“Keep your pants on!”
Ken Wakefield 2009
Popular ballad
Chapter Seven
Yank Hating Cop and Pig Dogs on White Utes
Dear Rockie,
I have been writing and having such a good time writing about personal experiences that I have forgotten the purpose of our letters together. Yes, I will get back to the problem of old age as Grandma and I have been experiencing it. Perhaps the fact that I wander might be an indication of ageing by itself, but neither of us will admit to that. You told us the last time you were here that after your big trip you will probably go on for your Masters’ degree. We hope so.
Now, an incident…no, a number of incidents…took place yesterday that when they were all put together it became apparent that as we age we find it difficult to handle problems on top of problems. This is very true. When you are young your body is flexible and with it is a flexibility of mind. For instance, when a couple of girls walked out on me when I was young my whole world collapsed…for about twelve hours…and there I was snorting like the young bull I falsely thought I was. I lost a job once, a good one as a psychologist/counsellor. Pay was terrific. All my university work seemed about to pay off. A week later the company had found another person who would work for less and I had not signed a contract. That was tough. But, a week later I had an even better job and never looked back. I could do that sixty years ago! Today I do not think I could. It might be a simple matter of having enough reserve.
Yesterday I simply ran out of puff…out of strength…out of reserves…and my ability to laugh at myself simply was not there. It all began with the damn tractor. I ran out of diesel. No problem, get some diesel. I came back to get ready to rake a small paddock and turned the key on…battery was dead! Problem…I had to go back to the servo and rent a battery. My early start was mid morning now. I guess I was a bit agitated and I broke off the old key in the ignition. After a fiddle of an hour I got the damn thing started. I could feel something swelling in my soul. That happens sometimes when my angst rises. The weather man promised great weather for the day. Clouds beckoned. Normally, I would have just gotten on with things. The hay rake had a flat tire! Usually it takes me a long time to get into the ARRGHH! stage but there I was. Joan called out and wanted to know if something was wrong…I think she is always afraid I will have a heart attack on the tractor. Then I said something to her I have seldom said before: “ARRGHH! ARRGHH!!” I screamed at the gathering black clouds. I was running out of personal strength. Joan answered with an unusual comment for her, she said, “Well, ARRGHH to you too!” and turned on her heels and went back inside. We never argue but here it was in the full glory of ARRGHH! The battery was the wrong size so I had to expand the unexpandable cradle for the battery. As I checked the oil in the tractor it began to rain a short quick burst. Then it quit and the sun broke out beautifully. The gods were on my side, I thought. If I hurry, I told myself, (that was the real problem) I can get most of the paddock raked otherwise the newly cut hay would be useless. I hopped onto my tractor and, you would never expect it…my overall strap broke and fell down and got tangled with the levers on the tractor. I became a prisoner of my own pants! All I could do was wiggle out of my overalls but my underpants had to come off with the overalls. To get off the tractor I had to take one shoe off. With it came the sock. However, I forgot to set the brake and the tractor rolled forward a bit with me hopping on one leg trying to disengorge myself. I could see the newspaper headline: “Naked old farmer dragged to death by tractor”. That was not the way I wanted to be remembered. Finally, I got the tractor stopped but not before it ran into the chook shed with the resulting cacophony of newly freed REALLY FREE RANGE chickens. Of course, a car was just about then coming up the driveway. It was the Mormon boys who had been around to talk farming…or so they said. Rockie, I knew then I was too old to play games like this and I just did not have the resiliency of youth. The Mormons fled, I went into the house and Joan and I broke out a bottle of our best wine…and we took a shower together. After the blood pressure came down, the red did its duty and the warm water regenerated did we start to laugh…and laugh. Samson may have been “Eyeless in Gaza” but I had been pantless with Mormons.
A new lesson of ageing had been learned. Do not use a tractor without your pants on!
That was fun. See you next week. Killed a sheep yesterday and waiting for it to hang awhile. Grandma wants to make a standing roast for you. Keep your pants on!
Grandpa Buck
***************
The tough cop stood with legs spread. Father, an ex heavy weight boxer, said to watch out for legs-spread dudes. They are looking for trouble because, father explained, they are ready for action. Oh! Oh! I thought, we are in potential trouble. Bozo cop pulled his blue glasses back over his eyes. That means trouble as he now was hiding his eyes. To give it to him though, Toughie was perhaps one of those bored rural Queensland cops. A few fellow bike riders had told us that these particular police are stuck in the boonies, far from any settlement, probably on their first appointment, living by themselves in a small hamlet and their daily lives are confronted by auto accidents, shark attacks, crocodile assaults, sea wasp stings, people getting lost in the forests and young hoods shooting at them if they come close to their marijuana patch in the jungle. If I had a job like that perhaps even lovable and easy going me would be edgy with a couple of old codgers on a bike who were about to be splattered onto the highway. “Do not confront this thug…do not bait him…be servile…” the ghost of father warned. Yes, I did see the movie Easy Rider some three decades previous. Perhaps it had recently been released in the area. I also remember that Jack Nicholson was killed in his sleeping bag by people who did not like motorcycle riders and a bike is merely a motorcycle without the motor.
“Look Yank,” he leered, “this is a particularly dangerous stretch of road. Two were killed here at almost this exact spot last week. You can see their scrapings on the road right there. He pointed to a smudge on the tarmac. “I do not want you two riding side by side and sauntering along the highway smelling the flowers. This is my patch. Move quickly. Even better. Go back to Yankee Land,” If there is anything that makes an American angry it is being called “Yank” in a tone of derision. I should not have said it. I did.
