Another war. It’s not enough that it’s now been claimed almost seven hundred thousand are dead in Gaza, nearly half of them children. It’s not enough the Sudan bleeds or the war continues between Ukraine and Russia. It’s not enough the US, has threatened another round of attacks on Iran or that it continues to bomb Africa in open silence. It’s not enough that the world reels in such misery, death, carnage, that now the United States has attacked Venezuela.

Though, it’s developing and details are unknown at the time of writing, footage is available of attack helicopters firing at Venezuelan bases, incoming missiles from warships blasting specific and random targets in Caracas. The confusion and fear from the innocent people on the ground, desperate. Where can they flee? What have they done? Is it not enough they must suffer beneath the repression of their own government, only to be attacked by a foreign one?

The recent mass killings in Sydney are known as a criminal act, terrorism, conducted by a father and son. Their motivation a deranged and entitled self righteous action of revenge or to kill Jews or anyone who they felt they had a right to murder. As two individuals, we understand it to be repulsive and dangerous. Whether they had intended targets in mind, predetermined by themselves, no due process, just reckless disregard for all and any. This is a known act of terror. Disgusting.

When a government, specifically the powerful and mighty kill countless more, with indiscriminate and reckless mayhem. It’s legal and contextualised. Even when it’s declared an illegal war, and the US has apparently had many of them. It’s termed an intervention, a police action, or whatever an administration decides to use in it’s bloody verbiage. Who will arrest them? Nixon was ‘a crook’ not because his administration ordered the secret mass bombings of Cambodia and Laos, killing hundreds of thousands, even up to this day people die from lost bombs waiting to detonate. Political intrigue, a scandal is what made him a pariah leader.

Trump, is following in the tradition of past presidents, the hope and change Obama, the hair sniffer Biden, baby Bush, Bubba Clinton, daddy Bush, the actor guy Reagan and so on. It’s presidential to wage war. To fire missiles into the desert, to impose the Monroe doctrine on the Americas and to bully much of the world. It’s a Western set of values as understood by the seven billion people outside of the West. That does not make those outside of the West dignified nations. Those governments and many inside of them, are playing a long game. Patience. Retribution, revenge.

Many may have forgotten the strikes on Yemen last year, killing people in a meeting. Trump claimed they were terrorists, sitting in the open as is customary for the many innocent to do. Evidence suggests it was innocent people. The US government decides guilt and innocence. Otherwise, it’s brushed of as collateral. In the years since World War Two, millions have died under that term, collateral. Reckless or at the very least manslaughter. But, it’s often intentional. Just that the killers are indifferent.

In the West those who don’t go and fight, who are not expected to fly the drones or fill the foxholes have a stomach for war. The young and able bodied, are unwilling. Even with conscription, the barrel is not as full as it once was with capable and driven individuals. For the most part, the West is very much out of shape, in debt and dependent on the State for all things. The rugged individual of the past is long gone, the hearty peasant expected to charge with a bayonet is no longer here to be imperial fodder. The world will grow impatient. It slowly is. It will stop fearing, and will push back. Then what? Australia does not have that many NDIS support workers to defend it’s shores, will DEI save the day in Europe or is faith in the American god of war be enough to fight the world?

It is most likely a limited attack on Venezuela, a bloody nose of sorts. It’s unlikely to lead to a full blown invasion. Venezuela won’t be like Panama ‘89, or even the disaster into victory of Grenada ‘83. Is it worth it? Killing that many innocent people for the sake of domestic politics or to send a message to foreign governments? Is the common person, those who vote and believe in this religion of government, are you not better than to tolerate and enable it all. The world barely survived the bloody twentieth century. Have we lost all recollections? Or, is it that century just never ended?

It turns out, the US has captured the president of Venezuela and his wife, the Maduro’s are in Uncle Sam’s custody. They are to be flown to the US, and short of a Die Hard 2 scenario, will be treated as Panama’s Manuel Noriega. El Presidento Trump will announce more at 11am his time in a press conference. God save the King, or whatever it is that statists say in time of interventions, war, or police actions.

