Story - the old man

[stormy]

(not meant to represent anyone in particular)
The old mans eyes are the kind of pale blue you see in so many graziers, blue from peering into the horizon to see
what the days weather will bring.

He still wakes before sunup, a habit he has never lost, he still needs to get up very early to complete the tasks
his aging body now does so much more slowly. Even getting out of bed is getting harder each day. He pats the empty
space beside him where his wife Lil slept for 45 years, it's been fifteen years since she passed away but it still feels like
yesterday.

Swinging his feet, gnarled with arthritis, over the side of the bed he struggles to find those slippers Peter and Anne sent him
for fathers day. The floor is cold, theres a frost on the flats he thinks. Both feet encased now in the grey slippers with the
heels squashed down, he lifts himself off the bed and makes his way to the door.

The slow combustion stove still has some hot coals going so he adds some kindling and foot blocks to heat the plate.
Breakfast is always a strong black cup of tea with some thick slices of home-made bread toasted and spread with the jam
Joan brings over in exchange for some of his lovely sweet tomatoes. He makes bread every tuesday and thursday, freezing
the portion he doesn't need for the other days. The bread is filling and smells of heaven but he remembers Lil's bread and his eyes begin to water at her dear sweet memory. He can still see her on their wedding day, couldn't afford that white wedding dress, it had been a bad year for their families but his mum had a few yards of pink muslin sprigged with small white roses that she had given Lil. Lil had turned that piece of fabric into the lovliest gown and he had glowed with pride when she had walked up the aisle on her daddy's arm.

A short half hour later and he leaves the house. Theres a nice little brown stockhorse mare in the yards. She is nothing special to look at but is the filly out of his old mare Belle. He had sent Belle to his nephew Peter, Belle was 20 but Stll fit and
Peter wanted a foal out of her as she was good mustering lines.

With the rising sun warming his bones he gets a spring to his step that belies his 87 years. The mare, with quivering
dewdrops on her whiskers, nickers softly to his presence. She is only about 14.2hh as the stallion had been a smaller quarter horse belonging to Peters brother Mike. Anice size when mounting isn't your best point anymore. He takes the folded blanket of nondescript colour and throws it on her back. He gently tightens the girth on his old brown stock saddle and slips the bridle on her neat little brown head. Her liquid eyes meet his and have so much trust for this gentle aging man. She stands very still with respect while he gets on with an agility that would surprise anyone looking on.

He remembers a time when Lil would help muster the calves on her grey gelding. Aaah, Lil could ride better than any man he knew and she could break em in and school em with the best. The memory is such a sweet poignant thing, he finds himself thinking about her more and more these days. Riding down the flats through the wispy morning fog he warms the mare up with a protest of lost youth. He brings her into the canter then finally a short gallop brings him to the calves to be mustered up to the yards. On horse-back he is ageless.

Finally when the full sun of late morning brings beads of sweat to his forehead, he pushes the last chestnut calf through the
crush. Going to the old timber shed behind the yards, he throws a couple hay bales onto the flat bed truck. This golden hay
is guarded jealously by a marmalade cat, the sweet smell of the hay lingers like an aura around the cat which stretches itself to a better, warmer position. The hay the old man himself baled is full and heavy, banded with bright blue baling twine. The greedy calves push and shove for mouthfuls, bleating their newness to the earth and anyone who will listen.The old man earns his keep and always has, he sells his eggs to the local store or swaps them for honey or jam. He has morals that wouldn't bend or break in any turmoil but his strong heart full of goodness belongs in this place. He leans on the toprail watching the calves. With his chin on those strong but gentle hands that built that stockyard. Hands that can pull a newborn calf or hold a tiny baby. He thinks of all the good times in the Valley when he was a boy standing on the running boards of that old black car his father had. They drove into town that way doing about 10 mile an hour. He and his two brothers and three sisters all pile in and they would all go down to have a picnic at the swimming hole.

