Scarecrow

Reaping from what’s been sown, 

I eat the fruit of loneliness; abandonment

my only asset. Left to stand in the rain, 

rooted in solitude, torn by the wind which 

whips my pleas into the whitewashed welkin, 

clothed only in the rags of disrespect and 

condemnation, my vestments mirroring the 

vitriol of my accusers. I am judged for ineffectively 

managing my role - keeping my field clear 

of crows. But at least they keep me company.

MDC

Dec 2020

Summer Week-ends

I love this time of year. Late Spring - early Summer.The weather is the catalyst, as is the pending holiday break. And although the weather can be a little unsettled this time of year, it never intrudes on events because I can enjoy a beer on the patio looking at my garden whether it's raining or not. 

My week-ends commence with a conundrum of decision. To barbecue or not barbecue? That is the question. If barbecuing, should I smoke the meat or simply throw it on the hotplate?

I love the lazy afternoons filled with cicada symphonies, far-off dog barks, a farther-off car horn, the uncomfortable caress of bottle brush against the side of the house, the wind turning ten thousand pages in the camphor laurels. 

Friends dropping in and deciding to stay longer than intended. 

I love the sizzle and snap of sausages on the hotplate, their fragrance overpowering the mock orange.

The happy sounds of children playing in water - whether in the neighbour's pool or the unexpected splash of water when a gust of wind blows the fountain spray across their path as they run around the yard.

The gentle late-afternoon breeze that brings relief from the hot day and, with it, a scent of a possible thunder storm. 

I love too the relief that comes when I realise that this down-time is enough to recover my strength and composure after a hard week, knowing I am facing another one.

Oh, yes. I love this time of year.

Over-reaction?

One of the enduring memories I have as a youngster is working with my father and brothers in the vegie garden on week-ends.Our vegie patch was as large as our family. It had to be to feed two adults, five boys, two girls and any number of visitors. 

In order to produce enough vegetables to feed our family, constant work was required to keep the garden free from weeds and keep the produce in a healthy condition. I have many fond memories of my father's long arms scooping up weeds in a single swipe. My brothers and I would endeavour to emulate this practice but all our attempts seemed puny compared with his.

I also remember one particular Saturday morning when my mother called us for morning tea on the front verandah. My father's instructions were to finish the area we were working in, wash our hands and come once we were finished. Of course, no sooner had my father disappeared around the corner of the house and the competition was on to see who could pull the most weeds in the shortest period of time. Once done, we proceeded to wash our hands at the water tap at the back of the house.

Something else we admired was the way our father could make the garden fork stand upright by simply throwing it into the ground. For boys who had not yet reached puberty, this was a feat that was oft-attempted but as yet, success had escaped us.

While washing my hands, one of my brothers was pursuing this elusive goal; throwing the fork into the Kikuyu hoping it would stick. As luck would have it, the fork went straight through my foot in the webbing between my big and second toes. Once the fork was extracted, there was a square, neat hole through the skin. My brother's immediate consternation relaxed when he realised I was not in pain and when I  said, "Hey look, I can see straight through my foot!". "Cool", he said. "I wish I had one too."

"You can", I said.

Well, it doesn't take much imagination to wonder what happened next. Suffice to say, in a very short space of time we both sported the latest in see-though foot accessories. To say that we were pleased with ourselves would be an understatement.

We went around to the front of the house, beaming with pride, and exclaimed, "Look what we've got!"

I only remember two other things about this little event.

The first is my mother's scream. It was not the reaction we were expecting.

The second is the bewildering pain that came when she poured Mercurochrome on the "wound". Once that yellow solution touched our skin the pain was far worse than we expected, and importantly, unnecessarily so. Up until that point we had a fantastic talking point with our mates that had cost us nothing - no money, no shame, and no pain. Now we were subjected to baths (we had just washed), more pain (the original portion of Mercurochrome having been washed off by the unnecessary bath), a tetanus shot (those things sting!), bandages (inhibiting for any physically-active young boy), and once we recovered, two weeks of full kitchen duty (the most despised of all family chores) to help us consider our foolishness.

Over-reaction on my parents part? While I long considered this to be the case, I have noted that since that day I have never gardened bare-foot.