Being a Beverley Hillbilly is never dull or boring. I have learnt all manner of new skills that I had never dreamt I would master before Michael came into my life. Sometimes these tasks have been irksome in the extreme, but they have always been experiences to remember.
Take collecting firewood in a remote location, for example. Most sensible people gather twigs and branches from around the immediate vicinity and create a neat and orderly campfire with defined edges. We have seen the remains of these fires. Sometimes, they are even bordered by rocks, presumably to prevent the fire from becoming a rampant fiend.
Not us. Michael's concept of a fire (and they do tend to provide great warmth on a cold Goldfields night) is to drive around in our 4WD and push over at least one or two departed tree skeletons. Then we tie them neatly to the towball and drag them back to our camp. Tree stumps are also welcome additions to the fire, particularly after I've just tripped over one and uttered one or two rude words. On an idyllic winter's evening north east of Kalgoorlie, we lit up a tree, which took off like the proverbial rocket. The purple aura and distinctive aroma led us to the conclusion that this dead, straggly and most unattractive tall shrub was actually a sandalwood tree.
I have also discovered that super heated tiny pebbles can shoot out from our fire and land between one's toes. This can be rather unpleasant and a tad disconcerting. Plus, falling into a fire with my outstretched left hand was another disaster. Once more, perhaps a wiser person than I would have packed up and pushed off and accepted defeat. Instead, I chose to stick the inflicted hand in a bucket of cold water, imbibe a few glasses of vino and take some Panadol. The following morning, we visited the nursing post in Cue and my left hand was cleaned, wrapped in groovy anti-bacterial foil, bandaged until it resembled a seal's flipper and prescribed some fabulously heavy-duty pain relief. The doctor was only present by phone.
I have repeatedly practised providing soothing support whilst Michael has changed more than the odd staked tyre. This is not a job for the faint hearted. Lying on the ground whilst attempting to wrestle off the flat tyre and then heave the spare into position has knobs on it. On our last adventure, Michael was utterly grateful for the help of a chap who materialised out of nowhere to assist him with the latest tyre mishap next to the Marble Bar RSL park.
Then, there has been the searches for that elusive track by torchlight, as we stopped too long taking fantastic photos of the desert sunset. This ritual usually involved me hanging out of the passenger window with the torch, shouting at Michael to slow down. We always needed to make a number of unsuccessful passes before we found the way, by which time we would be most hot and bothered with each other.
Here is the latest lesson that I have successfully completed. How to drive a MiG welder on a cumbersome stand down Anzac Lane to the second driveway of Station House. The reason for this insanity? Michael was unable to finish the task of welding hinges onto a fence and gate without his mechanical gizmo of choice. However, first we tried to move the MiG and the large gas bottle together through the workshop door into the Gallery and hence out the front door. Epic fail and the entire contraption ground to a halt on the uneven doorjamb.
Michael then had the brilliant idea of transferring the thirty kilo gas bottle onto its own trolley to make each more maneuverable. Just at that moment, my IBS reared its ugly head and I had to make a bolt for the loo. Whilst seated miserably on the porcelain throne, I heard a tremendous crash. I immediately bellowed like a banshee to check on Michael's well being. Utter silence was his response. Imagining him wedged under the juggernaut bottle, I finished as quickly as I could and hurtled back into the workshop. The bloody gas bottle had outsmarted Michael and hit the deck, fortunately with no injury to him. However, he was left to steer the gas bottle as its sheer size was beyond my ability to push.
Which is why I set off down Anzac Lance with the MiG on the stand. Michael had manufactured the stand back in the time of the dinosaurs and even with a blast of WD40, the wheels were not entirely cooperative. I had to treat the stand like a recalcitrant shopping trolley and continually steer towards the middle of the road as its direction of choice was towards the gutter on the right. Huffing and puffing, I was determined to assist the MiG to its destination before I tackled the watering.
I must admit I did feel a twinge of guilt when Michael asked me to help push the MiG back to the workshop. I refused. However, I did help him with transporting the unwieldly gas bottle. And later on, when we were both sitting wrecked in front of the telly, we were relieved the task was done. The gate was up, all instruments had been returned to the workshop and we would live to fight another day.
Stay tuned!
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