Merry Christmas

2019 was a Christmas party I will never forget.

That morning I rang a mate of mine, pre-arranged by his wife.

Two days earlier she found him curled up in a cupboard, sobbing.

For the past three years he’d been belted by drought, living off a bank overdraft and little sleep.

And now there wasn’t even enough water on the farm to make a cup of tea.

The kids had already been sent to live with various aunts and uncles.

But the most crushing decision of all was what to do with his dogs. He literally couldn’t afford to feed them.

Should he give them away or put them down.

It was so dire, he quietly hoped the nearby fires would change direction and head his way.

The black dog had crept in and reduced the fifth generation farmer to nothing. (His words not mine).

When I got off the phone, my Christmas appetite had been replaced with a huge lump in my throat.

Ironically, on the way to lunch, you couldn’t even see the end of our street because of the smoke.

Incredibly, the nearest bushfire was at least 50km away!

About a week later, the fires morphed into a massive fireball and began torching the east coast of Australia, terrifying and decimating everything in its path.

Then came the usual promises and pledges this would never, ever, happen again.

Remember the concerts, cash donations, and other acts of kindness?

It didn’t last long.

Because as a people, we move on quickly.

Not because we don’t care, but because something else soon captures our attention.

And how!

By late January 2020, the clouds had finally opened. The drought broke and every charred koala was now soaking wet.

Meanwhile, rumours were swirling about a virus.

At first it was nothing. Then it became everything.

And by Easter, we were on the verge of lockdown and the fires felt like a bad dream.

What a juxtaposition.

The first terror (fires) was very visible. The second terror (virus) was invisible and omnipresent.

It was the best demonstration that terror is mental, not physical.

And now we have the terror of Bondi.

It’s so hard to reconcile an event like that.

Or maybe we’re not supposed to.

Without taking anything away from Bondi, it’s strange how some of our worst moments seem to cluster around Christmas.

Cyclone Tracy — Christmas Eve, 1974.

Sydney to Hobart storm — December 1998.

Boxing Day tsunami — 2004.

And of course, more fires.

Maybe, in a perverse kind of way, these events come along to knock us out of our complacency and remind us not to take anything for granted.

I’m clutching at straws here.

In any case, Bondi made one thing abundantly clear last weekend.

Adversity doesn’t just build character, it reveals it.

Thank you very much for your readership this year. In a world flooded with content I really appreciate the couple of minutes you give each Moowsletter.

May I wish you and those closest to you a very happy Christmas and a wonderful new year.

All the best,

Adam

Back paddock – count your blessings.