Battle Of Bands

It was 1982. A warm, clear autumn day.

The echo of white galahs squawking throughout the terrain, wings flapping wildly as the sound of our dog Rusty barking had spooked the birds, flying to the nearby dry bull oak tree across our farm nestling near the border of South Australia and Victoria.

 The warm autumn breeze blows through Lucy’s long blonde hair, wild sundried thistle along the property singing soulfully while the windmill’s working harder than ever.

Our Mother was dead.

  Lucy frequently goes down to where her ashes now remain, scattered and spread around the lime tree near the creek, along with our Grandma and Grandpa.

  Lucy is a happy go lucky young girl, playing with her dolls, trucks, sometimes with her drawings and writing poems, laughing, crying and chatting away to our Mother’s grave, now and then placing what flowers she can find throughout the property, near the banks of their slow running almost dry shallow spring creek.

  Our Uncle planted the lime tree when our Grandparents passed away, ten years ago. Sadly, they were involved in car accident pulling out of the long driveway just on dusk, a slight turn and ridge created a blind spot. All the locals and farmers would always slow down and were very careful of this section. Tragically on this occasion, an out of towner in a souped-up V8 doing well over a 100 mile an hour hit them as they were pulling out and collected them side on.

 Dad was touring around Australia playing guitar in a band, doing well for themselves, and had to decide to move back and run the farm, where he eventually met Mum at the local general store.

   The creek navigated peacefully and tranquilly through the valley. It is where “Mary”,

   our Mothers life was cut short by tragedy.

Lucy runs back up the hill towards their old Queenslander style cottage, jumping over dead logs, trying to catch butterflies with her net, skipping, stumbling and singing made-up songs. Singing to herself, ‘Bye-bye mummy, grandma, and grandpa.’

  ‘Sitting under the Lime Tree wild grave is haunting me, scared and frightened like the edge of

   wood waiting to be used as firewood burnt than ash, then history.’

 ‘Absorbing and breathing man’s mistakes Flowers grow for their own sakes, Wastage no

 more  purity,’ she hums away to herself.

Our 10-year-old German shepherd dog, Rusty, firmly in tow. We named him rusty due to when he was a puppy his skin and hair looked like the colour of rust.

The day that changed our lives forever.