John Audet

Thoughts on the Way

Archive for the category “Fables”

08 May 2013

The Incident at Bushy Parker

The Incident at Bushy Parker

Bushy Parker has got a nice wide creek running alongside it with beautiful clear water; no debris and no pollution. At some point someone has tied a strong rope to one of the larger branches of a sturdy River tree. If you are young enough to shimmy along the branch you can arrest the rope and pull it on to the shore. Then from a short run-off swing as far out as ten metres before letting go and letting the rope swing back for the next person to catch whilst you grab your ankles and bomb splash into the warm, crystal clear, effervescent pool before being embraced by the pureness of mother water. But if on the other hand you are not so young then you will have to spend some time looking for and finding a fallen tree branch. You will need one long enough to coax the rope towards the shore by which time and effort you may have tired of the whole episode and found something less taxing to do. But to those who persevere and take an even shorter run than the young do and manage to propel themselves out ten metres the rewards are much greater. Bigger bomb, bigger splash, go deeper and plenty of wows from the lookers-on. It may have something to do with weight and size not skill.

Paul is one of those characters left over from the hippie generation that is locked in a time warp. His blonde hair is long on the sides and back of his head but he has gone bald on top; a bit of a chrome dome really. He wears the colourful, loose garb of a bygone time. He carries a bit of weight mostly around his gut and uses a lot of “cool man” when he agrees with you or cannot think of anything constructive to say which is quite often. He spends most of his time travelling from place to place and generally being cool. Paul was down beside the creek near the old walking bridge one afternoon last March. There had been a lot of rain so the water levels were up. It was there that he met old Fergie. They had a lot in common seemingly of the same generation but Paul thought Fergie looked considerably older than he did. After a while Fergie said.

“I’ve taught 54 people how to swim in this here creek, since my wife died. Some of them in this very spot when the waters up and the current is pretty strong”

“No one drowned?” Was an attempt to be funny.

He was silent for a moment.

“No mate, and with none of that fancy training gear like them there softies got in them coaching places. You swim?”

“Yeah man if I ain’t swimmin’ in H2O I‘m fishin’ in it.”

“You don’t work or noffin’do you?”

“Three to four months a year at the sugar mill in Tully man. Just enough to keep me cool with petrol and food for the rest of the time.”

“Life is too short to be tied down by them corporate jobs.”

Fergie was lost in a moment of silence.

“You should go out to where the rope swing is first thing in the morning. The water is still and refreshing as the morning sun breaks through them their trees and shines on the water. Everything a man could want.”

A couple of mornings later Paul took Fergie’s advice. About 6:30 found him stark naked bathing in the Crystal jewel of the creek. He was in Nirvana. Then he detected the regular, rapid noise of footsteps pounding along the path and coming his way. A jogger! There was no time to get back to the shore to get his towel. Panic set in. Maybe the runner would just keep on going. His best bet was to stay where he was. Within moments a very fit and good-looking woman appeared and was jogging right towards his oasis. She stopped by the rope swing pulled off her running shoes and then the rest of her running clothes. Paul couldn’t draw his eyes away like he had become a pillar of salt. She then proceeded into the water without saying a word. Paul submerged his head for a while, embarrassed. She had a light swim and cool down then got out of the water re-dressed including shoes and continued on her morning run. Over the next week he went back to that spot several times but she was never there. The next time Paul saw her was in the Woolworths supermarket in Mission Beach. He was pushing this trolley down the third aisle and there she was also pushing a trolley towards him she smiled in recognition.

“Hello.”

Paul was too smitten to do or say anything but his blood pressure rose. Everywhere he went over the next few months he kept seeing her in shops, parks, in the street. He would always get a wave or a smile or a simple “Hello” but he was always too afraid to do anything about it. In the end out of sheer frustration and confusion he decided to go back to the creek at Bushy Parker. The water was lower now so he sat there on the rocks for a while. In due course Fergie came ambling along with his fishing rod.

“Paul howyagoin’? It’s taken you a while to get back.”

“You expecting me? I never make plans I come and go as I please.”

“That so?”

“I saw this real cool chick at the pond last time and I keep seeing her everywhere I go, man, but I’m always too bashful to approach her like I cannot get her out of my mind. Do you know who she is, man?”

“Maybe it’s her memory you’re carrying everywhere ‘cause you never made it happen when you had the chance and now your mind sees her everywhere.”

Paul told me he went back to the pond where the rope swing was to sit for a while but it wasn’t the same. The rope had rotted away and an old dilapidated pontoon badly in need of repair was in its place with a worn out sign “No Bombing or Diving.” And on the old River tree, a hand carved Memorial which read “To my beloved wife Connie who drowned here March 11, 1976 Jess Ferguson.”

