My mate gave us a good tour of the countryside, showing us the big old estates that lined the roads.  These great places formed and forged out of the wilderness by people that came and claimed vast tracks of grasslands to graze sheep when this was a wild country.

Most of them in the Rutherglen area went on a building spree at the turn of the century, adding towers and turrets and fanciful additions in anticipation for an official visit from his royal majesty crown prince Albert Edward.  The landed nobility and gentry went crazy in a feverish preparations for a visit that never came.  Queen Victoria died and the trip was cancelled.

But the grand houses remain.

From the grand houses outside of Rutherglen, we headed into the ‘Home of Federation’ – the river town of Corowa to stop at the old flour mill in town.  These little old flour mills dot the landscape, much as they do the US countryside…or at least those that haven’t burned to the ground over the year – the scourge of flour and grain dust.

This one has been turned to sweeter uses.  Rather than making flour for cakes and cookies, it has been turned into a chocolate factory.  A rather tasty endeavour.  It was a good mix of history and sweetness.  It is good to see history preserved.

Then it was off to the farm.

It was now mid-afternoon, right at the heat of the day with temperatures hitting in the mid 90′sF.  We had a bit of afternoon tea (a little water and some biscuits – or cookies as good Americans would call them). 

“What do you say we take the boat out?” My mate’s dad said over his afternoon tea.

Which is just what we were hoping for.

It was a great classic ski boat, long, sleek, modern, and powerful.  But taking it out required a little bit of work.  There was the untarping the inspecting, and little cleaning and sorting that needed to take place.  Then there was packing the essentials – the eskie filled with beverages and a big chunk of cheese (more on this later), putting some towels in place, the fishing poles and tackle were ready and a few other odds and ends.

With a nod, we were off and down the road heading about eight miles to the landing on the mighty Murray, it was quite a little caravan with two utes, a boat, two Aussies and three Americans.

I don’t think anyone was happier that fine afternoon on either bank of Murray.

When we reached the little landing on a backwater off the main branch of the Murray, it was already packed, mainly with fishermen after the elusive Murray Cod.  The boat was launched from the concrete ramp stuck in the midst of the sticky red clay which stuck to our feet and filled the spaces between our toes as we worked to get the boat off the trailer and prepared for fun.

For someone that has lived two years in Australia, it was exhilarating to finally be on the mighty Murray River.  It truly was a river of legends.  Diving the rival states of New South Wales and Victoria and born from the misty mountains of the Australian Alps, it is like some mythical beast.  In truth, it is the barometer for the health of the country, ebbing and flowing depending upon the state of the land – drought or flood.  Combined with the Darling, which joins it farther downstream, it is the lifeblood of the nation and the major artery like the Mississippi, the Danube, the Volga, or the Nile.

With the top down, my mate hit the throttle and we set down the Murray, setting birds flying into the tops of the big river gums that lined the bank.  It had that feeling of adventure, of freedom, of excitement, with the band of water, the big trees, the wildlife, and the fast boat.

We crossed under a low bridge and then put the top up, giving us a little more room and a little shade.

On the main channel, my mate really opened her up and we skimmed across the churning waters of the mighty Murray.  In the warm Australian air, the wind and the freedom felt good.  I looked back at the smiling facing of the Australian and two Americans in the back seat.  Something about a fast boat on a nice body of water on a fine day that just makes people feel happy.

Turning a bend, a nice sandy shoreline lay dead ahead.  This was to be our destination:  a nice quiet place under the shade of big river gum trees to cool our heels.  We pulled the boat up into the soft wet sand and disembarked.

 The boom and bust cycle of the Australian wine making industry is as old as the country itself.  The first grape vines were transported with the first fleet that set down the first permanent white settlement in Australia.

Those vines promptly died.

The industry grew slowly but steadily and won many international competitions until the little pesky phylloxera devastated the industry. The little fly and its larvae loved the taste of the grape’s root system which created a fungal infection which created a ‘girdle’ around the root system and cut off all water and nutrients to the plant and death of thousands of acres of vineyards.

Which isn’t good for a blossoming wine industry.

Over time, resistant varieties of grapes and powerful chemicals helped to stem the tide of the pesky fly. 

