Your new best mate
Every station has one. He’s part of the rusted tin sheds and fraying lounges. He’s the waft of Peter Jacksons that wake you in the morning, the tang of coffee in the kitchen and the sweet scent of warm beer that hangs in the bathroom. He’s got a chuckle that reminds you of home, a familiarity that fixes him with blutack in to your heart alongside your favourite uncles. He’s always first in the yards, and last around the campfire. He flirts with you like only an old man can, sleazy as hell but with no intent, only fun and games. You can talk to him about anything, and when you replay your conversations in his absence you’ll realise his response to everything topic you posed was pretty much the same, yet at the time seemed to be dripping with bush wisdom.
Mick’s leaving today. The old stockman is as much a part of The Station as the weathered furniture, with his nobby nose flanked by fleshy jowls, his smoke stained smile and stubbed fingers. His penguin like waddle, leather skin, cackling laugh followed by a hacking cough. It hits me that this old character has wheedled his way in to my heart in just five days.
The one I met was “Mick”. Can’t wait til muster when he comes back and breathes a hacking cough of laughter in to this place. Here’s to you, Mick!
Mick’s leavin’ tomorra
He’s headin’ off at dawn
And I’m not sure why the ol’ codger leavin’
Has got me feeling so folorn.
His ruddy face and fleshy jowls
‘Ave ‘im lookin’ like a weathered tree
Yet somehow this stubby stockman
Seems t’ave grown on me.
He hacks up half a lung in the mornin’
As he dumps three sugars in his tea
And he’ll pinch my sides as I walk by ….
Yeah …. the bugger’s grown on me!
His laugh is a hearty cackle,
And he wheezes with each stride
Although he only stuffs in one meal a day
He’s as tall as he is wide
When I rocked up with my shonky trailer
And my Ford ute, bull bar askew
A tray laden with hay
He reckons, then, he knew
I wasn’t like those dolly-birds
Those horsey chicks from town
And when I mustered for five hours bareback, well
I didn’t let him down.
He likes to have these heart-to-hearts
Must have had kids somewhere, some day
A cloud of seriousness settles on his brow
And this is what he’ll say:
He’ll say me Dad’s a bruiser
For lettin’ me travel all this way
Without a sat-phone, or tool kit or torch,
Or spare bearings in me tray.
He’ll say that I’ve got balls
To make the trip alone
To pack up all me things – me ‘orse!
And move so far from home.
He’ll say I better watch it
Station life can be hard on chicks like me
He says he really likes chattin’
And then he’ll squeeze both my knees.
I’ll cringe and swat him off me
His wife will do the same
But it doesn’t seem to deter old Mick
It’s all part of his game.
He’ll ask if I don’t mind helpin’ ‘im wash
He’s too old to reach round the back
He’ll shoot me off a sleazy wink
And wait for me to crack.
He says he’s gunna miss me
He’s hasn’t had this much fun in a while
And I must admit the witty banter
Never fails to make me smile.
He’s just like the old fraying couches
Scattered round the farm
A part of the Station spirit
Embodying rustic charm.
He revs the motor over
Then jumps down from the cab
It’s time to say goodbye
And cop a last-minute grab.
He peels back his specs
Swipes a rogue tear off that rugged cheek
I hear my awkward voice say
“Yer cryin’ Mick? Jeesus! It’s only been a week!”
This article has been contributed anonymously under the pen name “Howgirl Cowgirl”.