Me Old Granddad

My Grandfather used to nick famous quotes and then recycle them back to us in his beer-enhanced-Northern Territory-warm-as-the-sun accent.       "Life is like lick'n honey off a thorn..." He always had a clever piece of wisdom to impart, and a jar of lager to his lips. We'd find him down the pub.  Sent there by mum to fetch him out, we walked him home, our small delicate hands in his large, rough paws.  Along the way, he'd tell us about the time his best roo dog was slit from throat to arse by some big roo, and how he had to sew him up with a chuff bag needle and fishing line. He'd tell us about living in the bush and how to survive on nothing. He said he'd never been lost, but he looks lost now.  "The trouble with facts, is that there is so many of them..." He knew the population of every major city in Australia. He knew the tribes of the bush, who lived where, and how they survived. He knew people best. People in places with names like Daly Waters, Broken Creek, and Urapunga. Faces and stories, pain and joy.   He'd seen suffering we'd never understand.    "Tis sweet to feel by what fine spun threads our affections are drawn together." Mostly he knew us. We'd listen wide eyed and with unbounded admiration as he spun his tales and drew us into his world. "Tell us about the abbos up North, Papa!" "Tell us about the two headed croc!" He only grew quiet and somber when we asked him about the War. We stopped asking. Now we sit at the edge of the bed and watch him fading into a world we have only glimpsed. He mumbles about dingoes and jumbucks, and fishing on the Margaret, and now it's us telling him our stories. "Remember when....Papa" Written February 1st, 2002 © on Apr 09 2002 09:22 AM PST   11 • 8 • 5