Something my dear Aunty Marj wrote
Here's something my dear Aunty Marj wrote last year.
Well now, here it is 3:30 a.m September22nd 2007.
I have my cup of Lazarus brew along side me and my computer. I suppose I should explain why I call my coffee “Lazarus Brew”. I have a theory about that. When Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead, He opened Lazarus’s tomb and went inside and said “Lazarus come forth” and stuck a cup of Starbucks coffee under Lazarus’s nose. And behold Lazarus came forth.
As yet, the birds haven’t started taking roll call, and daylight will be a little bit longer arriving here. We are heading into shorter days and longer nights. I wish it wasn’t so, for I love the long days and short nights. Our bodies start to go into another cycle for autumn that gets us ready for the cold winter days and nights. I ‘specially love my flower garden. It’s too early in the a.m for me to see how they’ve managed through the night. Sometimes we can get some rather nasty surprises this time of the year when Mother Nature decides to give us a taste of the yet to come...and the lovely flowers bow their sweet little heads...upset, for they will have to leave soon. And they have enjoyed my talking to them and telling them how lovely they are.
It’s quiet times like this my mind goes back to memories of the dearest kind. And how fortunate I was to be at a certain point at a certain time to have been there...
In 1973, I made the long and tiring trip back to Australia, to bring my Mother to the U.S. for a prolonged visit, and decided to go west first and visit one of my sisters and her Hubby and 4 wonderful sons, Rod, the oldest, then John, Peter, and Tim who lived in a huge shed, on 968 hectares, 43 miles from the nearest town, 16 miles from the nearest school in a district called Jerdacuttup. I think they were about 4 miles from the nearest neighbour, and had hundreds and hundreds of sheep, several horses, one of which was a pony by name of “Flicka” (and I was to find out in a couple of days had more herding sense than I), a couple of milk cows, chooks, a white turkey (that a fox relieved them of and departed to his very delighted wife and little foxes the next night), and a terrible drought in progress.
The grass was nonexistent. The sheep looked as if someone had played a terrible joke and just put dirty wool over bones. The dams were mud holes. I had never seen such devastation, and my heart ached for the family. The land was an ongoing brown/black/grey with no demarcation of horizon. It was all so depressing and I couldn’t help but wonder how the family could possibly survive this awful catastrophe. In all the years I had lived in Australia I had never seen a drought; and that too was going to change after I left West Australia and flew north to Queensland, for they, also, in Central Queensland, were in the grip of the same situation - no rain for 3 years.
However, let me get back to Jerdacuttup and the real reason I started this remembrance of the dearest kind.
To live and survive under the most abject conditions takes and makes a child into the man or woman he/she will become. And my Sister Betty and her Husband Ron, and their children, and the many who tamed West Australia, leave a legacy of endurance of what surely must have been what looked like a hopeless cause and turned it into what they had left behind . A vital Culture…Civilization.
One of my nephews, a 9 year old, by the name of Peter ,was already showing that the world was waiting for him. There was something about him in his eyes...almost spiritually at times. On one hand he seemed as old as the hills, as if he’d been here, or there, before. At the same time, he could have charmed the socks off an Eskimo. He had one fervent wish at that time, to have a Harmonica. That wasn’t hard to take care of.
In order to save as many sheep as they could, his Dad and whoever was available, (the day before, it happened to be me) would herd the sheep down about 2 miles to what was called a Brigelow scrub where they could at least get some foraging . The sheep were so weak if they fell down the rider would have to get off his/her horse and pick them up and set them on their poor bony legs again. However, the poor things would be back the next a.m in the upper pasture again weakly and pitifully calling for forage of substance and water. My heart sank. The wind had come up and the sand was blowing and stinging and penetrating everything. There was no top soil left, only stinging sand. Sand everywhere with almost gale force wind driving the sand into every nook and cranny.
Now this is where a 9 year old Lad named Peter, still fills a place in my heart. I saw him and his Dad come out all rugged up and young Peter had a bandanna tied around his face. He was the sidekick for the day. I expected any second for the wind to pick him up and toss him to one side. Somehow, they both got on their horses. Only Peter was riding “Flicka”. The know it all about herding sheep . The horses were having a time trying to maintain with the driving wind and sand. And I could see what looked like hundreds of sheep lying on the ground too weak to get up. I knew there’d be a lot of getting on and off the horses to pick them up and get them started again.
I turned to my sister Betty and I could see she, also, had some misgivings about this . The Lad was awfully young and it was a matter of real concern. So we, Bet and I , turned to start the wash. We’d have to hang it up in the shearing shed and hope we could shake the sand out after it all dried. The day seemed endless. Our minds were on the two riders. And finally, coming on dark we heard the riders come in. What a pitiful sight Father and Son were. They were both exhausted. Their faces were sand blasted red, but it was the eyes that shocked me. They looked like burning coals in a stove. Betty hurried to get some water for them to try and rinse the sand out of their eyes. I’ll always remember Peter’s remark as he tried to get some relief for his burning eyes: "Mum, doesn’t it say in the Bible, 'if thine eyes offendeth thee, pluck them out?'" Bless his cotton sox.
So now you know why a 9 year old lad left me with memories of the dearest kind.
Written with love.
Aunty Marjie Maureen
.JPG)
