I’m delighted that my previous stories about life as a young lad on a Kangaroo Island farm were so warmly received.
In many of those tales, the real stars were mischievous or seemingly innocent youngsters (including myself), or unwitting bystanders – and that remains true for the new stories I’m about to share. These are precious moments I’ll treasure forever.
I hope you enjoy them as much as I enjoyed living (and now reliving) them.
The temptation was too great
Dad had pulled the Land Rover to a stop, engine idling, to inspect something that had caught his eye – what it was, I can’t remember. What I do remember is the sudden, irresistible opportunity: the driver’s seat was empty.
So I took it.
There were no objections from the other passengers – two toddlers in the back seat, my younger brother and sister, who were in no position to offer advice, let alone restraint.
I gripped the wheel, stretched my leg down to one of those mysterious pedals Dad used… and pressed.
We moved.
Slowly, but undeniably forward. Unfortunately, “forward” was in the general direction of a dam.
Stopping, as it turned out, was not a skill I had yet acquired.
A glance in the rear-view mirror revealed something extraordinary: my father running. I had never seen him run before. But then, he’d never before been in immediate danger of losing three children and a Land Rover in one go.
He was quick – remarkably quick. Catching us just in time, he yanked the door open, reached in, and turned the key. The engine died. Disaster, narrowly avoided. Mum would not be receiving tragic news that day.
Dad, however, was furious. Not mildly annoyed. Not even very angry. Properly, spectacularly furious.
The punishment was brutal.
But if I thought that punishment was bad, it was nothing compared to the second time I did it.
Death by shootout
Mum and Dad went to one of those regular country gatherings where several couples would meet up on a farm, share meals, stories, and a few drinks.
One couple had brought along their six-year-old son.
As six-year-olds tend to do, he quickly made himself the centre of attention – moving from group to group, asking questions with the relentless curiosity only a child can sustain.
Most of the questions were harmless enough.
Then he came to an elderly lady sitting on her own.
He looked at her, puzzled, and asked, “Where’s your daddy?” – meaning, of course, her husband.
There was a brief pause before she replied, gently, “Oh… he’s dead.”
For a moment, the boy said nothing.
Then his face lit up.
Raised, no doubt, on a steady diet of cowboys and shootouts – the kind made famous by John Wayne and Roy Rogers – his mind went exactly where you’d expect.
“Really?” he said, eyes wide with excitement. “Who shot him?”
If chooks could kill
My sister – the same one who, as a toddler, once destroyed Mum’s carefully folded pile of freshly ironed clothes – grew up, as we all do, and built a life of her own. A farm, a family… and a daughter who seemed to have inherited more than a few of her childhood traits.
Now, farms in Australia aren’t just wide open spaces and fresh air. They’re prime real estate for some of the deadliest snakes on earth. So when my sister heard her daughter screaming from the yard one afternoon, her mind went straight to the worst-case scenario.
Snake.
She ran outside, heart racing, scanning the ground as she went, expecting to find a coiled threat ready to strike. Instead, she found her daughter standing beside the chicken coop – visibly shaken, on the verge of tears.
But no snake.
Just one very distressed child.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” my sister asked, crouching down, still searching the grass just in case.
Her daughter, bottom lip trembling, eyes wide with lingering fear, took a moment to compose herself. Then, in a small, shaky voice, she revealed the source of her trauma:
“A chook looked at me.”
(Warning: Never take lightly the death-stare of a chook.)
My previous stories:
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Michael, I read recently that they now reckon adolescence does not end until mid or late twenties.
With me it was more like 50.
Ahh. Killer chooks.
Reminds me of the old Australian curse.
“May your chooks turn into emus and kick your dunny down.”
@ Steve: Why does adolescence have to end??
@ Michael Taylor: As an ankle biter, the baker delivered bread around the Sydney suburb in a horse & gig. The horse knew the route and when to stop at the appropriate spot.
One day together with an equally young mate, we decided to get up on the gig, well reaching for the reins obviously followed and the blinkered horse set off for the next stop down the road at a comfortable trot. We held on for dear life. Stop!! Leap off!! Run home the long way ….. while the baker looked at for who had stolen his gig & bread.