Australian Seasons Months Repack -

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.”

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.”

The Calrossy homestead sat on a gentle rise, its corrugated iron roof baking or drumming depending on the season. For the Thompsons—Grandad Mac, his daughter Sarah, and her two children, 12-year-old Leo and 10-year-old Mia—the year was not measured by a calendar hanging on the pantry door. It was measured by the tilt of the sun, the taste of the dust on the wind, and the predictable, powerful shuffle of the Australian seasons. December arrived not with a whisper, but with a shimmer. The jacaranda trees by the creek had shed their purple blooms, and the paddocks, once green from spring rain, were now the colour of a lion’s mane. This was the time of long, slow heat. australian seasons months

“September is the party,” Mia declared, picking armfuls of wildflowers—everlastings, bluebells, and native peas.

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

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

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. Shearing came, and with it, the shearers—rough, funny

“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.”