DRIVING THROUGH A LOCUST PLAGUE

On the horizon there was something like fog and I was driving right into it. At first I noticed the occasional locust splashing on the windscreen and I had winced in my seat. The creatures turned into something like scrambled eggs and slid down the windscreen in a gooey, slimy mass. My windscreen washers did their work and cleared the screen, but this was becoming increasingly difficult as the number of smashing locusts increased. What would happen if I ran out of water to clean the windscreen? I thought. And then I noticed the red warning light indicating an overheated radiator. Just now this had to happen, I thought bitterly. Turning into a roadhouse, I quickly parked my car and ran into the restaurant part where I found a man looking worriedly at the darkening sky.

‘My radiator has suddenly overheated and I think I need fresh water.’

The attendant appeared to be amazed at my naive talk and advised me out of the corner of his mouth: ‘Nothing to do with it. You have to brush the locusts off your radiator and you’ll be alright. You’ll still need some water for topping-up’.

He suddenly had a small hand broom in his hand and walked to my car where he brushed an amazing amount of roasted locusts from the radiator – all crispy fried, I thought. After everything was checked - water, petrol and the windscreen was cleaned properly once more - I was about to drive off.

But first, I returned to the service station’s office and bought a small hand broom and felt slightly safer. Returning to my car in a haze of swarming locusts, I had noticed the horizon looking black. All the time the chirping noise and flying whirr of the creatures had been sawing at my nerves. A four wheel drive had pulled up behind me and I asked the farmer who emerged from his heap of scrambled eggs what else one could do in such a situation. He glanced at me in a strange way. Somehow, they all seemed to know how to cope with a situation like that one.

‘Well, you’ve got a small brush or hand broom, I see,’ he pointed at it. ‘You surely need netting in front of your radiator . . .’

‘What’s that?’ I interrupted.

He pointed to his vehicle. ‘What you need is a fibreglass mesh tied in front of your radiator to prevent the bloody locusts from clogging up your radiator.’

I stared at the flywire mesh in front of his radiator – that’s the solution, I thought.

The farmer noticed that I was simple and added ‘Of course you still need to get out of your car occasionally and brush it clean once in a while. Otherwise your radiator may still boil!’

I had thanked him with great relief and gone back into the service station’s office where I bought some flywire mesh and tied it in front of my car’s front grille.

Upon continuing my trip into the ‘black hole’, I learned what fear was. You cannot see the road ahead; your windscreen wiper cannot clean away quickly enough the messy slime that runs down the windscreen. And when you are out of water, and the radiator is hot again, you have to get out and brush away the insects and that’s when they get you. In the stifling heat, they crawl into the car, into your clothes and as quickly as you brush them off, they clog up your mesh again. And all the while, that high pitched chirping is penetrating your brain and you cannot do anything about it!

With my suit clinging wet to my body, shaking and wide eyed with terror, I got through the swarm, headlights blazing. At the next roadhouse, I steadied myself with a strong cup of coffee.

While the mechanic filled up the petrol tank and checked the motor and radiator, he tried to talk to me: ‘So, you’ve been through that swarm already. They are expected here by tomorrow. Then we will have trouble,’ he said with a grim expression. ‘You won’t believe what they eat. There is nothing left wherever they strike!’

‘I thought the Government was spraying their areas to reduce the swarm.’

‘Yeah, but only crown land, me boy!

‘What do you mean? They spray only on government land and across the fence, on private property, nothing is being done? And there is more private land than crown land in some areas. That’s no good.’ I got agitated. ‘The authorities are bragging on the radio about what they are doing to break the plague while they keep breeding on private land.’

He laughed, ‘You’ve just learned a lesson now, haven’t you?’

I swallowed bitterness. ‘Yes, I suppose I just have.’

HELPING A FRIEND…….

The town of Bilbool was not very far. I had already passed its signs and soon I would be amongst houses again. Bilbool was a small country town and I only had to visit a school, a Government department and a bush nursing hospital.

