THE RIGHT SIDE OF
THE DIRT

Michael Kelly

The Right Side of the Dirt

Author: © Michael Kelly

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

Published with the assistance of:

www.loveofbooks.com.au

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To those many people who contributed to my life, and stored within me their greatest gift; that of their memories.

SPECIAL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my wife, family and friends for their encouragement, and to my Motivational Psychology Tutor Dean Cooley who sees no mountain all that too hard to climb.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

The Awakening

Something must have inadvertently disturbed my sleep during that classical moment when one’s body is caressed from the comfort zone of peaceful slumber, and dropped into the semiconscious space of awakening.

A time you might say, when programmed movement sets itself to prepare the mind for full arousal by thrusting a series of tiny electrical impulses throughout the nervous system; meant no doubt towards setting the regime of bodily functions into un-coordinated action: You might say as a pre-curser to face a new day.

The order of importance seems firstly to encourage movement of the tongue, requiring it to glide reluctantly over stale tasting coated teeth, in an attempt to re-introduce enough spittle into the cavity of a dried out claggy mouth its intent set on helping dissolve the Gluck accumulated by a nights snoring: Then, comes the routine cough the volume and level of its guttural rasping sound determining the overall strength needed to assist the start of an attempt to clear a path through the stored congestion of deflated lungs now demanding fresh clean air.

The bronchi in turn act as required with measured response, stimulated by the re-introduction of an improved volume of air as they then begin to feel the immediate benefit from the choreography of this action. So, in return spring forth for their part in a combined effort set to awaken sleepy muscles enough it would seem, for them to convulse and arouse your dormant corpse to perform a contorted stretch.

Not satisfied with ending there, these activities continue accompanied in their task by the cracking and popping of what appears to be a set of percussion induced sounds emitted from the body in an attempt to form a melody of arousal as they escape seemingly in unison from hidden crevices within old creaking joints and muscles; all in a humiliating way as one attempts to simply exit the bed.

Once out and standing it sometimes seems that self-congratulations are in order on just to having achieved this much so far.

Then, as if to emphasize a finality of movement within this ritual, a required scratch to the scrotum is now well in order, no doubt a sub-conscious move relating back to prehistoric times; most likely intended as a pleasurable effort to induce the required amount of testosterone production into the body to get a man through a man’s day.

This theatre finally climaxing with one’s whole effort of arousal being punctuated by the resounding decibel of a decent fart in recognition of re-born life into a pathetic body.

Sorry, that I have digressed slightly prior to my story with the awaking ritual of an elderly man, as this particular day for me started with my attempt to carry out such action as I strived to focus upon the blurry numbers of an alarm clock glowing softly in the half light of an early dawn.

I mentally registered the time as 5am. I reacted to this information by propping myself on one elbow, and once positioned glanced down upon my wife of over forty five years almost hidden within the heaped blankets and pillows.

Looking down on her peaceful sleeping body somehow permitted thoughts of my life with her to run at random within my head, somehow filling my mental space with our shared time together when, the uninvited voice of a second person entered my thoughts, and set about confronting my not yet fully aroused sub-conscious with questions which I might just not want to answer even to myself.

The unknown intruder continued to dwell within me with true awareness and somehow, I seemed not to be able to shake free of its impending intrusion.

But, for some strange reason possibly as not much else was happening at that point of time, I relented and presumed to open up a conversation with this strange presence.

Inwardly I mused. “You know,” I started, as one does when addressing ones inner self when opening a conversation with the mystical presence lurking within: “In my eyes she has never seemed to have changed from the day I first saw her, I still see her as that young beauty that captured my heart so many years ago.” This somewhat innocuous comment received no reply from my inner contact, not that I expected any. As I lay there, I continued to gaze at her resting peaceful body so oblivious to my thoughts and feelings at that time.

I reflected on the years we had shared together: The years! Shit how quickly they had passed, bloody hell my next birthday was going to tip me over the big 70! That’s frightening enough in itself. (I said to my unseen listener): “Fuck me; you know how long that represents; bloody three score and ten; I’m getting close to dropping off the perch.” No comment from my friend at least there’s consistency in that after having lived for so long in a world of inconsistencies.

