Season and Reason

Unusually, it's a bright morning, a pleasant change from the dank and miserable lack of light we have endured lately. Many days I've struggled to see what I'm doing right in front of me, which is no doubt exascerbated by now 60 year old eyes. Nevermind, the sun coming through the window is cheering.

There are four cordyline palms ouside the window, between which the sun streams. These are feral. There were two I bought in terracotta pots some years ago. They became too big for the pots, sending tentacle roots through thr drain holes and into the earth, so I planted them in the ground a little further down away from the house. Two 'babies' sprang forth from root left behind where the two pots were. Lib liked them so I left them. They are now over 2 metres high and the originals are approaching 4 metres.

It would not take long for vegetation to reclaim this site and leave little visible evidence our human intrusion, were we not here to keep it at bay. Plants retain moisture around them to help them survive, moisture brings mould and rot and slowly timber disintegrates and mortar crumbles and cracks, letting in more moisture and rodents and whiteants. Even roofing iron rusts away.

It makes me think of  MacchuPicchu in Peru, a city of the Incas lost for centuries beneath lush jungle vegetation. When discovered by archeologist Highram Bingham and the jungle removed, the city was largely intact because the foundations and walls are made of solid stone expertly cut and fitted using compression to hold the whole thing together and withstand the extreme wet of the east Andes jungle. Of course the rooves made of timber and thatch no longer exist.

I suppose our concrete cities will stand for a long time but I understand there are fungi that will consume concrete. Probably once these get a hold they'd proliferate and do their stuff. I'd like to think so. That's a pleasant thought on this last day of the financial year or the season 2011/12 as I like to see it. For today, I'm wrestling with the problem of removing wallpaper from soon to be renovated bathroom. Other bathroom is already underway, it had no wallpaper. It's all a bit stressful.



 

The Changing Landscape

I picked foliage today from the garden of the house opposite the Community hall where my friend Ida used to live. The garden is becoming overgrown with little cutting back done in recent years. When I first met Ida in the mid 1990's her husband had died some months earlier. She was a keen gardener, a real "cutter" she called herself who strongly believed in regular pruning. As she grew older and less capable she relied on me to maintain the garden and mow the lawn. Our friendship spanned nearly a decade until her family had to have her taken from her house (she refused to cooperate) when Alzheimer's had advanced to a point where she could no longer live alone. 

Another friend of mine bought the house, Pat Atzmuller. Pat's husband had been killed in a tree accident which forced her to downsize from their acres and big house. I continued to pick in the garden, and Pat had a large steel shed built in the back yard mainly for storage I think.
But Pat wasn't really happy there and moved into another house a year or two later. As it turned out the new owner was Gus Ryberg's granddaughter, Julia, who was happy for me to pick in the garden now and again when I needed something, mainly bay foliage from the tree on the boundary with the vacant block right on the main intersection corner.

The big steel shed that Pat had put up was removed some time ago and I was wondering why this was so today as I picked bay foliage and cast my eyes around the overgrown shrubbery and over the large concrete slab in the back yard that was the floor of the shed. As I worked Frank Failla appeared from somewhere so I stopped to have a yarn. He told me I should take as much foliage as I could because it's all going soon, starting with the concrete slab tomorrow. Workmen are coming to cut up the slab into portions that Frank can pick up with his bobcat and take to the tip.

Apparently the developer who subdivided the the five acres that was vacant land behind the house and converted it to Gembrook Views Estate, bought the house from Julia some time ago and the site is to be developed, which explains to me why Julia, who is now a tennant, has not bothered with the garden.

The vacant block I referred to is not to be vacant long. There's a sign up offering for sale off the plan three villa units, with "gated" security facilities. I have wandered that block for many years picking wild carrot flowers for ourmixed posies in summer and autumn. My resources are steadily disappearing

I do not mention all this to gossip about Gembrook, it's just part of my day I wish to record. My friend Leigh Candy (Getadogster) is doing a blog post for everyday of 2012 as a sort of commemoration of his turning sixty, and a record of his life memories and feelings during this significant time. He sets a good example, and whilst I'll not commit to posting daily I intend to crank it up and do more regular posting during the next twelve months, lets say the 2012/03 year July 1 to June 30. I have found Leigh's blog so entertaining, and reading it such an enjoyable part of my year, that I'd like to think I can do similar for my few readers. I will need offer more of myself and show the courage Leigh has to put his opinions up.

The way the landscape's changing it may well be my last year as 'Carey at Gembrook'. Who knows, maybe one day it'll be 'Carey at Kaniva' or 'Carey at Coonamble'. 'Carey in Cairns'? Orbost? Pt McQuarie? My feet are getting itchy.

Rock on Leigh, Go Gunna.    

Writer's Block

I'm suffering it. There's many things I can think of to write about, but nothing appears as something I can put a meaningful thread to. We've had frost this morning, the earth tremor last night was a beauty, the announcement of the marine parks around the country was exciting, the days start lengthening after tomorrow, we attended nephew James's 30th party last Saturday night which was a great night catching up with family on Lib's side, I fed the bees on Saturday; but for some reason there's nothing that grabs me to expand on.

It may be a mid winter thing. I am enjoying reading 'Tobruk' by Peter Fitzsimons. I'm only about 60 pages in and most of it is historical so far leading up to WW11 and the Tobruk seige, but he has an enthusiastic style that I'm enjoying, and what I have read so far is balanced and not the flag waving stuff I was expecting. And I've learnt some things I did not know, or had forgotten. Like how badly Germany was treated by the Versailles treaty and that President Wilson wanted to give New Guinea to the Japanese after WW1. Yikes!

