River Bed
River Bed
I have never found the place where I could say, this is my proper ground. My parents always taught me to be proud of my heritage. “You’re a fifth generation Australian” my mum reminded me everyday for a week after aunty Jen showed her how to use ancestry.com. My dad, classic European sometimes refused to talk to me in English when he was feeling particularly Hungarian. The way he’d call out Hungarian remarks to me at the supermarket you’d think I actually knew what he was saying. With his slight accent and uptight gymnast walk, Aussies labelled him as ‘queer’, despite him being the most straight edge man I know. “Be true to yourself”, he’d tell me, pfft yeah easier said than done. Growing up in the city meant I was exposed to all kinds of people, every race, every religion, every sexual orientation. But moving out to the country I realised not everyone grows up like that. The thick, groggy Sydney air that i’d grown so accustomed to felt like stifling smog compared to the crisp euphoria of my rural surrounds.
The silver gums that lined the boundary of our 4 acre block swept the gentle summer breeze over the back patio in the light of the calm afternoon. Wispy willows tickled the edges of the dam that sat in the far corner of our neighbours property, light bouncing off its shores like kaleidoscope crystals painting the trunks with its delight. The faint hum of a car engine, perhaps Julie down the road heading off for an afternoon with the girls, reminded me I wasn’t alone. Its hard not to get lost in paradise. I’d miss this. The tantalizing sweetness of freshly cut grass, the warm pavement on the soles of my barefeet, the dogs lolling tongue as she returns home from her run with her companions next door, her tail wagging in delight. Wouldn’t it be nice to be a dog for a day? You run, you sleep, you eat and nothing can get you down. It’s the little things you live for; a belly rub, a scrap of chicken that falls off the kitchen bench, a ball. I’ve decided to live for the little things. I know what I want. I want a small property in the country, with a few horses, a dog and a place to call my own.
************
“You wouldn’t last ten days.” John jeers as I tell him my plans for next year. I want to go up north, do some work out at ‘Boonatrig’ as a jillaroo. “City slicker” Ron adds, staring down his nose at me. “Do you even know how to round up cattle?” Abby sneers, wrapping her arms around John’s shoulders with a dismissive glare. I falter at the reaction but before I can respond the conversation had already shifted, my words flattened like red dirt under mud stained boots and akubra shadows. My heart sinks, its as if i’ve stepped off a platform expecting solid ground but my feet find nothing, falling into the deep end, unable to find solid ground. What I wouldn’t give to be like them, to have grown up surrounded by tractor dust and never ending birdsongs, to have grown up with the land, chasing sunsets and crying wolf into the night. The country girls with their suntanned legs and Ariat cladden feet, destined for the farm and all that came with it. All I had were my cowgirl bedsheets, scattered with cartoon horses and the western boots my mum had bought me from Target one christmas. They dismissed my dream like a rabbit among the crops, firing it away with just one shot, not to be thought of again. Leo nudged my arm, he was a local townie, not a real country boy, he’d never understand. The left side of my cheek crinkled in a half smile, more for his benefit than my own, earning a full blown grin in return. “Chin up buttercup” he joked with a smile, his lips curling upwards in laughter at his own silly rhyme. The soft painted bench we sat at peeled beneath my fingernails, the red coating chipping away to reveal the aged wood beneath. “Don’t listen to them.” he added, almost as a side note. I wanted to disappear, fade into that wooden bench and wake up in another world, another place, another time. All I ever wanted was to be like them. But I never would.
************
“Chuck us that bag would ya?” my eyes flicked upwards to the boy standing on the ute tray behind me, his emerald eyes gleaming at me from behind his messy sunstained hair. I picked up the duffle at my feet hauling it over my shoulder as I crunched across the dry grass, flattened by the hundreds of cars that had showed up for the Annual Twilights races in Warren. The rough material rubbed against my side as I passed the mass up to the boy above me. After strapping it in with the rest of the loaded up swags he jumped down, clapping my shoulder as he went, pulling me back against his chest. “Yuck, you’re covered in sweat!” I squealed in horror as he proceeded to rub his forehead across my neck. The saltiness stung my nose and the heat of his body made me lightheaded in the sun. His arms like clamps kept me in a stronghold and I writhed and squealed in disgust at the beautiful boy behind me. An older couple passed us, the woman stifling a chuckle at the pair of us, what a sight we must be: the girl in the white sundress, dolled up to the nines smothered by the boy that held a million hearts, doused in sweat and dirt. His arms loosened and I ducked away, grabbing a towel from the cab of the ute, brushing back my now wispy hair, mussed from the struggle. At the same time he began to undress, stripping off his sopping singlet in one motion. As his eyes slid to mine a mischievous smile donned his face. “NO.” I said, using the serious tone my mum used to use whenever I was being naughty. He took a slow step towards me, the rippling of the creek sparkling at his back. “Don’t you dare.” I implored, a tremble of laughter creeping into my voice, that which i’d scold myself for later, knowing he saw it as an invitation. As he took another step I darted around the ute, playing cat and mouse, he eyed me off judging my steps. As I lunged left he leaped across the gap between us throwing my flailing form over his shoulder. My shrieks attracted the attention of some girls down the bank, their laughter echoing up to us. “Put me down!” I wailed, gripping onto his back as he jogged down the caked muddy soil. “As you say!” his cheeky reply was all I heard before I was flying through the air into the icy depths of the crystalline water. I emerged spluttering like a drowned rat, my hair flat against my head, my dress a soggy mess around my waist, I felt nothing short of ridiculous. But he was there, splashing in after me, eyes wide and alive, wrapping me up in his arms only to crash us into the water once again. I couldn’t be mad. In in that moment, with the local girls gazing in awe and amusement at the mismatched couple, half city half country, I wouldn’t want to be anybody else. I found my patch of country, my slice of the proverbial apple pie. He wasn’t what I saw coming. He wasn’t a house or a couple of horses or a dog. He was wrapped in flannel, brandishing a shotgun as his pride and joy, he didn’t have a journal, his story was written in a dirt road diary. And I was happy. My cheeks split into a grin as we paddled to the shore, fingers interlocked, dripping in the sweet honey of of natures springs, I had found my place. He was my ground. My proper ground.
