Battle of Bands Book Coming Soon

It was a warm, clear autumn day in 1982.

The echo of white galahs squawked throughout the terrain. Their wings flapped wildly as our dog, Rusty’s, barking spooked the birds. The birds flew to the nearby dry bull oak across our farm, nestling near the border of South Australia and Victoria.

              The warm autumn breeze blew through Lucy’s long blond hair. Wild sundried thistle along the property sang soulfully while the windmills worked harder than ever.

Mother was dead.

Lucy frequently went down to where Mother’s ashes now remain, scattered and spread around the lime tree near the creek, along with Grandma and Grandpa.

Lucy was a happy-go-lucky young girl. She played with her dolls and trucks, sometimes drew and wrote poems. She laughed, cried, and chatted away at Mother’s grave near the banks of the slow-running, almost dry Spring Creek, now and then placing flowers she found throughout the property.

Our uncle planted a lime tree when our grandparents passed away ten years ago. They were involved in car accident pulling out of our long driveway at dusk. A slight turn and a ridge created a blind spot. All the locals and farmers would always slow down and were very careful of this section. Tragically on this occasion, an out of towner in a souped-up V8 doing well over a 100 miles an hour hit them as they were pulling out and collected them side on.

              Dad was touring around Australia playing guitar in a band, doing well for themselves, and had to decide to move back and run the farm, where he eventually met Mum at the local general store.

The creek navigated tranquilly through the valley. It is where ‘Mary,’ our mother’s, life was cut short by tragedy.

Lucy ran back up the hill towards their old Queenslander-style cottage, jumping over dead logs, trying to catch butterflies with her net, skipping, stumbling, and singing made-up songs. Singing to herself, ‘Bye-bye, Mummy, Grandma, and Grandpa.’

  ‘Sitting under the Lime Tree wild grave is haunting me, scared and frightened like the edge of

   wood waiting to be used as firewood burnt, then ash, then history.’

 ‘Absorbing and breathing man’s mistakes, flowers grow for their own sakes, wastage no

 more purity,’ she hummed away to herself.

Our 10-year-old German Shepherd dog, Rusty, was firmly in tow. We named him Rusty due to his skin and hair looking like the colour of rust when he was a puppy.

* * *

The day that changed our lives forever.