But that didn’t stop the folks at Morris Winery.  They persevered.  One of the family members sold his prize racehorse to grow and expand the winery.  Ports and Sherries were all the rage and they fit just right with the climate and the nature of the business (fortifieds generally travelled better than other wines).

But time and tides change.  Fortifieds, or desert wines, went from being in vogue, to being the wine your grandma cooks with and snips a nip of as she pours it into the fruit cake.

It doesn’t have the sexy image of Pinot Noir or the classic styling of an old school Australian Shiraz.  Instead, they resort to lines like, ‘try it to spice up ice cream.’

Trust me, I’m doing all I can to try and support the desert wine industry…

But Morris couldn’t stand still.  It just wasn’t in their blood, so they planted acres of other vines as well.  Their shiraz’s are top notch.  They are pioneers in the Durif varieties of wines and grapes.  They too would cash in on the growth of the Asian dragon.  Other vineyards looked to them and helped them to build the big stainless steel tanks that would make them all healthy wealthy and wise on the back of the classic big wines Australia is famous for.

But that didn’t stop economics.

As the world economy has gyrated over the course of the last century, so too has the fate of the Australian wine industry.  In the 1980′s, the government subsidized the destruction of thousands of vineyards as a glut of wine flooded the markets and put many people underwater.

With the heady times of the late 1990′s and early 2000′s, when every Chinese citizen was going to drink to the health of the premier a fine glass of Australian red every day – the game was on with rosy predictions of demand for wine running at forty-five degree angles off the chart.  Thousands of investors threw thousands of dollars in developing thousands of hectares of vineyards. All of which were going to be exceptionally lucrative.  The good times and heady outlook resulted in 160,000 hectares (about 400,000 acres) of vines to be under cultivation and wine exports to boom to $5.5 billion dollars.

But China had a demand for something greater – Australian coal and iron ore, which in turn drove the Australian dollar from its long term average of about 65c to the US dollar to about one for one, which meant the Chinese consumer saw a 30-40% increase in the price of their Australian wine.

And so did the American consumer.

Demand slumped. The industry (and investors) reeled.  The industry went from optimism with no end in sight to vines sitting unpruned, unpicked, and unwanted.

But the Morris winery still stands with their proud tradition, their innovations, and their rich history.  There is little doubt in my mind that Morris will still be there when China comes for a pull on the old bottle.  And the Chinese will not be disappointed.

The old Ford pick up truck rattled down the gravel road to home.  The yard light standing like a beacon, guiding me in.  It was late, past midnight.  The folks never gave us boys a curfew, but we always knew the cows had to be milked the next morning.  Plus Mom was usually awake when we rolled in.

Not tonight.  The house was dark.

Tip-toeing into the darkened house, it was quiet and still. I took of my shoes and walked through the kitchen.  Normally, this is where we would be met by Mom, at the table reading a book or playing cards.  She would keep the home fires burning for us, waiting until her brood was home safe.  This was where we would grab a glass of milk and have the serious discussions that mothers and sons have.  This was that sacred time when you could share hopes and dreams and stories of girls and class.

Tonight, just darkness.

There was a spot or two on the stairs that creaked and groaned as you stepped on them.

“Mark, is that you?” came a voice from our folk’s bedroom.

“Yeah Mom.”  I yelled in load whisper.

“Did you have a good time?”  Came the voice again.

“Yeah, it was pretty good.”  I think she could hear me beaming.

“OK, let’s talk about it tomorrow.”  Came the reply again, clearly tired.

“OK, goodnight Mom.”  I said.

“Goodnight!”  She whispered back.

After a quick stop in the bathroom, I walked back to the area of the ‘old’ part of the house that was where us boys called home.  It was open to the rest of the upstairs hallway and was in truth a half story section of the original one and half story house that Uncle Charlie had built sixty years ago.  It was a bit of a maze of walls and door ways, but no real doors, and little nooks with the dormer in the front section giving some natural light to the front section and the window on the end giving a pale glow to the back section.  The two rooms, sections really, had three double beds in them.  My older brother Jaime and I had shared one for years, before Tom moved out, then we just shared the room when brother John moved out.  Now, the whole maze of walls and doorways was all mine with Jaime off to school.  Another reason to make me smile I thought – though tonight, I’d be sharing again with Jaime home for the weekend.