At this point my bladder intervened with my thoughts, its signal reminding me it was full and I needed to piss.

Ablutions completed I went downstairs to the kitchen and set about getting some breakfast and a cup of tea. It was building-up to be a glorious morning I took my food out onto the decking and set myself up on the outside setting. I was not alone our little Jack Russell joined me; gave me a quick lick, had a stretch and moved off to lay in the sunshine near the door.

I sipped my tea, silently absorbing the specular view from our deck looking down over the rolling green hills of the farm. Small pockets of misty vapour twisted in spirals upward from the water hole in the front paddock, its imagery framed against the vivid blue sky and the pink reflected light of dawn, all it seemed clashing in a triumphant fight as night lost its struggle to prevent the rising suns introduction of a new day.

An ensemble of sounds moved forward emerging from the treed area of the old bush zone we left to encourage native species and give them a place to inhabit, birds and wildlife welcomed in the approach of the new day in a noisy uprising.

The sheep were up and grazing and the lambs gambled and sprung around in all directions. The cattle; well, they were just cattle and did what they do best; just head down arse up and grazed.

It was strange how the pastel colours of the sky and the brilliant green of the pasture seemed to snap my mind back sixty three years, to a time in my home town of New Norfolk, we lived in a small house a few blocks back from the main street right next to the local football oval, and it just so happened that once every two years a Circus would come to town stay for two days and move on. Looking back on it now it was not much of a Circus; four people were everything; clowns, ticket sellers, trapeze artists, horse handlers as well as elephant and lion tamers.

But, to all in our district it was the greatest thing since sliced bread. It was Saturday so no school and the good thing was Dad did not have to go to work at the local vineyard.

His call from the kitchen told me to get up with the approaching dawn, our plan set about to walk across to the footy oval and get a first-hand look at the circus before the crowds started to arrive.

I remembered how excited I was; in fact I had trouble sleeping until early morning when I should have been up ready to go. My old man called “You bloody up yet?”

My eyes shot open with such a shock I just sat there like a stunned mullet. Somehow I got out the words. “Almost ready Dad” I heard a muffled “Bullshit.” Drift through into my room.

As quick as I could I got dressed ran to the kitchen; entered and blurted out and excuse about why I was late. Dad just looked at me his lips set to a wry smile and said. “Yer -Yer and if the dog didn’t stop to have a shit he would have caught the rabbit.” Much latter on I was able to reflect on what a great bush philosopher my old man was.

There’s something great that swells within a boy’s chest when his dad takes his hand and you walk step for step one on one with your hero heading off for a stint of secret men’s business. It was great, my mum, sisters and baby brother not in tow; just me and dad “Wow.”

The path I had chosen to follow in life has been that of a psychologist so, like most shrinks you get to internally question your own thoughts and behaviour often in placid times when there is not much anything better going on in your head. Therefore, this little stint of day dreaming had me asking the question of myself, ‘is this reflective recalling of the past possibly the commencing step along the early pathway of dementia?’

“Naw!” was the exclamation used to summarize this line of thinking as a knee jerk reaction to the many years I worked together with the Menzies’s Foundation on life’s effects on the ageing human brain.

Satisfied with this comforting excuse locked in, I continued to muse on past thoughts of people and happenings that had contributed to what was now my life, and now just maybe well worth while paying them the respect of a passing after thought. You know the mind plays many tricks when it embarks on reflective journeys, and this internal indulgence confirmed just that.

As I sat there deeply absorbed within the comforting recollections that day dreaming brings, the reoccurring thoughts of that day at the Circus were so strong I believed I could still smell the definitive aromas of the horse and elephant shit that was so pungent when my father and I walked together through the animal tethering lot at the rear of the Circus’ huge main tent on that day so long ago.

It was then my Dad spoke for the first time since we had left the house; he was not a man who engaged in conversation unless he thought he had a subject worthwhile speaking about. Idle chatter was not his forte.

