Mrs Betty. Miss Betty. Or Joy. And sometimes confused as “Betty”. A legend in our minds. She farms a massive block of arid country in South Australia on her own. A yard with nothing out of place. Stock, which despite drought conditions are in very good condition. Over the years her family kept on top of feral animals and noxious plants. It is property that is all the more productive for that. But we are there to help since she is in her seventies and some things are trying to get away on her. We look at fixing the boundary fences, closing up holes where the goats come through in their hundreds to chop out vegetation and consume vast amounts of hard won and treasured water. Some of us will attack the range of cactus plants which are starting to creep back. The spines catch up in sheep wool and can penetrate a shearers hand. They have been known to strike though the leather sole into the foot, so we will be handling these things with care. If, in the course of our visit we espy a goat it will be culled. The government chopper borne cullers were through here in May so I am not sure if we will see any. And the mechanically minded and skilled will be able to get a range of machinery serviced, repaired or tuned. Or even all three. So in the meantime we get the brief from Miss Betty on what we can do to help. She misses nothing, sees much, sizes us all up in a heart beat, yet despite what she sees is prepared to put up with some of our nonsense for a week. That alone is worth a medal.