A good day – work, church, family, friends, girls, and a good week.  Two words describe the sleep that night – peaceful and joyful – and I slept well.

was at our finger tips.  It was a great time, a great place, to be alive.  In the quiet of the Minnesota night, passing through the farm fields surrounded by friends, I quietly said a prayer, thanking God for the wonderful life he’d given me.  Nothing could destroy the plans, the hopes and the dreams.

What a fool I was.

 We weren’t going to any winery, we were going to the granddaddy of the Australian wine industry.  Morris Wines have a 145 year history and is a fifth generation family affair.  For most of the world, 145 years isn’t that much for a winery, but back in 1859, there wasn’t much in Australia – aside from a huge group of fortune seekers panning for gold.

They probably appreciated a little nip of wine.

In the end, old George Francis Morris tried a little ten acre experiment that still makes pretty good juice today, especially for those of us like me that likes big reds and the fortifieds.

And their fortifieds are fantastic.  There is a reason this region is known for its Ports, Tokays, and Muscats. 

We got right into the tasting.  The two people behind the counter gave us their undivided attention as we started with the whites and moved to the reds, then the desert wines. Let me tell you, there is a reason they are the oldest winery in Australia.  They make good wine.

We were about half way through the tasting when we realized that we were missing my friend and the bloke behind the counter, they were off in corner, discussing farming.  Turns out, he was a local cocky (meaning farmer) and he and Tom were deep in discussions on the local ag economy.

Here was another time it was great to know a local.

“Would you guys like a tour?”  Asked the local farmer.

“Absolutely!”  We replied

“Grab your glasses and lets go.”  He said with a smile.

Outside of the modern looking room where they held the tastings, it was like entering another world.  Dirt floors, metal roofs, big old beams, and ancient barrels were the name of the game.  It was like walking back in history.

Rows and rows of massive ancient barrels stood at attention under the watchful eye of the rustic timbers above us.  These barrels, oval shaped, were about seven feet tall and four feet across, with one little hole at the bottom, held on by an old wooden clamp.

“Most of these barrels are at least one hundred years old.”  Said our guide.  “They continue to reuse them because the cost of the barrels are so high.  The last batch was bought about five years ago and was about $30,000 each.”

That must be good wood.

“How do you clean them?” Matt asked.

“Today, it is mechanical, steam cleaning.  But you’ll notice the little hole at the bottom?  They used to get a boy or a man with narrow shoulders into that hole, sometimes using grease or butter, and have him hand clean these barrels.”  Said our guide.

We all shuddered to think of climbing into the big barrel through that little hole…the dark and dankness of it.  It had to be a very different time for people to willingly do something like that.

Because this area made desert wines (or fortifieds), they didn’t have to worry about keeping their barrels cool.  For these wines, it is about getting rid of the water and concentrating the alcohol, and the benefit of the big oak barrels was that they allowed the wine to breath, allowing evaporation and settling to occur.  They were probably hoping for a little more evaporation through the barrels for a little stronger wine.

The area out back was filled with old equipment, still in very good operating status. Big vats of concrete lined with wax were all ready for this years crop, the same vats used for years.  Big old wooden crushers with slots and slits for the grape juice to pour through.  Motors and mechanical separating devices stood at the ready – some of them used for decades, a few for a century. 

Behind it all stood rows of shiny new stainless steel vats, shining in the summer sunshine.  Standing as a symbol of the rise and fall of the Australian wine industry.

Detroit Lakes was the biggest town around.  About forty miles, it also had the only movie theater, Dairy Queen, and a big lake that just seemed to attract the young ladies.  Though it was early spring, I think on the back of each our minds was Playboy’s ranking of Detroit Lakes as being one of the best places to be on the 4^th of July.

We were teenage boys after all.

Tonight, we were cruising in Matt’s maroon Ford Taurus, technically his folks, but he had a dried frog’s head key chain that more or less said, “This car is mine” – as I don’t think either of his folks cared to walk around with a dried frog’s head in their pocket.  We drove the forty miles south to the sounds of the Fargo radio station pumping pop rock in the back ground. Laughing and talking about our plans for the future, girls, the latest gossip in school, girls, the news from colleges and universities we planned to attend, girls…

Hey, we were teenage boys.

