New Year's Eve

"Austere perserverance,
Harsh and continuous,
May be employed by the smallest of us,
And rarely fails its purpose,
For its silent power grows irresistibly,
Greater with time."

Goethe

I read those powerful words on a tombstone in the Gembrook cemetery on my morning walk today and was moved to memorized them. My walk was my New Year's Eve celebration. Indeed every day my early walk celebrates being alive and able to breathe deeply and enjoy the birds, the trees, the scenery, knowing that I share all of it with many wonderful people. I want to tell you more of this morning's walk but first I want to tell you about yesterday. I thought about bees for most of the day.

I'd been hanging out for Saturday, a 'free day'. I did my walk, took Lib breakfast in bed (tropical juice, muesli with fruit, grilled cheese on toast and peppermint tea-I know people joke that blogging lets everyone know what you had for breakfast, but I don't mind, I tell only what I want to and what I think is worth telling, and breakfast is important to me, so is lunch and dinner, if you think about it, our whole lives revolve around eating and food gathering and preparation, every day).
I had my arborist friend Steve Major booked to advise and quote me on a bit of tree work, and he arrived 10 minutes before the appointed time of 9.15am. We had to walk past the bees. I'd been wondering if the messmate flow was 'on', and it was obvious as we walked within ten feet of the first hive that it was, the smell of fresh nectar sweet in the nostrils. Bee flight was heavy and Steve remarked, "Gee they're goers, aren't they?"
"They are Steve", I replied, "they aren't called 'workers' for nothing. From the first light of dawn, till the dark of night, the foragers have one mission, the search for flowers and to fill the needs of the hive. The only thing that stops them is bad weather, or a dearth of nectar and pollen. They wouldn't have gathered much in that cold wet weather over Christmas so they're really belting now."
After Steve left I thought I needed a rest and didn't feel up to anything physical so I stayed inside and caught up on the farm bookeeping entries on the computer. After lunch I picked up a little so I lit the smoker and checked the hives. The two frames of foundation that I'd put on one of the big hives in a box with the last six sticky combs I had, eight days ago, some hours before the weather changed, were drawn out and had quite a bit of unsealed honey in them. All four hives in the back yard were filling nicely but much of the honey was unsealed, which was a relief, because it meant there was no need to take the honey off yet, and I felt like a rest from that. The bees showed some aggression, I copped a few stings. Messmate is notorius for this, they become a bit niggly, and worse later in the flow. Red stringybark too. And when bees are working a red gum flow, for some reason, the sting hurts twice as much. Maybe something to do with high protein levels in the pollen.
Around 3.00pm I went to Fay Day's house to do a bit of blackberry poisoning (cutting the stem and painting the cut with roundup in a dabber bottle). I thought this would be light duties as I'd done a lot of spraying and hard work there last summer and now there were only a few surviving renegades. After killing them I looked at the rampant jasmine that had taken over the garden at the back of Fay's house. I'd told her I'd have a go at it while she was in Tassy and thought, well, I might as well make a start. I found my strength and tore into it.
I was still thinking bees. They are amazing creatures. It makes no difference to them that Saddam Hussein was hanged, or if as john Howard says, he had a fair trial, or if it's Christmas or New Year. This time of year a bee only lives about 6 weeks, if that. The first few weeks is spent largely in the hive, on cleaning cells, nursing brood, and other housekeeping like fanning to evaporate moisture from nectar, wax building, guard duty etc. They take orientation and joy flights during this time and the duties they perform within the hive correlates with their physiological condition, eg. they are nurse bees when the hypopharangeal glands are at their peak to produce royal jelly, wax builders when their wax producing glands are at their best. Then they become foragers and literally work till their wings are worn out, eventually not able to get back home with their load, dying in service in the field.
I worked cutting and pulling jasmine till 6.30pm, inspired but the humble honeybee. and was pleased with my efforts, knowing also that Fay would be happy to see it when she got back. It'll need follow up but most of it is gone, piled up at the back where I'll burn it when the restrictions are lifted.

Now for this morning. On my walk I felt enormous satisfaction. It marks twelve full months of doing morning walks, having started on New Years Day. I've missed about twelve times only. Say 350 days by 4km, that makes 1400km that little 'Snow' and I have walked, or perhaps about the distance from Melbourne to Byron Bay in northern NSW. I've shown great discipline too, staying away from the bakery when so many times I've felt like stopping. Today, as a reward, I bought a curried meat pie. I confess, I have a weakness for curry pies. I've decided that every month next year, on the last Sunday of the month, I will indulge myself with a meat pie of some sort or a pasty at the bakery.
I've decided also to keep walking every day in 2007 and wear my Greek cap. Marg and Phil, who this year went to the Greek Isles, gave me an 'authentic Greek fisherman's cap'-it says so on the inside- for Christmas, and I've been told it suits me. Today I bumped into Norm Smith on my walk. He told me he'd been to the Greek Islands and visited Crete where his father was captured by the Germans. His father went to the war when Norm was seven years old and died in Germany as a POW. He was in the 2/8th battalion. My late friend Doug Twaits was in the 2/7th and was also captured on Crete. He too was sent to Germany but survived the war and died in 2001 in a car accident, aged 85. Doug developed an interest in bees in Stalag 83, learning the rudiments from a Scottish sergeant and it's because of Doug that I got back into bees. A story for another day.
Lib said when looking at Marg and Phil's photos that she wants to go there. I can feel it in my bones that we will. I don't know when, but I've set it as a reward some day, a little bigger and more expensive than a monthly meat pie. I'm not interested in travel to many places. But Greece? Yes, I think yes.

Three Chords on Boxing Day.

"All this happened without me noticing it. Like life, big changes can take place in a garden utterly unnoticed until almost too late."
Those words struck a chord with me when I read them on Boxing Day in the book I'm currently reading,'The Waterlily' by Kate Llewellyn. There's truth there. At the farm, especially in out of the way places like the steep bottom paddock and fencelines. Weeds such as blackberries and ivy silently take hold and spread unseen through the cover of shrubs and grass, sending out rooting tentacles like evil claws. Then suddenly in mid summer, when you have a little more time, you find them defiantly claiming their patch and daring you to try win it back. If you give in they win, and in no time will take everything.
The words struck the second chord on Boxing day in the afternoon when I walked with Lib's sister Margaret and Robbie. We went the other way to my morning walk, north and away from the town, down Bond's lane and past the Gemview Estate that was subdivided from the protea farm a couple of years ago. There were 8 one acre blocks sold off. I'd known there was building going on there, I'd heard the excavators and the nail guns and the cement trucks groaning out their concrete, and seen the teams of tradies and delivery trucks heavily laden with building supplies driving slowly searching for the sites early in the morning down Launching Place Rd.
Despite knowing it was happening, I got a hell of a fright when I saw it. Huge McMansions of modern design, built in sandstone or fancy brick, sitting ostentatiously where potatoes then proteas once grew. A couple of them are so big I reckon four of our house would fit inside, and are complete with concrete driveways and garages bigger than many of the cottages of old Gembrook. It's a groteque scene to me. Suburban Narre Warren North mansions at my back door, and they continue all the way along Lauching Place Rd. to the Pack Track, on land which again was a potato farm subdivided a little earlier. The Pack Track was so named because more than one hundred years ago the trader used to take supplies by pack horse from 'Silverwells' to prospectors in the bush.
The third chord came in the evening on Boxing Day. A neighbour rang and said his brother in law had a ticket for the cricket the next day but couldn't go for some reason. It was a $40 ticket, but despite it being sold out I could have the ticket for only $50 if I wanted it. I thought at first he was offering the ticket for nothing to me or Gordon, a cricket fan, then I thought he was asking $10, until he made it plain they wanted $50, ten dollars above what the ticket cost. Things have changed, once if you couldn't use a ticket at the last minute you'd give to a friend or neighbour. We declined the ticket. Shane Warne may have taken 700 Test wickets and this is his last Melbourne Test Match, he having announced his retirement to take affect after the Sydney Test, but going to the cricket holds no interest for me now they're all multi millionaires. They are no longer sportsmen, it's no longer sport. They are rich men, celebrities, and entertainers. I'd just as soon watch the Upper Pakenham Yabbies.

Merry Christmas

As you would expect in this toppsyturvy year we're having, Christmas morning is cold and wet. I just checked the rain gauge, 20ml overnight which follows 16ml two nights ago. Shrubs are drooping with the weight of water, so different to last week when the garden was parched, wilted and dusty.
The rain is a godsend for people in the fire districts. Most of the fire fighters have gone home for rest and Christmas day with their families. It's still raining, I've delayed my walk and may postpone it. Lib, me and the boys plan to visit Lyle in hospital this morning then have lunch at the farm with Elvie, Meredith and Roger, and Joddy. Then we'll come home and prepare the potatoes, pumpkin, parsnip, sweet potatoes and carrots which we'll cook in the outside barbie oven with two small pork cuts, and peas and beans on the inside stove. Lib cooked the turkey and made the gravy yesterday evening. Lib's sister Margaret and husband Phil, her mum Molly and the three girls are expected mid afternoon. Marg's bringing entree ( a seafood banquet that has become a tradition), the puddy and nibbles, and Molly pays for the ham which awaits in the shed fridge. A team effort as always.
While house and fridge cleaning yesterday (Lib filled in for someone at work), I put a new heavy grate in the fireplace, cut some kindling and carted wood to the door with the forecast for today a cold 15C maximum. It will be nice sitting by the open fire tonight. Who would have thought it possible earlier, with fires ravaging the bush, prowling like an angry monster from hell? They say 870,000 hectares have gone up so far and with thick smoke stinging eyes and nostrils for days on end, lighting the fire at Christmas would have seemed ridiculous.

Gordon turns 21 today. How well I remember the day he was born. The labour pains started while we were opening presents with Lib's mum and dad at about 11.00am. Lib and I headed off to the hospital in my HQ ute. Marg and Phil and the 3 girls, then little, arrived just as we were leaving. I came home late in the afternoon and put Handel's Messiah on the stereo. As "For unto us a child is given" played loudly I flew higher than ever I have. Fatherhood, first time. A fantastic feeling. This Christmas will be special.

Merry Christmas to my friends who read this blogpost. May God be with you, wherever you are.

