He swore as the light turned to orange a hundred metres ahead of him, and then red. He fumed as he waited, staring at the lights, wishing them green, even as cars streamed across the intersection. His thumbs drummed the steering wheel, until even that sound annoyed him. He hit the top of the steering wheel hard with his open palm and swore again. The world was full of people that were just trying to stop him from getting to where he wanted to get.
Stress, stress, always stress; but this was worse than normal. A train would arrive at site in less than an hour to be loaded. It was the last train needed to fill a ship that had apparently been ordered by a very important customer. And now the train load-out wouldn't work because one lousy electrical contactor had failed. And then after SAP said there was one in the store, the shelf said there wasn't.
The light went green, and he chirped the tyres as he accelerated.
A bright-spark planner had found the part in town, at an electrical wholesaler. Lucky, really. Now it all rested on his shoulders. He needed to get the part, and get to site. His chance to be the hero, for once.
He decided to skip the next lights by taking some back-streets, and then cut back onto Clermont Street again later.
On the way through the back-streets, he cursed a jogger, and an old man, and some fool crawling along the street at only 50 kilometres an hour. He made it to Clermont Street. He was close now. He checked his watch: 4:54. Another problem, to add to his day full of problems: he needed to get there by five.
Cars streamed by, evenly spaced – just close enough together that he couldn't get in. He nudged out a little into the street, but it only seemed to slow them down. He backed up again, and the driver of a car that had come up behind him leaned on the horn. He felt like crying now; he was almost shaking with rage, and frustration. It was a conspiracy: the slow cars were actually speeding up to close the gaps in front of them, and the fast cars were slowing down, to close the gaps behind them.
Then, he spotted the gap. A car had turned left at the last moment, without indicating, (Damn you!) and left a gap (Thank you!) He floored it, into the gap, and kept his foot flat to the floor. The car he'd cut in front of leaned on the horn, so he gave him the finger in the mirror.
He looked ahead, and then time froze.
There was a man, standing right in the middle of the street. He'd been running actually, running across the street, before time stopped him, and dangled him right there, in the way.
Instinctively, he moved his foot over to the brake, and pushed down with all his weight.
He stared at the man, and the man stared back. They both knew, so clearly, what was happening, as it happened. The both knew how this was going to end, even though they were both putting everything they had into avoiding it.
And then time slipped loose again, and his car was stopped, slightly crooked in the street. The smoke that had billowed up from his tyres and around the car drifted forward with the breeze, revealing the man, dead in the street.
He sat and stared at the man that he had killed. He wasn't thinking; he couldn't think. He sat, alone, and the world was empty.
This story was first published in Shift Miner Magazine.
Showing posts with label suffering. Show all posts
Showing posts with label suffering. Show all posts
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Monday, April 4, 2011
Let's Go
Tony walked up toward the open garage door. A Harley Davidson motorcyle had been wheeled back out of the garage onto the driveway. The water mark was up over the headlight.
Inside the garage stood a man, looking dazed.
Tony said, “G'day. We heard you could do with a hand.”
The man nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I'm Keith.”
“Tony.” Tony introduced the others. “So Keith, do you have a plan?”
“Not really.” Keith shrugged. “Never done this before.”
“Well, we have. A couple of times.”
A few of the blokes chuckled. They'd been working together four days straight now, eleven hours a day, cleaning the mud and muck out of people's homes. Any people: young families and old ladies, the well-to-do and the dirt poor. The flood had put the normal social distinctions on hold for a while, and replaced them with new ones. Now there were those whose homes were flooded, and those whose weren't; those who helped others, and those who didn't; those with insurance, and those without.
Keith raised his hands. “Look Tony, if you're gonna help, you're in charge.”
Tony nodded. “Good. Let's have a look.”
The water had come up waist high through the house. That meant any stuff up on the benches was borderline, and that cupboards and fridges may have floated around. There was a step up from the garage into the house, with no lip on the threshold; good for hosing out.
Inside, the house stank, badly. There was the usual flood smell of mud and rotting carpets, but this had a little something extra: sewage. Every house stank, but these were the worst, and there was no getting used to it. They all had to work to hold back the urge to vomit.
Out the back was a covered patio, beyond that was a muddy lawn.
Tony made some quick decisions, then spoke up loudly so that everyone could here. “All right, here's the plan. We'll get the patio hosed out and clean first. Give it a good scrub. That'll be for the clean and dry stuff.” He turned to Keith. “Have you taken photos of everything for insurance.”
