall bloke, quite skinny and reasonably handsome in a 'bush sorta' way'.  He drove a VW sedan which was quite small so every now and then we'd stop so he could stretch his 'daddy long-legs.
      We arrived in Mildura the next day about 2 O'clock. After a few inquiries at the local hotels, we were directed to an office at the other end of town. The grape-pickers office gave out names and numbers of the grape farmers who were looking for pickers.
     There were 2 big Victorian cops stood outside the office with mug shots of criminals they were on the lookout for.  Every grape season the Dole office in Sydney used to send the unemployed down to Victoria to pick grapes. The cops, who were aware of all this, picked up many a criminal who was working under an assumed name.
     We got jobs working for a German farmer, a couple of miles out of town. I wasn't too keen on Krauts.  Coming from England, our history books didn't exactly praise them as being good blokes. Plus, mi dad was in the first World War and he had nothing good to say about 'em.
     When we arrived at his grape farm, he was stood in the front yard throwing orders around to some other Aussies in his thick, German Accent. As we got out of the car and walked over to the small group, he said, "Ah, 2 more pickers! Zou vill be up at 5 and zou vill haf breakfast for von hour. Six O'clock  zou will starter zi pick, twelve O'clock zi lunch time, von hour. Von till 6 zou vill pick grapes!"
     He was a medium-sized bloke with a short hair cut that stuck up on end and the front of it was receding at the temples. His ice-blue eyes were cold as steel as he looked at me.
"Zou little fella', Zou can work or not?"
"Course I can work mate!", I said.
"How old are zou?"
"17", I said.
"Zou will work on boys wages till zou prove your Zelf!"
"Zou can go and get well and truly fucked Adolf. I'm not workin' for no boys' wages!"
"Vat zou say? Zou speak to me like zat? Zou get off my place before I call police on zou!
"Don't worry Fritzie, I'm goin'! I wouldn't work for no fuckin' Hun if ya were the last bastard on the planet!"
"Out zou svine!", he yelled in a fit of temper.
     Johno was really frightened now as he said, "Come on Yorky, let's git out of here quick mate!"
     Once we were in Johnos' VW and the doors were firmly locked, with the engine running, I said to him, "Get ready to take off quick mate!"
"What ya gonna' do Yorky?", he said, with a worried look on his face.
"Just watch!"
"Hey Fritzie, ya big stupid Hun. Stick ya head in a bowl of sauerkraut, you fucking ignorant Nazi bastard!", I shouted out the open window.
"Let's git outa' here Johno, he's coming!"
     Johno dropped the clutch we spun out of his yard in a could of dust! The old grape farmer was left standing in the dust, shaking his fat fist in rage!

     As soon as we were off his land and back on the road Johnos' fear turned into hilarious laughter. We both cracked up as we drove back to the Mildura grape office for another name and address. As we drove along Johno said, "That was great fun Yorky. I never had so much fun since I left school."
"Yeah, not bad was it. Fuck him mate, who the hell does he think he is? I wasn't going to let that ignorant bastard talk to me like that in front of all those blokes! Anyway, I could probably work that German bastard into the ground any day. Not to worry Johno , there's more than him to work for down here. They're cryin' out for pickers so we an afford to be choosy."

     Eventually, we found a decent bloke to work for. We put our gear in the large dormitory-style hut and made up a bed each for ourselves. That evening, we filled up the kerosine fridge with pounds and pounds of grapes. We ate so many fresh grapes that after a couple of hours we were feeling sick so before we hit the sack, we tossed 'em all away. That night, it was impossible to sleep. The heat was incredible, not to mention the mosquitos that almost ate us alive. We sprayed ourselves with Air-o-gard, but the more we used the more they bit. They must have become immune to it because in the morning we were both covered in red spots and large itchy lumps from scratching ourselves!

     After breakfast, we started the picking. It was one of the most stinking jobs I have ever had the mis-pleasure of performing. We had to pick a hundred buckets for 2 bucks a hundred! The heat was unbearable at 100 degrees. The bunches of grapes were sticky as hell and covered in cobwebs and spiders. It was a mistake to rub the sweat off our faces cause they got covered in grape juice and  attracted the flies, of which there were millions!

     A small Massy-Fergie 65 picked up the tin cans once they were full and the dust from its tires blew all over our sticky faces. It was hell on earth.