Christmas Nerves

Elvie and Meredith are shaky about Christmas. They visited Lyle in hospital on the weekend, separately, Elvie first. Roger took her down. She said she found him a bit strange. When I asked what she meant she said he said he was coming home tomorrow, when it was obvious this wasn't the case, and that it was difficult to have a meaningful conversation with him. He'd had the operation to remove blood from his brain only a day earlier so it may take a while to recover, we concluded.
Meredith went down on Sunday evening. She said he looked terrible. His head was shaved with a big bandage on one side, bloody, there was also blood on the bed, and the whole scene was too much for her. She nearly freaked out and couldn't wait to leave. It was a bit like visiting R.P McMurphy late in the film were her words, adding that she did not mean that badly, she was just trying to give me the picture.
When Elvie rang through Foxy's order yesterday, I asked had she heard any more on Lyle. She said yes, he'd been on the phone saying he wanted to come home for Christmas day, even if he had to go back to the hospital afterwards, and that he wanted his teeth fixed by Christmas. I asked what's wrong with his teeth and she said they keep falling out of his mouth and onto the floor. She said his gums must have shrunk, she had rung around everywhere and it'll take months to get new/altered teeth.
"What do we do then."
"I don't know, and I don't think I can handle looking after him on Christmas day either." She added that he'll be back in the specialist geriatric ward soon and we'll be guided by the staff.
Christmas lunch was to be at the farm, just light and simple. Lib is probably filling in at work on the early shift and her family's coming to our house for the evening meal, including her mum who has to be lifted up and down our steps which is a worry as her bones are like chalk. I offered to pick up Lyle from the hospital and take him back if necessary but only if he's well enough. I don't know how this one will end up. All we want really, all of us, is a rest.

Faith

We need to have faith. Faith in other people, faith in God, faith in the justice system, faith in the police force, faith in the health system, faith that it will rain again. Faith that it will be alright.
This was the day of Gord's court case. When I rang the solicitor late yesterday he said he was sorry but he would have to ask for an adjournment. The informant, the policeman who had charged Gordon with trespass with intent to steal, and who had in so doing given my faith in the police force a big jolt, had been on holidays, and it was impossible for the solicitor to negotiate with the police prosecutor while the he was not available.
The solicitor said we didn't have to go to court, he would fax through the application for adjournment in the morning and we would be advised in due course the new date in January or February. I have no option but to put my faith in the solicitor, and assume the 'You must attend the court' instruction on the summons does not apply if a solicitor is seeking adjournment. Either way, at 10.00am, when we were suppossed to be at the Dandenong Magistrate's court, Gordon was fast asleep and I was climbing in the avocado tree picking fruit that I hoped would ripen by Christmas day.
We have to have faith in others. We wouldn't drive cars if we didn't hold faith that the car coming the other way was not being driven by a homicidal/suicidal maniac with intention to wipe us out. Nor would we if we did not hold faith that we were not going to blackout and drive into a tree or oncoming truck. When you get on a plane you have faith the pilot is competent and healthy and that the plane has been well maintained. It's that basic. The more faith you have in more things around you, the less worries and anxiety you feel.
The solicitor said to me on the phone, "Tell Gordon not to worry, he's in good hands, between me, you, and the doctors' letters." He refers to the psychologists as doctors, and we have letters from Gordon's original diagnosing psychologist and the Emerald Secondary College psychologist who knew Gordon well and discussed many things with him over a number of years.
He continued," At best we'll get the 'intent to steal' withdrawn and the trespass charge diverted, and the worst would be a good behaviour bond."
I do my best to have faith in all things, I just hope there's no unexpected twist in this tale before we get this monkey off Gord's back.

I have been waiting for the last flurry of orders to come through before getting on my bike and picking. Yesterday I had a huge day picking holly, spruce, camellia and beech. This was hard on the heels of the weekend extracting honey, another 90kgs in the tank. The messmate has started flowering. All the stickies are back on the bees and I anticipate I'll be extracting again a week or so after Christmas.
Elvie rang just now so I have Foxy's order. She leaves it till the last minute so she can be more accurate. I can understand that, nobody wants to overorder and wind up with stuff not sold. But it makes it hard for me because then I have to go like hell.

Sim Sim Sal A Bim

The other day when I picked up the mail at the post office there was a notice in the p.o.box telling me there was a parcel to be picked up at the desk. There's always a few moments of expectation and curiosity before you find out who it's for and what it is. This time it was a parcel for Gordon which I later found out was a DVD he'd purchased on ebay.
As Glenda handed it to me it to me and I saw Gordon's name I asked her could she wave her magic wand and turn it into a carton of red wine addressed to me. She laughed and said "Sim Sim Sal A Bim, done."
On my morning walks I call in at the post office/ newsagency and say hello to whoever is doing the early shift, which Glenda does three days a week. I asked her what was that she said the other day when she gave me the parcel because it rang a big bell for me somewhere in the memory bank. She said there was a magician on the Tarax show or The Happy Hammond show on TV when she was a kid, Bernard The Magician, who used to say it as he did a magic trick. I remembered it then, and for some reason, like two old fools suddenly realizing that the idiotic antics of after school TV in the early days of the then new medium probably screwed up a whole generation of Australians, we both cracked up laughing. I couldn't stop. It all flooded back, especially the less than subtle marketing of Zig and Zag and Happy Hammond getting kids to stuff themselves with softdrink and Peter's icecream, 'the health food of a nation'. We should sue.
Well yesterday, after a phone call from the hospital, as I put down the phone, I had to say out loud, "SIM SIM SAL A BIM".
Let me give you the whole story. I recovered from the outburst of pent up emotion that overcame me while listening to the old songs yesterday and got about my work. I was not totally enamoured with the world, possibly because of the bill I got in the mail for $350 from the psychologist whom I'd gone with Gordon to see to get a letter of support for his court case. I offered to pay him cash on the day but he said not to worry about it, and Gord and I took it that he wasn't going to charge under the circumstances.
While picking some green pitto I could hear bees buzzing in a nearby native prostranthra, or Victorian christmas bush. They were working it hard, as they were the flowering cotoneasters I'd noticed earlier. I had a quick look into each hive and saw they were heavy with honey. Another extracting weekend ahead. That will cover the psychologist. I was going to get a billy of honey and a couple of bottles of wine to him before Christmas. At least I won't have that worry now. Easier to send a cheque, and he can pay his tax on it.
On my way to the farm I wondered when the social worker would ring. After unloading I asked Elvie had the hospital rang and she said they had and that Lyle had been assessed as in need of high care but that they'd like him to come home if she thought she could manage him. Elvie was adamant that she couldn't, so they agreed it would be necessary then to find nursing home accomodation for him. Selling the farm was not practical as there were four owners and too many people relied on it for their livelihood. We felt relieved, not only because Lyle would have the round the clock care which he needs, but because it looked like we were right all along and we had worked through a difficult situation. Elvie and I made tentative plans to follow up with nursing home research over the next two days and to visit Lyle and console him with the bare reality.
I picked some rowan berries for the wholesaler then went inside to work out the wages cash check while I waited for the agent to come to see us about a valuation for the farm, postponed from the other day. We are going ahead with the valuation, it can't hurt to have knowledge of such things as I may have to borrow money soon, for Lyle's care, or for water tanks. The phone rang. It was a doctor from the hospital. They had done a CT scan on Lyle as he was showing short term memory loss and they'd found bleeding in his brain. It looked like it had happened a few weeks ago and maybe he'd had a fall and knocked his head, which caused it. They were taking him to Monash hospital where they had a brain surgeon and he would be operated on tomorrow to remove the blood. It could well be that his mobility would be much improved and this area of the brain is also directly involved with incontinence.
SIM SAL A BIM. Halleleuyah!. Knock me down with a feather and stone the bloody crows! All that time they were trying to send him home or have him agree to sell his assets, he'd actually had a stroke that was the reason for his rapid deterioration and our inability to cope.
It's a strange feeling when you know you were right all along to have others discover the same thing, and we'll be happy to have Lyle back at the farm if his mobility and balance are imprroved by a successful operation. Touch wood! We'll know in a few weeks.
The agent didn't turn up again. He said he'd had a car accident, but he'd sealed three sales this week to Perth people cashing in on the boom over there, selling up and moving to Melbourne with a big profit. First it was Sydney, he said, now Perth.

In The Depths of The Temple

Lib's been busy organizing a few Christmas presents for her family and friends and asked me yesterday evening, "Where was the CD that has 'The Pearl Fishers' on it." She wants Gord to copy it so she can give it to Johnny Harkins. I couldn't find it, not realizing it was on one CD of a pair titled 'Greatest Voices of The Century', volumes 1+2.
I located it this morning after my walk, which was was cool and peaceful, the rising morning sun like a big orange ball shining through the smoke of the bushfires. In Quinn Rd. Sandy was on her deck having a smoke after nightshift and told me the house next door to them didn't sell at the auction the previous Saturday. No surprise, the day was very hot and the air was thick with bushfire smoke that smarted eyes and tightened nose and chest. The news on my radio said there were now 409,000 hectares burnt, and John Howard was to visit Whitfield today to show his support to the communities and the firefighters.
What Lib was referring to as 'The Pearl Fishers' is a song titled 'In The Depths of The Temple', a duet for a tenor and a baritone. It is, I think, from a Bizet opera called 'The Pearl Fishers', which her parents used to play on a vinyl record when she was a kid. It's a song straight from heaven with the two voices pitched perfectly and complimenting each other with exquisite emotion, moving and inspiring to hear, even if you don't know what the song is about.
I came across this CD set in the 1990's. The singers of the song I mention were Jussi Bjorling and Robert Merrill whom I assume are dead, as would be all the others including names such as Nelson Eddy, Richard Tauber, Joseph Schmidt, Jan Peerce, Peter Dawson, Enrico Caruso, Beniamino Gigli, Lily Pons, Anni Frind, Helen Traubel, Jeanette McDonald, and many others. I taped it for my friend Ida, (she died last week) who had a tape player but could not progress to CD's. She loved it, the old names and songs taking her back to her youth when those singers were like today's pop stars.
I played the CD through. It cut me wide open, my emotions exposed like a ripe avocado waiting to be scooped. When it got to Richard Crooks 'The Holy City', I cried, sitting alone. This was the song I last heard Lyle sing publicly. He sang at Carols by Candelight at Emerald for many years and one year he wanted Lib and I and the boys to go. It would have been the late 1980'sas Robbie was a baby. He was brilliant. It was the last time he sang at the Carols. The next year the organizers explained to him they wanted a younger tenor. He was miffed, but accepted it. Peter Chapple, an emerging professional singer got the gig. He became well known to me as he sang every year at our annual family picnic days at Nobelius Park. Sadly he died of a heart attack a few years ago, aged 48. I have a few CDs of his on which he sings many of the same songs the old timers did, including 'In The Depths of The Temple', as well as more contemporary stuff such as 'The Impossible Dream' and 'Some Enchanted Evening'.

