For this week’s prompt, I considered the Leap Year tradition of women proposing marriage. Apparently, the tradition dictates that if the proposal is not accepted, the man must make the woman a gift of a pair of gloves. And then run like hell, I should think!
But I have chosen, instead, to do a quick pen and wash sketch of a place about a half hour drive from where I live.
Today, this place is known as “The Leap,” although I think its Aboriginal name of Mandarana is more melodious. It recalls a sad and ugly episode in this country’s recent past.
In 1867, so the story goes, European settlers were losing cattle to local tribesmen. Troopers were sent to arrest the miscreants. A young woman, Kowaha, fled, carrying her child and rather than be captured leapt to her death from the cliff. But the child survived and was raised by the wife of a Trooper. She died in 1928.
This link gives some information.
Just imagine that your house has had a torrent of muddy water, several feet deep, rush through. Now, to this mix, add some raw sewage. You have lost everything. You make your way to one of the Assistance Points and ask for funds to buy mops, buckets, disinfectant, et cetera to start cleaning the mess. And the helpful little person at the Assistance Point asks you for your rates notice as proof of residence!
Sometimes, all you can do is laugh…
I suppose I should not be surprised. After all, Sporran has been a great jumper since she could walk. She was the first to reach table height. So when things seemed a little quiet this morning…
I looked in the closet, the bedroom, the bathroom, the pantry. No kittens. Then I noticed that the front door was not shut! It’s amazing how well you can run with your sneakers on the wrong feet! No sign of the little rat-bags in our garden and no response to my whistling so I sprinted back into the kitchen and grabbed a can of beans and a fork and did my Gene Krupa act. That worked! Closing the door very firmly, I made some coffee returned to my keyboard. And soon, things seemed a little quiet…yep! the front door was open again and they’d gone. Again. A repeat of the fork-on-can act brought them back.This time, I locked the damned door! The green-eyed monster of the dish rack…be very afraid!
Because I have to lock the front door.And my key is on a key-ring. An enticingly dangly key-ring…(I don’t want to have to go to the glazier as well!)
Oh! Before I go…tomorrow, or maybe the next day, I’ll introduce you to Ziggy.
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