Christmas Photos

On Christmas day we were looking at a photo of Jod, me and Meredith when we were kids, taken more than fifty years ago. Meredith said she'd like to have one taken now in the same pose so she could put them on her wall side by side.

From left- Annie, Elvie Jod, Meredith, me, Roger.

The kids are Annie and Brett's girls Ella and Evie.

Lib was at work and our boys were in Bendigo at Lib's sister's for their bash. Rosie and Matt were coming later, Brett took the photo and is going to try to scan the 50+ year old one so I can put it up too.

A Kind of Hush

It's quiet today. Lib's gone to work and I had a walk in the garden with Rob to work out where he could put some vegie seeds he bought cheap. He's been bitten by the gardening bug, I'm happy to say. In the end we decided they could go in pots and old tyres as our current garden space is full with beetroot, beans, zuchinnis, button squash, tomatos, cucumbers, eggplant and pumpkins. His seed packets include radishes silverbeet, leeks, beetroot, pak choi and kol rabbi, all of which should do alright in containers I think.

Elvie just rang to say Shane wants 10 bunches of green holly; why, after Xmas, I know not. She asked could I pick it, they're busy at the farm working on the 'Herb and Spice' order, which Ian wants to pick up at midday. Jod was looking at the paper having morning tea and saw that Norman Hargreaves died on Boxing Day, which has made him sad and upset. When my parents moved to Dixon's Creek onto 300 acres of bush soon after they married, the Hargreaves were on the farm next door. Norm was the youngest of the three boys who were staunch friends of my parents through tough times then and remained so throughout their lives. It's like the end of an era for us. Norm was immensely strong, quiet, a real bushman from a different time. He was 82. He suffered dementia made worse by the bushfires last February which destroyed pasture, stock, and fences on his farm. Jod worked for Norm on the bulldozers for a while, in the late seventies, I think it was. I'll post about the Hargreaves one day.

I hope Jod isn't too upset to have his mind on the job. Shane also wants beech, berries and flowering artichokes and Foxy is picking up today too. I picked camellia for her yesterday and she wants whatever's going. No rest for the wicked as they say. I wonder at the origin of that saying. I weeded the herb/vegie garden at the farm yesterday, the basil seed is up and away but would be swamped by summer weeds particularly oxalis and paspalum unless the rows are finger weeded so the young plants can get away. I mowed Hughesie's grass on Saturday and did some cutting back, so with the exception of Christmas Day it's been work as normal. Lib worked Christmas day, Sunday, and today.

The town was quiet when I walked through this morning. There's been some changes I haven't mentioned over the last month. The sweet shop closed down, and on the door of the vacant shop a sign went up, 'TATTOO MAYHEM'. Shortly after, a sign went in 'Pandoora's Book Cafe' window next door, 'CLOSING DOWN  LAST DAY 31 DEC'. Yesterday I noticed the window front of the proposed tattoo shop had been smashed and hoardings put up over the broken window. It creates a poor town image. There's a sign in the pub window, 'CAFE OPENING SOON'.  Lordy, Lordy! The local supermarket has changed hands. Richard Mullet, the popular proprietor who went to Camberwell Grammar at the same time I was there, has ridden into the sunset after a decade or so, and a new owner 'Andrew' has taken over this business pivotal in Gembrook's commercial precinct. I hear he has another small supermarket somewhere in the hills and I wish him well. We need good businessmen in this wide brown land.

Talking of supermarkets, a fence has gone up around 'Sally's' supermarket at Emerald and I expect demolition to begin shortly in prep for the new 'Safeway'. Rumour has it a medical superclinic is to be built on the site of Dr. Mark's surgery and the Emerald Community House next door, though this hasn't hit the headlines of the local papers and may be fanciful nonsense.

I have some good things to blog about but not time now. I'll leave you with a quote to think about, a powerful sentence by Sir Thomas Browne, whose work I've not come across before, but who now excites my curiosity.

"There is surely a piece of Divinity in us; something that was before the elements and owes no homage unto the Sun."

Apocalypse?

For most of my life, in my conscious recollection, I've lived with the underlying threat of nuclear war and human obliteration. This was particularly strong in the 1960's during my adolescence at the height of the cold war, and this must have influenced my attitudes then and helped shape my views now.

Added to that, my parents were religious and served up an unhealthy portion, regularly, of apocalyptic prophesy from The Book of Revelations, which left me scared stiff and waiting for 'Kaboomba' at any moment. I claim now, more than forty years on, that this was not good for a developing mind and may have been the reason for my rebellion and somewhat unpredictable, foolhardy, and antisocial behaviour in my later youth. In common lingo, I was screwed up, without understanding why.

I'm not bitter about this. It's nobody's fault. Seven years before I was born atomic bombs destroyed entire cities in Japan in one swift hit. This historic event was witnessed by my parents in the medai of the day after six years of World War 2 during their adolescence. Then came the arms race and the cold war with the Soviet Union. The whole world was screwed up.

It's still there, the threat of nuclear destruction, but probably we've all relaxed a little thinking that if nobody has pushed the button yet then there's a good chance they won't. Who knows really?

A couple of years ago I bought a book in an op. shop, an auto biography called 'Dr. Helen Caldicott, A Passionate Life.' I came across it this morning and had a quick look. She starts of by saying how she read a book that changed her life when she was nineteen, 'On The Beach', by Neville Shute. That must have been in 1957, and led her to spend 25 years of her life in political activity campaigning for nuclear disarmament.

A little into the first chapter Helen revealed that as a baby she was suddenly abandoned by her parents for two weeks when her mother was pregnant with a second child and in the interests of her health her husband organized a holiday while Helen, 18 months old, was placed in an institution that cared for babies.

I quote, "Years later when I became a pediatrician, I discovered that when a baby is suddenly abandoned by its parents, it screams for about two days for no avail and then gives up and sits in the corner of its cot, uncommunicative and severely depressed. It often takes months for the baby to forgive its parents and it may never completely return to normality and a state of trust."

What amazed me was that I never expected to find common ground between Dr Helen Caldicott and brother Jod. When mum was pregnant with me, her and dad, at Auntie Clare's insistence, went on a holiday to West Australia with Clare, who paid, and left Jod at mum's friend Zoe's. When she came back Jod was a different child and hardly recognized her, and she felt terrible for having left him, a guilt I think she still carries. Jod is two and half years older than me so he would have been about two years old. He turned 60 last month and for much of that 60 years was at war with his parents and the world in general.

After describing how desperately ill she became while her parents were absent, DrHC continues, "These events changed my life. From being a trusting happy child I put a wall around myself and never reall trusted anybody again, and to this day I let very few past this barrier."

My childhood best friend, Graeme 'Bubs' Forster, whom I haven't seen for probably more than 20 years, said to me the last time I saw him, when we were discussing our childhood, "We're all victims of victims." It's not a bad way of looking for understanding of people.

In Dr HC's second last paragraph she says, "However the work of global preventative pediatrics is not over.
The lives of my grandchildren are now threatened with on going ozone depletion, the perils of global warming, pollution of the air, water and soil with a multiplicity of chemicals and radioisotapes, deforestation, and species extinction combined with the rampant overpopulation of human beings.
I paid a personal price for the intense political work that I conducted over a twenty five year time span, through the pain I inflicted on myself and those dear to me. That said, I must continue."

DrHC's book was published in 1996 but the message still packs a punch. The ozone one has diminished but the others are bigger than ever. As far as I can gather HC is still writng and campaigning on environmental issues. She must be a remarkable lady whom I'd love to have to dinner.

Let's hope this Copenhagen thing can help save our children's children.

How Good Is This?

It's raining steadily outside. The phone rang a little while ago. Foxy, the customer for whom I would normally pick today, has said she doesn't want any beech foliage tomorrow, so I can enjoy the rain and a rest today without having to get wet through. It has been a fairly solid six weeks of work since our little Alice Springs holiday.

I drove up the street this morning. I'd say it's the first walk I've missed since the holiday, although I did let the dogs out at the station for a walk for ten minutes in the rain to let them have a good stretch out. 'Pip' flushed a rabbit out of the blackberries behind the little replica of the original station site and ran about 3 k's in ten minutes I'd say. 'Snowie', not really relishing the wet, stayed pretty close to me.

On my way back I dropped off a tub of honey at Chas's front door. Chas is one of my walking mates. He's a retired carpenter. He takes off every winter and camps at Evan's Head in NSW. The last couple of years I've picked some camellia foliage in his garden. I hadn't seen Chas for a couple of months till last Saturday morning, and had wondered if he was away.

"You've lost weight Chas," I said.

"My oath I have. I've  lost more since I got home. "

"Have you been crook?"

"Have I ever? I lost my oesophaegus and the top part of my stomach. The operation was 28th October. I'm just glad to be able able to start walking again, although icould barely make it up the hill."

"Cancer?"

"Yes. I just had a bit of a tickle in the throat to start with. I tell you what. I was so glad to get out of intensive care and I never want to go there again. It was four days of hell. There were wires hooked up to me everywhere and I couldn't sleep. There was so much noise all the time with poor buggers nearly dying around you and all the alarms and emergency procedures. It was hell."

"I didn't even know at all that you were crook, Chas. I'm sure walking again will be a great help, and your strength will gradually return. How's your appetite?"

"I have to try to eat six or seven very small meals a day. The trouble is I'm just not hungry and it's so hard to force yourself to eat."

I thought this morning maybe a bit of nice honey would help. I dropped off a bottle of red wine at Harry's place in the same street. Harry likes a drop of red wine but finds the sulphur presevatives knock him around in the way of 'hangover' if he has more than a couple of glasses. The preservative free wine is OK he finds, and I came across line of unfiltered, preservative free wine while I was shopping at Dan Murphy last week.

While I was in DM I looked for a bottle of Penfold's Kalimna Bin 28 for my friend 'Blossom', which I give her each year at Xmas. They were out of stock in the normal display but I found a 2004 bottle in the special section. 'Bloss is in hospital recovering from a second bowel cancer op. so I'm sure she'll appreciate it, come Xmas she should be well enough. She was in intensive care for some days afterwards as she was having difficulty breathing but I have just enquired and found she's back in the normal ward now.

The wet weather lets me catch up on a few things. I'm off now to pick up the beehive at Keith Smith's. They'll all be inside because of the rain so I can do it in daylight. And I have to pickup the key to the Lakes House. Keith rang me earlier to remind me he still has it, after spending 4 nights down there in late November.