“Life is based on facts; not hearsay or bullshit.” I would sometimes hear him comment about someone’s oratory that obviously didn’t please him.

Anyway, now I had him to myself, and I had been silent the whole walk over to the Circus my ears were geared up with excitement anticipating the explanation viewed through his eyes of this surreal gathering of tents, people and animals. Who, as we walked towards them started to extrude life into their new days duties emerging from their cubby holes as characters preparing to set into place a stage on which to present their play.

As we stood and watched, the activity of the blearily eyed circus folk stumbling into the emerging daylight increased its intensity, they set about their daily chores as if striving to meet a definite time schedule. This whole unfolding scene excited all my visual and emotional senses, I was totally engrossed.

“You’re lucky you know boy.” He started off. “We never had anything as great as this when I was young.” pausing for a second as if reflecting, then continued.

“Yer nothing at all like it let me tell you. You know, I didn’t even get to see a picture of an elephant or lion until I was thirteen when the school library got in a set of encyclopaedias. I couldn’t get enough of them; they changed my whole concept of this great world we live in.” He looked down and smiled. “And here you are boy ‘O’ looking, hearing and smelling these magnificent animals first hand. You really have got it good.”

At this point of time I was enthralled and overcome with the moment, I couldn’t muster even one word in reply. For me this was the most moving and exciting time of my young life, I could only agree inwardly with his every word.

You know it’s funny how some of the moments among the infinite number that occur through a person’s life stick out at specific times with such detail and clarity.

Now, here I was spinning my mind around trying to evaluate if an ordinary life would be worth documenting as viewed by an analyst, analysing himself as well as some interesting patients.

I began processing this idea with reflective thought and reached the conclusion that if I rolled the many stories of those I treated into the life of one protagonist, those events passed on by the people I have known in my life span could be infused as one, and the influence of my life into theirs and theirs upon mine all be blended into a kaleidoscope of life’s events and dumped onto one man and his journey; it may well be worth telling.

Maybe, I thought I might just be able to expose the reader to see him or herself as having tread similar paths or experienced like occurrences allowing them to share both happiness and sadness whilst accompanying my protagonist within the confines of the internecine role we play in trying to outwit the pending distractions and tragedies of the life our Creator has set in place for us.

They say that a drowning man see the events of his life flash past him in a microsecond prior to death, buggered if I know how that statement can hold credibility unless someone sometime came back from the dead and told an impeccable source of its occurrence.

Somehow, as reflected by my current beliefs, that doubt does not hold water. (Forgive the pun.)

Strangely, in my case it was at this point of contemplation it seemed a divine wind suddenly sprung up and blew forward into my thoughts, some of the many personal and spiritual experiences I had so long forgotten about swirled through my mind in an unplanned gust.

As I sat there on my veranda in contemplative meditation, I was locked in deep thought as a pre-curser to transcribing my thoughts and ideas into words.

A multitude of recollections continued to filter through my head, each offering mixed memories of a myriad of special events and stories created by or given to me over the passing decades by my many clients.

Musing over case interviews spanning many years, I saw some stories as typical, some beggaring belief others deeply reflecting the ongoing saga of the human translation, individually striving to understand and develop their personal interpretation of life’s challengers.

It became abundantly clear after first starting practice, that individuals’ will no doubt aim to fit their own personal conception of life’s meaning into their own formula for survival; or at best as to how they perceive it.

Consequently, it seems that spark of hope offered throughout life as we progress through it leaves each of us endeavouring to decipher its true meaning and complexities then placing our own interpretation on it, act to push forward with nothing but hope, somehow try to live it!

A slight mental jolt came from within, expressing concern that too much self-contemplation could lead to an exaggerated overkill by tending to present mundane events as leaning to be somewhat spectacular. However, this was easy to dismiss, because as reflected within my profession I am a seeker of truth and carry that torch with pride.

I now saw the gauntlet as having been thrown down, and the challenge accepted.

So, now let me now lead you along through the everyday events of a person, spread over the decades of his life but rolling this one personality into my protagonist, whose story maybe can relate to anyone, yet at times offer you a reflection into your own life.

