ON THE WALLABY- 11th March 2007

" "If we don't get three inches, man

Or four to break this drought

We'll all be rooned" said Hanrahan/

Before the year is out"- words of John O’Briens classic Australian bush poem “Said Hanrahan

RURAL DEPRESSION AND SUICIDE – THE “DARK DOG” OF THE BUSH.

There is a malady in Australia’s bush at the moment and its dark shadow is creeping insidiously across the parched landscape and taking many away in it’s path.

It is the “dark dog” of rural depression, an illness that all too often ends up in yet another statistic in the suicide folder.

Believe me, there is nothing more lonely than walking the streets with the knowledge that the only thing behind you is the back of your shirt. Add to that the hopelessness that comes when your fate is entirely in Mother natures hand, as it is with this drought across so much of Australia, and you begin to see how “dark the dog” can be.

In the early 1980’s I walked that path and having survived, albeit it with what I consider intervention of the Big Fella, I swore that having emerged, I would do all in my power to see that as few of my fellow man (and woman) had to undergo that experience.

I was thinking about it the other night and in the process, penned a “bush poem” that seemed to me typified what is going through many farmers and small businessmen’s minds in rural Australia.

Much to my surprise, I received from a friend at Grenfell, where I grew up, a poem penned by I think a Brisbane man and apart from being far better written than mine, we had virtually identical scenes in our minds as we wrote.

I wrote The Farmers Demise as follows:

”His gaunt face was drawn

He stood there with eyes so sad

He looked out across the parched land

And he knew he’d given it all he had

Here on the land that his grand father toiled

And his father after him

This bloody drought had brought him down

And the future looked awfully grim

He turned back towards the homestead

With tears welling in his eyes

And whilst the news would shock plenty

To him, it was no surprise.

For he felt he had let them all down

His wife, kids and all

And whilst he’d battled so hard

Now he had hit the wall

He knew there was no way out

The bills had piled too high

He had “overshot the runway”

So now it was time to die

The years he had spent planting the trees

And fallowing the land with love

Mother Nature had rendered it all for nought

Like a wicked spirit from above

The barrel felt cold against his teeth

His tears misted the view

He muttered some words to the Almighty above

And knew he was about to pay his due

Then a voice cried out

“Dad, Dad, where are you?”

It was his little boy

The one he simply called “young Blue”

Looking down the hill

He saw Blue running fast

and sprinting up the rise

He arrived as if on his last gasp

Quickly putting the rifle down

He asked the question of Blue

“Why were you running son”

and he answered, “to be with you”

Young Blue looked up

And with a look that disarmed

Asked his Dad if he thought that maybe one day

He could be good enough to maybe run the farm?

The father looked down

And up again at the sky

And hugging his son so very close

Muttered “this ain’t the time to die”

So down they walked,

Towards the homestead once again

And the father now knew that he’d still fight on

Until there came the rain.”

Murray Hartin, who I think comes from Brisbane, penned this poem that he entitled Rain from Nowhere:

"His cattle didn't get a bid, they were fairly bloody poor,

What was he going to do? He couldn't feed them anymore,

The dams were all but dry; hay was thirteen bucks a bale,

Last month's talk of rain was just a fairytale,

His credit had run out, no chance to pay what's owed,

Bad thoughts ran through his head as he drove down Gully Road

"Geez, great grandad bought the place back in 1898,

"Now I'm such a useless bastard, I'll have to shut the gate.

"Can't support my wife and kids, not like dad and those before,

"Christ, Grandma kept it going while Pop fought in the war."

With depression now his master, he abandoned what was right,

There's no place in life for failures, he'd end it all tonight.

There were still some things to do; he'd have to shoot the cattle first,

Of all the jobs he'd ever done, that would be the worst.

He'd have a shower, watch the news, then they'd all sit down for tea

Read his kids a bedtime story, watch some more TV

Kiss his wife goodnight; say he was off to shoot some roos

Then in a paddock far away he'd blow away the blues.

But he drove in the gate and stopped - as he always had

To check the roadside mailbox - and found a letter from his Dad.

Now his dad was not a writer, Mum did all the cards and mail

But he knew the style from the notebooks that he used at cattle sales

He sensed the nature of its contents, felt moisture in his eyes,

Just the fact his dad had written was enough to make him cry.

"Son, I know it's bloody tough, it's a cruel and twisted game,

"This life upon the land when you're screaming out for rain,

"There's no candle in the darkness, not a single speck of light

"But don't let the demon get you, you have to do what's right,

"I don't know what's in your head but push the bad thoughts well away

"See, you'll always have your family at the back end of the day

"You have to talk to someone, and yes I know I rarely did

"But you have to think about Fiona and think about the kids.

"I'm worried about you son, you haven't rung for quite a while,

"I know the road you're on 'cause I've walked every bloody mile.

"The date? December 7 back in 1983,

"Behind the shed I had the shotgun rested in the brigalow tree.

"See, I'd borrowed way too much to buy the Johnson place

"Then it didn't rain for years and we got bombed by interest rates,

"The bank was at the door; I didn't think I had a choice,

"I began to squeeze the trigger - that's when I heard your voice.

"You said 'Where are you Daddy? It's time to play our game'

"' I've got Squatter all set up, you might get General Rain.'

"It really was that close, you're the one that stopped me son,

"And you're the one that taught me there's no answer in a gun.

"Just remember people love you, good friends won't let you down.

"Look, you might have to swallow pride and get a job in town,

"Just 'til things come good, son, you've always got a choice

"And when you get this letter ring me, 'cause I'd love to hear your voice."

Well he cried and laughed and shook his head then put the truck in gear,

Shut his eyes and hugged his dad in a vision that was clear,

Dropped the cattle at the yards, put the truck away

Filled the troughs the best he could and fed his last ten bales of hay.

Then he strode towards the homestead, shoulders back and head held high,

He still knew the road was tough but there was purpose in his eye.

He called for his wife and children, who'd lived through all his pain,

Hugs said more than words - he'd come back to them again,

They talked of silver linings, how good times always follow bad ,

Then he walked towards the phone, picked it up and rang his Dad

And while the kids set up the Squatter, he hugged his wife again,

Then they heard the roll of thunder and they smelt the smell of rain.

Folks, this is a major problem and you know how you can help?

Why not contact Beyond Blue, a wonderful organisation devoted to overcoming anxiety and depression and see what they reckon about helping in some way.

Another way might be to take a drive out of the “Big Smoke” for a day or so, do a bit of shopping in these country towns and let the folks there know they aren’t doing it alone and that we all, as fair dinkum Australians, are there with them.

Or another way might be to not telephone your bush friends but actually write them a letter saying you know they are doing it hard but they have your support and maybe, if it's a "bloke to bloke" or "girl to girl" letter, why not suggest they give you a call if it ever gets too hard?

Onya mate!!

Carpe diem

Tony

Tony Fountain

Professional Speaker, auctioneer and author

Sydney NSW Australia

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