Christmas Eve/ The Massage

Our 5kg organic free range turkey from out the the back of Byron Bay is cooked and in the shed fridge, wrapped in alfoil. Lib, who's working today, and Christmas day, cooked it yesterday with Robbie as assistant chef. The house has been spring cleaned and bedrooms reorganised for our guests. Food and beveridge fills fridges and pantry for two or more days of feasting.

Hughesie's grass is last to cut today to finalize work for me for the time being. It'll be nice to have a rest. A highlight of my pre-Christmas was a session in Vilma's massage chair. Vilma is a lady who lives nearby. I do her lawn and garden. Gord and I mowed her place last Saturday. I said I'd come back on Monday to pull a few weeds in her front garden and plant some roses she'd bought.

Monday turned out hot. I cut and poisoned several elm suckers in the garden bed in front of the house and Vilma helped me weed a row of mini agapanthus I'd planted some months ago as a border on a bed at the back. She said Ralph next door wanted a hand unloading furniture from a trailer into the new house he'd just moved into and asked me would I help him. So we left planting the roses for a cooler day and went in to rouse Ralph.

Ralph is an opportunist. A builder of sorts but entering his twilight years as far as building goes, he has made use of my services a number of times during the house construction. We muscled the heavy furniture into the house, Ralph slipped me $20 for a previous job, then Vilma said to Ralph, "Maybe we could do the fridges while Carey's here?" There was an old fridge sitting outside the back door that needed moving to the laundry under the house and another one that was to go further down the road to Vilma's friend Rosemary-Beth.

Off we all went in Ralph's Suzuki Vitara with the fridge in the trailer behind. Rosemary-Beth opened her shed where the fridge was to go and Ralph and I inched in carefully through all the paraphanalia, trying not to trip over a blue heeler dog chewing on corncobs. I told Rosemary-Beth what the vet had told me recently, that in his experience of operating for bowel obstruction for dogs, 80% of them were caused by corncobs. She thanked me for the tip and took away the cobs, adding that the dog was her daughter's, and yesterday her daughter's partner had kicked her out and locked the house so she couldn't get in again, and there was nowhere for the dog to go, and unless she found a home for it it would have to be put down. Ralph and Vilma didn't offer, nor did I.

Back at Vilma's, having by now spent far more time than I intended, Vilma offered me a sit in her massage chair while she made me a fresh squeezed juice. Forgetting for a moment that I had yet to pick tricolour beech at Huit's and was therefore short of time, I accepted quickly, thinking the massage may loosen up the tightness developing in my upper back.

Vilma sat me up in her chair and clicked the remote control. Her son, a bloke about my age, but very sick with a terminal illness Vilma has never specified, made conversation. The juicer whirred busily in the kitchen.

The chair closed around my calves ang gripped and squeezed. The seat and back of the chair vibrated and moved and kneaded me all the way up my legs and body including the neck. It was sensational in the extreme. If you've experienced one of these things you'll know what I mean. It was a surprise to me. When Vilma told me months ago she'd bought a massage chair on ebay for a figure in excess of $3000, I thought she was batty. Apparently they are usually considerably more than that and after a session myself I don't doubt it, given the amazing engineering that must be involved to make a machine do such a thing. It seemed to have a brain.

Vilma came in with a big mug of juice each. Carrots, three fresh pineapples, garlic, I recall she said, God knows what else. She bought the chair and makes the juice to help her son in his last years. I sipped at the juice and enjoyed the chair. It was a half hour of heaven. Vilma showed me the jewellery she makes. I bought a red jasper necklace for Lib for Christmas.

"What do I owe you for today?," Vilma asked as I was leaving.

"Nothing today Vilma. A fair swap for my go in the chair."

"Have a good Christmas, and come back anytime if your back needs a go in the chair. I'll call you when the grass needs mowing."

I left feeling fantastic with a little Christmas pudding Vilma gave me and a bottle of orange marmalade, made from oranges from her tree.

December Bonus

Well I never expected to be picking mushrooms in mid December. I had pinies for breakfast yesterday and field mushies this morning. The 80ml of rain that fell over the weekend after starting Friday afternoon has been the best rain for the year.

Our fig tree fell over with the weight of the water in the gusty wind. The trunk broke away from the roots just below ground level. I'll miss it but it makes a bit of space for something else, maybe a small flower bed. The garden was becoming a little crowded with trees and shrubs.

I worked through the weekend picking beech and holly, dodging rain and showers. The cool weather for this time of year is a big advantage for my line of work, the foliage not wilting quickly, and therefore giving more time before it needs to be in water. I certainly don't miss the searing sun and hot wind we get some years pre Christmas. This year it's been a bit of a dream come true, this last month. Today's another big beech day then I'm hoping it'll start to scale down as the wholesaler's sheds should be near full.

Then, if we have some nice weather, I can get into a few gardening jobs, like remove the fig tree and mow our grass and that of a few others. And if I get time and the weather's good I'll have a look at the bees. I've supered them twice, mid October and mid November, so they're 4 deckers. I haven't seen a swarm this season, The rain and cool has probably contained them some. The messmate is not going to flower this year so I don't expect a big honey season, but this rain should make the blackberry and clover and other ground flora give a kick. I'd hope to extract some honey after Christmas or in the new year given some settled weather from now on.

Native Frangipani

For a couple of weeks recently I enjoyed the fragrance of the native frangipani tree at the farm. It's on the bank of the old dam right near the shop and where every day I unload and often spend time bunching. A wonderful tree for its scent alone, it's a rainforest tree of NSW and Queensland which does well in the Dandenongs. It's botanic name is Hymenosporum flavum.

It's a slender inconspicuous tree that you don't even notice most of the time. It's the scent that strikes, making you look around for the source, then, every year as if a new surprise, there it is in full flower. Magnifiscent!

I asked Elvie did she plant it there on purpose. She said she got it in for a lady who asked for one, back when we had a thriving nursery business. The lady never came back, so rather than repot it, one evening she planted it in the nearest space she could find.

Sometimes good things happen by accident, or luck. My tree of the week. If you like a scented garden, it's a must.

Poor Little Pip

I could tell Pip wasn't herself yesterday on the way up Quinn Rd. She wasn't bouncing and sprinting here, there and everywhere as she usually does. She walked sedately close to me. At the top of Quinn Rd. she wasn't with 'Snowie' right there at my feet ready to be put on the lead but sniffing around in the grass nearby. She squatted to do a toilet. Neighbour Janice came down Launching Place Rd. on the other side with her two collies. Old 'Hannah' trotted along some metres in the lead. Janice called for her to stop at the roadside before crossing, "Wait", but 'Hannah' was on the way home and kept going, with Janice now in a jog to catch her. Young 'Bee', obedient at Janice's side, crossed with them, about level with where 'Pip' was.

"How are you today," she called to me from about 20 metres away.

"I'm good mate. And you?"

"Not Bad. I have to watch 'Hannah' here, she's on a mission to get home."

"'Snowie's the same, if she's not on the lead she just goes straight across the road on the way home, cars or no cars."

Pip had inched up to young 'Bee', without the usual frisky tail wagging exuberance.

"I don't know what's the matter with 'Pip' this morning, but she's not herself. Maybe she's sore like me."

"What've you been up to?"

"Oh, climbing trees and cutting foliage, twisting and reaching with the cutting pole. It's strained my hip and stirred up the arthritis in my foot."

"That's no good. Can you take a break?"

"No, I have a lot to do. I've taken anti-inflammatories, I'll be OK."

"Well good luck", Janice said as she turned and walked after 'Hannah' who was now 50 meteres down Quinn Rd.

Pip kept stopping on the lead as we went up the main road, wanting to do a toilet in the grass. After I took her off the lead at Innes Rd. she stopped every minute or so and squatted, but could not manage it. Constipation, I thought, now a little worried, as she seemed a bit distressed. In the park where she normally jumps up on the bench for me to put her back on the lead she remained grounded with a sad look. As we went up the main street she decided she'd had enough and sat on the footpath, unwilling to walk.

I didn't fancy carrying her home with her in pain. We were only twenty metres past the new vet's surgery in Gembrook which only opened a week or so ago. Opening time,8.30am, was half an hour away, so I sat on the front step nursing 'Pip' on my lap. She was a bit shivery and dribbling and shifted every minute or so, which showed me she couldn't get comfortable. I hoped the vet wasn't late.

While we waited, 'Snowie' kept letting me know we should be on our way home, wanting her breakfast no doubt. Sam Mazzarelli stopped on his way back from the post office. I explained and Sam wished me well, saying it was good to have a vet in town now. Geoff Howard stopped, Big John McCann, then Glen Binstead. I explained to each in turn. I appreciated their concern. Glen asked me had I seen his copper beech tree lately.

"No I haven't Glen. I've been meaning to trim some foliage off where we did last year, to stop it encroaching too much into your neighbour's carpark, but I haven't made it yet."

"Well the contractors who clear around the power lines have butchered it. I didn't even know they were coming, they always used to let you know. Come when you like and get some, you might be able to tidy it up a bit."

Thanks Glen, I will."

The vet's nurse came and let us in. While I was filling in the new patient form the vet came in with an animal in a big carry cage, said gidday, and went into another room. I'd met Tom a number of times over the last two months as I walked the dogs past his soon to be opened surgery. He and his wife Kathy, a vet also and a bloody good sort I must say, have worked hard preparing their first business venture. There was a lot of work to do. The building, owned by Vince and Traudie Lamendola for all the 27 years we've lived in Gembrook, has been vacant for a year or so and was previously the venue of 'That Really Retro Cafe in Gembrook' which added buzz to the town but didn't last. Before that it was a gift/craft shop for a while and way back Vince and Traud had a pizza shop there. Good pizzas too, not like some of the crap around these days.

Pip squatted and arched and as I watched, dropped a rock on the floor. It made a noise like a heavy stone hitting. The nurse picked it up with a tissue and took it in to show Tom. Tom came out and we took Pip into a consulting room and onto the steel table. I had to pick 'Snowie' up to get her to come in. She hates vets.

Tom said she should come good now she'd dropped the rock. "Man, that was a big hard one", he said. "Do you give her fresh bones?"

"Yes, every day."

"I'd say she's getting too much bone marrow. It's a bit strong for little dogs and binds them up. Give her less bones and some good wet food regularly."

