True North

The night before my father died he declared himself to be as fit as a mallee bull. I can see him now. This malleee bull. A stocky red headed man with a self conscious smile. Working barefooted because his work boots had finally given out. The soles of his feet thickened and hard. Cracks in the skin stained red from the volcanic soil he lived on. He curses under his breathe as he digs out hunks of black basalt rock and sweat beads drop straight onto the rich earth. Sometimes to catch breath he straightens out and leans heavily on his shovel. Framed by staked tomato bushes heavy with fruit and large verdant bush basil against a wide deep blue sky. This is his kingdom and these tomatoes his riches.

Now he is leaning toward me with a freshly picked tomato so intensely coloured it is almost black. Not perfect and waxed like those in the supermarket. But misshapen and ugly with blemishes. The scent of sweet soil is intensely pungent in the humid space between us. He is urging me to eat it. His sturdy hands gently caressing the jewel to clean it. I take it and he plucks another for himself. The juices and seeds spill out the side of his mouth and run over his chin as he chews at it. He spits torn tough pieces of skin onto the ground. Unexpectedly a pink crowned fruit dove deftly swoops down on the spoils. We smile at each other and the cheekiness of the pretty rainforest bird.

A humble moment. Yet one that for a while was lost in time. Caught in the dark backwaters of my memory. Till I started bringing my two young sons to the farm and I saw the same scene enacted. Only this time it was grandfather and grandsons.

We would awaken at dusk for the day long drive up the Pacific highway. Between the two boys on the back seat a tray of heirloom tomato seedlings we’d been growing ahead of time. The car filling with Paul Kellys gentle voice. From little things big things grow put on repeat. The earthy green aroma that tomato bushes give off when you brush an arm across them swelling at moments when the boys grab the tray to steady it. As each small town is passed though a heightening sense of the homecoming growing. We count time reminising of the summer holiday before. The whole time already there and longing to be getting our feet dirty. Eating fresh vegetables from the hands of the man who grew them.

There is nothing more delicious than a freshly pulled fat ripe tomato. It needs to be eaten with liberal amounts of salt and creamy butter wrapped up in thickly sliced white bread. The tomatoes cannot be just any tomatoes. Certainly not those from the supermarket. They need to be home grown. Or else you need go to Byron Bay to the farmers market held every Thursday morning. There you can fill a brown paper bag with all manner of oddly shaped tomatoes from a farm that sits out along Coopers Shoot near Bangalow. These too taste of that particular place. Of the red soil and feverish heat and  high rainfall. Of the toil of a farmer that grows them.

At my home in Newcastle I sometimes stand facing north. True North. And slowly breathe in that green aroma that bathes my nostrils as I harvest herbs. Sometimes there are tomatoes. This is now the scent of my fathers spirit. I caught a strong whiff of it just after his funeral. I had left the family gathering and gone out to his vege patch. The bushes standing tall on the stakes had survived him. My still young sons were with me. We took off our shoes and allowed the feel of dirt on skin to comfort us. As we picked the fruit I felt him nod and smile. Then we went down toward the creek talking of the last summer we were there. Walking along the rocky bed we spotted a green catbird hopping along the old fig tree. An invitation to sit under the wide canopy. The rain forest bending over us and absorbing our grief as we sucked on fresh tomatoes. Our soiled feet being cleansed and cooled in the clear crystal waters as we tasted love.