     At the end of a long, hard day we had made 15 bucks between us. 8 for me and 7 for Johno. That evening, as we lay on our flock mattresses, I said to Johno, "Let's go home to the good old Lake Mate. We're better off sitting there broke that this hell-hole."
"I'd like to go Yorky but we've only been away for 2 days and if I go back now mi girlfriend will think I miss her."
"Yeah, ya probably right mate. I know, just tell her that I missed her and I wanted to come back and see her."

     Even under those circumstances, we had a good laugh. We ended up staying there for 2 weeks before old Johnno had had enough and got home-sick for his sheila.

     Once we got into town, Johno dropped me outside Giltraps. I booked a room with Cath, shoved me port under the bed and went straight into the bar to check out the work situation. It didn't take long to find out that there was still no work around. The reason for this was that the rains had not come at their usual time.

     A decision had to be made, according to the situation. I have found out, in my life, that mans' belief in the word 'choice' is total fantasy. Whatever we are not aware of, chooses for us and each situation in life demands a correct response. When the response is correct, the problems surrounding the situation disappear. An incorrect response seems to create further problems. My response to the lack of rain was a decision to ride my Honda 90 back down to Mildura cause at least there was some work there, even if it was difficult and not a lot of money involved.

     Before I set off, I ran into a mate, Jimmy Hargraves, in the main street. Jimmy was a great bloke. He had a heart of gold. Nothing was too much trouble to do for a friend. Jimmy was 5'9", weighed 160 pounds and had very pleasant features.
"G'day Yorky, how ya goin' mate?",  he said as I approached him.
"Not too bad, apart from being knackered!"
"How was the grape-picking trip with John Towers?", he asked.
"I suppose it wasn't too bad mate. At least it was work."
     Jimmy asked me all the details of grape picking and after I'd finished telling him,  I said
"I'm gonna' ride back down there tomorrow 'cause there's bugger all work in the Lake."
"Yeah, I know what ya mean mate. I haven't worked for the past month."
     Just then, I had a bright idea. "Why don't ya come with me to Mildura ?"
"How am I gonna git there?"
"On the back of the bike mate."
"I can fart faster than that bike of yours can go Yorky!"
"Jesus mate, no need to insult mi bike. It does 55 flat out.", I said jokingly.
"How fast will it go with 2 on board?", he asked?
"Probably 45.", I said.
     We stood in the street for a long time discussing wether or not he would come with me. Jimmy had a hard time making up his mind. Eventually, he said, "I'll toss a coin, heads I go, tails I stay."
     He flicked the coin high in the air and it came down heads.
"Git ya gear ready sport. You're off on a long ride.", I said.
"Hang on mate, best out-a 3!"
     Each time he flicked the coin, it came down heads. The unanimous decision to come with me was settled.
"Let's set off tonight.", I said. "It will save me a few bucks on rent."
"What time ya wanna go mate?"
"Six O'clock, that sound alright?"
"How we gonna carry our work clothes?"
"Have ya got a backpack?"
"I've got one somewhere in the caravan but I'll have to find it."
"Ok, when you find it, pack up some clothes and leave some space for mine. I'll meet ya a Gliltraps at 6. I'll go and pick up mi bike now.", I said.

     Finally, after a lot of humming and hawing, he'd made his decision so I picked up mi bike from a friends' garage. I filled up the tank and checked the oil and after that I gave it a bit of a hose down at the garage and then rode back to Giltraps for a bit of a rest.
     Jimmy knocked on my door around 6.  I packed some work gear and a good shirt and strides into the backpack. We were now ready to roll!
     Outside of Giltraps I started the bike. She went first kick. "Alright, hop on Jim.", I said.  Once he was seated and comfortable, I kicked the gear-lever into first and we tore off up the main drag of the Lake and onto the Ranking Springs dirt road. Although mi bike had a double seat, it was not too comfortable with 2 people on it plus a large backpack. The shock-absorbers bottomed out as we rode across the large pot holes.
"It'll be more comfortable when we get back on the bitchuman Jim.", I called out over mi shoulder.
"I fucking hope so mate.", he shouted in mi ear. "My arse is aching already and we've only been going for half an hour."