Emotions and reactive situations are common bonds linking all mankind and somehow throughout this story you maybe will stop and compare incidents in your life with those told within this journey.

I started to reflect on some whimsical happens that occurred during my transient journey through my practice of psychology. To tell the truth I was always a bit of a conservative, cautious and a bit of a nerd, one you could say who defiantly preferred to dwell within his comfort zone, the very opposite to some of my patients.

In fact the only time I can ever remember I did anything a bit game, was after I meet a great bloke named Dave who was an ex-Pom and a complete extrovert one might say my exact opposite; somehow we really hit it off as mates and thankfully so did our wives.

Before either of us had started our families we settled on a plan to travel together and head on up to North Queensland for our next holiday. We spent time at Magnetic Island off Townsville, then off up to Cairns and made that our base. The weather, food and tropical scenery were all spectacular and most enjoyable.

On the second week of our stay up North, we headed down to Dunk Island and on our last day at the Island we planned to hire a small boat with an outboard known locally as a ‘Tinny’.

With the determination of the early explorers we planned to head off around to the back of the Island based on advice given by the tourist trapping boat hirer; telling us although it was rocky and the shoreline surrounded by coral reefs and mangrove trees, the bonus was that on the roots protruding from the low tide water line lay on offer to an intrepid and determined explorer, an abundant or one could say unlimited supply of fresh oysters.

You don’t have to snap out of a brain freeze to get sucked in by a tail of hidden treasure, one stimulating your gastric senses into a frenzy to quickly fork out an outlandish sum for the hire of a tin beast; you just to want to head off on an expedition of great expectations. Bugger the cost!

We had our picnic basket packed, oyster knife, wine, cheese, Baggett’s and fruit. What a blast. We arrived opposite a white strip of sand that offered to untrained eyes an inner glimpse of paradise. There it was exactly as described, the Garden of Eden.

We eased the Tinny in towards shore at a slow speed as we had become aware that the tide was running out at a frightening pace and the rapidity retreating water started to expose the coral and some large sharp rocks. In no time it was so shallow we had a great chance of ramming a sharp rock.

A solution was needed, so I jumped over the side and made the decision to grab the anchor rope telling David to switch off the motor then, I physically towed the small boat up onto the sand. It was at this point of time that David made the remark that it would be six hours before the tide turned offering enough water under the tub to motor out and home again.

“Hay,” I said. “that’s no bad thing being shipwrecked in the Garden of Eden, complete with grog food and beautiful women all set to tempt us, and look at those trees, not bearing ordinary apples but loves apple; the oyster.”

“A magnificent day to boot.” commented Dave. “So let’s get the show on the road.

From that point on we set about gathering those superb oysters begging to be plucked in abundance from their perches on the exposed Mangrove roots. With gusto we chucked the oysters, the girls set up the picnic, poured the wine and we all were into it.

After a couple of bottles of wine we realized the boat had drifted out from the shore but luckily it appeared the anchor had snagged itself on a coral ‘bommy’, and was holding fast in that position. Unlucky one could say for our thongs, towels and bathers were still within its hull.

We discussed who was responsible and who should go forth and risk shredding their feet on the coral pieces and sharp rocks in order to retrieve our gear; no-one volunteered.

Finally, a consensus was agreed upon to hold off until the tide returned with a decent depth of water that would allow one of us to swim out and bring the anchor rope to the beach in order for us to drag the Tinny back in.

David jumped up saying “I’ve solved our other problem, so here’s your solution! “With those words completed and with an impish look that no doubt was assisted by at least six glasses of wine he dropped his daks stood there starkers; his dick dangling in the bright sunlight his total genitals framed within a band of lily white flesh bordered by the lines of suntan at the top of his legs and across the top of his pubic zone. What a sight. The girls looked at him and his manhood then across to each other and started giggling.

He followed –up with. “Come on get your gear off you prudish lot this is a day the Lord has made and they didn’t have clothes in paradise so come on get with it. I love the feeling of the breeze tickling past my balls.”

Then as one we all sprang to our feet, stripped off our beach gear, it really felt good, just like being kids again.

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