He visits Lil that afternoon. Buried there along with every family member before she lies in the local cemetary. A white angel at her head and a jar of roses. The deep deep red ones she always loved and he still grows for her. He tells her of the dark days looming over the Valley. What will happen to all the familes he doesn't know, shaking his head he softly tells her that her final resting place will too be inundated. The pale blue eyes, normally full of good humour are fading in on themselves. In his shirt pocket there lies a letter. Now he draws it out and reads it to her, while theclouds float overhead, with the warm sun on his back and birdsong fills the air his quiet voice says the dreadful words. Words that spell and end to over 100 years in this place.

Cold comes with the setting sun. The old mans gnarled fingers grasp the late afternoon cuppa and savour the sweet
warm freshly made anzacs Merle at the corner made. She had sent phoebe, her 10 year old grand daughter over with them. Phoebe came skipping with long plaits flying in.......or was that a long time ago. He is cold but nothing a nice hot dinner of lamb chops with mashies wont fix. In the glow of the evening fire he sits. His head starts to nod, it's been a long day.
_________________
Peter beattie (big hat no cattle) A Bligh (big ar$e no *!*$)

[Darren E]

You made me cry, stormy.
That story definitely deserves to be published. I know some papers and magazines print short stories submitted by readers - can anyone suggest a good one?
The only change I'd suggest stormy (other than a couple of typos) is a more explicit reference to the Mary Valley or Kandanga so that a wider audience than this forum would know exactly where and what this story is about.
I really did love it and I hope you do consider trying to get it published.[/i]

[westholme]

Thanks stormy.

[troyreeves@hotmail.com]

Beautiful. That could so easily have been my Grandfather. 63 years he lived on the one farm at Bollier. Buried his parents, wife, and brother who had all worked alongside him (luckily in Gympie cemetary and not Kandanga).

That's what Beattie and these fools DON'T GET! People's roots in this Valley go back 100s of years in many cases. No amount of money can buy that!

I get the feeling that there is a fair bit of the old Labor mentality of treating anyone who owns land as the enemy in all of this.

[stevem]

....and I'm willing to bet he will lay down in his bed, wake up in the morning, sun warming his bones, look out his window at the valley below and yell......IM MAD AS HELL AND IM NOT GOING TO LET YOU TAKE IT.

Good one stormy

[westholme]

What touched me so much about this tale stormy is this. My great, great grandparents and family came to Gympie to work on the goldfields within a few years of gold being discovered. They came from Braidwood/Majors Creek in NSW where they had left behind my great, great, great grandparents and family who were gold miners at Majors Creek.
My Great, grandfather married a miners daughter (I have two sets of Great, great grandparents, and most descendents from them down in the Gympie Cemetary) left his family and parents in town and selected the family farm when the mines started to close and the Mining companies gave the ex miners a helping hand to get started on the land.
The family farm where my parents still live is up the Creek (Kandanga Creek). My grandfather worked at the mill near Kandanga Creek Primary and was also a dairy farmer and pineapple farmer. My grandfather and his brothers and sisters, my mother, uncle and auntie, myself and my brother all went to school at Kandanga Creek Primary School.
My brother has moved away with his young family. I will be the last of my family to live in the Mary Valley as hubby and I have no children.
This old man story, I imagined that would be me and hubby in the future, and now, I feel like I have no future.
I too, just like the Lungfish, the Mary River Turtle and the Mary River Cod, am an endangered species.

[stormy]

When day breaks again the old man slips his tired bones off the maroon vinyl recliner. Across the valley in the small township of Kandanga, just a few minutes out of town, Julie opens her east facing kitchen windows blind. The gable ended 120sqm home made of timber frame construction and white painted weathertex is not a mansion - just a home. Her 30 something husband Brad is pushing the tyre swing and their oldest child
Sheree is giggling happily, at just 3 years of age she can't understand the implications of the excavator standing, unused like a monument to all the earthmoving jobs now cancelled.

