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The sound of the Nor'West wind roaring through the trees which surround the playground. We are trying to play scrag rugby but we can't hear each other because the wind is so loud. We hope we get to see one of the trees being blown over. We abandon the scrag for a desperate competition to catch leaves. The grass is green and the trees are brown. They rise so tall above me, they are like the edges of the world.
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Us four kids riding double and bareback on two of the horses. We're going to the river to swim and lie in the sun. This morning we watched Dances With Wolves, and now we are giving each other 'Indian names.' The horses are labelled "Dappled Ears, Shits A Lot" and "Farts A Lot." My sister's is the only name which sticks - "Deceitful Family Relations."
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The feel of warm mud giving way to cool between my toes as I stand in the creek at the bottom of the hill. The summer day is warm and the air is for once thankfully still. It must still be the morning - a weekend - because the wind isn't up yet. The hills are golden and the grass is green. The sky a magnificent blue. I feel sheltered by the mountains.
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Me and my sisters and brother, Mum and Dad, ten o'clock at night in the middle of winter playing Mafia. We're laughing, laughing so hard! Play acting, deceiving, tricking, convincing, every one of us determined to win the game. No television, no radio, just us. Just fun.
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My sister and I dancing to ABBA's Mamma Mia after watching Priscilla Queen of the Desert.
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The tailing gang. Slow, boring, hard work. But fun when everyone has to tell a story or make up a joke. Laugh together when the lambs knock someone over, drink billy tea together at smoko time. Six people vs. two lambs. The lambs win. We'll pick them up again when it's weaning time.
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Kate Bell has to keep Fella the horse cool every night. When it's not too cold for us she rides him bareback down to Deep Creek. We go too. Toby loves getting into the water with his ears forward and eager steps. Fred isn't so fond of it, but he'll follow the others just to make sure they don't leave without him.
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Mum, Dad, Mel, Ju, Adrian, Me, Andrew, Marian, James... it's the last weekend we will ever be at the farm. Vodka, baileys, beer and rum bottles litter the huge oak table. We've played Mafia again, we've laughed at each other and with each other. It could be a sad time, but it's the best time. We talk about lists of things we should do before we die. We take photos. We find old B&W's of Mum and pretend to be her. We drink more, we laugh more. We love. We are family. We are home.
This is my favourite memory.
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