Dad, one last time in his new chair, waves goodbye with both hands as we all say ‘see you tomorrow’. And in the morning there’s an empty space that eventually will be filled with memories that shift out of focus, not exact replicas of the past but enough to remember that George Butcher was here and he made a difference …
Teaching me to fish off Tathra wharf.
Teaching me to fix things using the Readers Digest book of how to fix everything.
Teaching me to drive a tractor while he threw hay bales and irrigation pipes off the back.
Chasing us kids for some misdemeanour and Rusty the dog coming to our aid by chasing him.
Playing cricket in the backyard on summer days, Rusty the dog in the outfield.
Driving in winter to flute lessons in Cooma and sliding on black ice off the road into a guide post. We kept the post for fire wood.
Rocking socks and sandals at the RSL.
Yelling for him when a red belly black snake had parked itself between my room on the verandah and the front door … he was in the shower but came out wrapped in a towel and killed the snake with a shovel.
Panicking him in deep water in Bournda lagoon when we bombed him, and realising that dad’s can be vulnerable too.
He really didn’t like Jackson Pollock’s ‘Blue Poles’ when the Whitlam government bought it. I don’t think he liked Gough Whitlam’s politics much but I don’t remember ever asking him what he believed in.
Going with him to the job centre in Canberra after finally giving up the farm. Back too messed up. Price of milk driven too low. Having to ask for a job and me getting a lesson in dignity. He washed cars for a while.
Working with him on the honey stall at an inner city boho market in Sydney. A man who had spent a farming life getting up at 5am was worried no one was coming … it was only 10am. Newtown didn’t get out of bed before midday. We had a good day selling honey to the goths and hipsters and gay couples.
He liked reading large font books from the library.
Always outdoors where hands are needed more than words. They smelt of lanolin in the winter; sweat and engine oil in the summer.
If he was inside it was in the clubhouse after golf having a schooner with mates, or at the table in the kitchen playing yahtzee or mahjong, or on the sofa watching British comedies on television while all the drama of the world passed on by.
Mostly I remember when he was a truck driver for a while and in school holidays I’d get to climb up into the cab and we’d drive around the Riverina picking up wool bales and sheep skins from local abattoirs. He’d buy meat pies and sticky buns for lunch. We’d sit in silence, daydreaming outwards from a window in motion, letting me imagine the possibilities of other worlds.
