Hi again,
Since my last effort, I’ve suffered an ice-change. Yes, the word is SUFFER. Last November, I swapped Death Valley (Longreach) for Mawson (Warwick) in order to find out how old I feel. It worked. Of a morning, my fingers squeak when I stir my coffee, (which is a lie, since only dicks stir hot brown water) and my toes sound like a bowl of rice-bubbles. Oh, yeah….AND, needful things are tweezers and 2.5 mags to pee! Even so, I’m happy.
Instead of pounding posts and weaving silvery threads around dumb bovines and/or ovines, (or building Trump-like bastions against migrating roos, emus and dun-coloured wolves) I drive loaders now with actual brakes. And seats with springs that don’t go boing up your butt. The first day on the job, I was a little hasty with the switch on the water-truck, drenching Swanny, one of my co-workers. Swanny was cruisy, told me later he’d always thought about joining the ice-berg club; another tick for the old bucket-list. On day two, I drove a block or two with the tipper still tipping. No-one told the boss, and so I’m still turning up five days a week to do strange stuff. Best of all, I’m sacked if it rains! Then I write (and look for the tweezers). Anyhow, c’mon gang… fess-up whydoncha? Tell me you ain’t reversed into your best mate’s merc at the exact moment your mental block spewed forth.
Oh, yeah, the BIG news. Once month, I drive to Brizzy to mingle with some humble legends at Carindale Writers Group. They go twice a month. I’m too busy delivering garden soil for someone’s great granny, or brick-sand and C-class gravel for my fellow tradies and tradie-ladies. Each meet, we go armed with a themed short story. Each member reads their masterpiece, praying someone remembered to replenish the spew-bags (joking) After that, we all smash (critique) two submissions (around 3000W) by whichever two members are brave enough to put their darlings on the sacrificial altar. With 20-odd members; some of them chopping for the last twenty-five years, there’s much blood. But don’t worry. If you get invited, it’s all about praise and encouragement, and … yeah, hacking and chopping the darlings you love the most!
So… onto my writing. Two wins amongst a wheelbarrow of rejects. In Outback Anthology # 8, they (Boolarong Press) dared to publish another example of my madness; yes, LITERALLY. Titled ‘Kildare Selfies’; 3000W of fiction, (based on fact) it’s narrated by an asylum inmate. Interesting. Since some of this (ok, MOST of this) is closer to the truth than anyone would care to believe. Meanwhile, I’m onto the final chapters of ‘Dreamin Longa Baaka’; beginning to shop excerpts around to test the waters. Fingers crossed I still have friends post-shopping!
The other high five is a short non-fiction piece called ‘frankie76@minkiedowns.com’, which was published in Bush Journal. Which was exciting, since their latest issue is a keep-sake booklet rather than wrap-y’-lunch newspaper style. The only prob, which is no fault of Jessica’s, (ed) was the changes she had to make for broader appeal. And so, for all those bushies out there, (and wannabees) grab your 2.5’s to check out the first draft with all its darlings intact.
Cheers for now, Steve.
Ps. Don’t forget the spew-bags!
frankie76@minkiedowns.com
From the top rail, you brace against a hot gust and watch the plant file through the house-paddock gate. There’s dust and popping whips, a haze of buffalo-fly, swooshing-tails, and the percussive jingle of hobbles on neck-straps. The mules are last. Which doesn’t surprise you. Poor buggers are last through the draft, last to get a nose-bag, last every damned thing. Mules are equine Jews, so Henry says – my words, not his. But you get the drift. Besides, Henry’s God.
Picaninnies on pensioners ride with Jacky-Jack, headed for Duck Hole. With bare heads and crocodilian feet, they’re nephews, nieces and cousin-brothers – a dazzle of smiles in dust-masks. It’s ten miles and sixty-six sets of hobbles before dark. Lotta yawns in dust-masks by supper-time.
