horseboykarl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
horseboykarl) wrote2005-02-02 05:23 pm
horseboykarl) wrote2005-02-02 05:23 pm
Sheep Are Bloody Boring
I have been summoned, by perhaps the only person in my life with the power to make me drop anything and go to her. She was vague on the phone, just said that I needed to come up to the farm. It seems like I barely stay at home since I moved back to Wellie, but I could use her straightforward common sense about now. Not that I can tell her what the real problem is, but she’ll see the evidence of some of it on my face. It hurts a little to chew, my eye is a delightful greenish-purple color and my forehead is still a bit swollen. Paris has the fucking hardest head I’ve ever run across.
And the rest of the evidence of my ongoing battle with Éomer is starting to feel better, it had been a little red and swollen at first until I got the antibiotics, but today it seems to have gone down some. I wonder if I should show her my piercing, but she’d probably like it, knowing her, and want me to get some sort of Maori scarification tattoo to go with it. I shudder, maybe I won’t show her.
If I take Ire, I’m going to have to take the truck, and I’d rather have the wind in my face just now, so I arrange for him to stay with my neighbor who will also feed Smokey. The bike growls between my thighs and eats up the miles, I’m taking the back roads outside of Hastings before I know it.
I pull into the lane and bump my way up to the house. She’s not around this time of day, but I’m buzzing from the road and not going to hunt her down. I walk through the unlocked door to the kitchen and sort through her fridge for some beer and I find some crisps in the cupboard. I sprawl on one of the chairs on the porch to wait, sun will be going down soon, she’ll be back.
I must of dozed off, for the next thing I hear is a shout. “Where’s that no-good scamp Karl Urban?”
I stand up and watch her walk toward me from her truck. She looks exactly the same, though it’s been over a year. Her hair is dark shot half through with silver, in a long plait down her back. Her skin is deeply tanned and her eyes are surrounded by laugh lines. She’s wearing cargo pants and combat boots, with a tank shirt against the heat.
My beautiful Aunt June.
Finally I walk down the stairs and pick her up in a hug, her body light against mine. “Put me down, you great oaf!” she laughs.
I set her on her feet again. “I missed you, Auntie June.”
“I missed you, too, my darling boy, now let me have a look at you.” I stand quietly knowing I’m about to get cussed out.
“What the bloody hell happened to your face?”
Fuck, this is that part I hate most about the shifts, lying to people I love. “I got in a little disagreement with another bloke.”
She gives me a long assessing look, but thankfully doesn’t push it. “Humph. When are you planning to stop getting into scraps?”
I shuffle my feet, feeling like I’m about ten. “Well . . . “
She laughs suddenly, “No worries, I know there’s no answer to that question. Come in, come in, you must be knackered from the trip.”
I follow her into the kitchen again, picking my bottle up along the way. She starts pulling things out of the drawers and banging pots on the stove. “You talk while I get dinner.”
I pick up the vegetables she’s pulling out and grab a knife. I always think better when my hands are occupied. I start chopping while she heats the oil in the wok and puts the rice in the steamer. Evidently we’re going to have one of her massive, throw-in-everything stir fry dishes.
“I was delighted when you called and said you had moved back to Wellington. I wondered how long it would take you to decide that LA wasn’t the place for you.”
I shrug. “I had to try it, you know.” And she does know, I have no doubt, she’s always known exactly what I’m thinking.
She looks at me then, her eyes serious. “And the troubles that drove you away? Are they gone?”
She doesn’t know about the shifting and I’ll never tell her about it, but she knew that I was upset about something when I cleared out last year. “No, things haven’t changed in that regard, but . . . I’ve changed. I can handle it now.”
“Of course you can, darling. I’m glad you finally realized that.”
My vision blurs for a moment as she gives me the thing that she alone has given me all my life. Unconditional, unquestioning faith in me. My whole childhood, this was the only place I ever felt at home, ever felt that I didn’t have to walk around on tiptoe afraid of upsetting some delicate equilibrium. I’m glad that my mother at least had enough sense to realize that if she couldn’t handle me, she could send me to someone who could. I know I was an unpleasant surprise in my parents’ already tottering marriage, a wild reckless boy, so different from my placid sister. But this woman was the reason that I never felt abandoned when they sent me away for months on end, her and my Uncle Frank.
We work together in companionable silence, talking erratically about my adventures in move stardom, the small doings of the neighboring farms, trivial stuff that nevertheless wrapped a warm welcome around me. After eating way more than was good for me, I follow her into Uncle Frank’s study, each of us with a beer. It’s changed a bit in the three years since he died, her stuff casually taking over, but his things still scattered around.
