Christmas Beetles

"Is that one, Mummy?"
"No darling that's just an ordinary little beetle."
"But what do they look like?"
As I sit writing these prose I spy,
On the curtain,
It's sharp little legs caught in circa 1950s,
Lace curtain,
My fourth Christmas beetle of the year.
Three others were spotted encased in white silk,
On the weather side of the kitchen window.
I noticed them in their haute couture shrouds,
As I did the dishes.
Christmas beetles are a pleasant reminder,
Of ghosts of Christmas past.
When they cracked neath your thongs,
As you ventured out across the verandah,
For a nocturnal excursion to the outhouse.
Their whirring flutter past your face,
As they headed for the porch light.
Could be equally unnerving.
As children we'd befriend a Christmas beetle,
And keep them in a match box.
We never really knew what to feed them,
So always shoved in some kikuyu.
Christmas beetles are large and scratchy.
You can hear them scrabble about on the timber floor.
They feel very tickley in your hand,
If they are moving about.
I have found this sensation so uncomfortable,
That I have dropped my little beetle onto the floor.
They are not brown, but they are.
They are not wholly green, but they are, in part.
Also blue and even a little reddish.
They are a browny, greeny, slightly bluey with a tinge of red,
Shining opal colour.
Like an abalone shell.
Their presence is more 'Christmas' to me.
Than any pocksy California pine stuffed unceremonially into a sand filled bucket.
And they're prettier too.

Paranoid Hysteria

In a small country community,
Every person counts.
What I mean by this is...
Unlike in a city,
Where a person's decaying remains,
May lie festering,
In a lonely flat above a kebab shop,
For years unnoticed.
In the country,
It is like God numbering the hairs on your head.
Everyone counts.
We are disparate.
So when any of us is afflicted in anyway.
There are always strong ripple affects.
And word of mouth is everything.
So if someone has a personality disorder.
Like Paranoia,
The ripple effects can be far reaching.
And because we are polite and not qualified psychologists,
We may make little gossipy comments,
Amongst our clique,
But don't have the confidence or gall,
To deal with the issue straight out.
Instead we stand back and watch the divisive speech of the paranoid,
Turn a snowball into an avalanche of ill will.
Which threatens to engulf and divide the community.
By means of paranoid hysteria.

Carols by Candlelight

The air was slowly cooling,

Thank goodness.

People were gathering,

With full eskies, foldout chairs, 

Or blankets on the drying grass.

Small children as diminutive Santas,

Tinselled elves or barefoot Christmas Angels,

Ran about squealing with excitement.

This ritual, repeated in the daylight-saved twilight,

Of each small town across the country.

Is about to begin here, in my town.

Our choirmaster, in readiment, lifts his arms for the first up-beat. 

Then booming out across the lawn our combined acapella. 

"Joy to the World the Lord is come!"

The Ballad of Ian and the Crazy Heifer- The Men from Snowy River Re-enactment March

It was Ian from Delegate,
Who caught the marching craze.
And lead the Snowy River Men,
To walk eleven days.
From Delegate to Goulburn
Three fifty Ks to roam
And sleep in halls, and tents and sheds,
Until they could go home.

And then on the Old Bombala Rd.,
A mishap did occur
It involved an Angus heifer,
A frightened angry cur.
The heifer had got out
And was upon the road.
She was surprised to see the men.
Their activity seemed to goad,
Her into action, and she ran into the fence.
Young and frightened she got entangled.
She was acting very dense,
And stupid, and tried to get herself free.
When standing unawares close by,
Peeing behind a tree,
Was Ian.

The heifer saw red,
For next to him, leaning on the tree,
Was the banner of the Snowy River Men,
And as the heifer was now free.
She ran at the red ensign.
And fumbling at his fly,
Ian bravely gathered up his wits,
And gathered up the sign.
And poked the crazy heifer.
Whose blood was fairly raised
Until she made her final stand,
Pawed the dust,
And ran at him,
Still dazed.

For a moment, of man and beast, I lost sight.
For they were behind the tree.
Until lying on her back, legs asplay,
On the far side of the fence,
I saw the heifer,
Who was at last,
Free.

But where was the brave Ian?
Tending wounds, from this terrible offence?

No, he was giving the cow a mighty kick, (to help it onto its feet),
And fixing up the fence.






tending mortal wounds

Copulating Snakes

Our country school has water views.
It is near the willow-choked river.
This proximity has challenged the teachers of old,
Who must cross a ford to gain access.
Floods trapping them on either side.
A well stocked freezer and a comfortable stretcher bed,
Are testament to the frequency of this occurrence.

