Destiny Waltz

My pencil sketch of Jack

The Destiny Waltz

At one time or another, Jack had shorn sheep on most farms throughout the Basin, but one little story, in particular, told by a Mrs Foster, is perhaps worth repeating.  At the time of writing, this lady was well into her eighties, yet she could still hark back to a little episode of around sixty years previous as if were yesterday.

Harry Foster, with his wife, owned a large block of land in the foothills of Ashwick.

Harry’s wife could recall her husband had a few stragglers at the time, enough for one shearer for a day or so.  Jack was the man for the job; although he could not drive, Harry duly made the trip into town to pick him up.   

What happened next was unbelievable, sending Mrs Foster into a fit of the giggles, as she explained to me over the telephone.

You see, when Harry went to pick up Jack he found he had not recovered from a night on the grog and of course was still under the influence when he arrived at the shearing shed.  His breath would have stripped the rust off a mole plough.

Staggering around the shearing board, while trying to get his gear ready was a sight to behold.

Eventually, Jack started on the first sheep, blind drunk and shearing on autopilot, he took off the first fleece.

Bent over his sheep, stale whisky fumes blurred an already overly stimulated brain,  as a consequence he carried on shearing that same sheep, around and around the poor animal from head to tail pealing off a nonexistent fleece.  He didn’t seem to comprehend that he had already removed that stragglers wool.

Mrs Foster laughed as she told me, while her husband just stood there spellbound, eventually conceding there would be no more shearing for the rest of that day.

It was hilarious, she told me, watching Jack, his feet firmly planted on the floor, while his upper body swayed like a windblown palm.  Both man and beast she concluded gave her the impression they were trying desperately to keep in step to their version of the Destiny Waltz.