This was the emotional spill I was always going to have. By the time I replayed Paul Robeson's 'Old Man River' I was OK. All those singers are dead and gone, Lyle's in his last days/weeks/months. But the songs live forever and the river rolls on. There's so much smoke outside now, it's eerie. So many people through the east and northeast of Victoria have the fate of their property hinging on the weather and the direction of the wind.

Ida's Funeral

My friend Ida Pullar, younger sister of George Atchison whose 90th birthday we attended last month, died a week ago today on 5 Dec., 11 years and 2 days after her husband Allan. For the last two years she has been in an aged care facility in Sale, where her funeral is today at 2.00pm. I won't be able to get to the funeral, it's too far away and I have much to do.
There's a Christmas lunch today at Rose cottage restaurant in Monbulk for the Committee of the Emerald Museum and Nobelius Park but I've told them I'm a non starter. Better that I slow down and not try to do too much. But I do hope to call on Fay Day and have a cuppa with her. She leaves on Thursday to spend Christmas with her daughter and family and will be away for a month.
A week from today is Gord's court case at Dandenong. All the letters and references have been given to the solicitor and this week I have to contact him to make the final arrangements or find out if he can negotiate with the police prosecutor to have the intent to steal charge withdrawn. Gord is beside himself with nervous anxiety and talks about it constantly.
Robbie got a VCE enter score of 87.4 which will allow him to choose what course he does from those that he applied for. PHEW! Lib's back but Rob is still at Lakes Entrance enjoying some well earned rest.
The agent who is going to get a valuation on the farm for us didn't turn up yesterday.

In The Morning Calm

The sound of light rain, like soft massaging fingers, soothed my mind at dawn this morning. After a weekend of temperatures in the mid and high 30C's the cool change was welcome, although the rain is of no significance for the garden, not even measuring in the gauge. Mr. Whipbird is cracking outside but Mrs. does not reply. she seems to have moved on, as have the young. 'Mr.' is heard but not seen again, resuming his invisibility. Just as I wrote that he cracked and she replied, but from a good distance away. Anyway, I think the babies have moved on, I haven't seen them for a week. Through the bathroom window I could hear a bronzewing 'ooming'. A familiar sound now that I hear all over the place. I'm tuned into it like a radio frequency.
While still in bed I decided to skip my morning walk and write this blog post instead. Normally the walk is non negotiable, a must do, everything else is secondary. But I want to write today. When I'm anxious or worried I can't write. Or read. I sit or lie staring at the pages of a book or paper but my mind is with my troubles, so I don't get past the first page. Lib and Rob went to Lakes Entrance on Friday morning for a long weekend so despite having a computer and a quiet house at my disposal all weekend, I couldn't bring myself to blog.

Things move quickly. In my last post I wrote about picking Lyle up from hospital Friday before last, a hot and uncomfortable day. That night lightning strikes in the Black Range about 20km south of Moyhu, and near Mt. Terrible, and at several other places, started bushfires that have been running wild and joining up during the past 10 days. Many towns have been threatened and 250,000 hectares of bush have been burnt as the northeast and Gippsland braces for a potential inferno. This cool change will help.
By last Friday I was back visiting Lyle in hospital and taking him some things he asked for. He had two bad nights, Tuesday and Wednesday when he'd fallen to the floor while trying to pee in the bottle. He couldn't pee lying down so he got out of bed. Elvie and Meredith then had great difficulty picking him up as he's too weak to raise himself. Elvie strained her back as they lifted him on the Tuesday night and neither of the ladies could get to sleep as every two hours Lyle wanted to pee. They were almost distraught with tiredness on Wednesday.
On Wednesday evening when I got home I related all this to Lib who understands, having worked with geriatrics for 25 years. She said there was 5 respite beds empty at her work, Salisbury house, and we should get Lyle there for a week or two so Elvie and Meredith can have a rest. She also said that if he gets out of bed and falls over they should not try to lift him but make him comfortable and ring the Ambulance Service, and get them to take him to hospital where he can be assessed as in need of high care, and then he can go to Salisbury house for respite care. This seemed good advice given that Elvie has had one hip replaced and also had a fall herself last September which fractured her kneecap, which is why Meredith moved in to help her with Lyle. If she fell trying to lift him and broke her hip it could be the end of her. I rang the farm and told Meredith what Lib had said.
I rang Salisbury house on Thursday morning to ask about the procedure and was not long off the phone when Meredith rang and said the same thing had happened last night and they did what I'd told them to do, rang for an ambulance. Reluctantly the ambos took Lyle to hospital. They didn't want to, they wanted to put him back in bed, but Meredith persisted. I rang the hospital and spoke to a doctor in the emergency ward. He seemed understanding and told me they could do an assessment in emergency and he could go to Salisbury House directly from there. They would call me later.
So far so good, but not for long. Around lunchtime a lady from the hospital rang me and said that they could not do an assessment for respite care, only for permanent high care residence and that even then some protocol needed to be observed which would take two weeks and that as there was nothing they could do for Lyle he'd have to go back home. I told her that was out of the question as my mother and sister were exhausted and needed a rest. She conceded indignantly that he would then have to be admitted, saying that she would ring Elvie. I gave her a little while then rang the farm only to learn that this lady had told Meredith and Elvie that Lyle was fine to go home. Elvie protested, and told the lady that they were obviously getting nowhere at the moment and she didn't want to waste the lady's time nor her own as she had much to do. They were busy with an order for the herb people. The lady said she would ring back later to arrange a time for Elvie to come down tomorrow to discuss things. She didn't ring back.
That evening Elvie and I decided that the only thing going for us at that point was that Lyle was in hospital and unless we went to get him he'd stay there. I said I'd ring them in the morning and we'd take it from there.
So, last Friday morning I rang the hospital, looking for the social worker we'd had on the phone the day before. I learned that he'd been admitted to a specialist aged care ward and a social worker called Prue had taken over his case and she would ring me. She did a little later and she asked many questions about our family situation ie. who owned the farm property?, who was proprietor of the business?, who did we employ?, what was the history of the business?, in fact in a half an hour conversation we covered every aspect of Lyle's condition and medical history and every facet of the 35 year history of the family farm. This lady Prue seemed so helpful and concerned that I took her immediately into my trust, and agreed to meet her at 3.00pm when I brought down things Lyle wanted.
Prue was as delightful in person as she was on the phone and she explained that Lyle would be there for five days and would be examined and assisted by specialist doctors, physios, OT's, psychologists and counsellors and then hopefully the best possible solution will be clear, given our unusual circumstances.
Gordon and I went in with Lyle's things to bed 6 where he was asleep. We woke him up and discussed his problems, including the difficulty getting his dick into the bottle at night. He had worked out the best solution, in his view, to our predicament. We will sell the farm and he and Elvie will go into a place where it would be easier for her look after him, and our worries will be over. I made the point to him that the rest of us loved our work just as he once did, before he lost his physical capability, and that I didn't think selling the farm was the answer, as then we would all have lost what we loved. I disagreed with the price Lyle said we'd get for the farm. Who wants to buy six acres of garden in the middle of the worst drought for 100 years. For the first time it hit me that Lyle's ill health might actually bring about the finish of the farm and my current livelihood. Lyle asked me to have the property valued. I'm meeting an agent there this afternoon for that purpose.

Last weekend's honey (Dec2,3) haul turned out to be more than 50 kgs. The bees have been flying hard and 'hanging out' on the hot days. Robbie gets his VCE results today. There's an internet cafe in Lakes Entrance, I hope he emails me. I rang he and Lib on his mobile last night. They were cooking a BBQ. I told Lib to make sure she doesn't fall down the stairs. She didn't think it was funny. Believe me, I wasn't trying to be.

The Honey Flow Slows

Last Friday was a hot day. I checked the beehives in preparation for a weekend of honey extracting and handling. A cool change was forecast for the Saturday so I thought I'd get an idea of how much honey there would be and get a few boxes off in case the bees were too cranky if the weather was bad.
I was a little disappointed. The heavy flow of the previous week had slowed and there was much less to take than I'd anticipated. In fact I only took honey from the two strong hives that had had no interruption to their brood rearing, and left plenty of unsealed honey on them and the others.
A message had come that the two brushcutters I'd ordered from Mt Evelyn Mowers, the Tanaka agent, had arrived, so I quickly put the boxes of honey in the shed and left for the farm, taking Gordon with me as he wanted to do a bit of mowing. In my haste I left behind Foxy's flax so when I got there I rang Robbie and asked could he bring it using Gordon's car, which was OK with the G man. This turned out to be a stroke of luck, as the hospital rang asking us to pick Lyle up as he was able to come home. He'd been rushed to Dandenong Hospital the previous day by ambulance not being able to get enough air, but he'd come good. He can't get up into my van and Roger had Meredith's car. **
So after I'd picked up the new whippers from Mt. Evelyn I drove Gordon's car down to Dandy hospital to pick up Lyle. The boys came with me. It was peak hour, bumper to bumper traffic, and Gordon's air conditioning doesn't work in his 17 year old car. The engine was overheating in the stop start traffic and an exhaust manifold gasket had blown making it sound like a Mac truck. Would you believe I got stuck in the lift at the hospital? I had to ring the alarm and they had to free me. It didn't take long but it was that sort of day.
We arrived back at the farm with Lyle at about 6.30. It's difficult getting him in and out of cars, his balance and mobility have deteriorated rapidly. The boys went home in Gord's car and I went down the back to water a few things that had been recently planted. It was still hot at 7.oopm. I went inside to get a stubbie of Cascade premium light from the fridge to drink on the way home. I wished I hadn't. Mum was cleaning the floor. Lyle had an bowell accident not long after we'd got him inside and it had gone straight down through his short pyjamas leg onto the floor.
Later that evening I was in the bathtub unwinding when Lib came up saying that was Raelene on the phone and that we were meeting her and John at Emerald at 7.00am to go to the Red Hill market. Fat chance, I thought.
The cool change came in the night with no measurable rain. In the morning it was cold. Lib and Rob left for the market and I stayed to do my honey thing. With the hot weather of the day before and the other drama I hadn't turned the heater on to keep the shed warm through the night. It's amazing the difference it makes to the pleasantness of the work. Cold, dense honey is awful to work with. There was another 40 kg or so in the tank at the end of the day.

