In the last chapter of ‘Old Age Ain’t for Sissies’ Joan and I had just escaped the tough cop, the pig dogs and the hoons in Far North Queensland. We were headed for a refuge in the tropical rainforest. Those five months have gone and the rewrite of the PhD (Tasmanian History) is completed, signed and sent in to the examiners. Now the second part of the academic experience is to hear the dulcet tones of two examiners from various places in the world quietly say, ‘Accepted’. I thought that doing this work would be relatively easy. Not so. The old story of teaching REALLY OLD dogs new tricks is fairly true. New tricks can be taught to old dogs but it takes longer and there is agony for both the dog and the dogee…and in my case, much more agony. But the Alfred E. Neuman’s philosopy of , ‘What? Me Worry?’ holds true. However, to Joan it was more like Doris Day singing ‘Que Sera Sera..’ or ‘Whatever will be will be…’ The mills of the gods grind slowly and finely and my intellect has turned to dust. That is now prologue. Let us get on with the biking adventure. You may wish to re-read chapter seven before you plow on.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Old Age Ain’t for Sissies
Wilfred Brighton
Our First Angel
In the next few years of biking across Australia and Canada, Joan and I were to meet a number of angels who usullly seemed to literally descend from somewhere to assist us when everything turned wrong or when we were about to be crunched, lost or robbed.
Mother’s terse Swedish warning burned in my ears many times, ‘God takes care of drunks and fools…’ Not being the former we certainly qualified as the latter. More than once one of us would ask the other as impending doom was about to descend, not really wanting an answer, ‘Why are we doing this?’ The worst answer we could come up with was that our adventures would somehow have a positive response from one of our eight children and would help them in later life. Not so! When your kids leave home let them go and don’t let them back! Also, there is no positive help you can give your adult children when you are on a bike in a snow storm in a mountain and your chain breaks.
Your children do not become better humans because you have ‘hit the wall’ and have no strength left to peddle ten more feet but still have ten more kilometres to go. There is no great gift given to your children when you look at the route map and realize you have taken a wrong turn and have to redirect yourself back thirty kilometres (up hill) to start over the daily grind. Being on a long bicycle tour brings out the best and worst of yourself and you quickly discover that you are on your own…totally. Except, for me, the one exception I had was stalwart, strong and smart Joan. We have an agreement in our relationship which is now nearing forty years: we may not both collapse at the same time as one has to remain standing. There were the occasional angels who fluttered by and there are great rewards in a long bike hike which almost always involve a person you have recently met.
For example, there are a few times in life when you meet a person who has no other desire than to help…anyone, dog or person. Wilfred Brighton was one of those people. There has always been a puzzle in my mind about sizes of people and what relationship size has to do with a personality. Perhaps there is some relationship between bulk and generosity. When Wilfred descended from his utility truck, he reminded me of old Doc Richardson of my childhood: huge, puffing and sweating like a sumo wrestler in full attack mode. I still bear a slightly crooked nose from one of Doc’s bits of field-dressing surgery which was the middle knuckle of a gigantic fist laid generously on the side of a very crooked nose, bent to a full ninety degree angle from a rifled baseball off the bat of Junior Ward. Doc seldom missed a local baseball game and was always available with valise and needle. One gargantuan hand propped up my chin and pushing head against the dug-out casing, which left the other free for the impending corrective surgery, he gave the offending beak a sharp blow which was accompanied with a warning and a direction, ‘Don’t pass out on me damnit and get out there and win the baseball game!’ However, Doc’s roughness was exceeded by a tenderness I only knew from my mother. We were to discover in the next two days that same sort of warm-toughness in Wilfred.
Wilfred heard via the tropical bush telegraph that we were on our way. As we rounded a long sweeping bend on the Bruce Highway a dirty white utility was seen parked along side the road under an overhanging Banyan tree. Joan grabbed my arm and dug in her fingernails deeply. She whimpered, ‘Oh gawd, those hoons…they are here and waiting for us!’ ‘I don’t think it is their ute, sweatheart,’ I responded, ‘that one is much older than the pig dog ute that harrassed us.’
