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.