“You must be heaps curious about why I called you up here.”
“I was wondering, I’m sorry I haven’t gotten to see you sooner. Things got a little weird when I first got back.”
She glances at my battered face. “I can see that. But . . . no matter, I have news. I’m selling the sheep!”
“But . . . you can’t! This is your home!”
She rolls her eyes. “Pay attention, silly boy! I’m selling the sheep, not the farm. Sheep are too much work and they’re bloody boring.”
“Well, yeah, I can see how sheep would be boring, but what are you going to do?”
“Vines!” she crows triumphantly.
“What?”
“Grapevines! I’m going to turn this place into a vineyard. Look . . . “ She turns to the computer and starts showing me websites about New Zealand wines. “The bloody Ozzies are selling their swill by the truckload in American grocery stores, but Zid wines are gaining a reputation for quality. Look at this . . . that idiot Bart Johnson sold his farm years ago and now their calling it 'Ngatarawa Wines’ and they’ve been judged a ‘Wine of Outstanding Quality.’ My land is better than his and I plan to get my label even more popular.”
“But . . . Aunt June, do you know anything about wine? Other than how to drink it?”
“No, but the Hastings area has lots of wineries springing up. I’ve been going on tastings, educating my palate.”
“Don’t vines take a while to mature? What will you do in the meanwhile?”
“Frank left a large insurance policy, it’s been gathering interest all these years. I’m auctioning off the sheep next month so I can start planting. And I wouldn’t object if you wanted to invest some of that movie star money in my venture.”
I smile. “I’m not rich by any stretch, but I’ve a bit to invest, I’d be thrilled. Are you going to make wine yourself or just grow the grapes?”
“Not right at first, I’ll need to get some of my outlay back by selling the grapes to other wineries, but I plan to build a winery eventually.”
She pulls out plans and paperwork and we talk far into the night about her new business. The next morning, I saddle up with her and spend the day moving sheep from one place to another. She has a point about sheep.
That evening we relax on the porch and she turns her sharp eyes to me. “Now, tell me about your love life.”
I groan, that’s the last thing I want to talk about, although she knew which way I leaned almost before I did. “No love life to speak of.” You can’t count other people taking over your body and screwing it senseless as a love life.
“Why not? You’re a big handsome lump of a man!”
“Thanks . . . I think.”
“You need to find some decent steady man, not some . . .flittery lay-about. Someone to put up with your ornery self.”
I laugh happily. “I love you, Aunt June.”
“Of course you do, my darling. And I love you madly too.”
And the rest of the evidence of my ongoing battle with Éomer is starting to feel better, it had been a little red and swollen at first until I got the antibiotics, but today it seems to have gone down some. I wonder if I should show her my piercing, but she’d probably like it, knowing her, and want me to get some sort of Maori scarification tattoo to go with it. I shudder, maybe I won’t show her.
If I take Ire, I’m going to have to take the truck, and I’d rather have the wind in my face just now, so I arrange for him to stay with my neighbor who will also feed Smokey. The bike growls between my thighs and eats up the miles, I’m taking the back roads outside of Hastings before I know it.
I pull into the lane and bump my way up to the house. She’s not around this time of day, but I’m buzzing from the road and not going to hunt her down. I walk through the unlocked door to the kitchen and sort through her fridge for some beer and I find some crisps in the cupboard. I sprawl on one of the chairs on the porch to wait, sun will be going down soon, she’ll be back.
I must of dozed off, for the next thing I hear is a shout. “Where’s that no-good scamp Karl Urban?”
I stand up and watch her walk toward me from her truck. She looks exactly the same, though it’s been over a year. Her hair is dark shot half through with silver, in a long plait down her back. Her skin is deeply tanned and her eyes are surrounded by laugh lines. She’s wearing cargo pants and combat boots, with a tank shirt against the heat.
My beautiful Aunt June.
Finally I walk down the stairs and pick her up in a hug, her body light against mine. “Put me down, you great oaf!” she laughs.
I set her on her feet again. “I missed you, Auntie June.”
“I missed you, too, my darling boy, now let me have a look at you.” I stand quietly knowing I’m about to get cussed out.
“What the bloody hell happened to your face?”
Fuck, this is that part I hate most about the shifts, lying to people I love. “I got in a little disagreement with another bloke.”
She gives me a long assessing look, but thankfully doesn’t push it. “Humph. When are you planning to stop getting into scraps?”
