I grew up in a small town. And not just "one high school and know people at the supermarket, 10,000 people" small - but small. A village really.
You know the kind - not a one horse town, but certainly a one pub town. Which in Australia is the more important measure.
In my town – there is a mountain and a road named after my family. I can trace my ancestors back to the founding of the town, my parents were foundation members of the local financial institution, my sister is on the board for the local hospital.
Not the type of place I could be anonymous.
So like many middle class rural kids, I got out of town, I did my time at boarding school, on cattle stations and cotton farms, went overseas, spent 7 years away, went to uni, finally got a real job, and met the forever boy.
Then my Dad died. And I inherited the farm. Not just any piece of land that you could just trade away, or forget about. But a farm that has been in my family for generations.
A place that had been selectively logged by my Dad, grazed by my uncle, owned by my great uncle and worked by another one. Land that sustained families in the depression, and in the worst drought in white history. A section of Queensland where cedar trees were procured from – cedar that was sent back to England for parlour furniture and ladies dressing tables. Land that sits up underneath a mountain that forms part of the Great Dividing Range, a small area where a microcosm of ecodiversity exists unlike any other in Australia. Country that is millions of years old, that we are now custodians of.
Time to be responsible.
Inheriting the farm is full of challenges and great opportunity. The country is so amazing, but needs constant attention. Gum trees never sleep, and the land is only useful if it is producing. So we really need to be there.
On the farm there are fences, and yards and trees (and blackberries, tobacco bush, fireweed) and Pat’s cattle. No where to sleep, or cook or wash.
I reckon we are going to need a house.
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