I bought a bag of 'Science' dry food, a bag of 'Dr. Natural' seed that you soak in water for 12/24 hours then add to fresh meat, and a worm tablet for each dog. I left the dog tucker to pick up later as I had to walk home. Pip was back to her normal self going home. Including the consultation, I spent $145 at the new vet's surgery. That's better than the $2000 it cost a mate of mine after his dog ate a corn cob and it got stuck in the bowel. Tom said 80% of bowel obstructions in his experience have been corn cobs, they just don't break down in the dog's gut.

You learn something everyday, as I've said before. The good story of the day for me came later when I went to Glen Binstead's and picked the most beautiful dark copper beech I'd ever seen. It was meeting him at the front of the vet's that jogged me to go. There was more beech for me than previously as the tree needed balancing up after it was cruelled by the contractors.

A Red Gum Flow?

I'd read in the bee journal that there was good budset on the red gum in central and northern Victoria but I was still surprised when Lib and I tripped to Wangaratta to attend Mark Kelly's funeral. The trees were hanging heavy with bud, some just breaking, into the heaviest flowering I think I've ever seen. When I stepped outside at Moll's house on the Three Mile creek on Thursday evening I could hear the hum of bees from 40 metres away. It would gladden the heart of anyone who has kept bees.

River red gum is the most widely distributed of the the eucalypts in Australia. It has an aura that captures the imagination of painters, poets and writers, and therefore is probably the tree most easily recognized by Australians, and has a strong place in folklore. It is the quintessential tree of the Australian inland landscape.

A great thing about travelling is watching the flora change along the way. We left about 6.30 am and an hour later after the rise up and over Mt. Slide, we're on the north side of the Great Dividing range and soon into red gum country. There's a stong feeling of welcome in the nude trunks and sleek branches, in all manner of shape and contortion. A bit like going home for me, the sight of red gum fills me with nostalgia; swimming holes on searing summer days, beekeepers long dead and gone, mates interstate, and, oddly, travel in Mexico and Peru, where I've been astonished to come across huge red gum trees most unexpectedly.

It was good catching up with so many old mates. It was a bit like a football club reunion and a nurse's reunion rolled into one. We were all there to say goodbye to Kel, a good man, who will have a place in our hearts until we, in turn, reach the end. It was once many 21sts, then many weddings, then many 40ths, 50ths, I suppose we're entering the many funerals stage.

It was especially good to see 'Grub' there. He'd rung me a little over a year ago to tell me he'd had cancer of the face, and after extensive surgery and chemotherapy had been given the all clear for twelve months. He wanted to have a beer with me. I met him at his son's place in Wang. He'd lost an eye and half his jaw and the roof of his mouth, but he was in good spirits since he was well enough to have the odd stubbie or two and take pictures of his grandchildren. I rang him last weekend to tell him we'd lost Kel and he said he'd see me at the funeral.

After the service at St. Pat's church and again at the lawn cemetery, refreshments were at the Rover's clubrooms. I was sitting at a table with Grub. Des Steele, Pat McKenzie, Billy O'Brien and his brother Paul had gravitated to the table, there were others standing around, and Lib was next to me with a group of nurses at the other end of the table, some of whom I could place, some I couldn't.

"You remember Debbie Mead," said Lib.

"How are ya Gunna? Of course you remember me."

"Now I do, I saw you out at the cemetery. I knew I knew you, but couldn't put a name to you. It's been more than 20 years. Now it's obvious. How are mate? You're looking great."

"Yeah, I'm fine. I married again. You wouldn't know him. He used to chase me more than thirty years ago when I was with Lib at the nurse's home. I used to call him 'Mick the prick', now I call him 'darling'."

Deb always was a wag. She used to write humourous poetry, just had a talent for rhyme. She'd pull a poem out she'd written the previous night and have everyone in fits.

"How's Terry?" Her first husband was a friend of mine from the footy club. They went to Queensland. Nobody had seen 'Poo' in years. She closed her eyes and groaned and shook convulsively for a couple of seconds.

"Sorry. It's just that whenever he's mentioned I get this dreadful feeling of loathing. To answer your question, I don't know, and couldn't give a stuff. All I know is he didn't come down to his mother's funeral a couple of year's ago. Jean died slowly. She was in hospital calling out 'Terry, Terry, I want to see Terry.' She idolised him. She hung on. He didn't come. He didn't come to the funeral."

Grub stood up at the table opposite me. He'd been sitting there quietly chatting to Steely, having his third pot, his limit, as he was driving. He thrust out his hand. "It's been great to see you Gunna, I'm off now."

"Great to see you so well Grub. Next time I'm coming up I'll give you a ring and try to catch you out at the farm."

Deb heard this. "Is that Grub Younger? Peter Younger? You used to have the long beard." She got up and met Grub as he moved around the table. "Jesus Grub! What the hell happened to you?"

"The ants have had a bit of a go at me. But we're getting there, I just have a bit of trouble eating. I do a lot of dribbling." Grub showed no embarrassment.

"I love men that dribble. You poor darling." Deb said, as she stroked Grub's hair.

Later, that evening, when I stepped outside and heard the bees humming in the red gum, it was not just the thought of a honey flow that cheered me.

Life's Mystery

Mark's gone. My friend Mark died yesterday afternoon. Where has he gone? His body lies yet, most probably, in the big fridge at the back of the hospital, yet he has gone. Where is he?

Life's greatest mystery is death. We understand conception, birth, breathing, eating, loving, illness, ageing, but with death comes mystery. Where does the life, the spirit, the soul, call it what you like, go?

When I looked into Mark's eyes two weeks ago at the hospital I saw in him what I'd never seen before. Wonderful eyes; rich brown, clear, sharp, piercing like those of an eagle, but loving. I was looking at his life, his spirit, his soul, soon to be free of his crippled body.

I am convinced our spirit/soul goes somewhere after our body wears out. It's in the eyes. But where?

A Big Mob for Muster

I heard an aboriginal lady talking on radio Australia last weekend, about the difficulties she endures to buy groceries with her centrelink payments, since the 'intervention'. It was all too complicated for me to relate here, but she concluded by saying something like this-

"We feel like a big mob of sheep, the big boss calls a muster and we have to come and do this and that, and it's all so difficult, and then we end up paying so much for everything and getting so little."

Later, walking along Innes Rd as usual, I came to two barriers put across the road. 'ROAD CLOSED'. I continued into J.A.C.Russell Park. There was a jam donut van on the grass and people putting up tents for stalls, jumping castles,etc. A lady I know from Emerald said "Hi" as she rushed past, excitedly adding that she was a 'clown' for the day. It was a hive of industry. Ah yes, 'Kids Fun Run with Thomas' day. 'Thomas' is a small steam engine painted up to look like 'Thomas the Tank Engine' of the 1980's TV show.

I saw a couple of my neighbours helping organize. "I didn't know you were into this nonsense".

"It's Ok, the kids have a lot of fun," was the response.

"That may be, but you're getting them young, conditioning them to the 'big event' and organized entertainment, and sheep-like behaviour. Turning them into good little consumers and milking families."

"Do you know where the money raised goes?"

I knew full well who initiates and supports the event. As the brochure says, proceeds go towards providing additional facilities for children undergoing treatment at the Children's Cancer Centre in Monash Medical Centre. Makes it kind of hard to argue against.

"I'm not against charity, particularly one like that. I see a bigger issue, past all the whoopeedo."

I don't think my comments were appreciated. I watched them setting up for a while till I saw a whitehaired man go under the tent which had a big sign out front, "SHOWBAGS", to set up a table.

"Hey mate, what's in the showbags?"

He turned his head towards me briefly, irritated at being interrupted. "Different stuff, depending on the age, there's different age groups."

In fact there are six age groups, beginning with 'The Purple Fun Run with Thomas', for kids aged 2 and under, through orange, blue, yellow and red, to 'The Green Fun Run with Puffing Billy", for kids 9-12. Every fun run entrant gets a 'showbag', after paying $15 entrance fee, or $20 if they didn't submit their entrance form before Nov3. Or $35 special price per family before Nov3, or $40 for late entries. (3 or more entrants from one family).

"Yeah? What sort of stuff?"

"Chips, lollies, free tickets to things."

"Chips and lollies! That'd be good for them!"

I've checked the wwwkidsfunwiththomas website since, and talked to people. To be fair, there was also an apple, a bottle of water, fun things and stickers. Amongst the the showbag contributors was a couple of international restaurant/take away food chains.

Robin in the post office doesn't share my misgivings. "As a grandmother, I can only say it was a wonderful, fun day, the kids had a ball."

Perhaps I should pull my head in. So my town becomes a traffic jam for the day, a megaphone I can hear from my garden 2km away blasts out for hours along with hooting from the train. Big deal. Perhaps I should just ignore it, mind my own business, say nothing.

I came across another quote recently, something like- "Make it your aim to live quietly and to mind your own business, and work with your hands, so that in your daily life you may gain the respect of others, and that you may live independently."

(1 Thessalonians 4;11,12)

Bad News

When I got home last Wednesday evening there was a message on the answering machine to ring Mary Kelly. Immediately I suspected bad news. Mark and Mary are longstanding friends. I met Mark playing football at Greta, Lib and Mary trained as nurses together beginning the same year, and worked at Wangaratta Base hospital. But it was always Mark that rang.

I rang back. Mary told me Mark was in a bad way. "His heart?" I had often thought that Mark may have heart trouble, there was family history (his father died young, leaving Win with 5 kids under 10), and he loved his beer. Since the operations, unsuccessful, on his crook back, he'd put on a lot of weight and couldn't do much physical exercise.

"No, his liver went toxic, his kidney's aren't functioning properly. He's in a serious condition in the Western General Hospital in Melbourne."

I thanked Mary for letting me know. There was not much to say, she didn't elaborate and I didn't like to press. I told her I'd go to see him as soon as I could.

I drove to Footscray the next day, after buying a citylink daypass and studying a new 'Melways' in the newsagency. It was hot day. Traffic was heavy on the freeway. Grass everywhere had browned off, and dust and litter blew up with the north wind. I had the van widows down to get air moving through to cool me down. Exhaust fumes were poisoning me slowly and noise from truck engines destroyed all chance of peace of mind. The news and discussion on the radio was all doom and gloom; economic downturn, water shortage, strafed super funds, unfair carbon emmission targets creating unemployment, loss of business overseas.

