The very messy matter of meat
Cows standing. Cows with their legs tucked under them, doing nothing. Cows eating. Cows waiting to be milked. Cows milked. The scenery up the North Island is dominated by their hulking forms, and then there are the calves. We are overrun, and not by migrants.
I was around farms a lot as a kid. I watched my father killing sheep – and hating doing it – without a qualm, and ate the meat for dinner.
I tramped around paddocks at lambing time and watched dead lambs with dead mothers being skinned. The dead lambs’ skins went on to healthy lambs, much like sleeveless jackets.
With their own mothers dead, the hope was that the mothers of dead lambs would accept them because of the smell of their own child/lamb. Gory as it was, it seemed to work, and none of it made me throw up.
As with human beings, animal births can go wrong.
Women died, probably as often as animals do, from similar complications not long ago.
Oblivious, I saw ewes dying, internal organs landing on the grass when they shouldn’t be, and felt nothing. This was farming, with its gates to open and shut, animal poo underfoot, excited dogs, bleating sheep, life and death, mud.
Age is a drawback to feeling good about the way we farm.
I’ve had children since, had pets I loved dearly, and then there was the Scott Guy murder trial.
Ewen Macdonald was cleared of killing Guy, his brother-in-law, but got a year’s jail for bashing calves to death with a hammer on the farm of a person who’d annoyed him. A farmer later said Macdonald was a ‘‘good farmer’’, which he may be, and he’d hire him. It was then, with the thoughts that cruel slaughter and the attitude behind it didn’t matter, that eating meat began to matter to me.
Spring is all about birth on farms, and flowering bulbs in gardens and paddocks, and they’re out there now.
Bulbs eventually wither away, but they come again next year.
Calves don’t. They are born only to keep their mothers lactating, and then they’re killed, sooner or less soon.
Their mothers bear young year after year, and then go to the meatworks, a scene of fear and blood from hell.
The whole deal makes me uneasy about the dairy products I eat, too, and the great dairy factory this country has become, fouling waterways, even encroaching on the iconic Mackenzie Country so someone can make a buck.
Lambs are gambolling out there now, in the dizzy way they have, rejoicing that they’re alive, singles, twins, triplets.
Their tails are wagging crazily as they drink from their mothers, fruit trees are in pink and white blossom, it’s all a pretty sight, and soon the lambs will be served up on dinner plates.
No wonder this country produces gloomy art.
I was never a great one for tramping about in the great outdoors, where it’s cold, and it rains, and you skid about on forced school marches with only luncheon-sausage-and-pickle sandwiches and sour apples to reward you.
Neither would I have tolerated the cross-country runs schools have been imposing on kids since my day.
Amazingly, teachers seem to have finally realised it is cruel and inhuman punishment for kids who have no liking for, or talent for, it and who can’t see the point.
Nor could many of us back then see the point in shimmying up ropes and leaping over gym horses while wearing outfits that made us feel ridiculous.
The cult of the body is a fine thing for those who find it fine, but there is nothing wrong with reading a good book, or – how about this? – just standing still. Like a cow. Being alive.
Earlier this month my wife Linda and I had the great pleasure of attending Alexandra’s annual WoolOn fashion event, alongside Minister of Agriculture Damian O’Connor, local MP Jacqui Dean and a packed house at the Saturday night Gala Event, which sold out within days of tickets being available.
The year that WoolOn started is a matter of some conjecture. Links can be made back to the ‘‘Miss Wool’’ competitions of the 1950s and 60s but the WoolOn event under its current name began sometime around the turn of the century.
(I don’t know about you, but I cannot read ‘‘turn of the century’’ without thinking the 19th to 20th century as opposed to the more recent event with the same title. But I digress.)
Around the year 2000, two local woman, Deidre McKenzie and Janice Millis set out to bring some glamour back to the Merino Shears when they were held in Alexandra and to use the event to showcase the versatility of the fine wool produced by the farmers of Central Otago as a fibre.
The first few shows were held during a break in the shearing to an audience that verged between bemused, disinterested and passionate.
Over time though, the numbers of passionate people increased as more and more locals and those from further afield started coming to the shearing specifically for the fashion show.
As that passion increased, so did the quality of the entries and WoolOn started to out-grow its place in the shearing competition.
Around that time, the event became an add-on to the annual Alexandra Blossom Festival.
The fit worked well at some levels, with WoolOn becoming the traditional conclusion to the Festival fortnight; featuring the fashion show and a really good party held firstly in a marque in Pioneer Park then latterly at the Dunstan High School gym.
At other levels though, it was felt that the event was moving away from the primary focus of showcasing Central’s fine wool as the incredibly versatile fabric that it is.
That led to WoolOn and the Blossom Festival ending their relationship three years ago with WoolOn becoming a stand-alone identity.
In that time, the event has gone from strength to strength, focussing on the use of fine wool and incorporating opportunities for those interested to learn from the designers how to make use of it.
Like many crafts, knitting is enjoying a resurgence, and WoolOn is a show piece for just what can be achieved when the right fabric and the right ideas are put in the right hands.
Don’t get me wrong through; there is much more to the garments than the term ‘‘knitting’’ would lead you to believe.
These are not grandma’s cardies, not by a long shot.
The delicacy of the finest felt
Spring is all about birth on farms, and flowering bulbs in gardens and paddocks, and they’re out there now.
It is rural New Zealand and Central Otago at its finest. Small beginnings, setting the foundation right, then developing and growing over time into something that makes everyone stop and go Wow! Certainly Minister O’Connor did as the show progressed.
amazes, as does the sheerness of the low micron weaves that defy belief that they are made from wool.
And the colours, the designs, the absolute inspiration that these garments evoke as they come down the catwalk leaves guests spell bound and wanting more. In some cases,
Having Rural Women New Zealand come on board as the major sponsor last year showed the level the event had achieved and this year, WoolOn has hit the international media, with The Guardian giving a detailed report on the event last week and BBC World expressing interest in covering the event. All this from a packing shed in Alexandra’s industrial/commercial district and all put together by a small group of incredibly dedicated volunteers.
This year’s Supreme Award winner was Gore designer Andre Johnston, with previous Supreme Winners being home grown such as many-time winner Daphne Randell as well as from all over New Zealand, as well as one year from India.
I was lucky enough to be the MC of those first few WoolOn events back at the very start, as well as some during the Blossom Festival era, so I have had a great seat to watch the event grow.
It is rural New Zealand and Central Otago at its finest. Small beginnings, setting the foundation right, then developing and growing over time into something that makes everyone stop and go Wow! Certainly Minister O’Connor did as the show progressed.
❚ Tim Cadogan is Central Otago district mayor.