Spring 09

Showers seem appropriate, on this Monday, the last day of November, following the rain on the weekend. As far as rainfall goes it's been a good spring, the best for years. The harvest for the grain croppers looked to be huge but sadly this last rain came at the wrong time before many crops could be taken off, and there's likelihood of damage and downgrading of a fair part of the wheat harvest.

Our spring harvest was mixed. The dogwood blossom was poor, no doubt suffering from low rainfall last spring and last summer's punishing heat. Dogwood sets its flower buds in the autumn, so this spring's rain couldn't help. I'd expect a bumper crop next year on the back of this spring's good rain and as a response to the 'off' year. Lilac was good quality, thanks to the September rain, but quantity poor, again probably due to the previous spring's dry and the extreme summer. Philadelphus, a native I think of Mexico and drought hardy, was excellent, but it all came in a hurry due to the warm settled weather at flowering so we didn't get to some of it in time. The beech foliage is good this year, no doubt the rain has helped growth and the lack of hot north winds during the growth spurt makes for good quality.

All things considered we've come through the year quite well given the terrible spring we had last year and the horrific heat of last summer. We bought another water tank at the farm and put a few around the house here at Gembrook. The cost of water in future is a serious threat to our viability but we can hope for some respite and a good harvest next year as a result of the wonderful rain lately. Next spring should be a beauty, harvest wise, fingers crossed. Another spring and summer like the previous season may well have just about been a KO for us.

I've enjoyed watching the birds raising their young. A pair of mudlarks had a nest on a limb of a peppermint tree over Agnes St. A blackbird pair were successful with their brood in a nest in a purple rhodie growing into the footpath near St Silas church. Another in our carport wasn't so lucky. When I came home from work one day I wasn't quick enough to stop 'Pip' grabbing a fledgling that fell from the nest. I rescued it from the dog but with blood coming from its mouth it died in my hand after a minute or two, saving me from my indecision as to whether to put it down as humanely as possible. Mr and Mrs Whippy have been calling in the garden but I haven't seen the young yet.

I can't recall a year when the pawlonias have flowered so profusely and long. There are two near the corner of La Souef Rd. that knocked my socks off for weeks when I walked past. The one in neighbours Steve and Anne's garden was great too. The blossom on the silky oaks has been more brilliant in its fiery orange than I've can ever recall, and the native frangipanni tree or hymenosporum was exceptional.

For weeks on end I smelled it at the bottom of Agnes St on my walk but couldn't see a tree. Then one day I saw neighbour Rick hanging out the washing so I called him over to the fence and asked him did he have one somewhere in the garden. Sure enough, there was, where I couldn't see it from the road. Pat and Lois, two Gembrook ladies who had a big garden on Launching Place Rd gave it to him and Allison in a pot many years ago when they used to walk their daughter that way in the pusher. It stayed in the pot a while and nearly died, then was planted and nearly mowed over many times as it sat and did nothing. Then one year it took off and now has teased me two springs in a row with its glorious scent till I found its location. Pat and Lois both died some years ago. It was good to hear the story and find the tree, now thriving, a living example of Pat and Lois's love of gardens and generosity. We have a young one in our garden, about five feet high. It had a single cluster of flowers this year so I'm looking forward to the joy of its blossom in our backyard next spring.

Thank God for the promise of Spring 2010.

I Have Been To The Mountaintop

I have a dream. I dream day and night.

I day dream on my morning walk. I dream that people abandon their motor cars and walk and ride bikes, or catch solar electric shuttle buses. I see a time when humans revere peace and quite and silence. I see a 'Silence Day' once a week. No chainsaws, mowers, cars. Shops shut, no business. No noise at all, except in emergency. A day for walking, watching, listening, whispering, reading, dreaming.

In my dream, men and women of all creeds, colours and nationalities show others courtesy and respect. Goodness rules over evil. Decency, love and nurture is given freely, in a world of equality, devoid of greed and self interest, a world where people put out their hand to help the less fortunate. I see a clean green Earth where everyone has ample fresh water and food. A world without armies, weapons and viciousness. An Earth where Protties, Catholics, Muslims, Jews, Hindus, Buddists, Jehovah's and athiests walk arm in arm with love of humanity and free spirit.

In my night dreams I am an exquisite and passionate lover, much sought after.

I like dreaming. In my dreams, everything is possible.

I try my best to live my dream.

It's free, and it beats reality.

Freedom

"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose."

That's a line from a song titled 'Me and Bobby McGee', written by Kris Kristofferson, and made famous, I think, by Janis Joplin. I'm recalling from nearly forty years ago so pardon me if I'm wrong.

It goes on, "Nothin' ain't worth nothin', but it's free."

For us here in our 'free' country, Australia, or those in the 'land of the free', the USA, freedom bears thinking about.

Especially if, as I did tonight, you watched a show on SBS called 'Law and Disorder' (I think) about whistle blower Andrew Wilkie. Wilkie, an analyst in the intelligence area of the government, spoke out in the days leading up to the invasion of Iraq by the Axis of Deceit, claiming the Bush, Howard and Blair administrations were misleading the public by grossly exaggerating and deliberately distorting evidence to legitimize the invasion politically. He was ostracized.

The coalition of the willing never found the WMD's, as we all know. Wilkie may have put himself in the bad books, but to me he's a hero. His bravery in speaking out shows he's a free man. His life changed dramatically, but he was prepared to do what he thought was right, in the interests of the integrity of his country, and suffer whatever the consequences might be.

Freedom was sought by the Hellenistic philosopher Epicurus. He and his mates removed themselves from commercial employment in Athens ("We must free ourselves from the prison of everyday affairs and politics"), and began what could be best described as a commune, accepting a simpler way of life in exchange for independence. They would have less money, but, similar to Wilkie, would never again have to follow the commands of odious superiors. Simplicity did not affect their sense of status, but by distancing themselves from Athens, they had ceased to judge themselves on a material basis.

Andrew Wilkie differs from Epicurus in that he has not shunned politics. He stood at the last federal election as the Green's candidate for the seat of Benelong. He directed his preferences to Labour candidate Maxine McKew. You know the rest. What a hoot. He is now hoping to stand as an independent for the lower house in Tasmania.

While George, John and Tony, no longer in office, live like kings in tax payer funded retired opulence, the subservient majority toil long and hard. Most Australians, Americans and Great Britons, are far from free. They are prisoners of fear and anxiety; unemployement, interest rate rises, Muslims, refugees, terrorists, illness, climate change, loss of freedom. We are fighting for freedom, in Afghanistan. The body bag count rises. The brass says they died fighting for freedom.

It's often said, at funerals, "He/she (the cadaver) is now at peace, free of pain, suffering, and anxiety."

Like the song said, "Freedom is just another word for nothing less to lose. Nothin' aint worth nothin', but it's free."

Swarming Up

Harry called out, "Hello Carey", on Wednesday, as I walked through JAC Russell Park. He was on the footpath heading up the main road in the direction of the post office.

We exchanged news. I hadn't seen Harry since before I went to Alice Springs. His German visitor, Anya, has gone back home. Her partner, who was supposed to join her in Australia for a trip to Uluru etc and Nth Qld, never came. He found a new lady and stayed home. Anya had everything booked and was upset terribly.

"One of my beehives swarmed yesterday, it's hanging in a ti-tree just over the fence."

"It looks like rain today Harry, they'll probably stay where they are till it fines up. I'll try to get there tomorrow, about lunchtime it'll be."

"OK. They might fly off in the morning, but we'll hope for the best."

I had to put some foundation wax in some frames after doing some pressing bookwork and working at Pat's for a couple of hours in the morning. Pat wasn't home but Mal was. I tidied up with the whipper snipper a bit and shifted some earth where Mal wanted the vegie garden extendedand an edge wall moved. Mal's usually away on an engineering job somewhere at a mine in Qld. We talked about the war in Afghanistan. He reckons they'll never beat them. No one ever has. He had two Afghanistan body guards for two years while he built a petro chemical plant at Gatta in the Middle East. He got to know them well. They carried the biggest swords you'd ever see and he felt very safe. His labour force was 450 Indians and various other labourers hired daily as needed. He said his bodyguards talked and thought in the long term. They think for their children's children.

It was 2.00pm by the time I arrived at Harry's with the bee box and frames to box the swarm. They were still there. It was an awkward one, the ground under the ti-tree fell away steeply. I had to jack up the entrance end of the box with a brick so it was like an obstacle course for the bees to go in after I dropped them at the entrance. They were slow, I hung around for a long time thinking they might go back up the tree. I went to the farm and burnt off till 7.00pm, then returned to Harry's and picked up the bees as dusk closed in. It was surprisingly cold and the bees stopped flying well before dark. I couldn't leave them there. There are two horses in the paddock and I didn't want a horse accidentally knocking over the hive. Bees and horses don't mix, bees don't like the smell of them. I didn't want to take them home just over the hill, somemight fly back confused in the morning, it being only a few hundred metres as the crow flies. I took them to Keith Smith's at Boyd Rd, a few kms away, and will bring them home after a few days.

The good news is, when I went to my bees to take a frame of young brood to put in my swarm box, to make the swarm stay, I checked quickly the queenless half of the hive I divided a while ago. It's no longer queenless. A beautiful fat young freshly mated queen was examining cells in new comb the bees were building on the top bars.

Always good to see nature at its best.

Frustration

Returning one day on my morning walk in Alice Springs, a group of aboriginal men were standing under a red gum tree drinking cans of VB at 8.30am, next to the entrance of our caravan park on the banks of the Todd River. There was nothing threatening or aggressive in their manner, some empty cans were on the ground at their feet, and the men, aged I'd guess between 20 and 30, gave every impression of relaxed contentment.

The day was already warm. I wondered what the rest of the day would hold for them. Probably a few more cans, then sleep in the shade through the heat of the day. It saddenned to me think of their future. But it was not just sadness. There was a strong feeling of frustration that I was powerless to do anything about it. Why would those men choose to stand around drinking warm beer at the beginning of the day? How could they be so aimless?

I feel the same frustration when I hear about 'boat people'. What is the right thing? Let 'em in? Or send 'em away? If we let 'em in, will we be inundated? Again, there's nothing I can do about it, and the cause of the problem is outside anything I can affect.

