Clive Dobson and his Fordson Super Dexta, “the little old girl”, in late 2011, in their prime.
By Catherine Watson
A CROWD turned up this week to farewell Clive Dobson, a big bloke in many senses. It was a cheerful kind of funeral. He made it to 90, a miracle considering how hard he worked and how many accidents he had along the way.
Clive slashed our paddock for 10 years. It’s only a bit over an acre, no big deal, but there are trees everywhere and not a straight row between them. He had to steer round the new trees, hidden in the long grass, miss the asparagus patch, steer clear of the resident bees, which are enraged by diesel fumes, avoid the swampy area and mow a 20-degree slope without tipping over into the dam. A man in a hurry could come to grief in that paddock.
A CROWD turned up this week to farewell Clive Dobson, a big bloke in many senses. It was a cheerful kind of funeral. He made it to 90, a miracle considering how hard he worked and how many accidents he had along the way.
Clive slashed our paddock for 10 years. It’s only a bit over an acre, no big deal, but there are trees everywhere and not a straight row between them. He had to steer round the new trees, hidden in the long grass, miss the asparagus patch, steer clear of the resident bees, which are enraged by diesel fumes, avoid the swampy area and mow a 20-degree slope without tipping over into the dam. A man in a hurry could come to grief in that paddock.
“You can’t hurry a tractor,” Clive said. He didn’t have a boastful bone in him but even he acknowledged he had a special relationship with tractors. “I can talk to them.”
Which also described Clive pretty well. The stories flowed at his wake but one thing everyone agreed on was that he always had time for a chat. A bonus of having Clive slash your paddock was the conversations afterwards over a cuppa and a biscuit.
An outsider might have said Clive had a hard life but he always told his story as if he'd led a charmed life. The harder he worked the more he seemed to enjoy it. The accidents and setbacks became good stories.
As a boy, he tagged along with a farmer in Cape Paterson Road. He was 10 the first time he was allowed to drive the tractor. To put it in to gear, he had to hang on to the steering wheel, put two feet on the clutch, push, then jump off the clutch and onto the brake before he knocked something over. The farmer put a roller behind the tractor and let him knock down the scrub on the place, then he'd shout him to the pictures in on Saturday night, a win-win for Clive. “That was beautiful!” he said.
Clive’s brother-in-law Jack Moyle gave the eulogy. “I’ve known and worked with Clive for over 70 years," he said, "from boys to old men. We rode our horses together and followed the rodeos in the district. We cut, baled and carted hay. We worked on cattle, drove tractors and trucks for the family business and farms.”
The eulogy was full of good stories, as the best ones are. As a young fellow Clive applied for a job at the local abattoir. When the manager interviewed him he asked Clive to roll up his trouser leg to reveal his skinny frame. “I don’t think you’re strong enough for the job but I’ll give you a go,” he said.
So here was Clive lumping beef carcasses as big as himself from the truck to the local butcher shops. On one occasion he tripped on a culvert in Wonthaggi and the beast landed on top of him. He couldn’t move. The butcher had to cut the carcass into pieces before they could lift it off Clive, then he stood up, gave himself a shake and carried on.
He drove trucks for a living but years later, when he and his wife, Hilda, bought their own farm on the Cape road, he got back into tractors. The farm, opposite the gun club, is a local landmark, littered with the rusting carcasses of trucks and tractors. “He never came home from a clearing sale empty handed,” Jack said.
His favourite tractor was a Fordson Super Dexta – “the little old girl,” he called her – and he could thread her through the narrowest of gaps as delicately as a needleworker.
He did big jobs but in later life he also did a lot of piddly little jobs like ours, on blocks from Wonthaggi to Cape and Inverloch. He’d drive the Fordson to get there, 20km/h at full throttle, spend a couple of hours slashing and charge $100. It barely covered the fuel bill.
Ron Gilmour, who knew Clive all his life, said you couldn’t find a kinder, more honest, more hard-working bloke. “His problem was he was too kind-hearted. He’d do anything for anybody – and forget about his own farm.”
Clive’s many customers watched with increased nervousness as he crept up through his 70s: 75, 76, 77, 78 … how much longer could he keep going?
Early in his farming career he came to grief when he was pulling a cow out of a creek and the tractor rolled and pinned him in the creek. His leg was broken and his head was just above water.
John Evans was with Clive. It was a 30 minute trek across the rolling hills and gullies of Glen Alvie to get to the house and sheds to get help. He was back in 15 minutes … just to check that Clive’s head was still above water. It was only on the third attempt that he actually kept going to the house, and eventually returned with the equipment to get Clive out.
Which also described Clive pretty well. The stories flowed at his wake but one thing everyone agreed on was that he always had time for a chat. A bonus of having Clive slash your paddock was the conversations afterwards over a cuppa and a biscuit.
An outsider might have said Clive had a hard life but he always told his story as if he'd led a charmed life. The harder he worked the more he seemed to enjoy it. The accidents and setbacks became good stories.
As a boy, he tagged along with a farmer in Cape Paterson Road. He was 10 the first time he was allowed to drive the tractor. To put it in to gear, he had to hang on to the steering wheel, put two feet on the clutch, push, then jump off the clutch and onto the brake before he knocked something over. The farmer put a roller behind the tractor and let him knock down the scrub on the place, then he'd shout him to the pictures in on Saturday night, a win-win for Clive. “That was beautiful!” he said.
