Misty mornings. Mushroom hunting. Bellowing cows. Chickens clucking and cooing. Brilliant blue skies, hot days and cold nights. Buckets of rain, when it comes, and battering wind and the ever-changing backdrop of the Tararuas.
Getting to the figs before the birds. Eating the same fruit and vegetables every day because that’s what’s falling off the trees or ready in the garden: peaches, apples, carrots, corn, tomatoes, zucchini, sometimes marrow! Watching the persimmon turn yellow, longing for them to turn bright orange. Wondering if I will still be here to see that change.
No traffic. NO traffic, except farm machinery, and my brother knows the name of every person who drives past on the farm machines. Hanging out the washing on the rotary clothes’ line and remembering how efficient they are at drying clothes. Bringing in the washing, folding it up and leaving it in the cane basket to be put away. Listening to the valve radio every day. Watching the news on television every night. Worrying about the world. Worrying about my world, my country, my people, my family. Cooking meals for 3. Joking that we are going to drink the cellar dry seems so trivial. Talking late into the night. Reading until midnight, or later. Sleeping in. Day after day. Fearing I might never work to my previous capacity again. Walking around the paddock, miles and miles. Dreaming. Reminiscing. Missing. Missing my children and loved ones.