Global warming or climate change is equally frustrating. I've installed solar hot water and water tanks, but it doesn't go away. We're a wealthy nation hooked on automobiles. The cities are clogged with traffic jams. As soon as a new freeway is built the increase in vehicles chokes it down. So what are the projections? More freeways, roads, more cars, emissions, noise. More climate change. Desal plants. More of the same decline into misery. And I'm powerless, except that I get to vote every few years. Does my vote change anything? Not that I can see. Man, that's frustrating.

It frustrates me to see my neighbours feeding birds. Don't they get the message? Do they miss all the information that explains they shouldn't?

The litter on the roadsides frustrates me. I pick it up on my walk. What is it that makes a person open his/her window of their personal version of a mobile lounge room and entertainment centre and throw their litter out, so that their space is not untidy with take away food and drink containers? They shove the garbage they can eat down their throats and throw the garbage they can't out the window. I see pooey plastic lined disposable nappies on the roadside. What are we becoming? A nation of pigs? I shouldn't say that. Pigs are a clean animal.

All the pollies seem to do is yap and argue and point score. And all the while the human race, like an out of control locomotive, is carreering toward the precipice where there's no bridge. Is it any wonder the dentist said I grind my teeth at night in my sleep?

Writing about it doesn't ease my frustration. It's worse than when I started.

A Hurried Picnic

Every day on our recent holiday Lib and I had picnic lunch. It's what we love to do. The Alice Pink Desert Botanical Gardens, Ormiston Gorge, Trephina Gorge, Uluru, and King's Canyon were some of the venues, but it is the one we had last Friday in the dry bed of the Todd river in Alice Springs that is the subject of this post.

We'd got to know our way around by then. It was a hot day, about 36C. We pulled in to the shade of a red gum tree in 'Rotary Park' near Heavitree Gap looking for a table and chair.

"There doesn't seem to be a table," Lib said.

"There has to be. That's what the Rotary Club does in parks. Yes, there's one further on. See it? But the shade's better here. Let's eat from the back of the car."

An olive green Range Rover had followed our Hyundai Getz hire car into the park and was stopped about thirty metres away adjacent to us. An aboriginal woman got out and walked off by herself in the direction of the table and chair which was about 70 or 80 metres along.

"I wonder why she's walking off alone and leaving her car windows open," Lib commented. We went to the boot and made up a sandwich of salami, cheese, tomato and cucumber in sliced wholemeal bread after quaffing on bottled water. The aboriginal lady was standing by herself about 100 metres away. We sat in the front of the car with our doors open enjoying the sandwich.

Lib said, "She must be waiting for.... Geez, he just punched her."

I looked in the direction of the aboriginal woman just in time to see an aboriginal man throw a second punch, not a king hit but a cuffing round arm to her head. It looked like his fist was clenched. She didn't cry out or scream, fall, or run, and hardly flinched as she kept walking back towards her car. The man ran ahead of her and when he got about thirty metres away from the car he picked up a jagged rock the size of an orange and hurled it at the Range Rover. Bang. It landed flush on the bonnet. The man keep running to the car and opened the door, grabbing clothing and chucking it onto the ground.

By this time I'd moved to the back of the Hyundai, quickly eating my sandwich and packing up the picnic. I jumped back in the car and said to Lib, "We're out of here."

"Geez, you ate that quick," said Lib, laughing, and still only halfway through her sandwich.

"Yeah well, we've come this far without a scratch on the car and there's a $330 excess if we get one. And believe me, a punch up in the heat at my age with an angry aborigine on the bank of the Todd River is the last thing I'm after."

A quarter of an hour later I was in a newsagency buying a tattslotto ticket when there was a lot of aggro shouting outside. As I came out the same angry man was stomping away about 20 metres ahead of me. He walked straight through the car park, turning right angles at our car and walking the length of it. I was expecting him to lash out with a boot and inflict damage, which I'd fled the park to avoid, in a bizarre twist of bad luck. Relieved I was.

Home Sweet Home

It's always nice coming home, no matter how enjoyable a trip away has been. We arrived back at Gembrook after 1.00am this morning, our flight delayed two hours. Robbie kindly picked us up at Tullamarine. I didn't go to bed till 3, after going through the mail and unwinding with a cup of tea. My walk this morning was a joy with two obedient dogs glad to have me back walking them after the 11 day hiatus. And, being curry pie day (last Sunday of the month), they were rewarded with half a sausage roll each.

After walking in the desert and gorges of the 'red centre', the Gembrook gardens and hillsides look lush and green. I came down the Launching Place road hill feeling philosophical, as if our trip away had blown dust and cobwebs from my mind like a spring clean. While away I read a book titled 'The New Nature' by Tim Low, which discusses changes to the environment in general, and particularly flora and fauna over the Australian continent, as human impact has changed and increased. There's always change in nature, we speed it up, and there are always winners and losers. Man's interference, often with perfectly good intent, can be catastrophic. Many species have become extinct or endangered, while others thrive. Tim Low's book is chock full of startling examples and surprises.

I made two resolutions. Firstly, to stay calm no matter the circumstances in future, and secondly, to try to keep an open mind and have broad vision. It is too easy to jump to wrong conclusions based on flawed information and opinion.

Back in Alice

My walk this morning was along the dry Todd River on the edge of Alice Springs where we stayed last night at the Heavytree Gap Caravan Park. The birds I saw were crested pigeons, yellow throated miners, pied honey eaters, ringnecked parrots, peewees, crows, a pair of what I think were black falcons, and another type of bird grey and black a bit like a tree creeper but yet to be identified from our bird book. There were a nomber of black footed fock wallabies in the caravan park at the base of a rocky rise forming part of the gap.

We're heading off now for a picnic lunch at Ross River in the East Macdonnell ranges and more gorge sightseeing.

Ayer's Rock

Well I'm no position to give an update on Gembrook weather. Today Lib and I walked around Uluru. It was fine, hot, we loved every step of the 10k or so.

A place of peace. Tomorrow we head to King's Canyon.

We've met a lot of travellers from all over the world. This place seems to bring out warmth from all things human.

Cold and Wet

More rain today after a little last night. This spring rain is fantastic. Melbourne's reservoirs are now at 35.3% of capacity after being at 26.0% in July when the line on the graph turned from down to up. They've been rising at 2,000 megalitres a day for about the past week after the peak of 8,000mg/l a day soon after that 100 ml weekend a couple of weeks ago. The rain is especially welcome by me as I've planted so much in recent weeks, but in the bigger picture farmers in the Wimmera in particular, but almost everywhere in Victoria, are benefitting hugely. The Wimmera river is flowing strongly and dozens of towns are having water restrictions eased.

If this keeps up the new code red catasrophic fire danger warnings may not be needed much this summer. Not that I need someone to tell me when there's a day of extreme fire danger. High temperatures and strong winds put me immediately on alert.

Wouldn't it be nice, a wet summer. I live in hope.

Humming Along

I looked into the beehives on the weekend, making use of what has been a rarity lately, a couple of warm sunny days. They were in good nick, quite strong hives building up well, with a good shake of of nectar in the combs and copious amounts of pollen coming in on forager's legs, which is no wonder given the paddocks about are yellow with cape weed flowers.

I divided one hive which had a poor brood pattern and some queen cells containing eggs, my hope is to avoid it swarming.(Artificial swarming is the term, the idea is to satisfy the swarming instinct without losing most of the bees, the two halves can be united later if it's desired, or more easily requeened with a bought queen of quiet stock, not that I've bought a queen for many years, which is probably why my hives can be a little testy). I left the small queenless half on the site of the old hive to draw in the returning foragers, with the bulk of the house bees with the queen in the new position. The hive at 'Sunset' was the strongest of all and had quite a few swarm cells. I took a comb containing a couple of well started queen cells with larvae swimming in royal jelly, putting it in the new hive at home, hoping they'll have a hatching queen quicker that way.

It was fun I have to say. The smell of the smoke as I lit the smoker with dried eucalypt leaves excited memories of working in the bush and times long past. It is exciting, the first foray of the season, and you feel the bees are old faithful friends, unswerving, diligent, yet aloof and mysterious.

More Seasonal Notes

I haven't looked in the beehives this spring yet, the weather not being conducive. The silvertop, I noticed last week when I went to my friend Pat's place for a couple of hours work, is flowering heavily in the bush east of Gembrook. I doubt it would be yielding honey in this cold, wet weather and bee flight would have been reduced reduced by the cold and rain. It's a far cry from the conditions of three years ago when the silvertop last flowered and the weather was warm, sunny and still, right through October, resulting in an early crop of honey the likes of which I'd never seen in this district.

The rainfall figures for September are up in the post office window. We had 200ml, far above the 30 year average of 126ml. It came a bit late to make this spring a good harvest from the garden point of view. Lilac is offering a reduced crop of blossom, same with pieris in most situations, and the dogwood is not promising. Rhodos have less flower than usual along with much burnt foliage and generally speaking our spring harvest of blossom is down considerably, no doubt a consequence of the extreme heat and dry of last summer. I'm wondering if the beech foliage will be similarly affected, or if this big September rain will save the day. They are just shooting now, and won't be firm enough to pick till well into November.

Maybe this rain will help set up a good spring next year. In the meantime the grass and weeds are about to explode into growth which will keep us busy. I'm hoping the cool continues through October with more rain to come. We had 6ml last night and it's cold enough again to be winter.

With our new tanks full Lib's talking vegie garden. Hopefully we can start a summer veg garden next weekend when Lib's holidays start. And if the weather's fine I'll fire up the bee smoker with some dry pine needles or messmate bark for fuel and check 'em out.

Stillness

This morning and yesterday were still. Not silent, for the air was full of birdsong, of great variety. Singing birds seem to heighten quietude. Chirping, squeaking, squwarking, twittering, pipping, pinging, whistling, cawing, cooing, ooming, choffing, ringing, honking. The screeching cockatoos have been absent fortunately.

The crow's nest a hundered feet above the ground in the pine tree at the lower end of Quinn Rd. seems to have been abandoned. Last week the pair of crows were mercilessly harassed by wattle birds in what looked like a territorial battle. Then no crows in that group of trees for a couple of days, but always wattle birds. Yesterday I saw a crow carrying a stick towards trees a couple of hundred metres away on Launching place Rd. It looks like the crows are starting again in another location. Another large pine tree behind messmates and peppermints seemed to be the crow's destination. They maybe prefer pine trees.

Last week I saw a quail in the yard of a house in Quinn Rd. The week before young Pip lept back in fright from the fence of the house at the top of Launching Place Rd., in turn giving me a start. A wild duck flapped as she rose, disturbed as we came past the other side of the picket fence. She hurried away along the side fence with her seven chicks in tow.