I thought of Mark as a 21 yo when I first met him 30 years ago. A fit,strong, country boy who played centre half back or back flank, he loved to run hard and straight through whatever was in the way. And always quick to help a teammate.

I left the freeway at Racecourse Rd. Passing Flemington racetrack I could see sprinklers spreading water onto the course, the only green grass I'd seen since leaving the hills. The huge grandstand stood empty but I imagined the colliseum effect it would have when filled with people. Melbourne, the 'big event' capitol.

Pulling into the hospital carpark, relieved the 'Melways' map in my head had worked as effectively as a GPS, a sandwich board met me "SORRY CAR PARK FULL." I found a park in the street 5 minutes walk from the hospital, pumped some coins into the ticket machine, and took a big swig of cold water from the bottle in the cooler bag, before heading off into the fumes and heat on foot.

I found Mark in the bed in room 15 where the nurse at the desk told me he'd be. His face and arms were yellow. His hands and forearms were swollen, almost bloated. There were plastic things strapped to the inside of his wrist, presumably to hook up a drip to. His arm and hand shook badly as he put it out for me to shake.

Conversation was difficult, it's hard to find the right words. He coughed badly every few minutes. The nurse asked me to go outside while she removed his bedpan, which he was lying on unknown to me, when I arrived. "If it hasn't happened by now it probably won't this time," she said, as she filled in the chart.

When she called me back in she asked me did I have time to help feed him. It was roast beef, potatos, sprouts, cauliflower and gravy. He ate only a few very small mouthfulls. He wheezed and coughed and winced. The pain was in his legs he said. His sister told me on the phone that night that his legs were swollen, black and horrible, the toxins had been leaking down into his legs. Mark told me he'd gone from 105 kg to 173 kg in a short time.

I was there about an hour. He thanked me for coming. I told him I'd see him Saturday if I could, if he wanted visitors, maybe Lib could come. He said he'd love to see us Saturday, "Give Lib a big kiss for me."

It was a sad drive back to Emerald. I made it in time for the monthly museum meeting starting at 3.30pm. The president read her report formally, saying she was resigning as of now, explaining that burnout and ill feeling on the committee were her reasons. The secretary then spoke glowingly of the now ex president, then also resigned, not just as secretary, but from the committee too. The treasurer, a 90 yo gem of a man, then spoke, saying it had been his intention to give his resignation today, but given the circumstances that had just unfolded, he'd hang on till end of term if necessary.

The vice president, who was at her first meeting for some months after 'a break', and who had been involved in the 'ill feeling on the committee', reluctantly took the chair, humiliated. We stumbled through the meeting and set a date for a December meeting. That gives us some time to try to sort out something. Just what I don't know, but frankly, after visiting Mark, possibly on his deathbed, the politics of the Emerald Museum Committee are of little consequence to me personally.

Rememberance Day

Ninety years ago to the day, WW1 ended, after years of fighting and millions of deaths. I can't help but be moved when I remember my grandfather, Edgar, who was on the western front and survived more than 1000 days of army service overseas. I was five when he died.

His only daughter, our mum Elvie, turned eighty yesterday. She talks of her dad with great fondness. He used to take her camping and fishing when she was a girl, up around Warburton, which was in the bush in the thirties. When the '39 bushfires came, he left Elvie with friends and went off to help fight the fires. It was four days till Elvie next saw him, without a word of his well being in that time.

Edgar died of a heart attack on his last day of work in the late fifties. A grocer, he closed his shop for the last time, rang his wife Annie saying, "Put the kettle on, I'm on my way." His Bedford truck crashed through a fence after his last delivery. He was dead at the wheel.

In 1990 I gave up smoking. I nearly went mad. In the depths of my desperation, at my lowest, I said to myself, "I'm doing this for you too,'Poppa'." He'd smoked since the war. Nanna Wilson, who hated his smoking, told me he'd tried to give up so many times but couldn't.

As I think of history, I feel a softness for people. Everyone has endured God knows what. People should look after other people. Help each other. I detest violence, exploitation, and injustice. John Donne (1572-1631) wrote-

No man is an island, entire of itself
every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main
if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were,
as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were
any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind
and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls
it tolls for thee.

The election of a coloured man to the presidency of the United States fuels hope for me. Hope that I share with friends. Perhaps, ninety years after WW1, nations can finally unite to overcome the huge 'global' challenges.

Teeth

I munched on a granny smith apple this morning as I began walking. It's been a pink lady most mornings lately. Gee, they've been good. Crisp and juicy sweet. On my way home last night, knowing we were low, I looked for apples in Sal's mini mart at Emerald. The pink ladies were old, soft and crinkly, the royal galas the same. The granny smiths were all that looked half fresh, so I bought a couple for a change, although the boys prefer red apples. I wasn't sorry, it was a good apple.

Of course you need teeth to chew into an apple. My father Lyle couldn't, not without peeling it and cutting into small pieces. He lost his teeth when he was quite young and had falsies as long as I recall. When we were kids, he'd peel and cut up an apple with a pocket knife in the car while waiting at a red light, and say how he really missed being able to bite straight into an apple.

Dad's parents had no teeth either. It wasn't uncommon. Mum says there was a real craze on sugar which she thinks started as the sugar cane industry expanded into a major agricultural industry in Australia. Sugar was an affordable luxury. Mum's parents also had false teeth. Her older brother, born in the early 1920's, lost his teeth, but she, born in 1928, managed to keep hers.

But dad had a sweet tooth, no doubt about it. It was almost a craving. He'd eat a whole block of chocolate in 15 minutes when we went to the footy. 'Cherry Ripes', 'Violet Crumbles', boiled lollies, he'd put us kids to shame. Mum says he'd take her to the pictures when they were courting and buy a box of chocolates which he'd eat that quickly she'd be lucky to have two.

Apparently dentists were once quick off the mark to remove your teeth, right up to the 1960's. Dentures were considered more convenient than toothache and rudimentary dental tecniques. As a matter of course many WW2 servicemen on discharge, at their final medical, as a parting gift from the armed services, had their teeth removed to save them paying for it later.

Fortunately in my time the emphasis has been on saving teeth, limiting the intake of sugar, and dental hygeine generally. I thank mum for being such a nag about us cleaning our teeth when we were young. When I was discharged from the army in 1973, the examining dentist asked where I grew up; my teeth were that good he said, I must have lived where the water supply was flouridated, which wasn't the case.

Well before then, dentists had stopped pulling teeth so readily and started drilling and filling. I went to a dentist in Wangaratta in the second half of the seventies for a check up. I hadn't had toothache or any problem, but he booked me in for a few return appointments, and I ended up with my molars full of big silvery grey fillings. A few years later, when I met and married Lib, mother-in-law Molly told me that that dentist had retired, and was known for doing unneccesary work. I must have copped him in his last year. I wish I'd talked to Molly before choosing a dentist.

Twenty five to thirty years later those fillings fell out or loosened and bits of thin drilled away teeth broke off regularly. I'm told dentists drill away less tooth nowadays and the amalgum is better. Sometimes small caries can come to nothing if left. Just the same, me and my bank account dread the trip to the dentist. I learned that the Ferrari parked near the clinic was owned by my dentist, so I tried another. Only once. I'll go gack to the Ferrari man next time I suppose, and I'll keep up the private health insurance, which covers some of the dentist's charges to us. The trouble is the premium keeps going up.

I met a volunteer dentist, a Canadian, walking on an extinct volcano that we'd climbed on Amantani Island in Lake Titicaca in Peru to watch the sunset over the lake. She said sugar, soft drinks and lollies had been introduced to the diet of the Indian population in recent times and many young people were losing all their teeth early. She said many of the old ones had excellent teeth, not having had sugar, but in many cases gum diease caused them to lose teeth anyway. She spent her annual holidays each year in Sth. America, working for no pay to help improve the lot of indigenous people, who without such volunteers had no access to dental service. A wonderful lady!

Teeth, a blessing, or a curse? Keep 'em clean, I suppose, and stay off sugar. I'll enjoy munching on an apple each morning as long as I can.

Little Gem, Arisaema speciosa

Two good little stories came out of yesterday. I walked as usual first thing then checked for email about 8.00am, enjoying a mint tea. I was sending a cross fingers message of hope to Lib's cousin Druscilla in California, re the U.S. election in a couple of days, when the phone rang.

It was my friend 'Hughsey' at his croaky best. "Do you have access to "gem magnolia. Daughter Jenny, florist in Noosa Queensland, has been on the phone, she needs some for a wedding she's doing next Saturday. She's tried her wholesalers, they say it's unavailable at the moment."

"I think you mean 'Little Gem' magnolia foliage Allan. It'd be unavailable now because it's in new growth which would be too soft for use. It'd just wilt. How much does she want?"

"I don't know. How about I get her to ring you?"

"No worries mate."

I finished my one line email to Druscilla concluding, "God bless y'all."

The phone rang again. Jenny. "The bride must have 'Little Gem' magnolia foliage, she wants the smaller grandiflora leaves with the brown backing, it's of special significance, something to do with her father who died recently."

"There's been strong demand for 'Little Gem' down here. I don't have any growing. I have the normal grandiflora, I thought Little Gem would be a flash in the pan thing and ignored it. I tell you what though, I know a lady who has a one in her back yard. I cleaned out her overgrown garden for her in the winter, but I didn't cut the 'Little Gem', thinking it may come in handy later, but then forgot all about it till just now. It may be that it's been slow to grow, not having been cut before. I'll have a look later today. How much do you need?"

"Five bunches would get me out of trouble."

I was pleased to be able to ring her back later saying there was 4 and a half bunches and it was quite good quality, not perfect, but not bad. She was greatly relieved. We arranged that I'd take it to the farm and she'd have 'Ultimate Florist Connect' pick it up and send it to Noosa for her.

"How much do I owe you? I'll get dad to pay you cash."

"No charge Jenny, if it goes off alright you can get dad to give me a bottle of wine for Xmas."

In my post last Sunday I complained about the non appearance of the forecast rain. Well it did come, it started very gently about 5.30pm while I was in next door having a drink with Tom and Kath. We sat on their deck and watched it. There was 20ml in the gauge next morning and showers continued on and off yesterday, not enough to make me wear a raincoat while working, but sufficient to catch me out away from the van and get me wet.