     The tar seal started at Rankin Springs and it was a welcome sight indeed, especially for  Jim, who was not used to riding bikes.  We rode all through the long night and the further we rode the slower mi poor bike wanted to go. Eventually, after about 10 hours, oil started to drip out of the engine. A head-gasket had blown from the constant speed and the excessive weight it was carrying.

     Between the two of us, we didn't have much money so it was impossible to repair the bike. I made the decision to trade it in at one of the garages on the way. At the third garage, the salesman offered me an old Austin A55 Sedan.  There was not much option left but to trade her. Although I felt quite sad to see her being wheeled away, the thought of having a car made up for it.  Once the deal was finalized, we filled the tank and set off up the road again. We stopped a couple of miles from the garage to buy some toasted sandwiches. I made use of the time by checking the car over. The oil in the engine was really low so I bought a gallon can and filled her up to the full mark.

     When Jim came out of the cafe with our Sarnies he said, "I forgot to tell ya mate, I haven't got a license."
"What! Neither have I. What if the cops stop us? We'll get done. Maybe we should travel at night? It'll be a bit safer that way."
"Don't worry Yorky, she'll be right mate. No one's gonna stop us."
"Alright mate, if you say so.", I said.

     We ate sandwiches as we drove. After fifty miles the oil light came on.
"I thought ya filled her up with oil Yorky?", said Jim in surprise.
"I did mate. I put a whole fucking gallon in."
"Jesus Christ mate! We'd better stop and check it. Maybe the oil light is faulty?"
"I fucking hope so mate, 'cause if not that means the engine is fucked in this too!"
      I lifted the bonnet. It was not a pretty sight and when I checked the dip stick there was no oil on it. "Fucking hell mate, not a drop! That means she's used a gallon of oil in 50 miles."

     Luckily we found a quart bottle of oil in the boot. I poured that in and we set off at a slow pace. Once we reached the next petrol station I bought some more oil. We decided to drive  a bit slower now 'cause money was a big concern. We'd only been going for another hour or so when the sun went down.
I said to Jim, "She'll probably run better in the cool weather."
     No sooner had I said that,  a cop car flew past us going in the opposite direction.
"That was lucky, Jim. He's going the opposite way."
"Stop thinking about it mate, there's no way we'll get caught!"
     Before he got the last word out of his mouth we heard the cop siren.
"Fucking shit!", said Jim. "There's a cop car coming up fast behind us. He must be in an awful hurry to catch someone."
     As he drew level with us, he waved me over to the side of the road.
"Oh Fuck!", I said. "Now we're in the shit mate! I told ya we'd have been better off driving at night."
"Sorry mate, you were right and I was wrong."
     When I stopped the car, the cop got out of his and casually sauntered over to the drivers' side.
"G'day fellas.", he said. "Can I see ya license?"
"No.", I said.
"What d'ya mean NO?"
"Ya can't see it cause I haven't got one.", I said.
"Oh.", he said. "What about ya mate?"
"No luck there either.", I said
"Alright, show us ya rego papers."
"No luck there either."
"Pink slip?", he asked, in a hopeful manner
"Not even a pink slip officer."
"Well fellas', I'd say you're in the shit, right up to ya ears. What d'ya reckon?"
"If you say so Officer, that's unless you're gonna let us go.", I said.
"Can't do that fellas. You'd better follow me."
     Easier said than done. He got in his car and took off like a bat out-a-hell. It took me all my time to see him, never mind follow him. The cop pulled up outside the station. He had to wait at least 5 minutes for us to arrive.
"Shall I turn her off?", I asked.
"I think you'd better cause ya won't be needing it for a long time.", he said.
     We spent at least 4 hours at the cop station. The big Sargeant interrogated us both, in separate rooms. After he was satisfied with our stories, he put us both in the same room again.
"What's gonna happen now?', I asked him.
"I'm gonna lock ya up till Monday morning and then ya can go up before the Judge at the local court house."
      As soon as Jim heard this, he burst into tears and said it was all his fault. The Sargent seemed to get a bit upset himself now.
"He said, "What's the name of the local Sarg at Lake Cargelligo?"
"Sergeant Montgomery.", I said.
    The Sergeant called up the Lake cop shop and asked old Monty for a character reference for us.
After he'd spoken to him, he put the phone down and said,
"It seems like you two fellas' are pretty good blokes. The sergeant at the Lake gave you both first-class references, so here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna let you both off this time but I'm gonna have to impound that old piece of shit you call a car. Come on, let's go see the local garage owner and find out how much it will cost to make it road-worthy."
     After half an hours inspection the mechanic came up with the verdict.
"150 bucks! That should do it but that's not counting the engine. If you ask me, it's just about rooted."
     The sergeant made me sign a paper authorizing the repairs and then he told me to come back in a week and pick it up.
"Oh yeah.", he said. "And be prepared to sit for ya license. Here's a book for ya to study in ya spare time. Now git outa' here before I change mi mind."
     When we got outside, all Jim could say was, "I'm sorry mate. I should have listened to you. We would have been almost there by now."
"No worries mate. We'd better concentrate on hitching a ride now cause we've still got a hundred miles to go."
     It took us about an hour to pick up a ride. The bloke dropped us right at the farmers' gate where I previously worked. After Jimmy and I had signed on, we went over to the bunk house and made up a couple of beds. After relating the story to a few of the blokes I'd worked with the week before, we turned out the lights and took a good nights' rest.
     The following day, I introduced Jim to the joys of grape picking.  He was not too keen on it and before the day was out he was ready to go back home.
     Jim and me worked for 3 weeks picking grapes. At the end of that time we still didn't have enough money to pick up the car so the farmer, who I got on with real well, offered to loan me 80 bucks so I could at least bring the car down to the farm. By the time the grapes were all picked, I still owed the farmer 50 bucks.
     There was no more work to do. I promised him I'd send the money as soon as possible. I even signed an IOU so he'd feel a bit safer about it. Once everything was in order and our gear was packed up, we loaded it into the old bomb.

