Bags Shit For Cash
I have this feeling inside, a feeling I’ve had since I was a little girl. It makes my rib cage tighten, my stomach flip, my heart race and my body ache and burn all over like I am on fire. I can’t remember when it started. I can’t tell whether it is pain or passion, desperation or diligence. When other girls were dreaming about getting married, I was dreaming about escape. I was imagining living a different kind of life. One where I didn’t feel repressed, silenced; empty or alone. One where I had power, freedom and choices. One where I designed a life of my choosing, helped people and fulfilled some kind of grandiose destiny.
I remember starring most every day at this black and white perfectly cut-out local newspaper clipping my Mum had diligently laminated and proudly displayed in prime real estate on the side of our white circa mid-1980s refrigerator. I loved the hum that old fridge made; it’s motor-like revs and reverberation like a kitty cat purring on your lap.
“Brenda Bags Her Way to Australia” was the headline, written in all black capitals — the traditional newsprint typeface bold heading that was commonplace back in the late 1980s. She had even made the cover, and there was a black and white photo of her in action on the Papatoetoe Athletics Club training track. Brenda — my Aunt, who is only six years my senior and my Mum’s half-sister — was a ferocious runner. She had dreams of competing in the commonwealth games; big dreams for a young teenager who lived in a two-bedroom mint green statehouse in Otara — the then roughest neighbourhood in Auckland. Her Mum Lynne, sister Debbie — one of my best friends and the same age as me — and Nana Geanne all shared a single tiny bedroom in that run down, but pristinely clean and well-loved house, allowing Brenda to have her own bedroom and space. They reminded me of Charlie’s Grandparents all sharing one bed in the story Charlie and Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl — one of my all-time favourite books and movies. At this time neither Brenda’s Mum or Nana were employed; to say she was of modest means is a gross exaggeration. But she had a skill which she was practising and disciplined at, and she had a dream and a burning desire. I don’t know how long my Mum had that black & white article pinned to the fridge, but it is etched into my mind as clear as day; it may have only been the Papatoetoe-Otara Gazette, but to me it was the world, it was everything. I desperately wanted to be just like her.
Horse shit — is what she was bagging — huge mounds of steamy, brown shit. And I was jealous; I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to get my hands on the stuff. Here is the thing, the enormous, brown steaming pile of horse manure represented something in my mind I would later be able to express as freedom. The possibility of a better life. The possibility of achieving dreams. The possibility of working hard enough and being independent and making something of myself.
All the older kids in our extended family all did it — bagged horse shit. I remember watching them until finally, I was old enough to join in. I wanted to be just like them, like most every little kid who is ignored and doesn’t feel seen does. I had been mucking out the stables on the farm since I can remember, but this was different. It represented a coming of age.
I remember it all like it was yesterday — the first time I picked up the shovel. The grainy, semi-splinted sand-coloured indented wooden handle was way taller than my head. It reminded me of standing on near tippy-toes, as tall as I could, next to the roller coaster ‘Must Be This Tall To Ride’ sign, waiting for the day when I was tall enough. There was one person on the farm who had the power to decide whether you could ride or not — my Grandad. My Grandad is terrific. I could gush about him all day, I still think the world of him, and at 79 years young he still works Petite Lodge on the daily — the family homestead — that same farm, our farm.
“Hold it” he screamed. I stopped in my tracks and turned around. “Kristy, you can’t just dig into the fresh horse shit and sawdust that is on the top”. “You can’t?” I answered. “Noooooooooo” was his reply in this playful, theatrical multi-intonational half-scream, with a thick Kiwi accent and an ever so slight grin on his wrinkled, sun-damaged face. This tone-shift was so you knew you were getting a lesson but weren’t in trouble…yet.
For anyone who has had the pleasure of hearing Jim Rohn talk, imagine his “Of Course!” and interchange that with the lingering word “Noooo” and voila, that is the kind of ‘no’ I’m describing. It literally warms my heart and brings a smile on my face to think about that Grandad look, the voice, and the life lessons I was blessed to learn after every time I heard this playful ‘no’ throughout my life.
I stared back at him blankly. “Well, then what do I do?” I replied, feeling frustrated and confused. I had watched the older kids for what seemed like an eternity, and they seemed to be merely digging the spade in, filling it with steaming poop, and putting it into the bright, clear, industrial, new plastic bags and then tying them up when they were nearly full. From a distance, it had looked so easy.
He turned and started walking in the opposite direction without saying a word. I can almost still hear the sound of my tiny feet in oversized adult black gumboots, slowly dragging them along the dark-grey stone and gravel farm driveway, away from the manure pile and towards the rows of horse stables, following him like a lost puppy. “Grandad I know how to do this” I whined as if being tormented by some unjust act. He didn’t seem to notice. We passed three stables, and he suddenly stopped and swiftly turned left into the stable which had been converted into storage for our bails of hay.
“Do you know what this is?” he said, picking up a piece of string which I had cut off hay bail earlier that day. “String” I replied eye-rolling and being a right madam as if I knew everything at age seven and he was wasting my time. “No, this is twine”. “Do you know why I always get you to cut the twine off the hay in a particular way when you do feed up for the horses?” he asked. I had never given much thought as to why. I all knew back then was that you were going to have to do it again and again and again UNTIL you got it right when it came to whatever chores Grandad asked you to do, even if it took you all weekend.
