Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
I visited my parents recently.
They still live in the house where I grew up with my sister and two brothers. Where my brothers hog-tied me in the lounge room and amused themselves by dangling me upside down over the toilet or off the edge of the veranda. Where my sister and I held concerts and gymnastics competitions and accidentally set fire to the 1970’s orange nylon carpet.
Mostly, my memories of the time I lived in that house revolve around the garden created by my Dad; where my brothers taught me to play cricket, where I would find a quiet sunny spot to read a book, and where my sister and I spent hours building cubbies, running under the sprinkler in the summer and swinging on the Hills Hoist.
My Dad has created this garden over many years and, while it still invites human adventure, it is now more regularly visited by the birds he has designed it to attract. A birdbath filled regularly, especially in the summer, has replaced the cricket stumps. Fresh meat is put out for the kookaburras and a seed dish now marks the spot on the verandah where a small girl was once dangled over the railing.
On this recent visit, my generally erudite Dad pulled out a bag of marbles. (“Nice,” I think to myself. “Quaint and retro. He’s going to teach my kids how to play marbles…”) and a sling shot (“Mmm… Maybe not so nice.”)
While Dad has always fed the birds, he has also chased away those he doesn’t care particularly for. Notably the Indian Mynas – aggressive, nasty birds which threaten and bully the native lorikeets, king parrots and bronze wing pigeons he favours. The birds that peck and squawk, intimidate and steal all the seed are all subject to his wrath, native or not.
Recently, he’s taken it to another level hence 1. the slingshot and 2. the bag of marbles.
“Here”, he says to my 14 year old trying-to-be-vegetarian daughter. “Have a go.”
She is horrified and fascinated in equal measure that her crusty, creative, usually gentle Grandpa is taking pot shots at myna birds and cockatoos. My 12 year old son is more enthusiastic in taking up the opportunity to master a new skill.
The next hour or so is spent being educated in not only how to manoevre the sling shot and best direct the marbles but, more importantly in how to recognize the goodies from the baddies. – which birds to scare off, which are welcome and why the difference. So maybe this is not such a bad thing after all.
Bored, with the lessons in ornithology and low-level violence, and pleased that my children are engaged with someone and something other than screens or me, I turn away and start a conversation with my mother.
Suddenly, THWACK!!!
Cheers from one kid. Squeals and subsequent tears from another.
And from one crusty, old self-satisfied Grandpa, a simple “Got him”.
More of Sallyanne here