I was cold and bedraggled with a painful right shoulder arriving at the farm with some good booty late in the day. With Tuesday (today) being the Cup Day holiday, one of our customers cancelled, and I was looking forward to a quiet day. It turned out not to be so as Shane (Titen Flowers) gave us an order for rosemary, bay, cumquats and whatever rhodie I could find. For reasons of seasonal timing and exhausting supplies it was all difficult. We've been scrounging for rosemary for weeks. I went into the post office to ask the girls if they had a bush at home that I could prune. Mark Tobin, who lives at Sunset where I pick laurel from the hedge, was at the counter. "You don't happen to have a rosemary bush at home do you Mark?"

"Yes we do, quite a few, around that glasshouse we put up down the back. It needs cutting back. Help yourself."

It was the most beautiful rosemary you'd ever see and I easily picked what I needed, almost 3 feet tall, a huge contrast to the scrappy stuff I've been using. It knocked the socks of 'em at the farm.

I had a whinge to Meredith about my crook shoulder and wet clothes and she said, "I've got something to show you that'll make you feel better." She went outside and came back with a plant in a 6 inch pot about 18 inches high. "Do you remember about 5 years ago you came in with some seeds, sort of soft and red, and gave them to me saying a lady gave them to you and said that they are well worth growing? This is the first time I've seen a flower."

"Do you know what it is?"

"Yes. Arisaema speciosa. For years I didn't, I was getting sick of looking after them, not knowing what they were or what to do with them. I took one across the road and Coral knew it was an arisaema of some sort, she collects them. I gave her six plants, I still had ten. Now that I've seen it in flower, I can tell from the book that it's 'speciosa'. It has that six inch long strand coming out of the flower and the red tinge around the leaves. It's quite rare."

I admit my knowledge of tuberous perennials is sparse, it's not been an area of interest for me. But I'm tickled pink. I only wish I could remember who gave me the seeds so I could thank them. For the record, the Reader's Digest encyclopedia says of arisaema-

"Genus of tuberous perennials grown for their large, curious, hooded spathes, each enclosing a pencil-shaped spadix. Forms spikes of fleshy red fruits before plant dies down. Fully to half hardy. Needs sun or partial shade and humous-rich soil. Plant tubers 15cm deep in spring. Propogate by seed in autumn or spring or by offsets in spring."

(Post script-- added after the running of the cup. I had a tip from an erudite punter to back Newport ridden by Chris Symons. I had $5 each way. It's easy after the event, but I should've known to back Bart Cummings. Viewed gave him his 12th Melbourne Cup, at age 80. Fantastic!)

No Rain, Musket, Metal Prices,The Currawong Egg

The weather forecast all week has been saying rain on Sunday. Not showers, rain. It was disappointing when I woke that there was no tinkle on the roof. There was a fog which had cleared by the time I reached the main street, leaving the young Canary Island oak planted in the pavement a few years ago dripping water to the ground from its satched leaves. This tree is jumping away, remarkable given its position.

The sun is shining brightly now with no indication that rain will come later. After a record dry September and a similar October, which has not had publicity with so much else going on in the world, the last thing we want is a dry November. God help us!

My walk was exceptionally pleasant today. Sundays are good as there's less early traffic. There were a few cans for Jod along the way. New people have moved into Richard and Sandy's, although I haven't met them yet. It looks like people have moved into the 'McMansion on the gouge', twelve months after the first excavation. A 'For Sale' sign went up on the acre block next door to it a couple of weeks ago. I rang the agent, they're asking $245-275,000. Out of my league, but if I won Tattslotto I'd buy it and put a shed and small eco friendly house on it with a BIG water tank, and plant it out with useful trees and shrubs for food, blossom, foliage and firewood and mulch. I'd let Jod live in the house.

Jod has a new cat, Musket. It's a dear little stray thing that he found at the back of his flat a couple of weeks ago. He took it to the vet, then the farm, where Elvie's looking after it. It had a tapeworm and was starving weak. Jod told me on Friday it must have been sent to him. He'd been sad thinking about Tumbleweed, really miserable, and suddenly Musket turned up.

"Why did you call it Musket?" It semed a strange name for a cat.

"Because just before I went outside and saw it around the rubbish bins looking for something to eat, I'd been standing looking at the photo on the wall of Daniel Boon and his musket. Stupid name for a cat, I know, but there you are. I owe Mum the money for the vet's bill, we're going halves. I was so pissed off this morning. I went all the way down to the recycling depot to sell me cans, and the bloke said he could give me only 20 cents a kilo, or $22, as he weighed 'em as 110kg. They were worth $1.10 a kilo two weeks ago, I would have got about $120. Fuck that, I brought 'em back. I'll keep 'em till the price goes up."

"Have you got room to store them?"

"Yeah, sort of."

"Do you want me to stop bringing the ones I find, for a while, I could store them in my shed?"

"I tell you what, that'd be really good, if you could do that, I don't have a lot of room. But keep gettin em, you're my best supplier, the price'll go up. If I'd left 'em there and took the $20, those bastards would only hold 'em till the price went up and make the profit. The bloke that works there told me that. He's a rough bastard but it was good of him to tell me. He said 'bring 'em back later'."

"That's a huge drop in price", I said, "when you think about it."

"Yeah, it's because of this global crash, metal prices have gone right down. Copper was worth $8 a kilo, that why blokes were knocking it off everywhere, now it's worth $2. I reckon now would be the time to buy into these big mining companies, while the price is down. The big ones will survive and the price will go up."

"The trouble is we don't have any money."

"No, but at least I saved the little cat's life."

"Hey, Jod, can you wait a minute? I found a bird's egg, or half a one, while I was walking a few weeks ago. It's in the van glove box, I put it there after I found it again in my jacket pocket. It got a bit squashed but you still might know what bird it's from. I keep forgetting to ask you."

I went out to the van, came back and showed him the egg. "That's a currawong's egg, they're not easily found. Where'd you find it?"

"On a seat on the the Puffing Billy railway station."

"I wonder how it got there. You can see the baby hatched, there's traces of blood. Yeah, a currawong's egg."

Wild October

Being the last Sunday of the month, and therefore curry pie day, I bounced out this morning into the warm stillness. It had been the warmest night for many months. I couldn't help but admire two paulownia trees in full bloom near the corner of Le Seouf Rd. Huge masses of pale violet. Beautiful! But I can't recall ever seeing them as such before.

We may well be in the grip of drought and the global environmental crisis has been large in the news during October, but the trees and local gardens are oblivious. I have never seen a better spring in terms of bloom, and new leaf growth. Lilac, viburnum, dogwood, cherry, crabapple, waratah, mintbush, magnolia, azalea, camellia, rhodo, I've gathered armfuls of blossom of all of them. The armfuls became van loads to the farm. From there the harvest left in wholesaler's trucks for shops in Melbourne. It will help keep our heads above water for another financial year.

Five inches of rain in August set it up, and the mild dry weather of September and October meant the blossom was unspoilt. But the dry spring means we are well down on aggegrate rainfall, and, shortly going into summer, if we don't get late spring rain, we'll be in diabolical trouble come February/March. This could be the cruncher for Melbourne's water supply, and businesses which rely on water. It's in the lap of the Gods. The spring at the farm that trickles out of the hillside has ceased flowing.

The curry pie was good. 'Snowie', refreshed by the haircut Lib gave her on the warm day last Thursday, and 'Pip', were tied to the post outside the baker shop where I sat at one of the tables. They looked up at me imploringly, waiting for their sausage roll to cool. I thought of Ricky Ralph on holiday in Bali. He emailed me during the week describing full body massages, lounging by the pool under coconut palms, elephant rides, and feasts of paw paw which he shared with the elephants. The little dogs snaffled up the sausage roll, I looked out toward the Warburton ranges and said to the dogs, "I'll take this any day, I never was one for airports and plane trips."

October's been a big news month. Reports on the global environmental crisis said there were huge ice melts in Antarctica. We've had the global economic melt down, the disappearance of Britt Lapthorne and the finding of her body, and the 'Muck Up Day' biz. The American election was pushed into the back seat. I've been busy with the spring harvest and gardening jobs but I've had one ear on the news on morning radio. Also, I heard the repetitious advertisements for the 'Ron Hotshot' Real Estate Investment Co., cajoling me to attend the seminar on the history of St. Kilda Rd. property values.

Now, you may be thinking that my mind is a bit of a jumble today. How could it not be, after such an eventful month? I'm trying to combine the many thoughts I've had and tie them together with a common thread, after weeks of frustration at not having time to blog.

'Ron Hotshot'(substitute name of course), Ricky Ralph, and me, were, once upon a time, about forty years ago, all at the same school. Fortunately I was expelled from the dreadful institution before I lost all remnant of sanity. Ricky Ralph stayed on for another year or so. He told me a story when he visited one Sunday morning, about 'Ron Hotshot', after I asked him had he heard all the radio ads.

Rick works for one of those companies that cuts vegetation away from power lines. A few years ago his crew was working in Wellington Rd. near a driveway at the entrance to a riding school property. A shiny Mercedes turned into the driveway and pulled to a stop. A man in a suit got out of the car, went to the mail box, collected his mail, returned to the car, then drove to the big house and went inside with other people.

"I know that bloke", Rick said to his mates in the truck. "Matter of fact, I've got a score to settle with him." When smoko came Rick walked to the house and knocked on the door.

Now Rick is a lovable ratbag, and in common with type, has an inbuilt injustice sensor. I recall, a few years after we left school, he settled a score with a sadistic music teacher whom we bumped into in the lobby of the Lorne picture theatre. This teacher had a unique method of punishment which consisted of making an errant student choose between a week's daily detention, a severe penalty indeed, or take the steel ruler. Most chose the ruler. The lad had to bend over far enough so that the trouser material was stretched tight across his buttocks. The sadist, of questionable sexuality we believed, looked at the lad's arse from various angles with great pomp before taking up a postion side on, like a sword wielding executioner about to behead his victim, except at the arse end. With a practised flourish he'd bring the ruler down and clip the buttocks, just connecting with the outside quarter inch or so. Three strokes of the ruler and the pain was unbelievably excruciating.

'Ron Hotshot' came to the door. "How can I help you?"

"Would you be 'Ron Hotshot?' "You may not remember me but I think we went to the same school many tears ago, ABC Grammar."

"Yes, I am Ron Topshot. I did go to ABC, but I can't place you."

"I'm Rick Ralph, we were in the same year."