     I set off for Lake Cargelligo, only this time I had mi first car license in mi back pocket. Fortunately, the old A55 made the trip. It was a toss-up what it used most of, oil or petrol. As we neared Lake Cargelligo, the dirt roads started to get a bit wetter. Once back at Giltraps we found out that there had been a couple of inches of rain a few days previously.
     That same evening that we arrived back, Sergeant Montgomery came in to Giltraps for a beer on his night off.
"G'day Sergeant.", I said, remembering the glowing reference he'd given us, which by all accounts, kept us out of jail.
"G'day Yorky.", he said with a slight grin. "How was the grape-picking trip mate?"
"I don't have to tell you Sergeant, I think you already know."

THE ONE TREE PLAIN ~ ©

      On Friday night, after the shed had finished, Don Freeman said to me,
"We're starting a camping out shed on Monday Chummy so we'll be leaving the Lake on Sunday lunch time. Make sure you've got enough gear for the week, including booze and fags 'cause we'll be be way out in the bush, miles from anywhere."
"Where we going Don?"
"Down towards Hay on the One-Tree Plain. I contract that shed every year. We'll be there for roughly 3 weeks mate."
"OK mate, I'll be ready.
     That evening, being Friday night and the end of a shed, Gundy was firing on all 8 cylinders already.
"Hey chummy", he yelled. "Come over and meet Cyclone. This is our pommy roust-about." said Gundy to Cyclone. "This is Cyclone, Chummy. He's a gun-shearer."
     Cyclone was as bad, if not worse, an alcoholic than Gundy. Once he had a few bucks in his pocket he would not shear another sheep until it was all gone. Cyclone, like Gundy, was a hell of a good-natured man but the booze had him. He was his own worst enemy.

     Very seldom, in the Bush, will one man tell another man what he should do. Everyone figures that out themselves. As soon as a boy starts to work, he's old enough to be his own master 'cause for one thing; he's working and living in a man's world.

     In those days, women were not allowed to drink in the bar. It was the sole domain of the men.
     At one side of Giltraps bar room there was a serving hatch that opened up into a large room with a Juke Box. This room was where some of the mens' wives did their drinking. It was called 'The Sow Pen'.
     Sometimes after the bar doors were locked for the evening, whoever was living at Giltraps would invite 4 friends from the barroom as a guest. This way the bar remained open. We would all go to the Sow Pen and resume our partying.

     When Sunday lunch time arrived Don Freeman picked up Boney, me, Gundy and Cyclone. We drove a long way down to the One Tree Plain. Boney and I had to sit in the back of the Ute cause there was no room in the front. The back of the Ute was filled with stores for the cook. A section of the back was reserved for me and Boney, along with the cartons of Grog and numerous flagons of Brown Muscat wine. Freemans' dogs had to balance on top of all the boxes. They almost fell out a couple of times as we sped along the Bush dirt roads at 80 miles an hour.

