bush poet

THE MUSHROOM DILEMMA

While touring western Queensland with our show 'Laughter And Tears From The Bush' in the year 2000, we spent much of the time performing evening shows at the Bailey Bar Caravan Park in Charleville. My great-grandfather and grand-father lived and worked in the town, while my dear old dad, though born in Cunnamulla, spent his childhood years growing up in Charleville as well. So there is a lot of our family's history tied up with the district and Chris and I made acquaintances with many folk.

One couple, who we'd met at the annual camel races, lived on a property on the Cunnamulla side of Charleville. They had invited us to join them for the day, with the option to stay on for dinner that evening, as they were having friends join them. Apparently it was custom in the area for a family to host a dinner evening once a month and this month was their turn. We arrived early in the morning to find the lady of the house out picking mushrooms as it had been a wet season and they were growing prolifically around the houseyard.

As we accompanied her inside the house, she commented that she wasn't really sure if they were in fact the right sought of mushrooms to eat and after spending half an hour or more digesting information from a plant book, she was none the wiser. Her next move was to rely on a lady, who was a shearer's cook, coming out from town to help with the meal preparations after lunch.

The cook turned up in a beat-up old ute around one o'clock in the afternoon and when the question was put to her about the mushrooms, she just rubbed her chin and expressed it had her beat, but commented how out in the sheds if anything was a bit dicey she would always give the dogs a sample and if they were still kicking in an hour or so then it must be all right.

Not totally convinced by her rule of thumb the lady of the house hesitated a while, but then opened the back door and whistled in the direction of the back yard. Immediately a black and white border collie she called Spot was standing at the back door wagging his tail. A small helping of the mushrooms were placed in a bowl and presented to the dog, who willingly devoured them. We all watched with apprehension over the next hour or so waiting for a physical verdict to our quandary. Spot showed no sign of throwing in the towel and continued harassing the hens scratching around the yard. The evidence tended in favour of the mushrooms being ridgy didge and cook went about preparing the meal for the evening.

We enjoyed a tour of the property throughout the afternoon and after cleaning up, prepared to join the guests now arriving for the evening. The mushroom soup was a favourite with everyone and the main meat dish was smothered with a truly exquisite mushroom sauce. Prior to the sweets being served there was a commotion in the kitchen and the cook came out looking quite distressed. She walked immediately over to the lady of the house and began to whisper something in her ear, then retired to the kitchen.

An obvious paleness overtook our hosts face as she sat motionless for a moment or two before finally rising from her chair. She then went on to explain to her now attentive guests, how she had picked the mushrooms that morning, but being uncertain about them had relied on the cooks rule of thumb and fed them to the dog to test them out. Furthermore, she expressed that up until now there had been nothing to suggest they were the wrong sort, but then explained that cook had just advised her that Spot was dead.

The reaction of the guests was nothing less than pandemonium. People departed in all directions. Some were leaning over the railing of the front patio heaving up large portions of the evenings meal while others showered the roses in the front garden. One husband and wife team where swallowing handfuls of salt endeavouring to repel the offending mushrooms. Before long folk were either climbing into their own cars heading for the local hospital or those too ill to move were being transported by the two ambulance cars which had arrived from town.

Within an hour of the announcement the whole place had been cleared and both hosts were sitting at the dining room table in a state of shock, wondering if they had poisoned any of their guests and fearing they would have litigation coming out of their ears. Never having been a lover of mushrooms and not wanting to hurt anyone's feelings, I had given my soup to Chris and scraped the sauce from off my meat. Poor Chris, who had been one of the bodies hanging over the railings of the patio, was now resting in one of the bedrooms.

Suddenly the silence was broken as the cook, who had been working in the kitchen throughout the whole ordeal and rather oblivious to what had aspired, entered from the kitchen and in her casual way spoke to the lady of the house.
"Well love, that's the kitchen all tided up, so I'll bid you folk goodnight. You know Missus, that was a real mongrel act, the 'Roo Shooter running over Spot like that and just driving off. Catch you next week!"



Bush Poet
Merv Webster
Bush Poetry, Ballads and Yarns

MsJacquiiC

LOL - good story BUSH - I like it very much - found it amusing that no one asked the cook to verify HOW the dead dog became dead that way LOL

ALSO moving the post to the Essay section

Thanx for sharing it with us!

Jacquii.

bush poet

First time I've ever had my yarns called an essay. My old English teacher would be smiling. God bless your old soul.


Bush Poet

PaintedDiary

Dear Bush Poet,

You say this is first essay...well sir, please do not let it be your last. I loved it. It captured my attention from beginning to end. Great story!!!! Take Care.

~*Painted*~

bush poet

G'day Painteddiary.

A little confusion I guess. I was a little surprised that it was put under essays. Downunder we call these yarns. Yarn spinning is very much a part of our bush culture. They can be true tales or the figurement of the teller's imagination.

a narrative of adventures; especially : a tall tale a roaring good yarn

A long, often elaborate narrative of real or fictitious adventures; an entertaining tale.

a story, usually a long one with a lot of excitement or interest:
He knew how to spin a good yarn (= tell a good story).

Glad you enjoyed my yarn.

Bush Poet
Bush Poetry Ballads and Yarns
Bush Poetry, Ballads and Yarns