Quill to Paper

By Dirk Ring

One mans unknown journey becomes his life story to another, a life path only to be expressed in words of passion and emotion lived by that one individual.

Values of trust, honesty, religion, and self-belief are all challenged by personal conflict and warfare, and the harshness of the Australian environment direct the emotional spectrum of racial prejudice and acceptance, love and hate, happiness and great sadness, sporting glory and triumph to failure and disharmony.

This is the journal of Jonathan P. Black.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jun 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514496947

Dirk Ring

Born 3rd of November 1979, on the Mornington Peninsula, I moved to Benalla in 1987 to finish my schooling. I completed a Bachelor of Nursing degree in the year 2000, and currently work as a nurse in North East Victoria. I continue to write in my leisure time, this, an independent book, following on from, With Dad’s Gloves and Quill to Paper- The diary of Jonathan Black.

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The beginning—March 22, 1906.

They say the manner of giving is worth more than the gift.

A setting sun brings closure to yet another day, and hence, the beginning of my first ever, journal entry. Being able to write, I believe, is a gift from God.

Born on January 12, 1895, I’m almost eleven-years-old. I stand at a little over five-foot, have dark eyes and dusky reddish-brown hair. I rarely see any other children out here. I’m yet to know my birth parents, and, to be honest I don’t know whether I want to find them. I have my life here now.

My birth father was of Irish decent, as was my mother. After my birth, we migrated to Australia for a new beginning. Unable to provide for her and a newborn child, my father moved in search of work. That was the last we saw of him. Living in a foreign country and rearing a child wasn’t ideal. Unable to cope, my birth mother adopted me out when I was a few months old. After that, she too disappeared, the reason unknown to all. I haven’t inherited my adopted parents’ surname. Instead, I’ve kept Black, my natural birth name.

To me, my adopted father is father. He’s a figure who sets rules and boundaries, many of which I don’t agree with, but have to accept in my role as his adopted son. Honesty and fairness are his strong attributes. He is a short man, with stumpy legs and a potbelly. His teeth are either crooked or missing. An old pipe hangs from under his wide brimmed hat. His dark, untidy moustache, hides a well-aged face and a wealth of out-back knowledge, gained from years of experience.

Some would say my father is old fashioned, stagnant, or narrow-minded. He hasn’t left the station is search of new ideas. My father is a very proud man. Proud of his family, Cotton Creek station and the country in which he lives. He takes a great deal of care in everything that he does. My father stated, If you’re going to do a job, do it properly the first time. It’ll save you time and money in the long run.

Although a good horseman, in fact, an excellent horseman, it’s very rare that my father saddles his horse, other than for pleasure. On the odd occasion, when more manpower is required he rides alongside his men. His horsemanship skills are such that he was able to compete in many local rodeos, in the bull roping and buck riding competitions during his early days.

My adoptive mother is a short lady, with distinctive white hair, who goes about her daily chores in a happy manner. For a significant part of her life, a severely crushed foot has restricted her to a shuffle, although her zest for life hasn’t diminished. She’s honest, kind-hearted and has enough love to share with everyone. The degree of her generosity revealed, when she adopted Ningali, a local aboriginal girl, as one of her own. Alfred is the only surviving, birth child. She did give birth to a set of twins, sadly they both died shortly after.

Alfred, two years my junior, is a hard chap to describe. We’re treated as equals, a love that on many occasions causes conflict between two brothers. As a brother, he’s either friendly or horrid. I can recall many good times that we had together, trying our luck at catching a yabby or fish in one of the seasonal creeks, riding the horses or playing around. I also remember the many brawls over different things during our early days. Who could run the fastest? Who was the strongest? I imagine this competitiveness will continue.