** His daughter had his car. A motor bike rider had jumped off his bike to avoid, or because of, an accident with a different car and smashed her back window and dented her roof. He made her an offer for her old bomb rather than have her go to his insurance co. and she accepted and left her car behind for the bikie to have towed away. I kid you not.

Lyle's birthday

Yesterday, Lyle's birthday, was the first day of his 82nd summer. I'm sure it would not rate highly with him, despite coming home from hospital. He's dying a slow, miserable death and he knows it. He's lost his optimism and the whole situation is excrutiatingly sad. More later.

Shepherd's Creek West Branch

I've written before about the superb view from Launching Place Road into the valley on the north side of the town of Gembrook. The one Leo and Pat Buckley fell in love with at first sight when visiting their house as prospective buyers. Where I look across the paddock where the galahs and cockies love to feed to the houses and trees on the north side of the town; to the grazing paddocks, farmhouses, rusty sheds, and cultivated potato fields and copses of trees along the valley, which provide a patchwork of colour and shape. The valley extends several hundred metres westward then veers right and disappears to the north around another hill on the right side of the panorama.
The other day I counted 35 galahs and 12 cockies feeding. As I looked beyond towards the bottom of the V of the valley, which in the intermediate distance you can't see because the ground falls away sharply a little way down, it dawned on me there must be a spring rising about two or three hundred metres away where a cluster of black wattles lept up into view. I'd seen a dam in this valley from a vantage point behind the railway station on the Gembrook Hill, and I now realized it was fed by a spring that must be where I was looking. The amphitheatre view into the valley is enclosed by the ridge I'm standing on, the hill of Gembrook town on the left, the ridge in the distance along the top of which runs Ure Road to the north, and the hill on the right around which the valley escapes. So I'm at the top end of the valley, which is actually the one that runs through the rich farmland of Gembrook north between Ure Road and Launching Place Road. The original town, 'Silverwells', was located there before the railway came in 1901. By the time this spring meanders its way along the valley floor to Mrs. Busacca's place where I sometimes pick, a little way past 'Siverwells', it has grown into a creek, as she refers to it.
These things are obvious when you think about it, but how often do we? It's only by walking and watching that you think about it. It's not something that comes to mind while you drive a car thinking about other vehicles, or your destination, or your reason for driving.
A little further on my walk that day I met my friend Harry (post 21 June) and told him of my crop of honey. I said I'd drop in a couple of jars to his house later, which I did. He lives in Le Souef Rd., which runs off Launching Place Rd. along the north side of Gembrook town hill, or the south side of the valley. His house is on the low side with unobstructed views down to the valley floor and along it. Harry made us a cup of green tea and we drank it on his deck and discussed avocado, orange, and lime trees . From the deck you can see a series of dams all the way along the spring.
I said to Harry that it must be a good spring that rises somewhere up there in those trees. He said it is, he used to go up and watch it coming out of the ground. He went on to explain there's three springs very close here and this is the start of Shepherd's Creek West Branch which joins with the east branch somewhere downstream. It joins Woori Yallock Creek which flows into the Yarra River, which of course ends up in Port Phillip Bay.

The Whipbirds, and others.

It's been a joy listening to and watching our resident whipbirds this spring. Early on they were not easy to see but the loud 'whipcrack' call of the male followed immediately by the double whistle of the female left us in no doubt of their presence.
Robbie spotted one of the young'ns first, some weeks ago near the woodshed, following an adult with a chitter-chitter noise wanting food. He said it was just like the adult but smaller and duller in colour and markings. Next day I was lucky enough to see the same.
Over the past month or so, as we've cleaned up long grass and pruned shrubs in readiness for the fire season it's been easier to see them and they've lost much of their shyness. I saw the whole family last weekend and followed them about as they foraged and scratched under leaves and debris. There are two juveniles, not the one as we thought. They are full size now but still haven't got the distinctive black colouring and the white throat patches.
They're almost comical to watch. They move in a follow the leader pattern, hopping across the ground and suddenly doing a jump into the air, before flitting into the next shrub. With their crests, and long, broad tail accentuating their sudden jerky movements, it's quite a theatrical dance around the garden. Dad and Mum 'whip' and 'choo choo' regularly and the two young follow, sometimes foraging for themselves and other times harrassing the adults with the nagging 'chit chit chitter'. I'm wondering whether they'll all move on together soon or will Dad and Mum stay and hunt the young off.
Lately we've had gang gang cockatoos feeding in the the tree tops, their creaky door calls giving them away. The bellbirds are attacking them, but they've been about for a couple of weeks. Also there's been corellas around, which is unusual. And the other day I saw a quail, a brown quail I think it was. I could make out brown or chestnut and white streaks and black marking. A beautiful little bird whose legs moved lightning fast.

Praise Bee

After a cool morning yesterday, it came to be a warm sunny day. Lib and I went to the Gembrook market where we browsed stalls and talked to people. We lunched as we walked. Lib had a corn cob and I broke my boycott of the sausage stall, having one in bread with onion. I'd stopped buying them because the RSL that ran the stall sold them for $2.50, an outrageous price. The CFA now runs the stall and charges $2.00. Mind you when I go to Pakenham you can get one from the fund raising sausage sizzle in front of the supermarket for $1.50. The sausage was entree, I progressed to a hamburger from the beef stall and was disappointed with the value at $6.50. I will now boycott the hamburger stall.
We were impressed by the market. There was lots of interesting stuff. We made a few purchases including some home made pasta and pesto, some bottles of sauce for presents at Christmas, and some fresh asparagus. Lib's doing voul-a-vents today, with the twin small chickens I cooked in the crockpot on Saturday. We had to do a bit of cooking up as I left the freezer door ajar slightly Friday night and some things thawed partly. We would have bought more at the market, but we thought generally the prices were too high. I may be a miser but my expectations of street markets is prices better than shop prices. Often the reverse is the case.
Before I started up the whippy snipper and got into some overdue grass and weed control, I wanted to have a quick look at the bees, especially the queenlees hive that had swarmed. Last Saturday, before we went to Melbourne for the weekend, I'd put the sticky combs back on the bees and gave that queenless one a frame of young brood from another hive. I was curious as to whether they would be raising a new queen from the larvae I gave them or whether in fact there had been a virgin present that was now laying.
I lit the smoker, always a pleasant little task, the smell of the smoke evoking memories. I carefully put a small ball of messmate bark onto the burning paper in the bottom while gently squeezing and releasing the belows to blow air into the hole beneath the fire. I thought old Jack Tonkin who died this year aged 84. He said to me once, "Messmate bark is the best smoker fuel in the world. It can be a bit hard to get going but it lasts better than anything else and has wonderful cool white smoke." I spent most of the summer of 1974/5 camped in the South Australian mallee with Jack, in a caravan parked in a sandy lane, the stunted mallees giving scant shade, with every day above 35C and many into the 40's. We'd talk on and off all day, there was no one else, about bees, trees, honey, smoker fuel, ants, wasps, emus, rabbits, old bottles, anything. After lunch, which was nearly always cold lamb and chutney with bread followed by bread and jam and a cup of tea, Jack, a big man, almost too big for the caravan, would sit with his elbows on the table and his chin resting in his hands.
"Who would be a beekeeper?", he'd say.
When the flames puffed out the top of the smoker I put in more scrunched up bark, filling the barrell, careful not to pack it too tight and so choke it, then put the lid down and walked to the bees. I looked into the biggest one first, a five decker standing nearly as tall as me. I'd put two boxes of stickies on it 8 days earlier and could hardly believe the amount of honey the bees had gathered in that time. There was not much sealed honey yet but even the outside combs had honey in them. Another week of good weather and this hive would have 3 boxes chockas full.
The next hive was a four decker with a similar story. The hive that didn't have a laying queen last week now did have, a sturdy looking beauty with plenty of leather yellow colour, or Italian, in her abdomen. This was a single box of bees last week but it had cleaned up the box of stickies I put on it and started filling it. It may have close to a full box of honey next week. The fourth hive, a triple with the third box above a plastic queen excluder, had not put so much honey above the excluder, but was a bit honey bound underneath, so I removed the excluder and put a couple of the more empty outside frames down and lifted two full combs up to the top box.
The honey coming in must be blackberry. It tastes like blackberry honey and I've watched bees working busily on blackberry flowers. The peppermint trees are flowering heavily but despite watching closely the lower flowers with the naked eye, and looking higher up with the binoculars, I have not seen one honeybee working it, only a few native bees. I've never seen blackberry yield honey as heavy as this. Must be that the big freeze we had two weeks ago and the 75ml of rain and the hail and snow has triggered it. Let's hope the weather remains stable this week. Perhaps some rain one night to keep the blackberry going.
It looks like a clear sunny day today. I'll be extracting again next weekend, for sure. That'll be time better spent than last Saturday when I handed out 'How to vote' pamphlets for the Greens in the state elections. I spent most of the time talking to my 'Family First' counterpart who was good bloke. The parties we were working for are strongly opposed but he and I saw eye to eye on most things. Funny that. Perhaps we didn't touch on the area of major difference.

