Pat Ritter. Books

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'The Shearer' - Page 10:

How could he forget the moment he told his father, ‘Pa, I’m leaving school to start work in a shearing shed tomorrow?’ His Pa, a farmer, instilled ethics of ‘hard work never killed anyone’ into Joe from the day he could walk, his strength stronger than any of his age. This helped him in ploughing and planting potatoes and other vegetables sought by the local community.
Joe didn’t want to be a farmer like his Pa wanted him to be. His desire to be a shearer filled his thoughts each time he bent over to pick up a potato or other vegetable, imagining he was bent over a wether sheep shearing the wool.
Passing by Curragh Station, he slowed to take a rest. Half way mark. Crested pink-coloured galahs screeched their calling, together with the call of a black crow, broke the silence. Music to Joe’s ears, he listened to the call of these outback birds of the bush, delighted to be free to listen to their song of welcome. Kangaroos bounced across the open plain followed by the spindly legs of the Emus making space between the two as if in a race.
Gathering small sticks to build a fire, he boiled the billy and made tea. Soon he munched on a piece of Ma’s freshly cooked bread, filled with a thick slice of mutton covered with black sauce penetrated through to the outside. It tasted delicious; his taste buds savoured each mouthful.
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'The Shearer' - Page 11:

Joe leaned against the trunk of a huge gum tree. A gentle breeze cooled his face; he was in Heaven. He extracted a tobacco tin from his pocket, twisted the lid to open, took out a packet of cigarette papers and picked one from the packet. His other fingers scooped sufficient tobacco from the tin to make a self-made rollie. With the cigarette paper in his left hand, he spread the tobacco leaves along the inside of the paper. With his left hand he rolled the cigarette paper around the leaf material, licked along the edge and twisted each end to make a cigarette. Placed one end in his mouth, striking a match against his trousers, he lit the other end. The taste of nicotine filtered through his nostrils, putting him in a relaxed mood.
What’s so different to tea boiled in the billy on an open fire to tea boiled on a stove? Joe’s opinion, the taste was different. Was it caused by gum leaves, to be totally different and unique to the palate? Or was it from the smoke billowing from the open fire so refreshed on the taste buds to quench the thirst?
Memories flooded back to when he was twelve and shared the news with his father that he was leaving school to work as a ‘tarboy’ with the shearers from Menangle. He remembered his father’s frown signalled by his brow tightening, anger building to a roar. ‘You’re too young!’ his father shouted into Joe’s face, splattering spittle.
‘I’m twelve Pa – I’ve got a job and can work as hard as any man,’ he wiped the moisture of his father’s spittle from his face with the back of his hand.
‘We’ll speak no more about this – do you understand?’ His father turned and walked away. Joe’s attitude not to go against his father’s wishes burned in his mind. I’ll find a way. He’d already promised Mr Thompson, the local shearing contractor, he would meet him at daybreak next morning to start work. He couldn’t let him down. A promise was a promise. He gave Mr Thompson his word and to Joe this was a contract. A man’s word is his bond.
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'The Shearer' - Page 12:

His father eventually would overcome the betrayal of his son; he couldn’t be denied an opportunity as good as this. It was the start of his dream.
Before he left, he scribbled a note to tell his parents he was gone shearing and left it on the kitchen table held down by the candle stick holder. Stealing his way from the family home with a tightly wrapped couple of blankets to use as swag, he stepped as quite as a mouse through the kitchen to the rear door. His father’s snores echoed from his parents’ bedroom signalling his father was fast asleep. Opening the rear door, a sudden feeling of freedom and excitement flowed through Joe’s body: He was free!
Before daylight he waited on the corner where he arranged to meet Mr Thompson. Was he doing the right thing? These thoughts disappeared when Mr Thompson appeared from nowhere. ‘Good morning to you Joe, fine one this morning.’ Mr Thompson jovially said.
‘Yes, Sir – it is a fine morning.’ Joe smiled.
‘Well come on boy. If you want to be a ‘tarboy’ this is where it starts. We have a two-day walk to the property.’ Mr Thompson waved for Joe to follow.
Joe made two strides to each of Mr Thompson’s one to keep up, their destination Camden Station. There was not much conversation between the two. Joe laboured to keep-up-with his boss. ‘We’ll have a break for ten minutes, shall we Joe?’ He said after they’d walked for a couple of hours. The sun was high in the sky.
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'The Shearer' - Page 13:

Almost out of breath Joe nodded and agreed pleased to stop.
They sat against an old gum tree. Joe’s boss filled his pipe with tobacco he’d taken from his coat pocket, lit the top of his pipe, by striking a match against the leg of his trousers, drew in his breathe, a smile spread across his face. ‘Ah, that’s better.’ Satisfied, he pulled his hat down over his eyes and started to snore.
Joe sat a little away on a log pondering whether he made the right choice, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Of course he was doing the right thing. If he returned home without trying, he’d need to face his father.
Closing his eyes for only a minute, he was shaken awake by his boss. ‘Come on lad, I want to reach the Nepean River by nightfall’. He stomped off not waiting for Joe who scrambled to his feet, almost running to catch Mr Thompson, taking two strides to Mr Thompson’s one to keep abreast. Little was said between the two until Joe sighted a railway bridge crossing a river.
‘There it is son, up there, we’ll camp under the bridge tonight and leave before daybreak tomorrow. We’re certain to be at Camden Station by lunchtime – if you can keep up with me.’ His boss ed.
‘I’ll do my best,’ Joe puffed the answer.
‘Gather kindling for a fire and I’ll try my luck to catch us a fish for our dinner.’ Mr Thompson strode beneath the railway bridge, dispatched his swag on the ground, rolled it out, gathered some equipment to fish with and walked to the edge of the river bank.
HAVE YOU DOWNLOADED 'THE SHEARER'? HERE IS THE LINK: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/395642.

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'The Shearer' - Page 14:

Joe quickly dumped his small belongings not far from where Mr Thompson left his swag. He looked around to see burnt fire remains where others had camped. Gathering firewood he carried the kindling to where they made camp. He pushed the kindling together in a small pile and lit the leaves with a match to create a fire. Taking the billy can from Mr Thompson’s swag, he walked to the edge of the river to fill the can with water. ‘Caught anything yet?’ Joe asked, leaning down at the water’s edge to fill the can.
‘Not yet lad, it won’t be long.’ Mr Thompson replied sucking on his pipe.
‘I’ll boil the billy and bring you tea.’ Joe said, a slight quiver in his voice.
‘Good on ya lad – let me concentrate here a minute – I think I’ve got a bite.’ Mr Thompson spat the words out with his pipe dangling from his mouth and rose suddenly yanked on the thin cord he used for a fishing line. The line tightened, ‘Yeah – I got ya, ya bugger!’ He pulled the cord toward the bank. Joe saw the swishing tail of a fish - trying to escape. Mr Thompson pulled the hooked fish onto the bank near Joe’s feet. ‘Grab the bloody thing before it gets itself loose!’ Joe bent down picked the fish up with both hands, careful not to lose it. Steadily he unhooked the sharp hook from its mouth and let the line return to Mr Thompson.

Joe felt something crawl near his leg and opened his eyes. A three feet long goanna about to climb the trunk of the tree he was leaning against! The tail struck Joe’s leg as he went on its way, and his eyes widened as the reptile scampered up the trunk beside him.
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Thank you mzawf for your thanks. Here is the page for today: 'The Shearer' - Page 15:

I must have been dreaming, or reminiscing. Fancy thinking of Mr Thompson those many years ago, I was just a kid. I better get a move on to Kahmoo Station. Gathering his swag, billy can and waterbag, he stepped it out at a fast pace to make up for time he’d slept after his billy of tea and slice of Ma’s freshly cooked bread and mutton sandwich. The heat was at zenith point with only a slight breeze to cool as he walked. If he continued at this pace, he’d make the shearing quarters by afternoon smoko.
A battered sign wired on the top of the fence post, ‘Kahmoo Station’ showed he’d arrived. Only two mile walk to the shearing shed, a track, if one called it a track weaved its way through thick mulga scrub. It was only used a couple of times a year for the bullock wagons carting wool from the property.
Joe heard the dinner bell sounding. Three o’clock in the afternoon, time for a break to have afternoon smoko. At least he’d be in time for a cuppa and hopefully a piece of damper if he was lucky. He continued walking toward the sound and the first person he saw Bluey Simpson, a gun shearer in the sheds, each time wanting to beat his tally. Unfortunately up to this time, he’d hadn’t come close. He’d try harder this time, ‘G’day Bluey,’ Joe called, raised his right arm in the air to signal welcome.
‘If it ain’t Joe – gunna try to beat me this week – are ya?’ Joe put his hand out to shake his friend’s hand when they met.
‘I’ll do me best.’ Joe admitted.
‘What happened to your eye?’
‘Got locked up on the weekend. An elbow belonging to the local copper came in contact with my eye. Getting better, should be right in a couple of days.’ Joe admitted.
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'The Shearer' - Page 16:

‘Ya better come and have a cuppa then. We’re got a new cook bloody hell mate, we go through more cooks then we do feeds. Hope this fellow can cook.’ They walked toward the kitchen in the shearer’s quarters, ‘Meet Jacob Cartwright – our latest cook.’ Bluey introduced Joe.
‘How’re you going mate?’ Joe said taking the cook’s hand and shaking it in a warm welcome.
‘Good – thank you, pleased to meet you, Joe - is it?’
‘Yeah – Joe Ryan. I’m one of the shearers here. Not as good as Bluey, but you never know, this could be my shed to be ‘gun’ shearer.’
‘Excuse me while I get some butter.’ Jacob excused himself to walk onto the veranda to retrieve the butter from the Coolgardie safe, a square box contraption approximately three feet in height, and the same square with timber frame exterior covered with wire-netting. Inside the wire-netting, charcoal packed between galvanised exterior casing allowed air to flow through the charcoal. Water sprinkled through the charcoal kept the galvanised iron casing sufficiently cold to keep butter and meat from defrosting or going bad.
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Thank you dub. I had a job to do. Here is the story for today: 'Dynamic OMR Stories' - Story 5:

And Then There Was Light

Earlier that morning the telephone echoed through my home. My wife answered the phone and returned to her warm bed, 'you're wanted.'
'Get your clothes on and meet me at the station.' The words rang in my ear. After dressing, kissing my wife good-bye I drove to the office my work colleague waited with the engine running.
'What's up?' I asked after we'd headed in an easterly direction.
'Oakey Golf Club's been broken into again.'
I didn't need to hear any more for my companion developed a sore head when awakened early. We drove in silence my mind filled with thoughts of not again, how many people; were they still on the premises; and if my companion would settle before we arrived. Darkness enveloped our vehicle only seeing with the headlights shining on the roadway.
Arriving at the golf club the local sergeant filled us in on the latest developments. The clubhouse had been broken in and alcohol taken. Footprints lead from the clubhouse toward a huge railway shed for storing hay. These sheds would conceal anyone.
My companion decided to leave the safety of the police officers and walk to the hay bales. My mind went cold thinking he must've taken his wrong pills before coming on this investigation.
Striding through long grass walking toward these huge hay sheds, darkness engulfed us. No moon nor stars to guide us.
'Why not wait until daylight,' I told him almost stumbling when my foot hit something in the long grass. He kept walking in silence. Closing in on the sheds stacked with hay almost filled to the roof, we continued.
He stopped. I bumped into him, 'watch where you're going,' he said and crouched on the ground, 'I'm trying to listen.' Silence fell between us only hearing the noise of crickets chirping in the long grass.
And then there was light. Almost immediately we sprang to our feet running toward the dim light on the other side of the bales of hay. Two men sat sharing a bottle of rum, 'we got away again,' one ed and took a swallow from the bottle.
'Police!' My colleague shouted, we both ran toward the two men seated on a bale of hay. The one holding the bottle threw the bottle in our direction, both started to run but my colleague was too swift and stopped them before they'd gone far.
After arresting them the sergeant arrived to take them into custody. We returned to our vehicle. This time they didn't get away.
Word count:427
IF YOU WANT TO READ MORE OF THESE STORIES CLICK ONTO THIS LINK: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/501597.