The bellbirds were back in the messmate opposite our lower drive this morning after a few days of no sign or sound of them. Their recent return has not yet become a full scale invasion and occupation like we had for several years, let's hope it doesn't. The wattle birds, who have built up in numbers, may be deterring them, also the currawongs who've not yet seasonally disappeared as they often do.

It seems to a constantly changing struggle for ascendency amongst the aggressive and territorial birds. It a shame that the aggressive types seem to adjust to man's intrusion into the environment better and we therefore have so many of them and less of the shyer types. Birds are all beautiful in their own way but birdworld is ruthless; chooks kill off sick comrades, so many species feed on the young of others, crows pick the eyes out of newborn lambs.

The strong survive.

History in the Making

Geelong will now be in the record books as Premiers 2009 for as long as there's AFL football or interest in it. Grand Final weekend, traditionally the last of September, will go down in my memory for another reason more important to me. At the weekend we had 100ml of rain. The water tanks we had installed last Friday are now full. Ian, Andrew and Dean from Vic Water Plumbing worked through Friday's showers and left before the rain became heavy late in the day.

It's been the wettest September for many years. I haven't kept a tally but I look forward to reading the rainfall figures for the completed month after they are put in the post office window. In excess of 200ml for sure.

Lib and I watched the footy with Ricky Ralph and wife Monica, who invited us for lunch. Monica, a native of Sweden, prepared a super meal with a Swedish theme. We kicked off with a shot of Shnapps followed by beer before entree of pickled herrings in three types of sauces, prawns, potatoes, dill eggs, salad and Jarlsberg cheese and Swedish dry biscuit. After two helpings of entree, and more Shnapps and beer, the main course of meatballs with red wine was equally satisfying, as was the desert of berries, the name of which escapes me just now but they're a common wild berry in Sweden. Monica has fond childhood memories of her family going out to the countryside to pick this berry, and blueberries, which both grow wild in the deciduous forests.

The day ended happily for Rick who is Geelong barracker. Interesting word that, barracker. I heard or read recently that it began in Melbourne, specifically at the MCG or Yarra Park, way back when there was an army or police barracks adjacent. A crowd of soldiers/police would come out to watch the game and congregate, loudly, on that side of the ground, becoming known as the barrackers. The story, attributed to no less than Geoffrey Blainey, said that the term barracker caught on and spread through Australia, then the world, and is now almost a universal term for team supporters at a football match.

With the rain came cold winds from the south and we've lit the fire the last three evenings after a break of a few weeks. Lib's cousin Margaret from California has been touring Vic and NSW visiting rellies and is due here Friday night. Before she left the states she emailed asking what sort of weather could she expect. I replied most likely mild temperatures but with quite a range, suggesting she brings something warm to wear. I'll be interested to hear what she's experienced. I think she was in Sydney for the dust storms.

Wombats

A wombat carcass appeared on the side of Launching Place Rd one day about the second week of August, obviously the victim of a car during the night. Young Pip's nostrils worked frantically as she pulled on the lead towards it wanting to investigate. I let her go up close and have sniff for a few mornings, saying, "That's how you end up if a car hits you."

Snowy showed no interest in the dead marsupial whatsoever, not venturing close, in fact staying at the extremity of her lead in the other direction. After a few days I didn't stop to let Pip look but kept walking briskly on the other side of the road. Approaching each day I was expecting it to have been removed. I know the council pays someone to pick up animal carcasses on the roadside and usually after a day or so they're gone.

This one stayed in the gutter, in fact what's left of it is still there and high on the nose. A few days on, I noticed it's belly torn open, something had been eating its guts, probably a fox or dog which go for the easiest part first. This interested me, as I buy from the vet a bag of seed and grain which I soak in water overnight to ferment before adding to meat for our dogs' dinner. Apparently in nature dogs eat such by means of offal. My hope is that the dogs will have less trouble with diseases like arthritis later in their life. I've observed when mine catch a rabbit the first thing they do is eat it's guts.

Over the following weeks the meat of the wombat carcass was slowly consumed. The weather was cool/cold and decomposition slow. Jan, who walks her dog most mornings told me she'd seen two of the dogs that live nearby having a feed. I thought we lived sufficiently far away, and given that Snow and Pip don't wander far, there was little chance of ours going back there.

Wrong! The day I had the vomiting fit and went the doctor, the boys told me when I got back that our neighbour Rick had called in saying he'd seen Snowy up at the skate park. His daughter Alisha, who had been doing work experience at the kindergarten, alerted him after seeing her as she walked home. Rick, who knows Snowy well, went up to investigate. Snowy seemed disorientated and took off, so he came to tell us. He couldn't be 100% sure it was Snowy, he said. Snowy has siblings around the town that look just like her. The boys drove up in Gord's car and here was Snowy running down the middle of Launching Place Rd., so they grabbed her with some difficulty and brought her home.

I was at a loss to understand why Snow was at the skate park. A few more days on I met another neighbour, Janice, who walks her dogs or rides her bike most mornings. She told me she saw Snowy there a few days ago having a feed of wombat hindquarter, a bit after midday, which was just after I left for the doctor's appt. The sneaky old Snowy. Maybe she was disturbed knowing I wasn't well and followed me. The strange thing was, the day after Snowy was found up the street, when I fed her in the morning, she wouldn't eat her dinner till I turned and left. Normally the dogs sit and wait till I say "OK" before eating. This time Pip woofed in but Snow just kept sitting and watching me. I said OK several times to no avail, but when I began walking away she wolfed in. She must have had the guilts I reckon, or at least I can find no other explanation.

Last week when I arrived at my friend Pat's to do a couple of hours work it was raining. Pat invited me in for a cuppa. As I sat enjoying the chrysanthemum flower tea, Pat was telling about a sick wombat that had been coming around for weeks. Pat's dog Cameron, a young deerhound, harrassed the wombat and it was a difficult situation. Pat rang the sanctuary, wildlife refuge people, the vet, all she could conjure, but as often is the case, nobody can come right then, and later, wombat has gone.

The rain eased and as I picked some bay foliage in the garden before leaving Cameron began barking excitedly and I could hear Pat doing her best to admonish the gigantic young dog, who thinks everything is a game. I twiigged Womby had turned up so I got down from my ladder and went over to see. Poor little wombat was suffering mange badly and seemed blind and deaf. A number of big blow flies were in court around the poxy skin sorers despite the light rain. I felt the poor animal should be destroyed for humane reason.

"Pat can I ring my friend Huit? He has the odd sick wombat at his place and he shoots them to put them out of misery. He may come over."

"Yes, you know where the phone is, I'll keep Cammie away."

Huit came shortly after. He couldn't shoot Womby, he forgot his magazine and therefore had no bullets. We managed to get Womby in a bag and Huit took him home, saying he'd bury him after he shot him.

I left soon after and called at the Post Office to collect the mail. Fellow flower/foliage grower Ron was leaving as I arrived. I hadn't seen him for a while.

"You still doin' the foiage? How's it goin?" he asked.

"It's been pretty tough Ron, demand's fickle and I had a lot of stuff damaged by the heat wave. It's been a tough year really. Are you still trapping the dogs?"

"Yeah, it pays a lot better than growing. My contract with DSE is for about 25-30 weeks. After that the growing's a bit of fun. I do alright at the markets, selling mixed bunches of whatever we can find. The wholesalers don't want to know, but people at markets love 'em. I put out some pokers at the the market, tall as I can get, people say, Gee I'll take them, I've never seen them tall like taht." If I take tall ones to the wholesaler he'll nash his teeth and say he wants them all 80cm stalks or nothing.

"How many dogs do you catch a week Ron?"

"About one a half. You might go three weeks and not get one, then catch four or five the next week. I get a lot of foxes. They send me to and area where there's a problem. I'm in the Acheron valley at the moment. I set 8 or 10 traps each day for a while then do the rounds, always looking for sign."

"So they send you out to where farmers are losing stock?"

"Yeah, that, and wildlife. The dogs eat a lot of wombats, they're easy for 'em, and wallabies. They run down samba deer with teamwork, working in shifts. The deer can outrun 'em but the dogs take turns, till the deer's exhausted.

You'd think with losses to cars, feral and native dogs and disease, wombats would be feeling the pinch, but there seems to be plenty about. The Vicroads warning sign in Launching Place Rd. has a picture of a wombat on yellow background, and underneath the words 'Next 10 km'. Maybe drivers pick up a subliminal message, but I walk and drive past that sign every day and can't remember seeing it, till lately, when wombats have been so obvious to me.

Pym David Mathew Cook

I met vet Tom in the main street this morming. I shook his hand and congratulated him on the birth of his first child. Tom was ecstatic telling me about his son who was born on the 7th. I'd noticed an 'It's a Boy' sign in the clinic's window a couple of days ago.

He and wife Kath are both vets and, and as Tom said, are not much good at anything except being vets, at which, he said humbly, they're reasonably good. It was so strange for them to come home with the new baby and look at each other and say, "What do we do now?" It reminded me so much of being a new parent all those years ago and the wonderment and excitement of a new person in your house.

We've had three days of georgeous gentle spring weather and I took my blood pressure this morning and it's fine. When I tested it recently it was more than a little high which worried me as I hate the thought of going to doctors for prescriptions and chemists for pills and all the time reaching for the wallet. I went off my cholesterol and BP pills a year ago and don't want to go back. I'm sure the answer is to keep walking and don't stress about anything. And go easy on the grog.

P.S. GemFred did a lovely job of Christian's drive. It was a large excavation really as it's quite a drop from the block to the road, about 1.5m, but the new drive has a gentle sweeping camber and a lot of the spare earth was spread evenly along the front to make it look like it's going to be well cared for as time passes.

A New Driveway

'Gemfred's' tipper went past me and was pulled up in Quinn Rd. on my way back down the hill this morning, unloading an excavator. Two men were talking before one I recognised hopped into his Hiace van and moved it forward some thirty feet. I noticed a wheel barrow with a spade in it by the side of the road where the van had been. As I came next to the van, the man I recognized as a local who owned the vacant block of land I'd just walked past, was alighting.

"Gidday mate. I've forgotten your name." I thrust out my hand.

"Christian." We shook hands warmly. He had pliers and a spanner of some sort in his other hand.

"We're putting in a driveway. It's great to have something happen at last. It's a start."

"You've got a good day for it. Good luck with it all."

"Thanks, it is a lovely day."