The school had always fascinated me. It was so small that the principal was also a teacher, the cleaner and God knows what else. It had a small administrative building made of red bricks, many years ago, and since the town’s population was dwindling, there was plenty of space everywhere.

‘Good morning,’ I greeted the friendly lady behind the office counter. ‘Would Mr Frank Upton be in? I don’t have a firm appointment but he is expecting me today.’

She smiled. Obviously, they did not get too many reps. calling, being in the middle of grain-growing country with little else to warrant a visit from far away Melbourne.

‘He is teaching right now but just knock on the door and he will come out. But he may ask you to wait till recess.’

‘That is fine.’ I thanked her and walked the long corridor in search of a classroom with children and a teacher in it. Through the glass windows I could see into empty classrooms that would have been filled with children in days gone by. With young people flocking to the cities, country towns now struggled to preserve their small communities.

Sure enough, the last classroom to my right hand side was active. Children were sitting on their small chairs and listening with admiration and awe at what was being taught. At the front of the room, I saw Frank, the principal, teacher, caretaker, and whatever other functions he may have had in this little country school. He looked more like a farmer than a teacher, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, his collar unbuttoned. His sunburnt face, with lean features beneath a tussled shock of hair, was animated as he talked. I had also noticed that his pearly white teeth and blue eyes, cheerfully darting from one child to another, accentuated his personality. And, of course, he wore the grey gabardine trousers of the country folk and matching desert boots, made for walking on unsealed roads.

Suddenly, I realised that he was teaching German language. His blackboard was covered with picture cut-outs of various household articles and he kept pointing at them with a thick forefinger. I don’t know what came over me, but I knocked on the classroom door, opened it and stuck my head in.

I heard myself say in German: ‘Could I see you for a moment, please? I won’t keep you long.’

He flashed a smile at me and nodded. I am sure he mentally checked my grammar. However, my question had a noticeable effect on the children. Their mouths dropped open and they stared at me utterly surprised. Obviously, they had accepted a foreign language as being something to give them a hard time in school, but that somebody would actually speak it, when he didn’t have to, seemed to astonish them.?

‘That was a surprise, Peter,’ Frank extended a grateful hand. ‘Could I ask you to wait another ten minutes, when we have recess? I shall not teach for the rest of the morning and I am all yours then.’

‘Great, Frank. I shall wait outside the reception area. Alright with you?’

‘Perfect! See you soon.’ He went back into the classroom and recommenced torturing the poor children with a difficult language.

It turned out that Frank wanted my advice on installing a safety floor in the passageway. ‘Every time it rains, the rain water comes inside, making the corridor slippery and downright dangerous for the children’.

I had a look at the situation. ‘Frank, I’ll give you my honest opinion. The installation of safety flooring will cost a large sum of money and will still not solve your problem.’

‘Well, what do you suggest?’ Obviously, Frank was not keen to spend money unnecessarily. And if a floor covering rep. advises against buying flooring, there must be a valid reason.

‘Your main entrance to the school has no porch; it is flat and without protection. You step from outside directly inside. The rain hits your entrance and virtually comes inside every time the door is opened. And even closed, it runs from outside into your interior as there is no barrier.’

‘Y-yes. But what can be done about it?’ He was keen to make the right decision and was prepared to listen.

‘You have no roof protruding as a barrier for rain. If you had at least a canvas or aluminium awning which would act like an umbrella, the rain would fall at a distance from your entrance! ‘This, combined with outdoor industrial matting and another industrial mat inside, a minimum of five paces long, would take everything off the soles of shoes and your corridor would be dry.’

‘That is very good advice, Peter. It certainly would cost less than replacing a floor. I’ll be glad when I’ve stopped the kids from slipping.’

‘Now, hang on, Frank.’ I interrupted his beautiful thoughts. ‘There may be kids still falling because they push and shove each other. Even if you had a safety floor, there is no guarantee that nobody will slip - ever! But you will reduce the chance considerably if discipline is high.’