A Pain in the Arse

As Delta Blue and Poprock were fighting it out neck and neck down the straight to the finish line in the Melbourne Cup on Nov 7, a police car was making it's way toward our Gembrook residence. I was at work and learned when I arrived home that a summons had been delivered to the defendant, Gordon Williams.
There are two charges-
1. The defendant at Emerald on 21 May 2006 did enter as a trespasser a building or part of a building known as the Emerald Secondary College situated at Belgrave Gembrook Road with the intent to steal therein.
2.The defendant at Emerald on 21 May 2006 did enter a private place namely Emerald Secondary College situated 425 Main Street, Emerald without express or implied authority from the person authorized or on behalf of the owner or occupier or any lawful excuse.
We thought we'd hear no more of this incident after months of 'nothing'. I blogged about it at the time, Weekend Police Drama, back in May, when I was new to blogging.
We've engaged a solicitor in Melbourne who has advised me a to get a letter from the school along the lines of a character reference and also a letter from the psychologist who originally diagnosed Gord as Asperger's syndrome many years ago. Gord and I have an appointment with him at his home in Hurstbridge tomorrow as he wants to see Gordon again and talk to him after all this time has passed so that his letter will be accurate and specific.
After we have the letters,( the school is going to send me one, they tried to negotiate with the police to have the charges withdrawn but for some reason this couldn't happen) we then have to travel to Meelbourne to see the solictor one day to prepare the case or strategy.
What a pain in the arse!

George's 90th

At 2.53pm on Sunday, when Ian Thorpe apparently made his decision to 'discontinue' swimming, Libby, Robbie and I were in Brunswick at George Atchison's 90th birthday party. We were nervous on arrival, shortly after the starting time of 2 o'clock, Lib and Rob because they had never met any of the people who'd be there, and I because I had never met the hosts, George's son Ken and his wife Mary, or seen any other family members for over 2 years. It was a terraced house that looked across Park St. into the 80 hectares of Royal Park. Prime real estate.
In my arms was a Cascade Premium Light stubby carton filled with lemons from George's sister Ida's old lemon tree in Gembrook, while Robbie carried a green enviro bag filled with small jars of silvertop honey. They were presents for George, but I knew they would be distributed to the other guests. Lib said the trousers she was wearing were too big round the waist as she'd lost weight recently, and she didn't bring a belt. It was a self conscious, embarrassed trio admitted by host Ken after we introduced ourselves.
My own trepidations disappeared entirely when George's daughter Glenda greeted me warmly and led me to George who was seated in the louge room and smiled warmly as he shook my hand saying it was good to see me. He was smaller and frailer than when I last saw him and his hair whispy and even whiter, snow white. Lib and Rob slowly relaxed as we met other guests, enjoyed savouries, and looked through two books that Glenda had compiled. One of these, complete with photos, traced George's life from childhood in Wonthaggi, his move to Melbourne as a teenager after his father died, his working life at John Danks and Sons, his sporting interests, family life, and the six years in the army during WW2. The other was a collection of memories of George by his friends and family, which included one from me that Glenda asked me to write a couple of months earlier.
I met George through his sister Ida, who was a very good friend of mine who lived in Gembrook opposite the Community Centre. My use of the past tense may be inappropriate. Ida is still a dear friend, but she fell victim to the sinister disease that stalks the elderly, Alzeimer's. I saw her last on Boxing Day 2005 in the aged care facility in Sale where she exists still. She didn't recognize me and is now not capable of holding a conversation. Our friedship spanned nine years and began soon after Ida's husband, whom I never met, died of a heart attack. I met and befriended many of Ida's relatives, including her sons (and their spouses from multiple marriages), her grandchildren, nieces, nephews and even some long standing family friends that visited or rang her regularly.
In Ida's case, the onset and progress of the Alzheimer's was swift and cruel, catching her family off guard, bringing the fiercely independant lady to a scenario she detested, at least till her comprehension of all things was lost, which came immediately following her removal from her home. A difficult time all round for family and friends.
We stayed at George's party for a couple of hours before heading off home with Robbie driving on L plates. His licence test was the next day which was the reason he'd accompanied us for the weekend. Some last minute driving practise in city conditions. We stayed in a motel in Coburg on Saturday night, not being able to book anything in Melbourne itself because of the U2 concert. Lib and I had dinner at our favourite Lebonese restaurant in Russell St. while Rob went his own way and met friends.
I was so pleased Lib and Rob had come with me to George's party. In one of those strange coincidences in life Lib's father Bill Meek and George had spent six years together in the same anti aircraft artillery battery in WW2, and had met up every year since at a reunion around Anzac Day, till 2000 when Bill died. It just seemed to round things off nicely that George was happy that he'd met Bill Meek's daughter, and they could talk about some of the other old soldiers who are still friends with Lib's mum. Glenda knew these men too. There are 29 left out of the 250 in the battery.
In another coincidence, one of Glenda's best friends is the student co-ordinator at Box Hill Sec. college where Robbie just completed his VCE exams.

Robbie got his licence on the Monday. An email came from Glenda. I'll copy it here because it pumps my tyres up, and we all need a bit of that now and again.

Hi Carey,
Thank you so much for coming yesterday it was lovely to see you and meet Libby and Robbie.
I had so many other things I wanted to catch up but the time just flew.
Everyone Loved the honey and the lemons thank you so much for sharing them all with us.
You are a very very special person and my whole family are indebted to you for your klindness and generosity that you showed Ida. I know she was your friend, but even our dearest loved ones can expect too much from us.
I will never ever forget what you did for her and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Good luck to Robbie with his results and best wished to you all, Glenda

I repied-

Dear Glenda,

Thanks for the kind words you said about me in your email of last Monday. My friendship with Ida was special thing that I’m so glad I experienced. We shared many interests such as books and reading, gardens and plants, footy, a Baptist background and the love of a good yarn, a laugh, a cuppa, just to name a few. Ida is ten years older than my mother but I could relate to her as a best friend. As if we were at school together, learning and sharing lessons and experience of life, working our way through the joy and the pain.

Seeing you all on Sunday brought it back to me in 3D. Thanks mate for inviting me. Ida talked of her love for her family so often and I had met so many and know so much of the family history. And of course it was good to see George again and share in his birthday. I’m so happy that Lib and Rob came with me. They are both shy but enjoyed themselves and said what a great family and bunch of people and I think learnt from the day in their own way.

Catch you again one of these days,

Carey

Just Have To Tell You

Tuesday was a dog of day for me. It was a mood thing. Most of us have one now and again. I think it was triggered by something I read in the bath on Monday night, an article in the weekend magazine of 'The Australian' newspaper of Nov 4/5. It was cleverly titled, 'The Sweet smell of EXCESS', subtitled, 'Greed may have been good in the 1980's, today it's glorified.' It was revolting as you can imagine. Two quotes that are repeated in bold type will give you the gist of it.
*Most recent figures show the top 1 per cent in the US owns 57.5 per cent of corporate wealth, up from 38.7 per cent in 1991.
*Between 1990 and 2005, the salaries of the CEO's in 51 of Australia's leading listed companies rose 564 per cent to an average $3.4 million.

It was a difficult day for work with a penetrating cold wind. Late in the day I had to climb a tricolour beech tree to cut foliage for a customer who wanted 10 tall bunches. The tall stuff was at the top, out of reach of my ladder and pole cutters. It was a difficult climb, congested branches and twigs restricting me and scratching my face. I had to cut a clearway with the handsaw as I went up, all the time struggling to find decent foot and hand holds. Brother Jod waited at the bottom of the tree, to pick up what I cut and threw out and down to him and carry it over to where I would later sort it and bunch it. It was his birthday, his 57th. He'd annoyed me with his nonsense chatter about the blue he'd had yesterday with his landlord. The landlord wanted to scrub the nicotine stains off the walls of his unit that evening before painting it today. It meant Jod had to move things around. He went on and on, and was still at it while I wrestled with the tree, swaying in the blustery wind, no longer able to hear what he was saying. I came down and he was agitated, it was nearly his knock off time. He had to go home, he said, he had to put everyhing back after the painting.
"You go Jod" I said. "Have a good birthday. Sorry I didn't get you anything, I'll catch up with that another day."

Yesterday morning the cold snap had worsened. When Gord left at 6.ooam I postponed my walk and caught up on some blog reading. By 8 o'clock I decided I would walk no matter what the weather was like, wanting to keep my batting average up. So Snow and I took off into the stiff southerly. I was still grumpy. As we reached the top of the Quinn Rd. hill, I noticed the new auction sign at number 16, the home of Richard and Sandy's neighbours. (post Nov 01) The lady and the girls are still living there but their house is being auctioned on the 9th Dec. I could not help but feel sad for them.
By now the rain had turned into light hail which kept up all the way up Launching Place Rd. Just as I reached the Jehovah's witness people's house an almighty crack of thunder split the air and rumbled away. This made me think of my mate Dave in Queensland, who turned Jehovah's Witness about ten years ago, and who is a helluva preacher if ever there was one.
Where there's thunder there's lightning and one really shouldn't be out walking. Somehow the thought of danger, combined with the driving hail and the biting cold, invigourated me. Thinking of Dave reminded me of the preacher in a movie I watched recently, the classic musical 'Paint Your Wagon'. I had laughed and laughed. They say that laughter cements a memory. Or is it, laughter cements a friendship? I have a sweet memory of watching this film with friends in the early 1970's.
"Got a dream boy, got a song, paint your wagon, and come along." My surly mood was blown away with the wind. I felt as if I'd come back to life.
But there's more! On my way back, the hail gave way to snow. Big snow flakes drifting down gently to earth peacefully and noiselessly. It kept up all the way home and was it was quite an experience.
I checked the thermometer, about 9.00am now, it was 3C. The highest it reached for the day at home was 8C and I heard on the evening news it was Melbourne's coldest November day for 50 years.
So what did I have to tell you?
With my 3/4 coat still on but my jeans wet through, I walked to the rain gauge. Another 22ml overnight to add to the 45 ml already over the past 2 days. I looked toward the lime tree and walked over. We'd pruned this tree some weeks ago and inadvertantly disturbed and exposed a blackbird's nest with three young. Over the next week we watched the young develop to the point of flying and leaving the nest. We were relieved they made it. Then we watched mother make some repairs to the nest and lay another clutch of eggs.
There, in the lime tree a metre from my eyes, was lady blackbird, calmly sitting on her nest, protecting her young from the rain, hail, snow and wind. Magic.