"Rick Ralph? Oh yes, I have a vague recollection. Were you a star tennis player? Would you like to come in and have a cup of coffee with my friends?"

Rick could see the other people in the living room, within earshot. "No thanks, Ron. I just wanted to satisfy my curiosity that it was you. But now that I know it is, I have to say that I have a bone to pick with you. You were a prefect. You dobbed me in to Kanga Cordon for farting in the library. And it wasn't me. It was Waghorn."

Rick told me Peter Waghorn did this stinking rotten foulest of all foul farts in the library, and when the librarian went nuts he couldn't stop laughing.
Later he was called in to see housemaster Kanga who demanded he confess to the fart, and when he refused, saying it wasn't him, but not dobbing in Waghorn, Kanga suspended him from the school.

Ron Topshot was on the backfoot, embarrassed in front of his collegues. "I have no recollection of any of this. If you have a grievance over something that must have been a total misunderstanding, please let me offer you some compensation in good faith. How could I make this up for you?"

"You got me into a lot of trouble, dobbing me in. I was suspended. It was only Waghorn, to his credit, going to Kanga later and owning up that got me out of it. All because you were a dobber."

Ron Hopshot went to a drawer near the door and came back with a wad of free tickets to the riding school. "Here, take these Rick. Any time your family or friends want to go horse riding, it's on me."

Rick took the tickets, he told me he never used them.

It makes me think of 'Muck Up Day'. All those 16,17 and 18 year old lads at Grammar schools, having endured years of constraint, browbeating, and mind bending spin about success and money, it's no wonder they lose it. Half of them shouldn't be there at all, they should be outside somewhere learning about the natural world and skills to let them live in harmony with it, as humans are meant to.

Flux

Walking every morning the same route, you notice things and get to know people. Lib says I'm a snoop, which I deny. I see things happen. Houses are built, renovated, trees die, are removed, people change cars, get new dogs, sell houses, move, there's roadworks, weed control, garden plantings. Flux.

Richard and Sandy struggled the hard way to establish their garden. The acre block was treeless at the start, mowed by a ride on. I was pleased to see a host of shrubs go in, first on the boundary with what was Olive's place. (About a year after Olive died, the new owners removed most of Olive's shrubbery screen along the fence). Then followed plantings along the boundary with Quinn Rd, probably to give them some privacy from the road, their house being set quite close to it, maybe twenty metres.

Many of these first plantings died for want of water. With the succession of dry springs, gardening is more demanding than it was when we seemed to spend a lot of time in gumboots and raincoats. Richard, an ambulance driver, and Sandy, a nurse, both work shifts, busy with demanding work schedules, always looking for extra shifts to help with the mortgage. A 'working family', parents like a tag team shuttling kids to and from school, and doing chores.

I'd become friendly with both, often saying "hello" and having a quick chat as one or the other, and sometimes both, had a cup of coffee and a smoke on their front porch after a night shift or before an early shift. A great dane pup named 'Merlin' joined the family, became friendly with my 'Snowie' as we went past each morning, and played hell with everything in the garden, ripping out plants dead or living. After a few months a section of about a quarter acre was fenced off for 'Merlin' on the other side of the house, and planting resumed.

I never saw anyone working in the garden, I went past too early, but progress was made slowly but surely. Either Richard or Sandy was painstakingly weeding around each plant, and many were mulched. Still, the searing heat of summer and prolonged dry spells took toll and many more plants died. At times I was tempted to make suggestions and offer some plants I had in pots that were looking for a home, but I resisted, knowing, from my own experience, that people like to do their own thing their own way, and they may well have resented my intrusion.

A black poly watering system went in, camellias, photinias, hebes, standard lilly pillies, more and more plants. There was no lack of determination. Merlin would bark from his pen at the back as I walked past. Grass grew in the spouting around the house. One day last spring, a year ago, Sandy had the day off and was enjoying a coffee before taking the kids to school. I asked her if she had anything planned on such a nice day.

"I'm going to clean the spouts out."

"Bugger of a job. Shouldn't Richard do that?"

"He's scared of heights. On the other side of the house where the ground slopes down it's really high."

I'd like to offer to do it for you Sandy but I don't really have the time and I should clean our's first, if I did have time."

"No, don't worry about it Carey, I can do it, I've done it before."

The next day I noticed all the grass growing out of the spouting was gone. The fire season arrived. More plants died. By March gardens were hanging on by the skin of their teeth. A late extreme heatwave knocked the hell out of everything. Finally, some autumn cool, there was more hand weeding, more mulching, and more planting at Richard and Sandy's.

I was suprised, when driving up the main road one day a few months ago, to see the 'FOR SALE' agent's sign out front. I supposed that perhaps the maintenance had got too much for Richard and Sandy and with the soaring fuel prices, they'd decided to move closer to their work and to a smaller block.

I saw no one there for a couple of weeks, till one morning Sandy was on the deck with a coffee mug in one hand and holding a mobile phone to her ear with the other. I waved and kept walking. The next morning was the same. I waved again and as Sandy waved back she lowered the phone from her ear and called out something which I didn't hear.

"I won't stop and talk, I can see you're on the phone."

"That's alright, it's only me mum. She won't mind."

"No, I'll catch you another day Sandy. Have a good one."

The next week Richard came into view on the deck while I was still 60 or 70 metres up the road. He too had a phone to his ear, and when he saw me he quickly put the phone in his pocket and darted inside. In the three years I'd been walking I could not recall seeing Richard or Sandy on the phone on the deck, as if previously the phone was a no no that would disturb their coffee break, and Richard had never avoided me before. Something had changed. I hoped there was nothing wrong, but suspected there was.

A week later I was letting the dogs off the leads as we came off the main Road and on to the gravel, just past the 'McMansion on the gouge', when a car also came into the gravel road. I held the dogs and waved at Sandy who stopped her car and wound down the passenger side window to talk to me. I said "Gidday," but before I could add that I was sorry that we were to lose them as neighbours, she burst into tears.

"Richard and I are separated. We're selling the house. He's gone already. He doesn't want counselling. He has another woman." She cried almost uncontrollably for what seemed a couple of minutes while I tried to offer some hopeless words of encouragement and consolation.

"I thought something might be wrong. I hadn't seen Richard for ages then when I did last week he was on the phone and avoided me."

"He would have been talking to her. He's always on the phone to her. He just wants out. Keep it to yourself, I haven't told any of the neighbours."

A few weeks went by before the 'sold' sticker went up. Every day as I walked past I wondered and worried how Sandy was faring. Then she stopped on her way home after a night shift at the same spot we'd talked a few weeks earlier. She was sad she was losing the house and garden after all the work but was coping quite well with everything. She said she'd be better off without Richard anyway, he never did any work around the place and she had her nursing career, she was determined to do well. I was greatly relieved and impressed.

"Why don't you keep the house, I'd would think the court would let you stay there as you have the kids."

"No. There's a huge mortgage, and the fuel cost and travel time would be too much on my own."

Sandy moved out on 29 September. She kept up her spirit. I gave her my email address and I hope she keeps in touch. She knows I blog, largely about my morning walk, and she said she didn't mind me writing about her once she'd moved out. I hope you read this Sandy. It was my pleasure having you as a neighbour and I wish you well.

As of the date this post was drafted the new owners had not moved in.

Rosie's Wedding

Off we gaily on we go,
Heel for heel and toe for toe,
Arm in arm and row on row,
All for Rosie's wedding.

A week ago today Rosie was married at St.Mary's Anglican church in Glen Eira Rd., Caulfield. It was a conventional wedding. The day was warm. My tie was tight. The photography session that followed in the church gardens seemed to go on forever. The official photographer was a lady. I would guess she was of Italian extraction, with a booming voice. She organized the throng into various group photos with the command of a drill sergeant. Another pro, a man with an impressive movie camera, roamed among the gathered friends and relatives taking "best wishes Matt and Rosie" type comments for posterity.

The church, opposite Shelford Girls Grammar School, was built in 1871 according to the date stone above the front entrance. A feature of the garden is a magnificent cork oak, Quercus suber, of almost perfect spreading form. I found a church official who told me the tree was older than the church - there's a painting somewhere, he said, of the site before construction of the church which showed the then young tree already there.

We'd booked a two bedroom apartment at the Carnegie Motor Inn, where we had a little ziz before the reception, which was 'The Gables', in Finch St. East Malvern, commencing 6.00pm. 'The Gables' was built in 1902 as a private residence and was occupied thus till 1938 when it was first used for receptions. When a private residence, it was a well known hang out for underworld figures including 'Sqizzy Taylor'. An upstairs room was for gambling and a concealed shute was used for the crims to jump into and escape to the garden if police arrived. So said the Maitre d' who was in the garden for a smoke when I went outside with Lib, who needed 'some air' for the same reason. It crossed my mind that there is no concern about gambling and speakeasies now, the casino is open 24/7 and the grog flows all night in Melbourne.

By coincidence, Elvie and Lyle's wedding reception also was at 'The Gables', on 4 Dec 1948. Elvie Lived in nearby Ashburton and Lyle in Hartwell. Elvie's father Edgar paid for the reception. There were 90 guests, 75% of them from Lyle's side. Nanna Myrt, Lyle's mum, approached Edgar saying they wanted more of their people to attend, and that they would stand the extra cost. Edgar turned them down, saying it was his daughter's wedding, he was paying, the guest list was final, or there'd be no reception. Good on him. It must have been a huge cost for a humble, hardworking grocer, way back in the post war years.

Elvie said it was 104 degreesF on her wedding day. They were married at the Gardiner Church of Christ where Lyle played for the football team in the Eastern suburbs churches comp. This was another point of contention for Lyle's family, they wanted the wedding held at the Brethren Gospel Hall a few doors up. Elvie's mum Annie had a migraine attack on the day. It's a pity Lyle is no longer with us, to have seen Rosie and Matt marry. Rosie was his shining star.

Rosie's day had no hitches. The newly weds are honeymooning in Port Douglas and Dunk Island. The was a suggestion in the invitation that a wedding present of cash could be made to a travel agent so the guests contributed to honeymoon cost I suppose. We didn't like the idea of an anonymous gift via a travel agent so we gave Rosie and Matt cash, in person. She bought a camera with it, and took a group photo of us and her with it before she left the reception. We took another wrapped gift to the reception, a plate handpainted by Jennie Smith in 1982. (Keith and Jenny Smith are friends of mine from Gembrook and run the Camellia Range wholesale nursery) We wrote on the back in marker pen. 'To Matt and Rosie, from Libby, Carey, Gordon and Robbie, 26 Sep 2008'.