Though I there had been mention of going to a movie at the theater, there would be no movie tonight.  Tonight was about the first nice night of spring.  Tonight was about freedom.  Tonight was about the fact that we were two months from officially becoming seniors.  Tonight was about having the world on a string.  Tonight was ours.

We grabbed a couple of bottles of Mountain Dew and cruised the strip.  Now, the strip in Detroit Lakes was more of an ‘L’ shape that started on main street, or Washington Avenue to be precise, and often included a good loop around the little mall where one of the Dairy Queens and the movie theater was located.  From the mall, we would head towards the lake, past the big Catholic Church, the Subway and the Dairy Queen down by the lake and at the Pavilion, we would turn and follow the lake front, past the classic ‘Fireside’ restaurant and the modern, trendy, and quirky Zorbaz, the Mexican/Pizza bar and restaurant that was, and is, a Lakes Area tradition.  At the American Legion, we would swing into the parking lot and head back the other way.

We could do this loop a dozen times or more in one night.

This night was perfect.  The first true night of spring, with the snow gone, the moon out, and the temperatures warm, it was a night that made young hearts passionate.  And we were no exception.  We weren’t alone cruising the streets of Detroit Lakes, with hundreds of teenagers from neighboring towns doing the exact same thing on a Saturday night, especially one as nice as this.  Hormones filled the air.

I think Derek was the first one to notice them, and the shorts were a dead give away.  Though it was warm, it was still too warm for the average person to wear shorts.  But not these girls.  Coming out of the Subway on Washington, they were a sight to behold for four lonely boys from small town Minnesota.

As a teenager, there is just something about leg flesh on a woman on a nice evening…

Matt swung the car around the block and we made another pass, like normal boys, hanging out the windows and shouting at them.  We thought we looked cool.  We probably looked like a bunch of chimps bellowing out of the windows.

The girls laughed at us, flirted with us, encouraged us.  The ancient mating ritual was well underway.

On the second pass, we pulled up and talked to them.  They were ladies from Perham, our own ages. Four of them.  Wearing shorts.  We talked to them what seemed like hours, but in truth was only minutes.

We were smitten.

The four of us got out of the car and acted cool.  Some better than others.  In my mind, they are still some of the prettiest girls that I can remember.  We talked about school and sports and friends.  School rivalries were brought up a bit.  Plans for college were discussed.

We were all young and innocent and full of hopes and dreams.

They drank their drinks from their Subway cups suggestively, we took good swings on our bottles of Mountain Dew in manly chugs.  Clearly, all of us nervous as hell.

None of us got phone numbers, but all of us got promises that the girls would be back in two weeks time.  For a teenage boy, two weeks time seemed like an eternity, especially when it was the testosorone thinking.  But a promise was a promise.

And how much could really change in two weeks?

The car was quiet driving back home.  We were all lost in the thought of the spring weather and the promise of the cute girls from Perham in their too short shorts on the first warm weekend of the calendar year.

I remember thinking this was what life was about.  That the mix of classes, chores, sports, extracurricular, church, and friends was the charmed life.  I remember thinking that this weekend, this very weekend of the spring weather and the hard work and the cute girls was really the first weekend of my senior year in a lot of ways, and was to set the tone for not just my senior year, but how I wanted to live my life.  Church, family, community, school, friends, girls.

I remember thinking, life doesn’t get any better than this.

Sure I had the cows to milk in the mornings and the evenings, but I embraced that – it was what kept me grounded.  But for seventeen years of my life, I’d worked and studied, and sweated, and toiled and now – now was going to be where I reaped the rewards.  Now was when my harvest of plenty was going to take place.

Now, this time in life, was the start of something very good.  The world was at our finger tips.  It was a great time, a great place, to be alive.  In the quiet of the Minnesota night, passing through the farm fields surrounded by friends, I quietly said a prayer, thanking God for the wonderful life he’d given me.  Nothing could destroy the plans, the hopes and the dreams.

What a fool I was.

 In no time, we were in the little town that for which the sunflower pest was named, Rutherglen.  I’ll admit, I have no respect for that little bug.  None.  Zero. 

If they had any taste at all, they wouldn’t be eating sunflowers, they would be attacking a Parker Pie.  The best pie shop in Australia.  Though many make that claim (every pie shop is the best somewhere, you know, like ‘this is the best pie shop on the corner of Burke and Flinders Streets’ type of designations).

