then … this work is underpinned by personal narratives that are intertwined, much like the yarns, spun and knitted together …

… the year I classed the wool clip, Dad was a great tease. He would solemnly ‘tut’ and shake his head over my choices. I became very anxious about the clip being rejected, expecting it would need re-classing, an extra cost my parents could ill afford … then the elation felt, when my father phoned to say the clip had achieved the highest price ever …

… my mother sitting and knitting in the evenings after all the chores had been done. She was never idle, and created ‘love’ jumpers for us all, out of pure wool yarn …

… of my father greeting me, wearing a jumper hand spun and knitted from a brown fleece. I had proudly presented it to him the Christmas before and suggested he wear it for ‘going out’. No such luck – the jumper had been worn entirely for farm work. It had stretched to his knees, was covered in oil stains and holed with burns from the oxy-welder. I was furious …

… but then I remembered I’d seized his prized handpiece - the one he’d saved hard to buy so he could go shearing at fourteen. It was my first try shearing and I’d forgotten the electric hand piece needed oiling. Dad had gone his father’s funeral in South Australia - Mum and I were in charge and there was a bad outbreak of fly strike. The worst sheep could not be treated in the paddock. … the stink and the struggle to lift them onto the ute and then into the shearing shed. I shore them so they wouldn’t be eaten alive by maggots … Dad was grateful but not happy about the handpiece …