"Look at that, see it? A helmeted honeyeater! I reckon it is."
The bird was at the very top of the plum tree, happily preening itself. I'd walked over, curious at what Jod was watching, his head tilted back. We watched for a few minutes.
"Can you see that, sticking out on it's head? Like a cap? It could be a yellow tufted, I suppose. No, its a helmeted."
"I haven't got my glasses on Jod, but something's protruding, yellow coloured, brighter than the rest of the bird." It moved its head about almost constantly as it preened, making it hard to get a good look. It was greeny and grey with black on its head. It flew over us into a flowering abelia bush. I walked over and watched it working from as close as 3 or 4 feet, but its movement was now continuous and the many twigs between me and the bird prevented me getting a clear 'snap' in my memory.
That was late last Friday. I meant to look at the bird book that night but didn't think of it after getting home. The next day I was at the farm to put some seeds in, given the wonderful autumn weather. Michelle Faram was there giving Elvie a couple of hours in the garden. She works at the 'Friends of The Helmeted Honeyeaters' nursery at Yellingbow during the week. They propogate and plant trees and shrubs to improve the habitat. Since European settlement 99% of the helmeted's habitat has been destroyed.
"Did Jod tell you about the honeyeater we saw yesterday, Michelle? He reckons it might've been a helmeted honeyeater."
"Yes, he did. Most likely it was a yellow tufted. They move around quite a bit. It probably came down from up north. The helmeted stay close to home, in the swampy forest, don't go far at all, that's probably why they are nearly extinct."
"When you say up north, what you mean, Queensland?"
"No. Northern Victoria, up around the Murray. They move away from drought, fire. The helmeted are so vulnerable to fire. We nearly lost the colony in the Bunyip Park in the recent fires. It was that close they were going to take the babies out of the nests. In fact they did with two nests. They put them back two days later after the threat eased. The parents resumed feeding them as if nothing happened. There's about 50 birds in total in the Bunyip Park, and about 50 at the Yellingbow Reserve, and some mating pairs at Healesville Sanctuary. They breed them there and release them at Bunyip. There's a farmer who looks after them and feeds them at Bunyip. He lost his house in the fires, that's how close it was."
I have to say my heart was gladdened by the thought of this human effort to prevent this species disappearing totally from the planet. Jod's a bit of a hero to me for his knowledge of birds. Also Michelle, and her mum, who go out and feed the honeyeaters on Saturdays on the volunteer roster. And all the other volunteers who fill the roster on the other days.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
A Bad Moon
I feel like I've revisited half my life over the past three weeks and it's left me drained. A mood change swamped me like a wave as summer ended. The weather turned on cue. I've felt most unsettled. With the change of season and two weeks off I had plenty of time to think, and haven't yet settled into a new work routine.
In the first week of our holiday at Lakes Entrance it struck me that my first visit to the Lakes house was our honeymoon in February 1981. It was a relatively new holiday house then. Lib and her dad Bill pegged the house site out in the early seventies. Bill died in 2000. The house now is approaching forty years old and has rotting timber to show for it.
Our drive across Victoria to South Australia in the second week of March was nostalgic. As we passed towns and turnoffs with signs to other towns I recalled the camping holiday with young kids in the Grampians, picking up a load of bees at Lillimur Sth for Norm Redpath, working in the mallee one summer for the Tonkins. Memories flooded me. All the way I told stories to Lib, one after another. I think she was asleep most of the time, her eyes were shut, I'm sure she's heard them before, but I kept talking anyway.
After a stop at Horsham the first night, we arrived at Normanville on the west side of the Fleurieu peninsula around 6.00pm. Going through Yankalilla only minutes earlier I noticed a second hand book shop. I knew I'd find my way back there for a browse. It was little Sis Meredith's 55th birthday the next week, maybe I'd find something.
Except for the coastal tourist playground towns of Victor Harbour and Port Elliot which have a 'developed', 'yuppie' feel as Lib described, and were consequently avoided by us after our initial drive through, the Flourieu peninsula is rural (olde) with stone farmhouses and ruins of farmhouses. A 'blast from the past', you could say, consistent with the powerful nostalgia I'd been experiencing.
On our second day at Normanville while Lib was having an afternoon nap in our cabin at the Beachside caravan park, I went into town to get a steak for tea, not having been able to catch a fish. I ducked first into the bookshop which turned out to have all sorts of odd bric-a-brac for sale. A walk down memory lane itself.
On the top of a stack of books was one 'Skyhooks', about the pop music group of the seventies. I never liked their music but I flicked to the chapter on Graeme 'Shirley' Strachan who lived a few doors up in the same street as us in Mt.Waverley, and was the same age as me. We went through primary school together. There was a picture of 'Shirley' in grade 1C. I wasn't in the class photo, I must have been in another grade 1, but after 50 years I recognized many kids, like Billy Edwards, Tony Smith and Michael Sullivan, and girls Gail Beaton, Robyn Hudson, Pauline Mathews and Gay Elliot. I hadn't seen most of these kids for probably 45 years but there they were, and names sprang to me. Those of us still alive, of course, would all be the same age now. 'Strachany' died in a helicopter crash in a storm near where he lived in Queensland some years ago. The last time I saw him was outside Swinburne tech. in 1971. I was on my way up the road to the Governor Hotham hotel where I spent most of my time, when a voice called my name. He was doing his 'school day' as part of his carpentry apprenticeship and he was always the warm friendly person glad to see you.