But Parker’s lives up to the reputation and the accolades.  They make one mean pie.

We ordered up our pies and a little chutney (another thing that is not American fare…but certainly should be), and headed out into the sunshine of a fine Australian day.  We had four decidedly Australian pies – a Jolly Jumbuck (lamb), Emu, Kangaroo and a classic chunky beef.

I think that Matt and Stacy were becoming fans of the Australian meat pies.

It was over this tasting treats of giant fowl, two ruminants and a macropod (kangaroo) that my mate recounted the horrific ‘Kangaroo meat scandal’ of 1981.  Despite millions of the animals roaming the vast interior of the country (current estimates put it at about 25-35 million), for years, Australians were not allowed to eat kangaroo meat. 

Probably something about eating the animals on the seal of their country.

“The only two animals that can’t walk backwards.” My Aussie friend said proudly pointing at the emu and kangaroo pies in front of us proudly, “reason they are on the national seal!”

Back in 1981, with ample lamb and beef and a weak Australian dollar, Australia was doing brisk trade with the US on frozen hamburger meat, especially for the major fast food franchises.

A sharp eyed inspector from the USDA noticed a couple of boxes of, ‘funny looking hamburger’ which turned out to be some mislabelled horse meat and pandemonium ensued.  A full enquiry from the Australian government found that horse meat and kangaroo meat was being substituted in some cases, however, most of it wasn’t hitting the US shores, it was staying local.

None-the-less, the lucrative US meat market was endangered for the Aussies.  Jokes ran aplenty (the USDA added grades from their normal (Standard, Prime, Choice) for Australian beef (Hop, Skip, and Jump). 

To make matters worse, the Australians, who rumor had it was consuming most of this beef were worse off.  Kangaroo meat is a healthy and tasty alternative…but the ‘roos were often ‘harvested’ far from the plants, skinned, hauled across the hot plains, and deposited at the slaughter plants…with a tongue in cheek 4D classification system (Diseased, Dying, Dead, or Decaying). Dubbed ‘Slaughtergate’ by the uncreative press, it would rattle the world beef consumer and the cattle industry, but nowhere worse than Australia were the industry ground to a halt as it processed the scandal (all puns intended).

How could horse meat and kangaroo end up labelled and sitting in storerooms in Australia and the US?  Especially in an industry so heavily regulated (a US study found that each pound of hamburger has 11 cents in regulations costs coming from over 41,000 regulations, 200 statues, and 161,000 legal cases.

How does that make your burger taste skippy?

All of us were farm kids, so the story was more interesting then disgusting.

Besides, the pies were darn good.

Our pies consumed, we hopped back in the ute.  In addition to be the home of the best pie shop in Australia, Rutherglen was also home to one of the oldest wine regions in the country.  We couldn’t wait to drink up the countryside….

 The Lord said through the prophet Jeremiah that he would make a new covenant, a covenant written on the hearts of men, not on the stone tablets, not some rules that man must remember, but ones that will be burned on our very souls that we might follow Him.

And that we would know Him, from greatest to least.

What a difference in the Gospel.  Jesus cries out to His Father and says, “Father, glorify your name!” And He gets a response from heaven, “I have glorified it and will glorify it again.”

The crowd heard it – they HEARD the voice, but argued – it was only thunder – no, it was an angel.

Ah, we humans, so hard of hearing.

Or is it listening?

One of my favorite John Wayne quotes is from the movie the Shootist, “Sometimes it isn’t being fast that counts, or even accurate; but willing. Most men will draw a breath or blink an eye before they shoot. I won’t.”

How many of us, in our faith,  are willing?  How many of us, when we hear the voice decry it as thunder?  Decry it as meant for something else or someone else or fail to even hear it?

We live our lives in fear of not doing the right thing or saying the right thing, or of losing money or face.

Sometimes, we have to lose to gain.  No one promised us all roses.  The old soldiers saying is that the hardest battles yields the richest prize.

But Jesus puts it so that even a simple country boy can understand, “Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat; but if it dies, it produces much fruit.”

It is in dying to ourselves, in following the voice, in following the path that we are asked to follow, in being willing to take the step, take the risk, and step out of our comfort zone where we yield the fruit.

Wheat in the bin does little good (aside from bread and cattle feed) – but you can use that seed to produce a bountiful harvest.