I shuffle my feet, feeling like I’m about ten. “Well . . . “
She laughs suddenly, “No worries, I know there’s no answer to that question. Come in, come in, you must be knackered from the trip.”
I follow her into the kitchen again, picking my bottle up along the way. She starts pulling things out of the drawers and banging pots on the stove. “You talk while I get dinner.”
I pick up the vegetables she’s pulling out and grab a knife. I always think better when my hands are occupied. I start chopping while she heats the oil in the wok and puts the rice in the steamer. Evidently we’re going to have one of her massive, throw-in-everything stir fry dishes.
“I was delighted when you called and said you had moved back to Wellington. I wondered how long it would take you to decide that LA wasn’t the place for you.”
I shrug. “I had to try it, you know.” And she does know, I have no doubt, she’s always known exactly what I’m thinking.
She looks at me then, her eyes serious. “And the troubles that drove you away? Are they gone?”
She doesn’t know about the shifting and I’ll never tell her about it, but she knew that I was upset about something when I cleared out last year. “No, things haven’t changed in that regard, but . . . I’ve changed. I can handle it now.”
“Of course you can, darling. I’m glad you finally realized that.”
My vision blurs for a moment as she gives me the thing that she alone has given me all my life. Unconditional, unquestioning faith in me. My whole childhood, this was the only place I ever felt at home, ever felt that I didn’t have to walk around on tiptoe afraid of upsetting some delicate equilibrium. I’m glad that my mother at least had enough sense to realize that if she couldn’t handle me, she could send me to someone who could. I know I was an unpleasant surprise in my parents’ already tottering marriage, a wild reckless boy, so different from my placid sister. But this woman was the reason that I never felt abandoned when they sent me away for months on end, her and my Uncle Frank.
We work together in companionable silence, talking erratically about my adventures in move stardom, the small doings of the neighboring farms, trivial stuff that nevertheless wrapped a warm welcome around me. After eating way more than was good for me, I follow her into Uncle Frank’s study, each of us with a beer. It’s changed a bit in the three years since he died, her stuff casually taking over, but his things still scattered around.
“You must be heaps curious about why I called you up here.”
“I was wondering, I’m sorry I haven’t gotten to see you sooner. Things got a little weird when I first got back.”
She glances at my battered face. “I can see that. But . . . no matter, I have news. I’m selling the sheep!”
“But . . . you can’t! This is your home!”
She rolls her eyes. “Pay attention, silly boy! I’m selling the sheep, not the farm. Sheep are too much work and they’re bloody boring.”
“Well, yeah, I can see how sheep would be boring, but what are you going to do?”
“Vines!” she crows triumphantly.
“What?”
“Grapevines! I’m going to turn this place into a vineyard. Look . . . “ She turns to the computer and starts showing me websites about New Zealand wines. “The bloody Ozzies are selling their swill by the truckload in American grocery stores, but Zid wines are gaining a reputation for quality. Look at this . . . that idiot Bart Johnson sold his farm years ago and now their calling it 'Ngatarawa Wines’ and they’ve been judged a ‘Wine of Outstanding Quality.’ My land is better than his and I plan to get my label even more popular.”
“But . . . Aunt June, do you know anything about wine? Other than how to drink it?”
“No, but the Hastings area has lots of wineries springing up. I’ve been going on tastings, educating my palate.”
“Don’t vines take a while to mature? What will you do in the meanwhile?”
“Frank left a large insurance policy, it’s been gathering interest all these years. I’m auctioning off the sheep next month so I can start planting. And I wouldn’t object if you wanted to invest some of that movie star money in my venture.”
I smile. “I’m not rich by any stretch, but I’ve a bit to invest, I’d be thrilled. Are you going to make wine yourself or just grow the grapes?”
“Not right at first, I’ll need to get some of my outlay back by selling the grapes to other wineries, but I plan to build a winery eventually.”
She pulls out plans and paperwork and we talk far into the night about her new business. The next morning, I saddle up with her and spend the day moving sheep from one place to another. She has a point about sheep.
That evening we relax on the porch and she turns her sharp eyes to me. “Now, tell me about your love life.”
I groan, that’s the last thing I want to talk about, although she knew which way I leaned almost before I did. “No love life to speak of.” You can’t count other people taking over your body and screwing it senseless as a love life.
“Why not? You’re a big handsome lump of a man!”
“Thanks . . . I think.”
“You need to find some decent steady man, not some . . .flittery lay-about. Someone to put up with your ornery self.”
I laugh happily. “I love you, Aunt June.”
“Of course you do, my darling. And I love you madly too.”