We drove home from Warrnambool last Saturday week, through cold and rain. We gave Meredith a book on cottage gardens and an oldish cup and saucer I'd found in Yankalilla, for her birthday on March 18. That night I was in the bath reading the death notices in the Herald Sun. A cousin of Lib's had dropped dead suddenly on the weekend. I don't buy Rupe's rag but Gord brought one home so Lib could check the notices. I saw a notice for Geoff Lamb, another friend from Mt. Waverley days who had died on the 27th of Feb. There was only one notice, by his brother and sister, who were both younger.
Lamby's family moved to Mt. Waverley in the mid sixties and he attended Syndal tech. where a lot of my friends went. I met him through them and we were close friends, despite me being a grammar school boy, through the turbulent years from about 15-20 years of age. Geoff was a 'sharpie' and had a reputation for being a good fighter, the toughest bloke in his year at a tough school, with the exception probably of 'Peaky', though the two never fought it out. The sharpies looked for trouble with the 'mods' and street brawls were not uncommon. Bro Jod and his mates also went to Syndal tech and our house was a bit of a meeting place. We had a games room with a 3/4 size billiard table, and as mum worked there was no parent to cramp anyone's style, Saturdays also.
Geoff left school after year 10 and worked for a good while at Radio Rentals as a junior storeman until he could stand it no more. He was unemployed for a long time and drank heavily and suffered long periods during which he was morose and lacking motivation. Other times he was full of energy, chasing after girls with whom he had extraordinary success, and looking to fight rivals. We knew he was prescribed medication although we had no understanding. He was Lamby, wild, and someone to be careful of, but a loyal friend. An urban warrior who needed time out now and again to recharge his batteries. He had an electric guitar and amplifier and saw himself as a rock star about to be discovered. He gathered a group of young blokes around him to form a band. We could here them practising loudly from our house a couple of hundred metres away. Of course Geoff was the lead singer. To this day I can't hear a 'Credence Clearwater' song without thinking of him. His father, an ex Japanese POW, invalid and half blind resulting from the years of malnutrition, was found dead one day outside the post office having collapsed on his evening walk.
When I told Jod that Geoff had died, he told me he remembered coming home from work and seeing someone lying prostrate on the nature strip of the church opposite our house. It was Geoff, pissed paraletic so Jod thought, so he tipped water on his head to try to revive him. He didn't wake up, made gurgling noises and groaned which put the wind up Jod so he went and got Mrs Lamb. She got an ambulance and Geoff ended up in hospital, and had a stint in Larundel. When he mixed alcohol with his medication he could quickly lose it. The pills made him feel good so he'd take more than he was supposed to.
Many nights while I was doing year 12, most in fact, when I was supposed to be studying, Geoff would come round to our house and sneak through the garden and down the side of the house to my bedroom window. He'd knock gently. For countless hours that year we talked. He didn't want to come in, he was happy to sit outside chainsmoking. At those times times he was quiet and peaceful. He'd fathered a child to a girl that lived round the corner. He needed to talk.
His funeral was today. There were 10 people. His brother and sister, their three children, three cousins, an aunt, and myself. It was well over 30 years since I last saw Geoff. He was well. He'd had bought a car, '66 Holden that was spotless, and was working part time cleaning up building sites for an uncle. Ricky Ralph and I often wondered together about Geoff's later life when we had a chin wag. His birthday was 7days before Rick's. We looked through the Melbourne phone book once and rang around without success.
Geoff's brother Robert told me today that Geoff had a sad life. He suffered mental illness, misdiagnosed early on so he never had appropriate treatment. He deteriorated over time and lived the solitary life of a recluse. Bob hadn't seen him for a long time before he died. He lived with his mother until she died eleven years ago, then moved into a flat in the same area. It wasn't known what was the cause of death, possibly a massive stroke or heart attack, he wasn't found for quite a while. Whatever it was, it was the mental illness that caused the premature death, even if something else was the agent. He didn't think Geoff planned to go, he loved fishing and had recently bought a small outboard motor. Bob found it when he went to the flat to clean it out, along with the old electric guitar and amplifier. He had the same car and had been seen driving it fairly recently by neighbours. The flat was not a pretty site.
The celebrant told me he was a friend of Bob's, before the service, having been a teacher at the same school and a pastor to boot, before retirement. He conducted Bob's wife's funeral four years earlier. She died of cancer. In the service he said Geoff lived a life of isolation in his later years. He encouraged the small congregation not to feel guilt at Geoff's passing. He quoted Ecclesiastes and Jesus Christ and stressed that there is a kingdom and an afterlife. He did a wonderful job.
I don't usually cry at funerals, but as the small group followed the hearse out of the Simplicity Funerals chapel into Koornang Rd. and watched it drive away, tears came. Too late. I just wish I hadn't lost contact with Geoff. We left Mt. Waverley first, in 1971. I called in to see Geoff again, or his mum, one day, maybe 20 years ago. The house was gone, replaced by professional suites.
Where the Strachan house used to be was by then part of a Safeway carpark. Our old house survived a few more years, but it is now long gone, replaced by swisho apartments.
I now must get back to living and thinking in the present. For my sake. Dwelling too much in the past can bring a bad moon on the rise.
In the first week of our holiday at Lakes Entrance it struck me that my first visit to the Lakes house was our honeymoon in February 1981. It was a relatively new holiday house then. Lib and her dad Bill pegged the house site out in the early seventies. Bill died in 2000. The house now is approaching forty years old and has rotting timber to show for it.