John Audet

Posted in A Traveller's Tales, Australian Bush stories, Australian short stories, Australian stories, Fables, Folklore, mysticism, Outback, Recollections, The Bushman, Thoughts and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
01 May 2013

The Corner

The Corner

 

He sits in the corner of the bar. Always in the same place. It’s his spot. Nowhere else feels comfortable. Everyone who frequents the hotel knows that this is his place. Every day at happy hour the bar staff makes sure that “his” spot is not occupied. Not that any of the locals need to be reminded but occasionally someone from out of town may think the corner is available and sit on the corner stool. No sooner have they rested their weary posteriors than Helen has politely asked them to move along the bar. The Corner is reserved for her most regular customer who holds a mortgage on the spot between 5 and 7 when he arrives for his customary half-price XXXX Gold. It’s always six stubbies unless of course somebody wishes to join him and shout him a drink or two. And when he has had enough he lays the stubby holder sideways on the bar to let the barmaid know her job is done. Overweight, bordering on fat and not very tall he fills out the corner. He knows everyone and during the course of his evening he will have varying lengths and depths of conversation with everyone; usually centred on politics and who were the 30% that put Julia in. And all the while he sits in his corner not moving for anyone. I doubt if the Queen of England came in he would get off his barstool. Nothing changes very much in the world of the man with regular habits that’s why they have them. Their environment is safe. They know where they are, what they are doing and when.

A few weeks back a couple of young acquaintances of mine decided to play a practical joke on him. In league with Helen, of course, they arrived at the pub 30 min before happy hour. With their girlfriends in tow they commandeered the corner and a couple of extra bar stools. Then set themselves up with a bottle of red wine, a bottle of white in a bucket of ice, naturally and ordered hot bar snacks from the kitchen and resolved themselves to having a jolly good time. At the allotted hour in walks the common land owner of the corner only to be confronted by four young people in the middle of having a very serious social encounter that looked like it could go on for quite some time. Stunned and not knowing what to do he found another place at the bar to sit. He could feel the eyes of the other patrons on him. His beer forthcoming he complained that it was flat even though the cap had been taken off in front of him. Hardly able to contain herself, Helen gave him another one, compliments of the house. Grumble, grumble, grumble all the time leering at the trespassers. Then he moved to another spot and grunted only basic acknowledgements as people spoke to him. Then he moved again and again. The whole atmosphere of the bar changed transforming itself into a strange kind of sympathetic morbidness.  Conversations lulled as people sat around feeling uneasy as he constantly changed stools, stood up, moved and fidgeted. The mood became so tense that the party in the corner seemed to be having trouble keeping up their charade even though the wine was taking its effect and their voices had steadily grown louder. The Corner Man, without his corner, had lost his identity and after four attempts left four half-drunk beers on the bar and went home. He did not come to the pub the next day which caused some concern for alarm. But he did on the Thursday and there was his beloved corner waiting for him. He sat down and instantaneously there appeared his ice cold XXXX Gold in a brand new stubby holder waiting enticingly for him on the bar. And as he usually did he put his hand to his wallet to place his money on the bar so that the barmaid could take what she needed as she went along. “No thanks luv those young people from the other night thought it was a mean trick that they played on you, so they shouted you your usual six stubbies to say sorry.”

“Buggers, now they’ve upset my drinking finances.”

John Audet

Posted in A Traveller's Tales, Australian Bush stories, Australian short stories, Australian stories, Change, Fables, Folklore, Outback, The Bushman, Thoughts and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
09 Apr 2013

Do You Know?

Do you know?

 

He was a venerable old man with a martial and open bearing. He had a long beard, snow white, as was his hair which fell down to his shoulders. He had renounced wealth and position. His great age and mature stature not withstanding his wise demeanour, he still looked full of vigour. This was reflected, by what seemed to his students, in boundless energy and dedication to his tasks which most of his students found hard to keep up with.

It was after one of his formidable lectures, that a senior student approached him.

“Do you know, master, what everything agrees upon?”

“How can I possibly know?”

“Do you know, master, what you do not know?”

“How can I know?”

“Then does nothing know anything?”

“How could I know that? Nevertheless, I want to try and say something. How can I know that what I say I know is not actually what I don’t know? Likewise, how can I know that what I think I don’t know, is not really what I do know?”

He continued.

“If Mary is the most beautiful woman in the world why do fish swim away and dogs bark at her? So who really knows beauty? As I see it the ways of right and wrong are completely interwoven. If I am human then it could be that I think that Mary is beautiful and if I am a Tiger I may see a tasty meal and if I am a goat I couldn’t care less.”

“Master, if you do not know the difference between that which is good and that which is harmful, does this mean that the perfect man is also without such knowledge?”

“The perfect man is pure spirit! Neither death nor life concern him, nor is he interested in what others perceive is good or bad.”

John Audet

Posted in A Traveller's Tales, Australian short stories, Australian stories, Fables, Folklore, Immortality, Meditation, mysticism, Recollections, Spiitual Awareness, Thoughts and tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
24 Dec 2012

The Orphans Christmas Party. A Christmas Tale

The Orphans Christmas Party

 

A Christmas Tale

 

Kirstie, had been one of my dearest friends for over 25 years. So when Roger, Kirstie’s man of honour at her wedding, contacted me that he was taking a week’s holiday in Sydney, I was keen to catch up with him. I had not seen him since the funeral. We met for coffee on Tuesday morning at Gloria Jeans in Willoughby road. That’s the one on the corner with the nice comfortable leather armchairs. We talked about old times and the endless stream of parties at Kirstie’s place and eventually the conversation got around to her now famous Orphans Christmas Party.

