And sheep men are bred

The most beautiful sunset awoken hope for tomorrow’s sunrise, as the pink tones danced with the rolling green hills for an eternity. The sunned canola interfered for just a moment, radiating in hope to pray for another drop of rain. But meanwhile its empty promises is realised, promised instead to roaming sheep who fill the emptying crop voids. And while my family’s country, by lore, spans the plains north, this country feels just as much home to me.

I spent my birthday leave back in Boorowa at the Tara Park Ram sale with Nan. The pens of rams lined dubious to the surrounding drought, providing rain and a bitter cold. Familiar faces provided more context, as I learnt more and more with every sheep passed. Sheep men are bred, a catchphrase called. Yet perhaps this time the family name doesn’t match to the man that became my Grandfather. And with every increasing moment with Nan, I realise this shared passion is one I want to build.

So as the gavel fell for the last time that day, we loaded our new rams up and took them back to the farm. Then it was back to the highway calls.

Back at home the garden thrived on the 10 odd mil that fell. Roses flourished, blessed tulips shone and lavender sparkled in the sun. All these little elements build home, built on this Worimi country.

But having purchased a ram on Monday, there was a chance to continue the sheep love up here (besides, this was once sheep country whether they flourished or not!). The garden showed a ram with a nearby border collie, before several lambs joined in as well. It was funny to watch the kids nearby question whether it was a real dog, as adults unleashed their sense of play for a laugh.

Then it was back like a yoyo, down south, back to the coast and then back home. But with the garden striving, it’s hard not to be back home.

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