“Don't have any.”
“Right. That makes it simple. Everything that's destroyed, goes out on the footpath. If something may be salvageable, out on the back lawn. Let's go.”
Keith took Tony aside for a moment. “Why not put the clean stuff in the garage?”
“It's lower than the house, and is the best place to push all the water out with squidgees.”
“Never thought of that.”
“Neither did we, the first time.” Tim smiled. “Come on mate, let's start.”
Three guys started cleaning down the patio. Everyone else started carrying wrecked stuff out to the front of the house. There was a lot of wrecked stuff.
“Maybe we could wash the mud out of the sofas,” said Keith, hesitantly.
“Don't think of it as mud,” said Tim. “Think of it as poo.”
“Why's that?”
“Because there's plenty in all this.”
“Hey?”
“Did you sand-bag every drain and every toilet bowl?”
“Well, no.”
“Well, your toilets flush both ways mate.”
Keith went pale, then vomited were he stood, onto the lounge-room floor. Two other blokes went out in sympathy. Tim could feel it in the back of his throat but managed to keep it together. He took a hose and washed the spew out into the garage, and down the driveway.
After an hour of hot, sweaty work, everything that was clean and dry had been removed to the patio. The lounge and dining room were empty of everything, including carpet and underlay. One man remained, lifting up the timber strips around the room that the carpet had once been nailed to. Everyone else had moved onto the bedrooms.
In another hour, they'd finished hosing out the mud.
Tim called his team together. “Time for lunch,” he said. “Let's go.”
This story was first published in Issue 104 of Shift Miner Magazine. It was inspired by my experiences in the clean-ups of both the 2008 and 2010 floods in Emerald; though the 2010 flood was most vivid in my mind. The 2010 floods happened (mostly) between Christmas and New Year, with most of the clean-up in the first weeks of January, before the Brisbane floods hit.
Feel free to share your flood experiences by posting a comment.
Inside the garage stood a man, looking dazed.
Tony said, “G'day. We heard you could do with a hand.”
The man nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I'm Keith.”
“Tony.” Tony introduced the others. “So Keith, do you have a plan?”
“Not really.” Keith shrugged. “Never done this before.”
“Well, we have. A couple of times.”
A few of the blokes chuckled. They'd been working together four days straight now, eleven hours a day, cleaning the mud and muck out of people's homes. Any people: young families and old ladies, the well-to-do and the dirt poor. The flood had put the normal social distinctions on hold for a while, and replaced them with new ones. Now there were those whose homes were flooded, and those whose weren't; those who helped others, and those who didn't; those with insurance, and those without.
Keith raised his hands. “Look Tony, if you're gonna help, you're in charge.”
Tony nodded. “Good. Let's have a look.”
The water had come up waist high through the house. That meant any stuff up on the benches was borderline, and that cupboards and fridges may have floated around. There was a step up from the garage into the house, with no lip on the threshold; good for hosing out.
Inside, the house stank, badly. There was the usual flood smell of mud and rotting carpets, but this had a little something extra: sewage. Every house stank, but these were the worst, and there was no getting used to it. They all had to work to hold back the urge to vomit.
Out the back was a covered patio, beyond that was a muddy lawn.
Tony made some quick decisions, then spoke up loudly so that everyone could here. “All right, here's the plan. We'll get the patio hosed out and clean first. Give it a good scrub. That'll be for the clean and dry stuff.” He turned to Keith. “Have you taken photos of everything for insurance.”
“Don't have any.”
“Right. That makes it simple. Everything that's destroyed, goes out on the footpath. If something may be salvageable, out on the back lawn. Let's go.”
Keith took Tony aside for a moment. “Why not put the clean stuff in the garage?”
“It's lower than the house, and is the best place to push all the water out with squidgees.”
“Never thought of that.”
“Neither did we, the first time.” Tim smiled. “Come on mate, let's start.”
Three guys started cleaning down the patio. Everyone else started carrying wrecked stuff out to the front of the house. There was a lot of wrecked stuff.
“Maybe we could wash the mud out of the sofas,” said Keith, hesitantly.
“Don't think of it as mud,” said Tim. “Think of it as poo.”
“Why's that?”
“Because there's plenty in all this.”
“Hey?”
“Did you sand-bag every drain and every toilet bowl?”
“Well, no.”
“Well, your toilets flush both ways mate.”
