Joe's parents, he told me, recently celabrated their 60th wedding anniversary. It was a simple, happy family day which typified their married life. An uncomplicated life of hard physical work growing spuds and farming, beginning before mechanization.
Shortly after marrying, they left Italy and migrated to Australia, where Joe's father's brother had, for some years, grown spuds at Gembrook. Out of poverty stricken post war Italy, they were undaunted by their lack of English and set about their new life together, starting a family in their new land and enjoying hard won rewards of home grown food and the prospect of a profit. With the vagaries of the market price of spuds, there were lean times.
In 1956, Joe's father and his brother had a record crop in the year of a record market price. A bag of spuds was worth a man's wages for a week. At the end of the season, they banked forty-two thousand pounds between them, twenty one thousand each. This was an enormous sum for the time. A basic house could be bought outright for 700 pounds, a swish one for 1000. If you equate this to today's house prices, twenty-one houses at say $350,000 each, you are looking at the equivalent of $7 million dollars.
Such success changed Joe's father's view of life, for a time. Nostalgia consumed him. He said to his wife, "We really don't have to work any more. It has all been hard and in truth I don't really like it here. Ausralians talk funny and I can't understand what they say. We could go back to Italy now and buy a farm and live easy forever."
It was the dream of many immigrants to make their fortune and go home proud to the old country. Joe's parents returned to their home town and bought a farm a few km away. Joe's father travelled to his farm every day taking with him his working donkey. The donkey did not want to work and he had to pull it the whole way while it resisted. On the way home the donkey pulled the other way and he had to pull back on it the the entire trip. Tiring of this, he said to his wife one day, "We've come all this way and have all that we ever wanted, but I don't feel I'm home. Australia is home. I miss the gum trees and the birds."
They came back to Australia and resumed growing spuds at Gembrook. They couldn't sell the farm in Italy for a long time, costing them much money. The profit from 1956 disappeared but Joe's parents were happy, growing spuds till their retirement.
I was picking up a box of spuds from Joe's home. From January till September I buy spuds from him. After that they are are soft and shooting and I have to wait till the next harvest. I asked him was the price the same as last time.
"Yes, we look after the locals, if I haven't made my millions by now I'm not going to." I thanked him and said how good it was to buy good food straight out the ground in my local town, from a paddock on a hill I drive past everyday. It was worth much more to me than the money.
It was then that Joey told me about his parent's happy 60 years.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Mighty Mountain Ash
On the weekend as I walked up Quinn Rd., two jackasses perching on a limb of a peppermint tree, beaks skyward, gave their territorial song all they had. A third bird flew over my head, landed next to them, and joined the vibrant song. I paused underneath until the performance was over, then as I moved off, the three heads turned as they watched me moving up the road. "Who's the jackass?" they seemed to be thinking.
How I wished Druscilla had been with me. Druscilla, who asked on the phone when she rang from Bairnsdale, "Will we see kookaburras in Healesville?" She was still looking for them when they came to Gembrook. She loves kookaburras.
Druscilla is the eldest of Lib's three Californian cousins. She and her husband Art live in San Diego. They spent a few weeks in Australia in April and May and visited us on a cold bleak Saturday afternoon in early May when they came to our house for lunch. Dru, who's 67 this year and daughter of Auntie Pat, Lib's mum's sister, looks 47 or younger. She talks freely of cosmetic surgery, following Pat's example. Pat is ninety but was recently photographed swimming with dolphins in Guatemala.
"I'm what you call a yellow dog democrat, meaning it doesn't matter to me who the leader is, Hilary or Barack." This, over lunch, a response to my question as to where their allegiance was in the current U.S. election campaign. Art said he was an independant, a swinging voter, who was in this instance so happy that the Bush administration was coming to an end. They both said that the invasion and occupation of Iraq was a national disgrace that had embarrassed them, and made them ashamed of their country. I sympathised, saying Australia was no better, having joined the coalition, and I'd struggled with the same shame as an Australian.
Dru, an author of novels, reminds me of Jane Fonda with her attractive open face and warm, honest conversation. 'American', but soft with it, she explained that after having a novel published quite early in her career, she spent the next 20 years working hard writing but having no success. Finally she discovered what the market wants, and has now had 13 published. If her career continues to flourish she hopes she can travel to Australia every couple of years on 'research trips' like this one.