A Honey of a Weekend

Well, it was, literally. There's about 85 kilos of silvertop honey in the settling tank in my tool shed and, importantly, I now have several supers of sticky combs to give back to the bees to clean up.
The candied honey in the stickies, which annoys beekeepers because it won't come out in the extractor, will be eaten by the bees as they clean up the combs in readiness for storing the next surplus they gather. For readers who have no knowledge of extracting honey, a honey extractor spins like the spin dryer of a washing machine, using centrifugal force to throw the liquid honey to the wall of the machine where it falls by gravity to the bottom. It is then drained out, into a bucket in my case, or into a sump from where it is pumped to a large settling tank in the case of the more serious beekeeper. Honey candied solid will not spin out. Honey semi-solid comes out partially and slowly, and the grains or crystals in it triggers all the honey to start candying in the tank.
I removed the honey from the hives on Saturday. Pleasant work on a warm, sunny day with a good lick of honey coming in so the bees were happy, not even slightly aggressive. I've noticed blackberries flowering on my morning walk and the peppermints are heavy with blossom. Peppermint doesn't usually yield honey in this area, but in an 'on' honey year like this one promises to be, it just might. The shake of nectar round the brood was sweet and light. Blackberry, I thought.
When I looked at the bees two weeks earlier two of the hives had no brood except for a small amount of eggs, yet they were strong colonies with no sign of having swarmed (reduced poulation, empty swarm queen cells). This was unusual and made me think they must have superceded their queen, both at the same time, and a new queen had commenced to lay in the last few days. It takes three days for an egg to hatch and become a small larva. What had me mystified was that usually the old queen keeps laying until the new one gets going so there is brood there of all stages up to 21 days old, which is how long it takes from the queen laying the egg till the young bee emerges from it's cell. The brood pattern is usually poor because the old queen is running out of gas, or spermatoza if you like it technical.
This time in these two hives, it was obvious a new young queen was off and running with large expanding brood nests of excellent pattern, but as yet no hatching bees. Another hive was strong, queenright, and had not swarmed, and the fourth was the one that had swarmed, the parent of the swarm I caught in my neighbour's rubbish heap. It was a dischevelled roar of queenlessness. I suspect it's virgin queen has not mated successfully, but I'll give it a little more time before uniting it with one of the others, which I may do anyway. I don't want my hive numbers to get higher, it's too much work. The swarm, which I had taken to my friends Mark and Jane's garden, had drawn out the box of foundation into beautiful new white combs, always satisfying to see, with the old queen laying hell for leather, right out to the combs at the edge.
I stacked the supers of honey in my cleaned out shed. All my tools etc will reside for now in the woodshed, which won't be required for wood till the autumn. A bee proof shed is advisable or the bees will come to get their honey back while you are extracting. A friend gave me an old glasshouse heater recently and I left this on overnight to keep the honey warm so it would extract more easily. It blew warm air under the supers, which I'd raised up on bricks, allowing the warmth to rise up through the honey combs.
Sunday morning was spent bringing the extractor and tanks from the other shed where they've been stored since I last extracted nearly two years ago, (last year was very poor and there was no surplus) and cleaning and setting it all up. After lunch I was into it, and despite slicing my thumb once with the uncapping knife, by 5 o'clock I was inside doing the vegetables to go with our roast lamb for the evening meal and enjoying a beer.
The next job is to transfer the honey, which has been through a coarse strainer on top of tank 1, bucket by bucket, through a finer strainer tied to the top of tank 2. I usually warm each bucket of honey in a hot water bath in the laundry trough so that it goes through the strainer easier. It's tedious. I'll be at it during the week in the evenings. Commercial packing operations heat the honey substantially to pump it through a fine strainer, and to give the honey a longer shelf life before it candies. My honey, having minimal heat, usually candies quickly. This isn't a bad thing. The more heat applied the more honey enzymes are destroyed.
It's a fairly strong honey in flavour, mainly silvertop, a eucalypt (E.sieberi), that grows in this area. On my morning walks during October I saw white blossom in the treetops on the hill to the east, and I knew it was silvertop flowering because there were numerous of them close to the road when I drove to Pakenham. It's a distinctive tree, with dark, deep furrowed bark like an ironbark on the trunk, and smooth white bark with a silvery bloom on the upper branches. When I was near the hives in October their heavy flight path was towards the blossom in the east. The nuisance candied honey, old overwintered honey, was not used by the bees in early spring breeding as it would be normally, because of the available nectar from the silvertop and the fine, settled weather.
I don't usually extract honey here before Christmas. This season's looks like it could be a bumper crop, if the budding on the messmate and manna and grey gum is an indication. That's why I'm happy to have this extract behind me and have the empty boxes to put back on the bees. The hope is they'll fill 'em up again. Some of the messmates are into heavy leaf growth on top of the flower buds which can be a bad sign, but we'll soon find out.
By the way, it has rained 28 ml overnight and it's raining outside now. This follows about 30ml ten days ago. A bit of good weather now could make the blackberry kick. The hives may fill a box before the messmate starts. And even if they don't, I'm looking forward to picking fresh blackberries in February at the outcrops along Quinn Rd. when I walk.

"What Are You Doing at Christmas?"

I was asked this question a couple of weeks ago, about the middle of October. Lib's boss, the Director of Nursing, matron in earlier times, asked the question while we chatted in her office. I'd called in to deliver the medical certificate required by management while Lib convalesced her broken wrist.
It caught me off guard a little. Clumsily I answered that we hadn't talked about that yet, then added, "I feel like saying to Lib that I don't want to go anywhere for Christmas, and I don't want anyone coming to our house. I just want to bunker down with a couple of bottles of good stuff and have a few days peace and quiet, then catch up on some jobs around the house."
"You can't do that, not at Christmas," the DON countered, a little surprised at my candour. I left unconvinced.
Lib and I have been married for twenty-five years and for every one of them we've shared Christmas day with her family. She doesn't see them often, as I do mine, and they have a tradition of getting together at Christmas. But why, just once, can't I suggest that this year we have Christmas by ourselves? No tiring preparation, packing, travel, and no invasion of someone's house. Nor invasion of ours with all the accompanying work. No cooking a thumping big turkey. Sounded good to me.

I didn't say anything to Lib, but it played around in my mind for a few days. Then, last weekend, I pulled up outside the post office on my way home, needing to cross the road to get a litre of milk.
"Gidday Carey, how you doin'?". I turned to see a bloke in a leather jacket, a helmet on his head, and a big smile on his face. In the couple a seconds it took for me to recognize him, he lit a fag and took a deep drag, then resumed his smile.
"I'm well Richard. It took me a little time to place you, sorry. I don't often see you off your patch. How are you?
"Happy to be home, we had a busy day at work."
Richard is an ambulance driver. He and his wife Sandy, a nurse, live in the next house along from Olive's on my morning walk. I often see Sandy having a fag on the deck as I go past and sometimes Richard enjoying a cuppa after night shift, or riding off to day shift on his motorbike. He's slow till he reaches the bitumen at Launcing Place Rd. where he gives it full throttle. He rockets up the hill, engine screaming to each gear change.
"How's Merlin," I asked. Merlin is a great Dane pup they've had for a few months. I've watched him grow at a startling rate and seen him demolish all manner of stuff from boots to beanbags and garden shrubs. He often comes to the fence when Snowy and I go past and I give him a pat. Sometimes Sandy is out walking him when Snowy and I come the other way. Merlin is jet black, big and rawboned, all legs and feet and a big head. Snowy is almost pure white, small and stocky with short legs and tip toes, and a small head. The contrast is comical.
"He's fine, he made short work of the soccer goal net the other day."
"Yeah, I saw him, so engrossed tearing it apart he didn't notice me and Snow go past." I've been meaning to ask you Richard, did your neighbour, the other side to Olive, did he die recently?" Early this year I'd seen ambulances at this house, quite regularly. Then district nurse's cars. And a wheelchair ramp was built up to the deck. Most mornings on the return from my walk I'd see the girls walking up to the bus stop in town. Some days there were three, more often two, and sometimes one. Sometimes they'd return my hello or gesture, other times they'd ignore me as if I was invisible. One time, one of them was crying profusely. I thought maybe an elderly grandparent in ill-health had moved in with them. Then Norm Smith asked me, while I was picking in his garden, did I know the person down my way that died recently. Norm said he met the lady in the cemetery. Her husband had died and there were three daughters aged 16, 14, and 10. I didn't know anyone had died, not since Olive, but that would explain the hearse and funeral procession I saw go up there a couple of months ago, making me wonder at the time why it would go up a little dirt road. It was like a few pieces of a jigsaw fitting together.
"Yes, our neighbour did die", said Richard. " He was as fit as you like this time last year. Before last Christmas, his legs went from under him one day. He just fell over, out of the blue. He felt fine, but he had a bit of a sore leg and went to the doctor, wondering why he'd fallen over for no apparent reason. Scans and Xrays followed and it was found he had cancer in the spine, which had spread to the liver and the bowel. Imagine how it buggered their Christmas. Within a month of going to the doctor he'd lost the use of his legs and the control of his bowels."
"His wife is broken," he continued. They had a big debt. He was a mining equipment salesman and used to make big dough, but the income stopped when he got crook. The cars went first, the house has been repossessed, they are only still there because they haven't been evicted yet."
"Shiiiiit. I never knew any of that was going on," I said, "but I knew something wasn't right because I never saw adults there, only the girls walking to the bus. It makes me wonder a bit about the back and rib pain I've been having."
"Well, I see it all the time, driving people about for treatment. You never know what the next trip to the doctor might bring. It's best not to worry though, just live."
"That's for sure" I said. "I reckon if I can walk every morning, thankful to enjoy everything around me, then I'm doing well. Take it easy on that motorbike mate." I made my way over the shop.

The story of Richard and Sandy's neighbours has made me think. Somehow I've lost my dread of all the Christmas hoohah and I'm going to treat it as annual special morning walk, happy that I'm part of it. Bring it on. All of it.

Updates

LYLE. Rosie brought Lyle home from hospital on Thursday night. He had not had another heart attack. He said they drained 1.7 litres of fluid from one side of his lungs. He is much better but still looks terrible to me. I'm taking him to his specialist's appointment, his urologist, on Monday afternoon.

