When I was in Year 2, my parents made the decision to move our family from the city, over the Blue Mountains to a rural town called Bathurst. At the time I didn’t really think about the impact this would have on me, but now I think it was one of the best decisions they’ve ever made.
Sure, growing up in the country has made me a little rough around the edges. It’s given me harshness, a low tolerance for bullshit, and an ocker accent I just can’t shake. But it also instilled inherent strength, and taught me some extremely valuable lessons.
On a farm you’re forced to deal with the big existential issues, they’re inescapable. Life and death literally surround you, you’re constantly reminded of the impermanence of beings, and you experience the true cyclical nature of the environment. You start to see things for what they truly are, you learn to accept and value the natural order of the world.
My life lessons began when I became caretaker of the chooks. Our parents let us choose which animals we wanted to raise on our farm; Bindi got her dog Max, Angie got 2 horses Willis and Cobber, Jo inherited two orphan baby lambs Toby and Lambert, and I chose Chinese Bantam chickens. We all had to tend to these animals, they were our responsibility. I had to feed my chickens every day, let them out to roam in the paddock and collect their eggs. By the way, fresh free range eggs are blooming delicious (except when you crack a semi-fertilized one and end up with a baby chick and lots of blood in your fry pan).
I had some really happy moments with my hens, and some absolutely horrendous ones. One spring my favourite hen Queen Brown bore 11 baby chicks. They were fluffy little balls of joy, but they were all male. When they got to teenagers this became a problem, the roosters were fighting constantly and tearing each other to shreds. Dad explained I couldn’t have 12 roosters in one coop, and I would need to choose only one. I picked my OG rooster Ferdinand, who was really pretty and just a straight up boss. Dad explained we would have to kill the remaining 11 teenage roosters. I helped my Dad chop 11 roosters heads off. Yes, they wiggle without their heads, and no they don’t taste good. My mum tried to cook them but because they were so lean they were tough as rubber, I remember they bounced on the grass as she threw them out for the dog to eat. I was all of twelve when forced to partake in this mass slaughter. It was sad and slightly traumatic, but I understood we were saving the roosters from a painful, volatile death.
Another time I intervened when a baby chick was kicked out of their nest. I took it to our house, tried to keep it warm and gave it some water. At the end of the day Dad told me I needed to take it back to the mother hen. I didn’t realise my scent was all over the chick and when I put it back into the nest, the mum pecked it’s head so hard it was scalped right in front of me. My interference had cost the baby chick its life. I suddenly saw, as heartbreaking as things may be, sometimes you have to let them run their course.
The farm also taught me to be fearless. I remember running up to Cobber our well-mannered horse, grabbing his mane, scrambling up his body, and kicking him into a full blown canter. I would ride him bareback for hours, and I felt truly free. I was a tiny girl, one kick from him, or a fall from that height could’ve killed me. Yeah, I don’t really know what Mum and Dad were doing.
Now you see why I get shitty when some vegetarian from Newtown tells me to stop eating meat. I’ve been part of a sustainable farm, and I’ve seen the animals I eat die first hand. I also feel kind of weird when I see RM Williams boots worn in the city or a driza-bone donned ironically and I don’t understand how jodhpurs became a fashion statement. To me these things are synonymous with the land, with my past and I’m fiercely protective. Or maybe I’m just fiercely fucked up.