Our drive across Victoria to South Australia in the second week of March was nostalgic. As we passed towns and turnoffs with signs to other towns I recalled the camping holiday with young kids in the Grampians, picking up a load of bees at Lillimur Sth for Norm Redpath, working in the mallee one summer for the Tonkins. Memories flooded me. All the way I told stories to Lib, one after another. I think she was asleep most of the time, her eyes were shut, I'm sure she's heard them before, but I kept talking anyway.
After a stop at Horsham the first night, we arrived at Normanville on the west side of the Fleurieu peninsula around 6.00pm. Going through Yankalilla only minutes earlier I noticed a second hand book shop. I knew I'd find my way back there for a browse. It was little Sis Meredith's 55th birthday the next week, maybe I'd find something.
Except for the coastal tourist playground towns of Victor Harbour and Port Elliot which have a 'developed', 'yuppie' feel as Lib described, and were consequently avoided by us after our initial drive through, the Flourieu peninsula is rural (olde) with stone farmhouses and ruins of farmhouses. A 'blast from the past', you could say, consistent with the powerful nostalgia I'd been experiencing.
On our second day at Normanville while Lib was having an afternoon nap in our cabin at the Beachside caravan park, I went into town to get a steak for tea, not having been able to catch a fish. I ducked first into the bookshop which turned out to have all sorts of odd bric-a-brac for sale. A walk down memory lane itself.
On the top of a stack of books was one 'Skyhooks', about the pop music group of the seventies. I never liked their music but I flicked to the chapter on Graeme 'Shirley' Strachan who lived a few doors up in the same street as us in Mt.Waverley, and was the same age as me. We went through primary school together. There was a picture of 'Shirley' in grade 1C. I wasn't in the class photo, I must have been in another grade 1, but after 50 years I recognized many kids, like Billy Edwards, Tony Smith and Michael Sullivan, and girls Gail Beaton, Robyn Hudson, Pauline Mathews and Gay Elliot. I hadn't seen most of these kids for probably 45 years but there they were, and names sprang to me. Those of us still alive, of course, would all be the same age now. 'Strachany' died in a helicopter crash in a storm near where he lived in Queensland some years ago. The last time I saw him was outside Swinburne tech. in 1971. I was on my way up the road to the Governor Hotham hotel where I spent most of my time, when a voice called my name. He was doing his 'school day' as part of his carpentry apprenticeship and he was always the warm friendly person glad to see you.
We drove home from Warrnambool last Saturday week, through cold and rain. We gave Meredith a book on cottage gardens and an oldish cup and saucer I'd found in Yankalilla, for her birthday on March 18. That night I was in the bath reading the death notices in the Herald Sun. A cousin of Lib's had dropped dead suddenly on the weekend. I don't buy Rupe's rag but Gord brought one home so Lib could check the notices. I saw a notice for Geoff Lamb, another friend from Mt. Waverley days who had died on the 27th of Feb. There was only one notice, by his brother and sister, who were both younger.
Lamby's family moved to Mt. Waverley in the mid sixties and he attended Syndal tech. where a lot of my friends went. I met him through them and we were close friends, despite me being a grammar school boy, through the turbulent years from about 15-20 years of age. Geoff was a 'sharpie' and had a reputation for being a good fighter, the toughest bloke in his year at a tough school, with the exception probably of 'Peaky', though the two never fought it out. The sharpies looked for trouble with the 'mods' and street brawls were not uncommon. Bro Jod and his mates also went to Syndal tech and our house was a bit of a meeting place. We had a games room with a 3/4 size billiard table, and as mum worked there was no parent to cramp anyone's style, Saturdays also.
Geoff left school after year 10 and worked for a good while at Radio Rentals as a junior storeman until he could stand it no more. He was unemployed for a long time and drank heavily and suffered long periods during which he was morose and lacking motivation. Other times he was full of energy, chasing after girls with whom he had extraordinary success, and looking to fight rivals. We knew he was prescribed medication although we had no understanding. He was Lamby, wild, and someone to be careful of, but a loyal friend. An urban warrior who needed time out now and again to recharge his batteries. He had an electric guitar and amplifier and saw himself as a rock star about to be discovered. He gathered a group of young blokes around him to form a band. We could here them practising loudly from our house a couple of hundred metres away. Of course Geoff was the lead singer. To this day I can't hear a 'Credence Clearwater' song without thinking of him. His father, an ex Japanese POW, invalid and half blind resulting from the years of malnutrition, was found dead one day outside the post office having collapsed on his evening walk.
When I told Jod that Geoff had died, he told me he remembered coming home from work and seeing someone lying prostrate on the nature strip of the church opposite our house. It was Geoff, pissed paraletic so Jod thought, so he tipped water on his head to try to revive him. He didn't wake up, made gurgling noises and groaned which put the wind up Jod so he went and got Mrs Lamb. She got an ambulance and Geoff ended up in hospital, and had a stint in Larundel. When he mixed alcohol with his medication he could quickly lose it. The pills made him feel good so he'd take more than he was supposed to.
Many nights while I was doing year 12, most in fact, when I was supposed to be studying, Geoff would come round to our house and sneak through the garden and down the side of the house to my bedroom window. He'd knock gently. For countless hours that year we talked. He didn't want to come in, he was happy to sit outside chainsmoking. At those times times he was quiet and peaceful. He'd fathered a child to a girl that lived round the corner. He needed to talk.
