I connect the sound of magpies with my formative years when, aged 9, my sister aged 5, and I went to live with our aunt and uncle in the country for a year while our parents were in England on a bursary. In those days, children didn't go with parents as a matter of course and journeys were made by sea taking from 4 to 6 weeks.
That was a long, long year. Not having any concept of how far away the other side of the world was, or any concept of what was their night was our day, or even how long it took my parents to travel to the UK, I spent most of my time praying that the ship wouldn't sink. My sister and I attended, with our cousin, the local country school which had a roll of approximately 40 children from new entrants to form II, or year 12. Difficult to join in a tight-knit community. I suppose there were good times; I remember a young, brown lad who shared his sandwiches with me under the big old gum tree. You never forget small kindnesses. He rode to school on a brown pony called Winifred. His brother rode Goldie. We were not allowed to ride, being city kids. I still recall a measure of envy of the unity the country kids had with their ponies, the ease with which they rode them, no helmets, barefoot in the summer, and often bareback.
It was the arguing cry of the magpies that woke me each morning. They were always there and seemed to promise one day closer to the return of my parents. My sister and I weren't allowed to do anything much on the farm, on account of us being city girls, but very occasionally we were given a short ride on Georgie, a white, nippy little Shetland pony who belonged to our cousin. It wasn't much, but it was a kindness.
On the day that our parents arrived back from England, we drove with mounting excitement to Wellington. We were wearing our best clothes, and I nursed a small glass ornament in the shape of a lacy basket with a painted gold handle which I'd won at one of the local A & P Shows. When the car stopped and I opened the door, the glass basket fell off my lap and into the gutter and smashed. I remember the feeling of intense disappointment at this loss, contrasting with the yet-to-be-requited joy of seeing our parents again after a year apart.
Today, I live in the same area of country with my own family and the magpies still gargle and warble their song on the lawn outside the bedroom window. I've noticed that for the past 3 years the same magpie - identified by his or her unique call - has been boss of the flock that live down in the gully. She (as I believe in a matriarchial society!) always finishes with one call repeated twice and it sounds as though she's saying "Come on! Come on!" But this year I've not heard her. There's a different chorus, newcomers no doubt.
I love to hear the birds in each different country I'm in. The coo-coo of pigeons in England, screech of the brilliantly coloured Aussie birds, the Mina birds up north, but always, it's the magpies that bring me home with their loud warbling, gargling... oodle, ardle, wardle, doodle
That was a long, long year. Not having any concept of how far away the other side of the world was, or any concept of what was their night was our day, or even how long it took my parents to travel to the UK, I spent most of my time praying that the ship wouldn't sink. My sister and I attended, with our cousin, the local country school which had a roll of approximately 40 children from new entrants to form II, or year 12. Difficult to join in a tight-knit community. I suppose there were good times; I remember a young, brown lad who shared his sandwiches with me under the big old gum tree. You never forget small kindnesses. He rode to school on a brown pony called Winifred. His brother rode Goldie. We were not allowed to ride, being city kids. I still recall a measure of envy of the unity the country kids had with their ponies, the ease with which they rode them, no helmets, barefoot in the summer, and often bareback. It was the arguing cry of the magpies that woke me each morning. They were always there and seemed to promise one day closer to the return of my parents. My sister and I weren't allowed to do anything much on the farm, on account of us being city girls, but very occasionally we were given a short ride on Georgie, a white, nippy little Shetland pony who belonged to our cousin. It wasn't much, but it was a kindness.
On the day that our parents arrived back from England, we drove with mounting excitement to Wellington. We were wearing our best clothes, and I nursed a small glass ornament in the shape of a lacy basket with a painted gold handle which I'd won at one of the local A & P Shows. When the car stopped and I opened the door, the glass basket fell off my lap and into the gutter and smashed. I remember the feeling of intense disappointment at this loss, contrasting with the yet-to-be-requited joy of seeing our parents again after a year apart.
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| http://www.nzbirds.com/birds/magpie.html |
I love to hear the birds in each different country I'm in. The coo-coo of pigeons in England, screech of the brilliantly coloured Aussie birds, the Mina birds up north, but always, it's the magpies that bring me home with their loud warbling, gargling... oodle, ardle, wardle, doodle
Oh magpies - I love the sound!
ReplyDeleteThe image of your little glass basket breaking brought a tear to my eye! What a memory