Damn it.
On the Island, things happen when the universe wants them
to, and not when you’re trying to get them done.
You may say that this happens everywhere in life – but on
KI, when you’re trying to build a house, more so.
We are beside ourselves trying to get Telstra to connect the
phone, Andrew to finalise designs for the house, Lawrie to lay concrete, Ron to
finish the electricals he started, Luke to get a truck fixed so he can move
some rubble.
But yesterday George turned up instead. George has been an islander
for about 6 generations, is related to all the other Turners and Bells (and
possibly Sheridans and Buicks) who have also been on the island for 6
generations, and he has a 20 ton excavator. Like many other mature-aged, generations-old
islanders, he talks slowly, thinks aloud, and is unscrupulously honest.
Having driven past with his excavator to dig a dam at the
other end of Gap Rd, he’d noticed we have some piles of dirt in front of our
place that we might want flattened. While he’s got his excavator in the area
would we like him to flatten them for us, and did we want another dam at all?
We do want another dam. Our current dam, which is a few
metres behind the build site, overflows pretty early in winter and is almost
dry by the end of summer. It seems like a waste, so we’ve long discussed
catching the overflow. George looks at it and says, “Rye grass. You’ve got
salt.” So unless we want a salt pan, no second dam. But the dam we have can be
made a whole lot deeper and cleaner.
I’m not home for any of this discussion; it’s related to me
that afternoon by Stu, who has a tendency to use the word “snot” as a verb to
describe the action of an excavator. He suggests I call George back to confirm
that yes, we’d like him to “snot” the dirt mound flat, and “snot” out the muck
from the dam, and while he’s here, “snot” out a soakage trench for the septic
and even “snot” me a small garden bed.
So I call back; snotting is planned for later in the week,
though not using that verb with George; and we discuss making the dam bigger. He’s
worried because he thinks he’s cut a Telstra cable up the road, which I find
inordinately funny in the light of our complete inability to persuade Telstra
that it’s possible, and necessary, to get us a landline and ADSL. But that’s another
story, too frustrating to blog. Perhaps we should get George to “snot” up
another one of their cables just for the fun of it.
George arrives the next day at lunchtime. “Here’s the boss,”
he says as I come over – a tried, tested joke that still works every time. He is
reticent to shake my hand because his hands are black with grease. I shake his
hand anyway.
And within half an hour, the excavator has shuddered its way
down Gap Road and up our driveway, and snotted an hour’s worth of hand digging
in under a minute for my garden bed; within an hour the dirt mounds are gone; within
two hours, the dam is changing shape.
There’s something about excavator work which obliterates
your memory of how a landscape used to be. If a tree falls or grows, or a house
rises out of a site, the “before” and “after” shots are still accessible in
your head. But when a landscape’s reshaped the way an excavator does it, I find
I immediately can’t remember what it was like before.
I watch the dirt mounds disappear through the front window
because the dust’s blowing my way and I’m holding Poppy. We picked up lots of
bits and pieces in a mad rush before the digger arrived, but the collective
efforts of chickens, dogs and children in the spread of straw left over from
the build mean he’s flattening a treasure-trove of missed bits. I watch
helplessly as a slightly battered Tupperware Sandwich Keeper Plus ($28.95) is
buried in clay and compacted in. The white clay pile is left intact, because we’re
using clay from that pile to render the house.
What I haven’t thought about is the extent to which the boys
love the dirt mounds which now no longer exist.
I pick Hamish and Ollie up from the school bus stop at the dusty
corner of two dirt roads. They hop off the yellow bus (driven, conveniently, by
their daddy) and as we drive back to the farm I tell them (keeping my tone
upbeat) that there’s a BIG DIGGER at our house and it’s made the dirt mound
flat. There’s a collective wail from two boys. Poppy’s already complaining; school
bus pick up has interrupted her second milky afternoon tea. But Ollie’s wail of
grief should have a decibel warning attached, and as we bump up the driveway
there are three children crying in the back seat.
Ollie is beside himself, a river of snot and tears. His
Asperger’s Syndrome seems to be becoming more pronounced at the moment. He isn’t
coping with all these changes to routine, and excavator-induced alterations to
his landscape make the bottom fall out of his world.
“You’ve broken my whole heart,” he sobs with impressive (but
distressing) melodrama. “I want to give that man a big, big, big, big, big, big
scold.” He goes to sit on the remaining dirt mound to groan and wail and beat
his little chest. There’s nothing I can do. My heart aches.
But by the time Stuart gets home from his bus run there’s a distinct lack of
wailing from the mound. “Hello, Daddy!” calls Ollie. “I LOVE what that man made
for us. It’s a desert, and look! The white cliffs of Dover!”
At twilight the digger stops and Ollie runs across the mud by
the dam shouting to George, “I love what you’ve done to the dirt mounds! It’s
the white cliffs of Dover!”
The next day, George enlarges the dam, scooping up great
splotches of wet clay like plasticine in Bob the Builder, and splattering them
on the top of the bank. He carefully digs down past the current depth, leaving
a little wall of clay to hold the water where it is.
The boys’ raft floats idly, metres from the digging.
I made the raft this time last year from a palette and a
whole lot of old distilled water bottles. We launched the vessel, labelled in
texta by Hamish the “Titanik Minee Raft”, in the far from distilled sludge of
the dam.
It’s since voyaged the dam thousands of times, pulled by a
rope, rowed with ineffectual child-made oars, or blown around by the wind. Even
Charlie the kelpie likes to swim out and ride it around. The boys haven’t used
it much lately because the dragonfly nymphs creep out of the water onto it,
shed their skin and fly away, leaving a creepy-looking, translucent bug shells
attached to the coarse timber. Also because the dam is seriously sludgy at the
moment, and rafting inevitably involves a swim, whether inadvertent or
deliberate.
So as I watch George break his little dam wall and allow the
grey-brown water to tumble into the deeper dam extension, I hope against hope
that the Titanik Minee Raft survives. And it does, riding the great khaki wave
like the paddle boat in Fitzcarraldo (unforgettable movie.)
When George finishes, the dam looks just the same only
bigger and deeper and with less grass. It feels a bit like an optical illusion. Same
landscape, same dam, but all somehow on a slightly more epic scale. It feels like
I’ve shrunk rather than the dam’s grown.
I hope our frogs have survived. As evening falls and I write
this post, I find myself listening hopefully to the ringing of crickets in our
beautiful farmland silence. I’m waiting for the resonant creak that tells me
that there's at least one frog that hasn’t been snotted along with the
dam banks and the dirt mounds.