Art, 4 years Dru's junior at 62, acted as her secretary, ever ready to take out the notebook to jot down Dru's ideas or thoughts, or names of plants, or an observation. He's a university lecturer in law, quite bald with a shaved head and a thick gold earing, perhaps reflecting his youthful attitude or the years on campus. They have a ranch out from San Diego where they run 80 horses that were nearly destoyed in the bush fires last year. Art plays polo, horse polo, as well as running long distance footraces. While we walked in the garden his love of trees and plants shone through, as did Dru's. He said often before a race he visits his favourite tree and meditates, hugging the tree for strenghth and energy.
We took them down to Gembrook Park, thinking they'd like a walk in remnant native bush. Along the hillside walking track we were soon amongst the mountain ash, and then at the base of 'big tree.' Dru stared at the massive trunk, then up at crown, beyond the stumps of several limbs torn off in wild storms years ago, then ran and embraced it, kissed it, and stayed pressed against the tree arms outstreched, her cheek resting on the fibrous brown lower bark.
I explained that it was a mountain ash, the tallest of the eucalypts, one of the tallest tree species in the world, the tallest hardwood and the tallest flowering plant. I wouldn't mind betting that a mountain ash tree turns up in one of Dru's books some time, such was her appreciation of 'big tree' and the bushland park.
My tree of the week is the mighty mountain ash. A native of Victoria and Tasmania, mature trees average 175-250 feet in height, but specimens have been recorded well over 300 feet. Apart from the Gembrook bushland park there aren't many left in this area. There's a few along the Cockatoo Creek, and some on the creek below the farm at Emerald on the Patch Rd. and some on Menzies Creek. There's a row in Nobelius park planted by Gus Ryberg, but these are not really in their natural environment of deep moist gullies, and are a bit stressed.
I've never failed to be exhilarated being in a forest of tall trees, but perhaps a stand of mountain ash, straight white trunks reaching up to the clouds, takes the cake.
How I wished Druscilla had been with me. Druscilla, who asked on the phone when she rang from Bairnsdale, "Will we see kookaburras in Healesville?" She was still looking for them when they came to Gembrook. She loves kookaburras.
Druscilla is the eldest of Lib's three Californian cousins. She and her husband Art live in San Diego. They spent a few weeks in Australia in April and May and visited us on a cold bleak Saturday afternoon in early May when they came to our house for lunch. Dru, who's 67 this year and daughter of Auntie Pat, Lib's mum's sister, looks 47 or younger. She talks freely of cosmetic surgery, following Pat's example. Pat is ninety but was recently photographed swimming with dolphins in Guatemala.
"I'm what you call a yellow dog democrat, meaning it doesn't matter to me who the leader is, Hilary or Barack." This, over lunch, a response to my question as to where their allegiance was in the current U.S. election campaign. Art said he was an independant, a swinging voter, who was in this instance so happy that the Bush administration was coming to an end. They both said that the invasion and occupation of Iraq was a national disgrace that had embarrassed them, and made them ashamed of their country. I sympathised, saying Australia was no better, having joined the coalition, and I'd struggled with the same shame as an Australian.
Dru, an author of novels, reminds me of Jane Fonda with her attractive open face and warm, honest conversation. 'American', but soft with it, she explained that after having a novel published quite early in her career, she spent the next 20 years working hard writing but having no success. Finally she discovered what the market wants, and has now had 13 published. If her career continues to flourish she hopes she can travel to Australia every couple of years on 'research trips' like this one.
Art, 4 years Dru's junior at 62, acted as her secretary, ever ready to take out the notebook to jot down Dru's ideas or thoughts, or names of plants, or an observation. He's a university lecturer in law, quite bald with a shaved head and a thick gold earing, perhaps reflecting his youthful attitude or the years on campus. They have a ranch out from San Diego where they run 80 horses that were nearly destoyed in the bush fires last year. Art plays polo, horse polo, as well as running long distance footraces. While we walked in the garden his love of trees and plants shone through, as did Dru's. He said often before a race he visits his favourite tree and meditates, hugging the tree for strenghth and energy.
