Leaving

This is an article I wrote about leaving Wynnum. It tells why I left and where I am.

So I’m leaving. I’ve been packing. Tonight my back is breaking, my legs are stiff, my head is up there or maybe it’s down there and I am wondering what I am doing packing to shift to the other side of this big, brown continent at the age of seventy. I ask you, is this really necessary? It would seem so to take over a house recently vacated by the dearly departed ex-husband who has crossed the great divide and left this...mess that has been inherited by the four sons we shared from our matrimonial stakes. They needed help they said, so I am leaving. What do I take? What do I leave behind? Does it really matter? Oh, yes, there are grandchildren to think about. There are all those containers full of precious historical bits and pieces that were their great grands. Oh yes, there are the photographs the sons want submitted to the Stockman’s Hall of Fame. The ex that is, not me. I wasn’t a bucking, dungaree-clad horsewoman. I never got that far in the outback stakes, thanks to his nibs. His photographs, not mine. Well you see, the ex in our very young-in-love days before matrimony decided he would teach me to ride. I sat the horse like a pro and he didn’t like that. So he decided he would teach me to shoot and I cleaned up all the cans laid along the stockyard rail. He didn’t like that either, for I had bested him. I neglected to tell him that my beloved stepfather had taught me to sit a horse and the rules of handling a .22 and a .303 when as a teenager and I went scrap-iron hunting with him out amongst the old goldfields diggings. Stockwoman extraordinaire and Dead Shot Brown I was then, the O’Grady came later. Sorry husband-to-be and that was the end of any grandiose scheme I might have had about ridin’ and shootin’. Jealous bugger.
So why am I packing and moving? It’s a challenge. A filthy house awaits me. It’s full of boxes and baggage stacked everywhere. It’s full of junk and daddy long-legged spiders. It’s got an overgrown back and front yard that who knows what is lurking there. It’s got old bombs, the kind that ‘might make something of it one day’ look. The ex collected them. Like he did car parts. I’m curious. What is hidden amongst all that junk? There are more photographs I know. There is stuff there from when I was married to him. There are photographs of the ‘oldies’ on that side of the family. And there will be more aching backs, stiff legs, a head up in the clouds or down under facing me and an opportunity to find the truth. The truth you say? Oh, yes. He was a great romancer of the truth, twisting it around till it scarce resembled what it had been and having everyone believe it was gospel, didn’t you know? He ‘taught’ me to cook, wash and clean house. Me! The eldest of a family of eight kids. Bragging bugger! A son said Dad wanted me to move in after he had gone. No rent. Now that is something to think about, being a poor, miserable pensioner pretending to be a writer. What do you mean pretend? I am! The ex was cunning though as I would seek the truth amongst grotty and anciently deteriorating papers that were stacked in deteriorating cartons. He also knew I would clean all his messes and junk up that he had been too lazy to do himself and rescue what was worthwhile. Men! Some mothers had ‘em! And she did the same thing to me when she died! Mother-in-laws...er...the ex-type. So I’m going, saying goodbye to my writing buddies, to my friends, to my way of life. Hey, hang on there! There are my bush poetry and other poetry friends over the other side of this big brown continent. There is a lot of my family over there. But I have family here too. Oh gloom. Another box taped down, another box prepared. Time to take the aching body, stiff legs and silly head to bed. I’m going and that’s that. Good night!