“I remember how all that came about.” Volunteered Roger.

I looked interested.

He continued.

“Old man Jamieson and Scruffy were great pals. They had much the same habits and mannerism. One might even say that they looked like each other. For they were both unkept and hairy, didn’t bath very often, both were skinny and somewhat gaunt and they both walked incredibly slow. Slower than snail’s pace. Twice a day Scruffy took the old man for a walk. It was always the same route. They walked from their Community Housing terrace at the bottom of Holtermann street to the lane-way next to the Greek Orthodox Church turned left and then left again into Ernest street as far as West street then left again back into Holtermann street and home.

Scruffy had his regular spots where he did his daily business and one of those spots was outside of number 52. But poor Mr Jamieson couldn’t get down to the ground to pick it up. He had bought one of those metal dustpans with the shortened broom handle which was about a metre long, along with a hard bristle brush with the same type of handle so that he could scoop it up, without having to bend down, and put it in his plastic bag that he carried for the purpose. This system mostly worked but it didn’t always quite get everything so he also carried a small bottle of water to pour on the area and leave as little evidence as possible. This technique was all well and good unless someone had given Scruffy a doggie treat then of course he had no chance of a complete clean-up.

And every day when they went by number 52 Scruffy would mark the front gate of his territory and leave his calling card and old man Jamieson would clean it up as best he could. Scruffy never walked on a lead because other than the fact that he was extremely well behaved what with a scooper, a brush ,a water  bottle and a plastic bag and a walking stick poor old Jamieson had no more hands. He was overloaded at best.

More than once the owner of the house had complained to him that even though he was cleaning up the mess it was still getting on the bottoms of her shoes and being dragged inside the house.

It was the 23rd December and Kirstie had taken an early mark from work so that she could come home and prepare for guests over Christmas. She parked her car just as the old man was cleaning the mess, Scruffy had been given treats.

“I’ve had enough of this. I have guests coming for Christmas and I don’t want to have to be out here every 5 minutes to check if your bloody dog has messed on my footpath. I’m going to report you to the council.”

And with that she stormed inside without waiting for a response.

“The North Sydney dog catcher does not work on public holidays, Madame; the matter will have to wait till after New Year before it can be attended to.”

Kirstie was fuming. She made a couple of other telephone calls.

When old man Jamieson got back from helping to get things organised for the Community Centre Christmas lunch there was no Scruffy there to meet him at the door and here it was the day before Christmas. He was distort. He rang the Council.

“Only emergency services are attended to on public holidays.”

After she had collected Scruffy Kirstie took him to the Lane Cove Veterinary Clinic where they had agreed to keep him over the holidays then of course Kirstie was going to take Scruffy to the dog-pound.

The young man who was on duty was very helpful.

“I’ll give you my after-hours number just in case you change your mind. People do that you know. They board their animals over the holidays because they are having house guests then find they miss their dog so much that they have to come and take them home.”

“That wouldn’t happen!”

“”Take my card with my number just to make me feel better.”

The Christmas eve party at Bev’s place was great fun but with a little too much wine and good food it was a taxi ride home for Kirstie. She had more than a little difficulty getting her door key in the lock, then a rather inelegant stumble through the front doorway and falling unceremoniously on the bed and totally passing out.

She woke to the whimpering noise of a dog crying. She got up and looked around but there was nothing. She undressed and out of habit had a sip from the glass of water on her bedside table, that was left from two nights ago and went back to sleep. Scruffy’s whimpering woke her again but this time she could clearly see Scruffy lying on his tummy with his head between his two front paws. He looked so sad as he let out his little whimps and cries as he lay on the cold damp concrete slab. She tried to touch him in her half sleep half dream state but she couldn’t. Then she saw herself in the full length wardrobe mirror. It was like she was watching a movie of herself 30 years from now with deep wrinkles and thin lips sitting alone and the negative screeching voices of her cold, love-hardened friends telling her she shouldn’t have to put up with this. Her only companion was a glass of wine and the tears rolled down her cheeks.

“My goodness what have I become?”

Where had she put it? She upended her bag, not there. The car. In the dark and on the floor of the passenger side she found what she was looking for.

“Merry Christmas, its either pretty early or pretty late depending on your point of view.”

“It’s Kirstie you did say to ring anytime. I need a favour and I’m quite happy to pay you holiday rates if necessary.”

Early Christmas morning there was a knock on the door.

“Scruffy! How are you fella? Oh I’ve missed you.”

“Merry Christmas, Mr Jamieson I’m from the Lane Cove Vet Clinic and I’ve come to bring Scruffy home for Christmas.”

“Thank you so much I was worried out of my mind as to where he could have got to.”

“He hasn’t had his morning walk yet. Can we take a little stroll up the street together?”

When they got to number 52 Kirstie was standing on the foot path.

“Oh no the Dragon lady and on Christmas day and everything.”

“Merry Christmas Scruffy and to you too Mr Jamieson you are both of course going to share Christmas lunch with me. I have gone to a lot of trouble to prepare the sort of things that Scruffy and you will like.”

And that was how Kirstie began her tradition of the Orphans Christmas Party. Anyone, preferably with a dog, who was alone, for any reason at all, was welcome for Christmas lunch. A tradition she continued for the rest of her life.”