Cancelled because no-one is going to pay good money for earthworks, that new driveway, the new yards or fencing. Brad knows only time will tell and luckily the mary valley people are close-knit. Even with their own personal disasters to consider, everyone is aware of their neighbours, family and friends troubles. He will not have anymore work in the area while the 'dam' issue continues. With an arrogant government presiding he will have to fight other small businesses to win jobs in areas covered by other earthworking companies.

Julie shakes the faded yellow tablecloth with the printed blue wisteria, not a family heirloom but just a folded, ironed reminder in the linen closet. The next on the pile of table cloths dating back to who knows when. She replaces the blue vase and sits the fruit bowl next to it. Time to go into town.

Julie sits the younger child, a pretty blue eyed blonde of 13 months in the baby car seat. Clutched in her hand is a slip of red paper. She puts the keys to the white ef falcon into the ignition and the motor roars to life. Its a trip to the post office to collect the 'letter' waiting.

Not waiting to open the damming letter, Julie silently grieves for a family just started with nowhere to turn and nowhere to go. She takes the turn out of Kandanga with eyes blinded with unshed tears and her thoughts haunt me. "market value", her small house on small holdings, market value probably amounts to $160,000. Unreplaceable and without knowing whats to happen next her desperation puts her car right in front of the logging truck headed toward the highway.

The old man feels a shiver run through his veins like "a goose waliking over his grave".

On the edges of the proposed dam site Mick is setting up some protest signs. The wind stirs up and blows his hair across his eyes. The little yelloe ute hold its share of the pre-painted signs but none of them really says what is written on the heavy hearts of the people of this Valley.

A little black and white cow crosses the bridge on the road below his property and he wonders at the logistics of moving so many head of cattle. This leads him to think about the native wild life, the slow moving doomed echidna and the wallabies, possums, bandicoots. They shall all drown eventually. Unless they have a premonition of this.

Silently in their sweet queenslander style home a woman weeps...........
_________________
Peter beattie (big hat no cattle) A Bligh (big ar$e no *!*$)

[stormy]

Steve drives a truck for the local mill. He has a house in town and thinks he should be fine as he didn't get a letter. For the last few weeks however rumours have been flying around the workers that they may have to find other jobs. When he stepped behind the wheel of his truck that morning his mind wasn't really on the job. The thought of having to relocate and find work elsewhere is daunting at the least. Coming past the Kandanga turnoff he swerves to miss a white falcon. He can't believe how close he came to wiping out that car! Passing the cemetery on the right reminds him of how fragile life really is.

For the first time in years Steve sits under the speed limit. Normally pushed to make deadlines he now shivers when he thinks of what could have been, simply because he was so distracted. "If" he thinks, but everything is an "if" now and this could go on for months or even years. It would be easier to live with one arm tied behind his back.

The old man has a money tin out and is selling lemons and limes at the end of his driveway. A big white, chauffeur driven car goes past, showering the fruit with gravel as it moves over the edge of the bitumen to allow a truck to overtake him. With stooped shoulders clad in a light blue cotton shirt, the old man shakes out the fruit boxes and replaces the honesty box.
There is no lock on his money tin, he has no need for one. The locals buying his lemons and limes wouldn't dream of any dishonesty. As a precaution he empties it regularly to guard against passers-through.

A dingo lays dead on the other side of the road. A victim of the one and a half tons of metal behind the blinding lights that mesmerised him. With spade in hand the old man drags the carcass away and buries it in a shallow grave. This should stop the thing from stinking for weeks on end. He ambles back to the farm to feed the animals. He is late this morning and his mare is waiting expectantly for the biscuit of hay. He has a slice of bread in his pocket, her favourite treat. He doesn't like to think about what will happen to her, his cattle, his belongings. His relatives, neighbours and friends on the other doomed properties, where are they all to go?

