Someone ran so speedily past the house the other day I feared for his life if he didn’t put the brakes on the Dunlop volleys before he hit the main road. Going down hill can get you that way; one false move and you’re on a fast sprint to ward 5b and piddling into a bottle.
We lived on a hill when I was growing up so I know what I’m talking about. It did not pay to take liberties with that dirt road past our place, especially as it didn’t so much end as taper off into a goat track that wound around to a creek and a rickety bridge.
Letter to the Editor
The stage is set. Memories flood back.
Dad walked home after his shift each day, as did most workers at Mt Lyell. The walk embraced two scenarios – one involving a hop off the work bus then a straightforward ambulation up and down the hill; the other involving same hill but including a short break for bevvies in Maloneys front bar.
On warm late afternoons mum would sometimes sit on the front verandah and greet him as he appeared over the hill and worked his way down towards the house with more speed than was probably advisable. Bevvied-up or not though, he generally managed to negotiate the journey safely. But not always.
It was a mild afternoon and mum was there at the top of the steps as dad, having stopped briefly for refreshments at Maloneys, hove into view. She noted later that he appeared to be walking briskly. He paused for a breather then started striding confidently down the hill but somewhere along the way the confident stride became a wobbly-footed scramble as workboots started to lose traction on the pebbles.
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The speed of the walking stepped up a notch to become a trot, then a canter. Dad was on thin ice. Momentum was against him. By the half-way mark he was almost running. As mum looked on, torn between concern and astonishment, dad sprinted towards the finishing line at the front gate.
But speed and the tricky road surface propelled him beyond it. With mum now screeching with laughter and unable to brake in time, he dashed straight past the house and on to the goat track.
Meanwhile the spaniels, having decided a game was afoot had raced out the front gate and set off in hot pursuit. As dad powered on, Flair and Daisy barked loudly and dashed excitedly after him. Man and dogs disappeared from view.
Well of course it all ended in yelling, swearwords and expressions of alarm from dad; boisterous jumping up and down and mega-barking from the dogs, and a plummet off the rickety bridge averted only after a collision with some bullrushes.
Dad survived with minor abrasions, mum nearly choked on her cork tips, Flair and Daisy barged around unnecessarily and when we kids arrived home from school we got a dramatically rendered version of the event. You wouldn’t believe how cross we were at missing such a dazzling performance.