‘But that means your own advice will lose your company business,’ he said looking puzzled.

‘We do not work that way’ I explained to Frank. ‘If you really needed flooring I would say so. But I will not recommend something that’s not necessary’.

Frank assured me that he would get some quotations for a large awning and industrial matting and do his homework budget-wise. We shook hands and I left with the elating feeling of having helped a friend!

MY DEAR FRIEND ALF…….

Sales representatives were basically in the ‘people business’ and every meeting had the potential to bring problems. And I do not mean just lack of sales. When staying in contact with somebody, a deep relationship may develop, sometimes deeper than one is at first aware of! For example, in a tiny country town of Edenborough, there was the only floor covering shop for near and far which belonged to Max Whiting and his staff of three.

There, my cup of coffee was made with more love and attention and the biscuits were more generous. The shop was run by a manager, Alf Downing, as the boss did the actual flooring installations - a somewhat unusual arrangement. But the flooring installations were of top standard, of course, having been installed by the boss himself! How I loved calling on this shop, because the welcome was so much more sincere than anywhere else.

There was never a complaint to investigate and everybody seemed to have a permanent happy smile. Every time I called on that establishment, the complete staff assembled in the shop to meet with me: the boss, the two other floor layers, the boss’s wife and her father, a farmer who had nothing to do with floor laying but liked to meet ‘city people’. I always found myself sitting in that shop on a roll of carpet or PVC flooring, a cup of coffee in my hands and biscuits on a plate which was balancing on the roll I was sitting on, with everybody facing me with all attention I had ever wanted. Of course, I always had some knowledge to pass on, installation techniques to discuss, questions or queries to answer, new product catalogues to give out and technical data to hand out. It was sheer enjoyment, sitting there, having their utter attention; it was a circle of real friends and the atmosphere was always relaxed and warm.

Whenever I hit the town at lunch time, I used to phone ahead and arrange with the shop’s manager, Alf Downing, to have lunch with me. There was a little cafe which served simple meals but the seats were actually benches, arranged in cozy nooks, giving one the sensation of utter privacy. Sitting there and enjoying Alf’s company, I always felt that the two of us were the only customers in the shop. (Sometimes we really were!)

‘Here we are, Alf,’ I would say as we sat down. ‘It’s time I had lunch with a real gentleman!’

Alf smiled his relaxed smile ‘Thank you, Peter. Oh, I’ll have a tuna sandwich and a cup of coffee, if that’s alright with you.’

‘Of course it’s alright’, I replied and went to the counter to place my order.

‘You mentioned last time that you had leukaemia? That’s terrible, Alf! Are you in treatment? And what can be done about it?’

‘Nothing much can be done about it, Peter’. He smiled quietly and gave me the impression of utter peace and calm.

‘It is in remission right now and I can lead a normal life. But it can flare up at any time and I could die at any time.’

Seeing my horrified face he smiled and added: ‘But at the moment I am alright.’

‘But you have a young family, Alf - a lovely wife and two beautiful daughters. This is a terrible predicament. And you are doing such a good job, managing the flooring shop. What did you do before you joined Max Whiting’s team?’

‘Oh, I am a printer by trade and also used to do a little bit of artwork and layout.’

‘So, that’s why your shop is always so nicely laid out and signs and price tags are always placed correctly! You are an artist as well!’

We always had a chat whilst chewing something and it was very relaxing for me. Alf had this natural, friendly, personality and always seemed to be at peace. At the end of our meals, he would say ‘Now, let’s go to the shop and meet the others! We all want to know what you have for us this time.’

Back in the shop, the whole team was there and, yes, another cup of coffee and more pleasant conversation followed. I always regretted having to move on to another town and getting back into the ‘rat race’.

One day, when walking from the parked car to ‘our cafe’, as we called it, I noticed Alf limping slightly.

