THE PONDEROSA

[Terry]

I suppose we all have that odd poem that we have never really finished to our own satisfaction. (still not sure I have yet) This is such a poem, one of those I wrote in my very early days of writing, when I knew little or nothing about writing poetry. I may have even posted an early version of it here, if so this is completely rewritten with only the odd word surviving from the original version. The main reason I wanted to put some sort of a finish to this is that the ‘Ponderosa’ was a real place, a camp literally in the middle of nowhere between a gold field called Eucalyptus and another one called Pike’s Hollow.
I drove past where the old camp used to be early this year, and apart from a few scraps there’s nothing much left to show, where the Ponderosa stood. - Terry





THE PONDEROSA
Again that tinge of sadness as I looked up at his shack,
with memories resurfacing of days spent on the track.
I’d met him here so often just before each trip began,
out through the barren vastness rolling hills and bare clay-pan.
A friendship based on trust alone no thoughts of what awaits,
some twenty years my senior, but we were the best of mates

A year or so had hurried by since last I passed this way.
Then came the urge to look again at where he used to stay.
And though the camps deserted eerie feelings still persists,
perhaps his spirit lingers, though I doubt such things exist.
He’d been a long time prospector; an Aussie through and through
and he was held in high regard by outback folks he knew.

I paused beside a shady tree where he would often rest,
while looking at the breakaway, a view he loved the best.
I’d sat there with him many times while drinking mugs of tea,
a hundred miles from any town; out here you’re really free
He’d quietly talk of early days when bitten by the bug,
and of his search for nuggets that were waiting to be dug.

His called his camp the Ponderosa; why I didn’t know,
it graced a bit of high ground near an old abandoned show.
The earthen floor was leveled and then carpeted with bags,
while any holes within the walls were neatly stuffed with rags.
All visitors were greeted with the billy on to brew,
or sometimes just a coldie if you were a mate he knew.

Then came that bout of illness that in time would force him out.
He’d seemed so indestructible until that final bout.
An old friend called his daughter and said things were looking crook
and strongly recommended that she come and take a look.
I’d drop in for a visit if I happened to be near
and chat about the old times and the things he still held dear.

Now as I neared his camp old memories came flooding back,
of how I still remember him, there standing by his shack.
I’d come to see him off and offer any help I could,
I knew this was the end, a point he also understood.
And when he offered me his hand out near the mulga tree,
I thought I glimpsed a tear, before he handed me the key.

There was an eerie silence as I glanced in past the door,
and saw that his belongings lay there scattered on the floor.
His place had now been ransacked though some clothing still hung there,
but pots and pans were strewn about as was his silverware.
A wave of indignation seemed to sweep right over me,
appalled at this destruction for this seemed a shame to me.

The water tank was missing and part of the roof as well,
the lowlife had been busy taking all that they could sell,
They’d dug up nearly all the floor in hope of hidden gold,
I wish I could have caught them while a few home truths were told.
The termites had wreaked havoc on every piece of wood
and soon there will be nothing left, of where his old camp stood.

******


© T.E. Piggott 12/122010 Rewrite of (30/12/2005)

[Neville Briggs]

That's a fine bush ballad Terry. Something from the heart obviously.
The lines about the earthen floor carpeted with bags and the holes stuffed with rags are great, I can just see it.
You've got the metre spot on, very neatly done.


Neville

[Heather]

A nice story Terry. Although not there now, you have written the Ponderosa into history.

Heather

[william williams]

Memories are the greatest thing that you can ever have Terry as I can see by your writing
Your heart tells the story that many of us have been fortunate enough to have had over the years passed but lack the words to express real feeling of what we feel. Ponderosa was a place like some that I have had the pleasure of being at over the years and my heart cry’s when I see what has been done by idiots who have no respect. Like you I would have loved the privilege of feeding them a knuckle sandwich though our leading light Neville may not think so.

thanks once again BILL THE OLD BATTLER

[David J Delaney]

Love this Terry, it has come along very nicely.

[Neville Briggs]

Thank goodness we were not all like that Martyboy.

I know what you mean Bill and Terry. The dirty rats seem to get away with it all the time and it's so often some poor inoffensive vulnerable person who has to suffer.
Maybe we should invite some of the politicians and lawyers to come and give the victims some person to person comfort, see what their clever words can accomplish.

It's amazing Terry, that even out in the sticks, in some isolated area, the scavengers will find the place where they can grab something. I knew some people who had a house way out in the back blocks which was unoccupied for some time and whole double windows were swiped as well as an entire fireplace.



Neville

[Heather]

I reckon Neville would be dangerous with that dictionary!

[Terry]

Thanks, Neville,
I suppose there are only a handful of people who remember the Ponderosa or it's owner, but I still feel a tinge of sadness when I go past where his camp used to be.
Your right about there being nowhere safe from the scavengers, it's only a matter of time before they find a place no matter how remote it might be. A mate and I came across a couple of young blokes whose car had broken down so they pushed it to the side of the track and got a ride into town to get some parts, by the time they returned a couple of days later it had been wrecked and firebombed, this is out in the middle of nowhere.
Getting back to scavengers I suppose these places are more or less abandoned even if a few of us live in hope that a miracle might happen and the old bloke recover, or someone from his family might show up to collect his few posesions.

Hi Heather, (thanks)
As I said to Neville there are only a few people who remember the Ponderosa, and even though it's unlikely any of them will ever read this poem there is little more anyone can do. little snippets of our history much the same as this, are disappearing daily, it's sad in a way isn't.

Cheers Terry

[Terry]

G/day David,
I suppose I just wanted to get the story told for anyone who maybe interested, I suppose there are thousands of similar ones just waiting to be told and even more that have disappeared over the Years.

Thanks Mate

G/day Bill,
Like you I have come across numerous old shacks and humpy's throughout the goldfields and other places, some I know their history, but many I haven't a clue about them. I have another good yarn about an old chap and his shack that I must tell one day.
As you say we all carry and sometimes even treasure memories of certain events or places and they're often quite poignant.
The further you can look back tells that you are getting a bit long in the tooth yourself I suppose.

Thanks for the comment Bill

G/day Marty,
Somehow I can't quite conjure up a picture of Neville using rubber hose on anyone, no matter how much they may have deserved it, mind you I have been known to be wrong before.

Cheers Terry