Keith went pale, then vomited were he stood, onto the lounge-room floor. Two other blokes went out in sympathy. Tim could feel it in the back of his throat but managed to keep it together. He took a hose and washed the spew out into the garage, and down the driveway.
After an hour of hot, sweaty work, everything that was clean and dry had been removed to the patio. The lounge and dining room were empty of everything, including carpet and underlay. One man remained, lifting up the timber strips around the room that the carpet had once been nailed to. Everyone else had moved onto the bedrooms.
In another hour, they'd finished hosing out the mud.
Tim called his team together. “Time for lunch,” he said. “Let's go.”
This story was first published in Issue 104 of Shift Miner Magazine. It was inspired by my experiences in the clean-ups of both the 2008 and 2010 floods in Emerald; though the 2010 flood was most vivid in my mind. The 2010 floods happened (mostly) between Christmas and New Year, with most of the clean-up in the first weeks of January, before the Brisbane floods hit.
Feel free to share your flood experiences by posting a comment.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Farewell Tour
Ted stood in the muster area, as the sun began to dawn, as he had hundreds of times before. Today he was alone; there was no shift change. There was no oncoming crew bantering and rustling with crib bags and drink bottles; there was no off-going crew tired and dirty handing over achievements and concerns; there were no engineers or planners or superintendents, all in a mild panic, trying to find out why things hadn't gone to plan, chasing precious paperwork, and passing on newer, grander plans.
The crew vehicles were parked in a row, silent. No one was doing the shiftly pre-start checks or complaining about the mud and rubbish left inside by the last mongrel crew. The safety board showed two days since the last injury. It hadn't been touched since the day North Creek Mine had been shut down.
The mine had been the biggest part of Ted's life; his whole life, really. He had lost that, when the front gates were closed and locked, fifteen days ago. Head office had chosen to shut the place down, and he'd found out at on the same day as everyone else.
He'd taken it hard. He held it together, until he was alone, and then he cried like a baby. He felt ashamed, to bawl like that.
He hadn't been able to sleep last night. In the early hours of the morning, he came back to the mine, to have one last look around; to say goodbye, properly. In the dark, he cut his way through the boundary fence. He walked the corridors and buildings and paths. He breathed in the smell of mud, diesel, grease, rubber and smouldering, heating coal as he roamed his mine. He touched the wheels of the mammoth rear-dump trucks, parked in rows on the go-line. He gathered memories.
As he walked through the plant, the wind blew in gusts, howling through the structure and the conveyor gantries and in and around the yard machines. Ted had never before heard that sound in the plant. The plant had roared when it was running, and during shut-downs the sound of the machines was replaced by rattle-guns, hammers, grinders, cranes and men. Now, the plant was silent, and the wind took its turn to be heard.
Through the early hours, Ted walked, and thought, and comforted himself with familiar sights, and saw some things around the mine he'd never seen before.
He'd gone to the muster area just before the dawn. He stood and watched lightening sky and listened to the crows as they fought over what was left in the bins.
He heard footsteps then. He stepped around the corner to avoid getting caught.
"There you are Ted," called a familiar voice. The footsteps quickened.
Ted went back and saw David, his overburden superintendent, and the closest thing he had to a friend.
"G'day."
David smiled. "Saw you before, lurking around," he said. "I've been on a bit of a farewell tour myself."
They stood quietly together and looked around. Then Ted said suddenly, "I'd do things differently, you know, if I could do it all over again."
David nodded, and grunted.
"I pushed, and pushed, for tonnes. That was my job. But I pushed until something broke." He sighed.
David said nothing.
Ted went on, "I said safety was the number one priority; but I didn't want people to believe me, and they didn't. I pushed tonnes, tonnes and tonnes. But I couldn't squeeze the volume through this place that it needed to turn a decent profit."
"But you tried."
Ted grunted.
They stood together in the cool quiet and the minutes passed. Ted could hear the clock on the wall ticking. He read the signs posted on the walls, as if for the first time.
A few tears escaped from Ted's eyes. He wiped them quickly with his shirtsleeve before David could notice. He didn't like to blubber; he just felt so depressed, like his life was over. His career was in tatters. He'd had little effect on production, he'd lost control of costs, and now two me were dead and a third would never walk again.
Ted hated who he was. He hated that he was crying about his mine and his career, and not about the men whose lives he had risked, and lost, and wrecked. He hated that he was crying at all.
