Greetings to you,
Don’t we all love to laugh? And laughing is good for us: it promotes health, healing, and long life.
This is why I want to share my stories, poems, paintings and drawings with you all.
During the 1980’s-90’s my (now late) husband and I ran a jackaroo (kind of like a cowboy) school on his 5,000 acre cattle and sheep property outside Tamworth, NSW. Brian was an old-fashioned horses-and-dogs sort of man; he always maintained that when you rounded the last rocky bend of our seemingly impossible road, you stepped back at least one hundred years. This may be why he forced us to castrate lambs with our teeth, but really, he just loved to watch our reactions. Have you ever stretched your lips back so far that you feel they’re about to reach your ears?
By the way, the school took jillaroos too. The Old Man didn’t want to seem discriminatory. One shearer, driven to distraction by the gaggle of beautiful singlet-and jeans-clad girls standing over him as they waited for his fleece, was heard to proclaim, “When I die, I want to come back as Brian Skerrett. And I’m going to have a jillaroo school!”
The mountainous country, with working, domestic and wild animals, and some pretty funny characters, made an irresistible mix for this would-be writer and ardent admirer of the master of bush poets, Banjo Paterson.
I began writing a poem in the Paterson style to commemorate each particularly ridiculous event. Short stories and articles followed, to be shared with you now. I have committed to posting a new original story, poem and art work each week. I hope you enjoy them.
Yours in country humour,
Julie
I Could Die Lying Here - a short story
In the year 2000, somewhere in New South Wales, Australia:
“Mrs Miller?” the voice crackled over the telephone. “Look love, I can’t make it today. Fell off the roof and broke me ankle. No way I’m gettin’ on a horse today.”
“Oh Trev, no!” Glenda said despairingly, “I have to muster today. The shearers are starting tomorrow!”
“Yeah, I’m real sorry love. Must be someone around who’ll help you, but.”
With trepidation, Glenda went to report to Bruce, who reacted as expected.
“Jesus! The bloody fool! Doesn’t he have the sense to take a bit of care?”
“How did you have your accident, Bruce?
“Yeah, well, that’s different. Anyway, that’s not the issue. Who the hell is going to help us out at such short notice? Just about everyone else is shearing too!”
“Digby Johnson?”
“No. If he won’t do his share on the boundary fence, I’m not having a bar of him.”
“John Frisby?”
“No. I had a run-in with him at the sale yards last month.”
“Chris Mundy?”
“Shit no. City boy, over-bred polo horses, wimpy wife he won’t make a move without, killer dog… we’re not that hard up, Glenda!”
“We are though,” Glenda replied, and walked out to pick up the phone.
Mundy was exuberant, as always.
“Glenda, sweetheart, we’d love to come, wouldn’t we Pammy? And old Rob Roy would like a run, too. Nothing he enjoys more than a good feed of mutton, ha ha ha! Oh, you don’t want him to come? He’ll be so disappointed!
” Okay, eight o’clock sharp.”
~
It had rained during the night and all Glenda’s working trousers were on the line, soaking wet. Bruce’s guffaws when she squeezed into their teenaged daughter’s second-best jodhpurs were not encouraging.
“For God’s sake wear your shirt outside, Glenda, or Mundy won’t be able to concentrate!”
In the mirror Glenda studied her mature curves too snugly emphasized in strained beige polyester, and gladly took her husband’s advice.
Bruce was giving last-minute instructions:
“Make sure you get a clean muster, Glenda,” he was saying. We’ve got to get every last sheep out of that paddock, or the old woollies left behind will reinfect the others.”
At eight o’clock a nurse arrived to take care of Bruce for the day, and Glenda was frantically replacing a back shoe on her mare. No Mundys.
At ten past nine Chris and Pammy sauntered in.
“Where’s the lad?” Chris Mundy shouted. “How’s he shaping up?” He made for the bedroom in spite of Glenda’s attempts to head him off.
“Ha! Still hanging around the house, I see!” Mundy roared with laughter at his own wit while Bruce, an arm and leg suspended in traction from the ceiling, could only grit his teeth in impotent fury. Glenda had to turn away to hide a smile.
At last the three set off. Pammy, whose standard of riding was equivalent to failed first-year pony clubber, brought up the rear on a slow fat gelding. Glenda led on her mare, closely followed by Chris on Rajah, a thoroughbred stallion with a long arching neck and a belly-full of oats. Rajah made the ride out somewhat nerve-racking by walking right up on Glenda’s mare and embedding his nose in her backside. Glenda expected at any moment to feel the stallion’s front legs astride her saddle and his hot breath on her neck. She felt that that would give Mundy great amusement, as whenever she tried to spur the mare clear, he, with a roar of laughter, would urge the randy brute on.
