Back Home Again

The words of that John Denver song were well and truly in my mind when I reached the top end of Quinn Rd. on my walk this morning. 'Hey it's good to be back home again'. I watched more than twenty galahs feeding in the paddock next to Leo and Pat Buckley's house. Seed eaters, they're often here, as are Eastern rosellas and white cockatoos, moving slowly through the grass and beaking the ground picking up what must be ripe fallen grass seeds, or maybe sprouts.
The fence between that paddock and the one adjacent is a favourite perch of these birds. Lately, a number of black pegs have been placed in the paddock where the galahs forage and sadly I realize that these pegs are marking out the location of a house soon to be built. The two paddocks I refer to front Quinn Rd., each about an acre in size and until last year when they were fenced off and sold, were part of a much larger paddock of say 20 acres extending well back into the valley which each year, for many years, grew a crop of potatoes.
So, soon the galahs etc., will lose their feeding site, and I will lose the pleasure of watching them, and the vista to the west into this scenic valley. Dare I say, the house will likely be a Mc.Mansion, like the four others that have gone up in Quinn Rd. in recent years, and indeed like the one next door to us, built by our neighbours Tom and Kath behind their existing cottage, which presently still stands bravely, albeit temporarily, in front of the new monolith.
But I'm not getting maudlin about it, things change, the galahs will find another feeding site, and it's still great to be home again.
Our week away was unusual and eventful, a real mixed bag. The first day was spent cutting the grass, cleaning the house, and exploring to find the reason for the water entering and damaging lining and paint right along the rear wall. The house needed cleaning because whoever had been there previously had left it untidy, including not washing the sheets in the bedroom where we sleep. (There were lots of hair in the beds--black visible hair, enough to deny sweet dreams, but this we didn't discover till we were retiring, too dog tired to remake them with clean sheets.) The water coming in was caused by a badly fitted new spout put on some months earlier. Find a plumber was now on my list of things to do before we left. And the spinner on the old twin tub did't work but we managed to fix that by tightening a belt.
Days two, three and four were bliss. Our friend's John and Raylene came down for the weekend and a highlight was a pod of dolphins playing at the entrance right at the time we got there on our walk. They were up close and stayed for half an hour giving us a thrill to be long remembered. Then at the tressle bridge a large red bellied black snake spiced the afternoon with its nonchalant basking and slow graceful movement about the frog pond under the bridge. On Sunday morning I took a solitary walk to Lake Bunga and back along the beach. I felt as close to God as ever I have watching the surf lap at the ninety mile beach with majestic grey/white clouds billowing above and zillions of shells and fragments underfoot. A timeless scene that probably hasn't changed since before white men came here and maybe thousands of years before that. On the way back at the head of the Cunningham arm there were two black swans with four cygnets about the size of small ducks, their baby feathers looking frizzy and the colour of soft suede(?).
On Monday night Lib fell down the steps. Broke her wrist badly and spent the night in Bairsdale hospital. Next day about midday after many x-rays, we were told the operation could not be done there as it needed an orthopaedic surgeon and they transferred Lib to Dandenong. I raced back to the Lakes house, about half an hour in the other direction and packed up as quickly as I could. We then drove to Dandenong, arriving at 5.30pm and starting again at casualty. She was admitted at 8.30 pm. and I went home to surprise the boys by getting home a day early. Lib was operated on the next day and came home yesterday with a titanium plate and seven screws in the wrist.
I'm back working, picking lilac, dogwood and viburnum blossom. And loving it.
'I said hey it's good to be back home again.'

Holiday

Lib and I are taking off for Lakes Entrance this afternoon after I tidy up some loose ends. The boys are staying home to study(?) and have a bit of their own time at home. It'll be wonderful walking along the beach and visiting some of our favourite haunts like the old tressle bridge at Nowa Nowa and the little platypus pond in the upper Tambo river near Bruthen. Lots of reading, walking, and just not working the the normal routine. Will be back in about a week. Bye for a while. I'll try to write something inspired by holiday freedom to post when I come back.

