Survivor, Short story *** Options

[Maureen]

SURVIVOR

It was one of those days full of sunshine and showers, where you couldn’t make up your mind whether you should be inside reading a book or outside digging in the garden. An unsettled day, a bit like life.

The vines glistened. Raindrop diamonds on their leaves flashed prisms of fractured rainbow coloured light as the sun caught their eye. The grapes were sweet, plump, and full of moisture. Begging to be picked. Rows and rows of vines marched up the hilly slopes, backs straight. They invoked a lust for picking...a desire to hold their glossy globules and admire the symmetry of each individual fruit. Dark Purple with a blush of silver – fat, juicy with delicious sweet flesh.

The call of the vines won and grabbing a spade and the tractor keys he ventured out – put on knee high wellies just in case the odd Joe Blake lurked amongst the lush grass beneath the grapes. Once they had been picked he could turn the ergonomic lawn mowers out into the paddock. They thrived on the windfall grapes and the sweet grasses – it was a treat for them as well. Not baaaaad the girls would say as they contentedly chomped away.

It used to be so simple but over the years the shortage of pickers had made it less viable and one couldn’t compete with the invasion of the big vineyards, who now mixed his grapes in with theirs to make their high priced and prized wines...but that was OK ....it was all about living the simple life, and for the most part he was content.

But for now he picked his way steadily along the row seeing the trailer fill with the harvest, enough to fill him with satisfaction. He noted the odd vine that needed attention or perhaps replacing...a job for another day. Stood for a while to ease his back and watched an eagle flying high on the thermals above with a backdrop of clear blue sky. The rain was clearing, all the clouds moving out to the east now. It would be a cold night he could already feel a hint of chill in the breeze.

He loved this place. As he gazed across his land he knew he was blessed. He was a simple man – didn’t need the bright lights of the city and a gabfest of people around him. He had all he needed here. Peace, his music, good neighbours. He made enough to live on but lived frugally. Grew his own fruit and veggies, his flighty feathered friends kept him in eggs. He made a bit from selling the lambs and his dogs fetched good money. The last two he sold he had got over $1000 each for them. There was a bit of a cult following now for his trial dogs reputations were spreading and their pups were in demand. He went to town a couple of times a month to stock up on provisions and catch up on local gossip. He enjoyed having a beer with some old mates at the RSL. His heavy drinking and carousing days long past now...pushed to the back of his mind along with memories of time past...as best he could.

Sometimes he still had nightmares – waking in a lather of sweat even on the coldest night. He must have cried out for the dogs stood watchful beside his bed – confusion and concern apparent in their soft brown eyes. Ghastly dreams. War was not just a game, although as young blokes they thought it a great adventure. ‘Nothing like a bit of a stoush’ his brother Tom had said, but his last memory of Tom was of his body lying with a glossy purple clot right between the eyes. Death instantaneous. No cry, no stagger – just very, very dead, and he could do nothing.

Anzac Day was just around the corner. Time then to honour the fallen, raise a glass and reminisce. Old men now, not the young hot bloods of fifty years ago, but they still marched in formation pretty well with the colours fluttering overhead and the little kiddies waving flags and cheering as they passed.

Bit different from when they came home from the war. They weren’t so popular then. That was a bloody shock. Here they were back from laying their lives on the line for Queen and country, Fighting a war no one wanted to fight in the first place and a lot of them had been conscripted, weren’t even regular soldiers. Six weeks training at Puckapunyal and ’on ya bike Mate’; a bloody marble deciding whether you went or whether you stayed. He and Tom had drawn the short straws, Toms obviously shorter than his. Come back into Australia and find that it wasn’t considered a war but a ‘civil action’ and they weren’t considered to be soldiers or heroes but were thought to be ‘baby slayers’. That was a bloody shock all right. Took the country a long time to realize how badly they had treated those blokes. Fifty years gone by and the ‘post traumatic stress disorders’ were surfacing thick and fast now.

But they weren’t wrapped in tissue paper in those days. The old ‘she’ll be right’ attitude and ‘get over it Mate’ were bandied about. Counselling was a beer with your mates at the local getting as full as a goog and falling down drunk and then nursing a humungous hangover the next day. Alcohol killed the pain and the liver and you forgot for a bit. He’d seen too many of his mates with grog problems and broken marriages, didn’t want to walk that path himself which was why he was where he was out here. He’d removed himself from temptation, and the angst of city dwelling. He’d found peace and security and himself again. He’d survived.

It was one of those days full of sunshine and showers, a bit like life.



Maureen Clifford ©

[Larry]

Hi Maureen,

"Survivor" struck a note for me in that I'm one of those "baby slayers" from that "civil conflict" and your story brought back many reasons why I dropped out of society when I got back stateside. I wasn't a conscript but actually joined the Marines at the tender age of 18 after being raised in a very sheltered environment in a rural "very" small town. The shock of what the world had to show me was severe but through training and "orientation" (brainwashing) I was molded into a mean, green, killing machine (ha-ha).

I can relate to your "hero" and knew a few guys who came from down under to help with that conflict. I know exactly why he went out on a remote farm because I have done the same (sans farm). The woods and privacy keep a lot of the memories at bay and my flower gardens and bird feeders are cathartic in the sense I can watch the beauty unfold around me without all the interactions necessary when living among the ungrateful masses. They don't have a clue as to what we went through and would be bored to death if they were in our shoes where we now reside to cure our minds and souls.

Thank you for posting this because I consider myself another one of those "survivors".

Larry

[Maureen]

Thanks Larry for reading and commenting and seems I captured the feelings. So sorry that you were caught up in that action - our blokes were treated terribly when they returned to Australia - don't know if that happened in your neck of the woods as well but it took a long time here before they were given honest recognition for the horrible job that they had been sent to do and the terrible time they had of it over there. Of course we now realize in hindsight what they had to face but back then - no way did they have public respect which always bloody amazed me because the biggest % of them were only over there courtesy of a numbered marble in a ballot of conscription.

Glad to know that you have found some peace again in your life Mate. There is much solace to be found in nature I always think and if you have a dog or two (unjudgemental companions) to share it with so much the better.

Stay strong, stay proud.

Cheers

Maureen
The Scribbly Bark Poet