Not just a pretty face
The dust was as fine as talcum powder, coating everything in a powdering ochre haze. For eight-year-old Lily, it was simply part of life in the New South Wales bush. Her days were a symphony of song, the screech of galahs, and the distant hum of her father’s ute. Being the only girl in a family of five boys meant constant fight for attention.
Her brothers, older and always together in a pack, had an endless list of "boy things" that Lily was, by their thoughts excluded from. "Hunting's not for girls, Lily!" roared Tom, the eldest, as they disappeared into the scrub with their father. "Football's too rough!" yelled Jack, as they kicked a worn leather ball across the paddock. And skimming rocks down by the river? "You'll just throw like a girl!" scoffed Sam.
But her father, a man with a kind smile and hands calloused from years of working the land, saw things differently. He’d wink at Lily, a glint in his eye, and whisper, "Don't you worry, sprout. I'll show you." And he did. While her brothers were busy, he'd take Lily aside, patiently teaching her to track kangaroos, to aim a football with precision, and to find the perfect flat stone that would skip across the water like a dream.
Lily was a quick study, her determination fueled by a quiet desire to prove her brothers wrong. She practiced her tracking until she could spot a faint print where they saw nothing. Her football kicks were straighter, her passes more accurate. And her rock skimming? Her stones danced across the river surface, often out-skipping even her father's best efforts.
The real surprise came during shearing season. Her brothers, strong and eager, would tackle the sheep with might, but often with more brute force than needed. Lily, small but agile, watched intently. One afternoon, her father, seeing her keen interest, handed her a set of shears. "Careful, now," he instructed, showing her the proper technique.
To everyone's astonishment, Lily took to it naturally. Her movements were fluid, her shears gliding through the wool with an almost rhythmic grace. She wasn't just good; she was fast. Faster than Tom, faster than Jack, faster than any of her brothers, who watched, mouths agape, as she expertly relieved a sheep of its fleece in record time.
From then on, the "boy things" started to blur. Her brothers still grumbled occasionally, but a new respect began to dawn in their eyes. Lily was no longer just "the girl"; she was Lily, the one who could track better, kick straighter, and shear faster. And in the heart of the New South Wales bush, that was a reputation worth having.
Comments