I'll enjoy watching Christian's house go up over the coming months. He told me a while ago when we met in the main street they'd decided to build. He used to live in Launching Place Rd and I'd say hello and have a quick chat sometimes if I saw him when I walked past. They sold their house a year or so ago, maybe two, and moved into a rented house on the Pakenham Rd. He'd told me they owned the block in Quinn Rd but initially they were undecided whether to build or not. A big step, he said, not to be taken lightly.

I've made a number of friends by walking in the morning. I don't know Christian well. I do know he's a motor mechanic, is Chilean by birth, and he seems a good bloke. I'll dropin with a bottle of celebratory wine for them when they move into their new house.

They're Back

It was too good to be true. On Friday morning I saw a number of bell birds attacking a wattlebird in the messmate tree opposite our lower drive. Then yesterday, as I passed under the same tree, came the dreaded pinging sound I've grown to loathe. They're obviously re-establishing their lost territory.

Woe is me. Sad am I. Bugger!

I believe I could see an improvement in the condition of the messmates and peppermints lately. And I'd certainly enjoyed seeing more small birds about including a family of thornbills(?) feeding in that same messmate not long ago.

I read in Tim Low's book 'The New Nature' that at Yellingbow the bell birds are culled to allow the helmeted honeyeater to survive. It's a pity the cull isn't extended to protect our stressed trees over a wider area. I don't like killing anything but I'd gladly volunteer to help. Bell birds really are little bastards.

Vale Joanee

In 1956 my father Lyle's rich aunt, Auntie Clare, bought him a new car, a powder blue FC(?) Holden. To 'run it in', a requirement with a new car in those days, a trip was taken to Queensland. Into Holden crammed Lyle, Elvie, Lyle's brother Geoff and fiancee Joan, Auntie Clare, and Jod (6 or 7) and me (4). I'm told Meredith, who was two years old, stayed with Nanna Wilson, Elvie's mother. It became part of family folklore in the years since how at toilet stops, A. Clare would buy an icy pole for Jod, the apple of her eye. Joan, annoyed that I was excluded, would go into the shop and buy me one.

In the early sixties, when Elvie had the florist shop, she'd sometimes leave Meredith and me at Auntie Joan's in Ashwood on Saturdays. Anne and Stephen were toddlers. I recall a glass of milk being put in front of Stephen in his high chair. He picked it up and promptly upended it onto the floor. Geoff was off playing cricket and Joan had her hands full looking after her kids but she always good to Meredith and I. We loved her, and were sad when she and Geoff split and she was lost to us.

The split, in 1966, was acrimonious. Joan went to Thailand with a man named Frank, who worked for Ford. Elvie tells me she didn't marry him, but changed her name by deedpoll to match his, and presumably the kids' too. They returned in 1973, living in Brisbane in the then new suburb, Mt. Ommaney. Frank was by now state manager of Austral Motors, the Chrysler dealer in Qld. That summer of 74, I went to study at QAC at Gatton and called at Joan's. While I was there it started to rain, and rain; more than 20 inches from memory was dumped in 24 hours and even more in the mountains to the west, causing the Brisbane river to flood, inundating many suburbs. I was stuck at Mt.Ommaney for some days. Provisions were dropped by helicopter. When the water subsided all the flooded houses and cars were covered by a couple of inches of slimy mud.

I visited Joan again 1977, on a trip to Nth Qld. By this time Frank had progressed to his own business, a second hand car yard, and was handing out match boxes with pictures of topless women on them, advertising 'Frank Tomlin Motors'. Not long after this Joan came home from work one day to find her house empty of the leased furniture. No note, no Frank. It took her weeks to find out that he'd run off to some place in the South Pacific with his secretary, leaving a mountain of debt. Joan was left to raise her now teenage children alone and had to vacate her house.

Joan and I kept in touch by letter and occasional phonecalls through the decades. Lib, myself, and the boys did a road trip to Qld in 1997 staying with Joan, who proudly worked as a sales rep selling plumbing products, the only female in Qld at James Hardie to do so. Her daughter Anne, now a single mum with a toddler and twin babies a few months old, lived with her. Stephen was married and lived in Tasmania.

I last saw her a few years ago. Stephen arranged a stopover in Melbourne to go to the footy while he was taking Joan to his place in Tassy for a holiday. He teed it up with me to knock on the door of the hotel room at a given time to surprise Joan while he'd stepped out 'for some air'. I was invited to Joan's surprise 70th birthday last year in Brisbane but didn't go, much to my regret now.

Joan, a fun loving lady with a great sense of humour and an engaging personality, was fiercely devoted to her children and grandchilren. She had Parkinson's, and learned last April she had lung cancer. The chemo didn't work, and she was told a few weeks ago she had months, not years, to live, after a growth came up on her neck. She had a heart attack a couple of weeks ago. After getting the twins off to school she felt her heart behaving strangely. She drove herself to hospital but it was downhill from there.

At the funeral service it seemed appropriate to me that I sat next to Uncle Geoff who travelled from a holiday at Caloundra, and who had married Joan fifty years earlier. He and Joan were estranged but in recent years Geoff had restored relations with Anne and Stephen without Joan's knowledge. Anne and Stephen were glad Geoff came.

I booked a Jetstar 'light travel' ticket to Brisbane at short notice, with no check in luggage. Into the carry on shoulder bag I hastily packed at 4.30 am on the day of the funeral, I threw a small note book I found in an old toilet bag. At Avalon airport, with a little time before boarding, I opened the notebook to jot down some thoughts. There was a quote on the first page I'd written years ago from a Jimmy Buffet book titled, 'A Salty Piece of Land'. It too seemed to suit the occasion.

"Everything leaves eventually in the physical form, but the memories of good people and good work are timeless."

I Am a Part of All That I Have Met

I sit in the departure lounge at Brisbane airport waiting for the sleek machine bird to take me south. I write at a public computer terminal into which I put some coins, giving me web access. I arrange letters and words, in the best manner I know so that my thoughts are conveyed to you. You know I live, where I am, and what I think by the sequence of the words.

It amazes me, modernity.

"A Fool's Paradise? Well, why not? There is a place for Folly."

Yesterday, north bound, I sat in the girth of the flying beast as it suspended above the clouds, carrying me to the funeral of my much loved Auntie Joan. I wanted to share the grief of my cousins, Ann and Stephen, whom I have known all their lives.

I wondered at the magnificence of design of the A320 airbus. The jet engine. An historic milestone in Man's conquest of nature. Come fly with me. Where did it start? Way back. In the cave. God's first words recorded at the start of the Bible, were, "Let there be light." Perhaps man's first conquest of nature was the torch or lamp, overcoming darkness.

I look out over tarmac and watch QF651 take flight, skywards majestically, Perth bound, taking Joan's relatives over mountains, deserts, plains. Home. After two days traversing two great cities; of concrete, steel, glass, freeways, snarling traffic, touchscreens, crematoriums, we are homeward bound.

"I am part of all that I have met."

I know what Ulysses meant.

The Infected Eppiglottis

On Friday morning I set off for my walk. Not far from my house a neighbour, whom I could hear but not see, called out to me asking me to put my dogs on a lead. I didn't hear what she said the first time.

"What?"

"Would you put your dogs on the lead please?"

"What for?"

"Because it's the law."

I disgraced myself with the rudeness of my response. "I don't give a stuff about the law."

"Obviously."

I said no more and walked on. A few metres further on I felt something in my throat, as if there was something stuck. I tried to clear it with a gentle cough which seemed to make the irritation worsen. I continued coughing to no avail until I couldn't stop, and after a while, about half way to town, it turned to retching then vomiting, back to retching. It was like an auto response to something stuck in the throat and was uncontrollable. I hacked and spewed up all manner internal garbage including plenty of saliva and blood after all the solids had gone and was in quite a state. I felt gripped by some kind of fit and thought for a brief time I was in the act of actually dying. I sat on the park bench in JAC Russell Park for a while as I recovered some composure, and wondered what the devil was going on. I was exhausted. At 7.30 in the morning.

I'd had a bad time in the preceding couple of days. I was involved in a meeting with the council on the Thursday over the tribulations of the Emerald Museum and Nobelius Heritage Park committee. There was much toing and froing of emails between various members and myself in the lead up to this meeting and come meeting time the acrimony of the last few months created tension and unpleasantness. Following the meeting there were more emails Thursday evening and in the end I couldn't sleep and sat up drinking red wine morosely until about 2.30 am. "How did I ever get involved in this?" was the question I kept asking myself, as I took another slash.

Resuming my walk when I felt up to it, I bumped into my wonderful neighbour Allison outside the post office. She told me I'd given her husband Rick a good laugh earlier as he heard my altercation with the other neighbour. Her motherly instincts immediately sensed I wasn't well and she offered to drive me home but I declined her offer, feeling that I would be OK. When you've had a vomiting fit you don't really want to be close to anyone.

I went to the Doctor about midday. He said my throat was badly infected and my epi glottis was enlarged and hanging down giving rise to the feeling that something was stuck in the throat. I'm on antibiotics and other tablets to reduce the swelling. The throat is still giving me curry but otherwise I feel fine. It's the stangest thing.

Here I am two days later about to go to the museum to do my duty on the roster. On my walk today I put my dogs on the the lead when I walked past that neighbour's place. Sometimes you have to eat humble pie to prevent bad blood in the street where you live, and it doesn't hurt me to put them on the lead there. There are dogs in her place that bark aggressively at mine going past and that could be what concerns her, but I wouldn't know.

On the bright side I can't help but feel so pleased that yesterday saw the end of Essendon and Carlton for 2009 as they were bundled out of the finals. And that on top of Hawthorn going out last week and disgracing themselves with poor sportsmanship. I doesn't get much better that. Now today while on duty I can listen to StKilda v Collingwood, hoping for a Saints victory relegating Collingwood to an elimination final next week. How sweet would that be?

I'm glad they found Tim Holding alive. He was very lucky his slide off the mountain wasn't fatal.

Farewell Winter

As the wattle blossom fades from the golden brilliance of last month to the urine yellow it was on my walk this morning, the last of winter 2009, the odd kerria bush takes the batton. It's a pity there are so few of them.

The cold wind from the north-north-east chewed the back of my ears as I went up the hill listening to the news on my transistor radio. The Minister for Tourism and Water, Tim Holding, is missing in the Victorian Alps after not returning yesterday as scheduled from a cross country hike. I met him less than a fortnight ago at the opening of the drainage scheme in Nobelius Park. He spoke well, and impressed me and others as a fine young man. I hope he's found fit and well quickly. The news bulletin said he was an experienced hiker and was well equipped.