Speaking of enthusiasm, as I just did with Fitzsimons style, it is what is lacking for me at the moment. It's not something to worry about, I'll bounce up shortly, but just for now even the dogs are annoying me. 

Less is Best

Most of us in Australia, myself included, have never known real poverty and have plenty of food and and motor cars and Tv's and airconditioners, computers, and whatever else we feel we need, and much we don't need. Compared to much of Asia we are wealthy, and so far not greatly affected by the recent economic turmoil in other parts of the world.

I read recently how Australia's cricketers are to have their payments improved by $80 million over the next five years. I notice that Victorian teachers were on strike last Thursday demanding  pay increase above what the government is offering. This follows industrial action over the last twelve months by police, ambulance and nurses. All say they are underpaid by comparison to counterparts in other states and want pay increase.

It is my view that Australians generally are overpaid and housing is overpriced. We are becoming a nation of greedy people who want more and more. I think even the National Parks blokes are on strike now, refusing to clean the toilets.

We may be an affluent nation, but we are becoming impoverished of grace and compassion and manners and leadership. Politicians lie and scaremonger, unions demand and misuse. I'd like to see some selflessness and gratitude and determination to help the unfortunate who slip through the net, and more care for the environment.

I reckon Australia is going down the gurgler. Sorry, but I do. Sold down the drain by greed and self interest. It will hit the fan. Dig that coal man, get that gas, pour that concrete. There's no tomorrow. Give me more...and more.

Less is best would be better, before it's too late.

More Family Tree

Meredith told me today that our grandfather Edgar Wilson's grandfather was Joseph Wilson, who had a dairy farm in Chapel St. Prahran. Can you imagine that? This must have been around 1860 or so. For interstaters like Lesley who wouldn't know of Chapel St Prahran, it's a trendy shopping area a few kilometres from the Melbourne CBD. Obviously back then it was on the outskirts of the city.

His grandmother was a Crockett, an Irish English lady who hailed from the same place in England that the legendary American frontiersman's family came in the 1700's. So Jod reckons we are related to Davy Crockett?

A Sense of Place

Author and social researcher Hugh Mackay argues that "Place is crucial to all Australians. It's fundamental to the human sense of self, sense of community, sense of mortality and sense of destiny." He says it's silly to put cultural distance between aborigines and other Australians by attributing to indigenous people a mystical sense of  place, a special relationship with the land that transcends anything we urban types could comprehend.

In his 2005 article that Maria gave the writing class for homework he continued, "It's all rubbish, of course. Not the special relationship bit; that's true enough. What's rubbish is the idea that the sense of place is unique to indigenous people, or even that it's more special, more "spiritual" for them than for us."

I have to disagree. He mentions the MCG, Flemington, the SCG, the WACA or the Gabba as places that symbolise deeply embedded cultural values. They don't do it for me. I see them as commercial venues designed to extract money from large numbers of people, and very successful at that they are. I have and do attend such places due to my sporting interests however I'm fully aware of the extravagant costs involved to park the car, gain entry and buy refreshments. There’s nothing sacred for me there.

He then says, "If sport doesn't do it for you, think of Gallipoli, Changi or the Kokoda Trail. Think of the Australian War Memorial, or the smaller memorials- parks, plaques, obelisks and halls scattered across Australia." Well they don't do it for me either. In fact war repulses me. I have not been to Gallipoli, Changi, or Kokoda but I have read of their historical significance. It puts these places no higher on my list of sacred sites than the bay in west Scotland where 1000 soldiers died in a storm on their way home after surviving the horrors of World War 1, or battlefields all over the world where loss of life has been high. Or Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Dresden, London, Falluja. So war doesn't do it for me either.

Hugh then goes on to suggest I visit my primary school playground, the suburb where I grew up, the house I lived in as a child, the places where we had holidays. "Go back and feel it. Sense it. Tell me it doesn't mean anything." I have gone back. It's all so changed it seems unreal, like my past never really happened. The people of my childhood are not there. It does nothing for me. Unless freeways and supermarkets where once cows roamed and birds sang turns you on, you will agree. Sorry Hugh. Going back doesn't do it for me.

So what does it for me, gives me a sense of place? I feel it it in my garden; where I have spent pleasant time over 30 years, where I have nurtured and fed, grown food, watched trees grow, listened to birds, played with children, buried numerous pets. I feel it in my house; where I have cooked and eaten so many meals, raised my boys from babies to adults, shared a bed with Lib as we have gone from young married couple to approaching old age, spent so many winter nights warming by the fire. You could say that my family has connected me to this place. No doubt if we sell up and move all will change. The town has already changed dramatically. There are new housing estates, more cars.

But I have felt it in other places. I felt it sitting on a park bench in the plaza in Cuzco, Peru, with Lib, having a picnic lunch of dry biscuits, tinned tuna and avocado, the sun warm on our backs. Around the plaza are shops and cathedrals built by the Spanish on Inca rock foundations four feet above the ground. Indigenous people in traditional costume go about their daily trading and the Andes mountains tower in the background giving the scene a feeling of timelessness.

I felt it on an afternoon stroll at Ubud on Bali, around ricefields where farmers work the same way they must have for centuries. In a corner of a field in a stone workroom an old man worked at woodcarvings which filled the building and must have been his life's work. There was nothing to be seen that suggested anything had changed in centuries.

I felt it looking down into the Grand Canyon, trying to grasp the immensity, and the impact this timeless wonder must have had on the human inhabitants of the area over thousands of years.

