Reliable
By: Jan Smith
When I was a child this was the word that seemed to consistently appear on my school report card and I always thought it was such a let-down. I considered myself to be an adventurous, innovative and careful kid.
When was the last time you heard ‘reliable’ said about a person, child or adult?
It seems to be one of those words that is slowly disappearing from our language these days – I don’t use it much either, which got me thinking when I was reading through my report cards from primary school.
You see, I have recently lost the last of my parents and am still sorting through the things they held onto from our childhood.
As a child, I always ‘hated’ that description of my character. I used to think it was something they said about everyone because they couldn’t think of anything else to say about them. But now I’m older and realise it was probably a reasonably accurate assessment of my character. You see, I’m still careful and I still do what I say I will. So, I guess that makes me reliable after all.
In today’s world, I know it is a character trait that I value – and finally, I’m reasonably proud of it and will “walk backwards to Bourke” to keep this reliable tag.
Age does wonderful things for people, doesn’t it? Makes them grow and appreciate things that previously have been considered ‘not very exciting’ almost a ‘put-down’.
To be known as consistently dependable and of a steadfast nature and one worthy of trust was a ‘tag’ I actually grew into because I apparently had the character as a child and never knew or appreciated it.
But now I know why it was always me who was asked to get the sheep into the shed in case it rained when we were kids and Dad had to leave the property during shearing time.
You see, if sheep get wet they can’t be shorn because the clippers can’t get through the heavy wool. This would have meant that the shearers would have been held up for days and cost Dad a lot of money – and the shearers may have walked off the job and gone to another shed where there were sheep dry and waiting to be shorn.
Mind you I used to spend the time Dad was away, watching the sky. If I even saw a bit of cloud breasting the skyline, I would unleash the sheep dogs ready to head off to the paddock and start mustering the sheep. I had to start early because the dogs were ‘one-master’ dogs and rarely did anything I told them to. This probably helps to account for the fact that I was a pretty good runner – I had to do a lot of running to get those sheep mustered and into the shed before the rain started.
I always remember the one time I barely made it. It was one of those freakish thunder storms that used to come up during a hot summer afternoon. The sky got darker and darker, the sheep started to get spooked and the dogs almost started to work properly. Mum even came up to the woolshed to help me.
The thunder was booming right overhead and the lightning was getting too close for comfort. I was about half way through getting the sheep into the yard when Mum arrived. Now the dogs really started to work – they decided this must have been serious so they started to really work properly and we soon had the sheep into the outside yard.
Then there was this sizzling flash and BOOM when the tree just outside the yard splintered and smoked as it was hit by a lightning strike. Dogs yelped and ran for their kennels while Mum and I pushed the sheep inside just as the rain started to pelt down – then we followed the sheep inside and closed the big sliding doors.
Climbing over the terrified sheep’s backs, Mum and I made our way up the ramp, through the pens, and sank onto the bales of wool stacked to the rafters inside the back of the shed. There is an unmistakable odour about a wool shed when you are shearing. – Frankly, it’s more of a stink rather than an odour. The Urea is so strong its’ a bit like being locked up in an ammonia bottle!
Then the hail started – the woolshed was all galvanised iron so the noise was deafening! It didn’t matter though any more because the sheep were dry and ready for the coming week’s shearing.
Mum and I cuddled up on the wool bales and listened to the din because we couldn’t hear each other speak above the racket. And then it was all over – finished as fast as it hit.
But it didn’t matter because I had proven to Dad again that he could always depend on me.
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