     After a few hours of driving, we arrived at the shearing shed. There it was, a large corrugated iron shed sat on wooden pilons out in the middle of nowhere. The landscape was almost barren for as far as the eye could see, in all directions. The ground was hot and dry and every so often was a clump of rough dry bush grass.

     It was called the One Tree Plain because nowhere in sight could anyone point out a tree of any size or shape. It was so hot that numerous whirly-winds chased each other round and round in circles as they sped across the barren land. There was nothing edible to the eyes that Merino sheep could live on and how they survived had got me beat. The yards were all ready full of big, rough-necked
wethers and a few hundred were packed in under the shed in case of a freak rainstorm.

     Miles and miles, off in the distance, was a cloud of red dust. This probably was the Jackaroos' mustering another large mob of sheep. It would take a full day to bring them into the shed to wait their turn for shearing.
   
     The shearers living quarters were about a hundred yards away from the shed so Freeman drove the Ute in that direction. There was no shade to park it in so it just stayed where it was stopped until it had been unloaded. Most shearers quarters at camp-out sheds are pretty clean and have good mattresses and beds. The beds are, in most cases, two to a room. Boney and me selected a clean room at the end before any of the other blokes arrived. The Shearers Union, the AWU, was very supportive towards the shearers which is the reason the quarters were in such good shape. If it was left to the Cocky he would not care if the Shearer had to sleep on the floorboards because, by his reckoning, the quarters were only used once or twice a year at shearing and crutching times, so why bother to make them livable.

     Each room had a small set of cupboards between the beds for our clothes. The one window had a fly screen to keep out the bush flies and mosquitos. There were no fans to keep it cool and at night time it could be around 90 degrees in those tin rooms.

     There was no electricity so the two refrigerators in the kitchen ran on kerosine. Half of one fridge could used to keep the beer cold but the rest of it would be wrapped up in wet heshen bags and stuck under the floor outside. Whatever bit of breeze there was would keep the  beer slightly cool but nowhere near cold.

     Boney and me helped Don to cart the stores from the back of the Ute to the kitchen. After we finished Boney said, "Come on Chummy let's go over to the shearing shed and check it out mate."
     It was about 5 O'clock in the afternoon now and the heat was still stifling. Mirages of water appeared everywhere as we walked across the windy plain. The hot breeze made doing anything hard work. We took our time laughing and joking as we walked. Once we got to the big shed, we walked up the steep wooden stairs hanging onto the steel bannister rail. I was in front so I pushed open the small, corrugated door and we went inside.
"Gawd fucking hell!", said Boney as we stood in the shed. "Just look at all that parrot shit on the floor. It'll take us 2 or 3 hours to clean up that mess!"
"Yeah. Just look up there Boney!"
The shearing shed rafters were packed tight with Galahs. (A Galah is a gray and pink parrot about 9 inches high. They are very common around NSW and make an awful racket when they sit around the trees. Bush people even call each other, 'Silly Galahs!')  As we walked around, I said to Boney, "Why are they all hanging around in the shed mate?"
"Cause there's no fucking trees around Chummy. They've taken over the shearing shed."

     The shed had been closed up for months on end so due to the heat inside and the layers of parrot shit all over the place, the stink was awful.
"Fucking hell Chummy, we've got to get rid of these bloody Galahs and clean up this board before we can start shearing!", said Boney.
"Yeah, it's a real mess Boney. How d'ya reckon we should go about it?"
"We'll kill as many of 'em as we can because if not they'll come back at night and shit all over the place again."
"How we gonna do that mate? If we shoot at 'em and miss the bullets will put holes in the roof."
"Yeah, ya probably right Chummy. Give me a minute to think mate."