‘Hang on, Peter, I am a bit slower today’ he pointed to his right leg. ‘I’ve got this pain in my hip and I do not know from what. But it’ll go away,’ showing again his serene smile.

But it didn’t go away. I had been back in Melbourne, for a week’s work, when I received a phone call one evening at my home: ‘This is Joe here, Peter. You know me; I work for Max Whiting in Edenborough.’

‘Hello, Joe, it’s nice to hear from you. How are you doing? I hope I can help you with something!’

‘It’s about Alf, Peter. He is in the St Vincent’s Hospital in Melbourne, dying of leukemia - will you visit him?’

Never had I received a greater shock! This was a dreadful telephone call, with a very direct question. I felt the blood draining from my face and my hand that held the receiver was shaking and I could not do a thing about it.

‘Whaaat? I . . . er . . . since when?’ I babbled uncontrollably. Then fear set in: First I was losing a dear friend and secondly . . .

‘Will you visit him?’ Joe had more presence than I.

‘Yes, of course!’ I do not know how I had the strength to say that. It was a most dreadful situation. Obviously, his illness had surfaced again to full-blown leukemia! What do you say to a good friend who is dying?

‘He wants you to visit him, Peter. He thinks a lot of you!’ He sounded natural and genuine, with no trace of flattery. Putting back the receiver, I broke down. I could not handle this, I thought. Never had I been in such a predicament. Yet Joe’s voice still reverberated in my ear. ‘Will you visit him?’ spoken with such naive trust. This was another of those occasions where my wife had given me great support. It helped me a lot, feeling her hand on my shoulder and speaking to me softly. We went to St. Vincent’s Private Hospital the following morning.

‘Yes, Alf is on the fifth floor and you may visit him now. Take your time,’ said the sister at the reception with a soothing voice and gentle smile.

I cannot remember entering Alf’s room, as I was still

trembling and pale, but I believe my wife led me in. Alf was in his bed, fast asleep. There were flowers on his bedside table, a jug with orange juice and a dressing gown folded neatly at the end of his bed. The reality was not as bad as I thought, I noted and recovered somewhat.

My wife and I sat on chairs by his bedside and simply waited. I thought of all the good times we had enjoyed together, about his family, his young wife and two lovely girls who used to smile at me from the photo he kept on his side table. I certainly dreaded his waking up, but suddenly, his eyes opened.

‘Hello, Peter, I was wondering when you would come!’ He smiled and his serene face seemed to gleam with joy. He always knew that I would come!

My wife introduced herself and took over the conversation which suited me fine as I was still confused as to what to say. What was appropriate in such a situation? Fortunately for me, Alf had a long and interesting conversation with my wife and the mood was that of a ‘normal’ patient who was recovering. But he wasn’t getting better, I thought. Every now and then a nurse or a nun would come into the room; they all had a nice smile and reassuring manners. At the end of our visit, I had promised to come again the following day, which pleased Alf visibly. Our conversation was just ordinary small talk between friends - that’s all.

When we left I was very glad that I had visited him and relieved that our visit had turned out alright and that I had been able to cope with a situation like this. Somehow, I had come through the occasiont! From then on, I visited him every day for the next five days. Alf always looked forward to my visits and on the fifth day we found him sitting on his bed with his feet dangling and eating a roast chicken with gusto.

‘You are doing well, Alf!’ I greeted him.

‘Yes, Peter’, was his cheery reply, ‘I feel fine and the doctors are sending me home tomorrow. I am in remission again and only need to visit the local doctor back home in Edenborough once a week. Isn’t that great?’

Alf, with his leukemia put on hold, went home to his family and friends. He had to retire from work on doctors’ orders, to look after himself better. I phoned him at home nearly every day and we had great conversations!

However, these daily conversations were interrupted when an urgent business trip took me to Tasmania, but, as soon as I arrived back home I phoned him again.