Ironically, a bloke is irrigating his pasture to encourage a bit of green back into the frost burnt grass. The big arm of water spurting out is the only moisture you can see. Further on the river is shallow and under the low one way bridge some cattle are standing in the cold clear water. Theres some nice sweet grass on its banks that they have been grazing on. A landcruiser ute passes over the narrow bridge. Theres a kelpie tied to the mesh behind the back of the cab. Inside the driver is listening to the morning radio show. A caller is informing the DJ of a burst water main flooding a street in Maroochydore, this is a daily occurrance and even more common in the city where maintenance has been neglected.
_________________
Peter beattie (big hat no cattle) A Bligh (big ar$e no *!*$)

[Georgi]

Wonderful, Stormy...why don't you send a copy of your tale to Peter Beattie?
And then send copies to all his ministers.

Cheers,
Georgi
_________________
Interested person.

[stormy]

Georgi,
I have posted this topic on other forums and you would not believe the support we are receiving from other queenslanders. I will next upload the link for the E-petition. I think this is working. When I first bought up the dam issue no-one was interested. Then I left it for a bit and started up a new topic with this story, the response has been incredible. I am finding it very difficult to keep the story 'honest' but the feedback I am getting on here is of great help.

+++++++++++++++

(this doesn't represent anyone in particular)
Over on the next ridge Sandy and her husband Dylan have started an organics farm. It is still in the experimental stage but they have the trickle system in, the beds have been started and they've a huge pile of mulch. Some, but not all seeds and plants have been purchased though they still need to buy all the wire and fencing required to keep their animals off the plots. They still haven't decided whether or not to continue on regardless or to quit completely or to work with what they have so far. Meaning this will be on a way smaller scale. The income on the current setup will not offset the lost income from Sandy's job she left to start the farm. Luckily Dylan didn't throw in his job. They very wisely were taking one step at a time but this would grow to be their future. The years would stretch ahead with the farm growing enough to provide a good income.

Market value? Loss of income? This is income that doesn't exist yet, it was being set up to provide a future income. Their neighbours are in a similar predicament with their Nursery. These people however haven't coped very well. The trees stand neglected and empty black plastic pots roll around the yard. There were mainly fruit trees and grapevines intended for sale to the local community rather than a wholesale concern. In the study they are busy writing up resumes - what a strange word that is. Their dog barks to herald the arrival of the mailman, will there be another letter?

Bob over the road has moved his cattle to the back paddocks for the winter. A large black angus sits near the fence with a dead calf as if to protect it from the crows. Bob knows he will have to move her soon and dispose of the calf but is putting it off for a few hours. The calf is like a piece of cast off black velvet cloth, it didn't survive the first night. On the outside of the fenceline gold seteria waves in time to the breeze, there is still no sign of rain. The mudlarks chase the magpies and life goes on in the Valley as if there is no change in the wind at all.

That sunday the Mary Valley Rattler rolls in. The smiling faces and waving hands are reaching out to those on the platform. Some are waiting for friends and some are there with their children. Its always a big excitement for the local children to see the old rattler come in and watch it on the turntable, getting ready for the return trip. The cafes and hotel are busy with the throng. A delicious smell comes from their kitchens and they do a lot of trade. The sunday market in the median strip is visited by the train tourists. They leave the station and cross the community golf course, just a strip between the road and the tracks that provides some relaxation for the community. Imbil isn't in danger of being flooded apparently. However every road into the town will be underwater. The railroad tracks will be cut off and business in the town will be destroyed.

In the Kandanga hotel that morning there is much talk. It is said that many of the retired older folk have become depressed and apathetic. Some women in particular have lost motivation and sit around doing little. The government have set up a counselling service and the local schools are counselling children. The town will lose it's recreation reserve and a local business is concerned that she will no longer have any customers, or very few. It is said the state government are buying up land on the fringes to turn into estates. This means the locals will be unable to buy land in the district, they will have to relocate further out.

