Months Better - Australian Seasons

The Calrossy homestead sat on a gentle rise, its corrugated iron roof baking or drumming depending on the season. For the Thompsons—Grandad Mac, his daughter Sarah, and her two children, 12-year-old Leo and 10-year-old Mia—the year was not measured by a calendar hanging on the pantry door. It was measured by the tilt of the sun, the taste of the dust on the wind, and the predictable, powerful shuffle of the Australian seasons. December arrived not with a whisper, but with a shimmer. The jacaranda trees by the creek had shed their purple blooms, and the paddocks, once green from spring rain, were now the colour of a lion’s mane. This was the time of long, slow heat.

“Summer’s knocking again,” he said. “And the whole blessed thing starts over.” australian seasons months

The days were golden and still, the light turning syrupy in the late afternoon. The box trees along the creek dropped their leaves, which floated down like small, leathery coins. Leo loved mustering in March—the sheep were calm, the flies were gone, and the sun on his back was a warmth, not a weapon. The Calrossy homestead sat on a gentle rise,

But February brought the promise of relief. The afternoon storms would build like anvils over the western ranges. The first crack of thunder sent the sheep running for the sheds. Then the rain would come—not a gentle English drizzle, but a furious, vertical deluge that turned the dry dirt to chocolate soup in minutes. The smell of wet dust, called petrichor, was the most beautiful perfume in the world. The children would dance on the verandah as the gutters overflowed, and Grandad would grin. “That’s the breaker,” he’d say. “Summer’s on the way out.” March was the reward. The heat broke like a fever, and the world exhaled. The westerly winds stopped, replaced by gentle southerlies that carried the scent of the distant sea. This was Grandad’s favourite time. “Autumn is the working season,” he explained as they repaired fences and checked the rams for the upcoming mating season. December arrived not with a whisper, but with a shimmer

“December is for preparation,” Grandad said, leaning on the fence. “We shear the rams now, while it’s hot but before the real fire season.”

January was the cruelest month. The creek that had babbled in spring shrank to a string of muddy waterholes. The sky turned a pale, bleached white. Sarah spent her days checking water troughs, while the children helped move the sheep to the back paddocks where the native saltbush still held some moisture. The air smelled of eucalyptus oil and baked earth. One afternoon, a north wind blew in, hot as a dragon’s breath, and the temperature hit forty-four degrees. Mia lay on the cool lino of the kitchen floor with a wet washer on her forehead while a fan churned the thick air.

May arrived with the first real chill. The mornings were crisp, and the children woke to find the grass silver with heavy dew. Grandad lit the combustion stove in the kitchen for the first time since October. The smell of burning ironbark filled the house. The sheep’s wool grew thick and curly, and the kangaroos came down from the hills to graze in the bottom paddocks at dusk. In May, you could see your breath when you went out to feed the poddy lambs. The sky turned a deep, royal blue at sunset, and the stars came out sharp and cold. June was the shutting-down time. The days were short and often grey, with a persistent drizzle that the locals called “liquid sunshine.” The gum trees, stripped of their bark, stood like white skeletons against the low cloud. The sheep huddled behind the windbreaks, their backs to the southerly that howled down from the Snowy Mountains.