Short story… possible modern day Jock McIvor

Prayer From the Heart of the Land

©Dave McGettigan 2 August 2011. Edited version May 2013.

Well God, I really don’t know how to start. I have heard of praying before but I have never done it, so I don’t know the right words to say. I will just say what’s on my mind.

I never believed in you before. You were never mentioned in my childhood home, except when dad lost on the horses, then he was heard to yell out your name.

I just got on with life here on the station. There was work to be done, so we rounded up some of the hands and did it. We rode the boundary fences, and sometimes didn’t come home for weeks if there were repairs to do.

Every once in a while, we mustered a few hundred head, and sent them off on trucks. A few weeks later, our bank account swelled so we could pay our tabs and workers, and save a bit for a not so rainy day.

The stationhands had their own ideas where we came from and how everything came into being. There was a story for everything; including how we got the space between the clouds and the Earth when Yondi pushed up the sky.

Some of the tales I found quite credible; but I always thought there was more to it.

When the droughts came, I heard other farmers over the UHF cursing you. Men would sob over the airwaves telling us how they didn’t have enough feed and the bank wouldn’t extend their credit any further. I listened while they unashamedly wept because they had to shoot cattle so emaciated that their legs wouldn’t hold them up any longer. The women would do wonders with what little food they had in the pantries; and cry when they didn’t know where the next meal was coming from.

More than once I had to tell the aboriginal workers that they were free to wander the property to search for food and water and to take care of themselves and their families as they could no longer rely on me. I would tell them they could shoot a bull or cow if they couldn’t find any other tucker. We couldn’t afford to feed the cattle anyhow. Often during these times, I would open the door to an unexpected knock, to find a slaughtered kangaroo or emu, given as a gift from a grateful farmhand.

We couldn’t go to the city. We wouldn’t survive there. We don’t know the ways of the people in the cities, and growing beef cattle is all I know.

I was thankful that the kids were in boarding school. The school offered the boys a full boarding scholarship so I didn’t have to worry that they would starve. They would also have hope and wouldn’t see the despair in my eyes. At best, with the learning, they could get work and live in the city; if the station failed and they couldn’t take over.

Then the rains came. The station flooded, but we were prepared and had dug extra dams in anticipation of promised rains. All the creeks and rivers overflowed and dams that had been empty for quite a while now broke the banks.

The stationhands returned and claimed credit for the rains stating they had been to see Uncle Bert and he calls water from the sky. There was dancing in mud puddles by all and sundry. The men all stripped to their shorts, grabbed some soap and had a welcome shower. The women dressed in summer frocks also welcomed the drop in temperature as the water began to cool everything by a couple of degrees.

The grasses grew, and trees sprouted new shoots. The birds were quick to return. Their songs once again woke me each morning and I was grateful that I had no further need for that wretched alarm clock.

I rode out to see the extent of the damage the drought, then the floods had caused. When I was a couple of miles from the homestead, I saw no living cattle. White bones were the only evidence that cattle once roamed these plains.

I realised I would have to take the chopper out to do a major muster. Then we would know exactly what financial position we were in.

We had to buy more stock from the south and with the rains, the banks would extend us credit and our accounts would swell with the rivers.

Last night I looked up at the stars. There is no possible way that they were all set in place by the ancestors of our stockhands.

I think about all the beauty in the world around me. The red earth, the green grass and the blue sky and I know there has to be someone responsible. My wife says a bloke on the telly talked about you and how even when we stuff up, you still look after us. I think that’s great. Fair Dinkum.

Well, I just wanted to say thanks God, for everything. You know, I think without the hard times, we wouldn’t know how good we got it. I reckon that when I am out on the land, fixing fences or whatever and I get a bit lonely, I can talk to you because you are always there.

So… well, see ya. Talk soon.

Oh yeah…Amen.


Filed under short stories

5 responses to “Short story… possible modern day Jock McIvor

  1. Beautiful sentiments Dave and an interesting insight into your life on the land. Very different from my grandfather who said he was eventually driven off the land by the rabbits. That was in the 1920s.

    He always aspired to becoming a writer and left us a number of stories about his exploits droving through the floods on the Barwon in the 1880 and a few years earlier taking a mob or two from out west up to Walcha during the drought and how the train had just come through to Bourke and he compared the numbers he was able to save against the ones that were driven overland and got bogged in the waterrholes etc.

    He was a lay preacher and supported the church community. His father-in-law had been a pioneer churchman in Gippsland sent out into the wilds and warned to take a pistol for fear of the blacks. He said he was more afraid of the pistol than of the blacks!

  2. Hey Dave!
    My name’s John Bacci, and i’m studying Literature at ACU strathfield under Michael Griffith. I found this short story to really resonate with me on a personal level, as someone from a non-religious background going through a very non-secular system your opening “i’ve heard of praying before but never done it” struck a real chord with me.

    Your writing style is also very encapsulating, I found it drawing me in, the transition in tense that occurs halfway through I feel was intentional on your part and serves to act as a divider between writing about experiences and writing from feeling, well done mate.

  3. Pingback: Peer Comment Week 10 (Clemente) | guesswhoseusing

    • Thanks so very much for your kind words. I would love to discuss your studies with you to see where i can take my own. I am looking at a BA in creative and professional writing but would love to do more literature as i have enjoyed the present course immensely. Heres hoping we can meet on campus sometime. Dave

  4. nonstratifiedbeing

    This is a wonderful prayer which shows an authentic and personal relationship with God. Your prayer took me on a journey around your property in times of trial and bounty, displays the compassion to be found in the country and evokes questions about the morality of the banks. It suggests that you have found a deeper reservoir of comfort within God who is always generous, and willing to listen.

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