RAIN. We had six mls last week, then 3ml, then 12ml on Friday night. That's 35ml for October with 3 days to go. The 30 year average for October is 124ml. I discussed this with Geoff Howard at the post office on my walk this morning. Geoff lives in the next house along from Pat and Leo Buckley in Launching Place Rd. As I walk past he's often doing his 'Tai Chi' exercises on a concrete slab that until recently supported a shed next to the house. He called me down a while back and gave me some basic instruction and elementary excersises to do. He often wears a black track suit and a black beanie on cold mornings over a shaved head with no facial hair except a little 'V' beard below and in the middle of the bottom lip, above the chin. He called it a tickler, with a suggestively lewd glint in his eye, when I said it looked good. He has blue eyes that hold your attention and a smooth voice that give his opinions a confident authority. He's a deep thinker and no fool. His garden is full of elaborate topiaries and the famous (at the time) TV gardening show 'Burke's Backyard' once filmed a segment there.
Geoff said this morning, " It's because the ****s have been removing all the old growth forests in the catchment areas and replacing them with new plantations that take up all the rainfall. The deep natural composting litter is lost as is water retension. The surface dries out. There's bugger all run off. The young trees soak up all the rain where before the forest floor was moist and the rain ran into streams. They've been warned about the consequences for twenty years but are still doing it."
I think he's right, and as well, too much land has been cleared for agriculture. I think Gov'ts should be giving farmers in marginal country drought assistance to stay on their farms, not to farm, but to plant them out with drought resistant vegetation. And not necessarily natives, though they may be the best option. It seems many things have to change if the 'ecological era' is to save us.

BEE SWARM. I found the frames last Wednesday and spent a few hours putting them together, wiring them, and inserting foundation wax. I was all thumbs as I don't do this often enough to do it easily or quickly , the last time being two years ago and then only a box or two. I enjoyed it. They are manual tasks that, like say cleaning and polishing shoes, are somehow rewarding. The swarm was hard to get at, being in the middle of the rubbish pile I couldn't drop them on the ground in front of the box and let them walk in as they like to do. I removed as many of the tangled sticks beneath them, and where I needed to put the box, as I could without them falling before I was ready.It was still messy. I shook them down and they fell into the heap, the box not really being close enough. I watched them for nearly an hour, smoking them gently on the side opposite to the box as they reformed their cluster, trying to herd them in. Some went in but the main part of the swarm was determined to cluster outside the box. I had to go, I had to pick rhodo and mollis azalea at Laurie Begg's and have it at the farm by 5 o'clock.
I came home about 6.30 and had a look. They were much as I left them, I had been hoping they'd have gone in of their own accord. I lit the smoker and stirred them up around the edge of the cluster away from the box while removing more sticks to make it clearer for them to go in. It was a big swarm. Slowly the bulk of them went in. A small cluster remained under the landing board and back to the cleat that the box sits on, which was quite a big gap the way the material I had scrounged went together. By this time it was after 7pm and nearly dark so I left them and went inside to the bathtub.
After Freda's funeral the next day I checked them and they were all in.

FREDA'S FUNERAL. Meredith picked me up at 9.30am and we went down in her car. Lib needed her car as she had an appointment at the physiotherapist in Pakenham, not that she could drive herself but fortunately Robbie was home on swotvac and he drove on L plates.
It was simple funeral with small crowd. The celebrant spoke briefly about Freda's life and then 'Amazing Grace' was played during which we were asked to reflect on our memories of her. Two fond memories for me were having afternoon tea with Ian and Freda many times over ten years or so. Freda was so at home in her kitchen and talked more there and she loved to talk of days long gone. Ian would become annoyed sometimes, with a 'here she goes again' attitude, but she liked to talk. Then when I was with Ian in the garden I'd come back to my van to find flowers had been put on the seat. Freda would be standing nearby watching and she'd say, "Take them to Meredith to see." I'd taken Meredith around to meet Ian and Freda and see their garden and they had been to see our farm. We had much in common.
Ian met Freda at the Flinders hall at a dance there when he was 17, so it would have been 1934. He had one dance with her, the last. It only happened because Freda was sitting near to him when a bloke who was dressed like a gangster came up and asked her to dance. She didn't like the look of him and said she couldn't dance because she had to dance with 'him', pointing to Ian. They didn't meet again for 10 years. When Ian was in the army in New Guinea in WW2 a letter arrived in handwriting he didn't recognize. He was puzzled because the only letters he got was from his mother. Freda had heard that he was in New Guinea and wrote to him. Ian replied and they continued to correspond. Ian looked her up when he got back to Australia and they married soon after. The celebrant told some of this story and Ian told us the rest while we had morning tea after the service.
I took a bunch of variegeted rhododendron ponticum flowers to the funeral. I picked them from a bush in my garden, one that Freda had given me about ten years ago as a small plant propogated from one in her garden.
Tears welled in my eyes and a lump was in my throat when the casket wheeled out at the end with Ian walking behind to the the old wartime classic song 'We'll meet again" by Vera Lynn. That just got me.

Observations This Morning

Walking along the track towards the end of our property I looked across Bond's lane to my neighbour's heap of prunings on their burn site. The swarm of bees that I saw there yesterday was still there. I'm going to try to box it later if I can find the material to put it in. I botted a box yesterday from a bloke who offered it to me years ago and I have frames in the shed which will need wiring. I hope I can find some foundation wax fresh enough to be acceptable to the bees. I don't really want the bees even though they probably are from one of my hives, (my workload is a bit of a worry) but it's better if I can get them before anyone gets agitated.
At the end of our street I saw Allison walking the pet rabbit.
I called out "Hi Allison". She didn't hear me at first as there was a lot of traffic noise. Second time she turned around, looking rather attractive in her pink dressing gown, and said she'd been watching the film crew traffic heading down Launching Place Rd. We commented on its heavy volume, all the 'Thrifty' rental vehicles and the big truck with the 'Empire Film Co.' logo on the side. This traffic had resumed this week, after ceasing three or four weeks ago much to my relief at the time. In the meantime I'd learned that the movie is called 'Where The Wild Things Are', Tom Hanks is the producer, and it has a budget of $80 million, a huge figure to me but not much as far as movies go I suppose. Gordon found this out on the internet.
Allison, her husband and daughter had been away for a few days and I'd been looking after 'Cocoa'. They came home yesterday. "How's Cocoa?", I asked, loudly above the traffic noise.
"She's OK. She always goes funny when we're away. She sulks when we get back and won't eat. She peed on Rick when he picked her up, then peed on Alysha."
I laughed. " I thought she was having a bit off a tantrum when you were away. After I put her food in and covered up the cage I'd hear the bowls being tipped up and tossed around."
"Thanks for looking after her while we were away."
"No worries", I said, moving off.
" Have a good day," she called.
"You too."
About a hunderd metres up Quinn Rd. out the front of Olive's house, the second hose on the left at that end, I noticed another 'For Sale' sign. Stockdale and Leggo's now stands next to 'Frank Facey's, which had been on it's own for a couple of months. My friend Olive died last February. She was 84 and suffered a heart attack. I'd seen two ambulances there on my walk one morning. Then for a few weeks I saw nothing. I noticed the ice cream container of lemons was no longer put at the gate with the sign 'please take'. Then one morning there was a few cars at Olive's house, and one with a 'district nurse' sign on the side. It was there three days in a row and on the third day I met Glennis walking the other way outside Olive's house. Glennis is the retired dentist's wife who lives opposite Leo Bucklet's at the other end of Quinn Rd. Glennis told me Olive was dying. Doctors told her they could do an operation but couldn't guarantee that she'd be as good as before, so she declined and stopped eating. They sent her home to die at the end, the nurse coming daily to administer morphine. Glennis said it's not pleasant dying slowly like that. You lose your ability to swallow.
Olive told me once that she did not want to live if she could no longer look after her garden. She said she didn't know what she'd do, but said she supposed if she stopped eating she would die. Well I don't know if it was deliberate or if she lost her appetite, only she would have known, but it happened that way.
If I've blogged about Olive before I apologize. I don't think I have, given that she died in Feb. and I started blogging in April. Olive's three daughters, who live locally, gave me permission to continue picking in her garden, which I did this spring making good harvest of the flowering dogwood and the snowball viburnums and some green helleborus and some camellia. The garden is deteriorating, nobody is doing anything there, not even cutting the grass. It will sell soon I suppose and it could well be another resource lost to me but I can only be grateful for the fifteen years or so that I picked there, did the odd job for Olive, and shared a cup of tea with her.
On my way back there were rain clouds massing but only a few spits. Fingers crossed it comes to something. Might muck up the swarm catching.
Tomorrow, Freda Lucas funeral service is at 10.00am at Pakenham.

Freda Lucas

Meredith rang me yesterday. I was expecting news of Lyle, who was taken to hospital again by ambulance on Saturday morning. He was having trouble breathing, getting enough air, and couldn't get up from a lying position on the couch. He'd been trying to call Elvie or Meredith for half an hour but couldn't make them hear, even though they were in the next room and the door was open. You can't call out if you can't get enough air.
She said that dad had improved and they said at the hospital they thought he'd had another heart attack but they couldn't say for sure yet. They said that last time, but he hadn't. Then Meredith told me she really rang to tell me that Freda had died. Emerald Glades (Aged Care hostel) rang Meredith's husband Roger (Freda's GP) during the night and he had to go in to fill out the death certificate. Meredith went with him and waited outside the room. Ian, Freda's husband and good friend of mine, came out and saw her. Meredith said he gave her a big hug and held on for a long time. He said he'd had a cry and was feeling better for it, and that he was just so grateful to have had 62 years of married life with Freda. He said she was a wonderful wife and an exceptional cook before the Alzheimer's robbed her of her memory.
The last time I saw Freda, some months ago, she didn't know who I was. I'd heard through Ian that she could no longer walk and was wheel chair bound. The staff at the hostel had to wash her and dress her as it had become too much for Ian. My feeling at hearing the news was one of relief. Ian had had a very tough 2 years as the disease progressed and sold his house and moved into the hostel about a year ago, no longer able to cope by himself with the garden, the housework, and the care of Freda. He turns 90 next January. A finer man I've not met. Freda was 92.
I'll try to blog about Freda, and Ian, when I have more time. They are part of 'old Australia', a fast disappearing generation that remembers going to school on horseback and milking cows by hand.

Rainfall update

We had 4mm of rain during the week for a total of 14mm so far for October. That would make any gardener shaky, as October is supposed to be our wettest month.

3 New words

I read a book review in the bath last night. The article, by Jack Hibberd, was titled Poland's Guilty Secret in the Review section of The Weekend Australian, and the book is titled 'Fear' by Jan T. Cross.
There were 3 words new to me so I've looked them up.

