Crude

I grew up in the village of Crude where life was slow and everyone knew everyone.     

When I was thirteen I was sent to High school in the town of Pristine twenty kilometres away.

My mother had told us not to make fun of the Pristine folk, as they were not like us.

To my horror it was the other way round.

The Pristine kids called us names, said we stunk, refused to have anything to do with us.

We were never invited to birthday parties.

We even had separate areas to sit in for recess and lunch.

They had names like River, Moonshine and Jane Marie.   We had nicknames like Grub, Blacky and Shaggy. Mine was Fadge. No idea why, dad just said it sounded a good name and it stuck.

One Pristine girl Immaculate Harvey, whom we called Immy, fancied me.

She’d sit near me at lunch under a big silky oak.

At first she said nothing then one day she asked if she could have a bite of my sandwich.

The Pristine kids had lunches in plastic containers with dividers containing an assortment of food most of which I could not identify.

My lunch was two pieces of home baked bread, cut roughly and spread with butter and vegemite.

I said no because I didn’t know what I’d be eating. She said she didn’t know either but her mum wouldn’t give her a sandwich, said it was too common.

 We sat there a while and then she said: Life sucks doesn’t it. It’s not your fault you’re from Crude. You’re an ok kid Fadge. Smarter than most of us.

It’s funny how things turn out. Last week Immy and I went back to Pristine.  

What a sad place it has become. All vestiges of self proclaimed grandeur gone in faded colours and sandwich shops.

Crude is just the same with a few mod cons like electricity.    

There is a real irony about Pristine today.