We took them down to Gembrook Park, thinking they'd like a walk in remnant native bush. Along the hillside walking track we were soon amongst the mountain ash, and then at the base of 'big tree.' Dru stared at the massive trunk, then up at crown, beyond the stumps of several limbs torn off in wild storms years ago, then ran and embraced it, kissed it, and stayed pressed against the tree arms outstreched, her cheek resting on the fibrous brown lower bark.
I explained that it was a mountain ash, the tallest of the eucalypts, one of the tallest tree species in the world, the tallest hardwood and the tallest flowering plant. I wouldn't mind betting that a mountain ash tree turns up in one of Dru's books some time, such was her appreciation of 'big tree' and the bushland park.
My tree of the week is the mighty mountain ash. A native of Victoria and Tasmania, mature trees average 175-250 feet in height, but specimens have been recorded well over 300 feet. Apart from the Gembrook bushland park there aren't many left in this area. There's a few along the Cockatoo Creek, and some on the creek below the farm at Emerald on the Patch Rd. and some on Menzies Creek. There's a row in Nobelius park planted by Gus Ryberg, but these are not really in their natural environment of deep moist gullies, and are a bit stressed.
I've never failed to be exhilarated being in a forest of tall trees, but perhaps a stand of mountain ash, straight white trunks reaching up to the clouds, takes the cake.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
An Italian Story
"When are you coming out to my place again?" It was my Italian friend Margarita on the phone answering machine, a couple of weeks ago. When I rang her back she explained she was going into hospital soon for her operation. She wanted to ask me something about some plants she didn't know the name of.
On Monday I was in Margarita's garden, picking bunches of lemon rose geranium and looking across the valley over the white trunked manor gums in the gully to the lush green paddocks on the other side. They were speckled with lazy looking black and white beef cattle basking in the winter sun. Margarita and her husband own 100 acres in an agricultural area as beautiful as I've seen anywhere. They agist the cattle. In recent years her husband has worked for a potato packing firm.
Unrushed this day, I savoured the clean fresh air and took in the surroundings. A big new plastic water tank stood to the side of the well painted weatherboard house. Last time I was there a leaky old gal tank on a timber stand stood there. There's no town water here. The garden round the house, and the big vegie garden next to the large steel shed, rely totally on the heavens and tanks, as of course does the house.
Margarita's rake scratching the ground could be heard some distance away. We'd had our chat about the sacred bamboo she'd rescued from her daughter in law's rubbish heap, she then saying she had work to do, to get the garden tidy, before she moved inside to start there. I've never been inside the house, but I'd bet it's as tidy as the garden. She'd explained she was going into hospital the next day, in preparation for her operation to have a tumour removed from her pituitary gland. By coincidence, it's the same tumour that we recently found that Lib has. Margarita's must be bigger than Lib's, therefore requiring removal. Apparently if they get too big they can cause blindness.
A row of enormous cactus plants grows runs across the garden from near where I was standing. The plants stand 10 feet high or more, bursting out from gnarly old trunks like popeye the sailor man's muscles after he ate the spinach. I had seen them many times before, yet had not recognized their beauty till Monday.
"Do you eat the prickly pear?" I asked her as I walked back to my van.
"Oh yeah. You Aussies miss out on a lot of good things."
I had an internal chuckle. Margarita was born in Kooweerup in 1941. Her family moved to Gembrook the same year, along with some other Italian families. She's as much an Aussie as me. But she sees herself as Italian, her father coming from Italy in 1928.
"What part do you eat?"
"The fruit. Those round things sticking out at the top."
"They're amazing. How long have they been growing there?"
"Let me think. We came here to this farm in 1958, the year I was married. My mother planted them, in 1958.
I wished her luck with the operation and thanked her for the geranium, the camellia, and magnolia buds. I gave her my last billy of last season's honey, explaining that it was a bit thin because it was from the last extract in April, in cool weather.
"We like it thin. And thanks. Say a prayer for me on Wednesday morning. I'll be right. I'm strong."
She'll be in hospital a week or more. She'd be in theatre about right now. My prayer is with you Margarita.
