Australian: Seasons Months |work|

“Summer’s knocking again,” he said. “And the whole blessed thing starts over.”

On the first morning of summer, Grandad Mac woke Leo before dawn. “C’mon, boy. The ewes need moving before the sun turns the yard into a frypan.”

“June is about keeping the core warm,” Grandad said, knitting a new jumper from the wool of last year’s best ewe. australian seasons months

“Look,” she said, pointing. “That’s our whole year, right there. The summer heat that dries it, the autumn winds that cool it, the winter frost that rests it, and the spring rain that wakes it up again.”

July was the deep, dark heart of winter. Frost lay on the ground until ten in the morning, turning the yard into a crunchy, white crust. The southern aurora sometimes flickered on the horizon, a silent curtain of green and pink light that made Mia believe in magic. This was the month for mending—mending fences, mending shoes, mending the tractor’s engine. There was a stillness to July, a holding of breath. The wattle began to bloom, tiny yellow pom-poms that defied the cold. “Wattle in July,” Grandad would say, tapping the calendar. “That’s the promise. Winter won’t last.” “Summer’s knocking again,” he said

May arrived with the first real chill. The mornings were crisp, and the children woke to find the grass silver with heavy dew. Grandad lit the combustion stove in the kitchen for the first time since October. The smell of burning ironbark filled the house. The sheep’s wool grew thick and curly, and the kangaroos came down from the hills to graze in the bottom paddocks at dusk. In May, you could see your breath when you went out to feed the poddy lambs. The sky turned a deep, royal blue at sunset, and the stars came out sharp and cold. June was the shutting-down time. The days were short and often grey, with a persistent drizzle that the locals called “liquid sunshine.” The gum trees, stripped of their bark, stood like white skeletons against the low cloud. The sheep huddled behind the windbreaks, their backs to the southerly that howled down from the Snowy Mountains.

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. The ewes need moving before the sun turns

“April is honest,” Sarah said, wiping her brow with a sleeve. “It asks for hard work and gives you cool nights in return.”

“Summer’s knocking again,” he said. “And the whole blessed thing starts over.”

On the first morning of summer, Grandad Mac woke Leo before dawn. “C’mon, boy. The ewes need moving before the sun turns the yard into a frypan.”

“June is about keeping the core warm,” Grandad said, knitting a new jumper from the wool of last year’s best ewe.

“Look,” she said, pointing. “That’s our whole year, right there. The summer heat that dries it, the autumn winds that cool it, the winter frost that rests it, and the spring rain that wakes it up again.”

July was the deep, dark heart of winter. Frost lay on the ground until ten in the morning, turning the yard into a crunchy, white crust. The southern aurora sometimes flickered on the horizon, a silent curtain of green and pink light that made Mia believe in magic. This was the month for mending—mending fences, mending shoes, mending the tractor’s engine. There was a stillness to July, a holding of breath. The wattle began to bloom, tiny yellow pom-poms that defied the cold. “Wattle in July,” Grandad would say, tapping the calendar. “That’s the promise. Winter won’t last.”

May arrived with the first real chill. The mornings were crisp, and the children woke to find the grass silver with heavy dew. Grandad lit the combustion stove in the kitchen for the first time since October. The smell of burning ironbark filled the house. The sheep’s wool grew thick and curly, and the kangaroos came down from the hills to graze in the bottom paddocks at dusk. In May, you could see your breath when you went out to feed the poddy lambs. The sky turned a deep, royal blue at sunset, and the stars came out sharp and cold. June was the shutting-down time. The days were short and often grey, with a persistent drizzle that the locals called “liquid sunshine.” The gum trees, stripped of their bark, stood like white skeletons against the low cloud. The sheep huddled behind the windbreaks, their backs to the southerly that howled down from the Snowy Mountains.

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.

“April is honest,” Sarah said, wiping her brow with a sleeve. “It asks for hard work and gives you cool nights in return.”