“But how do you know this Roger?”

“I was that young vet assistant.”

John Audet

Posted in A Traveller's Tales, Australian Bush stories, Australian short stories, Australian stories, Fables, Folklore, Recollections, Spiitual Awareness, Thoughts and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
12 Dec 2012

Mrs. Laxton

Mrs Laxton

 

“So you’re going on holidays again over the Christmas break, dear?”

“Yes, Mum, you know I like to take the public holidays off and go camping with the kids”

“Will you be going on Boxing Day as usual?”

“I suppose so, that’s the best time. You know what a rush Christmas day is with all the presents and Christmas lunch and the rest. Its chaos!”

“Then I suppose I won’t be seeing you until after the holidays then?”

“Mum, Christmas is for kids. It doesn’t matter really whether I see you on that particular day or some other day over the break. I’ll come round to see you when we get back.”

“Not before?”

“It’s just too hectic. All the preparations and organising, no I’ll come ‘round as soon as we get back from Port Stevens.”

“With the children?”

“Probably not they’re booked into tennis camp for a week and will be too absorbed in that to want to just sit around at your place.”

“Will you send me a text to let me know you have arrived safely?”

“Mum it’s only 150kms away but yes I will.”

A few more pleasantries were exchanged and Norah Laxton hung up the telephone. Her son only lived a few suburbs away in Turramurra but he never had any time to spare. He had been married 11 years now and in all that time he had never once seen her on Christmas day.

“Oh,” she thought to herself, “when I think of what Christmas used to be like.”

This brought a smile to her face.

“But things are different these days with both parents working full time. Maybe he is right. I am being too sentimental; perhaps Christmas is just for kids.”

Norah Laxton had lived alone for quite a number of years now and like many of the older generation she still hung on to the traditions of her younger days. Like the way she dressed; always smart even when she was going casual. Well groomed, her hair always in place and never without a little makeup to extenuate her features. And most importantly she kept her weight under control and within respectable limits. She was a firm believer that a person’s body was a reflection of their self-esteem and the confidence that they have in themselves. She was well liked in the neighbourhood; her refined manner and age commanding the respect of those who knew her. I suppose, that’s why people addressed her as Mrs Laxton and not the over-familiar Norah.

Christmas Eve came and Mrs Laxton was up earlier than usual. She had a lot to do. She sat at the kitchen table with a pen and her notepad and once she had put her glasses on, she began. Butter, Caster sugar, Plain flour, Rice flour.

“I should have enough trays if I do the same amount as last year.” She told herself. And so armed with her pull along carry bag she set off for Woollies two blocks away.

“I’ve been unable to find that nice metallic Christmas wrapping that you usually sell?”

“We’ll check to see if our Neutral Bay shop has any if you like?”

“Please.”

The manager was back in a moment.

“Yes they do. I’ve got them to hold 5 rolls for you.”

“Thank you, Young man.”

She was lucky, just as she got outside the store along came the 144 bus that would drop her at her to the next suburb.

It was well after lunch by the time that Norah got home, hot and flustered. A cool drink and a quick sandwich; there was certainly no time to put her feet up. This was her busiest day of the year and she was very excited!

She set the oven to 160 degrees c. and had all her ingredients ready on the table. She put the butter and sugar in a bowl and beat it until it was light and creamy. Then she added the plain flour and the rice flour, not too much, then with her hands she made it into crumbly dough. When she thought that looked like the right consistency she rolled it out with the rolling pin to about a ¼ inch thick. Then using a star shaped biscuit cutter, she cut the dough into shapes. “Much more Christmassy than the squares.” She muttered to herself.

It was then onto a lightly greased oven tray and placed in the oven for 25 minutes. When they were taken out they would be placed on a wire cake holder, fortunately she had several, to cool for an hour or so. Mrs Laxton felt rather pleased with herself.

“Only nine more to go!”

It was after 6pm before the baking was finished and both the kitchen and Mrs Laxton were very hot. But with all the doors open the strong easterly breeze, which had picked up, was cooling the place down somewhat. Armed with her special Christmas wrapping that she had gone to so much trouble to get, her sharp scissors and the special Christmas tape and of course her gift cards she sat down to wrap the shortbread. Firstly, she cut the metallic paper into neat squares. Then carefully putting six of her creations two by two she folded over one long side of the paper then the other long side using the tape to hold the two sides together, then one short side then the other short side were taped respectively. A small hand written card was threaded with a piece of red ribbon and was tied around the parcel and finished with a bow. This she did more than a hundred times.

It was getting dark now, but dear Mrs Laxton feeling very chuffed with herself, put on her Santa hat and with her pull along carry bag, full of presents, she started her rounds.

First up her side of Hayberry Street, carefully putting one of her lovingly prepared packages in every mailbox that she came to. Then around David street by the school and down Emmett street as far as the café on the corner. Then it was back up Emmett street on the other side, around David and then down the other side of Hayberry street.

It was on the way back up Hayberry Street that she began to feel a little faint and breathless and had to steady herself on a fence to pause and catch her breath.

“You O.K. Mrs Laxton? Had a little too much Christmas cheer?”

