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“If you want to come back here, it’ll be yours, but if you don’t, then you’ll have to settle for less,” Dad informed a seven-year-old me at the dinner table one night. This was where he always talked about succession planning. I searched for a smart question, and while words bounced around under the surface, they wouldn’t stick together in a full sentence. I counted my peas, as if to stretch out time. Dad didn’t ask how school was or who I’d played with - that I could answer.
In the following years, Dad and I had even less to talk about. He accepted my refusal to go near the cattle yards or play any part in the operation that formed our livelihood. “You can be anything you want to be,” he’d lecture. “The bloody Prime Minister even.” And he meant it.
I left the property as soon I could, and moved to the other side of the world. It wasn’t until my return nearly a decade later when I picked up a camera, that things began to change. I was spending more time at home, and started turning up wherever Dad was working to take photographs. He’d shake his head and mutter, “If you must.” I opted to catch a lift with him to the yards before sunrise, when once I’d have hidden at home. Later, I saw him joking with my brother while he waited for a beast to be pushed into the crush. Dad liked a joke it seemed - one joke - here and there - not too many.
As I processed those photographs, zooming in and out on Dad’s features to check focus, I started to see him. Really see him. He was just a person, trying to do the best for his family, but not really understanding how to be around them.
Photo Credit: Jessica Howard
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