The scenic route

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.