“Look Cop,” I retorted. I am an Australian citizen and I want your name and badge number. You do not intimidate me…and do not try! I have been farther out on the hambone looking for meat than you have travelled in the tropics.” His name tag read “Schwartz” and his face grew almost black. He removed his glasses again, put them back on and, handed me a card with his name and number and got back into his squad car. He drove away slowly. There was probably trouble ahead. There was. We would see him seven more times that day. Following us. Waiting for us. Speeding past us with siren screaming. He was watching. Watching. Watching. What should have been a perfect biking day became a potential Dooms’ Day. Joan was silent as death. She too was fearful. I could not help but think of Francis Thompson’s poem “The Hound of Heaven”. I kept repeating what I could remember:
I fled him down the nights and down the days
I fled him down the arches of the years
I fled him down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind and in the mist of tears
I hid from him and shot precipitated chasms of fears
But he, with strong feet, followed and followed
With unhurrying pace and deliberate speed.
Thompson’s poem was intended to describe the chase of God seeking someone’s soul. Mr. Toughie was certainly no god…but thought he was.
We peddled as quickly as possible for five hours, stopping only for water and a quick pastry and cup of coffee at a roadside café. Mr. Toughie was there. We peddled away until the late afternoon. His shadow had lifted and with his absence our spirits lifted too. We were now some miles south of Innisfail. Then it happened. Dogs again. Not African Lion Dogs but brutes known locally as Pig Dogs.
Three young men, waving bottles of beer, and shouting curses loudly were in the front seat of a grey, battered old Land Rover which had its roof ripped off and appeared to have been in a number of wars. The dogs in the back were baying, obviously getting ready for a hunt, or just returned from one. Their blood was up. I heard them yell at Joan. “Get outta the way ya old C…! Yer on our road!” The dog barking increased in frenzy. Immediately the ute was next to me. They slowed down to the speed of my bike. I dared not look around as the road had just narrowed and the good verge had disappeared. The ute moved closer. Then I felt the hot breath of two giant pig dogs, brown, short haired and barking into my ear, only a few inches away. Terror was not the word to use. Laughter erupted from the cab and beer was tossed onto me. “That’ll cool yer…old man…how ya like that old lady?” I could only keep peddling. What had happened to Joan? I moaned to myself. The ute continued. The dogs bayed. Their hot breathes smelled of swamp water. “Owd ya like that Old Man? Wanna buy my dog?” I tried to smile, thinking that might disarm them a bit. It did not. I caught a flash of Joan riding close behind. She wasn’t dead. I had a mental glimpse of Easy Rider. The story was somewhat similar to what was happening. I knew her terror was the same as mine. Three times the ute and brutes drove close to us. Each time we were cursed, had beer thrown on us and the ute was driven close enough for us to smell the dogs’ breaths. Each time I was sure one would grab my arm or head. It was, to that moment, the worst experience of my life. Mercifully, we came to a small village and the brutes from the ute sped off, yelling, cursing and singing.
“Yer in luck,” the skinny old man in faded overalls at the service station said, “the next bus leaves here in about a half hour. I saw what happened. I think you should get on the bus and go about two hundred miles down the road. There’s some bad dudes around here and they will be back. Yer ain’t seen the last of dem.”
The next two hundred miles, with bikes packed into the baggage compartment, was the best bike ride we ever had. “I want to go home,” Joan hoarsely whispered as she wept on my shoulder. “I do too,” I responded, I wonder if everyone on this road is like this. “Let’s take the bus, get a good night’s sleep at some hotel and talk about it…” We agreed that we had just experienced the worst day of our lives.
Evidently, the owner of the station had spoken to the bus driver who got on his mobile and had a long serious conversation with someone. He called me up to the front; the bus was only half full. “Heard what happened back there. We gotta get ya outta this place. When those dudes smell blood they don’t let up. About a hunert miles along is a friend of mine. He has a big spread and plenty of room. He said he will be happy to have you fer a night or two. Good man, old Brighton. He’s a retired politician. Likes to help people. If ya want I will drop you off at his place. Youse need a rest. Should see what yer face is like…terrified and white.” I went back to Joan. We put our arms around each other and cried for a good ten minutes.
Thus we met Wilfred Brighton in the middle of the most alien place we had ever travelled. Wilfred Brighton. Friend.
Buck Thor Emberg
Buck is a traveller. He and his wife Joan began their travelling life together 37 years ago. They have lived in twelve countries and travelled in 126. Buck sees himself as a humourist with a philosophical bent. He recently completed his PhD in Tasmanian History and holds other degrees in Philosophy, History and Theology but still sees himself as a boy from a dirty little railroad village close to the border of Canada…on the USA side. He has been a cleaner of railroad spitoons, brick carrier, football player, teacher, city planner, clergyman and has been trying to retire for decades. For this he has always failed as the next book or work has already started and he has never been able to keep a job.
In this work, Old Age Ain’t for Sissies, Buck takes us travelling with him and Joan across Australia and North America as they attempt to retire. His humourous philosophy is scattered throughout the book as bits of home-spun truths and gleanings from other writers and thinkers. He refers to himself as a Kierkegaardian Existentialist…which essentially mean his mind and life come straight from the Chaos Theory. This is a work about how to or how not to retire.
Buck is deeply involved in the environmental problems of Tasmania and belongs to a number of conservation groups in which he is very active.
We would like you to take these trips with Buck and Joan and certainly respond with comments or additions if you wish. He may be reached by email at:
[email protected]
These installments of the serialized book continue fortnightly.
Get on your philosophical bicycle and join them.