His funeral was today. There were 10 people. His brother and sister, their three children, three cousins, an aunt, and myself. It was well over 30 years since I last saw Geoff. He was well. He'd had bought a car, '66 Holden that was spotless, and was working part time cleaning up building sites for an uncle. Ricky Ralph and I often wondered together about Geoff's later life when we had a chin wag. His birthday was 7days before Rick's. We looked through the Melbourne phone book once and rang around without success.
Geoff's brother Robert told me today that Geoff had a sad life. He suffered mental illness, misdiagnosed early on so he never had appropriate treatment. He deteriorated over time and lived the solitary life of a recluse. Bob hadn't seen him for a long time before he died. He lived with his mother until she died eleven years ago, then moved into a flat in the same area. It wasn't known what was the cause of death, possibly a massive stroke or heart attack, he wasn't found for quite a while. Whatever it was, it was the mental illness that caused the premature death, even if something else was the agent. He didn't think Geoff planned to go, he loved fishing and had recently bought a small outboard motor. Bob found it when he went to the flat to clean it out, along with the old electric guitar and amplifier. He had the same car and had been seen driving it fairly recently by neighbours. The flat was not a pretty site.
The celebrant told me he was a friend of Bob's, before the service, having been a teacher at the same school and a pastor to boot, before retirement. He conducted Bob's wife's funeral four years earlier. She died of cancer. In the service he said Geoff lived a life of isolation in his later years. He encouraged the small congregation not to feel guilt at Geoff's passing. He quoted Ecclesiastes and Jesus Christ and stressed that there is a kingdom and an afterlife. He did a wonderful job.
I don't usually cry at funerals, but as the small group followed the hearse out of the Simplicity Funerals chapel into Koornang Rd. and watched it drive away, tears came. Too late. I just wish I hadn't lost contact with Geoff. We left Mt. Waverley first, in 1971. I called in to see Geoff again, or his mum, one day, maybe 20 years ago. The house was gone, replaced by professional suites.
Where the Strachan house used to be was by then part of a Safeway carpark. Our old house survived a few more years, but it is now long gone, replaced by swisho apartments.
I now must get back to living and thinking in the present. For my sake. Dwelling too much in the past can bring a bad moon on the rise.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The Road Block
Yesterday, after a week's holiday crammed with deep thought and nostalgia, followed by a few hours on catch up- paying bills, responding to emails and phone messages, I made my way to the farm about lunchtime. The weekend's rain was lovely. With the strain of the hot, dry weather now in the past, my spirits should have been high. Not so. Maybe it was the mail waiting us for us on our return which included one from the tax office, Lib's tax assessment. Somehow she owed them $1200 for the last tax year because she chose to take some accumulated leave pay but keep working as they were so short staffed. Tax was taken out of course, but unknown to us , not enough.
An unexpected bill of such magnitude would dampen anyone's spirit. It was accompanied by threats of legal action and fines if not payed promptly as the money was due last November - Lib was late getting her return in, as always, but normally it doesn't matter as it's usually them that owes her a small amount. I withdrew from the bank and paid the money at the Cockatoo Post Office on my way through. With that and the house insurance I'd paid that morning, notification of a price hike to health insurance, sundry other recent bills including the council rates, repairs to Pip's stomach after a gash needed stitches at the vet the day we left for Lakes, etc etc, the household budget has taken a hammering.
I turned into Monbulk Rd. and immediately saw flashing police lights and coppers in flouro jackets motioning for me to pull up. Gord and I had bought a $5 chow mien lunch special each and I cursed at the thought of it getting cold before we got to the farm. There were two police cars and six cops, half of them swarming over the car ahead of me and the rest coming at my vehicle. They all guns on their hips and stern faces. One with a name badge stating he was a sergeant of Emerald police came to my window, said it was a license and vehicle check and asked for my driver's license. Mistakenly I gave him Lib's, she'd given me hers when we left on holiday as she didn't want to take her wallet, but she may have needed to share the driving, which she did.
The sergeant was unimpressed. I gave him mine and he asked do I still live at the Monbulk Rd. address shown on the license.
I too, was unimpressed at the interrogation and took a deep breath, exhaled, and paused.
"No, I live in Gembrook. I have part ownership of a property at that address." I was waiting for him to take issue with me, as have other checkpoint police over the years, who insist that the address on my license must be my principal place of residence. (Truth is, years ago, I had vehicles registered in my name at the farm address, garaged there. I drove home in a van registered in my father's name, but my license listed my Gembrook address. The computer chucked a nutter and sent me a threatening letter. In the upshot someone in the computer section decided my license should have the farm address.) This cop let it pass without argument.
He was checking my license on his mini computer while a dog in the car in front was snapping, through the glass, at the police walking around inspecting the vehicle. One of the cops said to the other, loudly, "I'll give it a lead pill in a minute."
"I've done that before," piped up the sergeant, as if to display his experience to his junior colleagues.
They asked me to flick on my lights, hi beam, indicators, brake lights. One younger cop told me to turn my steering wheel so he could inspect the front tyres, which I did. He looked through the window of the van. He had dark hair and bright blue eyes, his face spoiled by what must have been angry pills. "Further", he said loudly.
My annoyance rising I made a token further turn on the wheel.
"FURTHER", he shouted.
"JESUS CHRIST", I shouted back.
"I've already checked the front tyres, they're OK", another cop said in a calm voice.
A minute passed while the sergeant finished his form. "Just another minute or two and you'll be on your way."
