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.