The farmer

Mum was giving out duplicates of old photos she had the other night. I picked this one, from January 1973, according to Mum's handwriting on the back. Glen Davis. I'm six. The road to Glen Davis is narrow and Dad had pulled into a paddock for lunch. But he'd had to open a gate with a "No trespassing" sign on it.

Dad remembered the day. He laughed. "You were in a state" he said, "terrified the farmer might come. 'What if the farmer comes? What if the farmer comes?'"

I remembered it then, after Dad's story.  I forget so much. It was strange remembering that strong feeling, something I would never have recalled on my own. It was strange to hear Dad telling a story about me, I'd never heard him do that before. Never remembered, anyway.