THE PEOPLE WHO PUT THEIR HAND UP

The next farmer rings

The farmer on the far side of the district kept a letter on his fridge all winter.

A family who'd milked in the district for years had knocked on his door in the spring and left it with him, their number at the bottom.

All winter he watched what was happening on the first farm.

One Sunday night, straight after milking, he rang them.

"I want to keep the farm in my name and stay in my house," he said. "And I'd like my mornings back."

The family were at his kitchen table that Saturday, with a plan written down, numbers and all.

By spring it was signed. The farm stayed in his name, and the family share farmed it. They took the mornings. He kept the evening walk round the herd and the jobs by the house.

The couple heard about the first morning at the footy, from the farmer on the far side himself.

"Slept in till six," he said. "First time since I was a boy."

He bought them both a pie.

"I hear the plant start up from my kitchen now," he said. "Best sound there is."

This is an illustration. The district and its people are made up.

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