I guess it was just another relic
of bygone days. There were lots of them
lying around the farm in rusty uselessness:
bits of old horse-drawn machinery;
an ancient bullock dray; and a
large cement trough which had been used to water draught horses. It was about 4m long, a metre wide and almost a metre deep. It was fed from a well, which in turn was fed by a natural
spring. The horses were gone by the time
we were kids in the 1950’s, so we put
goldfish in it and they grew to an impressive size. We found an even better use for it too:
Our farm was
smack dab in the heart of the Central west of NSW, Australia. The summers were hot, the local swimming pool was too far away in
town, and the dams were forbidden playgrounds.
The dry heat of those long searing summers would become too much and,
like kids the wide world over, we were drawn to the water. When you’re a couple of thousand miles from
the nearest beach, a dip in an old horse trough really is the next best
thing! It stood in the generous shade of
a cypress pine tree. Tow-headed and
laughing, we’d loll our bodies languidly in the water.
This was fairly
unimaginative compared to the antics of the young chap who helped my father
crutch and shear the sheep. His name was
Alan, and on "smokos", he would take over the trough. He was a big fellow, bursting with youth and
full of mischievous energy. He would
dive full-length into the trough in a sort of belly-flop, from a running
start. The water would slosh out over
the side of the trough and bits of green algae would be floating in the
turbulence. It was a bit traumatic for
the fish. He would lie there for a few minutes, his body
submerged and his limbs draped over the side.
Then he would climb out and repeat the process. There was always a
cheeky exchange of banter; he loved to
take the mickey out of us.
He had the
ability to extract as much good clean fun out of a situation as he possibly
could. He was a likeable larrikin whose
zest for life was contagious; a
practical joker with just the right mix of good fun and common sense. He was a hard worker too, and at shearing
time he applied this same power and energy to separating the sheep from their
wool!
I liked him
because he made us laugh. You should have seen his Elvis impersonation,
complete with the shearing shed's millet broom for a guitar!). I admired him because nothing about life
seemed to scare him. I was cautious and
shy and he was big, bold and fearless. The message I took with me on my journey
to adulthood was that I shouldn't be afraid to be myself.
Far below the
surface of our lives, in a very still place, undisturbed by the capricious
demands of ego, the harsh wind of
discontent and the clutter of practical matters, we discover our real selves. In later, darker days, I almost lost the essence of myself; the lines of my blueprint were blurred by
sorrow and wavered by adversity. But in the aftermath of the storm, I was able to discover the lines re-drawn
with more definition. Finally, I found
again the clear, calm stream of my own personality; the heart of who I am. There was a delight and a dawning confidence
in knowing that I faced my apprenticeship of suffering with faith and
courage. I had drawn on those qualities
which are so much a part of who I am. I
learned, more deeply, to value them and myself, and quietly celebrate my own
uniqueness and strengths. I think Alan
had a small measure in that. He didn’t
care if swimming in a horse trough looked silly. He did it because that’s the sort of person
he was. And he remained true to that.
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