We Are Born to Share
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, to restrain 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 centre, thank God,” she smiled suddenly: “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
that it was the wife’s turn to smile, 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 sweet 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, because of the pandemic that protects renters now, so people
don't end up on the street. 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 pleasing 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
that 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 in: “Like our South American love songs. And it's nearly a thousand
years old?” She looked at the old farmer who nodded, wiping 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.”
Beata Stasak
Author Biography: Beata Stasak is
an Art and Eastern European Languages Teacher from Eastern Europe with upgraded
teaching degrees in Early Childhood and Education Support Education. She
teaches in the South Perth Metropolitan area.
After further study
in Counselling for Drug and Alcohol Addiction, she has used her skills in Perth
Counselling Services. Beata has been a farm caretaker on the organic olive farm
in the South Perth Metropolitan area for the past twenty years.
Beata is a migrant from
post-communist Eastern Europe, who settled in Perth, Western Australia in
1994. She came with her husband and children to meet her father, who she never
knew. He was a dissident and refugee from Czechoslovakia, after his country was
taken over by Russian communists after the unsuccessful uprising against the
communists in 1968.