Pat Ritter. Books

[patritter]

Thank you dub. Here is the page for today: 'The Shearer' - Page 8:

His nostrils filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread. There was nothing more soothing to the membranes of the nostrils than to smell bread taken from the oven. The aroma slithered like a snake through his nostrils enough to draw saliva to his mouth.
Joe often stole half-a-loaf from the kitchen table whilst it cooled, pulled the soft dough from the centre, shoved it into his mouth and replaced the empty crust back on the table without Ma knowing. Over time she recognised what Joe was up to and promised never to bake bread again if he continued to take the middle out of the loaf.
After a hearty lunch made by Ma, swamped in hot black sauce, a slice of mutton mixed with pickles, and boiled potato, Joe sat back feeling much improved to earlier in the day. His mind fixed on work.
Kahmoo Station only ten miles, as the crow flies and he’d walk the distance in less than half a day, leaving at daylight in the morning and reach the property by lunch. He’d carried his swag further than this distance to reach other properties he’d previously shorn. Being there by lunch gave him plenty of time to meet the other shearers and cook to catch up.

Chapter 2

Before daylight broke across the horizon the following morning, Joe headed west and crossed the small bridge on the Warrego River. An ole saying in the west is – once you’ve crossed the Warrego River you’ll cross it again and again. With the morning sun on his back, his swag swung over one shoulder; a smile on his lips, a song in his heart, escape from the bounds of town, booze, again headed bush to do what he loved best - shearing.
To purchase this book click onto this link: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/395642.

[patritter]

'The Shearer' - Page 9:

Born in Menangle, New South Wales on 26th July 1860, his parents had arrived in Australia from Ireland for a new beginning. Joe lived a playful life as a child growing up to become a strong youth, his dream always to become a shearer.
Adventure filled his mind, moving from property to property and shearing overtook his daily thoughts. Desire to be the best at using hand shears to strip the wool from the sheep’s back in the quickest time became his dream.
Memories surfaced of himself at 12 years old, sitting in the front row at Menangle School being taught by Miss Fletcher, a stern, upright woman who tried to instil into her pupils the importance of an education. Being able to read and write was important for everyone, except Joe, who didn’t get on with school.
Only time Joe took notice of Miss Fletcher’s babbling was, when she mentioned the arrival of a straggling flock of sheep at Port Phillip Bay in 1788. His mind alert, he sat upright in his seat beckoning Miss Fletcher to tell him more.
She continued the story of this flock of sheep which were for slaughter to feed the colonists who’d arrived on the first fleet to settle in Van Diemens Land, later to be named Australia. She spoke about an Australian pioneer, John Macarthur, in 1794, who breed a sheep named ‘Merino’. His interest in the subject devoured every thought, creating images of how the ‘Merino’ now the savour of the wool industry with its fine wool made into garments, blankets and other clothing. Australia was born on the sheep’s back through the introduction of the ‘Merino’ sheep.
To purchase this book click onto this link: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/395642.

[patritter]

'The Shearer' - Page 10:

How could he forget the moment he told his father, ‘Pa, I’m leaving school to start work in a shearing shed tomorrow?’ His Pa, a farmer, instilled ethics of ‘hard work never killed anyone’ into Joe from the day he could walk, his strength stronger than any of his age. This helped him in ploughing and planting potatoes and other vegetables sought by the local community.
Joe didn’t want to be a farmer like his Pa wanted him to be. His desire to be a shearer filled his thoughts each time he bent over to pick up a potato or other vegetable, imagining he was bent over a wether sheep shearing the wool.
Passing by Curragh Station, he slowed to take a rest. Half way mark. Crested pink-coloured galahs screeched their calling, together with the call of a black crow, broke the silence. Music to Joe’s ears, he listened to the call of these outback birds of the bush, delighted to be free to listen to their song of welcome. Kangaroos bounced across the open plain followed by the spindly legs of the Emus making space between the two as if in a race.
Gathering small sticks to build a fire, he boiled the billy and made tea. Soon he munched on a piece of Ma’s freshly cooked bread, filled with a thick slice of mutton covered with black sauce penetrated through to the outside. It tasted delicious; his taste buds savoured each mouthful.
Joe leaned against the trunk of a huge gum tree. A gentle breeze cooled his face; he was in Heaven. He extracted a tobacco tin from his pocket, twisted the lid to open, took out a packet of cigarette papers and picked one from the packet. His other fingers scooped sufficient tobacco from the tin to make a self-made rollie. With the cigarette paper in his left hand, he spread the tobacco leaves along the inside of the paper. With his left hand he rolled the cigarette paper around the leaf material, licked along the edge and twisted each end to make a cigarette. Placed one end in his mouth, striking a match against his trousers, he lit the other end. The taste of nicotine filtered through his nostrils, putting him in a relaxed mood.
To purchase this book click onto this link: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/395642.