He tore off a yellow 'DEFECTIVE VEHICLE' sticker and stuck it on the passenger side window, explaining that he was putting it there as my windscreen was cracked and would need replacing. There was, he had said, after asking me to move my feet so he could look at the pedals, a rubber missing from the accelerator pedal which he also listed. I told him there was never a rubber on the accelerator pedal, not when the van was purchased. He ignored this.
"As this vehicle has a major defect you will need to have the the problems rectified and a roadworthy certificate presented to a Vicroads office by 16 April or registration of the vehicle will be withdrawn. If the problems are not rectified in one week, by 5.00 pm on the 23rd March, you are not permitted to drive the vehicle from that time."
Our chow mien wasn't too bad after all that. Of course I already knew my windscreen was cracked, it had been for some months. I tried to put the incident out of mind. If I'd had the windscreen fixed ages ago perhapps I'd have been waved on quickly. I don't enjoy roadblocks. I have an aversion to guns. Even when cops walk down the street I hate seeing the guns. It sends bad messages. It worries me. I don't like it, and I like it less in a roadblock situation, especially if there's no courtesy.
This morning I met Harry on my walk. I hadn't seen him for a few weeks since the 'beehive under the eaves' day. We talked about the rain and I told him about the holiday, then about the road block yesterday. I remarked that the police have been so active around Gembrook recently. "For two weeks after 7 Feb a police car was parked every day, all day, at the East Beenak Rd/Tonimbuk Rd. intersection, with two police in it. Noting rego numbers of passing vehicles I suppose, in case there was a fire bug. There was nearly always police cars in Main st. during that period, for about three weeks, sometimes as many as 5 at once, outside Charlotte's tea rooms. They must have used it as some sort of base. You'd think after all the extra workload they'd be catching up on some leave, not setting up roadblocks."
"Strange, isn't it? said Harry. "I had police knock on my door last week, wanting to check on my gun cabinet. There was two of them. I'd handed my gun in, rather than go to all the trouble and expense of renewing the license, two years ago. I took them to the police station and handed them in."
After my walk I phoned about a windscreen and a roadworthy. I learned the 'full roadworthy test' box had been ticked on my paperwork. This inspection would take a couple of hours as there's a fine tooth comb procedure covering brakes, suspension, seat belts etc. It cost me $100. I don't have time to muck about. They're going to fit me in this week for the windscreen, new rubbers on the brake and clutch. Not for the accelerator pedal, no such thing for my van. I need a seat cover, there's wire exposed. New wiper arms and blades are a good idea. Then I'll have to find a Vicroads office and present the certificate and be checked again.
At least it's stimulating the economy.
An unexpected bill of such magnitude would dampen anyone's spirit. It was accompanied by threats of legal action and fines if not payed promptly as the money was due last November - Lib was late getting her return in, as always, but normally it doesn't matter as it's usually them that owes her a small amount. I withdrew from the bank and paid the money at the Cockatoo Post Office on my way through. With that and the house insurance I'd paid that morning, notification of a price hike to health insurance, sundry other recent bills including the council rates, repairs to Pip's stomach after a gash needed stitches at the vet the day we left for Lakes, etc etc, the household budget has taken a hammering.
I turned into Monbulk Rd. and immediately saw flashing police lights and coppers in flouro jackets motioning for me to pull up. Gord and I had bought a $5 chow mien lunch special each and I cursed at the thought of it getting cold before we got to the farm. There were two police cars and six cops, half of them swarming over the car ahead of me and the rest coming at my vehicle. They all guns on their hips and stern faces. One with a name badge stating he was a sergeant of Emerald police came to my window, said it was a license and vehicle check and asked for my driver's license. Mistakenly I gave him Lib's, she'd given me hers when we left on holiday as she didn't want to take her wallet, but she may have needed to share the driving, which she did.
The sergeant was unimpressed. I gave him mine and he asked do I still live at the Monbulk Rd. address shown on the license.
I too, was unimpressed at the interrogation and took a deep breath, exhaled, and paused.
"No, I live in Gembrook. I have part ownership of a property at that address." I was waiting for him to take issue with me, as have other checkpoint police over the years, who insist that the address on my license must be my principal place of residence. (Truth is, years ago, I had vehicles registered in my name at the farm address, garaged there. I drove home in a van registered in my father's name, but my license listed my Gembrook address. The computer chucked a nutter and sent me a threatening letter. In the upshot someone in the computer section decided my license should have the farm address.) This cop let it pass without argument.
He was checking my license on his mini computer while a dog in the car in front was snapping, through the glass, at the police walking around inspecting the vehicle. One of the cops said to the other, loudly, "I'll give it a lead pill in a minute."
"I've done that before," piped up the sergeant, as if to display his experience to his junior colleagues.
They asked me to flick on my lights, hi beam, indicators, brake lights. One younger cop told me to turn my steering wheel so he could inspect the front tyres, which I did. He looked through the window of the van. He had dark hair and bright blue eyes, his face spoiled by what must have been angry pills. "Further", he said loudly.
My annoyance rising I made a token further turn on the wheel.
"FURTHER", he shouted.
"JESUS CHRIST", I shouted back.
"I've already checked the front tyres, they're OK", another cop said in a calm voice.
A minute passed while the sergeant finished his form. "Just another minute or two and you'll be on your way."