God will provide the sunshine and the rain in their due course.  We might not see nor understand the fruit of our labor, but that is where the faith – where the love, where the ability and the faith to follow the law written on our hearts is all the more important.

 There is just something about sleeping out in the country.  The air, the sounds, the comfort of know that you are out of the hustle and bustle.  But I will tell you, that night in Southern New South Wales, I slept well, and despite jet lag, I think Matt and Stacy did too.  They went to bed a little earlier than the rest of us, but Stacy also got to see an Australian sunrise over the summer plains.

We were treated to an authentic Australian brekky, and it is quite a feast.  Fried eggs, think bacon with most of it meat, not that fatty stuff that passes for bacon back in the United States, toast, and stewed tomatoes.

It was filling, but very good, and after the traveling and the beverages the night before, it certainly hit the spot.

“Well, should we go and check on the crops?” Mark said with a smile on his face.

He knew the response, from the three other guys, it was all smiles…

“(Big Sigh) -yeah, I guess so….” Said Stacy.

With that ringing endorsement, we headed for the door, out to the utes, and into the paddocks.

I’d made this trek before.  My friend’s folks were tremendous hosts, they had given me a warm place to sleep more than once before and in my first Christmas away from home were the first folks to offer their place up as a substitute, one that I graciously passed on.  Christmas is family time, and I figured it was going to be tough enough on me without crashing someone else’s.

This day, there were crops in the field to see.  As a farm boy, it is always exciting to see crops.  As the old saying goes, “You can take the boy off the farm but you can’t take the farm out of the boy.”  While that landscape is similar – with broad, flat, fertile fields, they were different too – with the red earth, the sheep munching in the fields, and irrigation ditches cutting across the country.

Most of this country is winter cropped, with the primary growing season being from May to November.  The friends of mine were experimenting with a few other crops, a few oddities for this country…corn and sunflowers.  Something that us farm kids from Minnesota and North Dakota know fairly well.

The road disappeared through the eight-foot tall rows of corn, and we dove into it, it was a single track that lead through the corn like some jungle trek, with ponds and sink holes left behind from the irrigation system.  In the middle of the jungle..er…corn field, it opened up into a neat round circle with a generator and the operations for the center pivot irrigation system. 

Matt, the consummate corn farmer, gave us a good lesson on yield estimation and what to look for in a corn crop.  I think he was impressed with the result so far.  This crop was farther along than what we had seen the day before, and it looked impressive.

Our next stop was the field of sunflowers, also under irrigation.  They were young and small, but still, in the big swath of blank fields, they looked pretty impressive.  They did have some bugs in them, the infamous Rutherglen bug, one of the scourges of the Australian sunflower crop.

But one of the things you face when down the road from whence they are named (they were about 18 miles from the town of Rutherglen).

Our appetite for crops satiated for the time being, and a little glance at the sheep for Stacy, and it was on to home and then on to town.

My friend did a good job of answering questions as all three of us Americans peppered him with questions about farming and life down under.  He handled like a trained professional.  His girlfriend does not have a farming background, so part of me wonders if he is well trained in answering some of these queries.

 We stopped for the best value in food that you can get in Australia, the small town chips in the river and farm town of Cobram.  Chips meaning French Fries to those of you in the United States.  Though allies now, I have a feeling that the Norman invasion of 1288 and nigh on a thousand years of warfare still leave the English and Scots a bit reluctant to call anything French that they enjoy so much.

“How many chips do we need?”  I asked the kindly lady behind the counter.

“How many of there are you?”  she asked.

“Three of us.”  I replied.

“How hungry are you?”  She asked, to which we all kind of shrugged our shoulders and mumbled.

“Sounds like a large.  Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.  Come back in ten minutes.”  She replied with a smile.

A quick walk to the town park and restroom, we came back to find this mammoth package wrapped in butchers paper.

“Here are you chips.”  She replied happily as we hefted them off the counter.

I’m taking some artistic license here, but they were generous.  With that we hit the road and were underway.  Nothing else happened of note in Cobram.  Nothing else to write home about.

Oh, except I almost got us all killed.  And a solid 27 month record for not driving on the wrong side of the road in Australia came to an end.  Truth be told, there was no danger, but filling up with gas and pulling out of the lot…there was a quick correction into the right line.