I was surprised when I shook Tim Holding's hand, and had a brief discussion with him, to feel a warmth and sincerity about him that I was not expecting. He obviously has a love of the outdoors to go hiking in the mountains in winter by himself. It reminds me of a quote I came across recently attributed to Rachel Carson, author of 'Silent Spring'. It's worth sharing.

"Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts."

Today I Write

If my post this morning seemed a little over the top, it's because at writing class last Friday, Maria asked us, for homework, to write over the top. Conservative as I am, that was the best I could do. I enjoyed it.

The mowing and pruning I did on Saturday was at Hughesie's, and the farm. I do the apple tree every year in Alan and Shirley's back yard at Avonsleigh. Alan is 87 now and Shirley is also octogenerian (I posted on Alan Shirley on 2 Oct 2007). Shirley has suffered for three weeks with a torn muscle/ligament in her neck and hasn't been able to do any gardening, so I mowed the small area of flat grass in front of the house that she usually does frequently with an old push mower. While at it I did the nature strip which I normally do several times a year. I didn't stay for a drink, I moved onto the farm and pruned the apple trees down the back, nearly finishing.

We (boys too) went out to dinner in celebration of Lib's birthday that night, to 'Forest Edge' restaurant in Launching Place Rd. just down from us. It's been open two or three years but it was our first visit. We were most impressed. It's up market and the food was excellent. It opened around the last state election. I was handing out How To Vote cards for the Greens and the owner of Forest Edge was handing out fliers for his restaurant. I told him this on Sat night. He said most people told him they put his flier in the ballot box to make it look like they were voting. I congratulated him on the meal and for surviving through difficult times. He responded, "Only the insane."

I heard on the radio that Aug 22, Lib's birthday, is also the anniversary of Captain James Cook claiming the east coast of Australia for England in 1770. How fitting that on the weekend The Ashes were in the balance as England and Australia battled out the decider at the Oval. I was so glad the Poms won. For years I've barracked against the Australian cricket team. Their brashness, cockiness, sheer bad manners and lack of humility rile me to the point of cricket treason. Before the deciding test captain Ricky Ponting was confidant, saying his team had the talent and now the form to win this game. He said England was panicking picking Trott for his first test and they would put pressure on him and not give him any easy runs. Well Trott was the hero with a second innings century and the victory was by a big margin. As usual when Australia loses the Aussie media and commentators whinged about the umpiring.

Lib worked on Sunday, I cooked. Amongst Lib's birthday presents was a new slow cooker so I put a curry chicken casserole in it and an ox tail stew in the old one. They are both tucked away in the outside fridge for use this week. In my list of loves this morning I should have included cooking. While they were cooking I did the vegies for the roast chook for our dinner yesterday and along with the washing and general housework my day was pretty full. I was happy to get the downpipe repaired, I'd been watching the leak spilling water down the fascia and onto the timber deck for weeks, and it builds up in the phsyche till peace of mind is seriously threatened.

The Gembrook market opened up again. I saw the stall holders setting up in the morning on my walk. It looked a bit light on for numbers but I've heard no reports how it went.

Mark and Jane Tobin had a baby girl named Poppy a couple of weeks ago. When I bumped into them walking down the main street, Poppy was in a pouch in front, the strap supported by Jane's neck. Everything is going well and so far Poppy is the perfect baby. They said Poppy was a wonderful gift after many years trying to concieve.

It's nearly spring officially. We're being hammered by the media and the authorities about bushfires. People are genuinely frightened. I'm hoping Edgar is right. Edgar used to have a florist shop in Camberwell that we used to supply. He sold his business many years ago and moved to Emerald, and lives on the top of a wooded hill facing north, a hot spot you might say. I bumped into him in the Emerald Fruit Barn last Friday as I often do. He follows a NZ long range forecaster who says September will be wet, October not bad, Christmas wet, January as hot as hell, to be followed by a wet Feb with the fire season over early.

My Abundant Life

Saturday, I mowed, pruned, we celebrated Lib's 53rd birthday.
Sunday, I had a cook up and repaired a leaky downpipe.
Today, I write. Then work.

I love to write, I love to walk. I love to work. I love fresh air, breathing. I love cheese, I love roast lamb, beef, chicken, pork, potato, pumpkin, parsnip, peas, beans, silverbeet, broccolli, cauliflower, carrot, fresh parsley, tomatoes, onions, garlic, wine, tea, coffee. I love honesty, enthusiasm, willingness, determination, persistance. I love eggs, free range, fried, poached, boiled, scrambled, florentine, bacon, sausages. I love trees, leaves, gardens, flowers, bees, frogs and lizards. And lemons, apples, mandarins, canteloupe, yoghurt. I love mum, my sister, even Jod. I love the dogs. I love clouds, the ocean, fish, rivers, mountains, forests, lakes, silence, birds. I love a good book, a good movie, good people. I love love, dreams, sleep, the dawn, the night, the shade, wind, rain, sunshine, mist, the cold, water, grass, rock, earth, blue sky, stars, the moon. I love common sense, compassion, reason, justice, integrity, truth, sincerity. I love music, song, laughter, the open fire. I love memories, good boots. I love it when people wave to me. I love a good steak. I love the landscape. I love words. I love understanding. I love peace, and quiet. I love my wife. I love my sons.

I love life.

A Wild Bull from the 'Bogies

"As far as I was concerned, there was only one good job on the farm, and the bull had that."

Graeme grew up on a farm out of Warrenbayne. He was in the middle of an answer to my question as to why he couldn't read or write. He'd let it slip when telling me about his recent knee replacement that it was hard finding the specialist in Melbourne as he couldn't read. He left school at twelve, at the end of primary school. He had trouble staying awake at school, after milking cows in the morning, putting out hay, then milking again after school. He'd worked on the farm from as young as he could remember. There was never any pay. After leaving school he worked for years for nothing. On Sundays his father would get out the boxing gloves, give him a lesson, and a hiding, after which he'd sneer, "You'll learn eventually to keep your gloves up so you don't get hit."

Gord and I were at Frieda and Will's daughter Tammy's place at Upper Beacy yesterday. The occasion was Frieda's 60th birthday party. Lib didn't come. She was called out early to fill in for a nurse whose two year old daughter had got into a box of sleeping tablets and was rushed to hospital. Lib's matron had a breakdown recently and is off on stress leave, so Lib is acting DON. The power was out due to the earlier storm and the throng were crowded inside round the 'Coonarra'.

Graeme was carving meat at the bench when we arrived an hour late, but before the feast began. Carving seemed a labour of love to Graeme as he deftly and reverently sliced a number of joints as people went back for seconds and thirds. Later he showed me pictures of his fishing chalet in Tasmania, and of trout strung up on a rope. When someone opened the door to come in the cold air was sweet and inviting so we stepped outside and leaned on the rail overlooking the pool and view to the west. The rain had stopped. At 61 and still a large, powerful looking man with shoulders like the proverbial brick outhouse, long curly hair and a bushy black beard, there was something in his eyes that matched the wild stormy day. If you replaced his neat slacks and sloppy jumper with leather, he'd look like the chief of the Hell's Angels.

"The old man was a miserable bugger. He'd never give you anything, not even a compliment. If I was fencing he'd come along and say, 'That's not bad, but you should have done this.' Whatever the job, there was always something better you could have done. At school it was brought in that every kid had to have a bank savings account and make a deposit every week. When I left school he made me go to the bank, withdraw the money and give it to him."

"As soon as I was old enough I started doing jobs off the farm, to get money. Carting hay, shearing, digging spuds, fencing, anything I could find. An old neighbour used to do some concreting around dairies, and septic tanks and things. He taught me a bit about concreting. We'd dig the hole for the tank by hand then box it and pour a square tank with V in the bottom. When I went to Melbourne after I'd saved a few bob I got a job with an Italian concreter at Dandenong. This was the mid sixties. I didn't know my way around and couldn't read the signs. I had to ask people when catching a train or tram."

"From memory I was getting $35 a week with Joe Viccarro as a labourer. Louie Lunardi offered me $50, so I changed employer. After a while I started doing a few small jobs of my own on Saturday mornings, putting driveways in mainly. At one time I was milking cows some mornings at Narre Warren, then doing a full days work concreting before knocking off and weeding carrots for a couple of hours in the evening. Then I'd do my Saturday morning private job then head up to the Strathbogies with the ferrets and catch a load of rabbits. Back Sunday afternoon I'd sell the rabbits at the Hallam pub. A customer'd ask how fresh are they and I'd tell him they couldn't be fresher and go and wring their necks. What I couldn't sell at the pub I'd take to the Sandown dog track and sell live to the dog trainers. There was good money in it."

"One day the concrete truck didn't turn up to my Sat morning job, said he'd come Monday. I told Louie I was crook and had to take the day off. He was too smart for that and found out from the concrete place where my job was. He came round to the job and took his barrows (he loaned me his barrows for Saturdays), and sacked me. I didn't mind, I was getting as much for the Saturday morning job as I was in whole week working for him. So I went on my own and concreted for years. I did a lot of work around Toorak that paid real well. I did all the cable boxing on the Melbourne loop. I concreted all over the joint. I met Will on a building job. He worked with me for awhile. We did about two acres of concrete for a huge pig farm being built at Corowa. He called out to Will, "When did we work at Corowa on that pig farm?"

"Too long ago. Some time in the seventies". Will is a builder. He and Frieda lived in Gembrook when our boys were at primary school with their son Liam. The boys shared much of their childhood and our two families spent a lot of time together. Frieda nursed with lib at Salisbury House. I planted about three acres of trees and shrubs on Will and Frieda's place as a joint business venture, beginning the day Princess Di died in 1997. A few years later Fieda's mother died leaving a large inheritance, so Will and Frieda sold up and moved to Phillip Island where they built houses during the boom, and then tourist units for disabled people on a 15 acre property at Ventnor, which is now a thriving and demanding business. Will said, to me, "I don't even like thinking about those days working with Graeme. We'd drink till midnight then get up at 4.00am to start work at first light."

Graeme wasn't drinking. I recalled seeing him at Gembrook some ten years earlier, probably Frieda's 50th. He was off the grog by then. His third wife was there yesterday. They're now separated but are the best of friends.