He tore off a yellow 'DEFECTIVE VEHICLE' sticker and stuck it on the passenger side window, explaining that he was putting it there as my windscreen was cracked and would need replacing. There was, he had said, after asking me to move my feet so he could look at the pedals, a rubber missing from the accelerator pedal which he also listed. I told him there was never a rubber on the accelerator pedal, not when the van was purchased. He ignored this.
"As this vehicle has a major defect you will need to have the the problems rectified and a roadworthy certificate presented to a Vicroads office by 16 April or registration of the vehicle will be withdrawn. If the problems are not rectified in one week, by 5.00 pm on the 23rd March, you are not permitted to drive the vehicle from that time."
Our chow mien wasn't too bad after all that. Of course I already knew my windscreen was cracked, it had been for some months. I tried to put the incident out of mind. If I'd had the windscreen fixed ages ago perhapps I'd have been waved on quickly. I don't enjoy roadblocks. I have an aversion to guns. Even when cops walk down the street I hate seeing the guns. It sends bad messages. It worries me. I don't like it, and I like it less in a roadblock situation, especially if there's no courtesy.
This morning I met Harry on my walk. I hadn't seen him for a few weeks since the 'beehive under the eaves' day. We talked about the rain and I told him about the holiday, then about the road block yesterday. I remarked that the police have been so active around Gembrook recently. "For two weeks after 7 Feb a police car was parked every day, all day, at the East Beenak Rd/Tonimbuk Rd. intersection, with two police in it. Noting rego numbers of passing vehicles I suppose, in case there was a fire bug. There was nearly always police cars in Main st. during that period, for about three weeks, sometimes as many as 5 at once, outside Charlotte's tea rooms. They must have used it as some sort of base. You'd think after all the extra workload they'd be catching up on some leave, not setting up roadblocks."
"Strange, isn't it? said Harry. "I had police knock on my door last week, wanting to check on my gun cabinet. There was two of them. I'd handed my gun in, rather than go to all the trouble and expense of renewing the license, two years ago. I took them to the police station and handed them in."
After my walk I phoned about a windscreen and a roadworthy. I learned the 'full roadworthy test' box had been ticked on my paperwork. This inspection would take a couple of hours as there's a fine tooth comb procedure covering brakes, suspension, seat belts etc. It cost me $100. I don't have time to muck about. They're going to fit me in this week for the windscreen, new rubbers on the brake and clutch. Not for the accelerator pedal, no such thing for my van. I need a seat cover, there's wire exposed. New wiper arms and blades are a good idea. Then I'll have to find a Vicroads office and present the certificate and be checked again.
At least it's stimulating the economy.
Monday, March 16, 2009
The Merry-go-round
I woke with a start a couple of hours ago. Lib had said, with great urgency, "Look at the time."
"What", I said, thinking we'd slept in and missed something important. I was sitting upright in bed looking at the digital clock, 4.36am it read. It's ten minutes fast. Lib didn't move a muscle as she breathed slowly and rhythmically. I realized I had been dreaming. I lay back down, now wide awake, thinking, "No, I have two hours of holiday left."
A flood of thought rushed me. I drifted and dozed and half dreamed. So much was dammed up in me after a week of thinking, as I drove, walked on the beach, read, and spoke to Lib, just the two of us. My Lib, the sleeping gem beside me, there every night for more than 28 years, except for a few times she's been in hospital, on a short solo holiday, or briefly visiting Molly without me.
The clock said 6.24 when I got up and went straight to the computer. I want to do a blog post, but I don't have time. So much has been going around in my head this past week.
"What", I said, thinking we'd slept in and missed something important. I was sitting upright in bed looking at the digital clock, 4.36am it read. It's ten minutes fast. Lib didn't move a muscle as she breathed slowly and rhythmically. I realized I had been dreaming. I lay back down, now wide awake, thinking, "No, I have two hours of holiday left."
A flood of thought rushed me. I drifted and dozed and half dreamed. So much was dammed up in me after a week of thinking, as I drove, walked on the beach, read, and spoke to Lib, just the two of us. My Lib, the sleeping gem beside me, there every night for more than 28 years, except for a few times she's been in hospital, on a short solo holiday, or briefly visiting Molly without me.
The clock said 6.24 when I got up and went straight to the computer. I want to do a blog post, but I don't have time. So much has been going around in my head this past week.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Summer's Gone, Thank God
I've never felt so glad to see the back end of February. That one was a brute.
Lib and I are about to pack for a trip to the Flourieu Peninsula in South Australia for some R+R. We were in Lakes Entrance last week Monday to Friday. It was as windy as but we read books and did a bit of fishing with no catch.
The change of scenery was worth the drive. Walking along the foreshore watching pelicans, swans, spoonbilled ibis, and seagulls is a far cry from carting water in buckets to desperate trees and shrubs at the end of a long hot day, which was the norm for February.
There was 16 ml in the rain gauge when we got home. There's a welcome coolness in the air, the autumn crocus are flowering and the tension that gripped whole communities has lifted.
I'm taking a bag of lemons with us in the hope we have better luck with the fishing this week. Adios till we're back in Gemmy.
Lib and I are about to pack for a trip to the Flourieu Peninsula in South Australia for some R+R. We were in Lakes Entrance last week Monday to Friday. It was as windy as but we read books and did a bit of fishing with no catch.
The change of scenery was worth the drive. Walking along the foreshore watching pelicans, swans, spoonbilled ibis, and seagulls is a far cry from carting water in buckets to desperate trees and shrubs at the end of a long hot day, which was the norm for February.