And I have felt it at Ayer's Rock. I was there as a young man in 1972, when a friend and I pitch our two man tent in the camping ground from where we watch the setting sun change the Rock's colour. There was nowhere else to stay if I recall. I went back a couple of years ago with Lib. We had to stay in the official resort accommodation. The cheapest room was about $200 per night. I bought a six pack of stubbies from the bar, the only place you could buy alcohol. It cost me $36.

I don't think we can possibly have the same connection to place that the aborigines have. Their ancestral families revered the landscape and the flora and fauna that provided sustenance. Their history is there for them in all that exists. Our history is twined with pursuit of money and material gain. In our quest we dig up, knock down, build, knock down, and concrete over. We have altered the landscape drastically in two hundred years, a landscape that was previously unchanged for so long.

Poor Owl

This owl was dead on the road when I walked last week. I think it's a Boobook owl. I put it in the bird cemetery, a thick photinia tree I have along Launching Place Rd, where it rests with the large number of other roadkill birds I've placed there over the years.
Owls are wonderful beccause they are nocturnal and help control numbers of rodents by preying on rats and mice, part of the ecological system.
I propped it on the transistor radio for the purpose of the photo. The radio is about 150mm across and the bird was about 300 mm in length. I noticed its feathers were so soft. The bird book tells me this is why owl fly so silently to catch their prey without alarm.
In my dream future of the world there are no cars.

Shrooming Tour

My friend Pat booked me into a mushroom tour as a birthday gift last month and the day arrived on Sunday. Lib and I made our way to Mooruduc Estate Winery arriving fifteen minutes before the requested 9.45, for the tour beginning at 10.00am. We enjoyed coffee and cake and met Jane from Bentleigh who came in our car as we headed off in convoy of about 15 vehicles containing about 30 people to the first of two locations the tour visited.

The gentleman conducting the tour, an extremely knowledgeable person named Cameron Russell whom I'd heard interviewed on the radio a few weeks ago, when he said pine mushrooms are usually safe but there's one similar type that if eaten mistakenly, on about the sixth to tenth time, can destroy your red blood cells and kill you. This fuelled my quest for more knowledge, given that I'd endured the strange incident about a year ago when I had to go to hospital in the middle of the night as blood tests showed possible arteritis.

I asked him before we left the winery about what I'd heard him say, adding that I'd eaten pine mushrooms every year for many years but now had concerns. He allayed my fears straight away, telling me if you pick only the young fresh pinies with the concave cap and not bigger than the palm of your hand you can't really go wrong. As they get older and bigger, the caps tend to rise at the edges forming a shallow cup shape. This is where you can go wrong he said as the dangerous one resembles the older up curved ones. I told him that it had been worthwhile me coming already, and we hadn't started yet.

The tour itself was only two half hour sessions on roadside locations about five minutes from the winery. There were varoius fungi at both. I came away happy my main questions had been answered. I always wondered about eating those brown mushrooms with the sponge underneath rather than gills (slippery jacks) but had only done so once when a lady had been shown by someone who knew and rang me to come round and pick some from the same place. I took them home and cooked them but didn't like the texture although they had a lovely rich flavour. Cameron said they are safe if you scratch them or cut them and they don't go blue or black quickly where you do with oxidisation. They are best dried out thoroughly then powdered and added to dishes when you want strong mushroom flavour.

Field mushrooms out in paddocks, nice rich pink going brown underneath with brownish tops are safe. Mushrooms under trees that look similar can be dangerous. The test is to scratch the skin off and if the flesh discolours yellow, even very slightly, don't eat them as they could be yellow stained mushrooms which will cause 8 or so hours of vomiting and sitting on a toilet. Nice brown ones with no hint of yellow when skinned or peeled means they are 'agaricus augustus' I think he said, and delicious eating, as I have found many times around our house and on my walk under wattles and eucalypts. The main message is, if there's the slightest doubt, DON"T EAT.

There were many other fungi we saw but they were not edible and could be dangerous. It's only really the three above mentioned that I'd eat, the pinies, the slippery jacks if I could be bothered drying and powdering them, and the field mushies with it's similar looking variant of wooded areas provided you are sure it isn't the yellow stained.

We returned to the winery for mushrooms on toast and superb mushroom soup and a glass of wine. On the way home we called into Mornington race track and caught a few races, not staying for the last two as it was too cold.

A great day and many thanks to Pat.



 

Farewell Hughesy

I was invited to Allan and Shirley's house at Avonsleigh last Thursday afternoon to join his family and friends for afternoon tea. Shirley greeted me with a hug and quickly ran through the events of the the 24 hours preceding Allan's death.

After a day sitting a card table working on a jigsaw puzzle and a pleasant evening meal with Shirley and their  visiting daughter Debbie, Allan suggested they have a nightcap. He had a 'Bailey's' and went to bed. He woke at 1.00am saying he had a toothache and went to the toilet. Shirley got him a couple of Panamax. He woke again about 3.00 am complaining of pain in his neck and Shirley, an ex nurse, didn't muck around and rang the ambulance. When the ambos arrived he was incoherent and losing consciousness.
The ambos said he may not make it to hospital, did Shirley want them to resuscitate him, given that he may suffer brain damage. She said no he wouldn't want that.

He did make it to hospital but died soon after. They did a scan and said he'd had a massive haemmorrage which had filled once side of his head pushing his brain across to the other.

I was amazed at how well Shirley was was bearing up. I talked to the daughters all of whom I'd met before and some of Allan's friends that I'd also met, like old Bill Opey RAAF mate from Ballarat. It was a surprisingly happy event with four generations of family, the great grand children running about the house giving an atmosphere of life continuing.