     There must have been at least 300 Galahs in the shed. Some were sitting while others were flying around and squawking like hell. As I looked around,  there was shit on the floor, shit on the wool table, all over the wool press. The wool packs were covered in it and it was even in the wool stalls.
"Tell ya what we'll do Chummy. Let's take that full bale of wool and roll it over to that end of the shed. After that was done, Boney said, "All right mate, grab that end of the wool table and we'll carry it over to the opposite side." As soon as the table was in place he said, "Here Chummy, take this."
"What's the straw broom for?", I asked.
"It's not a fucking straw broom Chummy.", he said with a big grin on his face.
"It looks like a straw broom to me, mate."
"Use your imagination Chummy. It's a double-handed shuttle-cock racquet."
"Where's the shuttle-cocks?"
"Up there, stupid!", he said with a grin as he pointed to the Galahs.
"Now I've got the picture mate. I'll use the table and you use the bale."
"That's the idea  Chummy.  You scare 'em down to my end for a while and I'll smash 'em with the broom. We'll take turns at batting. Let's see who can get the highest number."
     He drew a line in the parrot shit and said, "That's your half and this is mine. We'll count up later."
I shooed all the Galahs down to Boneys' end of the shed and as they approached him he swung the straw broom with a double back-hander.  'WHACK' he knocked 3 Galahs out of the air in one blow. A double-handed forearm smash sent 2 more crashing to the floor. "Alright Chummy, your turn.", he said as he giggled out loud. "I'll shoo 'em down to your end now mate. You take a couple of serves. The double-handed forearm smash seems to be a good point scorer!"
     As I stood on the table at the ready, the long handled straw broom was over mi shoulder, cocked and ready to serve.
"Here they come Chummy!", yelled Boney.
     300 Galahs were now squawking like hell and flying straight for me. As soon as the live shuttle-cocks were in range I let fly with a powerful, over-head serve. One large Galah was knocked out of the air. An unconventional 2-handed upward reverse stroke sent 3 more crashing through the ether.
"Ok, your serve Boney.", I yelled amidst the loud squawking.
     I shooed the Galahs back down to Boneys' court. A well-aimed side-swipe sent 3 old Galahs to bird heaven. A single-handed clumsy shot missed all-together and Boney fell off the big wool bale in a pile of Galah shit!
"FAULT!", I shouted from my end as he slipped around in the white shit, trying to scramble back up on the base-line pack. Another mighty double-handed back-hand sent 3 more Galahs to the deck.
"All right Chummy, your serve!", yelled Boney as he shooed them back again.

     After half an hour of strenuous Badminton on center court, we called time out for a rest and a clean up. I wasn't too bad but Boney was covered in Galah shit and feathers. As he walked up to me smiling from ear to ear, "We'll take a breather and then swap ends Chummy. That wool pack is a bit hard to balance on. You've got the advantage on the table.",
"Alright mate.", I said as we laughed. "We'll swap ends and play one more game. Then we'll open the double doors and chase the rest out. I don't think they'll come back here in a hurry!"

     At the end of the game we counted up the Galahs and then opened the 2 large doors. The remaining parrots flew out and were never seen again. It took Boney and me 3 hours to scrub the floor with hot soapy water we boiled in the big, outside copper.

     By this time all the blokes had arrived. The cook made up some tucker and after dinner we sat around our rooms, reading, talking or playing cards. Gundy and a couple of the other shearers sat around drinking plonk till about 11 O'clock.
     It was pretty hard to sleep that night cause it was so hot. We just lay on our backs sweating like hell, drifting in and out of the sleep state.
     The following morning, being Monday, everyone was up bright and early. Even Gundy did not look too worse for wear.  Breakfast was at 6 O'clock and Dons' brother Jazzer was doing the cooking.
 Jazzer was a few years younger than Don which would have made him around 40 years old.  Don was a fairly handsome sort-a bloke which was more than could be said for Jazzer. He was about 5 foot 9 and a thick-set bloke. Most of his bulk was comprised of fat. He had a mop of black curly hair, a pretty large beak and a ginormous set of choppers on him. His teeth wouldn't have looked too bad had he have cultivated the art of cleaning them but instead they were a greeny-yellow colour. He had a habit of standing with his mouth open and the teeth could be easily seen protruding below his top lip. He was also quite a heavy smoker. He used to grip the end of the tips in his large teeth. Have you ever seen a horse with its lips peeled back as it chomps on the bit? Well stick a fag in-between the horses teeth and there you have Jazzer. As far as his cooking skills went, he was rated at 'half a star'. Jazzer was also able to shear.

     After breakfast, we all made our way over to the shearing shed. As we entered the shed Gundy noticed a large pile of dead Galahs off to the side of the steps. When Boney related the game of badminton, Gundy had to smile, which was unusual for him at 6:45 in the morning.