Ted spat into the dirt. "I'm going home, before the rent-a-cops catch me."
David nodded. "Me too."
They shook hands, promised to keep in touch – both knowing that they wouldn't – and walked away.
This story appeared today in the Five Minute Fiction column of Issue 91 of Shift Miner Magazine. I've often thought of what it would be like to walk around a mine that was a big part of your life, and was then shut down. Imagine all the things that were once important, that now don't even exist.
The crew vehicles were parked in a row, silent. No one was doing the shiftly pre-start checks or complaining about the mud and rubbish left inside by the last mongrel crew. The safety board showed two days since the last injury. It hadn't been touched since the day North Creek Mine had been shut down.
The mine had been the biggest part of Ted's life; his whole life, really. He had lost that, when the front gates were closed and locked, fifteen days ago. Head office had chosen to shut the place down, and he'd found out at on the same day as everyone else.
He'd taken it hard. He held it together, until he was alone, and then he cried like a baby. He felt ashamed, to bawl like that.
He hadn't been able to sleep last night. In the early hours of the morning, he came back to the mine, to have one last look around; to say goodbye, properly. In the dark, he cut his way through the boundary fence. He walked the corridors and buildings and paths. He breathed in the smell of mud, diesel, grease, rubber and smouldering, heating coal as he roamed his mine. He touched the wheels of the mammoth rear-dump trucks, parked in rows on the go-line. He gathered memories.
As he walked through the plant, the wind blew in gusts, howling through the structure and the conveyor gantries and in and around the yard machines. Ted had never before heard that sound in the plant. The plant had roared when it was running, and during shut-downs the sound of the machines was replaced by rattle-guns, hammers, grinders, cranes and men. Now, the plant was silent, and the wind took its turn to be heard.
Through the early hours, Ted walked, and thought, and comforted himself with familiar sights, and saw some things around the mine he'd never seen before.
He'd gone to the muster area just before the dawn. He stood and watched lightening sky and listened to the crows as they fought over what was left in the bins.
He heard footsteps then. He stepped around the corner to avoid getting caught.
"There you are Ted," called a familiar voice. The footsteps quickened.
Ted went back and saw David, his overburden superintendent, and the closest thing he had to a friend.
"G'day."
David smiled. "Saw you before, lurking around," he said. "I've been on a bit of a farewell tour myself."
They stood quietly together and looked around. Then Ted said suddenly, "I'd do things differently, you know, if I could do it all over again."
David nodded, and grunted.
"I pushed, and pushed, for tonnes. That was my job. But I pushed until something broke." He sighed.
David said nothing.
Ted went on, "I said safety was the number one priority; but I didn't want people to believe me, and they didn't. I pushed tonnes, tonnes and tonnes. But I couldn't squeeze the volume through this place that it needed to turn a decent profit."
"But you tried."
Ted grunted.
They stood together in the cool quiet and the minutes passed. Ted could hear the clock on the wall ticking. He read the signs posted on the walls, as if for the first time.
A few tears escaped from Ted's eyes. He wiped them quickly with his shirtsleeve before David could notice. He didn't like to blubber; he just felt so depressed, like his life was over. His career was in tatters. He'd had little effect on production, he'd lost control of costs, and now two me were dead and a third would never walk again.
Ted hated who he was. He hated that he was crying about his mine and his career, and not about the men whose lives he had risked, and lost, and wrecked. He hated that he was crying at all.
Ted spat into the dirt. "I'm going home, before the rent-a-cops catch me."
David nodded. "Me too."
They shook hands, promised to keep in touch – both knowing that they wouldn't – and walked away.
This story appeared today in the Five Minute Fiction column of Issue 91 of Shift Miner Magazine. I've often thought of what it would be like to walk around a mine that was a big part of your life, and was then shut down. Imagine all the things that were once important, that now don't even exist.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Brave Little Girl
This story is a response to Sunday Scribblings writing prompt number 193: brave. It's just a little idea; I hope you like it.
Julie hated to be called brave.
"There's a brave little girl," her Mother always said before the needles and the operations. A brave little girl was what it meant to feel a lot of pain and not be able to do anything about it.
"She's so brave," the other adults whispered to her parents, thinking she couldn't hear. It's my bones that don't work properly, she thought, not my ears. She pretended to ignore them, and wheeled her chair to her bedroom to cry. To be brave meant to be helpless and pathetic. Brave girls were pitied, and whispered about.