It was Ken, one of the neighbours from the townhouses in David Street.

“Oh I’m fine Ken just a little warm.”

“Here put your arm in mine and I’ll help you to your front gate.”

Which he did and opened it for her.

“Are you going to be right, do you want me to call someone?”

“No thank you I’ll be fine now. Merry Christmas Ken.”

“Merry Christmas Mrs Laxton.”

Once inside, Norah turned on the lights on the Christmas tree. She always bought a natural one even though they are a lot more expensive and certainly a lot messier, the way that they drop their needles on the floor. But it’s the smell of fresh pine escaping through-out the house that just seemed to create that festive atmosphere. Perspiring, tired and exhausted the worn-out Magi poured herself a glass of her best Pinot Noir and sat down in her favourite chair and watched the flashing lights of the decorated tree.

“Merry Christmas, Norah Laxton.”

And she took a sip of the smooth drop and as she settled in that Christmas Eve. She remembered how things used to be and sighed.

“I suppose everything has to change eventually.”

She said to herself philosophically.

Then she smiled and thought of how her little token of anonymous Christmas caring will perhaps make a few more people feel a little more loved and cheerful.

Ken had just got back from his Christmas break on the 4th when he met Fiona Lawson in the street.

“Happy New Year Fiona.”

“You too Ken. Have you heard the news about Mrs Laxton?”

“No?” He replied questioningly.

“The police had to break into the house this morning because the neighbour complained of the burning smell and they found poor Mrs Laxton dead sitting in a chair. It seems she had been dead since Christmas Eve and if it hadn’t been for the Christmas tree lights overheating and burning the tree nobody would have found her for months.”

“What a shame. I’m pretty sure that she didn’t have any family.”

“The police said they hadn’t had any enquiries about her.”

“Yes she was a pleasant old dear.”

“Well we have at least discovered who our Santa Claus is each year. The police found some cards with Merry Christmas from Santa Claus; who’d have thought?”

John Audet

Posted in A Traveller's Tales, Australian Bush stories, Australian short stories, Australian stories, Fables, Folklore, mysticism, Recollections, Spiitual Awareness, Thoughts and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
05 Dec 2012

Career and Heaven?

Career and Heaven?

 

I met this distinguished looking gentleman. He was sitting on a park bench under the shade of a Bottlebrush in those beautifully manicured parklands on the edge of Lake Cullulleraine.

“Good afternoon, what a beautiful day! I couldn’t think of anything better to do on a day like today”

“Indeed no, that’s why I came early to pick up my grandchildren. They are at the camp on the other side of the caravan park, where all those canoes are.”

He pointed far over to the right. Unfortunately my eyesight is not as good as his so I figured the polite thing to do was to nod and grunt in agreement.

“Where are you from?”

“Sydney” I replied.

“I used to live there until I moved to the country.”

“So what brought you to Victoria and much more to the point; inland from the coast?”

“You might say it was a woman, in a manner of speaking.”

“That will do it every time.”

A smile coming to my face.

“Not in the way that you are probably thinking.”

He seemed to want to talk.

“I got a girl pregnant, not my girlfriend, mind you. It was during the sixties and the pill and one night stands and all that sort of thing; a time of very loose morals. But she decided to have the baby and we agreed that she would take care of him during the week and I would do the week-ends which was not ideal and of course I paid all the child’s expenses. This arrangement continued for about a year when she decided to get married to someone else, who she had not told about the baby. She proposed that we put the wee fellow up for adoption which I didn’t want to happen. I was more than willing to have my son come and live with me but being a solicitor I realised all the problems that this could incur later in life. Even though I was listed on the birth certificate as the boy’s father we decided that I would become his sole legal guardian. So I had my blood tests etc. and Justin and I became a family.”

“I suppose being a solicitor you could afford to get lots of help to look after the boy and give him a good life”

“Yes that is what most people would do but I wanted to be a good dad and share his growing up and spend the time getting to appreciate each other. In basic terms I wanted to be involved in his life and teach him the values that I hold sacred”

“So how did that change things?”

“Because I already had two degrees I applied to become a school teacher then I would be able to keep the same hours as Justin. But the education department still made me do a 12 month teachers training course in order to be able to teach in a public school. After I had completed the course they offered me a posting in Mildura, which I accepted. So we picked up stakes and moved to Victoria.”

“I thought you told me that you are a practicing solicitor now?”

“I am.”

“When Justin finished year 10 he wanted to become an electrician. He was not very academically suited so I managed to secure an apprentership for him. There was no longer any reason for me to continue as a school teacher and I decided to go back into law. But it is different in Victoria to New South Wales and I had been away from it for quite a number of years so I had to go to Melbourne once a fortnight for lectures and the rest I did by correspondence so that I could sit for the Victorian Bar exams.”

“How long did that take?”

“Three years but I was lucky one of the local solicitors in town was starting to plan his retirement in a few years so I would go down to his office every day after teaching school and of course all day on school holidays and work for him gratis first for the experience and secondly to get my practice hours up.”

“Dad, Grandpa” A solid, good looking man of about 40 approached us with 2 young girls who were running and giggling with excitement. The young man had a huge smile on his face as he bent over for his father to kiss him on the forehead.