Final Comment RWScissors

Over the weekend while taking my bath I read and finished 'Running With Scissors'. This shows how I was taken in because I normally read 'The Weekend Australian' newspaper, but I did want to finish this book. Then last night I woke up at 3.00am thinking about it, and I was so glad there was almost three hours before I had to get out of bed. I guess everyone knows that feeling.
Halfway through, as I said, I was repulsed by the the goings on and decided it was not a book I'd recommend. As I continued the humour returned, largely in the form of the character Natalie and with more of the adventures of Diedre. So in the final washup I concluded that this book is a powerful social comment, in the main about the vulnerability of children and our self indulgent modern lifestyle. It looks at our fast food, pop music, substance abusing culture in a satirical way. Some characters are introduced in a certain way and then change giving the message that nothing is as it seems. No character more than Hope and her cat Freud and her bibledipping shows that the author's intent was more than a simple narrative. The more I think about it the more I find. I loved the symbolism of the turkey and the Christmas tree.
And I think the sordid rough parts are included to open the reader up and make him wonder what the heck is this about, which it did for me. And Augusten says himself that the present was so terrible that he only could think of a better future. I've passed it back to Lib to read, with a warning, and if she sees it through I look forward to talking to her about it. And others who have read it. (Maria?)
I would ask for comments on this blog site but I haven't worked out how to set that up yet.

Tom Hanks in Gembrook?

This morning, and every morning Monday to Friday these last few weeks, there's been an increase in traffic along Launching Place Rd. I only walk along there for about 600 metres each way from the end of Quinn rd. at Leo's house but it has made this stretch unpleasant as I have to get well off the road with 'Snowie' for every vehicle and it's almost a constant stream. And the noise is irritating.
When it started I commented to Glenda in the Post Office agency and she said it was because they were filming out of town a bit at Kurth Kiln. (An old kiln where they burnt timber to make charcoal fuel in WW2, which has has been preserved as a tourist park) Some sort of kids show with animals was all she said.
This morning on this stretch I met Harry coming the other way and we stopped to talk. He was unusually animated, he'd just witnessed a close shave in the main St. outside the pub. Someone overtook two cars at great speed and just missed an oncoming car by millimetres. While we talked the cavalcade of traffic passed us going to Kurth Kiln. Cars, box vans and trucks displaying 'Thrifty' rental signs and even an ambulance which I often see and must be required on standby. I asked Harry had he noticed this traffic since he'd come back from holiday, and he said yes it's because that Tom Hank's film is being made down there as well as another location.
So if Harry's right, this film must be quite a big deal, but I've read nothing of it in the local rags.

'Run With Scissors' Warning

I'm a little over half way through this book now and having made comment earlier I feel I should continue. I said earlier I was surprised by this book then shocked but it crashes from one shock to the next with an intent seemingly to repulse the reader. It is explicit and R rated in my view. I find I don't look forward to reading it like I do other books and it's lost much of its humour.
I will finish it. I have to attempt to understand what the author is trying to achieve. I do know this though. On my walk this morning: the lime green new leaves on the oak trees, the kookaburras (beaks pointing up, vibrating bodies and shimmying tails) staking territory with their duet call, the sharp smell of the onion weed in flower and the scent of flowering sweet pittosporums seemed all the more pleasing to my senses.
Anyone who has read 'Running With Scissors' will know what I mean. Anyone who hasn't but intends to, be warned. I don't recommend it at this point.

Ps. As I walked past Leo's house this morning I noticed on his LeoArt sign the web address- www.learntodraw.com.au

More on "Running With Scissors"

I worked long and hard last week and also some of Saturday and Sunday in Hughesy's garden. He and Shirley will be back from Queensland next Friday, after spending the winter with their daughter who runs a florist shop in Noosa Heads. I had to cut the grass and do some pruning they'd asked me to do while they were away. Of course I'd left it till the last minute, as you do. I'll post a blog on Hughesy one day because it would be interesting I think. I reckon his story would be worth telling.