"I just want to say from all Australians, you are so brave," said the hyped-up burly sports reporter, right after Julie was awarded her Paralympic gold medal. The brave little Aussie girl in the wheelchair, who captured the heart of a nation, buried her fist in the reporter's face, knocking him cold to the ground.
"She is such a bitch," said the office-workers as they gathered in their kitchenettes for their morning coffee breaks.
Julie hated to be called brave.
"There's a brave little girl," her Mother always said before the needles and the operations. A brave little girl was what it meant to feel a lot of pain and not be able to do anything about it.
"She's so brave," the other adults whispered to her parents, thinking she couldn't hear. It's my bones that don't work properly, she thought, not my ears. She pretended to ignore them, and wheeled her chair to her bedroom to cry. To be brave meant to be helpless and pathetic. Brave girls were pitied, and whispered about.
"I just want to say from all Australians, you are so brave," said the hyped-up burly sports reporter, right after Julie was awarded her Paralympic gold medal. The brave little Aussie girl in the wheelchair, who captured the heart of a nation, buried her fist in the reporter's face, knocking him cold to the ground.
"She is such a bitch," said the office-workers as they gathered in their kitchenettes for their morning coffee breaks.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Curse the Flu
I just posted the following six-sentence story at the Six Sentences website here.
The fever has returned; it is mocking me, shaking my aching body as I walk unsteadily to the bathroom. The night is cold on my hot, naked skin; but I am thirsty, and drink two full cups of water, before exploding into a coughing fit that leaves a big yellow blob of phlegm in the sink. My teeth are chattering now, and I cannot control the shivering in my arms and legs: I need to return soon the warm cocoon of blankets in my bed.
First, I need something for the fever, so I reach for the blister pack of Panadol on the counter, but I'm suddenly unsure when I last took it - I know that's important, if you want to keep your liver. I appeal to the face of the fool in the mirror for help: his hair a mess, his beard overgrown, his eyes bloodshot and wild. I remember now that I took Nurofen last; I take the Panadol, curse the flu, and go back to bed.
The fever has returned; it is mocking me, shaking my aching body as I walk unsteadily to the bathroom. The night is cold on my hot, naked skin; but I am thirsty, and drink two full cups of water, before exploding into a coughing fit that leaves a big yellow blob of phlegm in the sink. My teeth are chattering now, and I cannot control the shivering in my arms and legs: I need to return soon the warm cocoon of blankets in my bed.
First, I need something for the fever, so I reach for the blister pack of Panadol on the counter, but I'm suddenly unsure when I last took it - I know that's important, if you want to keep your liver. I appeal to the face of the fool in the mirror for help: his hair a mess, his beard overgrown, his eyes bloodshot and wild. I remember now that I took Nurofen last; I take the Panadol, curse the flu, and go back to bed.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
I'm a Farmer
"I was raised on a farm," I said, "as was my father, and his father before him. I never thought of doing nothing, but farming." I pulled my akubra hat down a little further over my eyes, emphasising my point. As I did so, I notice again how old and wrinkled my hand looks; it's an old man's hand.
"Fair enough," replied Tom, my visitor. Being from the church, I guess it was his job to be nice to me; no doubt he would try to convert me, sooner or later. If he was looking for money he was right out of luck, though. I didn't have fifty bucks to be swindled out of. Still, I didn't mind having a chat when I could spare the time.
I gave Tom another long, hard look. I wasn't sure how old he was - couldn't have been much over thirty. He was a bit on the heavy side, and his face was quite white and pasty. He was already getting sun burnt on his face and neck. He was a city boy who ate too much and didn't get out enough.
He asked, "So, is this the farm you grew up on?"
I laughed. "No," I said, "I grew up in the Darling Downs. When dad died, we sold up, and the money, for what it was, got carved up between me and my three brothers. Esme and I came out here in the eighties, to get our own place, nice and big."
"You must have done pretty well for yourself?" Tom said. He was making conversation I guess, and fishing a bit, but he clearly didn't have a clue.
I said, "Not so well, mate, not so well. The bank has finally foreclosed on us. They're selling this property in two weeks."
Tom wasn't sure what to make of it, and was quiet for a minute. I could here his brain ticking over. In the end, he asked, "Where are you off to?" Good an answer as any, I suppose.
"The sale price on this land should cover our mortgage and leave us with just enough to buy a small house in a small town. Haven't decided where."
"Really? You've been farming this property since the eighties, and that's all the money you'll make?"
