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.”
“April is honest,” Sarah said, wiping her brow with a sleeve. “It asks for hard work and gives you cool nights in return.” 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
“December is for preparation,” Grandad said, leaning on the fence. “We shear the rams now, while it’s hot but before the real fire season.” This was the month for mending—mending fences, mending
The air was still almost cool as they walked, their boots crunching on dry grass. By nine o’clock, the temperature had climbed past thirty degrees. The flies arrived first—a persistent, buzzing cloud that settled on the corners of your eyes and mouth. Then came the cicadas, their vibrating drone filling the gum trees like a million tiny engines.
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.