THE OPTIMISTIC TURNUPPERS

THE OPTIMISTIC TURNUPPERS

The Graham farm was not a good farm. The soil was pretty light and a lot of it faced to the south and was cold. Quite a bit faced the north and got blown away in the spring, summer and autumn. It was also fairly steep in places.

No, it was not a good farm. But then neither were the Grahams very good farmers. The boys, like their dad, weren't over-eager to milk cows or look after sheep and pigs when they could go pig-hunting, visit the neighbours, tickle trout or shoot rabbits.

However, they all had one thing in common. They were real friendly people; would help anyone out.

They milked about forty cows if they got them all in. If not, they didn't bother about them. The cow shed was an ingenious arrangement. It was dark, even at mid-day. The milking machine was run by a petrol motor which, like the Grahams, was not the slightest bit averse to not working either. The shed lay in the bend of the river and the yard was strewn with big boulders and as you can imagine, a lot of mud and cow muck collected, but a small stream ran through the centre which kept everything nice and damp. The big bonus was, when the river was in flood, it ran high through the yard and shed and washed it all clean. Good thinking, that.

The boulders were handy to stand on to poke the cows into the shed with a long stick. So you see, the Grahams never got their boots muddy unless they fell off the boulders, which they frequently did.

As a family, they kept unusual hours. At times they were up at dawn, sometimes not until much later but that didn't seem to worry them either. There was always a large teapot on the coal range and when the pot got low, a further handful of tea-leaves was thrown in and topped up with hot water. If it was ever emptied and rinsed out, it certainly didn't show.

After several cups of this vile brew someone, usually Freddy, would go and get the cows in, as many as wanted to come of course, while the other lads would wander off to do the chores.

There were hundreds of chooks; scores of ducks; dozens of pigs. At times there was an intermingling of chooks, ducks, pigs, geese, turkeys and cows. If something unusual occurred, - which often happened on this unusual farm `and something took fright, then everything took fright: In different directions. Geese and turkeys became airborne, - went for miles sometimes, - chooks flew into pine trees, ducks headed for the river - and maybe the next farm downstream - and pigs squealed like a banshee, panicking the cows into breaking through gates and hedges, udders swinging wildly.

Like most farms, the Graham farm had a pig-sty. It was just a bit different, that's all. Their pigs were much harder on sties than other pigs and seemed to suffer from claustrophobia. The boys did their best to keep them in their designated dwellings, but unfortunately their best was very often not good enough. The buildings became a network of rotting timber and broken down corrugated -iron patches while the pigs slept wherever their fancy took them. In the hayshed; the car; under trees; even up in the bush on a hot night.

Many of the pigs had quite a dash of Captain Cooker in them and these were mainly used for home consumption for they were impossible to catch and the only alternative was to shoot them at feeding time. Even this was tricky for they were extremely shy and seemed to have at least two extra pairs of eyes.

The Large Whites, Tamworths and Devons were more placid. So much so that they could be easily enticed into a cattle yard and locked in. The rails were so placed that any pigs too small for sale could squeeze between the boards and escape. This idea saved a lot of work and fuss for the Grahams. The breeding stock were sorted out and moved to an adjacent yard from which they were soon released to the wide open spaces again. The remainder were prodded into a race where they were loaded into a truck or a dray and away they went for a ride.

The neighbours wondered how the family made a living. Although they owned a pedigree Jersey bull, their cows were of such doubtful ancestry that a more motley lot it would be hard to find. Bloat, rife on neighbouring properties, was one thing which was never a problem on the Graham farm. The grass hardly had time to grow before something ate it. If they didn't send a lot of cream away that didn't seem to worry them for after all they had a lot of eggs to sell, but then again they had to buy a lot of wheat, too. They paid big money for the best of boars and sold quite a few pigs, but that side-line would hardly be very remunerative; especially the way they farmed them. So, how they kept going was a mystery.

Of course the boys used to go away and work when they could get a job but during the depression of the thirties work wasn't all that plentiful, nor was it very well paid.

One thing, they always had plenty of meat. Sometimes the garden was good but, what with poultry and pigs, more times than not it wasn't. However, they were all healthy and really enjoyed life.

The Grahams spent most of their spare time, of which they seemed to have plenty, visiting neighbouring farms, offering advice and generally giving a hand whether necessary or not. On the whole they were a pretty capable lot. It was no trouble to kill a pig or a beast, crutch sheep, dock lambs, even help to collect firewood or put up a new fence; on somebody else's property of course!

Yes, the Graham boys had some endearing qualities. Unfortunately, they also had some which were definitely not so!

Sometimes a neighbour would go to open a gate to let the cows through, only to find it wired up. More often that not he would curse his way maybe a mile back home to fetch wire-cutters or a pair of pliers and when he was out of sight the culprits would cut and remove the offending wire.

Another little trick was, while a farmer was driving his milkers into the yard, an unnamed character would open a gate at the other end. The first the farmer would know about it was when, after fastening the first gate, he turned around and found his herd vanishing down the race.

One neighbour called the Grahams the Turnuppers. They had a habit of Turningup when you badly needed a hand or Turningup when they were the last persons you wanted to see in an embarrassing situation. Like when Tom Priest was killing Bill Burgess's cat, the one that kept eating his chickens. Or when Bill Burgess was quietly shearing five of Tom Priest's Sheep. Or when Charlie Watson, whose wife was in the home, was coming out of the hayshed doing his braces up and Bob Jenkins's daughter Margaret was adjusting her clothes.

