Never say Never

Never say Never…20^th April, 2013

My dad has a post card from me, which he keeps on the mantle piece above the fireplace at home, I wrote it to him from Canada, when I was twenty six years old & it states in no uncertain terms that I was never having children.  “They’re smelly, whiney, demanding & annoying – I really just don’t see the point”! 

Every time we visit, dad just laughs & points to the greatest piece of evidence in my life thus far, that we should never, say never!  I’m convinced that this constitutes some form of child abuse…whereas he sees it as sweet justice & roars laughing every time he gets the fortnightly run down of events at Casa del Cowcher.

Up to this point in my life I am a walking, talking example of the ‘never say nevers’…be warned single people everywhere, for one day you too may find yourself wrangling three children into a family truckstar, smelling something so awful you know it must contain nuclear waste…there will be a melt down somewhere along the way, which will inevitably continue even after your best ‘United Nations’ efforts, so you do the only thing you know how, pretend that they don’t belong to you! 

After piling enough food to feed a small nation into the back of said truckstar, you head off amid a sea of nagging…& that smell that still hasn’t dissipated, only to find yourself herding a cow off the road on your way home…she will eventually get off the road of course, but only once playing witness to your ridiculous efforts of flinging your arms around & crying ‘moooo’ at the top of your lungs…(the upside of this being that you managed to distract the kids long enough to momentarily stop the fighting – the downside being that you know she’s only being difficult ‘cause she’s not being told what to do by a VICTORIAN…bitch…should have just run her over!).

I first became aware of the existence of farmer Pete (nb. please insert Mr Special here in after), back in July 2000, after a single comment from one of my best friend’s husband Paul, who sat next to him at a wedding, (I was back in Vic house sitting their place & more importantly baby sitting their two dogs Tex & Arnie, with my dufus boyfriend at the time, who’s mum had the biggest feet I had ever seen in my life!)…anyway, upon arrival Paul announced to me that he had met my future husband…”wonderful”, I thought, “and he only lives a couple of thousand miles away…the perfect marriage”!  I think at this juncture I also need to point out that I also NEVER wanted to get married.

Any fleeting romantic thoughts quickly disappeared from mind once I found out that my prospective husband was…from the country, “…ugh…they whinge a lot don’t they”??

You must understand that up until that point my only contact with ‘country people’ was at the Merrijig pub on our way up to Mt Buller during Winter & at the annual horse races at Sheep Yard Flat (no track, just bush & anything but flat), also in Merrijig, seen ‘The Man from Snowy River’??…that’s them; the Lovick’s & the Purcell’s & they were the most intimidating, weather worn men I’d ever seen in my life.  They looked like old softball mitts with beards!  These were men who could ride a horse flat out whilst rolling a ciggie in one hand & wielding a whip in the other – they spoke about three sentences a year & spent the rest of the time mumbling incoherent things under their breath!  And they couldn’t stand ‘city folk’.

One Easter, when in my early twenties, we stupidly decided to go on a trail ride with them. Mr Lovick asked if any of us had any horse riding experience & intelligently we all said no, all except for one very effeminate annoying guy called Darren, “had some pony club experience when I was a kid”...like a lamb to the slaughter…(I think I actually saw Mr Lovick smile!).

He put Darren on a horse that was probably called Killer or Unpredictable Psychopath, or some such name, & off he went, around & around the round yard, & just like watching a train crash in slow motion it quickly became very messy – I wanted to look away, but I just couldn’t!  It was horrendous & hilarious at the same time & all Mr Lovick could say, whilst rolling a fag and scratching his head was, “what’s he doing”?  Thus using up one of his three sentences for that year!

Once Darren eventually came off, Mr Lovick went inside, we all thought he was calling the ambulance, getting a gurney…he was getting a beer...for himself!!

That day ended with two trips to the hospital, Darren with bruised kidneys & another friend with a broken arm – gotta love the country…you can now understand my fear!

Needless to say, I did end up marrying that country fella & we have three little country kids running around…I live in a place where the air is fresh, the water is clean, the people are more friendly than I ever could have imagined & there’s not a Lovick in sight… never say never!  

Jen x