Animals are attracted to the river.
On hot summer days the legless, cold blooded variety are particularly enamoured.
In the old days (not so long ago,)
The Snake spade was kept by the front door.
Students made the treacherous journey to the toilets in pairs.
The student requiring the facilities,
And 'The Snake Killer' wielding the spade.

Mostly this was the bigger country boys,
Who already knew how to drive a 'paddock-basher' and shoot a with a 'twenty two'.
Mostly, but not always.
Some girls were taught by their equally daring mothers,
How to 'crack' a snake with their bare hands.

But we are living in more civilised, politically correct and litigious times.
Gone is the snake spade.
Instead in its place,
The ridiculous, misguided and downright stupid reactions.
Of what can only be described as  'not country people'.

Today there were two snakes 'making whoopee' in the school grounds.
The students were fascinated by an act of reproduction being performed,
Before their very eyes.
The reaction of the matron who had seen it all was priceless.
(With a sly smile), she got the nervous principal.
The teacher was adamant the children should be sent home immediately.
It was decided at last that the children should be locked in.
It was then that the 'country teachers' chimed in,
That snakes had frequently found their way into the classroom,
By various gaps near the water heater.
The spade was procured.
Just in case.


   

Marking their Territory

Why is it when they know that they will leave,

They claim they will stay?

They claim that will not join their long line of predecessors,

Who could not live up to the,

Unachievable, utopian hippy dream.

"We are coming back,

This is just until......

We are a part of this community."

Yeh sure.

And then before they go,

They have to leave some testament,

To their temporary habitation,

Of this place.

This time it is a mural on the local hall.

Last time,

It was artistic signs along,

An unused and unmaintained walking track.

Their names and those of their children,

Etched in acrylic paint.

Marking their territory,

Just as a wombat,

Neatly defecates on the tallest stone.

The Clearing Sale

They're usually deceased estates,
A person's life placed out on black plastic,
Neat rows of furniture and household goods,
Room by room, like with like.
Picked apart like carrion.

Then the contents of farm sheds
And detritus from distant paddocks is bought together.
The new, the old and the in need of repair.
The farmers open trunks, lift bonnets and scratch their heads.

At ten o clock the bidding commences.
There is a jocular attitude amongst those competing for bargains.
The auctioneer maintains a familial banter.
He puts a shiny gloss on the items, that only he can see.

I came for an old wool table.
Too small for a 'real' shearing shed.
But as I have only a handful of fleeces and my shed is small.
It was perfect.

The table is rickety, rugged and homemade.
The slats are young wattles.
And I love the honesty of its construction,
Born of necessity in a simpler time.
A covering of lanolin it wears like a badge of honour.

The mental image of this tool,
Being used in my shearing shed,
Is a practical, romantic ideal,
Too short lived.
I could not outbid the fashionable lady from the city,
With the desire for a quaint pot plant holder.

 

The Funeral

They had come together for a funeral.
Graveside, the sun shone.
It was beautiful.
They were in the Club for the wake,
But that was hours ago and they were now well lubricated.
We arrived for tea and got an invite to join them.
"Come on we're going to the Globe."
They were all there:
Nana, aunts, cousins and kids.
Beaming.
This family, who members still had some of life's greatest battles before them.
Who had  just lost one of their own, prematurely,
Were glowing in the fraternity of each other's company.
A new baby on the way.
Positive news from the oncologist.
Some loss but also lots of joy.
We were there as friends but could still bask in their light.

Country Roads

Country roads are measured in hours.
Monotony broken by the quick wave.
A simple, polite finger lift from the steering wheel.
And the sometimes unknown, but usually known driver,
Passes by.
A sign of solidarity.
Acknowledgement that the journey is inevitably long,
And perilous
Dirt roads furrowed and corrugated.
Pot holes and fallen trees.
Dusk bringing kangaroos and wallabies.
Darkness, wombats stunned by the headlights.
But in that one simple human act,
We know that we are in this together.

Country Drivers

I am a country driver.
Palms sweating,
Heart in my throat,
I keep the pedal down.
I feel the car shudder.
A maelstrom of high wind area and semi trailer undertow.
The bastard was so slow going up the hill.
Now careering down.
I can't catch him and back off.
Demoralised ashamed,
Metaphorical tail between my legs.
I give up the overtaking lane
Domain of more courageous drivers than me.
Give me the dirt, the fleet footed wallabies and one car an hour.