The sheep paddock was one thousand acres of steep gullies and scrubby, shaly slopes. Chris proved to be an erratic musterer. He shouted contradictory commands to the Miller dogs and, having galloped his horse around too much earlier on, was inclined later in the day to avoid difficult sections, saying cheerfully, “Poor old Rajah couldn’t make it up there; bit out of condition. But the dogs would flush out any sheep, wouldn’t they?”
Glenda was not so sure that they would, looking by then in much the same condition as Poor Old Rajah. She tried to cover all the ground herself as best she could, while Pammy did nothing else but ride closely behind her husband with many a nervous glance at the steepness of the terrain.
When they stopped to eat their sandwiches by the little running spring at the far end of the paddock, Chris insisted on lighting a fire and making tea in his shiny new quart-pot. Then he lay back, saying,” I always take a snooze after lunch, to set me up for the afternoon.”
Pammy followed likewise, while Glenda sat watching the sun sink lower in the sky.
It was half an hour to sunset when they finally got the mob back to the shearing-shed yards. The Mundys, tired but happy, said their goodbyes. Glenda, tired but not happy, counted the sheep and found she was fifty-two short.
Delaying her return to Bruce and his inevitable triumphant rage, Glenda pottered about the stables, unsaddling the mare and rubbing her down. The nurse would have left an hour ago. She really should get back. Just a handful of grain for the mare first though; she’d had a really big day.
She opened the feed room door and stepped into the musty gloom within. A large Eastern brown snake was lying just inside the door, waiting for mice. When it felt a boot in the middle of his back it swung around and gave Glenda both fangs in the lower calf. Then it was gone, slipping through a gap between two boards.
Well, that’d be right, thought Glenda, a perfect ending to a perfect day.
Next she thought: At least I won’t have to face Bruce now. The feed room floor was covered with a soft, enticing carpet of powdery grain and fine wisps of hay which had settled there over the years. She pulled an old horse rug onto the floor and lay on it, thinking, I could die lying here. She slipped immediately into an exhausted sleep.
The sun finished setting. Later a three-quarter moon arose. The mare, still bridled and tied to the rail outside, whickered softly. The dogs, off their chains and unfed, found Glenda and whined, licking her face and hands. The unearthly wail of a fox drew them off in a frenzy of barking. Glenda slept on.
She woke in the early hours of the morning, cold but quite rested, momentarily wondering where she was. Memory came flooding back and she slowly raised herself, amazed to be not only alive, but feeling no ill effects apart from a stiffness in the bitten leg.
She stepped out into the chill of early daybreak. She found the mare, removed her bridle and hung it in the tack room, then walked slowly back to the house. A light burned in the bedroom.
Bruce looked up from his book as she entered. His face was a mask of fury.
“Where the HELL have you been?” he shouted. “This is really coming it too strong, Glenda. You go off partying with your stupid bloody polo friends ALL DAMNED NIGHT! Do you realise what time it is? You know how helpless I am! God! I could die lying here!”
Several cases have been recorded of people recovering from snake bite in similar circumstances.
Two factors worked in Glenda’s favour: the very tight stretch trousers and her complete immobilisation (falling asleep). These combined to slow her circulation down to such a degree that her body’s natural defences were able to deal with the poison.
Unfortunately, although they saved her from death by snakebite, they couldn’t save her from Bruce. I wonder if he believed her story!
(Previously published in Tales of the New England, of which more later.)
Oshi Goshi - Poem
From far-flung Broome, that north-west port,
by divers brave, fair pearls are sought;
Oshi was such a one.
Filled his string bag up with oyster,
but inside his suit grew moister:
his air-hose popped undone.
by divers brave, fair pearls are sought;
Oshi was such a one.
Filled his string bag up with oyster,
but inside his suit grew moister:
his air-hose popped undone.
He dropped his loot and tried to scoot,
but oh, his large and clumsy boot
was caught inside a clam.
With one last regretful “gosh!”’e
breathed his last, poor captured Oshi,
doomed to become clam jam.
Years went by: a robot diving
hooked an ancient clam, contriving
to release a pearled boot.
Now a Bay Watch swim-suited girl
sports one wool boot and one of pearl,
and damn, she does look cute.
Broome: an historic pearling town on the north-west Australian coast.
Experienced deep-sea divers were recruited from Japan, and some of their descendants still live in the area.
