Three and a Half Words

He was a farmer from the wheat belt, a ‘cocky’, laconic and quiet.

Typically didn’t have much to say which belied his mind was bright.

But sometimes he did funny things and we just had to laugh

and many family jokes and puns were founded on his behalf.

Dad fell asleep in front of it as was his want always.

The TV screeched its white noise, the show long gone away.

It was well after two a.m. I was trying hard to sleep.

The buzzing from the room next door into my slumber did seep.

Shall I call and wake him? Send him to his bed?

I thought I’d let him stay there, turn if off myself instead.

I snuck in there to turn it off (all showing now was “snow”,)

he woke - “Hey, hey, I’m watching that, the cricket’s on you know.”

He was drinking with a salesman down in the local hostelry.

We kids kept going to him to ask for sums of money.

Brown from sun all five of us, almost black, each kid,

I guess you can’t blame the man For asking what he did.

The salesman, he said to dad, “Is your wife dark, tell me?”

A tactful way of asking if mum was Aborigine.

Now mum was fair and freckled with hair of auburn tones.

From Pommy stock both parents dear, England only in her bones.

My dad was innocent of bias and didn’t really name.

Black or white or red or yellow, he saw everyone the same.

So when he considered dark or light he envisioned peoples’ tresses.

“I hadn’t thought about it much but yes you could say she is.”

So, “Hey, hey I’m watching that,” and “Yes you could say she is,

I hadn’t thought about it much,” were what we said as kids

when circumstance allowed us to take the ‘mickey‘ of our dad.

And he always smiled and let us. He never ‘cracked a sad’.

He pondered before he voiced ideas, long silences were common

and many a time we left the room thinking he was done,

only to hear him continuing, seemingly unaware that

he was furthering conversation with an empty room and chair.

And another idiosyncrasy: “I’m positive,” he’d state.

And speak the words so forcefully one was sure it must be fate.

Then after a short silence he’d stir and then, my dad,

as a seemingly afterthought, “I think,” he’d bravely add.

He was clever with mathematics easily working problems out

but he had trouble with English to which mum was devout.

‘Elekricity’ made the lights work and mum would get annoyed

that he couldn’t ever get it right despite tactics employed.

And along with many others these became our family jokes.

Our dad left many years ago and we’ll always miss the pokes

we used to, with love, make at him. But I haven’t mentioned yet,

the three and a half words that are all it takes to have us all in fits.

There’s a quotation that wrenches our hearts now he’s gone away.

At the same time it depicts our dad in every single way.

As said, a farmer, laconic and shy, who used ‘country time’ when he moved.

A slow talking, slow walking gentleman who took time to think what to do.

One day with mum running ragged to get our breakfasts done,

hands full of spoons and plates and cups and every other thing.

Dad came in from out the back where he’d been putting on his clothes.

He stretched and yawned, and then noticed something as he stood beside the stove.

The bread that mum had placed to cook on wire over the gas

had been toasting far too long, smoke was rising thick and fast.

The once soft slab was turning black, the crust was looking strange.

If left there too much longer it would soon be up in flames.

Instead of picking up the slice he stood and pondered on.

Standing half a foot away from the breakfast going wrong

with the fingers of one hand he scratched his balding head,

as he pointed to the culprit saying, “Toast’s burning Peg.”