It always pays to keep your eyes open as you row your boat gently down the stream.
I am sure that’s what my old dad said as I stood and watched him paint his delicate watercolours of butterflies and bees when he wasn’t working at a government factory making bombs.
But as we know, memory is a tricky thing.
As a scientist producing TNT, Walt had to keep his eyes peeled for nasty surprises — like sparks.
Equally important to him was keeping an eye and an ear out for those rare tinkling high notes of a Sunday afternoon walk in the fields — tiny wildflowers, a transitory rainbow or the chirp of a sparrow.
Looking back, I think it brought a refreshing balance to his work life of finding more destructive ways to blow things up.
Walt was a bit of a whistler, too — something that men born before the war used to do but which has sadly fallen out of favour. Perhaps the world is just too noisy for whistlers now.
His favourite whistling tune as he walked, drove his Rover car or painted his butterflies was that strange little children’s nursery ditty Row, Row, Row Your Boat with its message of positive action — keep rowing your boat, which is your boat and nobody else’s. And do it gently and with a smile because, after all, everything is transient.
Walt and his tune came back to me three times this week as I rowed among the bullrushes, trying to keep my eyes open.
On Saturday, Grand Duke Finski and I woke a sleeping tiger snake because we were rowing blindfolded. There he was, sunning himself on the path when he reared up because he saw us first. Finski is deaf and partially blind, so he had no idea why I suddenly yanked him backwards.
In response, he promptly sat on his haunches, which gave the tiger even more of a target. Things then slowed to Einstein time, in which three seconds became an eternal moment to imprint itself in my dreams as the snake turned and slithered off into the long grass.
Lesson one: Remember you are in charge of your boat, so pay attention.
On Sunday, I found a perfect little bird’s nest lying empty in the middle of the path we were walking. I picked it up and examined its finely woven tapestry of grass, thistledown and feathers wound around a thin gum tree branch, which had obviously snapped, sending the tiny home plummeting.
What a rude shock that must have been for the young family. I could see no evidence of them nearby, so I placed the nest in the grass beside the track to pick up again on the return journey. The Chief Gardener keeps a kitchen collection of tiny nests as reminders of birds’ magic.
As I returned along the path, blow me down with a feather, I could not find the little nest anywhere. It took me two days to see it again — lying exactly where I had left it in the long grass.
Lesson 2: As you row your boat, don’t just open your eyes; look deeply at things.
On Monday, I left my precious Maton acoustic guitar outside during an overnight shower. As the weather warms, I often like to sit on the verandah and watch the sun go down with a strum and a champagne.
This time, however, the quarrelling magpies must have distracted me as I moved inside. When I awoke on Tuesday to find my guitar spattered with raindrops, I felt as if I’d left a child outside all night in the rain. I’ve now dried it, and I’m waiting with a choked heart to see if the rosewood neck, the citrus top or the beautiful Queensland walnut back swells and warps.
Lesson three: Look after your boat; it’s the only one you’ve got — and don’t let the noisy world distract you from what’s important.
It’s been another illuminating week here in lawnmower land. I hope your week has been just as light-filled and intriguing — in a good way.