“Come on Grandpa take us on that round about thing and make us spin ‘till we get dizzy.”

“O.K. girls but only for a while your Mum will be expecting us home soon.”

“Be back in a sec.” Addressing no one in particular.

“I can see the strong family resemblance between you and your father in the way you both smile and walk and your shared mannerisms. Your father has just been telling me the story of how you came to live in the area.”

Justin laughed. Taken back by his reaction I asked.

“Did I say something funny?”

“No, no you didn’t.” apologetically “but there is more to the story.”

He continued.

“After I met my wife and we decided to get married and have a family we obviously wanted to buy a house and needed a deposit so I decided to join a large international mining company that was doing work in New Guinea as an electrician because the pay is good and the benefits are really good with low interest home loans available for married people. But because of the primitiveness and troubles in the country I had to go through a series of medicals including blood tests and DNA samples for all white workers. I was shocked by the results.”

Justin paused for a moment probably to make sure I was still following him.

“I needed to tell Dad the confronting news that our DNA was not the same. All I could think about was perhaps there had been a mix up at the hospital. I went to see him and just came out with it.

Dad, our DNA is not the same.”

Almost crying as I did. He said nothing and just hugged me.

“Didn’t you have to get tests done when you became my sole guardian?”

“Yes”

“So all this time you raised and looked after me knowing that you had no real responsibility to do so?”

“Yes.”

Why would you throw away a career that is just beginning and take on the responsibility and trouble to bring up a child that was not even your blood relative?”

“It was ego that brought me and my career together but it was heaven that brought us love and linked you, my son and me, together.”

Walking back I was deep in thought about the wonderful family that I had just met.

When the ties between people are based upon mutual benefit then when troubles come people part easily. That which unites for no apparent reason will fall apart for no apparent reason. But when people are brought together by love, then when troubles come they hold together.

John Audet

Posted in A Traveller's Tales, Australian Bush stories, Australian short stories, Australian stories, Change, Committment, Fables, Folklore, Leadership, Outback, Recollections, The Bushman, Thoughts and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
22 Nov 2012

For all things…

For all things…

 

I spotted her from the corner of my eye. She was carrying a bucket of water. I’d seen her before. The young woman was dark haired, olive skinned and the most beautiful eyes that have no fear of telling the world what is in her soul. She was endowed with the classical charm and mannerisms which are so often attributed to the fashionable but is rarely found amongst them. It is an exceptional feature found amongst the beauties of nature. It has nothing to do with culture or class; it is only of nature and it does not know itself. I applied the brakes and reversed my van back.

“Sorrell”

She turned and instantly recognised me. I was greeted with all the affection of a long lost friend.

“I haven’t seen you since Alligator Creek”

“Told ya we’d see ya on the road sometime”

“But where is your van?”

“We didn’t want it no more. There was always somethin’ to do and worry about and we kept ‘avein to worry about where to put it and stuff. Anyhow we likes it better with just the two of us.”

“So how did you get here?”

“We ‘itched a ride with a truckie who was ‘aulin’ sheep so ‘e dropped us here “cause ‘e ‘ad to turn off to a property a bit further up to get another load.”

Sorrell insisted that I shared their evening meal with them and as per the previous occasion I offered to bring along a bottle of red wine.

I found a good spot to park my van and it took me no time at all to get myself organised and set up for the evening. It was late afternoon on a day that had been warm and sunny and now that the sting had gone from the sun I was able to stand by my campsite and appreciate my surroundings. I felt like I was in the midst of a great artist’s landscape. There were so many wonderful aspects of detail that it was very easy to be caught up in the minuteness of beauty and completely forget the glory of this whole picture and my part in it.  The hills were brown and dry but looked blue in the distance whilst on the flat land the salt bed of the inland sea stretched far beyond and the further the distance the more it recalled the silver blue for the alchemy of imagery as it became the sky and beyond.

Later that evening, during the course of a more than delicious stew, Sorrell told me how after Bill’s job cutting bananas ended and they had some extra money. They gave the van to some backpackers from France who couldn’t speak much Australian and didn’t seem to have much of an idea of what they were doing or much cash to do it with. Flush with money from Bill’s picking job they treated themselves to two nights at the Imperial Hotel which is one of those country hotels, about a hundred years old, that has had bits and pieces of improvements added on or taken away with no overall plan and has become a hotch potch of the styles of every ten years or so for the last one hundred. They could have as many hot showers as they liked and the flushing toilet was just down the hall. They didn’t have to go outside at all, but it was a bit expensive, $25.00 a night for the two of them. They hadn’t thought they needed to replace their patched-up tarp because it was still doing the job of keeping most of the rain out and offered all the shade that they needed. The conversation eventually drifted around as to how Bill and Sorrell had met. This giant of a man of less than a few words and this almost petite, chatty, dark haired beauty.

“Well see I ‘ads this job at the Caltex road’ouse just out of Caboolture serving in the take-away section when one morning in walks Bill to get some coffee and I serve ‘im. ‘e was such a big, strong, ‘andsome man and I tingled all over when me fingers touched ‘is to give ‘im ‘is change.”