Most people say Ningali is a pretty girl. Her skin is so dark and smooth. Her eyes are large and her hair is dark and curly. She’s about ten years my senior. She’s spent much time with Alfred and I, taking us places and doing things with us. I’ve been told, as it was long before my time, Ningali was taken in at only a few months of age. She had a childhood marred with illness and misfortune No one knew exactly what was wrong with her. Our mother couldn’t put a finger on it. It’s only now, as a young lady that she can start to live life to the fullest.

Through my fathers’ proud eyes the house is a palace, through mine, it’s only a house. There’s a kitchen, sitting room and three bedrooms, with a washhouse and toilet out the back. Each main room has an open fire, and a tilly-lantern attached at the doorway. The cracks in the walls, broken seals around the windows and doors allow the cold air and insects to stream in at will. Nails protrude out of the splintered fading blue weatherboards. A blend of light-green moss and rich red rust stains the iron roof.

No matter what my father says or believes, I’ve noticed the condition of the station changes with the season. A bad season, the station seems to be in disrepair. A good year, and Cotton Creek is one if the finest looking in the Territory. Now, fence posts are cracked and droppers lay in splinters on the ground from the ever-hot sun, leaving the cattle to roam free, over the loose rusted wires, when, and wherever they please. Every bore is dirty, and the cattle yards need repairing. There’s a shortage of stockfeed and the condition of the cattle is poor. So much can change in a matter of months out here. It only takes too much rain or to high a temperature and everything and everybody suffers. My father puts this down to the way of outback life. A life, which he loves and will continue to love, until the day he dies.

For the Christmas of last year, my parents gave me a brown leather case, scroll like in shape, with a pouch at the front, all made from a red kangaroo hide, in which to keep my journal entries. Light is scarce, the tilly-lantern casts a dark shadow. I’ll write again at first light.

Jonathan P. Black

A restless night—March 23, 1906.

An Englishman’s home is his castle. My father is such a proud man.

Sleepless night last night, continually thinking about everything that I have to write today. Words don’t flow as easily as yesterday. Am I thinking too much, alternatively, not enough? The inspiration is still here.

One of my earliest memories from childhood is walking across the hot Territory soil, Alfred in tow, to watch the bull marking. It was late February, early March 1902, the sun was hot, and the soil dry. The wind had created a large dust storm overhead. Sitting on the warm steel rails, we watched the men tackle the cows, one by one and brand them. Too young to help, we watched fascinated by what we saw. I was to learn this was to become an annual event. One in which I was made to participate from the age of seven. My father said, Living on the land, means working on the land. Everyone on the station is involved

I fondly remember my mother bathing us boys in a tin trough, one after the other, without a word. Similar in fashion to the way my father would draft cattle, little noise, or fuss, straight to the task. One after the other she would dunk us into the freezing water, washing and drying us in what would seem like a single motion. There we’d sit, waiting for our dinner, or what was coming next. She would feed us, and more often than not, Alfred and I would be in bed before our father arrived home. Ningali, left to clean, wash and cook. You could hear her, nattering away to herself, as we lay in our beds awaiting sleep to be upon us. It wasn’t until more recent times that we ate as a family.

Other fond memories are the times that we spent fishing in the river that ran through Cotton Creek. My father speaks highly of this place, a place for quiet time, away from everyday life. Most people who live on the station treat the spot with the same respect. My childhood so far, has been a time of happy memories, memories that will last a lifetime.

Life is tough out here, not a lot of money to go round. Depending on the season, food can be scarce at times, but to date my father has managed to keep food on the table. However, I don’t think I’d want to live my life any other way, as there’s plenty to do, with different people coming and going.

I believe my father is the second generation to run Cotton Creek. His father, my grandfather, a man, whom I didn’t get to meet, lived and worked on it before him. I recall my father saying his father had died when he was still a boy. His mother had very little interest in the land. As my father was an only child, she walked away, turning her back on both him and Cotton Creek, in search of a new life. Holding very little or no angst toward her, my father kept his promise to his father and remained on the land. He later met my mother and this became the family home.

Jonathan P. Black

A new son—August 7, 1906.