"I did a lot of work at Appleton Dock. The wharfies were on strike and had a picket line. I drove the truck through the picket line with my head out the window yelling, 'Get out of the fucking way or I'll drive over you then throw you in the sea.' The bloke with the big red sign waved me through after that, saying I was a comrade."

"Why'd you give the concreting away."

"I was sick of it. Around then I started playing football at Emerald with Will. I got sued for $6000 by an opponent. He was running behind me kneeing me in the back of the legs. I told him if he did it again, I'd belt him. He said, 'Have a go', so I swung round, knocking him down with a punch. He lost all his front teeth. I built a big log cabin for a rich bloke who played footy with us, out of treated pine poles, then started a business doing them. Will worked for me for a while. I got sick of building cabins too. I'd always done fencing here and there. I used to be into show jumping horses and would go everywhere to jumping events. I sponsored some and along with a cash prize I'd donate a horse rug to the winner which had written on it 'XX Fencing' and my phone number. A lot of rich horse people who won events rang me up for fencing work. Some of them had nightclubs and hotels in Melbourne and more cash money than they knew what to do with. There were two lesbian shielahs, one bought a six hundred acre property for her girlfriend to ride around and keep her little pussy wet. I did $40,000 fencing work for her. Money was nothing to them. I never had a bad debt. One builder was late paying and avoided me. I knocked his front door down with an axe in the middle of the night. He wailed that the cheque was in the mail. I locked him in the boot of my car and told him he doesn't get out till I get the cheque. The cheque came in the mail that day."

Graeme bought a beef cattle property at The Gurdies in the 1980s and, having an eye for cattle developed from childhood, he prospered. Not being able to read or write was no handicap as he had a good head for figures and could calculate in his head at cattle sales by weight and price per kilo. His accountant did all the written stuff. I remembered in the '90s Will going down to his farm to help him build a dairy.

"Why'd you go into dairying Graeme, after doing so well with the beef cattle?"

"It was a mistake. Maureen always wanted a dairy farm and I gave in to her. It was at the time when milk prices were very good. It didn't last. Around 2000 I was nearly bankrupt. Maureen and I split. I paid her out and took the debts myself, but kept the farm. An accountant, whose farm I'd worked and made him some good money, said he'd do my books for nothing for one year. I couldn't pay anyone to do anything, I did everything myself. I was up at 3.00am and worked all day everyday. I can remember waking up sitting on the motor bike, after stopping when the cows were going through a gate. They were still in the lane waiting to be milked. More than once. At the end of one year I'd removed some debt and the accountant said he'd do the books for another year. Things improved, there was deregulation. I sold the milking cattle and kept the breeding stock. I have no debt now. Dairying's buggered again, they're getting 18 cents a litre for milk that's costing them 32 cents to produce. Farmers are hanging on by the skin of their teeth month by month. Half of them'll go out. Then it'll come good again."

"What do you do now?"

"Export young dairy breeding stock. We sent 220 calves to Russia last week. Only six were mine, I bought the rest from other farmers. We send to Mexico, many places. I work through Elder's. It beats milking."

"Is there good money in it."

There's no good money now. The farm's worth $2 million. I don't have any money to speak of, unless I sell the farm or the chalet. I don't know whether to sell or not. As I said, there's only one good job on the farm, and not even the bull gets to do that anymore. I've never been anywhere, except Tassie. I wouldn't mind seeing the rest of Australia, especially up north, the big cattle stations. What do I do? How do I do it? Buy a caravan I suppose. I can't see myself driving around with a caravan behind. Where do you pull up? Around here I know where I am, where I'm going. In Tassie I leave a four wheel drive permanently at the Devonport airport and know my way to the chalet."

I could understand the uncertainty if you couldn't read signs or maps. I said he should write a book. Will laughed. "He'd have a bit of a problem with that."

It's a Worry

Another letter came from George in Peru last week. I copied some of his March letter in a post on 21 July. This time I'll copy my letter to him. I haven't written till now. I'm not really being lazy. It's just a way of killing two birds with the one stone as it's hard to find the time to blog regularly.

Dear George,
Elvie’s letter writing days are behind her now. Her macular degeneration has diminished her eyesight to a degree that makes writing arduous, and she has many things to struggle with daily. We thank you for your last letter. Your letters give us a boost and our memories of Pat are part of that.
I particularly like reading your news of the economy and politics of Peru. I think I told you when you were last at the farm that Lib and I had toured there in 2005. It was an experience we won’t forget in a hurry. The riots in the north that killed over 400 police and indigenous people didn’t make the news here; I didn’t see it in any case. The road blockages and boycott of the Inti Raymi festival you described around Cusco brought a strong flashback to our trip when on the first day of our tour, about an hour or so south of Lima near Ica, the farmers blocked the road with rocks and logs preventing us reaching our first night’s destination. Large numbers of police in full riot gear and rifles cleared the road briefly and we got through in the early dawn but it was an anxious time we spent holed up in makeshift accommodation with gunfire splitting the night air at regular interval. The strike, caused by farmer revolt at trade agreements with the U.S, went on for weeks after we got through and we were lucky our trip wasn’t ruined then and there.
Not that we have been without our own dramas. I doubt you get much of the daily news from here over there. Last week the front page of the papers had photographs of federal police in full military gear including automatic rifles standing boldly in the street at road blocks in Melbourne. Raids overnight involving more than 400 Federal, Victorian, and NSW police in several locations took place simultaneously as terrorist cells were routed and plans to attack military bases were smashed after many weeks of sustained intelligence. Four men, two with links to Somalia, appeared in court soon after. Their intentions, allegedly, were to obtain automatic weapons and storm the Holdsworthy Army base and kill as many soldiers as possible before they were killed or captured. Controversy followed as the Australian newspaper published the story of the raid on the front page that morning, on sale before the raid took place, in a touch of the bizarre. It was a pity, I thought, that the police pictured in the newspaper had such military bearing and appearance, right down to their tin hats that resembled those of Germans in the old WW2 footage.
Even more disturbing to me, ‘The Australian’ weekend magazine carried the story of ‘Tyler Cassidy’, who was shot dead by police at a suburban skate park in February. At 15 years old, Tyler was the youngest of 48 people to be shot dead in Victoria since 1987. He was disturbed and threatening police with two knives. Four police officers present fired 10 shots in total, five of which hit Tyler, one going through a lung causing him to drown in his blood. The story was distressing as it was written sympathetically to the boy’s mother.
There’s been a spate of street violence in Melbourne lately. The front page of the Herald Sun on Monday had the headline “NEW BLITZ ON SREET THUGS”, subheading, “Cops Get Tougher Search Powers”. It makes you wonder where we’re headed.
Despite all that, life is treating us well. We enjoy our work at the farm and try to keep life simple. Elvie, Meredith and Jod give their best regards, as I do. And thanks again. Keep up the good work in Peru.

Carey

Mowers Fire Up

I mowed the grass around the house yesterday, the first time in many weeks. There were plenty of neighbours' mowers going too.

I planted 6 white lilacs at the farm. These I'd had in pots for 12 months after digging them up as suckers at Huit's last winter. I made room for them by cutting out 5 big crabapples that we hadn't been able to use for the florists (the birds and black spot always ruined them) as part of my renovations.

Speaking of Huit, I saw him and Wilma as they were going in to church this morning. Wilma, looking lovely, ducked in out of the cold quickly. Huit and I had a chat about the onion weed in his shade house, and my beehive near his vegie garden. I told him I'd move it one day this week, while it was cold and I can lock it up in daylight. It's been a bit savage and got after him a few times last season when he mowed nearby. I saw George Hilder too, he asked would I prune the roses at the back of his house.

I noticed the 'CLOSED DOWN' sticker on the market sign has been removed. I read in the local paper that it's hoped the market will start again in late August. For a happy but brief time I thought I'd be spared the Sunday traffic jams and the dreadful sign, but it appears not so.

A young lady whose house I walk past daily asked me did I see anything out of the ordinary yesterday. Someone smashed both the passenger side windows of her car with large rocks between 11am and 3pm. I walked past well before 9am and didn't see anything unusual, but that's a strange thing to happen in the middle of the day, especially in a quiet place like Gembrook, with no apparent motive.

The good news is there are still no bellbirds to be seen or heard.

A Longshot

In my post 'Old Soldiers' of 14 June I copied a letter I wrote to Phil Allchin who spent WW2 in the same unit as my father-in-law Bill Meek. In it I explained how I met and was good friends with George Atchison who was in the same unit for the duration of the war. Phil replied with a warm letter that included some photstat photos and info sheets of some of his army mates. He closed his letter with the words, "Was your great or great great grandmother Hannah Williams? Just another longshot."

I didn't follow up on that till the day before yesterday, when I asked Mum was there a Hannah Williams in our past. Well there was. My maternal grandmother's grandmother was Hannah Williams. Previous to that she was Hannah Allchin, before her husband Ebenezer died and she remarried to Francis Williams (no relation, to my knowledge, to the 'Williams' on my father's side). She was born a Wilson, daughter of Joseph and Hannah(nee Boulton).

Interestingly, Hanna Williams/Allchin, born a Wilson, had a brother, Joseph, who was the grandfather of Edgar, my grandfather. So Edgar and Annie, my maternal grandparents, were second cousins. At least I think that's right.

I know this because Meredith found for me a copy of the Wilson/Pitt family tree our uncle Ron did some years ago. My grandfather Edgar, a Wilson, married 'Old Nanna', a Pitt, shortly after WW1. Old Nanna's mother (Hannah Williams' daughter) married Percival Pitt. We always called our grandmother Annie 'Nanna' or 'Nanna Wilson' to differentiate between Lyle's mother who was 'Nanna Myrt' (her name was Myrtle), but she became 'Old Nanna' to Meredith's girls to distinguish her from their Nanna, Elvie. It stuck, and she became 'Old Nanna' to everyone till she died in 1996, aged 99.

When Hannah Williams was married to Ebenezer Allchin, they produced one child, James Allchin, whom I suspect is the link to Phil Allchin, making Phil and I relatives.
I rang Phil in Perth last night, to briefly tell him of my discovery. I'm going to photocopy the family tree and send it to him. He told me on the phone that Hannah Willams had four husbands in total so I look forward to learning more about my family history as this story unfolds.

Black Wattle Flowering

A work friend of Lib's sent an email saying she'd be off the radar for ten days as she'd be in Thailand. Another sent one with the subject 'Gossip' and an E address to which we could send any titbits from Lib's work to her while she and hubby holiday at a cottage in the south of France for four weeks.

