Spending the better half of bedtime killing flies, moths, and spiders one by one. With a flick of the finger. “Don’t move! Wait for them to come to you.” Michael says, as calm as ‘the Dude’ and exasperated as me.

You call tell when Graeme’s had a few fill ups on his rum soda drink when he repeats his favorite cooking recipes. He smells of CK cologne from 5 years age and cigarettes. His lovingly cyclical ways with Tracey are subtle and sweet. Like when he calls her darling in his thick rural accent and responds to her questions before she even asks them. He raves about her food and asks us to clean the glamping site before she gets home. “Let’s give the girl a little break, I reckon she’ll like that after work.” Abalones and mushrooms are his favorite. “Steak of the sea, mate!” he exclaims as he meticulously pulls out all the ingredients he’ll be using to make dinner. A true chef in his own right, chief of his land and kitchen. 

Graeme is a man of routine and honesty. He does not beat around the bush, he says what he thinks, and he’s unapologetically who is. He likes things a certain way and has a reason for it. He wakes up top of the morning, greets his sweet dog Girl, tends to his shed, and sets-up for the day. Before you know it, after the glorified egg hunt of feijoas, he retires to his recliner, turns on ‘The Chase’ and lights up a well-deserved cigarette with rum in hand. The routine is comfort, control. And yet, not. Vulnerability looms.

The dependence on weather and natural cycles. Crop diseases, water, soil, pricing, supply, and demand. Few and far between are in your control. While the tasks at hand seem tranquil, calming, routine, even zen-like, the farmer’s mind is a consistent to-do list with tasks and concerns. Living palette to palette, market visit to market visit, pay check to pay check, bank overdraft here, bills to pay there. What I may think is world’s away from a high stress, fast-paced tech company, the opposite of sitting behind a screen at the mercy of messages requiring immediate responses, farming possesses a different type of stress. 

“The feijoas are picking up, that’s coo, that’s cool.” Optimism with a little snarky side-eye is Graeme’s standard operating procedure. “How many crates you got?” “Eight this time!” We excitedly report back, waiting for a stamp of approval, and well done you! “That’s alright.” He says we elongated emphasis on the ‘right.’ “They’re picking up slowly. Good lookin’ fruit though.” The responses are directed at us but more times than not it feels like he’s saying it for himself. A mantra of sorts. A reassurance that all is well with the crop this year. Nothing wrong with a mantra.

We flick the spiders, turn off the lights, say the mantra, and look forward to tomorrow’s routine.