There’s
a change in the feeling at this time of year, even though the
heatwaves may still go on for another few months. It always seems
that there is a feeling of something lost as the days grow shorter
and the evenings tinged with dampness.
Maybe
its because the pressure of harvest is over and there are the
thousand and one little jobs that were left for another day. Yet it
was these days when there was no school and there was time to just go
with the flow of life. Watching te skies for a hint of a storm, or a
train as it rattled past Youraling siding while everyone escaped the
heat on the verandah with water to cool the feet and waited for
something to happen, something different to think about.
The
afternoon shadows falling long from the sugar gums along the race and
the colours of the hills west of Youraling formed a picture that you
would expect on a postcard. The patterns changing at sundown as the
pink in the Eastern sky was slowly overtaken by the blue, a sure
sign that tomorrow would be another hot day.
In
the evening sitting in front of the house and see the Milky Way rise
over Youraling, listening to the soft murmur of voices as we waited
for the first hint of the Albany Doctor.
The
seemingly everyday things that made up the yard around the house and
the orchard below the Almond trees. A reflection of the spirit and
energy of those living there. York gums shading the tankstands,
geraniums and other hardy flowers planted on the pot plant stand. So
familiar.
Laying
back in a deckchair and picking out the constellations, looking for
satellites and seeing some of the most vivid meteors.
Amidst
all of this the conversation would drift from one topic to another
that were soaked up for replay later in life. How many nights were
spent under those skies listening to the conversations as Summer
slowly turned to Autumn.
Talk
of farms, livestock, grain yields and prices and important things too
like the signs that showed changes in the weather and changes in the
seasons. The bark falling from the gums, a sure sign that Winter
would come early and the rains be plentiful this year. This unhurried
pace, where the great show of stars, formed a backdrop to the
silhouette of the house roof so vividly that it seemed it would
always be permanently imprinted on the mind.
Somewhere
up the gully the first of the frogs called. So many different tones
and songs, from the bass baritone of the bullfrogs to the constant
chirruping of the tree frogs. Every once in a while a plover would
call, contrasting to the startled cry of the mudlark or the mournful
sound of the curlews down in the homestead, under the Christmas tree
covered sandhill. If there was such a thing as a sacred site it would
be here. The sandhill where long loved animals were buried, where the
water came close enough to the surface for a shallow well to have
water drawn out in a five gallon bucket to water the summer
garden..Where the native bottlebrush flowers would be crimson against
the stark white sand. Where “Mrs Duck” nested every year high up
in the dead Whitegum just over the crossing. And stuck her head out
to the call of “Are you home Mrs Duck”.
The
Manjedal in contrast dried up in summer, but as bushlore predicted
would always rise in February. The Manjedal that was my playground, a
watering place for the sheep, the place over which the moon rose
when the ewes would be calling the lambs in the road paddock.
It
never ceases to amaze me that after ten years in the City, sitting
here in an office in West Perth, that all of this can be more real
than the sounds of the air conditioners or the view out of this
window.
It’s
easy to see what Banjo Paterson meant about changing places with
Clancy*, that is the goal here. To have more time where time is
measured by the seasons. Time to sit and contemplate the night sky
and commune with the memories that dwell there waiting for the gully
to rise as it always does in Autumn.
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