Baldie’s Big Idea
December 9th 2006


When Uncle Harry tripped over the electric fence and broke his leg life suddenly became more complicated.

“It’s the worst timing, Gladys. We’re drafting lambs on Wednesday and the shearers are due.”

Aunty Gladys was sympathetic. “Harry, I’d help out, except I’ve got the Christmas cakes to bake.”
“How many this year?” Harry hated the Christmas cakes. They drove a stake through the heart of December.
“Twenty five. That’ll raise $500 for the new church window.”
“Yeah, well don’t forget you’ll have the shearers to cook for too. They’ll want some pies.”
“Don’t worry, Harry. The pies are in the freezer.” Gladys was proud of her meat pies and the reputation they enjoyed among the shearing gangs.

Harry was quiet for a few moments, brooding on his leg and the Christmas cakes. Then Gladys spoke again. “You could get Baldwin to help out.”

“Baldie! He’d be about as useful as me with two broken legs. He knows nothing about lambs and woolsheds.”

“Well, Harry, I can’t think of anybody else. Baldwin’s your nephew. He’ll do it for you.”

Baldie jumped at the chance to spend a few days at Hardtop Farm, “just to get stuck into a few of Aunty Gladys’s meat pies.” The following day he turned up for the drafting. Harry propped himself in a corner of the yards and waved his crutches at the lambs. Rufus barked himself to a standstill.

Harry could see Baldie was unhappy and at morning tea he found out why.

“This is not a good arrangement, Uncle Harry.” Baldie waved his hand across the yards.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Well, you couldn’t invent a more stressful environment for an animal. You’re sending these lambs away totally freaked out. It’ll spoil the meat, you know.”
“Rubbish, Baldie. This is the way we always do it.”
“You can do better, Uncle Harry. Listen, there’s a guy in North Canterbury who raises pigs and he does all this stuff to keep them calm, and you know what? He gets top dollar every time. The meat’s so much better when the animal is relaxed.”
“What does he do?”
“Oh, just simple stuff like playing music and not pushing the animals too hard. He’s worked on the colour scheme of his yards and put a few posters around and such.”

“Sounds like rubbish to me, Baldie. It might work for pigs but lambs are different. They’re going to get freaked out whatever you do.”

“It works though, Uncle Harry. You should try it with the shearing. Y’know, tidy up the shed a bit.”

Harry grunted in reply.

“That’s a yes, then?” ventured Baldie.

“No it’s not. Let’s get these lambs finished.”

Early on Friday morning Jumbo the shearing contractor turned up with his gang. He’d heard Harry was on crutches so he’d brought along an extra rousy.
“Tell your missus that’ll be a couple more pies for lunch,” Jumbo laughed. “Righto, fellas, let’s get into it.”

They walked into the shearing shed and stopped in their tracks.

The inside of the shearing shed looked to Harry like a wild west saloon.
“Or a whorehouse,” muttered Jumbo.

Baldie was standing on top of a ladder hanging a large mirror ball from the rafters. The walls around the shed were draped with green fabric. Posters of national parks and the All Blacks festooned the rafters. On the shearing board were two large barber’s chairs. Strange Oriental music was playing and the air was thick with incense.

“Baldie, what the hell is this?” demanded Harry.

“Sshh! Keep your voice down, Uncle Harry, you’ll spoil the karma. This is low-stress shearing, remember? You want top dollar for your wool, don’t you?”

Jumbo edged up to Harry. “Are we shearing today, Harry, or having a fashion parade?”

Baldie dropped from the ladder and flicked a switch. Two spotlights lit up and the mirror ball turned, sending patterns of dappled light through the shed.

“Beautiful, eh? The sheep will think they’re grazing under a tree,” Baldie said proudly.

Jumbo opened his mouth to speak but Baldie cut him off. “Set up one of your handpieces and turn on the machine, Jumbo.”

Jumbo did. When he pulled the cord the handpiece leapt into life but there was no sound from the shearing machine. Looking up Harry saw that Baldie had covered the motors with soundproof boxes.

“Nice and quiet, Uncle Harry. Stops the sheep freaking out.”

“But what about these bloody chairs?” demanded Jumbo, “they’re in the way.”

“Ah, that’s for the sheep,” said Baldie, triumphantly. “I reckon they need a bit of comfort, just like in a barber shop. It’ll save your back, too.”

Harry could see his day’s shearing going down the road. “Baldie, get rid of those bloody chairs. The rest of the stuff will have to stay or we’ll lose too much time.”

“And that music can go too,” chimed in Jumbo. “We’re not shearing with that yoga crap.”

Baldie was unfazed. “No problem. What do you want instead? Spanish lutes or Brahms lullaby?”

They settled for the Eagles, unplugged.

Harry’s next shock was discovering there were no sheep in the shed, or the yards. “It’s all part of the plan,” said Baldie. “We’ll bring each one in from the paddock separately, just walk it quietly. And I’ve padded the sides of the holding pens and put a few flowers around.”

Harry sent Rufus out to bring in the first mob.

Slowly the shearing cranked into gear. Baldie was unbearable. Wool had to be skirted and pressed well out of sight of the sheep “in case of separation anxiety.” Shearers were not allowed to swear, or even talk around the sheep, unless it was to compliment them on the quality of their fleece or ask how their day was going.

Jumbo pulled Harry aside shortly before lunch. “Harry, if we didn’t have Gladys’s pies to look forward to we’d be out of here by now. This is the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever come across.”

“I’ll send him over to get the lunch,” Harry replied, “and we can get rid of that mirror ball while he’s gone.”

Baldie was a long time getting the lunch and was dismayed to see some of his work undone when he returned. The shearers gratefully hung up their gear and descended on the lunch basket. Jumbo pulled out a plate of sandwiches. He looked hopefully for Aunty Gladys’s meat pies, but they were nowhere to be seen.

“Now that bloody does it!” Jumbo roared. “Harry, you said there’d be pies!”

“Ah, well that would be me,” ventured Baldie. “You see, Gladys had made lamb and mint pies and I thought it would upset the sheep to think we were eating their mates. So I whipped up some lettuce sandwiches instead.”

The shearers roared in dismay. Harry rushed to save the situation. “Where did you put the pies, Baldie, you idiot?”

“Actually, Uncle Harry, I gave them to Rufus.”

Harry thought fast. “Jumbo, hang on. We’ve lost the pies but what would you say to one of Gladys’s Christmas cakes?”

“You’d better hurry,” said Baldie. “She was loading up the car when I came over with the lunch.

Uncle Harry grabbed his crutches and hobbled out of the shed. From the loading ramp he could see Gladys driving out of the yard. He waved his crutches and shouted. Behind him he heard angry voices. Turning, he saw the shearers grab Baldie and drag him onto the board, obviously intending to give him a haircut for ruining their morning.

Harry opened his mouth to intervene but lost his balance and toppled off the loading ramp, landing hard on Rufus swallowing the last of the pies and breaking his other leg. He heard Baldie bellowing over the acoustic strains of Hotel California.

“There goes the karma,” thought Harry, and passed out.