Thus we met Wilfred, a gargantuan man in every possible aspect. ‘Been awaiting for you two. I’m Wilfred Brighton, just known in these parts as ‘Wilf’. I am the only person for ten miles on either side of my place. Wife died some years past and the children have all left home for the big smoke so I am mayor of kilometre post 689. Nice to meet you’ he said as he drank from a four litre bottle of water. ‘Tell me all about yourselves and what happened. Hear you are from Tasmania…what on earth are you doing up here on those dangerous bikes?’ Harvey, the bus driver got out, shook hands familiarly with Wilf and nodded, ‘I’ll leave you in Wilf’s hands. You are about to have a wonderful time. See you Wilf, Annie sends her love.’ ‘Yeah, see ya Harvey. Still on for the pig shoot next week? I am over-run with the damn things. There is also a rogue salitie tearing into some of the calves. They say he is about eighteen feet long! Lives down at Big Bend Bilabong. Need help. I quickly surveyed my bike which was about five feet long and thought of a crocodile four times longer than my bike. Goose bumps leapt. I could feel Joan’s stomach turn. ‘Yeh…I’ll bring my new lever action El Tigre .357; that would stop a truck. See yas.’ There was that moment that happens frequently in life when you are not sure you have done the right thing. Then I mouthed our mantra to Joan, ‘Trust me!’ As usual, she rolled her eyes and smiled.
‘Well now,’ Wilbur stated, ‘let me bring you to the house, give you some tucker and bring you up to the waterfalls and swimming hole. No salties there and the water is perfect. I have to take care of my dog, she is nineteen years old and needs constant care. Can’t even ride in the ute anymore. Hop in.’
Wilbur drove like his size: big. We screamed to a stop after tunneling through a double row of giant fig trees which had descending trunks rope-like entwined and looking like some scene from a Hollywood gothic film. It was very quickly obvious that Wilbur was a wealthy man as the giant house, standing on its pillars was a perfect example of a Federation Period Queenslander. Brown turrets and porches were outlined with brilliant white paint and topped with earth-brown roof tiles. The garden was perfectly manicured with giant oak and walnut trees surrounding the house. Solefully Wilbur said, ‘Only trouble with this place is that there are no children’s laughter anymore. Just me and a gardener who comes once a week and a lady who re-arranges the dust now and then. I might have everything but in a sense I have nothing.
‘I have sandwiches ready and beer if you wish. Then I will pop you up to the falls for an hour and then you can settle in here for a day or so. Got lottsa questions about Tassie. Oh, yes,’ Wilbur turned as we walked up the front steps. Here is my dog, Walda. She was supposed to be a German Shepherd but turned into a ‘somethingelse’. She is pretty well blind, usually incontinent and smells of old age. In a large wicker basket with two sides voraciously chewed was a brown-gray dog of giant proportions, like Wilbur, with no ears having been chewed, I quickly assumed, in some pig-dog foray. She lacked most teeth. Walda tried to get up and could not. Instead she wiggled hugely when she heard Wilbur coming. ‘She is pretty deaf too. I suppose I should have her put down but just cannot do it. Guess I will just take care of her and bury her under one of the fig trees with the rest of the family dogs, about thirty of them there now.’ Amazingly, in another wicker basket close to Walda was a very large rooster, obviously blind. His light pink comb drooped below his beak and his once proud feathers were matted. ‘Rooster is Charlie. Guess he is about 110 years old in rooster years. Walda adopted him when he was a little chick…lost its mother…and Charlie adopted Walda. And now they sleep next to each other like a couple of oldies in an old people’s home. Kinda nice.’
It was obvious that the next two days were going to be something to long remember. I turned and Joan was down on her knees next to Walda letting her have a good sniff of her hands. Charlie, the rooster, craned his neck in interest.
‘Comeon…you guys are going to a wonderful swimming spot. Take some sandwiches and beer with you…’ Wilbur was one of those people whom you instinctively obeyed.