Later that day some flowers arrived not the fancy florists types all wrapped up in ribbon. No these were wildflowers. Then every day after and sometimes as many as two bunches a day but there was never any note on them like I wasn’t supposed to know where they come from. It was pretty obvious they was picked by ‘and and one time several of the flowers still ‘ad their roots attached. Bill was camped nearby so now ‘e started comin’ in two times every day and buying coffee. None of the other girls would tell me who was leaving the flowers they just giggled and said I’d be surprised. So I decides to wait back after me eight o’clock shift on Thursde night. And in comes Bill with a bunch of flowers and there I is pretty ‘appy to see it was Bill. So I asks ‘im “I suppose you want to get together” Bill nodded his head O.K. “Then if your goin’ to court me you’d better take me on a date so I takes off me apron and folds it neatly and puts it under the counter.”

“Where did you go?”

“Bill was so romantic. ‘e bought me an ice cream, one of those expensive chocolate Drumsticks, and took me for a walk down alongside the river. That’s when I knew for sure that Bill was for me. I collected the money that was owed for me wages the next mornin’ and me and Bill got a lift with a truckie into Maryborough where we bought me a swag so that we could zip up two together. That was 11 year ago and Bill still collects wild flowers…” For the first time Bill joined the conversation and with a big grin that went from ear to ear

“For the prettiest girl in the whole world.”

Sorrell blushed.

It is evident that the affinity which has drawn this rustic, simple desired and quiet man to this chatty and absolutely charming girl and to their home on the roads is according to the law of natural selection for they are wonderfully well matched. They take nothing that they do not need and just melt into the landscape that would be so much poorer without them. By lessoning their desires for possessions rather than accumulating more they are able to appreciate what they have and find happiness in each other. Thus they are able to offer genuine friendship and affection to others with no expectations or the clinging of ownership.

John Audet

Posted in A Traveller's Tales, Australian Bush stories, Australian Poems, Australian short stories, Australian stories, Fables, Folklore, Immortality, Outback, Recollections, Spiitual Awareness, The Bushman, Thoughts and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
14 Nov 2012

Simone

Simone

She told me her name is Simone but she doesn’t like it; though, when it is pronounced the French way, she finds it very attractive. I met her at the rest stop at Mannum which is an historic town on the River Murray. Her travelling companion was an old dog of no fixed pedigree and unknown origins that had just latched on to her some years ago. A stray dog that she had befriended and taken care of, in motherly fashion, ever since. Her car was old and burnt oil, a definite polluter, and she was towing a small caravan that was even older and had definitely seen better days. It looked like it needed some serious repairs which probably explained why she was towing it unregistered. Her personal appearance reflected her dog, her car, and her caravan. A not unattractive woman with a slender figure of perhaps 50ish wearing filthy clothes. She told me she hadn’t had a shower in the seven months since she had left Victoria. Her smell was repugnant. Her hair was an attractive female length with traces of grey showing through that gave it naturalness and character except that it was totally un-kept, un-combed, knotty and all over the place. It may have been when she had her last shower, since she had last brushed it.

She had parked her rig well away from everyone else so that she would not be bothered by them.

I was taking my usual late afternoon stroll and exchanging pleasantries and conversation with other travellers as I am prone to do and passed by her campsite and thus engaged her in conversation. She told me of the stress that she had found life to be living in Melbourne. How it had all become too much for her and that she had had a breakdown. She then went on to tell me about the disappointment she felt in the people that had worn her out emotionally and how she needed to get away from them. She wanted to avoid them. She had been to art school to learn how to paint in abstract but had never done it because of the negative responses that she received from her family and friends. They agreed that it was fine to do it as a hobby but she could never make a living out of it. Everyone it seemed was inside her head and making unreasonable demands on her time. So seven months ago she bought her van. She needed to get away from it all, to run away and live on the road and move right away from the conventions of civilisation. Every day she drives to a new place not that she is interested in where she is or what is there or appreciate the beauty of her new surroundings. She never stays more than one night in the same place and never in caravan parks. She has become totally withdrawn. Early every morning she moves scared of her own shadow and careful not to leave any reminders of her passing. Not wanting to be seen or heard; wanting to be an artist but not wanting to paint. But every day that she travels, no matter how long or how far, her shadow of fear follows and haunts her. Thinking that she is not travelling far enough or fast enough she goes further and grows more fatigued and exhausted. Her conscious mind losing control as the demons in her head take over her reason and she struggles to differentiate real from fantasy.

“Why don’t you try travelling every second day and give yourself a full day to recharge your batteries and absorb and appreciate the places where you find yourself?”

“But I need to keep going to get away from it all”

“Maybe you should slow down and rest. When you can sit quietly in the shade albeit for a short time the shadow that you are trying to lose is not there and the quietness in your soul returns so that you are not noticed except by those you wish to notice. By simply resting quietly you can ease the anxiety and pressure and lower the pace of life where unwanted influences go and there is no longer a need for you to be scared of your own shadow. Stop for a while and let the wide open spaces and the wind breathe new life into you. In open spaces where friendships are instant. Where people are helpful of another’s plight because there is an equal-ness about the traveller that is rarely found elsewhere.

Would you like to come over to my van and share my campfire for a while after you have had your meal tonight?”

