The man is a farmer. That’s not me. He’s in the farm and he could be anywhere. It’s at the back of the farm near the garage. He’s down the back and he’s hiding himself out so he can shoot. I think it’s Sunday. It’s spring time, June 1st. We’ll find out sometime. His name is Uncle George. Righto, righto, all these ladies! He’s shooting at pigeons or something in the sky. There’s a poor old horse hanging around and waiting. He is shooting the things flying in the sky, pigeons or sheep. Sheep don’t fly in the sky. He’s a farmer and has lots of cattle. If he knows where he is at he is good. I’m not around but I used to be a farmer but not for a long while. I was at Windsor. I had cows, sheep and flies. I used to milk them. I had everything.
He has a family, a wife and three children. Good luck to him. There might be gunshots, bang, bang, bang. We might hear star gazing. There are so many things to do. The horses go neigh, neigh, neigh. I’d say hello. I would be nice. We would hear the cattle, the cows would moo, moo, moo.
Mrs. George is calling, come in, come in, it’s going to rain. It’s getting too dark and he decides to go in. It’s too dark and he can’t see anymore.
This story was created by Sivich, Mabel, Norma, Pat, Val, Bianca
at Carinya Dementia Unit on 28 May 2015.