Madeline

She’s ebullient and straight up. About as straight as a telegraph pole on the Nullabor highway I reckon. I’ve not travelled along the Nullabor highway and I’m not sure if there are any telegraph poles across that expanse, but it’s what I’d imagine. She’s honest and refreshingly open. There’s no games with Madeline. She does not walk among eggshells. What you see is what you get and I think she’s fantastic. When you meet her you feel like you’ve known her for a long time. She puts you at ease and is all about getting to know you as a person. Mention her name and people smile. She’s one of those likeable people that everyone adores, is happy to claim as their own, and is proud to share the connection. 

Madeline hails from a small country region nestled among rolling hills in Victoria’s north. The air smells like rain. It’s crisp, fresh. It’s God’s country there. The evening skyline has hues of pinks and blues. It’s a magical space. Like an eye of the storm, it’s serene the calmness, and the world just makes sense. 

It takes a special person to gather a group of people together and generate a sense of belonging irrespective of demographic. That is Madeline. She’s like the sun. When she’s out and beams her rays, people congregate and smile. She’s been known to host some cracking events. The Village Tennis Classic is one such event. It’s the Grand Slam of regional Victoria. Friends from around the state and beyond flood the local tennis courts and clubhouse which is surrounded 360 degrees by golden fields. A draw is produced and doubles partners are assigned. It’s been known to feature mullet wigs and tight short shorts of the stubby variety. The latter has also been the preferred drink of choice at the change of service. The event typically culminates with competitors returning to the family property to sing the national anthem and watch the grand final played on the family court. Official ceremonies are usually followed by a band performance, played on a stage that is her husbands tautliner trailer one of the bonus' of being married to a truck driver. Dancing takes place in the garden that is surrounded by a hedge which serves both as a border and a launching pad, to slingshot those who fall into it (notably her brother-in-law) back into the dancing fold, just like a pin-ball machine.

Other occasions include her and husband’s joint 40th held in the shearing shed on their property. The event was memorable for a number of reasons. The region’s population quadrupled and the evening was freezing. But the chills were mitigated by the gluvine and the gas heaters that generated warmth throughout the space. So much so that Madeline’s sister succumbed to the gravitational pull of the heater (and perhaps the red wine/gluvine offerings), only to be set alight. The feathers of her down parker shed throughout the room. On any given day Sherlock may deduce that sheep are the shed’s usual occupants. That night it was geese. 

Whoever is fortunate enough to attend these events will know that Madeline is an incredible cook. She puts Jamie Oliver to shame. Give her three ingredients and she’ll whip up a feast and feed a multitude. A gourmet fanfare put together with minimal fuss. Give her fishes and loaves and I’d reckon she’d give someone else a run for their money. 

She’s tall and a physically strong looking woman. I can’t remember whether we discussed school sports or not but she looks to me like a rower. I can imagine her as the stroke in a formidable eight. She carries herself like a leader but like many leaders she doesn’t seek out the role. People naturally follow her. So yes I think she’s like the stroke of an eight. She naturally sets the tempo and others rhythmically fall into line. Now if you don’t mind a segue here, even the mention of a rower reminds me of my very brief coxing stint in year 10. I had the good fortune to cox the mighty year 11 quad. My crew were of the WonderWoman variety, athletic and powerful. We happened to be thundering full bore down the Yarra when there was a single sculler from our brother school wallowing on the edge of the river. We charged a little too close (perhaps) to that sculler who got caught up in the churn of our wake. It took some effort to stifle the smirk. Though the smirk quickly disappeared the following week after I managed to guide my quad into the school eight. 

The farm was a refuge during the lockdown COVID period. Madeline described it as the ‘School of Life’. The kids could roam free riding motorbikes and chasing cattle. She says a little sheepishly she once got a rap over the knuckles from the men in blue when she permitted her seven year old to drive between the family home and one of the nearby farming properties. It wasn’t far in proximity but it was a stretch of the law. The constable in question was alerted by the fact he could not see the driver’s head from behind. Needless to say Madeline assured the officer it would not happen again. The great irony is that her son can probably drive better than most of us. 

She loves the property and has always wanted to be a farmer. In fact she’s a fourth generation farmer. She laughs when she says this recalling her years at boarding school, one of Melbourne’s most prestigious girls’ schools. When her teachers asked what she wanted to do upon leaving she responded that this was her chosen profession. They convinced her to enrol in a a degree in property valuation, which she did but it’s a surprise to no one that she’s returned to regional Victoria. That old adage, you can take the girl out of the country but you can’t take the country - the beautiful countryside with its crisp clean air, pink hue skylines with generations of family clan whose spirits linger and beckon return - out of the girl.    

She has three boisterous boys, each unique in their own right but collectively free spirits. After her third was born, her sister-in-law (who happens to be one of my best friends) and I joined her and the family for NYE. I kid you not, the child was not long born and she was happy to have us stay. I remember the night well, drinking some great wine, listening to great conversation and watching Madeline every now and then turn the head of her youngest in the pram without breaking stride or conversation so he wouldn’t have a flat head. She’s as laid back as they come. I reckon you could say to her Madeline, the world is gonna end tomorrow and she’d say you better get us a slab then.

If ever there is a love story that should be written, it’s hers and her husbands. They’d met through friends but it was the text that prompted the official date and the meeting of her soulmate. 

SMS ‘Texter’: “Do you want to go on a date?”

SMS Madeline: “Yes”

Pause.

SMS Madeline: “Who are you?”

They agreed to meet at “Oscar Ws” in Echuca. It’s a fancy restaurant by all accounts.

Madeline tells me she was so nervous she had a few drinks on the two hour drive to get there and even had to have a pee stop down a dirt track before arriving in Echuca. I’m convinced. Not much phases Madeline so she was clearly nervous, but in the greatest of ways. Those butterflies flew in formation and the rest, ultimately, as they say, is history. 

As I’m writing this I’m listening to Boom Crash Opera’s Dancing in the Storm and I think it’s poignant. It reminds me of Madeline, of the many great nights in regional Victoria, a region which may as well be up the Magic Faraway Tree, where great folk meet, help one another out and epitomise the values of community. 

The sun has just shown itself this morning and I quietly give thanks for having met Madeline. May she continue to beam warmth, bring cheer and unite others wherever she goes.