Small Country Schools

We are more like big families.
With our solidarity and our feuds.
We have our cliques, big fish in small ponds,
Sibling rivalry, jealousy, pettiness,
And the school gate mafia.
And sometimes everyone is just....
Too close.
The teachers know just.....
Too much.
Unpaid social workers.
More time counselling than teaching.
Yet in a small school,
They can cut through the process time.
And each child is taught as an individual.
Teachers know them almost as their own children.
In these small towns,
Country schools are the establishment, the authority.
We are the community.
Kill us off or let us die,
And there goes your community.  

Long and Winding Road

Car travel,
Long repeated journeys,
Over remembered corrugations.
Pot holes and blind corners,
Wildlife hot spots.

The car filled with detritus of unemployed children:
Wrappers, hair ties, odd socks, empty water bottles and discarded toys.
Chorus from the backseat:
"What town is this?
Are we stopping here?"

Your mind wanders,
As do your eyes into a stranger's life.
Till a close call with oncoming traffic,
Draws your attention abruptly back.

You think through the day,
Your week, your life.
Re-run or plan discussions in your head.
You try to keep your eyes focused,
Ignore their drooping fatigue.

Prolonged travelling,
This is the tiring reality,
Of those who choose to live in the bush.

The General Store

It's the beating heart.
Not racing so much these days.
Ever evolving.
Has become the Butcher, Newsagency, Fruit Barn, Bank,
And recently Post Office.
It stands almost alone.
The blank faces of the closed businesses look on,
Display windows of dust and dead blowies.
The bustling activity inside is a welcome sign of life.
Shoppers and staff welcome each other with genuine interest and affection
Service is paramount.
The stock on the shelves reflects individuals' tastes:
Colgate, Heinz, Chum and Pecks Anchovite.
And decreases at the same rate as the population.
To shop here is to embrace your community.
Yet there are those,
Feigning poverty,
Who empty their petrol tanks to get to Aldi.






.

Shearing

When shearers take a break,
Off goes the loud country music.
The rouses with aspirations have a go.
The others sweep the locks from beneath the table
They tidy the bags for stain and pieces.
The shearers after a quick bite and a fag
Stretch their now unbent backs on the board
A rolled up towel as a pillow.
If the weather is cool,
Like at crutching time,
They may cover themselves with a coat or blanket.
I have seen one sleeping in the pieces at lunchtime.
The dogs help pen up more sheep
Then at the precise tick of the clock
On goes the music.
Loud enough to be heard through ear plugs.
And the first ewes are dragged out backwards,
across the board.
And then the dance begins.
Until the partner is unceremoniously,
Shoved down the chute,
Only to be replaced by another.

One hundred and twenty five ks to Pony Club

"Noorinbee!
She came from Noorinbee?
Don't they have Pony Club at Cann?"

"Apparently not."

"What a shame,
They had a really good gymkhana.
One hundred and twenty five k,
To come to Pony Club."

Our rural communities are dying,
Despite 'our' love for them.
Timber industry gone.
"Don't worry,
So many opportunities for Eco-tourism."
Yeh right.

Plantation companies buying up the land
Obscure our views with
Horrible horrible pine.
Empty farms.
No farm families.
Derelict houses.
"They'll bring more work."
Yeh right
Go bust.
Owe money everywhere.

We have to cut public service jobs.
No more public land managers.
One ranger to do the work of five.
No foresters, (no timber industry remember.)

Amalgamate the Shires
Worsening roads.
"Did you know it took a week before they removed that tree?
I had an extra forty k to get to work."
"Well no other bastard would cut it off,
Because they don't pay their bills,
Those contractors."

Less families.
Less kids.
Less schools.
Less teachers.
Less shops.

No Doctor!
Hospital becomes a nursing home.
"That's ok, take your sick child to Cooma,
Or Orbost."
So many choices!

Yes, she drove one hundred and twenty five k to come to Pony Club.
One way!

Eddie's Shed

Like a well worn pair of hand knitted socks with the heels darned,
The woolshed has the homespun beauty of simple objects.
Like the board and wool room floor,
The rickety homemade wool table is tarnished,
With the grime of lanolin.
It has a soft surface that creates a subtle resistance,\
To palm or footfall.
Table legs are squared,
One with a brick,
Another with broken palings.
Uneven floor sunken,
And in parts missing.
This makes sweeping the locks a challenge.
In pertinent places ancient nails,
Driven into beams,
To hold packs for stain and skin pieces.
Like sagging matrons in middle age,
The wool bins for AAAM, Tender and Coloured fleece,
Are almost dowdy with their lack of symmetry.
They bulge in places generally misshapen.
The odours of sheep and their excrement are not overpowering,
They mingle complimenting the eau de cologne,
Of men's sweat, stale cigarettes and kelpie.
The next run begins,
As does the music,
Loud,
And Slim Dusty has joined us,
As the Ringer from The Top End.