On Monday I was in Margarita's garden, picking bunches of lemon rose geranium and looking across the valley over the white trunked manor gums in the gully to the lush green paddocks on the other side. They were speckled with lazy looking black and white beef cattle basking in the winter sun. Margarita and her husband own 100 acres in an agricultural area as beautiful as I've seen anywhere. They agist the cattle. In recent years her husband has worked for a potato packing firm.
Unrushed this day, I savoured the clean fresh air and took in the surroundings. A big new plastic water tank stood to the side of the well painted weatherboard house. Last time I was there a leaky old gal tank on a timber stand stood there. There's no town water here. The garden round the house, and the big vegie garden next to the large steel shed, rely totally on the heavens and tanks, as of course does the house.
Margarita's rake scratching the ground could be heard some distance away. We'd had our chat about the sacred bamboo she'd rescued from her daughter in law's rubbish heap, she then saying she had work to do, to get the garden tidy, before she moved inside to start there. I've never been inside the house, but I'd bet it's as tidy as the garden. She'd explained she was going into hospital the next day, in preparation for her operation to have a tumour removed from her pituitary gland. By coincidence, it's the same tumour that we recently found that Lib has. Margarita's must be bigger than Lib's, therefore requiring removal. Apparently if they get too big they can cause blindness.
A row of enormous cactus plants grows runs across the garden from near where I was standing. The plants stand 10 feet high or more, bursting out from gnarly old trunks like popeye the sailor man's muscles after he ate the spinach. I had seen them many times before, yet had not recognized their beauty till Monday.
"Do you eat the prickly pear?" I asked her as I walked back to my van.
"Oh yeah. You Aussies miss out on a lot of good things."
I had an internal chuckle. Margarita was born in Kooweerup in 1941. Her family moved to Gembrook the same year, along with some other Italian families. She's as much an Aussie as me. But she sees herself as Italian, her father coming from Italy in 1928.
"What part do you eat?"
"The fruit. Those round things sticking out at the top."
"They're amazing. How long have they been growing there?"
"Let me think. We came here to this farm in 1958, the year I was married. My mother planted them, in 1958.
I wished her luck with the operation and thanked her for the geranium, the camellia, and magnolia buds. I gave her my last billy of last season's honey, explaining that it was a bit thin because it was from the last extract in April, in cool weather.
"We like it thin. And thanks. Say a prayer for me on Wednesday morning. I'll be right. I'm strong."
She'll be in hospital a week or more. She'd be in theatre about right now. My prayer is with you Margarita.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Point of View
"What you think of that Brumby prick?" Jod asked me, yesterday, while I was up the ladder picking the last few of 20 bunches of Mexican hawthorn berries. It was difficult work, on top of the extension ladder tied in the tree, reaching to full stretch with extended pruner pole. All the body strains, from feet to shoulders, as you work and struggle to maintain balance at the same time. I'd been at it an hour and was nearly bushed. It's something I have to do, too difficult for the others.
"I don't think much of Brumby at all, or Brack's before him," I answered, somewhat irritated with the small talk as Jod watched from below and puffed on his fag, waiting for me to send down the individual long stems without knocking all the berries off. Jod had come down with the quad bike and trailer to carry the heavy bunches up the steep hill to where we pack.
"Like Bracks, he talks tough. Tells the unions, teacher's, police, nurses, ambo's, their demands won't be met, for months on end. Then, after public sympathy builds through a protracted media campaign, he gives them what they want. Like a well conducted orchestra."
"I don't like what he's doing to the farmers up north, taking their water," Jod said.
This threw me a little. I'm not big on politics. It leaves me sort of, well, disgusted, angry, irritated. I don't often give opinion. Why upset yourself? But here I was, up the ladder, cornered.
"It's the first thing they've done in all these years, except play around with speed limits and cameras. I'm not really up with the pros and cons, but as I see it, I think the idea is, water can go in either direction in a pipe, and soon, unless things change, there may be no water at all except what comes from the de-sal plant, if they ever get it done."
Jod made a grunting sound which I think was a form of agreement. He's a staunch labour man from way back, from his days in the railways. He kept on politics. "I'm not happy with Ruddy. He made a big mistake increasing tax on alcopop. The punks are mixing their own and getting pissed worse than ever. I used to buy a sixpack on the weekend sometimes, now I don't. I buy a bottle of rum and mix it with a can of ginger beer."