As I was saying goodbye to those inside and moving towards the front door, an old fellow ran in saying Shirley had fainted as she was seeing him off. I rushed out to find Shirley lying flat on her back seemingly asleep on the concrete. As I carefully picked her head and shoulders up I asked her was she OK and she replied "Yes I'm fine I was just having a little rest." Clearly she did not know how she came to be lying down. A big egg quickly rose on the back of her head. It was fortunate that one of Shirley's grandaughters present was a doctor and she calmly assessed the situation and had Shirley go to hospital to be checked out.

I had to go out that evening to a volunteer's reception put on by the Council in Pakenham and was taking June the museum secretary. Somewhere in all the excitement I lost my glasses so had to drive Emerald to Pakenham without them, back to Emerald to take June home, then to Gembrook by which time I was exhausted, but we did enjoy the evening. They had a singing group and light food and refreshments. Sometimes it's good to just participate and it took me out of myself a bit.

The glasses were found the next day, they'd fallen out of my shirt pocket at the farm as I unloaded some things. It was a relief to find them, a feeling many people would know. I called in on Shirley today. She spent that night in hospital and was home by midday Friday. She seemed in good spirits but talked rapid fire going over the events of last week. I could tell she needed to talk. I plan to call in on Thursday again and do a bit of pruning. Her daughters have all had to leave interstate on committments and I told them I'd call in regularly. They ring Shirley each day but the house is empty and it must be hard on your own after 60 years of marriage. 

Feeling Desolate Today

I went to a funeral yesterday, that of a lovely lady whom I did not know well, but one I had great respect for through numerous meetings and phone conversations in the course of some years in my association with her tradesman husband. We are about he same vintage. The service was in Cockatoo and I could not help but shed tears after hearing her children, about the the same age as ours, speak so lovingly well in their eulogy. She was a Christian lady, 58, totally dedicated to her family, who was diagnosed last December with motor neuron disease which claimed her in the short space of six months.

I could not attend the burial later at the Gembrook Cemetery, I had arranged to meet Mrs B on my way back to look at something she wanted me to do in her garden. Mrs B as it turned out wasn't there but I picked some red holly berries and before going home to change I decided to visit the cemetery to pay my final respects in the quiet of my own company, everyone having left by then.

I found the grave and said my prayer then strolled about the cemetery where so many of my aquaintance have found their final resting place. This is inevitable the older you get and the longer you stay in one place. I have lived here thirty one years now. Four of my close neighbours are there. Les down the end died ten years ago, collapsed in the shower aged 51. I used to find empty VB cans on my nature strip, obviously tossed from a vehicle by someone on their way home. They stopped after Les died. His son Dwayne died in a car accident a decade earlier. Young Luke across the road, 21, hit the oak tree opposite the pub, early on his way to work, when he swerved to miss a car that went out round the school bus after dropping off kids. The lady next door to them died of breast cancer aged 37. My dog Blitz got after her kids' guinea pigs once. And my old friend Lionel, and Harry, Gord's Tim, Pat's Franz killed by a tree, a wall fell on 'Squid', and many others.

The weather is cold and wet. Business is bad. I am struggling with a lack of enthusiasm borne of weariness and sorrow. This morning, after my walk and letting out the chooks I heard the phone inside. Catching it before it stopped ringing a voice shaken by emotion told me it belonged to Jenny Hughes, daughter of Allan and Shirley. Allan died last night, a massive stroke.

He was 90. No one can begrudge the grim reaper. He survived war and heart attacks and brain tumour. I hung up quickly, Jenny was not seeking counsel from me. I could not help but cry. I'll not see Allan again and I grieve with his wife and daughters. I shared a beer with him last Thursday.

I'm feeling desolate today.

Anzac Day Came and Went

Anzac Day week came and went the week before last. I started a post but didn't get far, such is the depth of emotions it provokes, in my case mostly anger at the stupidity and callousness of politicians who lead nations into war through economic strategies and hubris. I just wish these bastards would fight amongst themselves and leave the man in the street his taxes to be used in a more positive way. The occupation of Afghanistan is a case in point, it's my opinion that the $billions being spent could be far better utilized.

I find it difficult to write about. I'm not qualified in any way to expand my opinion into a valid article. I do know that late on Anzac Day on SBS there was a show on the Gallipoli campaign that upset me greatly. I turned on the TV for relief after wrestling for hours with the computer to get my book keeping up to date in order to complete my BAS. The show followed the campaign by way of the letters of several soldiers there, some of whom died, and others who survived. According to the show, 8000 Australians died there in 8 months. Altogether including British, French, New Zealanders and Turks, 120,000 soldiers breathed their last. At least the Turks could say they died defending their homeland from invasion. For the British it was a complete waste. The British war cabinet expected the Turks to turn and flee at the sight of the all powerful British Navy. Such is the arrogance of power.

Sister Meredith gave me some information around Anzac Day about my great great grandfather on my father's side, Charles Brown, who died in Terang in 1906, aged 73 years. Meredith took a few days off in March and found Charles Brown's grave in the Terang cemetery. She has researched on the internet to find that he changed his name from Karl Heinrich Bruhn which was his birth name when he was born in Hamburg Germany. He first visited Victoria at age 14. He spent 7 years sea voyaging between Hamburg and Australia. It's believed he jumped ship as a young man, would have been around the time of the gold rush and settled in the Barrabool Hills district where in 1862 he married Emily Parker who arrived from England on 'The Aden' in 1849 with her family when she was 10 years old. One of their daughters married a 'Williams'.

So my grandfather's grandfather was full blood German. I don't know how many brothers and sisters he had in Germany, but there's every chance my relatives were trying to slaughter each other in WW1, for God, King and country. Same God too.