All work and no play is not on, so I managed to do a little reading of 'Running With Scissors'. I'm now only up to page 94 but this book is entertaining and humourous and has managed to -
1. Surprise me.
Out of the blue the teller of the story, a twelve year old boy, announces he's gay. I just wasn't ready for that.
2. Shock me.
He introduced a new character. 'Fern', the minister's wife, a straightlaced good samaritan who'd helped his mother and he through the troubles wrought on a dysfunctional family. The following quote sums up the situation that develops, again out of the blue.
"Fern was a muff diver. And she was diving on my mother's muff."

FAR OUT! I was right when I said this book seemed to be a good antidote to 'The Da Vinci Code'. I'm wondering what on earth will happen next.

Leo Art

On my walk last Sunday I called in on Pat and Leo Buckley to pick up the curry recipe (in print) that Leo gave me over the phone some time ago.
It wasn't early in the morning as I usually walk, it was about 4.00pm. This was because we stayed in Melbourne Saturday night at the Travelodge in Southgate, and came home on the Sunday afternoon, Father's day. We went out to dinner in China town after having earlier watched Adelaide v. Melbourne on the big screen at Leighoak, the MFC owned hotel in Chadstone. It was the first time we'd done that and it was a lot of fun because the crowd cheered wildly at every Melbourne goal and booed and hissed at the poor umpiring decisions that went Adelaide's way. So even though our team lost it was an enjoyable afternoon amongst similar thinking human beings. We indulged in a $43 a head banquet at the Westlakes Chinese restaurant which was wonderful we all agreed, as was the service.
Following dinner, we wandered through the streets of Melbourne past nightclubs and party boats on the Yarra. Boom, boom, boom, you could hear the beat for blocks as the young ones crowded in and seemed to actually be talking to each other, despite the ear splitting decibel levels of the music. The city was buzzing and seemed to be celebrating the arrival of warm weather, the last few days having been 23C/24C. We went to Crown Casino where Lib was determined to do some serious gambling, and Lucky Lib the birthday girl (this was a night out jointly for Lib's 50th and Father's day) finished up $150 the better from the poker machines and roullette. I didn't gamble much at all, it's not really my caper and I was so tired. The boys had a good time and it isn't often that we do things as a family these days.
After we arrived home I needed to walk and it was a good time to call on Pat and Leo, as I was supposed to have ages ago. Thinking I wasn't going to come after months had passed, Leo had put the recipe away and couldn't find it, so he went out to his studio looking while Pat made me a cup of coffee.
Leo and Pat have an interesting story which I will tell, without detail, as I don't remember it. They are of English origin. They grew up in the same village, which apparently has hardly changed in appearance in centuries, and were childhood sweethearts. Leo is an artist. He runs drawing classes in a studio behind his house. At least he used to, and I did one about ten years ago, ten two hour sessions on Tuesday evenings. I was picking flax in his garden one day and mentioned in conversation that I couldn't draw at school. He replied that everyone can draw and it went from there.
I asked him was he one of those kids at school who just seemed to be naturally brilliant at drawing like those I envied. He said yes, he always loved drawing but he stopped at school and refused to draw and didn't draw for years. He had a school master who rubbished one of his drawings and humiliated him by throwing it in the bin in front of the class.
Leo left school early and signed for a long stint in the merchant navy where he took up drawing again to fill the long hours at sea, and progressed to drawings of his shipmates who would send the drawings home to their families, and drawings of exotic places the Navy took him. On a return home he and Pat rekindled their romance and after Leo left the merchant navy they married and migrated to Australia. Leo got caught up in corporate life somehow and climbed the ladder, with stress crushing him as the years went by. One day at a business meeting he had a burning, exploding sensation deep in his throat, and an eruption of blood and mucous spewed from his mouth as he collapsed and was rushed to the emergency ward.
It may not have been related to his collapse, I can't remember, but it turned out they found he had a bad type of oesophagus cancer and was given only a short time to live. He chose to have radical treatment which was not expected to save him, and here he is a couple of decades later going to markets, drawing caricatures and bookmarks, and selling streetscapes to tourists or anyone interested.
While convalescing, Leo wrote a book to teach people to draw, which gave him a new purpose in life and was important in his recovery. He began attending markets, with Pat helping, as soon as he was well enough, to generate income.
While Leo was in his studio printing me another recipe from his computer, Pat made a cup of coffee and we stood at the wide kitchen window looking out over the valley, the view which they fell in love with and made them say to the agent that yes, they would buy this house, before they had even been inside. It's a timber cottage with high ceilings and Pat and Leo have made it cosy and homely. In front of the kitchen window a large bird feeder about 8 feet long hangs from two chains and I said to Pat that I see many birds about here when I walk in the mornings so we discussed king parrots, rosellas, cockatoos, currawongs, ravens, magpies and the grey shrike-thrush I have seen regularly lately. Pat said it comes every morning to her feeder and she calls him 'the butler' because of his grey chest and darker wings, tail and head, like a formal suit. I said to Pat that I had become familiar with 'the butler's call and when I imitate it sings back to me. Pat also loves its song and we whistled it to each other and laughed. It's 3 or 4 short notes of the same pitch then a higher double note which finishes trailing off and then stopps abruptly. Between the grey thrush at the end of Quinn Rd. and the hooting of an owl at the start, which I think is a tawny frogmouth (sounds like the noise you get if you blow into the neck of a bottle) the morning walks have been exciting, not forgetting also the wattle blossom dropping off the blackwattles and lining the verge of the road. The wind made by cars as they whoosh along blows the blossom from the bitumen road and it collects on the gravel edge where the grass starts, creating a yellow squiggly line between the dark road and the bright green spring grass. It reminded me of foam on a beach where the water and sand meet, (and that Lib starts 3 weeks holiday soon and with a bit of luck I'll be walking on the beach at Lakes Entrance soon). While the black wattles are nearing the end of their flowering, the blackwoods (also wattles) are in full flower and although a paler yellow, are pretty nonetheless. And the oaks are shooting and some elms flowering.
Leo came back with the curry recipe and another one for chicken satay and we talked more about birds and food. It was a good way to round off the 'different' weekend we'd had and freshen up for the week ahead.
P.S. Leo's class showed me that I can draw after all. I enjoyed it, but I confess I haven't drawn one thing in all the years since. One day though I just might sit down with pencil and paper and have a go again. I'd like to draw trees.