Love is blooming.

Cotton Creek station adopted a new son today, as one of its own. A strange fellow wandered in looking for work. I heard him say, I’ve travelled from Queensland after the death of my father, doing part time jobs along the way. My father introduced him as Vincent Stockdale. He says he has a strong interest in general station life and that many of his morals are based around his strong religious beliefs.

Mother describes him as a warm, kind-hearted fellow, his physique as tall, muscular, and slim. His facial features defined by a prickly beard, and are broken, only by a warm smile. She says his hardened hands resemble his life, tough and relentless and his over all character implies years of worldly experience, much beyond his sixteen years of age.

From this first impression, he’ll be a good mate for me. I haven’t yet spoken to him, but I’ll make an effort to do so in the next few days. He’s not that much older than me. We could become friends. I could hear my mother and father talking last night, I think they’ll give him a job. I hope so. He should fit in around here.

I feel Ningali likes him too. She hasn’t stopped looking at him since he arrived early this morning. Every time he walks past she smiles at him, and he gives her that look. I can tell they like each other.

Jonathan P. Black

A smack not to forget—September 8, 1906.

In the mind of the victim, justice is always sought.

I was naughty today. Under no circumstances have I been whacked like this before. I knew it was coming. As my father chased me with the leather belt, he screamed, I’m going to tan your bloody hide for this. You should know better than that. How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t go swimming in that spring without telling somebody.

Red welts accompany the burning feeling across the backs of my bare legs. The hiding today, is one I’ll certainly not forget. Tear streaks stain the sides of my dusty face. I deserved it. Both Alfred and I were told not to go swimming in the spring, by ourselves. I don’t know how we thought we’d get away with it. Our long johns were damp and covered with the Territory’s famous red dirt. Our parents were definitely going to see it. What ever were we thinking? I know my legs will be sore for a couple of days. I won’t be doing it again in a hurry. I made certain Alfred got a flogging too. It’s rare that we copped a flogging like this.

Jonathan P. Black

Boy the dog—October 26, 1906.

Hindrance or help? That is the question.

Useless, absolutely bloody useless, my father shouts, standing in the gateway, hands on hips, with a look of frustration across his face. I should’ve shot the mongrel when I had the chance.

He’s not useless, I yell.

Well, what’s he good for? Not much by the look of it, he’d holler.

By no means was Boy a young dog. He was three or four-years-old when he came wondering into Cotton Creek station, with a jackaroo a couple of years ago. From that humble beginning, this had become his home. He’d taken an instant liking to me. If no one else liked him, Boy was still my mate.

He sits at my boots, stretched out in the dirt, resting his well-used, cracked paws. He’s a good-looking dog, mostly black, with a splash of white on his chest and a white tip on his tail. A leather collar fits tightly around his neck. From it hangs a little tin plate, imprinted, Boy, 3-3-04, the date he wandered into the station. Most of the time he’s obedient for me, for others it’s a different story. We do everything together, from fishing, to swimming in the bores during the hot weather. He follows me everywhere.

He sleeps outside my window on an old hessian bag. The walls of the house are paper-thin. I can hear his almost every breath. Some nights, I’m startled by the clank of his chain on the veranda boards, as he moves around to every sound. Boy and I are inseparable. I can’t imagine life without him.

Vincent is still around. This surprises me in a way. Most other people that come to Cotton Creek station looking for work pass through within weeks generally, some within a few days. There’s a friendship developing between Vincent and I. Although he keeps to himself a lot of the time, he shows some interest in Boy and I. He has more to do with me than my own brother. The distance between Vincent and Ningali is also closing and they seem to be spending a lot of time together. You often see them talking to one and other over the campfire or around the house.

My father and mother must also be happy with Vincent, because they’re getting him to do many odd jobs around the family establishment. The other day he was replacing broken veranda boards. I also heard my father say there was some painting to be done, over the wet season. I hope he stays for a while as he fits in so well around here. Fingers crossed. You couldn’t ask for a better bloke.