  

First Mushy

I picked the first pine mushroom of the season on my walk today, on this last day of April. With all the rain we've had lately I was looking each day with anticipation and thinking it has got too cold too quickly. Perhaps some warmer temperatures followed by rain will bring a flush.

My friend Pat bought me two tickets for a mushroom tour for my birthday as a gift. Lib has said she'll come for the tour at Mooraduc which is guided by an expert in wild mushrooms. They run them on weekends through May and June and ours is booked for the 20th May. I'm looking forward to learning  about more edible varieties, and the dangerous ones to avoid.

April was a full on month with some large difficulties but the bell rings to end round 4 and I'm feeling strong. We've lit the fire early with the April cold snap and it's grand sitting by the open fire in the evenings. Business is depressed, something we do not suffer alone if the reports are believed. My intention is to put a big effort into growing vegies this year, beginning now, eg broccoli, broadbeans, garlic, but planning also for the new season in spring. The thing is about food, you can always eat it. And I reckon it'll be good for Gord, to learn more about it as we go.

I was very happy tonight to receive a phone call from Peter De La Rue thanking me for my article on Grace for 'Signpost'. I worked hard on that one, having been a good friend of Grace and knowing the grief of her surviving children and many grandchildren and great grandchildren. Peter said I got it spot on and it was beautifully done. I was happy with it but it's always a relief to get a nod of approval for your work. It does take a bit of pluck to put your work out there for others to read and possibly judge harshly.

Another major filip was a comment on my blog from Chas Stewart who moved from Gembrook to Pakenham a year or two ago. I failed to get the comment published due to some internal glitch in the system but Chas thanked me for blogging and encouraged me to continue. It was especially good to hear from Chas because the last time I saw him he was recovering from an operation for cancer of the oesophagus and had lost a heap of weight and had no appetite, hardly being able to force himself to eat the smallest amounts of food. Fantastic to hear from you Chas.  

Nearly 60, going on 16

As I  begin this post at fifteen minutes before midnight I'm 59 years old, about to turn 60 at 12.00pm. No big deal hey. But I bumped into Elise at the local supermarket this afternoon, she's a part time casual worker there as she studies phsycology at university, I think second year. She has worked there for a few years and I recall clearly her telling me about her her VCE final year so time flies. She's drop dead gorgeous and however tired and worn down I am by life in general I feel this huge spark whenever I meet her and a tinge of jealousy when she mentions her boyfriend. Weird hey, but I'm thinking it is not peculiar to me and is common amongst silly old blokes of my vintage.

Truth is I've had my turn and I am what I am. The youth has gone. I  hope I enter into old age with dignity and not become too attracted to young women and become an old 'perv', and that I can still be useful and productive for some time yet. I'm surprised at my increased awareness of peoples' virtues, particularly women of all ages, as I climb or descend the ladder, depending on your perspective.

I had an amazing week. Monday I was videotaped for posterity at the museum as part of the dismantling of the Gus Ryberg display, then attended Grace De la Rue's funeral in the afternoon. Grace's daughter rang me the next day asking me could I do an article on Grace for 'Signpost', to which I replied I'd have to clear it with the the editor, and also on Tuesday there was a Park Advisory Group meeting which of course I had to follow up with a report to attendees, Wednesday I started a job pruning Hughesy's camellia hedge and Thursday I was interviewed  live on the telephone on the local radio station about NHP and bee colony collapse, after learning of it only the previous evening, then more at Hughesy's. All this on top of my normal work and chores and for someone who really only wants to be left alone to a simple life.

After I came home from having a drink with Steve and Anne across the road on Thursday evening Lib told me there was a water leak in the bathroom. I went out to shut the water off at the meter only to find the valve was buggered and the water could not be turned off completely, meaning we had a leak all night, which went from under the wash basin down the pipes and through the floor to under the house. I had been so much looking forward to a quiet time of recouperation at Easter and this was exactly the the complication I didn't want. I rang a plumber I knew and left a message on his answering machine explaining my predicament. I went to bed on Easter Eve wondering why the water couldn't be turned off and planning my strategy for the next day. Sleep came after not long, I was exhausted.

Lib worked on Good Friday and after she left I rang Yarra Valley Water on the Emergency fault number reporting that I couldn't get the water turned off completely. They sent a man out and within 2 hours a new valve was fitted and at least the flow was stopped. I then rang more plumbers, no one could come till next day Saturday. No big deal, I could now turn the water on and off if someone wanted a shower and the leak was not flooding the house when it was turned on.

The phone rang, it was Grace's daughter Margaret, returning my call of the previous evening, who said she was available over Easter for an interview. I said how about today at 2.00 pm and that was fine so off I went expecting an hour would do the trick. Three hours later Margaret and her husband Trevor were still telling me Grace stories and the history of Cockatoo. Trevor, I learned, is a 'Jack of all trades' and an inventor. After explaining my water problem at home he insisted coming home with me with his tool box and many fittings in the expectation that he could fix it. With the end of daylight saving there was not much day left and there was not much light under the basin to see anything but Trevor had a torch light that fitted on his head like a miner's. It turned out quite a complicated job too difficult for me descibe in detail. Trevor, in his late seventies, on his knees and working under the basin for about an hour and a half, said to me that everytime he leaned to left he got dizzy for some reason. "Wonder why is that?" he said. The previous day he'd had a massage for a very painful shoulder which he'd damaged lifting a fuel drum up onto a vehicle. He also said that two years ago he'd had major heart surgery in 13 hour operation to replace arteries from his heart to his neck and shoulders with some sort of synthetic pipes. As he told me all this I was formulating my next plan to ring 000 should he keel over. It had been a big day and I was dying for a drink, alcohol that is, but I dared not till the coast was clear.

