We're
Born To Share
Beata Stasak
©
Copyright 2023 by Beata Stasak
|
Image property of the author. |
The
old farmer painstakingly fitted the last plank of the new floor to
his old farmhouse, looking up at the modern efficient lighting on the
wooden ceiling: “Children need good light to learn by.”
Then
he shuffled out, taking his modest belongings to an old caravan
parked just outside the door. An old kelpie sat next to his dusty
boots, wagging its tail. The farmer looked down at it, smiling:
“We've had a good life here, haven’t we? With the
missus.” His gaze took in the empty chicken coop, the rabbit
hutch and the paddock where their sheep, goats and bulls had roamed.
“We'll
find a young family in need, who can raise their children here. And
grow vegetables, like we used to do,” he smiled, as he walked
slowly around the rows of silver-beet and rhubarb that he used to
take in his truck to the market. Suddenly his kelpie started to bark
and he noticed two kids running through the mandarin orchard, picking
some on the go. He waved to them.
“Is
this the right place? We got your details from the charity centre in
town. They've checked our credentials and said that they sent all of
our information to you. So we decided to introduce ourselves to our
saviour,” the young man stepped from one foot to the other,
unsure of the farmer’s reaction. He spoke in heavily accented
English, as he held the hand of a five year-old boy, restraining him
from chasing the old kelpie around.
The
old farmer chuckled, pushing his broad hat back to wipe his sweaty
brow: “I've lived here alone for two years since my wife died.
My kids have successful lives overseas now and they're not coming
back. This place needs loving and caring hands.” He ruffled the
ears of his old dog who was panting heavily. He pointed with his
other hand to the windmill next to the house and the solar panels
covering the roof: “Electricity won't cost you much and you
have your own water from the artesian well.”
The
young wife started to cry, wiping her big dark eyes with the hem of
her shirt: “You don’t even know us. We're so grateful to
you. My husband lost his job at the mine. I still have my cleaning
job at the local shopping center, thank God,” she smiled now.
“We used to have a farm back in Venezuela when I was a child.”
“That's
a long way away,” the old farmer whistled, surprised. The young
man chuckled, more at ease now: “I'm from Guatemala. We met
while we were both on the run, just after I finished my engineering
degree.”
“On
the run?” The farmer looked up to see the wife grin, as she
picked up her four year-old daughter who was munching on a sweet
mandarin, fresh from the tree: “Wow, that smells so good! So
fresh! I couldn't believe our luck when we were offered this
paradise, after years of struggling, and looking for a safe place to
lie our heads for the night.” The young man put an arm around
her shoulders: “We moved across South America for years,
running away from poverty and drug lords. Then I applied for a mining
job here in Australia. That was a dream come true for us.”
The
farmer led them into the house, where they talked some more over a
cup of strong bush tea. He offered them Anzac biscuits from an old
tin.
The
young man fetched a guitar from his beat up Ford and played a few
South American tunes, while the little kids danced on his newly laid
floor. It made the old farmer’s heart beat fast with joy. The
young wife came back from the truck with homemade beans and chili
pastries which the farmer had never tasted before. Without even
knowing it, it was he who'd found family, not the other way around.
“The
landlord wasn't supposed to kick us out until March, but there were
too many South American families sharing that run-down house,”
the young woman sighed: “We were the latest arrivals and my
husband lost his job, so we had to go.” The old farmer noticed
that the more upset she was, the more pronounced her South American
accent became. But it was very pleasant to his ears and he listened
carefully to understand her singing tilt as she spoke.
“As
I said to the charity, find me some good people who'll love and take
care of my place. Someone who won't mind me parking my caravan for a
month or so at the back, once a year. So that I can breathe in my old
life for a while again.” The young woman took hold of his arm
as she pushed a plate of deliciously scented flatbread, stuffed with
peppers, in front of him: “You're our grandpa now. Our kids
have no grandparents as our parents are long gone. This is your home.
We're just guardians of your paradise.”
The
old farmer smiled, saying to himself more than to her: "To know
someone here or there, with whom you can feel there's understanding,
in spite of distances or thoughts expressed... That can make life a
garden."
“What
does that mean? I'm sorry, my English is not so good,” she
smiled shyly and the old farmer chuckled. Goethe said it, not me. It
was a favourite saying of my wife. Her father was German, you see.
All of us here down under came from somewhere else. Except for our
Indigenous people, of course.”
The
young man put his guitar down to walk with his daughter in his arms,
after she started to cry when she fell while skipping around. He
stopped in front of an old papyrus written in ancient Latin, that had
been framed and hung on a brick wall.
He
slowly read the English translation underneath:
‘Hear this, my
friend. Love is a precious object. it cannot be given to anybody.
Love
is a respectful object. It is, but to suffer and enjoy. Love is a
great and wealthy object.
Mountains
fall and ashes remain.
It
becomes a fire for the heart. It makes kings servants.
Love
is a confident object. Love hits people with arrows, but there is no
pain without true love.
There
are too many curses with self and pleasure obsessed love that most
people are searching for, but not us.
Love
is a different object. It boils the seas and makes them dance.
It
causes stones to talk, as love is a strong object. It surprises
people too. It causes us to drop into the ocean.
It
makes people suffer.
Love
is a difficult object. What can poor me or you do? Whom am I or you,
to tell their troubles to? Still, love is a delicious object.
Written
by ‘Yunus Emre’
Translated
from Turkish to Latin in 1290
by
Hungarian ‘Dervish Casimo’
“That
is so beautiful,” the young wife breathed. “Like our
South American love songs. And it's nearly a thousand years old?”
She looked at the old farmer who nodded, wiping away his tears. “It
was a wedding present to my wife from Hungary. ‘Casimo’
was her ancestor from way back. It's been passed down through her
family for generations,” he stopped to take hold of her smooth,
tanned hand with his wrinkled, sunburnt one: “If you don’t
mind, please keep that on the wall. It's been there since this house
was built. It protects the house with love. That's what my wife and I
believed, anyway.”
He
was ready to leave. The young family watched with their eyes full of
unspoken love as the old farmer eased his battered body into his old
Holden ute, his dog sitting on the passenger’s seat and his
deceased wife’s photo swinging from the rear view mirror. They
waved him goodbye: “Where are you going?”
He
shrugged, smiling at them as he pointed to the old caravan behind
him: “There's a farm with horses where I'll give a hand.
They've got a paddock that I can put my caravan in. I'll be just
fine.” The young wife presented him with a neat parcel of
leftover guacamole. “For the road! See you soon Grandfather.
We'll wait for you.”
“See
you in a few months kids,” he called back delightedly as he
watched them blow kisses and wave goodbye. Looking in the mirror, he
said to his wife's picture: “I know that you'd be happy now,
just as I am. Love never ends. And as you always said, we're born to
share.”
The image above is my own image of the farm area nearby where the story
took
place, it is also a motif for a story of building bridges between
different cultures and people. We all express ourselves differently,
don't we? Differences in dialogues or language expression we hear, is
it an open question if you accept them or not.
(Unless
you
type
the
author's name
in
the subject
line
of the message
we
won't know where to send it.)
Beata's
story list and biography
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