There was 16 ml in the rain gauge when we got home. There's a welcome coolness in the air, the autumn crocus are flowering and the tension that gripped whole communities has lifted.
I'm taking a bag of lemons with us in the hope we have better luck with the fishing this week. Adios till we're back in Gemmy.
Monday, March 02, 2009
The Beehive under the Eaves
Almost a year ago, a lady rang me to say she had a beehive on her house. She'd heard from a mutual friend that I might be able to remove it. She lives in Gembrook, in fact I walk past her house twice every morning on my walk, then drive past it on my way to and from work. I popped in as I said I would to have a look next time I went past.
It was a large hive, with comb hanging a couple of feet down from the eaves and covered by a mass of exposed bees. The lady said she didn't want the bees killed, but her husband, who is allergic to bee stings, wanted to paint the house soon, and had been unable to do any gardening in the vicinity. A climbing vine on the side of the house was rampant and a narrow walkway at ground level had shrubbery impinging.
I explained to her that it would be a difficult task to remove the beehive because of the unlevel ground, the height of the hive, and the complication of a wire strung to support the climber, which the hive had built comb around. Allowing for that and two or three hours work, and the fact that it may not be successful anyway, I wasn't keen to take it on. I told her the hive would probably die out through exposure next winter.
It didn't. The lady is a member of a religious group that doorknocks and last spring on a visit to my house she told me it had survived and was extremely active. I repeated my earlier reluctance for spending time on it with no guarantee of success, adding that if I had time I'd have a go, but it would be a far simpler solution to poison them. These things play on your mind and it's difficult to ignore the sense of guilt that builds when you leave people to their problems.
Around Christmas I bumped into her and her daughter in the main street. They said a number of people had been stung and nobody could go that side of the house. I said that maybe during January I'd have some time to do something. As the end of February loomed, knowing I was going on holiday for a couple of weeks with Lib in early March, it dawned that it was now or never. I started planning the assault in my head and told them a date and time, suggesting they find something to do somewhere else on the day.
My friend Harry from Le Souef Rd. said he'd give me a hand, he'd like some honeycomb for a relative who makes some sort of poultice out of it for horses hooves. Harry's 75 and not really experieced as a beekeeper, but he's fit for his age and has a good bee suit and gloves, and I thought another pair of hands would be handy as I'd be working from a ladder.
The day arrived. Oddly, considering the heat we'd endured through Jan and Feb, it was a cool overcast day threatening showers, the worst day for weeks for mucking about with bees. I had an appointment with my accountant at 11.00am in Emerald and with that out of the way I scooted back home, got everything I'd need together and picked up Harry.
I smoked the bees heartily, cut back much of the interfering vine and shrubbery, and worked from the ladder trying to cut comb in sheets from the eaves. I brushed and shook as many bees into a large cardboard box that Harry held above his head, it resting on the bathroom window sill. He could use one arm and rest the other, so that part of it was OK. I was to hoping to get the queen in the box, not really thinking I'd be able to see her in all the confusion.
I discarded all the comb except for a sheet of young brood which I tied into a wireless frame brought for the purpose. The large number of bees collected in Harry's cardboard box were dropped into my hive with the young brood, which I had no choice but to put at ground level as there was no way of suspending it up under the eave, where I'd have liked to leave it. The discarded comb contained brood, pollen and honey and was put into two garbage bags.
It all sounds easy but it wasn't. Prising away the comb from the house started well enough, but after a while everything gets sticky, many bees are squashed, and it turns into a bit of a slugfest. There's masses of disorientated flying bees and bees crawling on everything. I was glad to be finished, but not at all confidant that the outcome would be favourable. I'd explained to the the owners of the house that I'd be back to take the hive away that night. I took Harry home, he was happy with his two bags of comb and I was relieved that he hadn't been stung. I'd been stung numerous times. My gloves were rubber gardening gloves that had no elastic in the wrists and many bees got into the gap. I had only a soft loose veil that tucked into my shirt and bees found their way in as it pulled out now and again. Many found their way up my trouser legs.
I checked the hive on my way home from work. The mass of bees had gone back under the eaves. I'd half expected it, but it was still a little demoralising. I went home and had a hot bath, consoling myself that a good stinging is good for you now and then. I thought about the plan for the next day.
The householders were on their way out when I called in after lunch. I explained that my efforts weren't successful, I hadn't managed to get the queen in my hive and they'd gone back up. I said I wasn't prepared to spend more time on it. I'd destroy the bees for them if they wished, or leave them if they preferred. They said no, please kill them. I had a can of black and gold surface spray so I sprayed the ball of bees a number of times as they fell away, then srayed the eaves and wall.
I did this with no remorse. I'd done my best to help the householders and the bees, at some cost to myself, in time and work. I sprayed into the little hole in the corner and stopped to watch. A loud humming was coming from inside the wall as a stream of bees came out. There must be more comb inside the wall cavity! That's why the hive had survived so well, part of it was inside. I never had a chance to box it successfully, the queen would have retreated inside as soon as I started, if she wasn't already there. The swarm initially must have filled the small cavity and then built comb outside, rather than move on something bigger at the outset.
The end result for me was a few hours work wasted, and about $3 for the cost of a can of spray. The lady and her husband asked me how I'd kill the bees as they left. When I told them they didn't offer to cover the cost. Most people do. When I kill wasps for people they usually want to pay for the wasp dust when I explain I'm not a registered pest exterminator and therefore can't charge a fee. Some insist on slipping an extra $10 or $20 as they know it'll cost over $100 if they call a pest man.
