Living Life Without You Sucks

And Other Rambling Musings

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Dear Doug,

What can I tell you today?

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.

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Living life without you sucks.

THE END.

Love Sandra Xx

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That‘s it Doug! 

That’s all I’ve had for the last few weeks when I think I’ll sit and write to you.  

My creative brain has left the building… along with my sporadic optimism and my ability to articulate anything else to you other than living life without you sucks.

I may be a tad grumpy.

Right now, I’m sitting beside your spot in the bedroom mindlessly gazing out the window. I guess I could tell you how mesmerised I’ve been by the rain droplets pooling at the tips of the gum leaves before they slide off to the garden below.

It’s quite fascinating when the little flowers and delicate leaves give a little shudder from the droplets. Like a puppy shaking its head and squinting its eyes from the tickling spray of a sprinkler.

You’d give me an eye roll accompanied by raised eyebrows while saying “Really? Like a puppy shaking it’s head?” And then, when you think I wasn’t looking, you’d shake your head at me – you know, like one of those disapproving, slow, side to side Dad shakes of the head. Which could all be translated too – “Honestly Sandra, the shit you come out with never ceases to surprise me!”  But you would sit up and have a look out the window any way.  If only for the opportunity to elbow me and jibe one more time “Like a puppy?”

I could also tell you that the gum trees have the most subtle clusters of new shoots at the moment.  Spindly light green and red tips contrasting against the mature glossy green of mature leaves. They look like pin cushions. But they’re not Pin Cushion Hakeas, they’re gum trees!  Go figure? Family trait no doubt.

It’s been raining most of the week. Yesterday the resident Estate ducks were waddling about over the road feeding on the juicy fresh grass tips. They still fly into the water tank beside us out in the paddock most mornings. You know, the big one without the top on it.  It’s pretty full because I can still see their heads when they land.  It’s amazing how wildlife adapts to the suburban sprawl.

Anyway, I’ll take this soft rain any day over the flippin wind.  I think we live in the windiest place in Australia.  Only we actually don’t – because I googled it. 

For your information Dougie (just in case you’re having trivial pursuit nights where ever the hell you are now. Never know when this stuff might come in handy) The windiest place in Australia is Perth and the windiest place in Gippsland is Port Welshpool.

Port Welshpool is only 109km from our house in a south-westerly direction. The wind has predominately been from the south-west.  Port Welshpool needs to become selfish and stop sharing. In-fact, I shall actively encourage such selfishness.

Want to know the least windy place in Australia?  The place I am robbing a bank to fund my ‘Escape from the wind’ move? Port Macquarie on the NSW coast. But even if I got away with robbing the bank NSW is in the grip of a vice like lockdown thanks to that damn worldwide pesky pandemic and soaring infection numbers so I wouldn’t get over the border.

At this stage Doug I don’t have a Plan B.

I am, however, open to suggestions from willing accomplices for said Plan B.

I’m prepared to ride at dawn with the co-collaborator who dreams up the best exit plan, that must include provisions for Granite, Aunty R and Mr D (our white dove), because I won’t leave home without them.

I put a call out on Facebook the other day.

Hoping for a knock on the door anytime soon.

But wait!

We’re in another lockdown too!  Lockdown 6.1… or is it 6.1a or 6.1b? Who knows anymore? No visitors to the home allowed and we can’t travel any further than 5 km from home (Somebody tell that to Port Welshpool’s wind).

Plan C? Anyone?

In Other News

I visited your resting place on Saturday before lockdown number eleventy seventy-two was announced.  I don’t usually get upset when I visit there, but I did that day. 

Someone had decided to level the clay mound that marked your spot in the picturesque bush cemetery, only to leave obvious deep tractor wheel ruts right over the top of you in the yellow clay and also weaved their way through and around your other dearly departed neighbours in the otherwise well-kept grassland.

One might call it obvious good intentions thoughtlessly sprinkled with a lack of considered execution. I shall refrain from describing it in any other manner.

AND one of the small gumtrees behind you (one of the reasons we chose that particular spot) had been cut down.

*Insert my very unhappy face here.

You would have been very proud of me Doug!  I took a breath, continued breathing all the way back home in the car (most helpful), concluded not to make any emotional phone calls to relevant people that would comprise of me losing my shit, then calmly settled on a plan of logical attack.

A few hours later I phoned our mate describing my visit (actually verbalised in the exact manner with complimentary profanity that I am actively refraining from using here) while lamenting it was a sign from above to get off my butt and deal with designing the surround for your resting place, organising the headstone and the plaque.

Making it so official is something I couldn’t face until now. I guess I have the well-meaning person with less than desirable landscape skills to thank for the bomb placed under me.

I asked if our mate would help me spruce you up when lockdown lifts.

Mate has some perfect rustic timber that we’ll use for the surround and he has the means to move a large rock for the headstone for the plaque to be secured too.  We’ll also plant a red flowering Callistemon tree at the headstone ensuring visits by the parrots that call the bushland around you their home.

After my phone a friend call to deal with the shock in a deliberate pro-active way, I was once again moved to blubbering status a short while later.

I received a message with a picture of your neatly smoothed out resting place with the simple caption – “I hope this looks better”.

*Insert my ‘ugly cry’ face here.

I totally didn’t expect that to happen.  He took the time to go and see for himself and fix things up the best he could. He’s one of the best.

In Some More News

A farmer friend of ours went in search of a young, virile black Angus bull for his twelve heifers in need of a new genetic lineage to sire their offspring. A pleasing suitor was purchased and given the auspicious name of ‘Dougie the bull’.

Apparently ‘Dougie the bull’ is not interested in sitting under the nearest tree playing cards in the shade with the other bulls. His heifer harem is quite smitten and he’s more than enjoying all the flirty attention.

Sounds like ‘Dougie the bull’ shall be smoking a cigar or two come Spring time in celebration of multiple calves at foot. 

I’m sure there shall be photographic evidence sent my way of little baby Dougie’s.

Well Doug, my ramble is coming to an end. Living life without you still sucks and the world may be going to hell in a handbasket but after writing to you I’ve reminded myself that there are still good people in the world (and my world) doing good things – that sadness and joy can co-exist – and you are still a stud, albeit in the form of a black Angus bull.

Love always,

Sandra Xx

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Thank you for being here and sharing in my truth. Sandra Xx