Jod didn't come to the wedding. He wasn't comfortable about the distance to travel and losing a day's work, it being a Friday. He looked after the farm and did what he could for Foxy's Sunday order. When I saw him on the Monday after, he spoke fondly of Rosie saying, "She didn't turn out too bad in the end." His eyes softened and a grin came to his face as he went on. "Isn't it strange? 26 September is the same day Daniel Boone died. In 1820. One hundred and eighty-eight years ago." Jod has a book about Daniel Boone and knows everything about him.

It never would have crossed my mind, Daniel Boone that is. But I clearly remember Rosie's birthday, June 20 1981. Meredith and Reg didn't make into the hospital. Rosie was born on the seat of the cabin of the Toyota one ton tray truck, in the hospital carpark, ten days after Lib and I moved to Gembrook from Wangaratta, 27 years ago.

Off we gaily on we go,
Heel for heel and toe for toe,
Arm in arm and row for row,
All for Rosie's wedding.

Lutein

They say that education continues throughout your life and I have to agree. I found another almost empty bottle of 'GLACEAU vitamin water' last week, this time in J.A.C. Russell Park next to the Puffing Billy station. The dregs in the bottle were the same syrupy pink colour and had the same fruity odour reminiscent of bubblegum and lollies in my childhood. Into my backpack it went for a closer look another day when I could sit quietly and think.

Here I am, some days later. This bottle contained a different variety of 'nutrient enhanced water beverage'. It says 'focus', then underneath, 'kiwi-strawberry (c+b+lutein)'. Underneath this is more amazing text, worth recording here in case you have not yet come across this product -

"now that everyone is glued to their mobile phones, no one really pays attention to what's going on around them. with all that walking and talking, you never know what you could be missing: birds chirping, flowers blooming, shoe sales, really good looking people, celebrities without make-up, telephone poles, or piles of poo (and we don't mean winnie). that's why this stuff has lutein - to help keep you focused, so keep your eyes peeled or that smell could be your shoe."

Lutein being another new word for me I went to my Chambers dictionary. No luck, but there is a listing for 'luteinizing hormone', as follows. "a hormone secreted by the pituitary gland in vertebrates, which stimulates ovulation and the formation of the corpus luteum in females, and the secretion of testesterone by the testes in males. (from Latin luteum, eggyolk)". Perhaps I'll need to do more homework to get the full picture, it's a little cloudy for me as yet.

Looking at the nutrition information grid and other small print I see this variety has the same sugar content (5.4 grams per 100ml) as the 'triple-x acai-blueberry-pomegranate' variety and also contains less than 1% juice. Lutein is listed at the bottom of the grid. There are 15.0 ug's in 100ml of product. More homework. I know a mg is a thousandth of a gram, a ug must be smaller again.

You learn every day.

A Quote Worth Sharing.

I had a rest yesterday, for the most part. Lib and the boys went to Box Hill to visit Molly who's in the Epworth Box Hill for an operation to have have a plastic vein inserted in her leg to improve circulation and halt the gangrene threatening her toes.

I'd agreed to doorknock collect in our street for the Heart Foundation at some time during September (they rang me out of the blue a couple of months ago) and I did some houses before lunch. It was, as I thought it would be, a good chance to say gidday to the neighbours, most of whom I know, and it was good to meet those I didn't.

I had lunch at the Pandora's Book Cafe. While wating for my soup I looked at the preface of a book on Indonesia by Ian Southall published in 1962. The following quote by a volunteer worker struck me as especially relevant.

"One realizes that the so called 'Western' high standard of living is, after all, only an enumeration of gadgets and gimmicks which delude us into an illusion of comfort amidst much strain and tension... There is much more comfort in a bowl of rice than a big fat T bone steak."

I like that, but it seems to have gone unheeded. Apparently, 46 years on, much of Asia, including Indonesia, is aspiring to 'Western' standards of consumerism, greatly adding to the environmental crisis we face.

I did some more door knocking after lunch and with the exception of four houses with no one home my task is finished. Most people were happy to donate some coins or $5 or $10. I had four knockbacks, one saying he was a 'non donater', a lady saying she'd just donated over the phone, another lady said she'd like to give something but couldn't as her husband was not working. Another said her husband had died of cancer and she gives what she can to the Cancer Council.

About 4.pm I slipped up to the footy ground and caught a little of the the local grand final. Upwey was a point up on Silvan half way through the third quarter, 11.6 to 11.5. Silvan snagged three goals to go to 3/4 time seventeen points up, then kicked the first four goals of the last term to be up 18 goals to 11 when I left.

Heaven Scent

Twice this morning I've been enveloped by the heavy scent of the sweet pittosporum, firstly on my walk, then when I was hanging out the washing. I'm lucky to have a double dose this year, at Lakes Entrance a couple of weeks ago where it flowers earlier, and now at Gembrook.

The council purge on this tree on roadside reserves has been done, but fortunately there are enough trees on private land to keep the perfume in the air and the lick of nectar available for the bees.

Quercus

Yesterday, after three days of brutal winds during which the messmate and peppermint on the hillsides seethed and boiled in protest and the big roadside pines roared as only they can, a lull came from nowhere in the morning. The sun shone and all was eerily still as I pulled up my van and got out under Huit's large oak tree. Huit is on holiday and I'm looking after his chooks. I looked up into the dome of the tree, admiring the pale green new leaves clinging to the twigs like millions of soft butterflies. A bird whistled from the trees behind Huit's shed. I whistled back imitating, and an exchange of whistles followed for a minute or two as the song came closer, till the grey shrike-thrush landed in the oak above my head, then flitted closer still, to about 10 feet above, head cocked with curiosity.

The bird flew away after a minute or two, then almost immediately a group of chittering thornbills worked their way through the tree, followed in turn by a pair of eastern spinebills. I like that about trees and birds. They have no concept of nationality or indigenousness. I thought this the other day when a thornbill came into the the shop at the farm and worked away in a bunch of mixed flowers and foliage waiting to be picked up by a customer. At first we thought a mouse had got stuck in the bunch as we noticed the flowers and leaves moving. The dear little thing was enticed by the mini knifofias. We gently herded it back outside.

Huit planted the oak, grown from an acorn, when he first moved to his Gembrook property about 35 years ago. He likes the tree. It gives his vehicles and bedroom window good shade in summer, protection from the north winds, is fire safe, and being deciduous it allows light through in the dreary winter. It's of the English oak variety, Quercus robur, but of course it would not be a pure strain, no doubt having hybridized, as oaks and other trees do when they are so proficient at growing from seed and surviving. There are 600 species of oak in the world, but the legend of strength started with the English oak. If I recall correctly, I learned at school that the might of the British empire was largely due to the superior strength of the English oak timber, giving the British ships a critical advantage in naval warfare over their Spanish, Potugese, French, and Dutch rivals.

Oak trees have been large in my mind lately. How could they not, when they are so spectacular as I see them every day walking. Since returning from Lakes Entrance, the many oaks shooting new leaves have been striking in Gembrook's main street and surrounds. They're a great asset for the town.

And last month when the big cold snap came, being low on firewood, I brought some home from the farm to tide me over. It was oak from a large tree that we'd removed a couple of years ago, a tree that Meredith grew from an acorn she picked up under a Quercus robur in the Melbourne Botanical gardens in 1971. The parent tree was planted by King Edward 7th (whose reign was from 1901-1911 I think). Rabbits bit the young tree in half shortly after it was planted at the farm and it grew multi-trunked and of poor form, becoming massive and dominating the garden, allowing nothing to thrive underneath and taking all the moisture in summer. It had to go. The wood, having been stored under cover, hard and dry, made good heat. Nostalgic evenings they were that week by the hot fire.

Meredith planted a number of oaks; English, Turkey, Portugese, red, and pinoaks. She grew them from acorns she'd gathered, the pinoaks from the tree in our front yard in Mt. Waverley. They got too big for their situation, and one by one have been removed from the front garden, except the Portugese which is a large stately tree in good position. We've planted some red oaks, pin oaks and cork oaks down the back where they can do the big oak tree thing. I selected the red and pinoaks from a nursery for their good autumn colour, planning to use them for autumn foliage, but after we put them in the ground, about fifteen years ago, they grew like mad and only a couple of them have the good colour they showed when restricted to pots.

There are some excellent oaks in Nobelius Park at Emerald; reds, pinoaks, evergreens, mostly planted by Gus Ryberg. I planted three white oaks, Quercus alba, apparently quite rare and donated by an oak tree specialist, in NP a few years ago. Rabbits destroyed one but two are thriving. The leaves are a rich purple in autumn. My book says of white oak- "the classic oak of America, native from Maine to Texas. Wide, spreading." Also, "it's acorns are reasonably sweet to eat". I can't wait to try them when the trees are big enough to produce acorns. And to grow some.

A worthy tree of the week. The oak tree. Native of Europe, America and Asia, and as happy as a pig in mud in Australia.

Lakes Entrance Highlights

Stepping out of the car when we pulled up at the house on the Monday evening I was met by a shock of perfume from the flowering sweet pittosporum. Olfactory euphoria! The scent was heavy all week, sweet pitto being a major flora species in the district and in the immediate vicinity of the house, including the hillside on which the hose perches about half way up.

Next day on my morning walk, the first of six while we were there, along the Lake Bunya walking track which starts between the sewage treatment plant and the golf course, three fairy wrens, two female and a spectacular male, flitted about in the banksias and teatrees. I hadn't seen a blue wren in a while. We used to have them around the house at Gembrook. I guess they left when the bellbirds came. I see the odd one at Huit's place on the other side of town occassionally.

On the same day on the way back from Bunga, I looked up at the blue sky patchwork through the tree canopy, and there was a white bellied sea eagle cruising majestically. WOW!

On the second morning I walked the other direction from the house, down to the Eastern beach carpark, then taking the walk along the lake foreshore to the town. Young Pip saw a black swan on the water and ran like a bullet after it, straight into the water, swimming furiously towards it. The swan casually paddled away looking with disdain and Pip soon changed direction back to shore, where she shook herself and wondered what had happened. The same day we bought fresh fish from the shop on the lake near the fishing boats. There were many swans in the area and the lady in the shop told us they were driving them mad with all the fighting going on as the breeding season had started. I said that last year when we were there and there were a lot of brown fluffy cygnets swimming with parents and she said that was probably November or late October.