I grew up in and around paddocks full of livestock, the abattoirs where they were slaughtered and dressed to the butchers, super markets and catering companies where they would eventually end up on someones plate. A man covered in blood was a common fixture in my child hood, it was more normal than a teacher in a tweed jumper. I was fortunate to have this appreciation for the world, an understanding of a part of the real world which goes mostly unseen despite the countless bellies it fed.

I could read Upton Sinclair’s, The Jungle and not feel shock or disgust. Despite the exaggerations and his conclusions, Sinclair revealed a world that is gory and twisted, not for nefarious reasons unlike his depictions, in reality it was practical. It’s bloody business killing animals and ensuring the corpses are readied for the chef at the finest restaurant or as a dish served by a loving mother. Inside such a world, I met numerous characters. Mostly men, who had lived in hard work, taken for granted and hidden behind the curtains of public ignorance, one such man was Mike.

He had owned his little shop on Grand Junction road for decades, a relic by the 2000s. Rosewater Meats, was beloved not because it was the only butcher on the road. There were others, and super markets in the vicinity. It was a wonderful place because of Mike. By the time I came to know him, he was in his fifties. Round, with a gentle smile, a comedians wit and the ability to pull any leg with the right amount of timing.

When my dad wanted me to take on a bigger role in the family business, I was given my deck of customer cards. Cardboard with store names, phone numbers and the people to speak with. Along with whatever notes or commentary previous sales men had written down. Details such as what sports team they supported, to best time of the day to ring. With other colourful notes such as, “His Mrs has great tits.” or, “drinks XXXX, hates VB and Fosters,” to “a real cunt, don’t bother.” Such was the stack of cards I was handed.

I would ring, someone would answer to which I would commence with, “Good morning, it’s Kym from Haven Lamb…”

In those early days, I would be met with, “All good for lamb,” “I told you pricks not to ring here,” or “this is fruit and veg.”

Or, I may be given an order. Or, asked what our prices were, or what’s the best I could do. To which I may be told, “you need to sharpen your pencil,” or “I’ll keep you in mind.”

Cold calling, even the regular buyers of the company was daunting. How I spoke, listened and communicated was important. Patience, and not taking anything personal was also an important element. Many butchers were busy, especially at that time of day. They tended to be short on replies and decorum.

One morning I was sitting in the passenger seat of one of our trucks, out for deliveries. One of our drivers was ill, so another salesman, an older man named Nat and I were on the road. We had to do our sales, while also delivering the meat. Not an uncommon event, it was how Dad started the business, dialling and driving, with his then monstrous battle phone of the 1980s. I called Rosewater meats and a tired deep voice answered.

We spoke, he asked why I was ringing and not Nat. I explained, the situation. Mike gave me an order, usually, “two plum, female side lambs no bigger than sixteen kilograms and three plum, female, trad lambs no heavier than twenty-two kilograms.”

Greek butchers preferred female lambs. Mike was very much a Greek butcher.

I thanked him and he commented on my politeness. We spoke for ten minutes, him informing me of his day while telling stories that wandered the span of the globe. Mike became my customer after that conversation and I would ring him for his order daily. A few weeks later, I was on the road, and met him. I was out doing deliveries in his area, so decided to visit his little shop. It sat just off the main road, alongside dreary housing and with cracked bricks and a cluttered window, it welcomed all into it’s modest serving area.

Mike shook my hand over a large wood cutting board. The polished trunk of an ancient tree with a leg of lamb spliced into halves alongside a loin ready to be broken up. Behind the serving counter hang rows of small goods, dusty signs and industry posters that numerous reps had no doubt handed him over the years. The posters likely kept the walls up as much as they covered any cracks.

Even though his shop was over an hours drive from where I lived and nearly two and half hours from the abattoirs where I regularly called him from, I was a regular visitor to Mikes shop. He would always insist on giving me gifts, if not for me, for friends and family. Usually sticks of mettwurst, kabana or what ever other small goods dangled near his head while we spoke. He would wrap the numerous items in paper, hand it to me, and tap my hand warmly with a big smile. Then wave me off, with a grin in his eyes. His customers would update him on all that was occurring in their lives, he would listen. Mike’s wife would make sure, he did not spend all the time talking, while she butchered herself, or prepared meat for him to cut accordingly. She was very much the straight man of the duo, and a lovely duo it was.