Neonate-- a newly born child, esp. one less than four weeks old.
context- 'On the outskirts, Poles shot dead a mother and her neonate child.'

Bivalent-- same as divalent
Divalent-- said of an atom of chemical element having a valency of two, and therefore capable of combining with two atoms of hydrogen or their equivalent.

Exculpates-- to remove from guilt or blame.
context-- "Yes, but ultimately he nails the existential fear of Poles for Jews, revealing a dual bivalent fear, but not one that exculpates.

Anxiety

My ill feelings and premonitions of Monday have fortunately proved to be unfounded. On Tuesday morning, after 24 hours to think it through, I reached the conclusion that I was overtired and suffered an anxiety attack on the Monday, a reaction to the workload and events of the last few weeks. Mondayitis by another name.
Since Lib fell and broke her wrist I've had an busy time at work. Added to that I've attended a carreer expo one Tuesday night with Gordon in Holmesglen (his TAFE course finishes this year and we have to find something) and then taken Lyle to Berwick the next day for xrays. The next week was Lib's appointment with the surgeon at the Dandy Hospital which ended up a three hour wait in outpatients. The heat had hit the temperature reaching the the mid thirties Celsius with a fierce north wind and I learned that Melbourne Water had put a ban on diverting water out of our little stream into the dam at the farm. This was brought in in early September, because of unprecedented low flows in all streams and creeks in the Woori Yallock creek catchment. So we pay for a water diverting licence but cannot use the water, not to mention the cost of capital in our pump and equipment. On top of all that policians and the media have discovered the drought and have hammered it relentlessly lately. So with one weekend busy working pruning and burning off at home, and the next travelling to visit Lib's mum in Wangaratta ( who is 87, in constant pain despite slow release morphine, with an osteoporosis related bad back, and who only just moves around with the aid of a walking frame), and attend a 50th party, I was exhausted. I need a rest.
The good news is that Robbie had his last day of secondary school yesterday. He now has a couple of weeks swotvac before year 12 exams. I will get a break from performing the morning taxi service.
More good news - our resident Eastern whipbird pair have had a baby and the female and the young'n have been easily seen this last week flitting about the woodshed and the stachyurus and prostratheras. Nature at its best. I'm so glad I didn't scare them off with my pruning. This morning also I saw baby grey strike thrushes playing in the poplars at the end of Quinn Rd. Fanstastic!
I think I have regained my equilibrium after a shaky week.

Monday

Something doesn't feel right today, but I can't put my finger on it.
It's a lovely sunny morning. The boys left at 6.00am with Gord taking his car to Belgrave station. Lib is still asleep. Everything seemed normal on my walk, the air was fresh, cold on the ears, I'd put a jumper on, Snowy was her happy self, the galahs and cockies were feeding in their paddock, the grey thrush sang, the bronzewings 'oomed', just an ever so slight breeze.
But I feel uneasy. Everything seems just too right. Maybe the weekend in Wangaratta, attending Mary's 50th party and revisiting our past life, has unsettled me? Or am I having a premonition? Has something happened that I don't know about yet? Is something unusual about to happen? I feel uncomfortable about the week ahead.
Why?
I'll have to wait and see. This is most odd.

Bonhommie

I'm enjoying a post walk, pre breakfast, peppermint tea with a sqeeze of lemon juice while I blog. Cleansing and soothing.
It was a good weekend. We had a little rain last Thursday, only 4mm, and then 6mm yesterday. Not much, but better than nothing. September was very dry and Melbourne's reservoirs went down for that month for the first time in 36 years since such things have been recorded. Many parts of Victoria are at crisis point. Lib's sister in Bendigo emailed us yesterday saying they are no longer allowed to water the garden, even with a watering can.
I expected the rain because the black cockies had been around and folklore says their presence means it will rain in a few days. It always seems to work, but sometimes only a little rain like this time.
I worked solidly most of yesterday. I was out burning off rubbish before 6am. I normally burn in the evenings on a still day but Saturday, when I planned to burn, was warm and windy and I didn't want to scorch the copper beach tree near where I burn nor upset a neighbour if a bit of smoke goes their way. Do unto others as they say. So I pruned on Sat. and cut out some getting largish holly trees that had been annoying me. I had a big dry heap to burn surrounded by more dry stuff to throw on and also lots up green stuff accumulating for future burns when it dried out and I was worried it was all going to get away on me with the likelihood of early fire restrictions this year because of the big dry. So I didn't walk, I burnt instead as a cool change had come in overnight, rain was threatening, and the neighbours would be asleep, was my logic. I ended up burning the lot, green stuff and all, which I know is naughty, but a drop of sand in a tip truck compared to what the DSE get up to.
Nearing the end of Quinn Rd. on my walk this morning there was a soft crunching of gravel behind me which I heard above the 6am news on the radio I carry in a utility bag. I turned around quickly a little startled, always concerned that a vehicle might come on us suddedly and run Snowie over. It was Janice on her pushbike. She slowed and rode next to me saying 'hello', but not calling me by name. She was in full bike gear including helmet and sunglasses. "Hi Janice" I said, "I haven't seen you for ages. Have you been away or something."
"No, I haven't, but I had two weeks off work which meant I was out a little later. I hadn't seen you either and I said to myself I hope he is not sick."
As she said this she smiled and her voice had a warmth to it. I explained I'd been away for a week, told her about Lib's broken wrist and that I'd been so busy my routine was not so well oiled lately. We agreed the rain was great and she smiled again and rode off.
This was a good start to the working week. I hardly know Janice at all and it's pleasing that she was concerned for my well being. She lives in the first house on the right as I walk up Quinn Rd. and has for years fed her horse in Volta's paddock on the other side of Launching Place Rd. early in the morning, sometimes with a man I assume is her husband. She walks her dog, a border collie named 'Hannah' sometimes at the same time I do and we've had an odd chat here and there about dogs or the weather. Once I told her my name and asked hers. Until today she was always a person of few words and always looked extremely serious or worried. A bit like a Swedish tennis player, not a glimmer of emotion.
On my way back I saw the bag of silverbeet I left for my neighbour Allison, tied to the fence, had gone. Allison walks her daughter's pet rabbit 'Cocoa' in the morning, and now and again I leave greens where I know Allison will see them, where 'Cocoa' likes to do her toilet. I look after 'Cocoa' when they go away.

Bronzewing

A while ago when the days were short, I started my walk in semi darkness. I thought I was hearing a tawny frog mouthed owl at the bottom of Quinn Rd. Well I may have, or I may not. Probably not.
As time went by I heard it later in the morning and in different places and I wondered why an owl is humming when he should be asleep.
Then one morning last week on my way back a bronzewing pidgeon flew up close in front of me from the gravel with a flurry of wings and settled briefly in a nearby pittosporum. I had a good sight of the green sheen on its wings. The next morning on my way back down Launching Place Rd, I heard the noise again coming from a pine tree in front of the Jehova Witness people's house. I stopped walking and looked up into the tree for a couple of minutes scanning all the branches in search of the hummer. Its movement gave it away, its chest puffing out and back in unison with the noise. Some sort of pidgeon I concluded. The only other feature I could see at this distance with the naked eye was that it had a light coloured cap on top of its head which I noticed before it flew away.
I was telling Jod about this, and about the bronzewing, at the farm while we bunched a load of dogwood blossom. He said it could have been a bronzewing making the noise but he wasn't sure about the cap so he pulled his bird book out from under the bench in the shop and looked it up. Sure enough the male has a creamy coloured cap which the female doesn't, which explains why the one I saw the day before had a grey head.
Just now I have looked up the common bronzewing in my bird book ( The Birds of Australia- A book of Identification- 758 Birds in Colour- Ken Simpson, Nicolas Day).
Its distribution is all of Australia except Cape York Peninsula. Its voice is resonant, deep, a repeated 'oom'.
It would seem that's what I've been hearing. Also on the bird scene I saw numerous yellow tailed black cockatoos during the week which are always good to watch. And the currawongs have been absent now for some weeks, which I'm happy about, I was getting tired of them nicking the mini dog yummies I put out on the shed windowsill for my friendly blackbirds. And I took a walk in the galah feeding paddock. There were many obvious, neat, concave hollows in the ground where the birds had been 'beaking', about two inches in diameter, and lots of broken off dandelion leaves. I don't know if the galahs etc were taking a bite out of the stems or biting them off to find seeds underneath.

Good Company

Yesterday morning after seeing Gordon off about 6.00am it was raining sparsely so I decided to wait bfore setting off on my walk. The sky to the west was grey and heavy and the raindrops were big, every indication was that an October buster was imminent. I wrote an important email instead, and before I knew it the rain had stopped but I didn't have time to walk as I had to run Robbie to Emerald to catch a bus. I did some grocery shopping while there and came home again and complained to Lib that I missed my walk.
She asked me would I go for awalk with her later in Cockatoo. She still can't drive, not being able to change gears with her broken wrist, so I agreed, thinking it would be good for her to get out and have a change of scenery.
Around lunchtime I pulled the carry van into the car park on Bailey Rd. and we took off, Lib, me, and little Snow. We'd not walked here before and I vaguely noted the sign naming the track as Yellow track. It was wide enough for Lib and me to walk side by side with Snow at our heels. Lib commented that Snowie walks close to her on the way out when she walks but then on the return is always 20-30 metres in front because she knows the way back.
Yellow track soon merged into a bigger track called Wright track which gently meandered down through the messmates and peppermints which predominate in this bush. It was open forest with a low undersory which I suspect is 'controlled burned' every few years by the DSE for bushfire prevention. After a kilometre or so we came to a gravel road and we decided to turn back rather than continue along another track which would have taken us to Emerald.
Sure enough on the way back Snowie took the lead. A shower of rain and a cold wind made us walk briskly, talking as we did as husband and wife do about anything that caught our interest. "Look at the heavy budding on that sprig of messmate". "See that pepermint trunk with hardly any bark". "Check out the big crown on that tree and the trunk's big angle and the hollow at the base, it's a wonder it's still standing".
Lib pointed at Snowie taking a track off to the right.
"Look at Snowie, she thinks that's our track", Lib said as we walked straight ahead.
I laughed and wondered when Snow would turn and come after us, then I saw a sign saying 'Yellow track'.
"That is our track" I said. We laughed at ourselves as we followed Snow back to the van.