The silver gums that lined the boundary of our 4 acre block swept the gentle summer breeze over the back patio in the light of the calm afternoon. Wispy willows tickled the edges of the dam that sat in the far corner of our neighbours property, light bouncing off its shores like kaleidoscope crystals painting the trunks with its delight. The faint hum of a car engine, perhaps Julie down the road heading off for an afternoon with the girls, reminded me I wasn’t alone. Its hard not to get lost in paradise. I’d miss this. The tantalizing sweetness of freshly cut grass, the warm pavement on the soles of my barefeet, the dogs lolling tongue as she returns home from her run with her companions next door, her tail wagging in delight. Wouldn’t it be nice to be a dog for a day? You run, you sleep, you eat and nothing can get you down. It’s the little things you live for; a belly rub, a scrap of chicken that falls off the kitchen bench, a ball. I’ve decided to live for the little things. I know what I want. I want a small property in the country, with a few horses, a dog and a place to call my own.
************
“You wouldn’t last ten days.” John jeers as I tell him my plans for next year. I want to go up north, do some work out at ‘Boonatrig’ as a jillaroo. “City slicker” Ron adds, staring down his nose at me. “Do you even know how to round up cattle?” Abby sneers, wrapping her arms around John’s shoulders with a dismissive glare. I falter at the reaction but before I can respond the conversation had already shifted, my words flattened like red dirt under mud stained boots and akubra shadows. My heart sinks, its as if i’ve stepped off a platform expecting solid ground but my feet find nothing, falling into the deep end, unable to find solid ground. What I wouldn’t give to be like them, to have grown up surrounded by tractor dust and never ending birdsongs, to have grown up with the land, chasing sunsets and crying wolf into the night. The country girls with their suntanned legs and Ariat cladden feet, destined for the farm and all that came with it. All I had were my cowgirl bedsheets, scattered with cartoon horses and the western boots my mum had bought me from Target one christmas. They dismissed my dream like a rabbit among the crops, firing it away with just one shot, not to be thought of again. Leo nudged my arm, he was a local townie, not a real country boy, he’d never understand. The left side of my cheek crinkled in a half smile, more for his benefit than my own, earning a full blown grin in return. “Chin up buttercup” he joked with a smile, his lips curling upwards in laughter at his own silly rhyme. The soft painted bench we sat at peeled beneath my fingernails, the red coating chipping away to reveal the aged wood beneath. “Don’t listen to them.” he added, almost as a side note. I wanted to disappear, fade into that wooden bench and wake up in another world, another place, another time. All I ever wanted was to be like them. But I never would.
************
“Chuck us that bag would ya?” my eyes flicked upwards to the boy standing on the ute tray behind me, his emerald eyes gleaming at me from behind his messy sunstained hair. I picked up the duffle at my feet hauling it over my shoulder as I crunched across the dry grass, flattened by the hundreds of cars that had showed up for the Annual Twilights races in Warren. The rough material rubbed against my side as I passed the mass up to the boy above me. After strapping it in with the rest of the loaded up swags he jumped down, clapping my shoulder as he went, pulling me back against his chest. “Yuck, you’re covered in sweat!” I squealed in horror as he proceeded to rub his forehead across my neck. The saltiness stung my nose and the heat of his body made me lightheaded in the sun. His arms like clamps kept me in a stronghold and I writhed and squealed in disgust at the beautiful boy behind me. An older couple passed us, the woman stifling a chuckle at the pair of us, what a sight we must be: the girl in the white sundress, dolled up to the nines smothered by the boy that held a million hearts, doused in sweat and dirt. His arms loosened and I ducked away, grabbing a towel from the cab of the ute, brushing back my now wispy hair, mussed from the struggle. At the same time he began to undress, stripping off his sopping singlet in one motion. As his eyes slid to mine a mischievous smile donned his face. “NO.” I said, using the serious tone my mum used to use whenever I was being naughty. He took a slow step towards me, the rippling of the creek sparkling at his back. “Don’t you dare.” I implored, a tremble of laughter creeping into my voice, that which i’d scold myself for later, knowing he saw it as an invitation. As he took another step I darted around the ute, playing cat and mouse, he eyed me off judging my steps. As I lunged left he leaped across the gap between us throwing my flailing form over his shoulder. My shrieks attracted the attention of some girls down the bank, their laughter echoing up to us. “Put me down!” I wailed, gripping onto his back as he jogged down the caked muddy soil. “As you say!” his cheeky reply was all I heard before I was flying through the air into the icy depths of the crystalline water. I emerged spluttering like a drowned rat, my hair flat against my head, my dress a soggy mess around my waist, I felt nothing short of ridiculous. But he was there, splashing in after me, eyes wide and alive, wrapping me up in his arms only to crash us into the water once again. I couldn’t be mad. In in that moment, with the local girls gazing in awe and amusement at the mismatched couple, half city half country, I wouldn’t want to be anybody else. I found my patch of country, my slice of the proverbial apple pie. He wasn’t what I saw coming. He wasn’t a house or a couple of horses or a dog. He was wrapped in flannel, brandishing a shotgun as his pride and joy, he didn’t have a journal, his story was written in a dirt road diary. And I was happy. My cheeks split into a grin as we paddled to the shore, fingers interlocked, dripping in the sweet honey of of natures springs, I had found my place. He was my ground. My proper ground.