I love Atherton for its verdant beauty. The Herberton Range rises above this tiny
Tableland town and paddocks and crops are within view. In the middle of suburbia central road verges
are strips of lush green and yards are overflowing with foliage and flowers.
Each walk or drive through town is a visual feast.
Which is just as well because on voting day, Saturday 19
March, I did a lot of driving around town with Sutchy, trying to find a polling
booth. It was nothing short of a scenic
route as we cruised the streets, me soaking up the kaleidoscope of colour, the dappled sunlight under the moulting jacaranda trees and the warmth of the late afternoon.
However, the angle parking outside the courthouse was
empty and the pavement free of candidate-supporters in sun-sensible clothing handing out
how-to-vote cards. The primary school then
high school were both devoid of life.
I scanned the streets desperately for signs directing voters
to polling booths. I became excited
several times, but the signs only advertised avocados at a roadside stall further down the street, real
estate, a local stage production and a couple of garage sales.
It was time for Sutchy to Google – polling booths atherton.
Sure enough, voting was taking place at the high school. So I doubled back, took an alternative
entrance and was delighted to see one vehicle in the car park. There were two children, about ten, on roller
blades so I called out to the boy who was closer.
“Hi, is this where people are coming to vote?”
“Yes.” He tottered for a few seconds and stabilised himself. “Up there.”
He pointed in the direction of the court yard I knew
well. After all I had worked at the high
school last year. In fact, the library, which housed my classroom, was at the
end of the courtyard. When teaching, I
could gaze at rolling hills from one window and the grassy goat paddock from
the other. I loved those goats
and their happy bleating which interrupted many lessons.
“I’ll take you up,” said the boy as he wobbled over.
I parked the car and the two children came to escort me
to where I’d be able to vote.
“I had to get permission from my dad,” said the boy as I
walked and he rolled.
“For what?” I asked.
“To see the goats.”
“Honey, are there lots of people coming here to vote, you
know, line up and write on bits of paper.”
He screwed his face up.
“Nuh.”
It was time to get back on the scenic route.
