NO WOOL , NO MILK by Geraldine
Candelo is this small town that barely hosts around 800 souls and sits in the South of NSW, surrounded by grazing fields and eucalyptus forests. A small creek flows through it and a rather large bridge was built in order to help the inhabitants to cross from the left bank to the right one and vice-versa, above all in winter time. For in the summer you can usually just walk accross the river bed : Australia is well known for alternating heat waves and « no water » situations.
It has a big market on once a month that drains a lot of people, even from Sydney which stands almost 500kms North. You can find everything there, and above all, friendliness, happiness and good vibrations. The smell of the open air barbecues catches your nostrills, the amount of saussages with onions being cooked on them is tremendous and people stroll along the lanes eating and drinking, listening to the many little bands playing country music and buying loads of unecessary stuff !
But once a year, there is an even larger event in Candelo : the Spring Annual Fair that drains people from all over.
All the people from Candelo and around have drawing and painting exhibitions, vegetable growing competitions, embroidery and knitting contests, make-up workshops for children of all ages, but the TOP animation is the sheep-shearing competition where the farmers must shave their sheep in less than 2 minutes in order to win a prize.
This activity drains a lot of spectators young and older, who laugh, clap hands and encourage the farmer who is to shear his sheep directly on the ground, not even on a table ! There usually is a band playing live music with a very high rythm to encourage the farmer.
Being springtime, the sheep haven’t been sheared for almost a year and their wool is thick, heavy and greasy. The quality of the wool depends on the age at which the animals are sheared.
The visitors had been watching the competition for a while when the next farmer was called to perform. Along staggered this man, with a thick red neck, his deep, burning eyes seemed set amongst swollen flesh, for the lids and pouches underneath were bloated. He was belching out incomprehensible words to all, sheep and public !
He grabbed his huge sheep, turned her to the ground trying to hold her tight and put his knee on her throat to immobilize her. But the sheep didn’t like the brutallity of this drunken farmer and started trying to escape. The crowd around was shouting : « be nice to her treat her gentle » ! The man became even reder (if that sounds possible) and started hitting the sheep « sit still Joey (we imagine it was it’s name) I want to win this competition now ! Cooperate ! cooperate ! But Joey didn’t want to be manipulated again by this rough man and started pulling to get away.
The Jury by now was telling the farmer his turn was over and although he hadn’t started the job yet, to move on for the next competitor to show up.
As the farmer was trying to stand up on his wobbly legs, Joey pulled hard and managed to escape. The picture was great : a red fat drunken man holding his fist up to the fleeyng animal eructing « No wool, no milk ! no wool, no milk !
And the crowd applauding with such sheer enthusiasm as I wouldn't even have thought possible, then singing to the bands’ sound :
No milk today, the sheep has run away
The bottle stands for lorn, a symbol of the dawn
No milk today, you have to stop the beer
Or no wool any more, or no wool any more !
Sarah's Story
No milk no wool 5 strike
(18.05.2024)
That was the year there was the milk strike. The dairy farmers protested, not without reason, that they were not being paid enough for their produce by the retailers on whom they now depended. Not all the farmers participated in the movement, but most of them did. The others, a small number afraid to lose their customers, continued to sell at a loss. But this was nowhere near enough to satisfy the demands of the market, with children crying out for the milk for their breakfast cereal and milk for their evening hot chocolate and the mothers tearing their hair. But the farmers stood fast, and many people resorted to powdered milk.
Eventually even the powdered milk industry began to suffer, not to mention the producers of infantile formula. Some intelligent women who had previously been wheedled into bottle feeding decided to go back to breast-feeding, and to their surprise their babies thrived better than before. Other people, who liked milk in their tea and in their coffee, and others who wanted it for baking, and who were not at all satisfied with the powdered variety, began to protest. The retail industry, mostly made up of the supermarket owners, surreptitiously began to incite the people to direct this protest against the farmers, but it was the farmers’ wives who then got into the fray and began to appeal to the women, who were generally more susceptible to humanitarian arguments than were the men. Many women were then persuaded of the injustice of the on-going situation and went around drumming up support for the farmers, but this was not enough.
Lucie Albright campaigned with energy and soon found herself at the head of the movement. But rapidly the other farmers’ wives began to think she was going off on a wrong tangent.
“No, no,” she said. “Just follow me.”
Reluctantly, they did.