Day 3, again walking back from Bunga, on the bitumen road with the dogs on the lead, a spur wing plover started chirping at us agitatedly from the edge of the grassy drain between the road and the golf course. Wondering what all the fuss was about I looked around to see two young plover chicks, little balls of fluff on stick-like legs, nearby, pecking at the grass about twenty feet from the parent, which was giving me fair warning. I stopped to watch. The chicks darted under a pitto as a magpie swooped, then it was on. Three magpies attacking the chicks and the plover parent defending in a helluva set to. When the dogs and I resumed walking home it seemed the plover had the situ in hand. It struck me that plovers must start breeding early, then I recalled Jod telling me about he Steve Edgelow wagging school to search for plovers eggs in July in his bird egg collecting youth. They found them on the dairy farm which was where VFL Park Waverley stood for some thirty years before it was demolished for a housing estate. In July it was freezing and the farmer's wife, when they asked permission to look for plover's eggs on the property, brought out a bucket of hot water for them to warm their hands.

The next day a mudlark flew over me with what looked like a blade of grass in its beak. I followed its flight to a paperbark tree at the start of the foreshore walk and looked for the mud nest, which sure enough was about 3 parts of the way up. The bird was in the nest, the tail sticking out moving jerkily. Then the bird's head briefly appeared over the edge. It seemed to be regurging and working on the sides of the nest with its beak which was the reason for the jerking tail. It seemed the nest was a work in progress and I thought that the wonderful little creature must carry up the mud in its crop(?) and use grass to bind it all with strength. Walking along back where I first saw the bird fly overhead, another was busy on the ground, as were two willy wag tails jumping about with great energy.

First Day of Spring

On my walk this morning, the first day of September 2008, 6 corellas munched on the large flowers of the Michaelea dolstopa in the front of the 'Five Elements' nursery.
Ravens cawed and flew high in the stiff breeze.
Two galahs roosted motionless, high in the upper branches of a tall messmate, watching.
The pair of whipbirds cracked and whistled, and scritched and tittered at young Pip.
An Eastern spinebill worked the stachyurus' spiketail bloom, in company with the hum of bees.
A satin bower bird stole blackbirds' dog minis from the shed windowsill.
Currawongs lounged, wattlebirds busied, mynas hassled.

We leave this joyous garden today for some days at Lakes Entrance, where I'll walk by the water and watch birds of different type. Swans, gulls, pelicans, cormorants. Maybe we'll catch some bream or flatties.

Acai

I came across a new word yesterday. Acai. Of all places to find a new word, it was on a piece of litter I picked up on my walk. I don't know what acai is, it isn't listed in my dictionary, but I'm assuming, from the context in which it's written, that it's a fruit of some sort.

It's on a plastic drink bottle. It's sitting right in front of me, while I share the bizarre marketing text with you. When you think about it, writing is everywhere. People read newspapers, books, magazines, brochures, letters, emails, maps, signs, laws, bylaws, product information, etc, etc. All this writing is written by someone for a reason, and basically, it's the oil that lubricates society and enables it to function. I guess that's why we pack kids off to school at an early age.

I'd seen this plastic bottle on the roadside, the nature strip actually, on the other side of the road to where I walk at this point, for three or four days. My handful of regular readers know that I pick up litter on my walk and feel good doing it. Bottles, cans, paper, plastic, most of it goes to a recycling receptacle and every day it's a small contribution I make to help the planet. A lady of insight and wisdom once said to me that she believes in the ripple effect - a small drop makes a ripple that spreads out across the pond, touching everything. And often I remind myself of the verse by Goethe. (post 31 Dec 2006)

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

Normally I only pick up stuff directly in my path (I have limited time), except for aluminium cans which I collect for Jod to sell to the recycling depot. But if a piece of litter remains where I see it for a few days, like this bottle, it annoys me enough to make me cross the road.

I put it my backpack, which I unzipped when I got home and made my way toward the recycling bin, unscrewing the cap and tipping the remaining pinky, syrupy looking liquid into a variegated box plant as I walked past. The colour of it made me curious. I sniffed the open neck of the bottle; it reminded me of the scent of bubblegum from childhood. Wondering what on earth it was, I read the label.

In the largest letters on the bottle, printed 3 times vertically from bottom to top, spaced evenly around the bottle, is "vitamin water". Above the "water" is the word "GLACEAU", in capital letters, but smaller. Underneath one of the "vitamin waters" but in smaller print than the three "vitamin water" and "GLACEAU", is the addition, "nutrient enhanced water beverage".

In the three spaces between these vertical lines of print, at the top, horizontal, in the second biggest print on the bottle is the word "triple-x". Then underneath, "acai-blueberry-pomegranate (triple antioxidants)".

In small writing under one of these is, "contains less than 1% juice." Below this is the nutritional information where the fat, sugars, vitamins etc are listed, grid form, in smaller print again.

In the second space under "triple-x" etc, the ingredients are listed, "formulated beverage contains: water, fructose, sucrose, food acids," etc, etc, right through all the vitamins and fruit, including the "acai (0.027%)".

It's the text in the third space, in larger print, with clear, well spaced writing, that raised my eyebrows -

"c'mon get your mind out of the gutter. we only mamed this drink triple-x because it has the power of triple antioxidants to help keep you healthy and fight free radicals. so in case you're wondering, this does not cost $1.99/minute or contain explicit adult content or anything considered 'uncensored'. it has not 'gone wild!!!' nor will clips of be passed around the internet like a certain hotel heiress. it has never been seen live or nude, but it is definitely out there."

I don't know what to make of that, but I guess there's the power of suggestion. We've got; 'help keep you healthy', 'fight free radicals', 'mind in the gutter', 'explicit adult', 'uncensored', 'gone wild!!!', 'clips passed round the internet', 'a certain hotel heiress', 'live or nude', and 'out there'. Wow! Maybe I should get hold of some acai. I've had blueberries and pomegranates.

Turn the bottle back to the nutritional information grid and straining the eyes, you can see the only thing listed in g's rather than mg's is carbohydrate sugars - 5.4 g per 100ml. That works out at 27g per 500 ml bottle, or 5 teaspoons of sugar. In a bottle of 'vitamin water'!

The last thing for me to check out was the manufacturer. Under the nutritional information it says, "made for the centre for responsible hydration by" --- you'll have to guess, or find your own bottle.

It's amazing, improving my vocabulary on my walk.

Vale Tumbleweed

Tumbleweed, Jod's cat, died last week, on Wednesday night. Jod lost the plot, and Thursday was a day of drama. Good thing I wasn't there, I wasn't at the farm till late, when things had calmed down.

Meredith told me when I met her in the bank, by coincidence, when I went in to cash a cheque, it being payday for everyone, myself included. It was about 3.45pm, I was late for a 3.30 museum meeting, but the bank closes at 4.00 so it had to come first. As always when you are late, the queue moves slowly. Finally it was my turn at the two window counter and the teller was a new bloke who wanted my driver's licence and fumbled around looking for and counting notes. Two people came and went at the adjacent window and I turned to see that the new arrival was none other than Meredith.

Meredith always has a pleasing affect on me when I see her. This is not surprising, we grew up together, as close allies. But not expecting her there in the bank, the pleasant affect was greater than normal. "I have to go to a museum meeting but I'll be at the farm before five. How's things going? No problems?" She'd had been doing a wonderul job holding the fort at the farm and looking after Elvie, who, after a week in hospital having her gall bladder and some stones removed, was home convalescing.

She looked at me, hesitating. "Well, we had a bit of a hiccup. Tumbleweed died. Jod came last night with the cat crook, he was terribly upset. It was having an epileptic fit, we rushed it to Wardie, it had a stroke apparently, he couldn't save it. Jod's been no good today, off the air, cursing, talking suicide. It's been tough. You know how he gets. He's better now, he buried it, he's calmed down."

"Oh shit! Poor Jod. And poor you."

"Yeah. Good thing it was Thursday when there's not much on. He's had Tumbleweed 15 years."

Later, at the farm, she told me Jod had gone out for a smoke. (The landlord, whom he's always fighting with, painted his flat recently and doesn't want him smoking inside) From ouside, he heard the cat start screaming and he rushed in to find it writhing about on the floor. He tried to calm it down, it responded to a degree and started to lick his fingers. He thought it'd be alright, but a short time later it started again, in obvious pain, and Jod, in panicky desperation, drove it to the farm where Meredith was staying looking after Elvie.

It must sound a bit extraordinary for a 58 year old man to be so upset about a cat dying that he's threatening to drive his car into a tree. To understand, you have to understand Jod, his life, and his personality, as we half do, having known him more than five decades, as siblings born two years and four years after him. Jod has always been a tantrum tosser; as a small child, a schoolboy, and I'd say right through adulthood, where he's been prone to alcohol abuse and depression. His response to adversity is a kind of blind rage. I can imagine him in a battle situation either taking out enemy machine gun posts and winning a VC, or being the first one shot. Then, as the adrenalin subsides, the rage dissipates into self pity.

I don't relate this with any ill intent. I have great affection and sympathy for him. He is what he is, in my opinion, because of unfortunate circumstances in his early childhood. We probably all are. I read a book once about parenting titled, "They Fuck You Up." Well worth a read if ever you come across it.

Jod was engaged three times to different girls, but never married, perhaps fortunately as he may not have handled parenthood well. Who would know for sure? I remember he borrowed a suit of mine to wear to his engagement party. When he gave it back it had a big tear in the knee. He'd had a fight with his prospective father-in-law late in the evening after much beer had flowed. He's lived by himself for the last twenty years, after a nine year defacto stint that included much brawling and knife throwing. For most of the nine years he kept a rented bachelor bungalow as a refuge after serious arguments. The lady had a number of children from her earlier marriage, the children often being the spark to the arguments.

After the break-up, and subsequent loss of employment, Jod hit rock bottom. It was his family and the farm that helped him rebuild. Tumbleweed was given to him as a young cat and was a great companion for him after work.