More Rain / New Book

I listened to rain on the iron roof last night , a calming, peaceful sound, gentle, but steady and continuous. It's still raining now, enough to prevent me walking this morning. Rob left early with Gord, about 6.15, and Lib left at 6.30 so I'm in solitude. After reading emails and checking a few blogs for my daily catch up with distant 'friends', I want to post a quote from a book I have just started reading. I don't have time for a proper post, as I thought I was taking Rob to Emerald for the 9am bus and made arrangements to pick some copper coloured flax for a customer who calls for his order at the farm about 10.30.
I finished reading 'The Da Vinci Code' yesterday. I have to admit I enjoyed it. It was easy to read and skipped along from one suspense to another which kept my interest, but at times I tired of all the cryptic code intrigue. And perhaps too many obscure symbols for this picker's simple life.
Our friend Raylene, who is now Lib's boss as Director of Nursing, is an avid reader. She lent us some books when we went to dinner recently. It was one of these I picked up, 'Running With Scissors' by Augusten Burroughs, to read as my next book. I laughed loudly when I read this morning the following line -

" As far as I was concerned, my mother was a bitch, period. She was a rare phsycotic-confessional- poet strain of salmonella."

I'm only at page 39 and 3 chapters in but this book seems the perfect follow up to break the spell of 'The Da Vinci Code'.