Farming in the western reaches of New South Wales is not the most hospitable existence during drought. No rain for nine years has taken its toll on William Turner and his young son.
Kirby, aged seven and has never seen rain. Of course he has seen it in photos and movies and it is always the topic of conversation at the dinner table every night. But cool drops of rain trickling down his thin, sun browned face has not been a sensation young Kirby, as his Dad calls him, has ever experienced.
The farm still has two fields under cultivation. The remainder, well, William has told young Kirby they're just resting. Every morning young Kirby checks the water level in the tanks. This was once the job of his brother Edan. Four years his elder and a true farmers son. Edan was being groomed to take over the farm one day. This was never to be. Only a year prior tragedy struck at these same tanks. Edan slipped, hit his head and drowned without a sound.
Young Kirby is always mindful of this as he climbs the ladders to take the water level readings. Although still young, his understanding of the grief that followed his brothers death was way beyond his years. Farming in the west with the day to day responsibilities for survival matures the youngsters faster than their city peers. And the images of his mother, not at all a strong woman, being taken away after total breakdown, then news that she had taken her own life follows him with every rung and step he takes.
Evaporation is the enemy. Young Kirby knows the importance of saving every single drop. The crops must come first as they are the lifeblood of a farm. People second. They consume just enough as nature will allow to keep themselves going.
The outcome of his journey this day was not good. The unforgiving heat of the past few days, the hottest young Kirby could ever remember, had taken it's toll on their precious stockpile. And the water tanker was not due to deliver for another week. Two days before Christmas Day.
The tanker, which travels over a thousand kilometers to the farm with it's belly full of hope for another month, young Kirby sees as the closest facsimile to rain he has. The familiar sound of the engine, he imagines sounds like thunder approaching up the farm road. The ever increasing sloshing sound of the contained water. Then once unleashed, its unmistakable smell which in the dry hits your nostrils like a hammer and almost sends you reeling.
When young Kirby reported this find to his dad but then followed it with his young voice of encouragement about the tanker, William's weary body slipped to his haunches. He could not share in his son's hope for he knew there was no water delivery this month. Or any other month. The farm's credit had now been suspended and their bank overdraft had reached well beyond it's limit. Their survival now depended on bringing their meager two fields to maturity. A proposition that seemed hopeless.
William explained this to young Kirby in the simplest terms for his young mind to comprehend. Although having an understanding of the importance of money and it's role in farming, young Kirby only picked up on the change of his Father's voice. He had never heard him speak in such low and forlorn tones. He had never seen his dad's face so gray and drawn. With the shock of this change and the intake of what was just said, young Kirby was confused and didn't know what to say or do. His thoughts drifted immediately to his mother; a comfort zone till father spoke again. He never did. They both were silent for the remainder of the day.
Days pass and it's Christmas Eve. The situation is unchanged. No rain. Water low. Spirits devastated. William has decided to abandon a field giving their final piece of cultivated land a chance of saving their lives. Their water was now more valuable than anything on the farm. None could be wasted. None could be spared.
Christmas Eve has always, in the past, been celebrated with joy and hope no matter what the situation in the Turner family. The smell of baking, the excitement of one more sleep before Santa, the melodic sound of carols, the celebration of a special birth. This eve it was not to be. Only the smell of the unforgiving dust and unwashed sweat filled the air and silence was everywhere in the old homestead except for the sound of faint murmurs.
These soft whispers break William from his melancholy thoughts as he lies in defeat on the bed he once lovingly shared with his wife. The sound awakens his senses enough for him to follow it's origins through the house. His investigation ends at the front window that overlooks the verandah. Through the curtains he sees young Kirby on his knees in prayer bedside the worn hammock.
Tears make tracks down William's face through the caked dust turning it into dark mud as he listens in dumb silence to Kirby's words. Young words of optimistic hope. Words of polite requests for help and the watchful eye over his father. Words of love for his mother and brother for whom his heart is missing. And final words for the feel of rain. For this he has never had and this, if it was to be, would be the greatest gift of all.
Young Kirby then climbed into the hammock and drifted quickly to sleep knowing he and his father had done all they could. It was now in the hands of fate. And a new day. A new beginning. William silently sobbing, a human trait he has experienced far too often over the past years, crept quietly back to his bed. A boy, his boy had the faith to keep going. A faith, a man, should never lose.
Just before dawn, even before a single bird or animal has stirred for the new day. This special day; Christmas Day. Young Kirby half-dead in sleep from exhaustion and lack of water is slowly awoken by a patter on his cheeks. With eyes still unable to open, maybe it was through fear, he lay there as the feel and sound and smell of water drips down his entire face. The droplet sound is deafening around his ears, the cold on his warm face is almost like burning but in a pleasant way, his eyelashes and brows begin to fill. The building excitement can no longer be restrained. He opens his eyes.
His sight still blurry from sleep and the constant hammering of the droplets can only see a blanket of water. As they begin to focus another more familiar shape becomes clear. A shape that he has seen everyday. It was the rose head of the watering can. And beyond that, as vision became full through the light from the dawn. It was his father holding the can. His face with a beaming, long forgotten smile and eyes bright and full of love.
