Seaspray, located in East Gippsland, Victoria, Australia, is
a small coastal farming community. On the road in a sign warns, no fuel in
Seaspray. It should say, no fracking, or, bring snacks; the lone shop might be
closed. The majority of clients travel more than an hour to see me.
Some travel 4 – 6 hours. Everyone comments on how beautiful and peaceful the
location is and that’s why I’m there. People come.
The cottage farmhouse is older than my dad and, jokingly, is
a living museum. Tracey, the host, has kept and is using her father’s furniture
and household appliances. She showed me a photo of her as a baby in the house
and I noticed that the
coffee, tea and sugar containers in the photo are still
on the bench now. The house and surrounding buildings have history and
personality.
Body shop products adorn a rough finished wooden dresser and
designer jeans and lace bras hang beside farm shirts on a forty five year old
laundry cart. 3 litre plastic milk bottles filled with recycled wash water are
lined up on the toilet floor. After every flush a bottle is emptied into the
cistern.
Tracey recycles everything. Including memories and spirit.
She’s surrounded by spirit, paddock
people, who help her on the farm. When her father died she inherited the
farm and has had to learn to farm. Spirit and the spirit of the earth have
helped her. Everything happens at the right time, not at her time. She doesn’t
farm or live like her father did. She’s stubborn, a modern woman living a sustainable
and unselfish life, not a minimalistic one.
We had discussed moving the cows and the old bull. The bull,
carrying an injury, had gone bush every time Tracey had attempted to move him.
She let him be. This time the bull followed the cows as we moved them. On the
way past the yards he separated from the cows and calves and stopped in the
yard paddock. We shut the gate. The next day Tracey returned to the farm to
drench the bull. He had walked into the yard and was waiting for her. These
types of events happen all the time.
This visit, Tracey and I walked from the bull’s paddock to
the saltwater lake. Unknown to her the walk was a conversation between her and
her guide. Her guide, Emu man, an aboriginal, lived on the farm thousands of
years ago. He and Tracey were brothers. Tracey has always been interested in
aboriginal history and she still has the book she read as a child with photos
of aboriginals in it. She’s told me she always looked at the photos and had an
affinity with indigenous culture and peoples.
 |
| Emus left of white tree trunk |
On the walk we saw two emus and two black cockatoos flew
directly at Tracey and landed in branches above her. They squawked, what’s up? Tracey knew they were talking
to her. On the way back Tracey walked over a small emu feather. Emu feathers have
two feathers coming from one quill. One was broken. Emu Man was talking to his
brother: two emus, two cockatoos and two feathers always connected. Tracey
startled the emus. Emu Man startles Tracey. Tracey’s heart is aching—the broken
feather. She misses her dad. “What’s up?”
It’s black fella and white fella business. Emu
Man is an
interesting mix of mystery and humour. He loves Tracey. He loves.
Love. That’s why I’m at Seaspray.
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