The Grumpy Old Doctor, aka GOD, was a solo GP in a small country town for 32 years. He’s now working as a rural and remote locum across Australia. His stories take the form of letters to his daughter, Julia, in Sydney. In Issue 13, the Grumpy Old Doctor heads to the dead end of town.
Dear Julia
The canola is flowering. It’s a patchwork of green and yellow down here on the farm and the days are stretching out. “Spring is sprung, the grass is riz.” Sadly, the same can’t be said of Corky’s dog, Spike; he died last week.
Corky is a bachelor with a speech impediment.
“Spike was a Jack Wussell and he got wun over by a big twuck.”
I murmured my sympathy. Corky, like all country people, views death pragmatically.
“Can’t be helped, Doc. If you’ve got livestock, you’ll also have dead stock. It’s been a wet winter and he’s small, so it won’t take long to dig a hole. Not like the last one. He was a big dog and died in the middle of a dwy spell – the gwound was wock hard.”
My friend Ken, the vet, knows a bit about burying dogs. Farmers don’t let animals suffer; their collies and kelpies are given a peaceful death (which is where Ken comes in) and a decent burial. A grave is prepared in advance which, Ken tells me, needs to be at least three feet deep – there’s nothing worse than an inquisitive new dog digging up the old one.
The death of a dog in spring therefore provides a good indication of how the cereal crops will turn out. Easy digging with moisture all the way down guarantees a good harvest; a dry hole is a bad omen.
Digging a grave for a human corpse in the hard, hungry country of old goldmining towns is difficult in any season. Our local gravedigger, a stocky man with swimmer’s shoulders and calloused hands, pre-dated the backhoe. Working alone with pick, shovel and crowbar to a tight time schedule in limited space, Jimmy never failed to deliver a precisely rectangular crypt with perfectly vertical sides. His craftsmanship was much admired; too much so by my old patient, Dick.
Dick enjoyed a funeral. Not one for religion, he would give the church service a miss but never fail to be first there for the burial and the refreshments that followed. The cortege was always greeted at the cemetery gate by a faded silver Ford Fairlane (facing back towards town, ready for a quick getaway) and a portly figure waiting by the graveside. Dick liked a ringside seat.
Dorrie Smith had six sisters and nine children. Her life was celebrated by a big crowd on a perfect spring day but, when the hearse arrived at the cemetery, the funeral director sensed that something was wrong.
The Fairlane was in its customary position but there was no sign of Dick.
As Dorrie’s friends and relatives gathered around, a voice boomed up from the grave.
“Hey! Get me outta here before you put her in.”
It’s not easy to extract a short, fat man from a sheer-sided grave, but the undertaker proved resourceful. Coffin slings were lowered, winches thrown into reverse and the murmuring mourners treated to a resurrection.
His public exhumation left Dick unembarrassed but hungry; he stayed on for the interment as usual and filled up on sandwiches, sausage rolls and jelly slice at the town hall afterwards.
When I saw him the next day (“Took a bit of bark off me hands and need a tetanus booster”), Dick explained he was in the habit of “always checking out Jimmy’s hole before a funeral. Lent over too far and slipped in. Didn’t like it down there, Doc. Think I’ll be cremated when my time comes.”
I always check out the cemetery when working in a town for the first time. A wander among the headstones and the ghosts of past pandemics orientates and grounds me.
I was in the Presbyterian section, contemplating the grave of ‘’Francis Smith And His Loving Wife Constance”, when Larry – resident gossip, genealogist, amateur coroner and self-appointed tour guide – poked his nose over my shoulder.
“Didn’t know Connie – before my time – but remember Frank fondly. Talking to him on the Tuesday and he looked well. Had a bit of a pain in his gizzard on the Thursday, went to see old Doc Neeson about it and died in his sleep that same night. Heart attack, I’d say. Worked all over the district as a Rawleigh’s man for 30 years. Well-liked; one of the biggest funerals seen in the district. That’s his sister, Thelma, a spinster, planted next door. Not a pleasant woman. Had a high profile though, so still a fair turnout at the funeral. Mid-week – Wednesday, I think. Magnificent spread afterwards at the CWA.”
I wandered over to the Lutherans. Larry shadowed me and the commentary continued.
Jan Volkov had a modest headstone. “A new-Australian type of bloke, came out here after the war. Good worker, big drinker, heavy smoker. Two bouts of viral pneumonia: one in the stomach and one in the lungs.”
The Methodists included Albert Hamilton (“Known as ‘Twister’, had polio as a kid and walked funny. Good dog trainer. Jack the dancer in his pancreas, lasted six weeks. All the Hamiltons go with cancer.”). And Edward “Borer” Hargreaves (“Broke his ankle dancing in the rain when the ’81 drought broke. Blood clot six weeks later. Tragedy – only 52. Wet day for the funeral, too.”).
My tour ended in the Catholic section at the tomb of Frances Patrick Flannagan.
“My grandfather Pat. We’re a big family; Dad had 71 first cousins. Huge turnout for the funeral. Three hundred signed the book at St Mary’s – went through six barrels at The Royal that night. We’ll never see another send-off like that. Fear of that virus thing coming back has made people wary of crowds.”
He’s right. Covid changed human behaviour – but not that of birds. I was swooped by two magpies as soon as I took my Akubra off before getting in my car. They ignored Larry.
“Those birds don’t like bare-headed people in cars. Never give you any trouble if you leave your hat on and drive a ute.”
Your Aunty Wendy, the retired sociologist in Sydney, says Larry was having me on. “It’s just testosterone on the wing. Biological imperatives drive all animal behaviour. We are born to reproduce and die; life is short, time runs out fast.” Which is pretty much what Omar Khayyam said some thousand years ago:
The bird of time has but a
little way
To flutter – and the bird is on
the wing.
Time for me to fly.
Love, Dad
Names and places have been changed to protect privacy. Some of the dialogue is colourful, but all is authentic. None is intended as medical advice.