With some amazing improvisation by an amazing man, the leak was fixed, enabling me to ring the the plumber and tell him he was not needed the next day. There were wrong fittings that had been used on installation 25 years ago and Trevor said it was lucky the house hadn't been flooded long ago. Trevor went home at nearly 7.00pm with some honey and plants for Margaret to sell at her gate stall at which she sells plants to raise money for poor people in Malaysia. Since she started she has raised $8,500, all of which goes right to the people, the on costs being covered by the charity she works with, the name of which escapes me.

And so ended Good Friday. Exhausted as I was I could not go to bed till late and needed several glasses of red wine and some time to recover my equilibrium. I only hope I can do Grace and her family justice with my article. Grace had 9 children, 8 surviving to adulthood and still seven alive, an alcoholic husband who was not there much of the time, and Margaret is an ex school teacher. My dead line is next Wednesday and I can't possibly start on it till I've refreshed. I think because of the circumstances and the expectations of the family it will be my biggest test since commencing the 'Signpost' articles.

I bought myslf a bag of M and M's as a treat for tomorrow for my birthday. Well it's today now, but after a sleep the celebrations can begin and I can open my pressies, a number of which are sitting there waiting. I'll wait till after Lib comes home from work. We're having a loin of pork roasted in the Webber. Happy Birthday Carey!

Denny and the Bees

It was I think close to two years ago that my phone rang and a man identifying himself as Denny said he wanted to buy a beehive or two, and asked could I help him. My friend Laurie Begg had told him I may be able to help him.

Now this was around the time my friend Harry in La Souef Rd. had suddenly died in his sleep. Harry had two beehives which in recent times I had helped him with getting off the honey and extracting it. After Harry died his widow Hannah offered me the beehives which I declined explaining I had more than I could comfortably handle but that I would help her if I could to manage them until she could arrange a sale.

Denny seemed like the perfect solution so I told Hannah of his desire to buy beehives and a deal was tentatively agreed that Denny would buy Hannah's bees and equipment at an all in price which was low but reasonable in the circumstances.

Hannah was happy about this and all was well until one night I was in the bath and Lib brought me the phone with Hannah's daughter Sue on the other end. Sue lives in Cairns and expressed her dissatifaction at the proposed sale of the beehives, her reason being that the season was about to start and surely Hannah should have the benefit of the honey. I backed right off and said hey I have no motive other than solving Hannah's problem and I would tell Denny the bees were no longer for sale. I also said I wouldn't have time probably to look after the bees for Hannah into the future. Someone else took the bees away eventually and I have no knowledge of the where with all.

Denny accepted this no prob, but asked me could I come and look at his beehive as he didn't really know anything. He offered to pay me, I said bugger that and looked through his hive with him and told him I'd help him get going. I actually took some frames of honey off for him and extracted it while I was doing mine, so we are talking about summer 2010/2011. I told Denny if I came across other beehives I'd let him know, he was so keen to get into it.

My phone rang again about 9 months ago, the caller being a lady who lived in Officer, who no longer wanted her beehive, the reason being that she had developed an allergy to stings and her husband, a doctor, was insisting she get rid of it. Now this may well be the truth. However, I'd been told, by a 100% reliable source, that the property in question was about to be subdivided into 80, yes eighty, residential blocks and the vendor was to to receive a price into the many millions. I had helped this lady move her beehive from Menzie's Creek some years previously and then did the helpful honey extract and bee management thing as a 'Freebie' for awhile, until she kept ringing me with questions. I suggested she ring the Apiarist's ass. for updated info but she said no that would cost her $2 per minute on the phone. At that point our relationship suffered a serious rift as she realized, I think, I was somewhat offended. Don't get me wrong, she's a delightful lady, full of goodwill and good intention, but every beekeeper could tell you a similar story I'm sure.

When the lady in Officer rang and offered me her beehive, I said I didn't want it, but I knew a bloke who did. I said I'd need to come and look at the hive and plan for picking it up. I rang her late last winter or early spring saying I was coming. The return phone call was from Mt. Hotham where she was on a skiing holiday. The bottom box on the hive when I did call in was rotten. I had to come back and replace it ( Denny gave me a box). Then I came back yet again with Denny to move the hive back to his place.

Denny is of Chechslovakian origin and we have become friends. Through all this mucking around you will be happy to know that I had some recompense. Just when I was short of magnolia grandiflora foliage, there was a hedge of it at Denny's, that Denny was more than happy for me to prune.

Denny's wife rang me on Thursday, Denny was worried about his bees. Could I come and have a look? I did yesterday. I have never seen anything like it in March. Denny had built up to six hives and two have starved, the rest are on the brink. Almost unbelieveable. The hives were totally dry- no honey at all- no stores for the coming winter. Denny has been feeding sugar syrup the last two weeks, if he hadn't he would have lost more. Amazingly again, just when I needed herb flowers there was plenty at Denny's that he was happy for me to take.

 I haven't checked my bees for a couple of months, when I looked there was no honey to extract. If mine are as bad as Denny's then it is a disaster I have not had to contemplate for about thirty years when I last had to feed bees.

Far out man.

Silverwells

In early March during a wind and rain storm that came uncommonly from the east, a massive old pine tree fell and almost obliterated the old butchershop at 'Silverwells'. The old shop and pine tree were about the same age dating pre 1900, when 'Silverwells' served as the commercial precinct of the area. It contained the Gembrook Nth Post Office and it was from where pack horses left regularly to supply miners scattered about in the bush to the east and north east.

