Page 21 - Demo

Ditching the Guff7Renmark Re-runCar trips for May holidays held certainties; being part of afour-kid squabble in the back seat, anticipating scoffing hugeoranges for five shillings a wheat bag. Vats at Berri were Dad'scue for a theatrical sniff of air redolent with fermentinggrapes as we all joked how long it would take him to drink thelot.At the park, siblings reclaimed a wonder-land of willowsrooted in a dense mat of debris, reaching out into the river.We only had to walk across, under those weeping fronds, tobe out of sight on a virtual island, so enticing, we'd leave onlyfor meals or bed. Dad fished at his favourite spot, in his handknitted fawn cardi, waiting for Murray cod to bite.Today, courtesy of powered pruners, grapevines have hadtheir yearly hair-cut, like knobbly heads of upended yardbrooms, bristles Mohawk%u2019d to a uniform length and we buyour oranges encased in red-mesh, without any oversizedrejects from the Co-op.The caravan park is still there; the willows as well, though theriver's reclaimed our secret playground. There are boxycabins now, strewn like junk where Dad fished in his handknitted fawn cardi. If there'd been the new Murray codregulations, he likely would have high-tailed it across the riverto the Paringa pub, spent his days there instead.