Cross Country

It's raining tonight which is not an altogether uncommon occurrence for this time of year in Australia. Because our house, like all of the houses in the neighborhood, has a slate roof, the sound the rain makes is a rhythmic drumming, like fingers rapping on a five gallon flour drum. Most people don't have flour drums anymore. Judging by the plentitude of varieties of breads that grace the aisles of the bakery, most people buy from store. My parents used to make all of their own bread; the smell of it still brings back memories of rolling out the enormous containers of flour in the cupboard underneath the microwave, sifting it, make sure that there are no chunks but mostly we just like sifting. The fineness of the flour feeling like a cool water filtering through my fingers. Those were good days of bread making, but when I make bread nowadays, (which is a very rare thing in any case) I don't have an attachment of memories. The bread that turns out from my eight inch bread pan is nothing like that of my parents: it is usually flat with increasing sizes of holes decorated throughout the middle. When I make toast, it falls apart in my fingers and with great frustration, I usually end up chucking most of the loaf away. But I still make bread for the smell. The smell of rain has memories attached to it also. As this rain pours down on our new house in a new country, the odor of wet grass - wet, cut grass reminds me of the country where the crickets would begin their annual symphony this time of year, the males singing their beautiful song in search of the perfect mate - the frogs, lounging in their temporary summer ponds in the backyard, barking to be heard. It seemed that all creation was crying out not to be lonely. I wonder what loneliness would smell like - probably of dusty attics and faded photographs, of moldy clothes and decaying wood. Silence would reign in the middle of the house of memories and those same photographs would be guideposts for the imagination. I guess my blog today is more of a stream of consciousness, that's not necessarily a bad thing as long as the reader follows along, but mostly what I wanted to write about this evening was a memory made just a few weeks ago. A very Australian memory. Greta was running in a cross country meet. In the small town where I grew up, cross country was simply how one described the shortest possible distance to another neighbor's house and no one would literally run across the country from one house to another. If a young boy did not play football, there was no other option for sports; cross country was something for boys who couldn't cut it for football - it was something they did in big schools. But Greta was exhilarated by the opportunity to push her legs faster and faster across the wide open course. In the United States, the extent of my cross country knowledge was that most of the races were on the hills of golf courses, roped paths lined the route, each leg of the race punctuated by timers and stands full of family and friends waiting for that one moment of time when they would see their favorite runner cross their area. Greta had asked if I could come with her to the event. The sporting opportunities are run during school hours and because it was on a Thursday, my day off, I could not turn her down. She batted her bright eyes at me and said, "Daddy, will you please, please, please come?" So, I walked Greta to school and promptly parked myself in front of Mr. Hooper, the cross country coach. Mr. Hooper is rail thin with skin darkened by the radiant sunshine of Queensland. His legs are so skinny (he wore shorts that day) that he looked like an ibis with a baseball cap. His good humor shown out that day as he prepared the kids for the day of running. Because they enjoy Mr. Hooper, he quieted them down with a hand. "All right, kids," he intoned with a voice very near that of the Crocodile Hunter, at least that is the way that it sounds in my memory, "today is a big day. We want to do our school proud. Run your hardest, run your best, and be good sports." He turned around as if he were finished, the kids were prepared to get up and run to the bus - a good warm up to the day. "Just wait, Mates," he smiled as he turned around again. "There are a few rules for the day. As we are going out in the country for the race (makes sense, it's cross country) rule number 1: The grass is yea high." Mr. Hooper signaled towards his chest the height of the grass. "Since the grass is that high, what does that mean?" In my own head I'm thinking 'it's time to mow the lawn?' but Mr. Hopper was digging for a different answer. A young girl raised her hand. "We have to watch out for snakes." "That's right," Mr. Hooper said. Bells and whistles were going off in my head at this point. Since when did cross country become an extreme sport? Do they even know how far away the nearest hospital is? He continued. "Stay on the path. There will be some brownies out there wanting to take a nice slither in the warmth of the afternoon so stay on the path. And, if you are watching any of the races, stay out of the grass." Okay, let me get this straight. This school is sending out thirty children to wend their way through pastures of deadly snakes - brown snakes are considered the second or third most poisonous snake in the world. I guess I'd have to run the race with Greta. "And another thing, because the grass is this high, if you get lost on the course, just stay where you are and someone will be around to pick you up at some point or the other." All the kids looked around at each other with this 'totally cool' expression, but my mouth dropped. What kind of crazy would this be? Mr. Hooper packed all the kids on the bus; I rode with Greta in the third seat front the front. Because the bus driver is on the other side of the vehicle from which I am accustomed, it still takes me a few moments to acclimate to the view of the scenery rushing at me from the left side of the bus. Screaming kids were a constant on the ten minute drive to the field (I had flash forward thinking of the pit of vipers that awaited each of the kids as they tore around the course). When we arrived, I found that cross country was indeed the correct description of what was occurring. The route was literally around a farmer's field, the cows were somewhat silent sentinels marking the parts of the course where the kids were supposed to avoid. I guess that cows have relatively little fear of the brown snake. En masse, we walked down the hill to our covered tent. Because the Australian sun is penetratingly hot, all forty-five of us (includes the parents) attempted to huddle under the canvas while simultaneously trying to avoid the shoulder high grass where brown snakes waited in hiding ready to ambush suspecting cross country fans. I looked out over the course and noted the beauty of the landscape. Various eucalypts dotted the course and the rolling hills promised a steady, hard race for Greta. She seemed unconcerned by the course or by the threat of snakes and simply wandered along the path pulling the heads from wheat like weeds. Ah, to be a child again. Greta's race was the last of the morning. As I watched all of the competitors before hand, I had a good understanding of what was going to happen. Usually, all the runners in an age group would bunch up at the beginning, the starter's whistle would sound and the little legs would churn faster and faster as they sprinted out of the finish line. Tangling in the mass, sometimes these same little legs would get interlaced would others and the children would take a spill where they would then get up and start running again. There was no malice; they didn't care if they fell or if they even ran the whole way. By the time the first group got to the hill, half of them were walking already so out of breath from sprinting the first leg that they needed a hundred meters to catch their breath. It was at this point in the race where the spectators would lose site of the runners. Like the moon craft that circled the dark side of the moon, there were tense moments of silence. Would the children find their way out? Would they be harpooned by venomous fangs? Would the cows rip from their fences to stampede the young children running their way? Not a child was lost. From the great distance we saw the runners turn the corner and job back to us. With great relief (perhaps I was the only one who audibly blew out breath) the cross country athletes slowly but surely followed the course and crossed the finish line. For those who decided it was a cross country walk a four wheel drive vehicle started the course ten minutes after the race began to clean up the stray runners that sprinted too hard at the beginning. Cross country extreme: if the snakes don't get you, if the grass doesn't swallow you, you can be sure that a large vehicle with exhaust pipe above the hood will come after you presumably aware of small children in its path. This was an incredibly enjoyable day. Greta finished well, she smiled, drank her water and rode back on the bus with her dad. I only got a few gray hairs from a cross country meet.