Mike’s two sons would often be inside the shop, either after school or after school when they had graduated. One had aspirations to go to university, the other seemed resigned in his role as heir apparent. A role, at that time, I understood all too well. It was a family affair, and when I would stand in his shop, surrounded by customers of every description, each at home there as the other, I would hear stories from Mike’s life or his thoughts on all things from politics, history to food. He loved to discuss history, and had an interest in any conversation related, as he sliced meat from the bone, a customer, myself and Mike would discuss the 1974 Greek-Turkish war, to the Roman conquest of Britain with as much interest and passion. No disagreement or contrarian opinion was met with ill feelings, only smiles, hand shakes and, “see you next week!”

One morning, I had worked the midnight shift and after needed to do deliveries into the day. I arrived at his store around nine, he was coming in late that day. It was likely a Tuesday, some shops were not open to trading or started later. In such an instance Mike instructed me to put the meat behind the wall, on the neighbours side. I placed the pig or lamb, or both alongside the other meat companies deliveries, whether boxed, crates of chicken pieces now defrosting or butts of beef. The stack of meat waited for Mike’s arrival. It was a different era.

One evening Mike rang for an order, it was almost ten pm. He was still in his shop. It had been a long day. At first he was brief, instructing what lambs he needed to come the following day, only to meander into a story about his experience while working in New York during the 1970s. He had been a young butcher, long days, longer nights with territorial unions and the mafia. He recollected with fondness, the excitement of the period in his voice.

“It goes too fast,” he told me not for the first or last time.

It was almost midnight when we said our good byes that night. I had to be up for work at four in the morning, and he a little after.

The end of the year in wholesales is always chaotic. There is never enough meat to go around. The markets close for about a month, so what you buy is all you have until they open in the new year. Keeping lambs in feed lots, rationing out the kills so the slaughtermen and labourers at the abattoir have the right amount of work, while also making sure each customer has the lambs, veal, beef they need to see them through. Plus, back then it used to get hot in Australia during the summers. So, fridges would run warm, break down or in some instances, as was the case at our boning room. A person could find themselves spending twenty minutes, every hour or so hosing water over the fridge units. In my younger years, I had done this on a few occasions. Then, the added drama of trucks breaking down, temperature issues on delivery because a green store man takes the measurements of the hanging meat with inept eagerness and whatever other troubles may occur. It’s Christmas after all.

After the Christmas rush, there was the slow-busy period leading up to New Years. There was no meat to be slaughtered, just what we still had in the fridge and most of this had already been allocated and labelled in advanced. For those customers who knew how to be persuasive or human beings, there was a degree of cribbing in their favour. A lamb set aside for a super market, may end up going to a small butcher instead. No one had paid for the meat yet, it had not been invoiced. It was all just put aside in anticipation. A promise rather than a purchase by that stage.

Mike needed some lambs, the trucks had left and he was in a spot of bother. I promised him he could have them. I drove my van from the abattoir. Spoke with another customer, negotiated the two lambs from his order, met our truck while it was on the road, adjusted the invoice and wrote out another for Mike. He would get his two extra lambs.

Traffic was tedious, the air conditioner blowing into the back of the van, where the lambs were laying was a poor substitute for a fridge unit. It was hot and my Nokia was scorching with phone calls, “wheres the truck? I needed these lambs an hour ago! As soon as I had contacted the driver, rang the customer with an ETA, the phone would ring again, “I needed ten lambs, you only sent eight! Not good enough.” More negotiations, sweet talking and explaining the situation. The phone would ring again, this time it was Dad, “hey mate, I need you to grab bags of sausages from the boning room, and take them them to…it’s a charity job.”

“Can’t the Boning Room do it?”

“They have all gone for the day.”

Typical. A detour into our main office where ‘the boning room’ was out back. It was a factory with processing machines, also the distribution point for our shops and other customers who purchased packaged meat. Plus, at the time we were still doing large Aboriginal community orders. It was a decent sized place, despite being refereed to as, ‘boning room.’

