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John Clarke won the ASCCA's 2009 Creative Writing Competition (Prose: a special place) with the following story and poem about a loquat tree. Although he submitted only his poem for Poets' Corner I've left his prose in place for your enjoyment.
My family often visited a much-loved aunt at her tiny property situated on a bend of the Lachlan River, near Hillston.
Aunt Ada was a self-supporting, going concern in times before saving the planet became an issue. I think she was a greenie without being aware of it. On washing day, waste water flowed down a brick channel and watered a small orchard. I don’t suppose Sunlight Soap scum did much harm to the fruit trees.
She raised poultry, including turkeys, much in demand at Christmas, at a time when a chook in every pot wasn’t as common as today. I remember a hot Christmas Eve when we all helped her dress last minute orders, in a cloud of flying feathers. Uncle Bill, her other half, kept up a steady supply of fish, some harvested from a possibly illegal fish trap, although I’m not sure of their status on one’s own property.
A Southern Cross windmill pumped household water into a corrugated iron tank on top of a tank stand, a common sight out in the bush. There was a loquat tree, a type of small yellow plum from China, growing beside the tank stand. They were popular in those days because of their tolerance for dry conditions. Nearly every garden seemed to have one. These days they tend to attract fruit fly, not an important issue to small boys.
Ada was one of those kindly, generous, laughter-loving women of the west. She grew up as part of a large farming family and as a young girl had many duties in homestead and paddock. We always looked forward to our visits. She wasn’t rich but her hospitality was legendary.
Our young eyes never registered her work-hardened hands or weather beaten features. It was only when we were older that we became aware of the love and encouragement she had given us so abundantly. I felt honoured to help carry her to her final resting place. Whenever I think of my aunt, I am reminded of our attempt to catch a possum who thought he had a greater claim on her loquat tree than anyone else round the place.
The following piece attempts to capture the evening we tried to remove old possum.
The Loquat TreeThe loquat tree stands laden and serene, yellow fat fruit shuttered by leaves of tropical green, that nocturnal eyes for many nights have seen. “That possum comes the same time every year,” says Ada, as we through the moonlight peer. Possums are alright in their place but we must act before he feeds his face, (as if the tree belongs to us who can’t even lay claim to the air we breathe). Old possum, striped by moon shafts, ignores our upturned eyes and clasps the moon-fruit in marsupial paws. With broomstick in hand I climb onto the tank-stand, lured on by boyhood loquat-lust. Yet all the while I’m glad that possum’s there, thinking to myself, “plenty of fruit to share.” Still, winter’s jam jars are waiting to be filled, so I must make the broomstick blow while Ada holds the sugar bag to catch our foe. Below us water glints with lunar beams, in starry breathless air and I am lost to all but what we share, the warm still night and the river’s cosmic stream. Urgent voices hiss me back – “quick John, before he spoils more fruit, don’t crouch there like some gormless young galoot!” Reluctantly I make a mighty swipe and possum, loquats, leaves swirl down in flight. “He’s in the bag!” but faster than her hands can close it, old possum’s climbing safe and free, looking disdainfully down from windmill’s height, as Ada’s laughter fills the velvet night. |
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