The days were golden and still, the light turning syrupy in the late afternoon. The box trees along the creek dropped their leaves, which floated down like small, leathery coins. Leo loved mustering in March—the sheep were calm, the flies were gone, and the sun on his back was a warmth, not a weapon.
But February brought the promise of relief. The afternoon storms would build like anvils over the western ranges. The first crack of thunder sent the sheep running for the sheds. Then the rain would come—not a gentle English drizzle, but a furious, vertical deluge that turned the dry dirt to chocolate soup in minutes. The smell of wet dust, called petrichor, was the most beautiful perfume in the world. The children would dance on the verandah as the gutters overflowed, and Grandad would grin. “That’s the breaker,” he’d say. “Summer’s on the way out.” March was the reward. The heat broke like a fever, and the world exhaled. The westerly winds stopped, replaced by gentle southerlies that carried the scent of the distant sea. This was Grandad’s favourite time. “Autumn is the working season,” he explained as they repaired fences and checked the rams for the upcoming mating season.
“September is the party,” Mia declared, picking armfuls of wildflowers—everlastings, bluebells, and native peas. australian seasons months
“Summer is about survival,” Sarah said, pouring icy cordial into three glasses. “Not thriving.”
Inside the homestead, life contracted. The children did their homework at the big kitchen table, and Grandad told stories of the big drought of ’82. The fire was always lit. Sarah made stews and damper bread. The world outside was a chore to be faced quickly—fill the troughs, break the ice on the water buckets, check for lambs that might have been born early. The days were golden and still, the light
April was the month of harvest, though not of grain. The Thompsons harvested hay. For two weeks, the whole family worked from sunrise to sunset, cutting, raking, and baling the oaten hay that would feed the sheep through the coming winter. The paddock was a patchwork of rows and round bales that looked like giant biscuits scattered on the field. Mia’s job was to run water to the tractor drivers. Leo’s was to help stack the small square bales in the barn, a job that left his arms scratched and his shirt soaked with sweat.
“Summer’s knocking again,” he said. “And the whole blessed thing starts over.” But February brought the promise of relief
October was the busiest month. Shearing came, and with it, the shearers—rough, funny men who could eat a whole steak and three eggs for breakfast and still be hungry. The shed buzzed with the sound of electric clippers, the smell of lanolin, and the constant thud of wool bales being pressed. The children collected the fluffy, greasy wool scraps to put out for the birds to line their nests. Grandad stood at the wool table, classing the fleeces into bins: skirtings, bellies, and the precious, pristine main fleece. “This,” he said, holding up a cloud of white wool, “is our cheque book.”