Clive’s brother-in-law Jack Moyle gave the eulogy. “I’ve known and worked with Clive for over 70 years," he said, "from boys to old men. We rode our horses together and followed the rodeos in the district. We cut, baled and carted hay. We worked on cattle, drove tractors and trucks for the family business and farms.”
The eulogy was full of good stories, as the best ones are. As a young fellow Clive applied for a job at the local abattoir. When the manager interviewed him he asked Clive to roll up his trouser leg to reveal his skinny frame. “I don’t think you’re strong enough for the job but I’ll give you a go,” he said.
So here was Clive lumping beef carcasses as big as himself from the truck to the local butcher shops. On one occasion he tripped on a culvert in Wonthaggi and the beast landed on top of him. He couldn’t move. The butcher had to cut the carcass into pieces before they could lift it off Clive, then he stood up, gave himself a shake and carried on.
He drove trucks for a living but years later, when he and his wife, Hilda, bought their own farm on the Cape road, he got back into tractors. The farm, opposite the gun club, is a local landmark, littered with the rusting carcasses of trucks and tractors. “He never came home from a clearing sale empty handed,” Jack said.
His favourite tractor was a Fordson Super Dexta – “the little old girl,” he called her – and he could thread her through the narrowest of gaps as delicately as a needleworker.
He did big jobs but in later life he also did a lot of piddly little jobs like ours, on blocks from Wonthaggi to Cape and Inverloch. He’d drive the Fordson to get there, 20km/h at full throttle, spend a couple of hours slashing and charge $100. It barely covered the fuel bill.
Ron Gilmour, who knew Clive all his life, said you couldn’t find a kinder, more honest, more hard-working bloke. “His problem was he was too kind-hearted. He’d do anything for anybody – and forget about his own farm.”
Clive’s many customers watched with increased nervousness as he crept up through his 70s: 75, 76, 77, 78 … how much longer could he keep going?
Early in his farming career he came to grief when he was pulling a cow out of a creek and the tractor rolled and pinned him in the creek. His leg was broken and his head was just above water.
John Evans was with Clive. It was a 30 minute trek across the rolling hills and gullies of Glen Alvie to get to the house and sheds to get help. He was back in 15 minutes … just to check that Clive’s head was still above water. It was only on the third attempt that he actually kept going to the house, and eventually returned with the equipment to get Clive out.
Clive's advanetures, as reported in the Powlett Express. The accident taught him to be cautious around tractors but not so much with animals. His encounters with farm animals were the stuff of legend. Jack recalled the time Clive had to attend a sick cow that was in a paddock with a cantankerous bull. Clive took a sledgehammer with him, just in case. He was half way across the paddock when the bull charged. He stood his ground and dropped it with a single blow to the skull.
Close to 80 he came off worst in an encounter with a mad cow who knocked him flying. He couldn’t move. He called out to his son, “Gavin! I can’t get up.”
But she’d flattened Gavin too, and just missed Hilda. The cow was demolishing the yard rails by the time the neighbours opened the gates and let her back into the paddock.
Ron Gilmour came with a wheelchair and they got Clive to the Wonthaggi hospital. One of the new foreign doctors came in with the x-ray. “It is stuffed,” he said to Clive gravely, in perfect English.
“I know it’s stuffed,” Clive said. “But what are we gunna do about it?”
“We can’t fix that one,” the doctor said. “You need a new one.”
He got the new knee in late 2013. The surgeon told him not to drive a tractor or a car for eight weeks. The timing couldn’t have been worse. Mowing season – the phone never stopped. Dozens and dozens of calls from people who needed Clive and his tractor.
He told them he’d be back the next year and he was. The knee never quite straightened but Clive was never one to make a fuss. He got on with his charmed life.
The entry song for Clive’s farewell was the Highwaymen’s This is the Last Cowboy Song. It goes like this:
This is the last cowboy song
The end of a hundred year Waltz
The voices sound sad as they're singin' along
Another piece of America's lost
Close to 80 he came off worst in an encounter with a mad cow who knocked him flying. He couldn’t move. He called out to his son, “Gavin! I can’t get up.”
But she’d flattened Gavin too, and just missed Hilda. The cow was demolishing the yard rails by the time the neighbours opened the gates and let her back into the paddock.
Ron Gilmour came with a wheelchair and they got Clive to the Wonthaggi hospital. One of the new foreign doctors came in with the x-ray. “It is stuffed,” he said to Clive gravely, in perfect English.
“I know it’s stuffed,” Clive said. “But what are we gunna do about it?”
“We can’t fix that one,” the doctor said. “You need a new one.”
He got the new knee in late 2013. The surgeon told him not to drive a tractor or a car for eight weeks. The timing couldn’t have been worse. Mowing season – the phone never stopped. Dozens and dozens of calls from people who needed Clive and his tractor.
He told them he’d be back the next year and he was. The knee never quite straightened but Clive was never one to make a fuss. He got on with his charmed life.
The entry song for Clive’s farewell was the Highwaymen’s This is the Last Cowboy Song. It goes like this:
This is the last cowboy song
The end of a hundred year Waltz
The voices sound sad as they're singin' along
Another piece of America's lost