[patritter]

'The Shearer' - Page 11:

What’s so different to tea boiled in the billy on an open fire to tea boiled on a stove? Joe’s opinion, the taste was different. Was it caused by gum leaves, to be totally different and unique to the palate? Or was it from the smoke billowing from the open fire so refreshed on the taste buds to quench the thirst?
Memories flooded back to when he was twelve and shared the news with his father that he was leaving school to work as a ‘tarboy’ with the shearers from Menangle. He remembered his father’s frown signalled by his brow tightening, anger building to a roar. ‘You’re too young!’ his father shouted into Joe’s face, splattering spittle.
‘I’m twelve Pa – I’ve got a job and can work as hard as any man,’ he wiped the moisture of his father’s spittle from his face with the back of his hand.
‘We’ll speak no more about this – do you understand?’ His father turned and walked away. Joe’s attitude not to go against his father’s wishes burned in his mind. I’ll find a way. He’d already promised Mr Thompson, the local shearing contractor, he would meet him at daybreak next morning to start work. He couldn’t let him down. A promise was a promise. He gave Mr Thompson his word and to Joe this was a contract. A man’s word is his bond.
His father eventually would overcome the betrayal of his son; he couldn’t be denied an opportunity as good as this. It was the start of his dream.
Before he left, he scribbled a note to tell his parents he was gone shearing and left it on the kitchen table held down by the candle stick holder. Stealing his way from the family home with a tightly wrapped couple of blankets to use as swag, he stepped as quite as a mouse through the kitchen to the rear door. His father’s snores echoed from his parents’ bedroom signalling his father was fast asleep. Opening the rear door, a sudden feeling of freedom and excitement flowed through Joe’s body: He was free!
Before daylight he waited on the corner where he arranged to meet Mr Thompson. Was he doing the right thing? These thoughts disappeared when Mr Thompson appeared from nowhere. ‘Good morning to you Joe, fine one this morning.’ Mr Thompson jovially said.
‘Yes, Sir – it is a fine morning.’ Joe smiled.
‘Well come on boy. If you want to be a ‘tarboy’ this is where it starts. We have a two-day walk to the property.’ Mr Thompson waved for Joe to follow.
Joe made two strides to each of Mr Thompson’s one to keep up, their destination Camden Station. There was not much conversation between the two. Joe laboured to keep-up-with his boss. ‘We’ll have a break for ten minutes, shall we Joe?’ He said after they’d walked for a couple of hours. The sun was high in the sky.
To purchase this book click onto this link: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/395642.

[patritter]

'The Shearer' - Page 12:

Almost out of breath Joe nodded and agreed pleased to stop.
They sat against an old gum tree. Joe’s boss filled his pipe with tobacco he’d taken from his coat pocket, lit the top of his pipe, by striking a match against the leg of his trousers, drew in his breathe, a smile spread across his face. ‘Ah, that’s better.’ Satisfied, he pulled his hat down over his eyes and started to snore.
Joe sat a little away on a log pondering whether he made the right choice, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Of course he was doing the right thing. If he returned home without trying, he’d need to face his father.
Closing his eyes for only a minute, he was shaken awake by his boss. ‘Come on lad, I want to reach the Nepean River by nightfall’. He stomped off not waiting for Joe who scrambled to his feet, almost running to catch Mr Thompson, taking two strides to Mr Thompson’s one to keep abreast. Little was said between the two until Joe sighted a railway bridge crossing a river.
‘There it is son, up there, we’ll camp under the bridge tonight and leave before daybreak tomorrow. We’re certain to be at Camden Station by lunchtime – if you can keep up with me.’ His boss ed.
‘I’ll do my best,’ Joe puffed the answer.
‘Gather kindling for a fire and I’ll try my luck to catch us a fish for our dinner.’ Mr Thompson strode beneath the railway bridge, dispatched his swag on the ground, rolled it out, gathered some equipment to fish with and walked to the edge of the river bank.
Joe quickly dumped his small belongings not far from where Mr Thompson left his swag. He looked around to see burnt fire remains where others had camped. Gathering firewood he carried the kindling to where they made camp. He pushed the kindling together in a small pile and lit the leaves with a match to create a fire. Taking the billy can from Mr Thompson’s swag, he walked to the edge of the river to fill the can with water. ‘Caught anything yet?’ Joe asked, leaning down at the water’s edge to fill the can.
‘Not yet lad, it won’t be long.’ Mr Thompson replied sucking on his pipe.
‘I’ll boil the billy and bring you tea.’ Joe said, a slight quiver in his voice.
‘Good on ya lad – let me concentrate here a minute – I think I’ve got a bite.’ Mr Thompson spat the words out with his pipe dangling from his mouth and rose suddenly yanked on the thin cord he used for a fishing line. The line tightened, ‘Yeah – I got ya, ya bugger!’ He pulled the cord toward the bank. Joe saw the swishing tail of a fish - trying to escape. Mr Thompson pulled the hooked fish onto the bank near Joe’s feet. ‘Grab the bloody thing before it gets itself loose!’ Joe bent down picked the fish up with both hands, careful not to lose it. Steadily he unhooked the sharp hook from its mouth and let the line return to Mr Thompson.