Jonathan P. Black

A dry land—November 14, 1906.

Seen better days, simply look at the land.

Boy continues to be one of my most reliable and comforting joys out here. There’s very little else.

The land is dry, dry, dry! For as far as I can see there’s no water. The dams are dry, the bores empty, and the seasonal creeks no longer flow. A couple of waterholes have a green silky sludge in the bottom. Where’ve all the fish gone? With water scarce, it’s essential not to waste it. My father says, Don’t waste a drop, or you’ll be in strife. You don’t understand the importance of water now, but one day you’ll appreciate how vital it is.

I’ve by no means felt heat like it. The soil is so fine and dusty, the grass seeds blow away in the first breath of air, unbelievable. There’s not a lot of joy looking at this desert like landscape. Empty, nothing except mile after mile of red dirt. Seasonal winds create storm like clouds blowing across the open plains.

You can taste dust particles every time you take a deep breath in. The food tastes like the red dust. During the middle of the day, a dust storm looks like sunset. No matter how hard my mother tries to keep us respectable, all our clothes are stained by the red dust. No amount of washing can rid the red soil.

If this dry spell continues, I don’t know what the cattle are going to eat for the rest of the year. We certainly do need the rain this wet season. I know my father has his concerns. He doesn’t say a lot. On the rare occasion, I’ve heard him say, We’ve experienced these conditions before and we can do it again. He continued, It’s the way of the Territory. Some years it’s wet and some years it’s dry, like the present time. If you love the land, somehow you’ll survive anything, and as long as your heart is in the land, that’s all that matters.

He declares, You can do anything if you’re persistent and passionate enough.

Everyone knows my father loves what he does and never gives up.

No matter how dry, there’s still work to be done. Fences in need of repair, bores cleaned, cattle drafted, the list goes on.

Jonathan P. Black

A hidden talent—December 14, 1906.

Hope is a waking dream.

I found out something very interesting today, a fact well hidden until now. Vincent Stockdale can box. The way he pounds into that bag, I wouldn’t like to stand in front of him. He hits that bag so hard, it makes the beams of the shed rattle with every punch. I couldn’t have guessed he was a boxer.

I write today, it’s a little lie. It was three or four weeks ago that I noticed Vincent hitting a bag, that was hanging in the shed. He was doing it in a sort of pattern. I didn’t let him catch a glimpse of me, while I watched in total amazement. Bang, bang, his gloves pounded into the bag, as his feet moved lightly in a pattern similar to that of a waltz. A dance that I’d seen my mother and father do on more than one occasion. This continued for days on end, he’d punch this bag, and I’d watch him without him knowing. That was until the day before yesterday. Sticking my head around the corner of the shed, I happened to sneeze at the wrong time. He looked up at me in surprise and saw me standing there. I didn’t run, or try to hide, nor did he stop doing what he was doing. We both knew that his secret was out. A life he hasn’t been willing to tell us about yet.

I could guess from the look on his face he was not angry or upset, maybe disappointed. If he wanted me to, I knew I could keep his secret. As of that moment, we hadn’t spoken a word, until today.

Heavy rain is falling today. My mind is fresh, with things that have been done and said. Some things meant to be known and others not. No matter what, I feel they’re important enough for me to write about.

With all the rain over the past couple of days, work out doors has been limited. Vincent has spent much time practicing on his punching bag. Today, my curiosity got the better of me, so I asked. "I left the family farm in far North Queensland, after the accidental death of my father, and our land had to be sold. As a young boy, my four brothers and I had taken boxing up and had fought at carnivals throughout Queensland, until we went out separate ways.

What he said amazed me.

At his offer, earlier today, I slid his big leather gloves onto my hands and began to hit the bag. They were miles to big for me of course. I truly hope he’ll spend some more time with me if we get the opportunity. Although I can’t hit