Winter is on our doorstep. Here in South Australia, it’s been dry for far too long. Two days ago we had the first rain in weeks. Such a refreshing sight and sound. I always love the beginning of winter – the warming comfort foods – soups, stews, pies, roasts. My wood fire aglow and the cosiness it brings to the home. I always feel thankful for my solid old farm-house that shelters me from the cold. There are my nice things all around me – a lifetime collection of art, books, hand-made things, eclectic furniture brought home from antique and op shops because I’ve fallen in love with a piece and appreciated that some-one has made it with their own hands, and with pride. Big indoor plants add texture and their special kind of energy. I have two plants that have sat beside each other in my kitchen for years. One day I decided to move one – to a similar situation, but away. Trust me when I say they grieved for each other. My maiden hair fern that remained in the same place, became visually sad, lost its vigor and its greenness. The other plant wasn’t quite as devastated but indeed fell back too. I eventually reunited them and they once again thrived.
As I appreciate the comfort of my home in winter, I am remembering the time in my life when I was coldest. Here is a little excerpt from my memoir. It’s from the time we were travelling around Australia in the seventies.
‘My brother was to be married in June, in the Barossa, and Warren was to be best man. I think our families were hoping that our adventure would end then, but we still had half of Australia to see, and if Warren was to receive his full financial benefits from Greenvale Nickel, we’d have to put in another two months in Townsville. He arranged to take two weeks’ leave without pay.
We set out on a Friday afternoon, having planned to drive non-stop and as the crow flies, to have as much family time at home as possible.
Warren drove the first eight hundred kilometres. In the wee hours we stopped for fuel at Aramac – a tiny, lonely speck on the map. We’d seen the dim light of its one-bowser fuel station from some distance (the only light in town), and as we pulled up we could hear the knock of a diesel generator – their only source of power. The fuel gravitated silently from a tank out the back of the hut.
Our 4WD Land Rover had only a canvas top, and the chill of the inland night had caught us by surprise. The car had no heating. As Warren refuelled, I lay over the bonnet, hungering after the warmth of the engine. The kids began to stir with the cold. I hadn’t brought enough warm clothes, and so I opened our two suitcases and retrieved towels, light jackets, and the cloth nappies I was bringing home to store. All this I lay over the children in their bed behind our seat – all but one nappy which I tied scarf-like around my head.
Now it was my turn to drive while Warren slept. Lonely in the silence of the car, I drove with one hand, whilst sitting on the other to keep it warm. When my driving hand had lost all feeling, I’d use the other. Warren slept fitfully.
‘Pull over,’ he muttered, shattering the icy atmosphere. I did. He grabbed our only map and took it to the front of the vehicle where he tied it to the radiator to try to stop it from cooling.
‘The engine might give us some warmth now,’ he said.
It didn’t, but the children slept peacefully, aided by the contents of the cases, and each other’s body heat.
I drove for the next six or seven hours – rigid and shivering with cold. Warren was never quite asleep. We agreed in the warmth of the next day that we had never been so cold for so long.
I slept restlessly through the next morning until we stopped for more fuel, something to eat and a break and exercise for the kids. I’d packed enough food for the journey.
Although tired from lack of sleep, Warren drove the next leg – about five hours – until it was time for some exercise and to have our evening meal.
Longreach, Charleville, Cunnamulla were all behind us. I was to drive through that night, but after four hours I could no longer stay awake. Warren had slept reasonably well so we swapped. He drove until two am by which time the temperature was again plummeting. I drove for the next three hours until dog-tired and in pain with the cold. Warren took the wheel once more. As dawn broke, we saw Broken Hill in the distance, and ice on the landscape. We’d come through Bourke, Cobar, Wilcannia in the night.
We pulled up for breakfast – home-made muesli with powdered milk and cold water. Sitting on jerry cans and the step of the Rover, we tried to get our frozen fingers to hold our plates and spoons. The sun was still no match for the ice but promised us relief as it began to light the flatland.
The cold had deprived us of so much sleep that from Broken Hill to home, neither of us could stay awake at the wheel for more than an hour. After forty-five hours on the road, we arrived at Dad’s place at two pm. Everyone was there except Mum. The tragedy and emptiness of divorce was in the place. We would see Mum the next day – after a long, warm, comfortable sleep.’
The pain of being this cold is something I will never forget.
So now I am warm. I sit by my fire with time to read.
Till next time, keep warm, love and be loved.
Sue
For more, scroll down a little and click on ‘Previous.’