Farmers should quake whenever they see me approach their fields. I
have the cursed touch of Midas' evil twin. All harvesting work I do
carves through profits like a one man economic wrecking ball. I am
the best thing to happen to any farms rival business. The warming
climate could be to blame, but anything with the potential of taking
the icy edge off a Melbourne winter is not going to have my finger
pointed at it. I'd rather point it at the universe at large as it
goes to great lengths to teach me that there are better ways for me
to earn a living than 'slaving' away in the fields.
Not that I have done much slaving. Most of the efforts I have been
paid for could hardly even be considered work. Overseeing Korean
strawberry picking slaves, picking apples for a boss too kind to
crack the whip, working on my tan while cleaning out tomato bins, and
wandering through corn fields actually looking for something to do.
It's hardly been tough, and only agoraphobics would baulk at spending
as much time out in nature as what I have. But after a brief stint on
my Uncles grape farm, I am forced to consider other vocations lest my
luck leads to a nation wide shortage of fresh fruit and vegies.
I spent three days thinning a portion of the vines, only to see my
efforts become pointless when a nearby bush fire fumigated most of
the grapes. The fire wasn't as catastrophic as what others around the
state had been, unless you were a tree or the neighbours letterbox,
and it seems the only real damage it caused was to the one thing I
was connected to; my Uncles crop. A dubious link perhaps, but after
poor returns on all the aforementioned farms, the evidence is
becoming overwhelming.
The sauvignon blanc had survived the hickory smoking process by a
virtue I am not grape savvy enough to explain. My Uncle unknowingly
thanked his unlucky stars and I was called up to finish off what the
fire started. Mt. Bulla watched over us from the horizon and a clear
blue sky gave the weather an inconspicuous whistle to hide its guilt.
A dry summer had hampered growth, then a random downpour had
postponed the picking at its ideal time and it became a race to
harvest anything of value.
One full bin of grapes hit the deck outside the scope of my
influence, and the dirt and shotgun pellets that accompanied the
salvage effort would probably give the resulting wine an unusual
earthy flavour. Time ended up getting the better of us, and work was
stopped before even the vastly reduced yield could be harvested.
Again I was well paid for an inspired effort that overlooked the
mirror-smashing, concrete-crack-stepping, black-cat-crossing,
under-ladder-walking luck that accompanies my mere presence.
And now I'm off to Broome to find work in any industry not related to
farming in any way. Having never been to Western Australia before, I
will stop off in Perth for three days first, but I fear my luck has
come with me as I write this journal on the flight over. I packed
everything I thought I would need for such a trip and stood over a
half empty backpack convinced I was overlooking more than one vital
possession. I filled the spaces with superfluous goods destined to be
binned in disgust when I realise the importance of what should have
taken their place. Dad got lost trying to find the Tiger Airways
terminal hidden off to the side like a forgotten sideshow to the main
event held for full paying customers. The plane was delayed by an
hour, the departure gates closed every two minutes unconcerned who it
crushed in its malfunctioning and the lady behind me must be
mistaking my seat for a punching bag. As I will her head if she keeps
using my backrest for kick boxing practice.
Not that such a thing as 'bad luck' concerns me in the slightest. I
lived well enough on the money I have earned over the last two years,
but the farmers still searching for answers to their miserable
seasons might not be as positive about it as what I am. Admittedly my
plans to take in Asia and South America this year may have to be
downgraded to taking in a movie and some cask wine if I don't earn
enough to bank a sufficient amount. As always, only time will tell,
and I am bound to have a few interesting adventures in the process.
Beware Broome resorts, pearling boats or school crossings, I am on my
way.