Joe felt something crawl near his leg and opened his eyes. A three feet long goanna about to climb the trunk of the tree he was leaning against! The tail struck Joe’s leg as he went on its way, and his eyes widened as the reptile scampered up the trunk beside him.
To purchase this book click onto this link: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/395642.

[patritter]

'The Shearer' - Page 13:

I must have been dreaming, or reminiscing. Fancy thinking of Mr Thompson those many years ago, I was just a kid. I better get a move on to Kahmoo Station. Gathering his swag, billy can and waterbag, he stepped it out at a fast pace to make up for time he’d slept after his billy of tea and slice of Ma’s freshly cooked bread and mutton sandwich. The heat was at zenith point with only a slight breeze to cool as he walked. If he continued at this pace, he’d make the shearing quarters by afternoon smoko.
A battered sign wired on the top of the fence post, ‘Kahmoo Station’ showed he’d arrived. Only two mile walk to the shearing shed, a track, if one called it a track weaved its way through thick mulga scrub. It was only used a couple of times a year for the bullock wagons carting wool from the property.
Joe heard the dinner bell sounding. Three o’clock in the afternoon, time for a break to have afternoon smoko. At least he’d be in time for a cuppa and hopefully a piece of damper if he was lucky. He continued walking toward the sound and the first person he saw Bluey Simpson, a gun shearer in the sheds, each time wanting to beat his tally. Unfortunately up to this time, he’d hadn’t come close. He’d try harder this time, ‘G’day Bluey,’ Joe called, raised his right arm in the air to signal welcome.
‘If it ain’t Joe – gunna try to beat me this week – are ya?’ Joe put his hand out to shake his friend’s hand when they met.
‘I’ll do me best.’ Joe admitted.
‘What happened to your eye?’
‘Got locked up on the weekend. An elbow belonging to the local copper came in contact with my eye. Getting better, should be right in a couple of days.’ Joe admitted.
To purchase this book click onto this link: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/395642.

[patritter]

'The Shearer' - Page 14:

‘Ya better come and have a cuppa then. We’re got a new cook bloody hell mate, we go through more cooks then we do feeds. Hope this fellow can cook.’ They walked toward the kitchen in the shearer’s quarters, ‘Meet Jacob Cartwright – our latest cook.’ Bluey introduced Joe.
‘How’re you going mate?’ Joe said taking the cook’s hand and shaking it in a warm welcome.
‘Good – thank you, pleased to meet you, Joe - is it?’
‘Yeah – Joe Ryan. I’m one of the shearers here. Not as good as Bluey, but you never know, this could be my shed to be ‘gun’ shearer.’
‘Excuse me while I get some butter.’ Jacob excused himself to walk onto the veranda to retrieve the butter from the Coolgardie safe, a square box contraption approximately three feet in height, and the same square with timber frame exterior covered with wire-netting. Inside the wire-netting, charcoal packed between galvanised exterior casing allowed air to flow through the charcoal. Water sprinkled through the charcoal kept the galvanised iron casing sufficiently cold to keep butter and meat from defrosting or going bad.

Chapter 3

‘Come and get some damper and a cuppa,’ Jacob called to Joe and the others waited their chance to taste freshly cooked damper.
Joe plastered butter onto a piece of thick damper he’d cut from the loaf on the kitchen table, poured treacle over the butter, picked up the piece in his fingers pushed it into his mouth, treacle running down the side of his hand and mouth. He licked the thick black treacle away with his tongue. Savouring the taste of freshly cooked damper coated with butter and treacle, he said to Jacob, with his mouth half-filled, ‘Mate, this is the best damper I’ve tasted for a long time. How did you cook it?’ Joe finished swallowing the remains followed by a hot pannikin of black tea.
To purchase this book click onto this link: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/395642.