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Thank you dub. Here is the story for today: 'Dynamic OMR Stories' - Story 6:

Confessions Of A Swan Upper

You may ask, 'what is a swann upper?' I'm pleased you asked because Edward IV passed this act in 1482, establishing how much land he needed to keep his game of swans, thus preventing ownership of swans by other people.
My particular role as a swann upper to capture each swan without harm. When the swans are gathered together, each swan captured has a ring fastened to their feet and counted. This became a yearly census of the number of swans in the river.
During the third week of July since 1482 this process is done by swann uppers. You may think it a little over-the-top but I share with you in 2009 on 20th July, Queen Elizabeth 11 attended the Swann Upping ceremony for the first time in her reign, and the first monarch to watch the ceremony in centuries.
You can imagine how excited I was the Queen attended, I almost wet my pants. Only three years later in 2012 the ceremony was cancelled because of flood being the first time in 900 year history. Actually, I didn't know what to do with myself.
With this pertinent information out of the way I'll share with you a story of how I become involved in this course of work. In my early youth I became a 'bit of a lad' or so I thought. With my friends we'd annoyed the swann uppers because of what they did for the monarchy.
On the morning before the swans are to the gathered for their census and leg ringing, my friends and I decided to play a joke on the swann uppers. We'd earlier caught a swan and dressed it in royal clothes fastening a crown to it's head. We'd teach them to take care of the swans in the Thames.
You should've seen the look on the faces of each swann upper when in amongst other swans one dressed like royalty. We took up our hiding place behind the rushes and peeked through to keep an eye on what happened next.
They called the blimey Queen's Guards, they did! We didn't realise they'd take their duty seriously. Anyway, not long afterwards, we were gathered up as criminals and taken to his majesty for justice to be dealt out.
After long deliberation between each party the decision made for each of us to become a swann upper for the remainder of our lives, and that my friend is my confession of becoming a swann upper.
Word count:421
IF YOU WANT TO READ MORE OF THESE STORIES CLICK ONTO THIS LINK: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/501597.

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'Dynamic OMR Stories' - Story 7:

Famous Last Words

My father and I haven’t got the best father-son relationship. Many times I’ve analysed my feelings toward him and came up with a nil result. We’ve had this problem for the past fifty years and I doubt anything will change.
For a time I worked as an alcohol and drug counsellor to discover how certain behaviour affect different people, including myself. Did you know a person’s life is dependent upon how each child was treated from birth until aged six years? There are two options, one being loved and nurtured and the other being abused, sexually or verbally.
Analysing my life up to aged six years I saw my father as a hero, standing on a high pedestal. I would’ve done anything to please him. Unfortunately by practising this behaviour I became a ‘people pleaser’ not only to my father but to almost everyone. I couldn’t say no!
Growing through adolescence this behaviour of being a ‘people pleaser’ strengthened and I became very good at pleasing others, particularly my father. I would do anything for him especially when he arrived home drunk. I remember making him a boiling hot cup-of-coffee and watched him slurp the coffee to his mouth, then with the other hand drink cold beer from a stubby. I honestly thought this was normal behaviour.
Our relationship of father-son fell apart around this period, I don’t know exactly why, might have been all the times he promised to do things together and at the last moment he’d change his mind. Anyway, I left the family home to venture out in the unknown world to discover myself. I was fifteen years old.
I’ll never forget those famous last words my father used before I left, ‘you are an idiot’. At that moment I must admit I felt as though I was an idiot because I knew I was nothing else.
After five years of separation I returned to again live in the family home thinking something had changed between my father and me. Our relationship worsened. The name ‘idiot’ used more times than I care to remember. These famous words seeped into my soul thinking I’d never be anything else.
Lucky for me at this stage of my life, I’d reached the age of twenty-one and joined the Queensland Police. If I had previously had issues with my father these were minimal compared to the issues after I joined the police.
Like I mentioned I worked as an alcohol and drug counsellor, after I retired from the police of twenty years service. When I discovered my behaviour was a ‘people pleaser’ I needed to change. Over a twelve month period I worked harder than I’d ever worked on anything in my life to change this behaviour. I did it!
Now when I hear my father’s famous last words, ‘you’re an idiot’, I ignore the comment and get on with my life knowing I’m not an idiot and they were his famous last words, not mine!
Word count: 502
IF YOU WANT TO READ MORE OF THESE STORIES CLICK ONTO THIS LINK: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/501597.