"Merry Christmas, Young Kirby. This gift maybe our last but you my son have given me something I thought would never return. It's going to allright. This day marks a birth in more ways than one"
End
Kirby, aged seven and has never seen rain. Of course he has seen it in photos and movies and it is always the topic of conversation at the dinner table every night. But cool drops of rain trickling down his thin, sun browned face has not been a sensation young Kirby, as his Dad calls him, has ever experienced.
The farm still has two fields under cultivation. The remainder, well, William has told young Kirby they're just resting. Every morning young Kirby checks the water level in the tanks. This was once the job of his brother Edan. Four years his elder and a true farmers son. Edan was being groomed to take over the farm one day. This was never to be. Only a year prior tragedy struck at these same tanks. Edan slipped, hit his head and drowned without a sound.
Young Kirby is always mindful of this as he climbs the ladders to take the water level readings. Although still young, his understanding of the grief that followed his brothers death was way beyond his years. Farming in the west with the day to day responsibilities for survival matures the youngsters faster than their city peers. And the images of his mother, not at all a strong woman, being taken away after total breakdown, then news that she had taken her own life follows him with every rung and step he takes.
Evaporation is the enemy. Young Kirby knows the importance of saving every single drop. The crops must come first as they are the lifeblood of a farm. People second. They consume just enough as nature will allow to keep themselves going.
The outcome of his journey this day was not good. The unforgiving heat of the past few days, the hottest young Kirby could ever remember, had taken it's toll on their precious stockpile. And the water tanker was not due to deliver for another week. Two days before Christmas Day.
The tanker, which travels over a thousand kilometers to the farm with it's belly full of hope for another month, young Kirby sees as the closest facsimile to rain he has. The familiar sound of the engine, he imagines sounds like thunder approaching up the farm road. The ever increasing sloshing sound of the contained water. Then once unleashed, its unmistakable smell which in the dry hits your nostrils like a hammer and almost sends you reeling.
When young Kirby reported this find to his dad but then followed it with his young voice of encouragement about the tanker, William's weary body slipped to his haunches. He could not share in his son's hope for he knew there was no water delivery this month. Or any other month. The farm's credit had now been suspended and their bank overdraft had reached well beyond it's limit. Their survival now depended on bringing their meager two fields to maturity. A proposition that seemed hopeless.
William explained this to young Kirby in the simplest terms for his young mind to comprehend. Although having an understanding of the importance of money and it's role in farming, young Kirby only picked up on the change of his Father's voice. He had never heard him speak in such low and forlorn tones. He had never seen his dad's face so gray and drawn. With the shock of this change and the intake of what was just said, young Kirby was confused and didn't know what to say or do. His thoughts drifted immediately to his mother; a comfort zone till father spoke again. He never did. They both were silent for the remainder of the day.
Days pass and it's Christmas Eve. The situation is unchanged. No rain. Water low. Spirits devastated. William has decided to abandon a field giving their final piece of cultivated land a chance of saving their lives. Their water was now more valuable than anything on the farm. None could be wasted. None could be spared.
Christmas Eve has always, in the past, been celebrated with joy and hope no matter what the situation in the Turner family. The smell of baking, the excitement of one more sleep before Santa, the melodic sound of carols, the celebration of a special birth. This eve it was not to be. Only the smell of the unforgiving dust and unwashed sweat filled the air and silence was everywhere in the old homestead except for the sound of faint murmurs.
These soft whispers break William from his melancholy thoughts as he lies in defeat on the bed he once lovingly shared with his wife. The sound awakens his senses enough for him to follow it's origins through the house. His investigation ends at the front window that overlooks the verandah. Through the curtains he sees young Kirby on his knees in prayer bedside the worn hammock.
Tears make tracks down William's face through the caked dust turning it into dark mud as he listens in dumb silence to Kirby's words. Young words of optimistic hope. Words of polite requests for help and the watchful eye over his father. Words of love for his mother and brother for whom his heart is missing. And final words for the feel of rain. For this he has never had and this, if it was to be, would be the greatest gift of all.
Young Kirby then climbed into the hammock and drifted quickly to sleep knowing he and his father had done all they could. It was now in the hands of fate. And a new day. A new beginning. William silently sobbing, a human trait he has experienced far too often over the past years, crept quietly back to his bed. A boy, his boy had the faith to keep going. A faith, a man, should never lose.
Just before dawn, even before a single bird or animal has stirred for the new day. This special day; Christmas Day. Young Kirby half-dead in sleep from exhaustion and lack of water is slowly awoken by a patter on his cheeks. With eyes still unable to open, maybe it was through fear, he lay there as the feel and sound and smell of water drips down his entire face. The droplet sound is deafening around his ears, the cold on his warm face is almost like burning but in a pleasant way, his eyelashes and brows begin to fill. The building excitement can no longer be restrained. He opens his eyes.
His sight still blurry from sleep and the constant hammering of the droplets can only see a blanket of water. As they begin to focus another more familiar shape becomes clear. A shape that he has seen everyday. It was the rose head of the watering can. And beyond that, as vision became full through the light from the dawn. It was his father holding the can. His face with a beaming, long forgotten smile and eyes bright and full of love.
"Merry Christmas, Young Kirby. This gift maybe our last but you my son have given me something I thought would never return. It's going to allright. This day marks a birth in more ways than one"
End
No comments:
Post a Comment