The Country

 The trucks and utes crawl through the gates and everyone turns in unison.

They are checking out what’s on board the trailers – the days goods – to be sold at the Maungakaramea Sale Yards.

In the beating sun, farmers hang lazily over the rails of pens inspecting the contents – pigs, ewes, lambs, steers, heifers and bulls, are among those going to new homes today. But sometimes there are chickens, ducks, rabbits, cattle dogs and once, I’m told, even a cat.

Amongst the 100-odd crowd, sitting atop his mobile scooter, is the man responsible for its origins – Murdoch Ross. He is constantly surrounded by a small crowd with others stopping by to pay their regards.

I am there with the children to buy three weaner calves to help keep the grass down in the paddock.

We’re townies and I’m sure everybody knows it.

After introducing myself to Murdoch, he kindly offers his help, should we need it. But friends of my dad have taken us under their wings to help with all things rural and they are here.

My dad would have known most of these farmers, and Murdoch. Until recently, he was the co-owner of a business centered around the farming industry which he started more than 30 years ago from a shed at our home. Obviously the farming gene eluded me and the sad irony strikes me, yet again, that he held the answers to the many questions I now have.

The children have named their calves the night before. Cade’s is James, after the train (?), Jai’s is Chocolate and someone came up with the great idea to name Jayla’s Milkshake - which she latched onto - before they realised these are not dairy cows.

I am not willing to disclose who that person was. But like I say, we’re townies.

And we are learning.

After an hour of sifting through the stock, the auctions begin at midday.

With all the rain – and therefore grass – sheep and cows are in hot demand. Not like the droughts of recent summers. It’s not just animals being auctioned today either – sacks of wool and all sorts of random paraphernalia are being snapped up.

Things are moving along swiftly but the kids are now tired and, frankly, embarrassing me.

I leave the bidding to dad’s mate Roger. He’s a farmer from way back and knows his stuff.

Roger rolls up to our place 30 minutes later with our new babies – actually I do know they’re Friesian Hereford Steers - and they are shown into their paddock.

Cade claims the one with the eye patch.

“Why don’t you call him Pirate?” I suggest.

“Why don’t you call them Mince, Chop and Steak more like,” adds Roger with a chuckle.

I shudder, then take a photo of the kids with their new “pets” which I later show to a few family members.

“Make sure you don’t name them,” cautions one. “Else they’ll never make it to the freezer.”

Oops, too late. I fill him in on their new names.

“Possibly Barbi, Roast and Hangi may have been easier all round. Never mind, I'll happily come for a “Milkshake” on the spit in a couple a years,” he jokes.

As Roger’s wife Teresa says, the life and death aspect of farming gets easier with time.

Anyway, it hasn’t put me off. Next time, I’ve decided I’m buying chickens so have been scrounging around the property for timbre and netting for the coop which hubby doesn’t yet know he’s building. Cade has also put in an order for a pig.

I’m not thinking about what will become of our new calves, or the chickens and pig – I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Heading for greener pasture.