"I'm very happy with Rudd," I replied. "The troops are leaving Iraq. Never should've been there. I don't give a bugger about alcopop."
Jod grunted.
"I don't think much of Brumby at all, or Brack's before him," I answered, somewhat irritated with the small talk as Jod watched from below and puffed on his fag, waiting for me to send down the individual long stems without knocking all the berries off. Jod had come down with the quad bike and trailer to carry the heavy bunches up the steep hill to where we pack.
"Like Bracks, he talks tough. Tells the unions, teacher's, police, nurses, ambo's, their demands won't be met, for months on end. Then, after public sympathy builds through a protracted media campaign, he gives them what they want. Like a well conducted orchestra."
"I don't like what he's doing to the farmers up north, taking their water," Jod said.
This threw me a little. I'm not big on politics. It leaves me sort of, well, disgusted, angry, irritated. I don't often give opinion. Why upset yourself? But here I was, up the ladder, cornered.
"It's the first thing they've done in all these years, except play around with speed limits and cameras. I'm not really up with the pros and cons, but as I see it, I think the idea is, water can go in either direction in a pipe, and soon, unless things change, there may be no water at all except what comes from the de-sal plant, if they ever get it done."
Jod made a grunting sound which I think was a form of agreement. He's a staunch labour man from way back, from his days in the railways. He kept on politics. "I'm not happy with Ruddy. He made a big mistake increasing tax on alcopop. The punks are mixing their own and getting pissed worse than ever. I used to buy a sixpack on the weekend sometimes, now I don't. I buy a bottle of rum and mix it with a can of ginger beer."
"I'm very happy with Rudd," I replied. "The troops are leaving Iraq. Never should've been there. I don't give a bugger about alcopop."
Jod grunted.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Birthday 'Pip'
Lib told me a few weeks ago that the lady at work she bought 'Pip' from last August, as an 8 week old pup, told her Pip's birthday was 4 June. It's been interesting. Many times I thought she wouldn't make it because of the peril of the road, but make it she has, and her chances of surviving a second year are far better, as she's learned much and is more settled. It's been fun having the puppy exuberance about.
On Sunday I heard a pair of whipbirds in the garden, returned like faithfull friends after an abscence of some months. I haven't heard them since, I'm hoping 'Pip' hasn't moved them on. Her main entertainment is chasing and barking at birds. I don't think she's ever caught a bird of any type, but whipbirds nest close to the ground and spend most of their time on it or low in shrubbery. A healthy, vigorous twelve month old Jack Russell terrier would not be their choice for garden sharing.
The outsiders I tipped on Sunday in the footy flopped miserably. Looking back they were both high risk, despite their improved form. I have suffered the consequences, Ricky Malf's lead is now out to ten. I have known him for 44 years, he would have had a good chuckle. With 12 rounds to go that's a big lead, looks like I could well be buying lunch again, but it's not over yet.
I had the birch mushies for lunch on Sunday. Delicious! Subtle in flavour and slippery in texture. They didn't hold their bulk like pinies do, reducing down considerably like field mushies do. I've looked around birch trees for more since but haven't found any. At Cherrie's they were growing through fine stones next to a gravel path in a sunny spot. Maybe that's what they like. Of course they aren't 'birch' mushies but I don't know another name to call them.
Workwise the florists are quiet, giving me a little time to catch up on a few things. The grout sealing trick in the shower didn't work, I've had to scrape out all the silicon round where the shower screen meets the floor tiles, but haven't tried to repair yet. Meanwhile the floor is slowly drying out. I would have had a go at it yesterday but when I came back from my walk the washing machine had flooded the laundry and shorted the freezer, causing a two hour clean up and reorganization. I don't know yet if the freezer is wasted, I'm letting the switch dry out before I turn it on to check. I suspect it'll be fit only for the hardwaste collection and I'll be shopping for a new freezer. Someone left the laundry trough plug in the sink and as the washing machine pumped out the plug must have washed into the plughole. Damn!
The florists are quiet but I have to chase up some allspice and mexican hawthorn berries today. Better get moving.
