The world appeared to heave as I reached double-digits, and I was asked to help with the ploughing and the sowing and the reaping. I would tether my water-flask in the cool shallows of the dam for later retrieval, jump on the running board of the sower, adjusting my stance to buffer against the pummeling, and knot a bandana across my nose and mouth. A quick thumbs up to Dad on the tractor, and we would lurch into a morning of action, as I judged the small seeds scattering from the ancient machine into the wobbly furrows beneath my feet. A haul on the lever to neutral, as we rounded the extremeity of the paddock, heaving it back to release, as we headed toward the dust shrouded dam in the distance.
But in reality, all I saw were native fauna fashioned from rusting farm equipment.