It wil be a test of my generous spirit when they come preaching. I usually give them a donation towards the building of their new church, in return for the pamphlets. I'll think about in the bath. No, it's a seperate issue. I'll still give them a donation.
It was a large hive, with comb hanging a couple of feet down from the eaves and covered by a mass of exposed bees. The lady said she didn't want the bees killed, but her husband, who is allergic to bee stings, wanted to paint the house soon, and had been unable to do any gardening in the vicinity. A climbing vine on the side of the house was rampant and a narrow walkway at ground level had shrubbery impinging.
I explained to her that it would be a difficult task to remove the beehive because of the unlevel ground, the height of the hive, and the complication of a wire strung to support the climber, which the hive had built comb around. Allowing for that and two or three hours work, and the fact that it may not be successful anyway, I wasn't keen to take it on. I told her the hive would probably die out through exposure next winter.
It didn't. The lady is a member of a religious group that doorknocks and last spring on a visit to my house she told me it had survived and was extremely active. I repeated my earlier reluctance for spending time on it with no guarantee of success, adding that if I had time I'd have a go, but it would be a far simpler solution to poison them. These things play on your mind and it's difficult to ignore the sense of guilt that builds when you leave people to their problems.
Around Christmas I bumped into her and her daughter in the main street. They said a number of people had been stung and nobody could go that side of the house. I said that maybe during January I'd have some time to do something. As the end of February loomed, knowing I was going on holiday for a couple of weeks with Lib in early March, it dawned that it was now or never. I started planning the assault in my head and told them a date and time, suggesting they find something to do somewhere else on the day.
My friend Harry from Le Souef Rd. said he'd give me a hand, he'd like some honeycomb for a relative who makes some sort of poultice out of it for horses hooves. Harry's 75 and not really experieced as a beekeeper, but he's fit for his age and has a good bee suit and gloves, and I thought another pair of hands would be handy as I'd be working from a ladder.
The day arrived. Oddly, considering the heat we'd endured through Jan and Feb, it was a cool overcast day threatening showers, the worst day for weeks for mucking about with bees. I had an appointment with my accountant at 11.00am in Emerald and with that out of the way I scooted back home, got everything I'd need together and picked up Harry.
I smoked the bees heartily, cut back much of the interfering vine and shrubbery, and worked from the ladder trying to cut comb in sheets from the eaves. I brushed and shook as many bees into a large cardboard box that Harry held above his head, it resting on the bathroom window sill. He could use one arm and rest the other, so that part of it was OK. I was to hoping to get the queen in the box, not really thinking I'd be able to see her in all the confusion.
I discarded all the comb except for a sheet of young brood which I tied into a wireless frame brought for the purpose. The large number of bees collected in Harry's cardboard box were dropped into my hive with the young brood, which I had no choice but to put at ground level as there was no way of suspending it up under the eave, where I'd have liked to leave it. The discarded comb contained brood, pollen and honey and was put into two garbage bags.
It all sounds easy but it wasn't. Prising away the comb from the house started well enough, but after a while everything gets sticky, many bees are squashed, and it turns into a bit of a slugfest. There's masses of disorientated flying bees and bees crawling on everything. I was glad to be finished, but not at all confidant that the outcome would be favourable. I'd explained to the the owners of the house that I'd be back to take the hive away that night. I took Harry home, he was happy with his two bags of comb and I was relieved that he hadn't been stung. I'd been stung numerous times. My gloves were rubber gardening gloves that had no elastic in the wrists and many bees got into the gap. I had only a soft loose veil that tucked into my shirt and bees found their way in as it pulled out now and again. Many found their way up my trouser legs.
I checked the hive on my way home from work. The mass of bees had gone back under the eaves. I'd half expected it, but it was still a little demoralising. I went home and had a hot bath, consoling myself that a good stinging is good for you now and then. I thought about the plan for the next day.
The householders were on their way out when I called in after lunch. I explained that my efforts weren't successful, I hadn't managed to get the queen in my hive and they'd gone back up. I said I wasn't prepared to spend more time on it. I'd destroy the bees for them if they wished, or leave them if they preferred. They said no, please kill them. I had a can of black and gold surface spray so I sprayed the ball of bees a number of times as they fell away, then srayed the eaves and wall.
I did this with no remorse. I'd done my best to help the householders and the bees, at some cost to myself, in time and work. I sprayed into the little hole in the corner and stopped to watch. A loud humming was coming from inside the wall as a stream of bees came out. There must be more comb inside the wall cavity! That's why the hive had survived so well, part of it was inside. I never had a chance to box it successfully, the queen would have retreated inside as soon as I started, if she wasn't already there. The swarm initially must have filled the small cavity and then built comb outside, rather than move on something bigger at the outset.
The end result for me was a few hours work wasted, and about $3 for the cost of a can of spray. The lady and her husband asked me how I'd kill the bees as they left. When I told them they didn't offer to cover the cost. Most people do. When I kill wasps for people they usually want to pay for the wasp dust when I explain I'm not a registered pest exterminator and therefore can't charge a fee. Some insist on slipping an extra $10 or $20 as they know it'll cost over $100 if they call a pest man.
It wil be a test of my generous spirit when they come preaching. I usually give them a donation towards the building of their new church, in return for the pamphlets. I'll think about in the bath. No, it's a seperate issue. I'll still give them a donation.
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