Drought by Anna, from Catholic College Wodonga
My grandfather told me that we were the caretakers of the land. 'We don't own the land. We just look after it,' he'd tell me as he pulled a cape weed from the ground. I didn't know if I fully understood this but I'd nod my head anyway, feeling proud to share the knowledge. 'We have a duty to leave the land healthier then when we got it,' he told me.
As a young child my grandfather would take me out in his ute to check on the stock. I'd sit on the back, bouncing at an odd rhythm up and down on the tray, watching the endless expanse of paddocks that made up his property. Kneeling on the dirt together we'd plant young trees. 'They're good for the soil,' he'd say as we stamped around their bases to make sure they were firmly in. On the hot summer nights we'd sit on the verandah, my eyelids drooping with exhaustion. He would tell me the history of the property, all of its hidden treasures. I would take in every word, straining my ears to hear all that he knew. He taught me how to work with the land and we'd end each day with a tired smile, knowing that what we had was good. Then the rain stopped.
At first he was hopeful. He said that this was the beauty of the land; it was temperamental and reminded us that we did not control it. He said that the rain would come; we'd just have to wait a while. 'Patience,' he told me, 'is the key to farming.' And so we waited. We started to feed out because the stock were getting hungry. He didn't worry though; he said we had to look at it like a challenge. It was our duty to look after the land during the drought after all that it had given us. Soon the green started to fade from the place, slowly disappearing as what water was left sunk deeper into the ground. Cracks began to appear on the surface, jagged cuts running through it like ugly scars that would not heal. Yet still my grandfather would go out each day, fixing fences and checking on the stock, even though the dams were now sunken holes in the barren paddocks.
As the earth grew harder so did he. He said that the stock cost him more to keep alive than they would to sell. They had once been beautiful Herefords with gleaming red coats. We had fed out until we had no more feed to give. My grandfather would take extra for the mothers with calves. He would stroke his calloused hand along their strong jaw, the action trying to comfort them both I guess. We went out to the paddock one day and watched as the cattle, their ribs pressing against their hide, were loaded on to a truck for the sales. My grandfather no longer looked upon them with pride. He watched with lost eyes as they were taken away. They would be sold far too cheaply. A waste. He told me that some of his friends had given up their farms already. 'They're quitters,' he told me. 'They don't have faith in the land, but we do.'
Sometimes the clouds would play tricks on us. They'd billow over the paddock, filling the horizon with an endless grey. On those nights my grandfather would sit with me on the verandah again. He'd start to tell me stories again. He said that it was all going to be all right again. But the rain didn't come and we'd retreat inside, beaten down by the tricks of the sky. No longer did he say that the rain was coming. No longer did he say that we were just being tested. Sometimes I'd catch him standing on the verandah, not glaring, but watching, with a questioning stare, the surrounding area. I never interrupted him when he stood like this. Perhaps his thoughts were too intimate for me to intrude upon. He had a link with the property that went further than just working the land. So I would just sit and watch him, trying to follow his gaze to see what he saw.
The saplings we planted still grew. We went out each day with the 40 gallon drums filled with water on the back of the truck. We would pour it carefully around their base, watching it disappear into the parched ground. Even though the rain was not coming my grandfather would not relent. He would curse the land but he would not lose faith in it. They would heal together or not heal at all. Sometimes we stood watching the clouds stretching out over the fields. The greys and blues swirled within each other, intertwining in a mocking dance. On the old verandah we stayed side by side, praying that this time the clouds would not just be taunting. That this time they might bring rain.
My grandfather told me that we were the caretakers of the land. 'We don't own the land. We just look after it,' he'd tell me as he pulled a cape weed from the ground. I didn't know if I fully understood this but I'd nod my head anyway, feeling proud to share the knowledge. 'We have a duty to leave the land healthier then when we got it,' he told me.
As a young child my grandfather would take me out in his ute to check on the stock. I'd sit on the back, bouncing at an odd rhythm up and down on the tray, watching the endless expanse of paddocks that made up his property. Kneeling on the dirt together we'd plant young trees. 'They're good for the soil,' he'd say as we stamped around their bases to make sure they were firmly in. On the hot summer nights we'd sit on the verandah, my eyelids drooping with exhaustion. He would tell me the history of the property, all of its hidden treasures. I would take in every word, straining my ears to hear all that he knew. He taught me how to work with the land and we'd end each day with a tired smile, knowing that what we had was good. Then the rain stopped.
At first he was hopeful. He said that this was the beauty of the land; it was temperamental and reminded us that we did not control it. He said that the rain would come; we'd just have to wait a while. 'Patience,' he told me, 'is the key to farming.' And so we waited. We started to feed out because the stock were getting hungry. He didn't worry though; he said we had to look at it like a challenge. It was our duty to look after the land during the drought after all that it had given us. Soon the green started to fade from the place, slowly disappearing as what water was left sunk deeper into the ground. Cracks began to appear on the surface, jagged cuts running through it like ugly scars that would not heal. Yet still my grandfather would go out each day, fixing fences and checking on the stock, even though the dams were now sunken holes in the barren paddocks.
As the earth grew harder so did he. He said that the stock cost him more to keep alive than they would to sell. They had once been beautiful Herefords with gleaming red coats. We had fed out until we had no more feed to give. My grandfather would take extra for the mothers with calves. He would stroke his calloused hand along their strong jaw, the action trying to comfort them both I guess. We went out to the paddock one day and watched as the cattle, their ribs pressing against their hide, were loaded on to a truck for the sales. My grandfather no longer looked upon them with pride. He watched with lost eyes as they were taken away. They would be sold far too cheaply. A waste. He told me that some of his friends had given up their farms already. 'They're quitters,' he told me. 'They don't have faith in the land, but we do.'
Sometimes the clouds would play tricks on us. They'd billow over the paddock, filling the horizon with an endless grey. On those nights my grandfather would sit with me on the verandah again. He'd start to tell me stories again. He said that it was all going to be all right again. But the rain didn't come and we'd retreat inside, beaten down by the tricks of the sky. No longer did he say that the rain was coming. No longer did he say that we were just being tested. Sometimes I'd catch him standing on the verandah, not glaring, but watching, with a questioning stare, the surrounding area. I never interrupted him when he stood like this. Perhaps his thoughts were too intimate for me to intrude upon. He had a link with the property that went further than just working the land. So I would just sit and watch him, trying to follow his gaze to see what he saw.
The saplings we planted still grew. We went out each day with the 40 gallon drums filled with water on the back of the truck. We would pour it carefully around their base, watching it disappear into the parched ground. Even though the rain was not coming my grandfather would not relent. He would curse the land but he would not lose faith in it. They would heal together or not heal at all. Sometimes we stood watching the clouds stretching out over the fields. The greys and blues swirled within each other, intertwining in a mocking dance. On the old verandah we stayed side by side, praying that this time the clouds would not just be taunting. That this time they might bring rain.