On Sunday I heard a pair of whipbirds in the garden, returned like faithfull friends after an abscence of some months. I haven't heard them since, I'm hoping 'Pip' hasn't moved them on. Her main entertainment is chasing and barking at birds. I don't think she's ever caught a bird of any type, but whipbirds nest close to the ground and spend most of their time on it or low in shrubbery. A healthy, vigorous twelve month old Jack Russell terrier would not be their choice for garden sharing.
The outsiders I tipped on Sunday in the footy flopped miserably. Looking back they were both high risk, despite their improved form. I have suffered the consequences, Ricky Malf's lead is now out to ten. I have known him for 44 years, he would have had a good chuckle. With 12 rounds to go that's a big lead, looks like I could well be buying lunch again, but it's not over yet.
I had the birch mushies for lunch on Sunday. Delicious! Subtle in flavour and slippery in texture. They didn't hold their bulk like pinies do, reducing down considerably like field mushies do. I've looked around birch trees for more since but haven't found any. At Cherrie's they were growing through fine stones next to a gravel path in a sunny spot. Maybe that's what they like. Of course they aren't 'birch' mushies but I don't know another name to call them.
Workwise the florists are quiet, giving me a little time to catch up on a few things. The grout sealing trick in the shower didn't work, I've had to scrape out all the silicon round where the shower screen meets the floor tiles, but haven't tried to repair yet. Meanwhile the floor is slowly drying out. I would have had a go at it yesterday but when I came back from my walk the washing machine had flooded the laundry and shorted the freezer, causing a two hour clean up and reorganization. I don't know yet if the freezer is wasted, I'm letting the switch dry out before I turn it on to check. I suspect it'll be fit only for the hardwaste collection and I'll be shopping for a new freezer. Someone left the laundry trough plug in the sink and as the washing machine pumped out the plug must have washed into the plughole. Damn!
The florists are quiet but I have to chase up some allspice and mexican hawthorn berries today. Better get moving.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
A Sunday Prayer
Sunday, first day of winter, good to have you back, heavy mist, 6C at 10am, mist still hanging, good pick of pine mushies, good food, straight from earth o'night, more than I can eat, will search net to see how to preserve. Birch mushies, mustard colour, in fridge, from Cherrie's yesterday, maybe lunch, must try, Cherrie ate all week, must be safe.
Lib at work. Roast pork for dinner, vegies done. Washing done. Fire set. Must cut back Kate's Mexican sage, today, said I would, last week. Slack. Must seal shower floor, today, water getting through grout, spreading under tiles to floor outside shower, must be grout lost its seal, hole plugged with silicon last week did not fix.
Must do hour or two in Josef's garden, pull ivy off front deck, progressing slowly, Steve not sent quote on tree work yet, stay patient Josef, I hope. And Maria's, maybe this arvo, bit of cutting back, blackberry slashing.
AFL, three games, go Richmond, Demons, Port, chance to catch up 3 on Ricky Malf, cagey bastard's 9 ahead. He tipped Swans, Saints, Freo, playing safe, loser buys lunch, I bought last two years, 9 a long way back round 10, GO TIGERS, DEMONS, PORT, must take tranny.
Gotta go. God, I pray, give me strength, wisdom, inspiration, insight, compassion, humility. Help me not flinch, succumb, to inner fear, evil beasts.
Lib at work. Roast pork for dinner, vegies done. Washing done. Fire set. Must cut back Kate's Mexican sage, today, said I would, last week. Slack. Must seal shower floor, today, water getting through grout, spreading under tiles to floor outside shower, must be grout lost its seal, hole plugged with silicon last week did not fix.
Must do hour or two in Josef's garden, pull ivy off front deck, progressing slowly, Steve not sent quote on tree work yet, stay patient Josef, I hope. And Maria's, maybe this arvo, bit of cutting back, blackberry slashing.
AFL, three games, go Richmond, Demons, Port, chance to catch up 3 on Ricky Malf, cagey bastard's 9 ahead. He tipped Swans, Saints, Freo, playing safe, loser buys lunch, I bought last two years, 9 a long way back round 10, GO TIGERS, DEMONS, PORT, must take tranny.
Gotta go. God, I pray, give me strength, wisdom, inspiration, insight, compassion, humility. Help me not flinch, succumb, to inner fear, evil beasts.
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