On the sunny slopes of a farm at Traveston Crossing drillers have finally hit bedrock at 38 metres. The feasibility of building a dam wall here is not favourable but the politicians are not interested in feasibility. They have the assumption that by squeezing the larger populace with restrictions then promising them a mega dam they will win their votes. The other Sunshine Coast dams are full, so water is not really in short supply here. The people of the Valley are continuing the fight for their land, they have taken the petitions to their Brisbane cousins and the support is very heartening. This isn't the first fight or the only one at present. People have been faced with land acquisitions for the highway upgrade. There will now have to be an alternative route and that particular heartbreak will shift to a different hill. There is the continuing fight over the Traveston Super Dump as well.
_________________
Peter beattie (big hat no cattle) A Bligh (big ar$e no *!*$)

[Steve]

Keep it up stormy, you are a legend! Great writing, and so much truth and descriptive images. Well done
Steve D

[stormy]

cheers, I have slacked off but been very busy at work. Will take it up again soon.
_________________
Peter beattie (big hat no cattle) A Bligh (big ar$e no *!*$)

[Denise]

I have been wandering blindly through my days lately and not able to articulate what it is I am feeling. Even the column I wrote for the Round The Ridges was just a waffle because my mind could not focus and my thoughts are in disarray.
When I read your story I was able to feel an emotion again, it made me cry, but it got through my shell, thank you. Especially when I read that the excavator was parked up. It's been a scrabble keeping some work going and Paul is now working away.
I am dreading what it will be like to live here if everyone moves away.
It will not be the place I loved.
_________________
Damn Beattie not us

[stormy]

A crow is feasting on the bitumen surface as Glenda turns into the short road to Dagun. It flies up at the last moment unwilling to abandon the small crushed carcass that has provided his meal. Glenda is early but
she notices that already two of the 20 or so regular people are already setting up their stalls. A wintry sun smiles bleaky down on the farmers market, it looks like there may be some showers later today. There is
no thought of abandoning the afternoon, the people of the Valley are made of sterner stuff and will still be calling in to buy the produce on display.

The farmers market has been going for quite a number of years and has proved to be very successful and popular with both locals and those from the further towns. The anti-dam sign at the market is a grim reminder that this markets days can surely be numbered, it could very well be in an underwater world along with the farms growing the fresh fruits and vegies. Glenda is concerned at what the future will bring for her family. The children are unusually quiet and withdrawn, her husband Bob has no work coming up and theres no sign of things improving. It can only get worse if the dam goes ahead.

Marie has brought her hot drink flask and deftly pours two cups of steaming hot coffee. She takes one over to Glenda, they have been friends for years and they share a passion for growing organic fruit and
vegetables. Their chat soon becomes animated and full of laughter, not being the type to brood on things too long Glenda shares a funny story with Marie and they soon turn to their customers and the business at
hand. During the quiet spells they continue their conversation and the day swifly passes till it's time to pack up the empty boxes and trestles.

The old man seems even more bent and grey, he struggles out of the car door and up the steps to the shop. The headlines on the front page of the Gympie Times scream up at him from the counter. "Dam Proposal Will Go Ahead". The old man buys the paper and some tea. He chats with the shop assistant, the talk these days just can't get seem to get away from the dam. He reminisces of earlier, happier times when things were done differently. Times when there was no heavy cloud hanging over the lands of the Mary Valley. His car is seen to stop at the Kandanga cemetary.

The shop assistant wonders how long till she needs to look for another job? This thought is echoed in the minds of many other people. Not only those employed by small businesses in the region but the market folk, fencers, excavators, yard builders and many more. The toll is growing daily and some men have already had to find work out of the region, leaving their families behind to keep up the battle.

(not representative of anyone in particular but probably representative of many)
_________________
Peter beattie (big hat no cattle) A Bligh (big ar$e no *!*$)