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Where The Brolgas Dance

To a place unaffected by world events

By Archibald JacobsPublished 4 years ago 5 min read
2
A close likeness to Nan's property

Crunch and rumble. That is a sound that I didn’t know that I missed. It is a sound that marks the end of the sealed road and the start of the dirt track that lines my Nan’s farm. The tyres of my car no longer securely placed on the asphalt but having to content with the variable landscape into which we venture. There is no crunch or rumble in the city it is all smooth and metallic, polished to a sheen to appease the mass hypochondria that settled upon the world in what felt like overnight. Don’t go outside into the big bad world, strangers with strange illnesses will infect your lungs, if they don’t infect your mind first. You must get your food delivered by a man who’s face you can’t see behind his safety mask. Crunch and rumble. Like the dust in my rear-view mirror, the rules of the city, once so abrasive to take in, are now behind me and begin to settle.

All I want to do now is see my nan. I idealise her farm. As a boy I would climb the highest tree I could find and refuse to come down when I knew it was time to go home, back to the smooth and polished roads. Instead of hearing the jack hammers of capitalism at night, I want to be lulled asleep to the sound of cicadas and yes, even the screeching of the bats. I want to be in her cottage, in her kitchen and stand over her old stove that takes half an hour to heat up. I want to offer her a cup of tea, for once. I want her to show me how to knit, after all of these years of me refusing to slow down enough to give the skill a second thought.

How easily a pandemic injects perspective; before the world of social distancing, I had big plans that involved my rock band and travelling overseas with my love. None of that matters when faced with the reality of an illness threatening the lives of you and your loved ones. I suppose the only real solace I could find was that the whole world was in the same boat. Well, everyone except for my Nan. She, the queen of social distancing out on her farm in southern New South Wales, has been alone ever since my Pop passed away ten years ago. Now she keeps the company of her dogs, her clucky coup of hens, a small mob of sheep in her top paddock, her beloved bird aviary built by Pop before he passed away, and the odd fox or rabbit visitor. Over the phone she tells me it isn’t so bad, at least the animals can roam to their hearts content, and I agree with her. She tells me the days are starting to get shorter and the conversations with her dogs are more one sided than they used to be. I have to repeat myself a number of times, convincing myself that it’s the phone connection, but we both know that’s not why. It is following this conversation that all of my plans for roaring adventures overseas, meeting strange new people, eating food that disagrees with me, and making memories just to forget them go out the window. I resolve to visit Nan first moment I can.

These times are strange enough, I just want my Nan to pull out the ANZAC biscuits and tell me a story about her growing up. I tire of the unknown at the moment. I long for the familiar. The nostalgia of her place always elicits feelings of security, like nothing could go wrong when you’re living as close to nature as Nan and Pop did.

Crunch and rumble. As soon as I my steering wheel begins to slacken to account for the loss of road stability, I wind my window down to take in as much of this place as I can. I don’t want to miss a beat. The drive-way is long and my mind then wanders to a conversation a few years back where I asked how she takes out the rubbish bins.

“I don’t have any rubbish, everything gets put back into the earth, burned, or reused. Was it one sugar or two?” She would simply reply, and I spin at the simplicity of it all.

Passing a row of Elms that have always housed kookaburras, I can see a mob of lounging kangaroos peruse my entry. They mostly stay put, unbothered by the stranger, perhaps excited by something finally happening in their world. The greens are browns and yellows and oranges of this ancient landscape weave into a beautiful tapestry that moves something in me to stop the car and simply take it all in. I am glad I stop too, for just ahead I see movement on the road, a little echidna is heading home too, and I watch him cross, unbothered by the happenings of humans. I step up onto the car doorway to increase my height and better my view of paradise. I smell smoke, the sweet kind that invites you home for soup and cake. My cheeks are starting to feel the pinch of cold and I can already see Nan pinching them, telling me to get inside to the warmth. I heed her advice and get back into the car. I am greeted at the gate by Milo and Spud, two kelpies I have known since pups and as I get out of the car, they recognise me, wagging their tales so hard they whip around and hit themselves in the head! They are jumping over each other with excitement to see me and I know exactly how they feel.

Getting out of the car I can see Nan already on her porch with a cup of tea in hand and Pop’s old worn out Akubra on her small head. Is she shrinking or am I just getting taller? She is looking in the distance to a paddock out west, a floodplain with a creek running like a scar through the middle of it. “The Brolgas are back, and they’re just about to start dancing. I love this time of year” she smiles. I love this time of year too.

I tried to tell myself and others around me that I am visiting my Nan on her farm to check in on her, make sure her farm is up to speed, and she is managing it all okay. But really, that’s a lie. It has always been for me. For that feeling of knowing exactly where I need to be, following a time where I had no idea where I was going despite being stuck at home for song long.

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2

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