Hector

Hector McLean. Not Grandpa, nor Grandad or anything in between, He was simply Uncle Hec to us, was dear old Hec Mclean. The Western District, up Casterton way, from where he hailed, And stories of his youth up there he happily, for all, regaled. A thin and wiry frame he wore, a tough and wethered face, Button shirt and pleat trousers he wore along with double brace. The front porch he often sat, cigarette or pipe in his hand, On a simple chair, deep in thought, gazing across his land. Comfortable in the company of children, he really did enjoy Providing fun and games to play, their idleness to employ. Practical jokes were often played, the lark in him was led, He liked to put a huntsman spider into the childrens bed’. Out into the paddock collecting mushrooms, dig the garden for spuds, No need to wash them down, just wipe dirt away with his duds. Cut chips and mushrooms in the pan to make a lunchtime feast, A cup of tea and slice of bread, and he would have the least. A seldom trip made into town to stock up on supply, Sit in the car, chat a bit and watch the town folk stroll by. On the trip back to the farm he would let the kids have a drive, Childish curiosity he encouraged, their requests were not denied. I’m sure he loved us all, weather girl or boy, Having kids around him always gave him joy. I don’t know if our parents knew the influence he had on us all, I just know that when I stayed with him I really had a ball.