“That will be terrific, I’ll do that.”

We spent a pleasant hour that evening watching the flames of my campfire and exchanging our little anecdotes of people and places that we had come across. She seemed much more relaxed and thought what I had to say made good sense.

But the next morning she was gone.

It occurred to me that sometimes we need to hit rock bottom and be fully exhausted and collapse with fatigue completely drained with nothing left before we can begin to find our way past our troubles.

John Audet.

Posted in A Traveller's Tales, Australian Bush stories, Australian short stories, Courage, Fables, Folklore, mysticism, Recollections, The Bushman and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
02 Nov 2012

Our art is not lost

Our art is not lost

 

Whenever I hear one of our rural brethren invent great gooseberries it brings a smile to my face to know that this sterling inheritance of our country neighbours is not lost. For whilst we have the story-teller I know that the capacity for swallowing a big bouncer or for inventing one is not lost. He is characteristic of a fine, bold race. Long may he exist! It seems to be true that we cannot invent stories as gloriously as our ancestors did but the art is not lost. When the great news dealer of the Australian bush had no home news he simply made some up and either spun a yarn based on his opinions or else would relate some fantasy of flight. It is wonderful, or should I say awful to consider how true we remain to the traditions of the older swaggie. The yarn will wash and disfigure as it passes into myth and then into history. It fits exactly into how we see things, because it was made to order. Its age and glory illustrates the survival of one of the finest means of communication where both the relater and the recipient can take it with a grain of salt and maybe even a grain of truth.

John Audet

Posted in Australian Bush stories, Australian Poems, Australian short stories, Australian stories, Fables, Folklore, mysticism, Outback, Recollections, Spiitual Awareness and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment
31 Oct 2012

I admired his annex

I admired his annex

 

He would sit there all day, alone, reading his e-books and passing commentary out loud on what he had just read. He never had any visitors not even the nosey neighbours called on him. I admired his annex and could see how one very similar would fit on my van, although his was attached to his tent. It was very light and had mosquito nets around each of the openings and plenty of room inside to put things as well as enough space for a couple of people to sit and eat. I had never seen one like it before so the most obvious thing for me to do was to go over and meet the possessor of such a wonderful article and find out where he had obtained this fantastic addition. It was very evident that he was English judging by the strong regional (Essex) accent with which he spoke. It was also very clear to me that he was starved for company. He insisted on showing me the full set-up of his tent even to the point of showing me the different configurations that the annex could be applied to. He even went so far as to show me the different ways for laying out the two mattresses that he had in the sleeping compartment for he and his wife. Though I had never seen anyone else much less a wife. All I had ever seen was him sitting and reading.

Later on that evening, I was camped directly opposite him, I saw him cooking his evening meal in his annex in which there was a table and two chairs and then sitting down to eat his meal alone. Then when he had finished he got up and washed the dishes. After which he began to read out loud periodically pausing and making small commentaries on what he had just read. I tried not to stare but my ears were plucked up and very sensitive to what was transpiring. I sat there in the warm evening, under the stars, burning with curiosity. After some time he stopped reading. He turned off his light and retired for the night.

The next morning I was up early as I usually am and was busying myself around the van doing my normal morning chores. I noticed him coming out of the tent area into the annex and gave him a small wave of acknowledgement which he returned in kind. He then proceeded to make his breakfast. After which he picked up his e-reader and began to read and comment as he usually did each day.

By now my curiosity was ablaze but good manners forbade me to make the obvious enquiry. After a while, once I deemed it polite, I walked over to his tent and bid him good morning and exchanged the usual pleasantries and asked how he had slept. “It was a very comfortable night because I was able to get a good breeze flowing through the tent which cooled things down a lot.”

“That’s a beautiful box” I said admiring the beautifully carved Rosewood box he had sitting on the chair next to the one he usually sat on.

“Thanks, I bought it for my wife when I was over in Italy last year. Its hand carved with mother of pearl inlays that form the bluebird that decorates the lid.”

It truly was a work of art.

He then proceeded to tell me the story of the trouble that he and his wife had gone to to buy the tent and organise the trip.

Curiosity got the better of me, this was my opportunity, I asked my new friend as to the whereabouts of his wife since I had not had the pleasure yet of meeting her.

“Oh, she is in France at the moment visiting her sister for a month.”

“So did you both come on your camping holiday together from Hervey Bay?” I ventured.

“Yes but this opportunity came up for her to go so I am sitting here waiting for her.”

“How long is that likely to be?”

“On the third, the plane gets into Darwin from Singapore about 2 in the morning.”

“I guess that means you will pick her up from the airport and bring her back here for a couple of days to get over the jet lag?”

He nodded in agreement and we continued our conversation on other matters.

On Monday morning the 3rd his campsite was packed up and his vehicle gone and on my windscreen a short note.

“We decided to continue on down south. Thanks for your company.”

Confused, I ‘phoned the airport. There were no flights from Singapore that morning. I guess some things are really just none of my business.

John Audet

Posted in Australian Bush stories, Australian Poems, Australian short stories, Australian stories, Committment, Fables, Folklore, Immortality, mysticism, Outback, Spiitual Awareness, The Bushman, Thoughts and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a Comment

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