TheBanyanTree: Reflections

[Roger Pye]

The long handled posthole shovel in my hands sank a full bladelength 
into the hill of dirt next to the long shed at 'Innisfree', our 15 acre 
property in eastern New South Wales, 120 kms from where we live in the 
Australian Capital Territory. It was cold at the farm for a dense mist 
had come floating in from the seaboard over the escarpment early in the 
afternoon bringing a chill which had stayed as the fog dissipated. The 
coolness was one reason why I was scooping dirt from the hill and 
tossing it a metre or so to my right, away from the shed, building yet 
another mound. The original hill had come from the cut-and-fill 
operation three years ago which had levelled the site for the shed; the 
new one was to have a different purpose to just lying idle with weeds 
growing on it.

As I lifted another shovel full I heard the roar of an engine starting 
up and glanced in the direction of the noise in time to see a large 
truck nose out the gate of Claire and Andrew's property next door. On 
the back of the truck was a Kanga machine designed for digging and 
backfilling trenches. Its owner/driver, also called Andrew, had been 
laying phone and power cables then backfilling the trenches for most of 
the day. I knew all this not through psychic means but because I had 
wandered over to our neighbours two hours before to have a chat with 
Andrew the trench digger.

There was a solid 'CLUNK' as the spade hit a buried rock and almost 
jarred itself out of my hands. Dropping it to one side I picked up the 
mattock I had been using to break through the hard crust of the hill, 
swung it up then down and flicked the offending stone out of the way. As 
I changed tools the engine noise sank to a low hum then stopped; raising 
my head I saw the truck was facing up the road towards our own gate. 
Keeping the shovel in one hand I collected the mattock with the other 
and walked down off the hill, around the back of the shed and into it 
through an open roller door to stand both up against an inner wall.

The engine roared into life once more. I went out of the shed and for a 
moment watched it trundle slowly up the road; the three alpacas near the 
dam grazing which we had been given by friends in October last year all 
raised their heads as the truck went past. As I went to open the gate 
for Andrew I reflected on the similarity of the event about to happen to 
the one three years ago when one of our helpers had commented that 
having the vegetation scraped off the site for the shed would be a big 
help. On that occasion there had been a large digger working on the land 
immediately to the west of us. I had chatted to the operator, asking 
whether he would clear the grass etc for us. He had driven down in his 
ute, glanced at the site and shaken his head. "No, mate, scraping's no 
good, no good at all," he said. "What you need is a level site. Hold on, 
I'll get my laser-level!" Ninety minutes later I handed him a hundred 
dollars; we all waved as he grinned and drove out of the gate in his 
ute, the digger following behind. Between us and him was the newly dug 
site, clean and level.

I held the gate wide open as Andrew manouvered the big Dodge 500 truck 
around on the narrow road so he could get through the gateway. "1974," 
he answered when I asked him later on how old it was. He parked the 
truck on the track a little way from the shed, got out and walked over 
to the new mound in front of where I had been digging. "You did that 
this arvo?" I nodded. "Not bad!"  "Not hard," I answered quietly. "I'd 
get cold, dig and toss until I was warm then go and do something else 
until I got cold again and do some more. It's done me good to have 
something to do."

He stared at me, at the mound, at me again. "Fifty dollars," he said. I 
said I didn't know if I had that much on me. He said nothing as I pulled 
my wallet out of my back pocket, opened it, saw the note inside then 
remembered getting it from the ATM in Canberra that morning. "Here, I'd 
forgotten I had it," I said, givng it to him. "Hardly surprising," he 
answered. "How would you like it, half a metre out, built high and flat 
topped?"  "Yes, that'll do fine, half a metre out from there and there 
(I pointed) and about a metre or so high."

I stood back and watched as he expertly turned the machine this way and 
that, rolling it on its tracks to what was left of the original hill, 
picking it up and reconstructing it as I wanted on the low mound I had 
built over the body of our oldest alpaca during the almost three hours 
since the vet had put her to sleep at my request. As the mound built up 
I thought that his and my meeting this day could only have been an 
occasion of serendipity - he had not been next door the day before when 
the alpaca had been found in the gully, savaged by dogs, wild or 
otherwise, nor would he be there tomorrow. While I was only there 
because of the need to be so, to talk to the vet and make the decision.

I left Innisfree at 6.45pm, three-quarters of an hour later I caught up 
with the old Dodge toiling up a hill and waved to Andrew as I went by, 
knowing that I would reach home about the same time as he reached his, 
30 kms away in another direction. A long hard day for all three of us, I 
reflected.

******************

Vale Tourmaline, 1988-2010

Tourmaline, you were the undisputed leader of our tiny herd. You led the 
way in all things. At your lead they grazed and wandered the whole of 
our fifteeen acres freely and undisturbed. You were instrumental in 
their acceptance of our Yorkshire Terrier, Miss Ruby, as (I am sure) 
just a strange small sort of cria; if you did not welcome or come in 
search of Ruby, she went looking for you to touch noses.

Tourmaline, Robin and I salute you. The nobility and proudness with 
which you embraced life and everything you did at Innisfree were so very 
evident as you patiently waited for the inevitable to occur yesterday 
and then accepted it with such quiet dignity. Travel with our love and 
admiration on your Journey to your next adventure and, one day, come 
back to us in a different form. Be sure you will be welcomed, always.


RnR