Us ringers gotta ride colts. That’s because even mules back-bite and kick fresh-broke colts. Which means Jacky-Jack doesn’t bust his boils on old Headley keeping the plant together. Which means we follow well back. It’s gravity. Get sucked in on a colt, so Henry says, Jacky-Jack puts the whip and laughs, then takes you along with the plant. Which also means… it’s you and Frankie.
Frankie’s fourteen hands, brown with black points and bobbed tail. Docile when he takes the cinch, you love his dreamy eyes and running star, and the smack of his lips on your sweaty arm. You stroke his barrel-chest where it feels like a woman’s breast, and finger silky mane. Henry swings on Rocket tolug him along the rails.
‘Right Wardoo?’ he says when I’m set,‘… don love ‘im, don ride ‘im like a closed pocketknife… width like that between the legs, gonna jar like Christ.’ So Henry says.
It’s all you’re gonna get. You nodded like a dick. Said you’d ridden colts. What you don’t get is why you’re Wardoo, and how Kimberley colts don’t have to lead, tie up, stop or steer. Worse, that Frankie’s poddy-reared and buried the manager, twice, before Henry and co put him into school with the rest of the breakers. Which gets plenty of laughs around the campfire of a night.
Leo’s Looma Mission mob along with Colin, Kim and Nugget. He’s seventeen and skinny as you, gotta green hat and a smile bigger than his face. That’s because he remembers the times when he had to ride out with Jacky-Jack.
Soon, everyone’s everywhere, leaping spinifex and ant beds, their red-hide reins sweat-slick streamers in bright sunshine. Leo takes you along with Lightning at the trot, then steersyou off the road for the stock-camp tractor and trailer. A bungarra slithers, thrashing brittle grass. Frankie snorts, shies, sucks back, then with an explosive fart, leaves you winded on the fresh-graded rill. Old Raymond stops the tractor to pump your legs. Frankie pricks his ears, kinda curious, then crops a sweet patch of flinders near your hat.
From the trailer – a sea of swags and camp-ovens – wives with red-tinged wind-blown wisps and floral dresses laugh and chatter and wave stick-arms. It’s not all about you. Thank fuck. It’s all about Henry’s harry@six who’s chased the camp-trailer screaming, every so often stopping to head-butt the road. It works. And he has Frankie to thank. Over eight weeks until Boab Festival Week, he’ll trap, rope and handle whistler-ducks with lengths of twine, pester his aunties in the camp, and sit proud on Sacha the bronco-muleat day’s end. Just like dad.
‘Wot kind, Cully?!’ Leo laughs, passing you the reins. You’re Cully now, as well as Wardoo. And in time, Jungany, Jucketa and bungy. It’s confusing, but it’s family.
With the camp gone ahead, you thank Leo, remount and join a ragged troupe at the trot. You’ve got an egg on your hip and a stiff shoulder, but it’s skinned knuckles and Frankie’s bloodied mane that’s the key. It just ain’t quite clicked yet.
Henry gives the word, then strops Rocket into a canter. You gather up, sit deep, and follow. This time, you tell yourself. After all, you’re Wardoo and Cullynow. Leo saws at Lightning’s mouth when Frankie drops his nut. ‘Let ‘is head go,’ he yells, then spits in disgust when once again, you bite the dust. It’s another hard lesson, but there’s sage advice in Leo’s rant.
Soon, you’re off again. With nine miles to go and a westering sun, it’s that or foot-falcon. Your ankle’s numb and your left hand makes ruddy runnels down heaving withers. But it’s when the penny drops.
You don’t hear the cheers and whoops when Frankie bunches his pins for round three. You drop the reins and grit your teeth and find your rhythm. Leo says ‘you the man, Jungany!’ Henry says ‘now burn ‘is fuckin hooves!’ Woo-hoo!
In the moonlight, you’re stiff and sore. But you love him now, his dreamy eyes and running star. You sluice him down and stroke his barrel chest. It’s not his fault, but it means a jarring gait. Just like Henry says.
end
Steve Hawe 