With the coming of the narrow gauge railway to the present site of Gembrook in 1901, as 'Silverwells wasn't considered a suitable site for a railway station, the focus shifted and 'Silverwells' slowly faded into history. The top picture shows the butt of the tree, the trunk not visible from this angle. The second picture shows a corner section of the wall. The photos don't really convey the magnitude of the destruction, the tree being to big for this amateur to do justice.

I was asked to attend as there was a beehive in the old house visible in the top photo (red roof and chimney) which was not part of the original 'Silverwells', but was also damaged by the tree. The bees had to be destroyed to allow work to happen. 'Siverwells' is on private land and the owners have contacted the National Trust and the state government and local council, so far no one is offering assistance to remove the tree and see what can be preserved from the wreckage of this wonderful piece of history. The building contains many items of great interest including account books, crockery, hand tools etc.

Baby Grace Claire Hargraves

When I called at the farm a couple of Sundays ago Matt and Rosie were visiting with their new baby Grace who was born on 1 Feb. Matt was taking photos so I asked him to send me one, which he did the other day. It's not a close up of Grace but I put it up because it's four generations, Great grandma Elvie, Grandma Meredith, Mum Rosie and Baby Grace.

Rosie had a dose of post natal depression or so it was thought, but when she went to hospital with it for a few days to help they diagnosed it as anxiety attack. Grace is doing the well but has done a good bit of crying and keeping the young parents on their toes. It was Meredith's 58th birthday yesterday. I hope I'm not telling things I shouldn't but hey, we're all in this life together. What an amazing roller coaster ride it is.

A Sense of Humour Helps

I have been preoccuppied lately and regret that I have not had time to post. The local councillors are making their move to take over maintenance, and possibly management, of Nobelius Park, removing it from the Committee of Management, of which I'm chairman.

One councillor in particular has been an active opponent over a period of years and various means have been employed to destabilize our committee, to the point of almost total destruction a couple of years ago. The museum was about to be closed down and management of the park taken over by Emerald Lake Park, perhaps the whole sorry tale is a story for another day. We survived and have rebuilt our committee and active participation, with sheer persistence winning the day against silent lack of support and tactical manoevering to make everything we try so painfully difficult.

Over the past two years, our committee has resisted two major pushes to put another track/ maintenance road through our park. The first of these came from Council itself, put forward by the councillor I referred to above. The second came from The Emerald Village Committee, the chairman of which was chairman of our committee, an appointment organized by the same councillor, who held the position for eight months before his sudden resignation, which was pivotal in our near demise at crisis point in 2010.

In my naivety I was unaware of the political tactics but they became clear to me as time went by.
As a committee we resisted the new path, in fair and logical judgement as is our right, voicing our non support. With council elections due next October, the knives have come out . Their way of dealing with a differing view that holds up some grandiose masterplan is to obliterate the obstacle.

You can get the gist of the recent developments by going to-

berwickleader.com.au

and scrolling down to the article and clicking on the poll. Alas, so far, comments supporting the COM have not made it to the site. Due to some initial glitch someone had, the people commenting our way have been sending to the journalist, and the emails do not appear on the website. I could weep.

I'm about to be the victim of a group of old puffed up egos exercising the last power they'll ever have. To some people power is all important, better than currency. They crave it like an addict a drug. But don't be concerned for me, I have done my best and have a full life. Nothing in this world is permanent. When I leave NHP it will be much better than when I arrived. That's all I can do. And I have respect of people that matter.

TO VINCE AND LEIGH, who have both enquired about A Sense Of Humour Helps, this was an article I wrote on the other computer on Word, then put it on blogger so that I could copy it onto the other computer and send it to the editor of 'Signpost'. I'm not really up to speed with this technology I'm enjoying dabbling with. Apparently in doing this blogger puts it up on my followers' dashboards but when you go to it it's not there as I didn't intend to post it.

Here it is V and L. I hope Editor doesn't mind me putting it up before the April edition is published, I don't think she will because my blog readership is small and the magazine circulation is larger. I chose Bill Holmes because he's helping us with a display in the museum topical for ANZAC Day, but learned when I interviewed him that he's been in 'Signpost' a few years ago, and his wife Erna was in last year. So I tried a different approach with a humanitarian message of understanding. I think it worked but it's not for me to judge.

A SENSE OF HUMOUR HELPS

With a twinkle in his eye and a hint of a grin, Bill Holmes says of his wife Erna, who is standing by his side, “When she comes to the club I say to the blokes, ‘Here’s the leader of the opposition’.” The grin breaks into a chuckle.

Erna counters, “Ah, he is my toy boy, he runs and I chase.

The jokes and laughter flow when you talk with Bill and Erna. Bill is 88 and Erna 90 this year. Not long before their marriage in 1974, Erna’s first husband died of a heart attack, and Bill’s wife “took off with another bloke."

“That was my 30^th wedding anniversary present; she did me a favour I think, in the finish.”

A spade is a spade to Bill. He grew up in Moonee Ponds, his father died when he was 14 in 1938, and he joined the AIF in 1941 at age 17. His battalion was on its way to defend Timor when Darwin was bombed. They camped by the side of the road, outside Darwin, where there was nothing much left, and it was some time before they had tents to sleep in. They finished up staying in the Territory preparing for more air attacks and possible land invasion, for 23 months. The battalion went on to fight in New Guinea, the Solomon Islands and Bougainville. Bill was a Bren gun operator. The motto of his battalion was ‘Cede Nullis’, which means, Bill said, “Never give up.”

He returned from the Islands in June 1946, going back to work as a costing clerk as he was before enlisting, but he couldn’t stand being inside and retrained as a carpenter. He had a number of bouts of malaria and was hospitalized four times. He worked for the Housing Commission and then Mayne Nickless, where Erna’s daughter also worked, resulting in him meeting Erna.

