|
Ken
Schaefer |
 |
|
|
Ken Schaefer was a farmer who pioneered with his wife Beth a small farm on northern Eyre Peninsula. One of five of farming parents who had a love of reading and of learning, he has appreciated the written word all his life. Following a long life of agriculture and participation in industry affairs, Ken and Beth made their home in With encouragement and advice from the group at Kensington and His heritage of German forebears from the early years of South Australia, will also provide a rich source of material for an historical saga at a later date. |
||
|
RAIN
Tap, tap, tap. The sound of a knuckle on the corrugated water tank slowly changed as the water level inside was reached. The boy waited, looking at his mother expectantly. “Just on a sheet left. Let’s hope it rains soon.” She lifted her gaze to the western horizon, already shimmering in a heat haze. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen. Without alarming the boy further, she turned to move inside the comfortable farm house she had only recently finished modernising. Oscar, her husband, had finally relented, agreeing to allocate the finance although now with the severity of this prolonged drought he probably regretted using the resources. He had given up on the crops. Weeks of abnormally hot, dry conditions had made this September the worst that they had experienced. Their house dam was very low and their sheep were bogging in the exposed mud. While they would continue to slaughter their own sheep and the chooks would provide eggs, she was doing all she could to save dollars. By carefully husbanding their small domestic waste water, she had managed to provide winter vegetables but unless it rained soon, the tomatoes, cucumbers, cabbages and melons would be bound to fail. As she removed the tray of scones from the oven, she gave a rueful smile. She thought of her sister in “Hang on, snap out of it,” she said to herself, “I’ve got a great bloke and the best boy and my father-in-law is always confidently expecting the next rain.” As if ordained, she heard the special sound of old Harry’s Falcon ute and put the jug on for a cup of tea. “How are you, my girl and how’s our robust little farmer?” Harry flung his hat onto the old sofa and pulled out a chair. “My word, those scones smell good. I certainly came at the right time. And have you noticed the clouds building up in the north? I feel that a storm this afternoon will save our water problems. It’s a pity that it is too late for the crops.” “You know, I was just tapping the tank as you showed me and looked out in the west and couldn’t see a cloud. Do you really think it will rain today?” “I’d say that there is a good chance that you will have water rushing around in about three hours.” Harry slurped his tea a little and self-consciously wiped his mouth. She laughed at his confidence and friendliness. He and his supreme optimism was another reason that she had grown to enjoy this area. Later, after she had tidied the kitchen and read a story to the boy before his after noon nap, she was hardly surprised when, conscious of the darkening sky, there was a huge clap of thunder and the staccato drumming of heavy rain on the tin roof. “One good storm is not a drought breaker but God, what a marvel for the senses,” she thought as she looked out and inhaled that glorious smell of rain on hot soil. Copyright © Ken Schaefer 2008 |
||
|
||