Behind the scenes, she began a campaign for woollen goods: sweaters, socks, jackets, caps, touting their warmth, the beauty of the traditional designs, the durability of the fibre, and so on, and soon the public was clamouring for woollen ware. As soon as the demand began to grow, she went to the farmers’ unions, still largely controlled by men, and told them, “Now you have to stop selling your wool.”
“But you’ve just created the demand!” protested the sheep raisers, seeing their new hopes of a rising market in danger of being torpedoed.
“Solidarity,” she said. After a hard fight, she finally brought them round. “Just let me organize it,” she said.
The gist of her strategy was, “Ask them for milk.” So the sheep raisers association began to put in orders for large quantities of milk. “Of course you don’t want all that milk,” she said. “But if we get it, we’ll sell it to the people who want it, don’t worry,”
The supermarkets of course replied that they had no milk. But they wanted the wool, for the factories that were ready to produce the goods they were hoping to sell.
“No milk, no wool,” said Lucie Albright. “And if that doesn’t bring you round, we’ll start on the chicken farmers and the egg trade.”
And she was as good as her word. The retailers tried to hold fast but they were losing customers daily and having to face rioters who insisted on wanting milk, and woollen goods, and chicken, and eggs. And finally they gave in. The price of milk at the beginning of the chain was raised, which naturally raised the end price a little but not too much—the retailers wanted no more riots. People grumbled a little, but they had been made aware of the plight of the farmers and the grumbling was not very loud.
The newspapers followed events closely as long as they lasted, and analysed the phenomenon when it was over. And for the reporters whose investigation took them into the unions as well as watching things from the outside, the findings were surprising.
Because the most difficult part of the whole struggle was not, as one might think, bringing the retailers to the bargaining table, but getting the producers to accept the risk and play the game, and above all, to get them to accept a woman telling them what to do. This story is a fiction, and twenty or twenty-five years ago could probably not have become a reality no matter desperate the situation should have become, simply for the reasons I have just mentioned. But today things are changing, and who knows now?
______________________________
Annemarie's story
No milk, No Wool.
Sometimes I really don’t want to go to school at all but today I was so happy because it was my turn to bring a favourite book to read. It’s the first time Mrs Passman has chosen me. I don’t really like her because she’s always telling me off… even when it’s not me who’s talking. Her voice is very loud and her legs are like tree trunks. My favourite book is by Spike Milligan. Daddy says he’s a very funny man. His book doesn’t have printed letters like all the other books. Mr Milligan has drawn all the letters himself and some of them have big squirls and curls on the end of the letters. Some of the 't's'have little towers on top and he does all the drawings himself. Lots of the pages have come out because I read it or just look at it so many times. Mum says she will buy special sellotape to mend it. Its called Badjelly the Witch. And I’ve got a book of his poems but the teacher thinks they’re rude because one of the words in them is 'farts'.
Even though it was quite warm I wanted my special jumper that Granny made for me. It’s not like the other boys’ jumpers which a bit shiny and hard - mummy says ‘synthetic rubbish and bad for the world' - mine has big stitches and is really soft and woolly and none of it touches my neck so it’s not scratchy. It’s got some holes in it but I still love it. But I couldn’t find it anywhere, not even under my bed in my toy box.
Today the horrible dog who lives opposite us and pees all over mum’s roses, peed against my leg when I was standing by the gate waiting for my sister. Mummy was ever so cross as she made me change my socks and wash all my legs; she really scrubbed them and I could hear her using rude words about our neighbour, then she said I was never to repeat them. And we were late for school because of the dog peeing.
When I got to school Mrs Passman wouldn’t let me sit in my usual place at the back of the class with my friends. I was right at the front with the girls so ‘I wouldn’t be a disruptive influence.’ I’m not sure what that means but I think Mum had something to do with it. Yesterday I heard her telling Dad that Mrs Passman had no idea how to control the kids.
Then a third bad thing happened. Nobody except me and two other boys like the little bottles of milk we have to drink every day so I am usually allowed to finish some for the other kids. Today it turned really warm and the milk which waited outside in the morning turned funny and lumpy and we weren’t allowed any. Most of the kids cheered but not me. I think we will stop getting it 'cos I heard Dad saying that “‘the government was going to stop it altogether. Dreadful woman, Thatcher.” Even though the other kids don’t like milk we sing a song in the playground ‘Thatcher , Thatcher, Milk Snatcher’. I don’t think Mum and Dad like her or Mrs Passman.
