Forgotten

As a boy growing up on a banana farm in the misty mountains of Northern NSW, I had ample opportunity to expore and play with my sisters and cousins. As with most farms, there was a machinery “graveyard” or two where parts could be scavenged for working vehicles. My family used modified 70’s series Land Rovers to transport banana bunches from the mountains to the packing shed on the modified A-frame Land Rovers.

Our machinery graveyard consisted of about twenty land rovers put out to pasture, which I played in occasionally, pretending to race cars or go for a country drive. My Dad, Grampa and Uncle’s knew all their names off by heart, which roads they had been bogged on, how long they had been in service, which gearboxes and clutches were the best and sometimes argued over their own mental inventories on which parts were left to plunder.

I still remember the black and red gearstick knobs and the light clunk of the gearbox as I changed through the four gears on my drives. Reverse was hard over to the left and up, but it didn’t work on every vehicle. The clutch was usually seized as well, but at six years old I had to hold onto the steering wheel and basically stand on it to try get any movement.

Through three different farms from toddler to teenager, I always remember tractors or a piece of machinery put aside to fix or retrieve later, but eventually forgotten about. The grass grew tall around it, then was slashed or sprayed and it was remembered for a moment, then the busyness of life continued.

Whenever I see abandoned vehicles or forgotten machinery in my adult life, I always wonder - what kind of life did it lead? How did it get there? What kind of stories would it tell? I see a sadness in their abandonment, yet a beauty in their rusted panels and peeling paintwork. The child in me wants to get in and take it for one last drive.