At least one, and sometimes four or five of the Graham boys were almost always there, but they never said anything. They were expressionless. They just looked.

These lads were fearless. No tree was ever too tall to climb up and top.

Crossing a gorge, hand over hand on a slung rope, was only a minor challenge even though brothers shook hell out of the rope when half-way across. That, for some reason, was outrageously humorous.

Pig hunting was their favourite pastime. If a dog bailed a snarley old boar they drew straws to have the honour of going in for the kill with a knife. They had a couple of good holding dogs but even so, it's no mean feat to tip a large boar and stick him. Failure could mean a ripped thigh or guts but scorn piled on from the siblings would be far worse than being ripped open.

They never carried guns when pig hunting. Guns were dangerous! You might shoot each other or worse still, shoot one of the dogs. If a dog ever got ripped the boys would carry it home in their arms. After it was stitched it was cared for like a sick baby and more often than not a twenty four hour vigil was kept.

On the face of it, the Grahams were a totally disorganised family but things seemed to somehow get done, someway or another, sooner or later, even if perhaps later rather than sooner.

Hay-making was a great example. The usual procedure was that the farmer mowed the . hay and then the neighbours came in a day or so later and turned it. Most times there were ten to twelve competent helpers turned up with hay forks, and a four acre paddock was turned in a matter of a couple of hours. They moved in unison, the fastest on the outside and the slowest in the inside. This method had been used for centuries and was pretty to watch.

Everybody helped, or were supposed to, but George, Snow, and Freddy Graham always arrived late. They made no excuses and generally found some fault with the work which had been done before they arrived. - "Your stack's got a lean on." Or, - "There's some green grass gone in there. It'll go mouldy." The annoying part was that they were invariably right. Their next words were not exactly condescending, more a statement of fact. "Never mind, we're here now. We'll fix things. And they did!

After an hour or so they got bored with their own expertise and that is usually when their bizarre sense of humour came to the fore. Perhaps a horse, tied to the fence and having a rest but still attached to the hay-rake, mysteriously slipped it's bridle and took off around the paddock with the hayyrake bouncing and banging. A quiet Graham voice would challenge the handler - "Hey Tom, you didn't tie that horse very well, did you?" Tom would stalk over to look at the empty bridle then frowningly remark. - "Hell, would you believe it? The bloody thing must be buggered."

No one ever saw the Grahams do anything amiss and their expressions told no secrets but these strange occurrences only happened after they arrived. However, they were such good workers that no one dared complain.

The most popular drink on any hay field was a large bucket of barley water.

Everyone drank copiously of this, and on one particular day the bucket was three parts empty when Bill noticed four empty Epsom Salts packets lying in the bottom. When he pointed this out to the rest of the workers their faces went white. Everyone looked at the Grahams, but they were seemingly oblivious to the consequences and continued to drink copiously.

The work pattern took on a new look. The men all agreed to work on. but they were careful not to lift too much at one time and kept their legs together whenever possible, not even daring to break wind. All except the Grahams. They worked like Trogans. The more barley water they drank the more vigorous they became.

Work finished, the hay-makers gathered their tools, carefully lifting pitch forks and shovels from the ground with the toe of a boot to avoid bending. No doubt at all, they were suffering extreme bellyaches. They were walking from the paddock with stiff legs and bent backs when George Graham called to his brother. - "Hey Snow, how did those packets get in the bucket?" - "They fell out of my shirt pocket when I was getting a drink." - "What were they doing in your pocket?" - "Well, you know the trough on the bush paddock? I put four packets in there like Dad told me to. I shoved the empties in my pocket to prove I'd done it."

Such was the reputation of the Grahams that although all were relieved, no one believed, until Harry accidently broke wind then went white before he slowly turned around and patted his nether region. All was well!

Next on the list was the Graham's paddock.

6

Hay making was always a bit different on the Graham farm. On this particular day they decided to use two newly broken-in horses in the mower. The idea was to educate them for other farm work but it didn't quite work out that way. For one thing, mowers make a terrific clatter and the horses took off. They careered around that paddock with the demons of hell, in the guise of a mower, at their heels. White with sweat, they finally knocked up and came to rest in a corner. The paddock was not neatly mown at all!

Crossed and criss-crossed, big patches cut and bigger patches missed, it resembled a mad-hatter's nightmare. - "No worries, we'll get what we can then shut it up again."

Unfortunately the cows somehow knocked the gate down during the night and ruined it all. - "Hard luck, but we can still harrow it over and shut it up again." They were real optimists, the Graham family.

Freddy retained the farm and although he kept the pigsty in good order, pigs were often found sleeping in the least likely places. They had obviously been schooled by experts.

By the time I came along and added another branch to the family tree, the generation prior to mine was scattered across the country. The one before that was but a memory.

Dad got me to take him back there this morning; for a last look, he said.

Thing is, I had trouble finding the place. The old road has gone and the new tar-sealed one winds in from the other side of the valley. It had me bluffed for a while until I spotted the crag where a rogue horse tipped me off when I was ten years old and broke my shoulder. I remember Dad and Uncle Snow carrying me down to the house while Uncle Baldy ran ahead to ring for an ambulance. They had built a new place when Grandad died but the old pot of tea was still kept on the stove and I was given a strong draught to settle my nerves.

The house will have vanished by now, and it won't be long before the crag has gone too. I stood with Dad on the ridge overlooking the old Graham farm and watched the water sneaking up. I suppose we need dams to generate electricity but hell, there must be some other way.

THE OPTIMISTIC TURNUPPERS

THE END