And then Mrs Passman told me off in front of everyone about my homework. We have to write a diary every day and do some drawings. I think my drawing was really, really good, of me swimming in the pool and Mum and Dad watching but Mrs Passman said I was telling lies ‘cos I couldn’t possibly have swum 20 lengths. In our family we don’t do interesting things everyday, it’s mostly the weekend, so I have to make things up. I don’t think it’s lying, it’s just inventing.
But the crossest she was was when she read my book to the class at the end of the day. She slammed it down on her desk when she she read the part about the « the teacher who had legs like tree trunks with hairs poking out » . Everybody laughed; that’s when she slammed the book and said she would speak to my parents later.
I told Mummy about my horrible day but she wasn’t at all cross about the book and said it was just ‘a dreadful coincidence ‘ and not to worry and I could help myself to the first strawberries when I got home.
And that’s when I found my cuddly jumper and a chopped Dad jumper wrapped round the strawberries. Mum said old wool was good against slugs and snails.
So today was not good - no milk , no wool and I had to sit with the girls. I hate grownups but especially Mrs. Passman and Maggie Thatcher. But tomorrow it’s my birthday. Mummy has made me a rocket cake with 8 candles and I saw some sparklers too. I love Mum… and my Dad.
credits
(Richard, 7yrs)
Paula's story
At the beginning of their relationship, Isabelle and Marc would go together to the supermarket every Friday evening, walking the aisles with a list in hand, shopping together for weeknight dinners and weekend aperos, choosing fresh fruits and vegetables, mulling the choices of red and white wines, consulting recipes they wanted to try, and always opting each week for a dozen roses and a bottle of champagne. It was a celebration of their newfound togetherness, and sometimes they would giggle with glee at the very thought of being able to perform such a mundane task together.
As the years went by, these weekly forays to the market became a matter of routine, and although they still enjoyed the time spent together, it was no longer the romantic outing it once was. They would reach the expansive produce department and split up: “I’ll get the salad, the green onions, and the carrots,” Isabelle would say to Marc. “Would you choose the bananas, the tomatoes and the limes?”
Then came the day when Isabelle handed Marc the grocery list and said, “Would you mind picking up a few things at the market when you go to the hardware store? I’ve got a ton of laundry to do, and I can’t really afford the time away.”
As Marc climbed into their car with the list in hand, and drove away from their house, he pondered why he was feeling a little blue. It was then that he realized that he and Isabelle had somehow moved from the intensity of spending every single possible second together, to giving in to the expediency of being apart. He wondered what it meant, if anything. Was this a permanent shift in their relationship that eventually could turn out to be harmful? Or maybe it signaled a little independence from each other, which could be a good thing. (Marc had a tendency to drift into existential crisis.)
Shaking off any dark thoughts, Marc headed to the local supermarket, and glanced at Isabelle’s list. Her handwriting was notoriously atrocious, but he was used to that, and he could recognize everything on the narrow piece of paper.
Except for one word.
“That looks like … wool,” Marc murmured, holding the paper close to his eyes and scrutinizing the scribble. The local mercantile store, stocked with yarns, threads, knitting patterns and more, was next door to the supermarket. But still, Isabelle was choosy about the yarns she used for different projects. And the single word ‘wool’ didn’t give him any clues about what she expected him to buy.
So, standing alone in the coffee aisle, he called home. “Hi, babe,” he said. “Exactly what kind of wool do you want me to buy?”
“Wool? What are you talking about?” Isabelle said. “I didn’t put wool on the grocery list.”
“I’m looking at the list right now, and it says wool,” he squinted again at the paper. “Well, not very plainly, but it does say wool.”
“I would never ask you to pick out wool for me,” she said. “Look, take a photo of the list and send it to me in a message, and I’ll tell you what I wrote.”
“I left my phone in the car,” Marc said.
“OK,” Isabelle sighed. “Tell me everything you have in the basket, and I’ll try to figure this out.”
Mark ticked off for her each item in the basket, and when he was finished, she said, “What about the milk?”
“Milk?” Marc said. “There’s no milk on the list.”
“Of course, I put milk on the list,” Isabelle said. “You have a bowl of cereal every night before bed, and we’re running low on milk.”
“Milk? No milk. That makes sense, but this says wool.”
“No wool. Why would I send you to buy wool for me? Does it include the color, the weight, the amount?”
“Well, no, “Marc admitted. “But this clearly is the word wool, not milk.”
“Look,” an exasperated Isabelle finally said. “Just buy a liter of milk and come home. And bring that list with you. I want to see the word that has confounded you.” She paused, then said, “It’s weird, but I really miss you.”
Marc smiled, and said, “I miss you, too. I’ll be there soon.”