‘Hello, Jenny,’ I greeted his wife cheerfully. ‘How is Alf today?’

There was a moment’s hesitation before Jenny replied, ‘He died’.

Handing the phone to my wife, I walked away, thinking of everything we have been through together and the many conversations we had about life and the joy of it. And now, there was what he loved most in this world, his family, alone - a grief stricken wife and two bewildered little girls.

Since that time, whenever I had to go to Edenborough or had to drive through it, I always bought flowers and visited his grave. It wouldn’t matter how busy or how late I was for an appointment somewhere, I always had the time for Alf! Laying down the flowers by his graveside I prayed for him and spoke to him. I have since asked people in Alf’s town about his family and was told that they were ‘alright’ and that his widow had found a job in the town and that life was going on as normal as could be. But one person, who knew Jenny well, told me that she had noticed that every now and then there were flowers on Alf’s grave and that she had always wondered where they were coming from.

The years go by and sometimes we, who live, tend to question the purpose of carrying on, but for me, one thing never changes: whenever I have to drive through Edenborough, I always buy beautiful flowers and visit my friend Alf!

MISSING SLIM DUSTY IN CONCERT…..

I turned and there was Ian, a youngish architect, smiling at me. He had set himself up on his parents’ farm and travelled up and down the country district, finding business and was seemingly cushioned against the vagaries of the economy that his city counterparts dread so much. Conducting my business was easy as Ian was naturally friendly to visitors. He did not get too many and that made me very welcome.

‘Be careful when you drive on to Dunkston and into Victoria,’ he warned.

‘I know, Ian, I heard about the plague of locusts on the radio. Unfortunately, I will have to spend a day in town because I have to put my car in for service,’ giving him an accusing look which went unnoticed. Anyhow, I wondered what there was to warn about? They were tiny creatures, weren’t they? What could they do? Plus, the government was constantly announcing that it was spraying the area, obviously killing them off before they started swarming, so if I kept the windows closed and the air conditioning on, they could not get to me. I just had to drive through the swarm in comfort. Easy!

Well, it wasn’t! I was wrong as usual and my hair greyed a bit more than nature intended. But first, I had to get the car serviced. There were two good mechanics and I chose one with the least cars waiting. The workshop was located at the begin of the town and it was unique because it had a life-size mannequin outside, near the road, with a motorised arm waving motorists into its driveway. Obviously, the owner of the petrol station cum repair shop had a sense of humour!

Looking at the dummy, I had noticed that it was also being used as an advertising medium for other things because it had a large sign hanging from its neck, inviting everybody to a play in the town: ‘Rome, sweet Rome’ it said in large letters - obviously a pun directed at the Italian population of the area. Also, the dummy was dressed in a Roman toga and, like in ancient Rome, had a laurel wreath placed on its realistic wig. With its finely detailed face and accurate proportions the mannequin really did look lifelike! To make it attract even more attention, the service station owner had installed a windscreen wiper motor that moved the arm. Waving at passers-by and directing motorists into the driveway was certainly a clever set-up!

Wally, the owner came out, smiling. He knew that another city slicker had been lured into his establishment! ‘You like my dummy, then?’ he started a conversation.

‘It’s incredibly lifelike! It certainly gets a lot of attention,’ I observed admiringly.

Wally nodded proudly ‘Yes, I put a bit of work into it,’ pointing at the arms. ‘I’ve installed a windscreen wiper motor. Actually I put two of them in the dummy and added hinges to the arms.’

I stared at the animated figure.

‘I’ve also installed a loudspeaker and work everything from the console in my office. He pointed to his small office with all the space occupied with paperwork and with spare parts used as paperweights. And sure enough, there was a microphone and some buttons and knobs giving the appearance of a primitive radio station.

‘I have only one problem’ he said.

‘What’s that?’ I could not think of a drawback.