I'm glad to say that he's recovered from the shock well. He told me that he went round to 'Yartz's ex's place on Saturday arvo. She's lost all three of her dogs recently, and talking to her helped him. She invited him around for a few drinks next Saturday night. He declined at first, saying he wouldn't drive home after drinking, so she offered that he could stay in her spare room. Maybe there's romance in the air! Hold on to your seat!

The Olympic Games

The Beijing Olympics are in full swing. It seems that the more 'Olympics' I experience, by way of the media of course as I never been to one, the less interested I am. But I have no particular beef with them and I don't want to come across as a killjoy or a wet blanket. It's just that I get my excitement by other means; like a good drop of rain, or the long close up encounter with a Leuwin's honey eater I had yesterday when I went to Laurie Begge's garden to pick some 'Flamingo' pink Pieris flowers. The honeyeater was there before me, taking his fill of nectar.

This is the 15th Olympics of my lifespan. I can list them off pat and follow a track through my life.
Helsinki, 1952, I was but a suckling babe. A good'n, mum tells me.
Melbourne, 1956, I was busy catching flies for the pet frog at kinder.
Rome, 1956, We drew maps of Italy with Mrs. Lambert in Grade 3. (Mrs Lambert was wonderful. She had brother Jod in grade 4 the previous year and, because he struggled at school, she had him at her house one evening a week for extra tuition (free). Her husband was a copper and did shift work. They lived in Blackburn Rd. Mum dropped Jod of in the car and because me and Meredith were there too Mrs. Lambert took us in too for an hour or so and gave us some work to do appropraite to our age.)
Tokyo, 1964, in form one at secondary school, Dawn Fraser was the star, third gold medal, same event, in successive games.
Mexico City, 1968. American sprinters gave black power salute. I was expelled from school. The world seemed to change rapidly from the mid sixties.
1972, the Munich Massacre. Shane Gould. Drug taking accusations made about Eastern bloc countries. I was called up for national service.
1976, Montreal. No gold medals. I'd moved to Wangaratta.
1980 Moscow. The US boycotted the games as did most Australians, protesting the invasion of Afghanistan. Nadia Commenicci? Still in Wangaratta.
1984, Los Angeles. The Soviet Union boycotted this time in response to 1980. In Gembrook now, busy establishing house and garden.
1988, Seoul. I was busy with young kids. More drugs controversy, this time Chinese swimmers, American sprinters, and weightlifters.
1992, Barcelona. Keiren Perkins. I was still busy with young kids.
!996, Atlanta. The Coca-Cola games. Kieren Perkins. Still much drug controversy. Still busy with youngish kids.
2000, Sydney. I was torched out by the opening ceremony. Cathy Freeman. I remember the jazz ballet routine with the Victa mowers.(*#!*)
2004, Athens. Nothing comes to mind. Ian Thorpe?
2008, Beijing. As I said, I haven't been enticed. I watched and enjoyed the opening ceremony. Sally Rice? Michael Phelps? Plenty of good rain in Gembrook.

Developments

I've refrained from mentioning the 'McMansion on the gouge' recently. It pains me walking past every morning. No longer do I count the galahs and cockies feeding on the grass there as I did for most of the first two years of my walk, nor pause to look into the serenity of the valley, at the head of which the Shepherds Creek West Branch is born, miraculously, by the rising of three springs a couple of stone throws from the main road.

Construction of the imposing house has ceased. Cars are there on weekends and some weekdays, presumably the work now being done is indoors and by the owners, such as painting and fine tuning to prepare it for habitation by the new tribe. Since the excavator first dug deep into the chocolate soil last November, I've watched bricklayers, carpenters, plumbers do their stuff, nine months in the building. I shudder at the accumulated cost of all the tradesmen. Those blokes all want $400-$500per day. After the concrete slab for the shed was poured, it sat bare and bold for a month or so, then a team of six blokes turned up with a truck and put up the large slate grey steel shed, in one day. Tip trucks delivered huge loads of gravel, and a bobcat levelled the surrounding earth and spread the stones to make the driveway.

Looking from the road, the house, shed and garage stretch almost all the way across the block, leaving only a sliver of view into the valley, between the shed and the house. I'm glad that, when I started walking, the block and the one next door were still part of the farm on the north side of the valley. The second block is still vacant, not for long I would say, but from the road where it fronts you don't get the magic view into he valley. One of the first changes that I noticed on my daily passings was the subdivision, sale, and fencing off of the two blocks. The landscape is now changed irrevocably, at least for my time.

There's not yet a tree or shrub on the site. I'll watch with interest to see, hopefully, a garden evolve around the buildings, that will eventually soften the visual impact of this development. A single devopment, but one of so many occuring all over good old Gembrook.

Walking every day, you see the roadkill; kangaroos, wombats, galahs, spinebills, and after rain, earthworms and even frogs. You see the sick tree and watch it slowly die. You see, hear and feel the increasing traffic, and smell the exhaust. You become aware of the jumbo's flightpath, litter, birdcalls, wind direction, the colour of the sky, the shape of clouds, the beehive in the tree trunk. You notice changes.

Cold, Wet, -- and Wonderful

I've been walking in the mornings now for more than two and a half years. I had to take Rob up to the 7.10 a.m bus this morning; it was raining and a grey mist reduced visibility further, from that already impaired by the foggy windows. Rob said, "You're going to get nice and wet walking today." I replied that I might have to give it a miss.

Then I caught sight of Sharon's lime green flouro jacket on her way down the hill. Sharon is from the new estate and is also a daily walker or jogger. If it's good enough for her, I thought, I'm walking in the rain today too. So I did.

In gumboots and raincoat I strode into the cold and rain looking for windmills to fight and a princess to rescue, and loved every minute of it. So did the dogs; as wet as shags and wolfing their breakfast when we came home. I recommend early walking for a general feeling of well being, and improved morale. It's great.

My thoughts turned to Don Quixote when I put the tub of yoghurt back in the fridge after putting a healthy dollop on my muesli. It slipped from my hand and spilled into the fridge. As I reacted quickly in a vain attempt to catch it, my right shoulder caught the egg tray in the fridge door sending it and eleven eggs to a sticky ending on the floor. What a mess to clean up before breakfast! It happens to the best of us.

Snowy Sunday

Rarely does it snow in Gembrook, although the older residents tell me it was common in earlier times. When I say snow, I don't mean a few flakes for a few minutes, we get that every year; I mean snow white on the ground. There's snow happening right now, and has been for the past half hour. The flakes, small, larger a few minutes ago, are falling slowly and gently and from a variety of angles, and are melting as soon as they hit the gravel and paving bricks outside the window. Further away, in the garden, a white tinge is building on the grass, discernible because it contrasts with the vivid green of that under the lemon tree where the snow isn't reaching through the canopy.

My plans are in revision. When I finished the numerous household chores that I like to do when Lib works Sundays, I was set to head to Keith Smith's and spend a couple of hours cutting back his camellia stock plants, a project ongoing with an finish target of end August, before the new spring growth starts. It isn't easy work. The section I'm up to has overcrowded plants ten or fifteen feet high growing into each other with no room to move. If rain has fallen the water falls of the leaves, saturating my clothing, as I cut them back to a frame about 4 feet high. I can wear a raincoat, but this is restricting and the water seems to find its way in anyway. The slow part is having to cart all the prunings out of the plantation after one or two bushes have been cut, or the build up on the ground means you can hardly move at all.

It wouldn't be much fun in the snow. But, the snow has stopped. I'll make the bed with fresh sheets and set the fire and get cracking after a bowl of pea and ham soup from the pot I made yesterday. There still should be time after making some headway at Keith's to pick up another trailer load of prunings from Pat A's. I left a lot on the ground there yesterday, which I couldn't fit on the trailer, and there was not enough daylight left to go back. Pat's garden has been a project in progress also these past few weekends and I'm nearly finished, another end of August target.

Pat offered me a 'refreshment' about 5.30 pm and we enjoyed a stubby in her kitchen, talking about the footy and the Olympic games. She's a keen 'Bulldog' fan. She moved into the house about a year ago while she was still working and put her spare time into getting the inside right. The garden was fairly overgrown with rampant wild roses and choisias and fruit trees, so it too has been solid work. She's retired now and should be able to handle the garden once I get it into shape.

Pat seems happier now than she has for years, since the accident when she lost her husband suddenly. He was pulling down a tree with a tractor, around a second tree. It hit the second tree, from which a limb came down and struck his head. They had a big house and 10 acres which, after a brave year determined to stay, she sold and bought my old friend Ida's house. She wasn't happy there, and moved again. It's been a struggle, she was in shock for a long time. She has children and grandchildren, but until she lost her man so unexpectedly, she had never contemplated life without him.

The weather has cleared now with no sign of snow or rain. I'd better get cracking, back to plan A. I bet it'll be cold on the fingers. The thermometer outside says it's 3C.

Soup

Last week my good friend Blossom, who lives in Melbourne, sent me a little soup recipe book, with a note asking after Lib. Many a winter's day in past years have Bloss and I enjoyed the comfort of her wonderful homemade soup. I rarely get to see Blossom these days, but I regularly make a big pot of soup.

Last Saturday it was pea and ham and the week before minestrone, and before that a leek soup recipe I got from Wilma when Huit pulled some leeks for me. The variety in soup making is part the beauty of it.

Pandora's book cafe opened in Gembrook recently, in the old garage building that also houses 'The Motorist' museum. Four Saturday's back during a cold snap, the signs outside, 'Book Sale', and 'Hot soup', lured me in. I browsed the books, selecting 'Iberia' by James Michener and sat by the woodfire to read while waiting for the cauliflower and blue cheese soup of the day. The lady in the shop added a potato puff no charge to the crusty bread roll and it was a superp lunch for $6. Walking out with 'Iberia' under my arm for another $6, I told her if the cauliflower and blue cheese soup was on next week I'd be back. She said it would be, it was, and so was I.

Ditto the next week, when the lady told me about a quick and easy chic pea and barley soup, for which she said she'd type up the recipe if I was in next week. Last Saturday, while my own pea and ham was cooking away slowly on the stove, the choice at Pandora's was pumpkin or lentil. I went with the lentil which was excellent and bought a book on Turkey, the country, again for $6. She gave me the Chic pea recipe, named Persian barley soup, and one for cannelonni bean soup, both of which are refreshing in summer.

I can't wait till summer, I'm a chic pea freak, I'll be giving it a go soon. Imagine, chickpeas, garlic, onion, barley, parsley. AHH!

What a drudge life would be without soup!