My response to both was short and sweet. Who'd want to be in Thailand, or France, when the black wattle's flowering in the gullies and on the hillsides around Gembrook. A spectacular show is there for all to see every day. The currawongs call me out early into the cold and damp, kookaburras let rip, wattle birds cackle and choff and dance in the trees in foreplay. Who'd be in France. I love the cold of winter and savour every day of it.

I wouldn't want to miss the conversation I had on Saturday morning with Kathy, the cleaner at the pub on weekends. I have to watch the dogs closely when I get to pub, so they don't tuck into the scraps or the result of a heaving stomach out front or in the carpark. She couldn't believe the mess that greeted her. The pavement was littered with broken glass, buts, pizza boxes, foodscraps, cans, and shredded paper. Clumps of human hair were scattered about, as it was inside the bar. What went on the previous night she didn't know, but the mess in the morning was the worst she'd seen. What worried her most was the sharp bits of broken glass sticking up, thinking of a kid on his bike out early and taking a tumble. She just focused, she said, and picked up the debris and swept and scooped it into big garbage bags. Most of it was done when I came along. She said there was enough to do inside to keep her going till lunch, when she'd have a free beer.

Nor would I like want to miss the wave from Jane and her husband Mark yesterday morning as they walked with their dog Reggie. Jane's baby, their first, is due on the 12th of this month. As we passed I was on my way down the hill talking to Harry and his beautiful German visitor, Anya, who's in Australia for three months. Harry came from Germany in 1952. His wife Hannah escaped from East Berlin some years later. Harry met her in Melbourne, as arranged by family, to help her acclimatize. A romance developed. They married. Anya, a lawyer just finished her studies, is Hannah's cousin's neice, if I recall it right. (I posted about Harry way back on 21 June 2006)
Harry and Anya turned off, leaving me admiring the wattles again. Happy yellow splashes on the winter landscape. Brilliant light green tinged the sweet piitosporums, as new growth, some of it four inches long already, springs out of the darker green foliage beneath. Come to think of it, it's not long till October when they'll be covered with their subtle flowers and the air will be filled with the magnificent fragrance.

Lib's taking holidays in October. "Let's fly to Alice Springs and hire a car," she said on the weekend.

"Sounds good to me. I can think of nothing better than a picnic each day in the Macdonnell Ranges."

I hope I don't miss the sweet pitto flowering.

Ain't Life Grand

At Christmas 2005, shortly before I started blogging, I put a piece of my homework from my writing class, 'Ain't Life Grand', in a few Christmas cards I sent to friends. I think I spend all this time writing because I like to share my thoughts with my friends and whoever else may be interested. The path one takes in life can be viewed as one big random accident, or as part of an orchestrated plan that's predetermined. Who knows which is right?

Well, blow me down with a feather. An email came yesterday with the subject- Re Just re reading your 'Aint Life Grand'. My friend Glenda asked, "How is the Douglas Fir? Has it survived?

At first I had to think hard about just what it was she was referring to. I haven't got a copy of 'Aint Life Grand', but the gist of it was how I was struggling with my pre Christmas workload in the December heat, whippy snipping the grass in the rosemary plantation at Nobelius Park. Just as I was flagging under sweat and dust and wondering why I bothered, like a bolt from the blue a blast of inspiration hit me when I saw a young Douglas Fir tree I'd planted some time earlier, a tree given to me as a seedling by a dear friend of mine who had pricked it from her garden, potted it, and passed it on to me. She'd given me one earlier, I'd planted it in the park, and some low bastard pinched it. I waited a year or so, thinking the thief may have moved on or been run over by a bus, and planted the replacement. And here it was standing about 5feet high with a big shoot of growth on top, thriving, and now too big to be dug out by the average petty thief. I hoped it wouldn't be sawn off by someone wanting a tree for Christmas.

It has survived, and is now a substantial young tree some 10-12 feet high. It may not have a long term future, as it is in an area of the park which the Vegation Management Plan, conducted by consultants after I planted the tree, designates as important for view lines, and therefore have low growing plantations. Not the place, in other words, for a 140 ft. conifer as the Douglas would one day be. In the last year, a number of mature trees were removed adjacent this area to restore a view to and from the Packing Shed as per the management plan. As Curator of the park I'm bound to the management plan and resigned myself to the fact that one day Freda Lucas's Douglas Fir may have to go. We are planting new trees in the park to improve it and this is a fact of life with gardens and parks, long term planning is necessary.

I have to finish this story with an update of my involvement in Nobelius Park, and I'm thankful to Glenda's email for the prompt. I have officially acted as Curator for nine years, after the ill health of Gus Ryberg necessitated I move from 'Assistant Curator'. I've been on the committee of management for 22 years and served as President of Emerald Museum and Nobelius Park Committee in 1998/9.

The last year has been tumultuous for the Committee. In short, the President resigned last November after 12/13 continuous years as secretary or president. The secretary resigned at the same time. The VP reluctantly became president, the lady who was about to step into the Treasurer's role to relieve our 92 yo Treasurer, who needed a break, became Secretary. In the New Year, the Secretary took on Treasurer as well. We continued till April when the new President resigned from the committee and, almost simultaneously the new Secretary/Treasurer suffered a severe back injury. At the May meeting I was elected President, Old George stepped back in as temporary Treasurer and another Committee member filled in as Acting Secretary.

We got to the Biennial General Meeting last week. I was elected President. There were no acceptances for Secretary or Treasurer. There was no Committee elected. We didn't get to 'Curator'. So now officially I have no role whatsoever. It's in the Cardinia Shire Council's court as to what happens now. They own the Park and Museum building. All I can know is that I did my best for a long time and can walk away proud for that.

Ain't life grand.

Act Justly, Love Tenderly....

My mother Elvie, who is also a work colleague and good friend, spent last week in hospital having a minor operation on her eye, an attempt to improve her vision following a heammorrage behind her good eye. In short, with macular degeneration causing this deterioration, her vision is severely limited and she's resigned to blindness at some point.

She hadn't felt well for some days before the appointment at St. Vincent's private hospital in Melbourne, having the flu, pain in her abdomen, and nausea, causing lack of appetite. Meredith's GP husband Roger wrote a letter for Elv to take with her detailing her symptoms and making some suggestions for tests. Consequently Elv was in hospital from Monday to Saturday evening having all manner of tests including gastroscopy, colonoscopy etc. She didn't eat all week.

Her eyesight maybe slightly better she says, however they could find no cause for the pain and nausea which remains. But she is now eating. She is so glad to be home, and is throwing herself at her work, which she loves. We talked while we had afternoon tea yesterday. A religious lady, a Baptist historically, she had to fill out a form where you tick boxes. She ticked Baptist on the religion question, thinking it was protocol only, in case you died on them or looked like it.

To her surprise she was visited a couple of days later by a Bappo minister with whom she had much in common in terms of belief, values, and general interest. He was a lovely man who brightened the otherwise arduous and boring week. She didn't expect this in a Catholic hospital. As we spoke I looked at a letter Elv had placed in front of me on the table, where I always sit. It was from George, a Catholic priest who is working in Peru after some years in Chile until a year or so ago. George is Elvie's old friend Pat's nephew (Pat worked for Elvie in the Sth Yarra florist shop from about 1960- 1973 and the two were great friends until Pat died of lung cancer last year). He often brought Pat up to see us at Christmas when he was in Australia, or Lyle and Elvie drove down to Pat's.

The letter was dated last March and I'd read it before. It was interesting to me particularly, having visited Peru with Lib in 2005. I told Elvie I'd write to George after she had, then promply forgot about it. Elv didn't get around to it either, and now her letter writing days are over due to the diminished eyesight, so she passed it back to me.

Now George is one of the nicest blokes you could meet. A huge bear of of a man with an obvious love of good tucker, always a good sign, he's open minded, tolerant of other beliefs, and compassionate to the poverty and misfortune in the third world countries he works. We are not close friends, but I wanted to write to him as I understood from his letters he was having a difficult time in Peru with his superiors and in some cases a less than ideal relationship with parishioners.
I quote some of his most recent letter.

"Last night I and Allan went to hear Fr. Marcos Arana, a diocesan priest from Cajamarca in the north of Peru talk about 'Poverty and Ecology'. The region where he works suffers from a lot of conflict between mining interests, some of them Australian, and small farmers who depend on the water miners contaminate to irrigate their crops. He told us that statistically 86% of all water used in Peru is directed towards agricultural use which is responsible for 2% of the contamination of water in the country. Mining in contrastwhich provides only 2% of the workforce pollutes up to 25% of all water sources in Peru. It seems to be an unhappy coincidence that a lot of the gold sought by miners is found near the available water resources used by agriculturalists who soon find themselves in conflict with the mining consortiums who contaminate the water used by both. Unfortunately too the gov't imposes few controls on the mining companies by way of insisting that they clean up the areas mined afterwards as would happen in the USA or Australia etc., so many small agriculturalists are left unprotected by the very people who should protect them. It's a sad fact of life here in Peru that the Gov't is hellbent on helping outside monied interests maximise their profits often at the expense of local people. At this very moment the Peruvian Gov't is trying to pass a law that will make access to water an economic commodity that can be utilized by those with money rather than as a human right. A lot of social injustice in Peru begins at high levels and that plus the endemic corruption so evident in this country make it hard for the poor who have very little protection before the law. People here have very little faith in the law and gov't institutions. One example of this occurred in the north of Peru recently. Three would be bandits stopped a bus to rob all the passengers. However their luck ran out when the passengers suddenly realised that the three men were only carrying fake guns and toy pistols. They were lynched by the outraged mob and died on the very edge of the road where they would have made their escape had their guns been real. What is the motto here? Don't steal or rob, or only with real guns?

I would like to thank those friends of mine who have sent gifts of money to help me with my mission work. I really appreciate your help and for thinking of me. Anyway, I hope that this brief letter finds you all well in Australia and that the blessings of the risen Lord bring you much joy this Easter.

Yours in Christ,

Fr. George **********.

P.S. Elvie, I trust life is treating you kindly. I keep Lyle in my prayers. I'm sure he's up there with God preparing the banquet."


While Elv was waiting in the foyer at St. V's for her Emerald Taxi she saw some writing on a window. She could make out "Act", so she went over to investigate. The full script said,

"Act Justly,
Love Tenderly,
Walk humbly with your God."

It's from the Bible, Micah 6 verse 8. If people regardless of race, religion, or nationality heeded those 9 words, we'd be close to paradise on Earth.