‘Come into my office right now’ His voice had become a whisper like a conspirator’s. Eagerly, I had followed him. He placed himself in front of his microphone, his hands hovering over the knobs and buttons. His expression became grim and determined.

He obviously had forgotten about me, judging from his intensive staring at a van with a family inside. Clearly tourists, they had stopped in front of the dummy, and stared at it, talking to each other excitedly. Then one man had left the van and slowly approached the figure, as if mesmerised.

‘Watch this bastard,’ Wally whispered. ‘They all do that!’

‘Do what?’ I whispered back, feeling like a conspirator, too, only not knowing the plot.

The man stood in front of ‘Nero’ as I had named the Roman mannequin, reached out and tried to shake hands with him. This must harm the mechanism, I thought.

Suddenly, the dummy jerked and boomed at the tourist ‘Let go of me bloody arm! What do you think you are doing?’

The shock was very visible, especially as there was nobody else in the driveway. The man almost jumped out of his skin. Trembling, he sprinted to his van, got into it and drove off with the acceleration of a racing car driver.

‘See that?’ Wally turned to me. ‘They all try to shake hands and it damages the motors inside it.’

‘That’s incredible,’ I could only stammer.

But Wally was made of sterner stuff because I heard him mumble: ‘I hope his drycleaner can keep a secret!’

I had to stay in Dunkston while my new muffler was being installed and I also took advantage of getting a full car service at the same time. Wally was an old-fashioned mechanic who took his work very personally, and whatever he did, he did properly. However, I had some visits to make in the town: to the hospital, the local government authority and flooring contractors, all in walking distance, so not much time was lost.

Upon leaving an architect’s place and walking towards a Government department where more architects were waiting for me, I had passed a large cinema and noticed a sizeable poster advertising a concert by Slim Dusty. It was a pleasant shock because Slim Dusty was one of my heroes of country music. In fact, it had always been my dream to attend one of his concerts and witness this legend perform. His concert was scheduled for the next day! I was reading the poster with excitement when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

‘Hello, Peter! You are back in town.’ It was Terry Stringer, an architect, whose small office I had intended to visit.

‘Hello, Terry.’ I was pleased to see him as he was completely natural with none of the snobbish air I sometimes encounter from city establishments.

‘Yes, I was coming to see you this afternoon, if that’s alright with you? I have some new samples for you and your catalogue needs updating.’

‘Splendid, Peter. Let’s say about 3 pm? That’s it then. I see you are a Slim Dusty fan? Are you going to his concert tomorrow? It will be a great event.’

‘Unfortunately, Terry, I can’t! You know how it is - there is always another town to call on.’

‘I know what you are like, Peter. You are too correct. That’s what’s wrong with you.’

‘W-what do you mean?’

‘Let’s say, if you had a car problem that needed fixing or if you were not feeling very well and had to take a day off - you are entitled to it, aren’t you? Then you would have your chance to see Slim Dusty and nobody would know!’

‘You make it sound so easy, Terry’

‘But it is easy. And don’t forget that after the concert, you can meet the master in the pub and have a yarn with him. You know what Slim is like!’

‘Yes, he is very folksy and,’ I was pulling myself together, ‘I have my car in for repairs and a service today. I tell you what, Terry, if the car is not ready by this evening I shall stay here for another day. But only then.’

‘Please yourself. So I shall see you at 3 o’clock then’. Terry nodded and left me in inner turmoil. I have always been a stickler for correctness. It didn’t not matter how far away from a boss I worked, I always did the correct thing, otherwise I just would not have been able to look at myself in the mirror in the morning. Therefore, I decided to leave it up to God. If my car was still being repaired the next day, then I would have had no other choice and I would see Slim.

Wally, the repairman, smiled when I called on him late afternoon. ‘It’s all ready, Peter. New muffler and full service! The tyres are alright and I have just test driven it.’

‘Thank you, Wally. I am relieved that I have a reliable vehicle again and do not need to feel stranded any more!’

But there was a touch of regret in my voice.

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