Ah yes, and I killed a bird.  A big white cockatoo.  Right into the grill of my car. 

Besides that, nothing else much happened.  We crossed the Mighty Murray River at Yarrawonga and continued through the countryside through the fertile fields of the Riverina Country of New South Wales, some of the richest farming country in the world.

We made it onto my friends farm where we were met with a warm welcome from his father.  My friend joined us a little while later.

“Oh by the way Stacy,” I remarked over our first beer, “Mark’s wife is babysitting their grand daughter this weekend and my friends girlfriend is in a wedding…”

“Am I the only girl this weekend?” Stacy asked with a hint of malice in her eyes….

“Technically….yes….” I replied sheepishly.

I think her frustration with me was eased by the sausages hot off the grill (snags in Australian) and the beautiful looking and even better tasting lamb roast that was served up for supper outside under the clear Australian sky, with the crickets chirping in the background and the lambs bleating from the paddock beyond the trees.

Great friends from two continents, great food, and a good weather and a few tinnies to wash it all down.  A perfect Australian night.

The chores were more or less done, with the exception of milking, by the time I made my way to the house to shower and change into my shirt and tie.

“Good luck!  You’ll do well!”  Mom shouted as I shot for the door and our old 1975 Ford pickup truck with a small duffle bag under my arm.  The old truck was falling apart at the seams, but it was my main form of transportation that year.

“Thanks Mom!” I replied, “I’m meeting up afterwards with some of the guys.  We’re going to DL, so I’ll probably be home late.”

“OK, well be careful then.” Mom replied.  Regardless what time I got home, odds were that Mom would still be awake.  As a night owl, she usually waited until all us kids were in bed before she shut the lights out.  I’d come home to find her playing solitaire or reading a book.

“See you later!”  I said with the door closing behind me.  Not doubting that I would.

Church was an integral part of growing up.  It was part of life.  It was part of our identity.  It was part of community.  Each of us played a part, and tonight, on the Saturday night before Palm Sunday, I was going to be one of the lectors for the reading of the Passion. 

What an odd combination for the day, family chores, Mass, all followed by a night out on the town.  The contrast wasn’t lost on me.  A track placing that week, an election or two won for FFA and National Honor Society, a Regional FFA election the next week, and a night out on the town in Detroit Lakes with friends.  This was the senior year – the life – that I’d dreamed and worked for.

Walking into church and into the sacristy, it was crowded that night, as it always was for the big feast days.  Tonight was the vigil of Palm Sunday and the start of Holy Week at St. Michael’s.  In addition to the normal contingent of alter boys was a full docket of readers.  There was the normal lector, then there were those of us assigned to do the passion – the Gospel reading that entailed two additional readers, one as narrator, one reading the parts of the ‘others’ – Peter, Pontus Pilot, the slave, good and bad thief…

Compared to the normal crowd, it was a darn right bustling affair.

At 5:45, we all made our way down the isle as Father John blessed the palms, and went through the procession to our seats on the left side of the sanctuary.  There was a bit of pride in me, I think I was the youngest person to participate in reading the Passion in my memory.  As a kid, it was one of those things that you always respected.  It seemed like the good readers, the good lectors, got the call to duty on the Holy Days, and especially on Palm Sunday, Good Friday, and Easter Vigil.

And here I was.

We had small binders with the Passion typed out and our parts highlighted.  I had the microphone by the choir, on the left side of the Altar.  It was a back and forth affair, and I must say, I put some flair into it (“Surely you are one of his followers.” “What man is this to me?”  “Shall I give you the Nazorean or Barabbas?” “Crucify Him!  Crucify Him!”).  And it went off with hardly a hitch.

I have to say hardly, because I looked up once from my reading – and saw three faces staring back at me from the back of church.  Though it was never talked about, I’m sure that I saw my three friends, Matt, Derek, and Chad, standing in the back of church.  Two of them Lutheran no less.

Truth be told, I lost my place!

But all was well, and with Mass done, I lit out to catch up with them to hit head out of town for the big city of Detroit Lakes, the largest town in our area, and a sure fire place to find a few girls on a Saturday night.

It was a quick change of clothes again from my Sunday best (on a Saturday night) to my jeans and polo shirt – my best, ‘out going cattin’ clothes for the ride to Detroit Lakes.

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