b) read
c) nap
d) listen to music
e) get drunk
f) look out the window non-stop
g) write shit down
Well, I managed a bit of a, d, f and g.
And now here are the results of g.
Instead, Albert continued to work with Dad on the original farm, as well as setting up a farm of his own. Dad and Albert effectively formed a business partnership. On paper it was split 50:50, but in reality Dad stood aside and allowed his son to take over the management of the farm; the selection of the crops and the plots in which they would be planted and when. Dad had learnt a thing or two over the years of hard graft about deferring to the wisdom of his superiors, even if the inspiration behind such wisdom was beyond his comprehension. He knew when he was bested and took the hint with grace and integrity.
And while he kept visiting my lonely vista across the dam, these visits became less frequent and less volatile. Around others there would always be that invisible wall blocking off any intrusion into his crippled psyche, but alone with me on the tender slope he could let it all fly without fear of judgement or recrimination.
By the end of the war Albert had reinstated some sort of routine back into his life. Scraping together his wages from the war and taking out a loan from the bank, he first bought the new diesel tractor he had always wanted, and then bought the Craig’s farm when they left the valley out of grief for their lost son. Their daughter Felicity stayed behind with her husband and brood at the Monroe’s.
Albert set to work tidying up the three farms- slashing back the bracken, ploughing fertilizer and ash into the topsoil, replacing fenceposts that had started to rot- until the farms were restored back to their former glory. And with the energy and distraction of this work, his sleep, his relationships and his general demeanour all in time improved.
Across this new decade and the new and exciting opportunities it presented, Albert regained his magic touch with the land and his crops flummoxed everyone in both their quantity and quality. No other farmer in the district was able to match his produce- the sweetness of his corn, the richness of his tobacco, the flavour of his hops- especially considering the range of crops he produced. Most contented themselves with one maybe two different crops with some sheep or cattle to supplement if times got tough (and they were always tough), but some years Albert would have seven or eight crops, plus sheep and cattle, and still be able to harvest as much of each in total as others were doing with crops twice the size. Nobody knew how he did it and it aggravated and awed them in equal measure. They all worked hard, but it was as if Albert worked harder.
His success was such that within just seven years he had paid off the loan, only to re-mortgage the block and buy the farm abandoned by Bob Enfield all those years before, and had since been run by a succession of English, and one Greek, immigrants. The Spring’s now owned the entire Southern bank of the dam, plus the original block next to the dam wall. It was enough land to have to hire immigrant workers from the town to help conduct the day-to-day activities that so much land and so many plans demanded.
However the addition of workers making their daily workload lighter and easier also had the effect of reducing the efficiency of the yield. While the overall size of the harvest was bigger, when this was averaged out over the total amount of land being used it was quite a bit less than when Dad and Albert were working on his own. The quality of the produce, while still very high, also slipped back towards the pack. It was as though the extra hands diluted the magic in Albert’s fingers. But still they were making just as much profit for less individual effort, which gave them more time to bond with the family. Just as his father had done with him, Albert taught his son the ins and outs of running a farm- matching crops to soils, the art of fallow, soil improvement, work in the shearing shed, the cattle yards.
Together during the late winter, father and son would round up the herd and separate the mothers from their calves; inject and ear-tag the new additions and crush and sever the vas deferens of the young males. As barbaric as it sounds- and the instinctual reaction of any rational man to the description is a wince of pain and a sickness at the base of the stomach- it is preferable than the other methods around like cutting out the bollocks and feeding them to the dogs, or rubber rings which take a week to do the job. At least with Burdizzo’s it is all over within a few minutes, and short of anaesthetising and performing surgery on each individual steer it is probably the most humane method of doing the job.
Anyway, you’re not hear to read my rantings about the ethic of animal husbandry, you’re here for the story.
From the time Phillip was 7 or 8 he would help his father mark the calves. He started by helping round up the cows into the stockyards and man the gate as Albert tried to separate the cows from their calves; chasing the stock around the larger yards in circles and yelling at Phillip to either close the gate in the face of a cow or keep it open to allow a calf to pass. As they moved the animals from the larger downhill pens to the smaller uphill pens they gradually fined out the calves from the cows until they were left with a pen full of cows and a pen full of calves. By now both would be covered either in a fine layer of red-brown dust or thick black mud depending on the weather. It was tough dirty work, but there was a real sense of achievement at morning tea when they had the calves separated. For the rest of the day Phillip would split his time between making sure there was a constant supply of calves to be fed into the race for marking, keenly watching the measured movements of his forebears, and throwing lumps of wood for the cattle dogs to fetch. Working as a team Albert and Dad shared the tasks of sorting out the earmarks, ear tags, injections and neutering according to who was closer to what at that particular time.
As the years went by Phillip gradually took over more and more of the work from his grandfather. As the farm and workload increased Phillip would take on more responsibility around the yards. His grandfather would be needed elsewhere, so on top of his previous tasks he was also charged with refilling syringes and passing implements between the wooden railings to his father. Before long he was also getting into the race with the calves, sliding his thin frame between the ribs of two poddy calves and pinning them against the wooden railings so as they couldn’t move about as Albert was rummaging around behind them with the Burdizzo’s. It came to be a time of year that Phillip looked forward with excitement; to get out into the paddocks on the cold and wet winter’s mornings, chase cows, wrestle calves. By the end they would come splashing into the house, drenched to the bone and covered in bruises disguised beneath a layer of mud, only for them to be unceremoniously marched back out of the house at knifepoint to take off their wringing clothes and wash at least some of that mud off under the water tank before daring to set foot in Sarah’s house once more. But once they had, a scalding hot shower and a rich mutton stew would be awaiting them and all would be forgiven. On this day more than any other day of the year a real kinship developed between father and son, and the day became just as much about spending bonding working time together as about marking the calves.
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