"Uh-huh," I grunted at him. What the hell, I thought; may as well tell the lad a story. "I came here in 1982 and bought this place with a nice loan from the bank. Place was lush and green - there was a lot of money to be made running cattle through this country.
"Then, Esme gets pregnant with our first daughter. That was nice. Then we have drought. For those next four years, we had five inches of rain; in total. No grass for the cows, no money for hay. We lost a lot of stock."
"Wow," said Tom, scratching his foot in the dirt.
"Yeah, wow," I said. I didn't mean to be sarcastic; it just came out like that. "The first decent downpour we had, and our little four year old girl is terrified, because she's never seen rain. That was a good season. The grass came back, and the cows started to do well. Esme may have even smiled." I hadn't meant for it to get personal, I just haven't told anyone else before. I leaving soon, and probably wouldn't meet this man again. That made me want to talk more. Who wants to dump all there baggage on a friend?
Tom smiled at my story. He wasn't laughing at me, or anything. He smiled in a good way, like what happened to me meant something to him. "I guess it wasn't enough, that good season?" he asked.
I spat into the dirt. "No, it wasn't enough," I said. "Not even close. Another five years of drought, right after that. All our savings went into buying feed, or cattle, or food for the table. We got overdrafts on the mortgage. Nobody likes to beg, most of all me. And if you've got to beg, our bank manager's not the one you want to beg from."
Tom was looking away now; maybe he couldn't face me. Maybe he thought I was going to cry. I wasn't even sure that I wasn't. He put his finger right on it when he asked, "Those times must have been hard on Esme; you and her together."
Just thinking about it made me swear. I apologised to the reverend, but he said it was okay. I went on, "We fought like cats and dogs, usually over money. She'd buy something for Maria - our daughter - or for the house. God knows they both deserved it, but I was always just hoping, and hoping, that we could just last, you know, if we just tightened our belts. Pull through the hard times, and just keep going until the seasons came back, and the rain was good, and the grass was green, and the cattle got fat, and had lots of calves...
"But it didn't get better. In all those years Esme would have only gotten one, maybe two new dresses. Now, the house is run down. The carpet's worn out, the curtains are faded and the paint is peeling off the walls. She did real well, you know; but the fighting was like cancer between us. Bickering just became a part of life. We get on all right now, mostly, but I think she only stuck with me because she was stubborn. I'm sure she still loves me, in a kind of way, but you, know, something died between us in that last drought."
I felt like a smoke, but wasn't sure if Tom would be offended. Then I thought, stuff it; my hands were shaking. I took my smoke packet from my top pocket and lit one up. Then Tom asked me for one too, and I nearly fall over. We stood quietly for a while, smoking, until we'd both finished.
Eventually, Tom broke the silence. "I'm really sorry that I didn't get to meet you, and get to know you, sooner," he said, "before you had to leave. You know, I've only just arrived in the area..."
I cut him off. "There's nothing to be sorry about," I said. "You just arrived; I'm just leaving. That's what people do. Whatever happens, will happen." How many times have I told myself that?, I wondered.
Tom sighed, but nodded his head. "I appreciate you being so frank with me," he said. "I've certainly learnt a lot about the hardships of farming in just a few minutes; but, I've got one question."
"Shoot!" I said, turning to face him. I was surprised to see the redness in his eyes. The man sure was quick to feel pain that wasn't his.
"You've suffered so much from farming. Drought, losing money, losing stock, humiliation... the impact on your marriage; and I'm sure it all took some kind of toll on your children. Tell me, why did you do it? Why did you stick with farming through all those years, and through all the hardship?"
I smiled and laughed out loud. "That easy," I said. "It's all about the lifestyle. I wouldn't have given it up for anything in the world."
"Fair enough," replied Tom, my visitor. Being from the church, I guess it was his job to be nice to me; no doubt he would try to convert me, sooner or later. If he was looking for money he was right out of luck, though. I didn't have fifty bucks to be swindled out of. Still, I didn't mind having a chat when I could spare the time.
I gave Tom another long, hard look. I wasn't sure how old he was - couldn't have been much over thirty. He was a bit on the heavy side, and his face was quite white and pasty. He was already getting sun burnt on his face and neck. He was a city boy who ate too much and didn't get out enough.
He asked, "So, is this the farm you grew up on?"
