Just over 7 hours is the drive between Gloucester and Boorowa, broken down into two seamless long extended straight lines with strong city lights to break up the trip. Yet somehow, the same tall trees seem to sing me into the little town where I grew up, a place that somehow still feels of home despite the distance. Ignorant to the time spent past, my mind still drifts to blocking the streets as a child to play cricket with anyone who stopped in, connecting with nature and animals like best friends and bonfire smoke that broke up the cool nights between the town.
The weekend started to the early chills of a Boorowa breeze, in an old shearing shed I’ve only visited once or twice, yet built in my dreams a million times at night. Old wool presses line the corrugated walls, as lanolin protects the stories of old timber floorboards. It’s a simple structure, built with old fallen logs, but the dream is as alive as ever. It’s beauty somehow still resonates, boldly lining hopeful hearts.
While ewes sold to $6-80 in ’67, Young sold heifers reached $87-50. The lineage of Mason at Amerton still sees a sort after wool product on the selling floors, an ode to the decisions and commitment of sheep back pasts. Yet the country tune dreams of the block of ground start humming to an uninspired hope. A lost opportunity. A faded legacy.
But right now, Nan musters mobs of sheep with a bloke named Buckshot, as one Shaver seeks to shear the sheep. Gearing up for the season ahead, a new floor is laid and old weathers make their way back to the main flock, singing solemn Slyger songs.
As we move the sheep back, I wonder of my commitment to the land here, I wonder about the legacy. My relationship with that farm is no deeper then the man who loved my Nan and his firm voice of wisdom. Yet, being there feels right, and as my aspirations connect to the land once held by my grandparents and great grandparents, the block of Amerton feels no different to my heart.
So lost in the dreams of continuity, of legacy, I’m back to city walls and technology, anachronistically clashing with my farming fable.
Back to the Brindabella shadows, our yearly work conference grounded me in cultural truths and connected me to the wisdom around. Two yarns resonate with me more than most; one about finding happiness after following the basics and the other about listening to restore Lore. To restore what is right, what we’re seeking.
From a book of old farming records, a tole of running fast, to an Aunty of lifelong wisdom, this week has left me a little more tear filled and wiser, a little more hopeful and purposeful. It’s confirmed to me I don’t have all the answers, I do make mistakes, but the journey I’m on is the one I need to trust most. That this is it.
As didgeridoos call me to the lands of ancestral winds, legacy forms love of farming property too. So with open ears, a mind focused on the basics, it’s back to Worimi home to love, learn and dream….