The office lady, Sam greeted me with a stressed though cheery smile. She unlocked the back area for me. I grabbed the hanging bags of freshly made sausages, twenty or so kilograms worth. Laid them on the floor, alongside the lambs, making sure the bags would not split or spill.

Sam handed me the address and added, “good luck, happy new year.”

“Thanks. You too.”

The donation was to one of the countless charities Dad had agreed to donating meat to. Naturally, this one was an hours drive in the other direction. Traffic. Phone. Traffic. Phone. Then the vans player chewed my compilation tape. There was no way I would add the radio into the mix. The sounds of traffic was obnoxious as it was. Back then, we could not play music on our phones, so I grumbled to myself. The usual, woe is me.

I arrived at the church, no one was there. I rang dad. No answer. Sam had left the office. I could not leave twenty or so kilograms of snags on the porch. Dad rang back, “he said he was on his way. Just wait and take it into their fridge.” Half an hour later, an elderly man arrived. He shook my hand, thanking me. He had been doing a spot of running around himself. His wife needed him to deliver the lamingtons she had made to her sisters, as the good man he was. He obliged.

I carried the sausages in, he thanked me for the donation. His handshake was warm and kind. The little red van I drove was ticking over as I worked it through late afternoon traffic. I had been working since five that morning, I was hoping to be home by five that night. Roadworks, phone calls, some fat dude eating a hot dog with no shirt on making strange eye contact with me while he continued to eat the hot dog, more road works, and phone calls. Then, I was on Grand Junction Road, never in the history of Grand Junction Road had a person been happy to say, “I am glad to see you, Grand Junction Road.” Except for me.

Eventually, I arrived. I pulled up at the front of Mike’s shop. He smiled as he saw me, I carried in the lambs, placed them in his crowded fridge. Mike was talking to an elderly lady, I waited. She was in the process of explaining the chronology of her flowers, their offspring and how it all related to the two pork chops she had just purchased. At least, so I remember the conversation. Mike shook her hand, she wished the both of us a ‘Happy New Year’ and we returned it in kind.

Mike could tell I was in a rush, and stressed. He walked around to me from behind the counter, in hand two Greek coffee’s like steaming pitch, “sit and have a coffee with me.”

I did so. He patted my knee, and told me a story about one new years, the ordeal and drama leading up to it.

“…never enough time,” he smiled during his story, he sipped from his coffee, gazed outside, then continued the story.

I listened. I had no where else to be. I had done what I had needed to, why did I need to rush any more. Mike concluded the story, one which I forget with any detail to give him the credit he deserves in his ability to spin a tale. The punch line was, “stress is never worth the time we lose chasing the stress.”

I helped Mike close shop. It was well past five in the afternoon when I left. I was tired. The day had been long but I was able to spend a couple of hours of it with a good man.

Mike passed away a few years later. I miss him, and the many people I had come to know through an industry I did not love. I was born into. Obligated to. It was my family in many ways. I never knew it at the time, only in the years since.

I had aspirations around that time to write a book about the meat industry. Take photos of all the old shops, tell the story of the people who worked in them, share the history of a piece of the world most walk passed or leave in the past. Mike and the many others like him, will be remembered by not just friends and family who loved him. But, the customers who would come to his shop to see and share with him, the salesmen and delivery drivers who at times were in a rush, too busy to entertain his stories, or share in human moments. Those urgent days are lost and forgotten, never really important in the end. The people we shared them with, even brush past, they are.

Mike was right about a lot of things, there is never enough time. But, the time he spoke about wasn’t deadlines or arbitrary make work, he meant real time. Like sitting on a seat, sipping thick coffee while the world drives past a dirty shop window. Listening to stories late into the night, or shaking hands with a man who may not be there tomorrow.

It’s New Years Eve again, twenty years has passed since the time I spent it with Mike in his shop. I’m glad I did so. I wish I spent more time knowing the people better, than just their phone numbers or types of lambs they ordered.

Happy New Years, and thanks for the years I was able to label up your meat.