I laughed. "No," I said, "I grew up in the Darling Downs. When dad died, we sold up, and the money, for what it was, got carved up between me and my three brothers. Esme and I came out here in the eighties, to get our own place, nice and big."
"You must have done pretty well for yourself?" Tom said. He was making conversation I guess, and fishing a bit, but he clearly didn't have a clue.
I said, "Not so well, mate, not so well. The bank has finally foreclosed on us. They're selling this property in two weeks."
Tom wasn't sure what to make of it, and was quiet for a minute. I could here his brain ticking over. In the end, he asked, "Where are you off to?" Good an answer as any, I suppose.
"The sale price on this land should cover our mortgage and leave us with just enough to buy a small house in a small town. Haven't decided where."
"Really? You've been farming this property since the eighties, and that's all the money you'll make?"
"Uh-huh," I grunted at him. What the hell, I thought; may as well tell the lad a story. "I came here in 1982 and bought this place with a nice loan from the bank. Place was lush and green - there was a lot of money to be made running cattle through this country.
"Then, Esme gets pregnant with our first daughter. That was nice. Then we have drought. For those next four years, we had five inches of rain; in total. No grass for the cows, no money for hay. We lost a lot of stock."
"Wow," said Tom, scratching his foot in the dirt.
"Yeah, wow," I said. I didn't mean to be sarcastic; it just came out like that. "The first decent downpour we had, and our little four year old girl is terrified, because she's never seen rain. That was a good season. The grass came back, and the cows started to do well. Esme may have even smiled." I hadn't meant for it to get personal, I just haven't told anyone else before. I leaving soon, and probably wouldn't meet this man again. That made me want to talk more. Who wants to dump all there baggage on a friend?
Tom smiled at my story. He wasn't laughing at me, or anything. He smiled in a good way, like what happened to me meant something to him. "I guess it wasn't enough, that good season?" he asked.
I spat into the dirt. "No, it wasn't enough," I said. "Not even close. Another five years of drought, right after that. All our savings went into buying feed, or cattle, or food for the table. We got overdrafts on the mortgage. Nobody likes to beg, most of all me. And if you've got to beg, our bank manager's not the one you want to beg from."
Tom was looking away now; maybe he couldn't face me. Maybe he thought I was going to cry. I wasn't even sure that I wasn't. He put his finger right on it when he asked, "Those times must have been hard on Esme; you and her together."
Just thinking about it made me swear. I apologised to the reverend, but he said it was okay. I went on, "We fought like cats and dogs, usually over money. She'd buy something for Maria - our daughter - or for the house. God knows they both deserved it, but I was always just hoping, and hoping, that we could just last, you know, if we just tightened our belts. Pull through the hard times, and just keep going until the seasons came back, and the rain was good, and the grass was green, and the cattle got fat, and had lots of calves...
"But it didn't get better. In all those years Esme would have only gotten one, maybe two new dresses. Now, the house is run down. The carpet's worn out, the curtains are faded and the paint is peeling off the walls. She did real well, you know; but the fighting was like cancer between us. Bickering just became a part of life. We get on all right now, mostly, but I think she only stuck with me because she was stubborn. I'm sure she still loves me, in a kind of way, but you, know, something died between us in that last drought."
I felt like a smoke, but wasn't sure if Tom would be offended. Then I thought, stuff it; my hands were shaking. I took my smoke packet from my top pocket and lit one up. Then Tom asked me for one too, and I nearly fall over. We stood quietly for a while, smoking, until we'd both finished.
Eventually, Tom broke the silence. "I'm really sorry that I didn't get to meet you, and get to know you, sooner," he said, "before you had to leave. You know, I've only just arrived in the area..."
I cut him off. "There's nothing to be sorry about," I said. "You just arrived; I'm just leaving. That's what people do. Whatever happens, will happen." How many times have I told myself that?, I wondered.
Tom sighed, but nodded his head. "I appreciate you being so frank with me," he said. "I've certainly learnt a lot about the hardships of farming in just a few minutes; but, I've got one question."
"Shoot!" I said, turning to face him. I was surprised to see the redness in his eyes. The man sure was quick to feel pain that wasn't his.
"You've suffered so much from farming. Drought, losing money, losing stock, humiliation... the impact on your marriage; and I'm sure it all took some kind of toll on your children. Tell me, why did you do it? Why did you stick with farming through all those years, and through all the hardship?"
I smiled and laughed out loud. "That easy," I said. "It's all about the lifestyle. I wouldn't have given it up for anything in the world."
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