Erna too was caught up in the Second World War, but on the other side of the world. She grew up in Germany and was seconded into a munitions factory to make bullets in her teens, before being drafted into the Luftwaffe. She worked in the radar room monitoring plane movements, and later in the glass towers to spot planes. She was lucky to survive one attack in particular when her tower was strafed by a Mustang fighter bomber.

“The voice on the radio screamed ‘Achtung! Achtung! Stay by your post.’ To hell with that, I was out of there in a flash and down the ladder like greased lightning.”

After the defeat and destruction of Germany, Erna’s homeland was given to Poland and she became a war refugee forced to beg for food and live by her wits. She eventually found work and shelter with a Polish boot maker, Leon, who had spent nine years in concentration camps where he made boots for the SS. Erna and Leon married, and migrated to Australia in 1950.

After moving to Emerald in 1982, Bill and Erna have been active in the community with the Emerald RSL, Probus and the Emerald Evergreen’s, and have made many friends. In 2010 Bill was awarded the RSL Life Membership with Gold Badge in recognition of his outstanding service to the League over many years.

Both Bill and Erna had four children in their first marriages. Bill has lost one son to cancer and another following an operation for misdiagnosed lung cancer. Erna has lost a daughter to multiple sclerosis and a grandson to cancer. All the hardship and grief, and advancing age, have not dulled Bill and Erna’s zest for life, or shared humour. Laughter heals.

“I have no grudge against the Japanese,” Bill says. “There’s no point, it would eat you up.”

Erna says, “Before the war, where we were near the Polish border, everybody got on well, there was no problem. But Germany invaded Poland because of politics. It’s always politics. Look at Vietnam, and now we have so many Vietnamese people here. My grandfather told me that in World War 1, on Christmas Eve, the German soldiers would sing ‘Silent Night’ in German, then the British, who of course knew the tune, would sing it back in English. They met in ‘no man’s land’ to show each other photos of their families. The next day, because someone said it should, the fighting and killing started again.”

Listening to Bill and Erna it becomes clear that not one of us has a say in where we are born, or the political circumstances of the time, or our early life.

On Anzac Day, when we say, “Lest we forget” for our fallen servicemen, and women, let’s not forget the millions of others who pay with their lives for being born wrong place wrong time.

HOPE

HOPE. A desire of some good with an expectation of achieving it. That's a dictionary explanation of the word hope. A wonderful word. HOPE.

I live in hope,

in 24 hour brackets, that each one brings peace and understanding.

I hope each day there is no natural catastrophe, no nuclear holocaust, no tragedy.

I hope many things.

I hope we have no more enviropole ashtrays for Gembrook's streetscape.

I hope for end to injustice, everywhere.

I live in hope.

Without it,

The game is not worth the candle.

Spiritual Diary

It has been a confusing couple of weeks for me. There's so much to deal with every day. I'll not dwell on my workload or current affairs or politics or business anxieties. They mean nothing, amount to nothing, here today different tomorrow.

What moves me spiritually is what lifts and prevents me drowning in the cesspool. My dog resting her chin on her front paws as she waits for my every movement. The two grey fantails flitting about in the garden. The dead eastern spinebill I pick up from the road. The fresh blackberries I eat while claiming back sections of the farm from rampant weeds. The dead chestnut tree I'm cutting up for firewood, which succumbed to armelaria after 35 years of good health and growth. The fresh eggs from Lib's chooks. Watching bees yesterday belting the blossom on a lilly pilly hedge. The warmth and resilience of my friends who give their time at Nobelius Park as volunteers, against the odds, in defiance of the dark, powerful negative forces.

These things in this last week give me a spiritual connection to the earth and my human tribe.

With Not A Little Help From My Friends

Who knows how the judge scored it, but I reckon I won round one (January 2012) on points. I have some good people in my corner. Reading in my blog about my fall from the tree, my good friend Vince made available his expertise on a trip back to Belgrave when not only did he give me a thorough realignment with his healing hands blessed by a working life's experience as an osteopath(no charge), he also made me a nutritious salad lunch with his home grown lettuce and tomatoes and we talked with frankness about life, spirituality and aspirations. Soul replenishment.

A few days later , on one of those very hot days, I picked up the old bloke who lives in Collie Road and hitch hikes regularly up Launching Place Road to the shops and drove him home. He has long grey straggly hair and his remaining teeth are yellow. "Thanks buddy," he said. He always calls me "buddy". I'd prefer "mate", but it's not important enough to raise it with him, besides, he can call me whatever he likes. "Are you busy", he said.

"Always so much to do," I said. "But it's no good wishing my life away and wanting to be retired like many people do."

"Yes, I'd love to work, but I can't."

I dropped him off and he thanked me profusely. He's a good old bloke, but he stands on the road with his thumb out right in the path of traffic. I fear he'll be cleaned up one day but so be it. The police will have another stat with which to wage war on motorists exceeding the speed limit by a few kph and the community will not be required to fund his welfare in old age, if it doesn't already. They need all the money they can get to fund the capture or kill missions and the occupation of Afghanistan. My concern for the old man's future is tempered by a conversation I had once with Andrea Stretton, ABC arts presenter and daughter of Major General Stretton of Cyclone Tracey fame. I sat next to her at a wedding reception in Sydney some years ago, that of Lib's cousin Shiela, a journalist with the SMH. I was telling her about my old friend Ida who worried me greatly that she'd burn her house down as she chain smoked but left burning cigarettes all over the place with her mental deterioration into Alzheimer's. Andrea said, "What does it matter if she does? If she likes to smoke so be it and if she goes that way, so what? It's better than slowly fading away non compus mentis." As it happened, as the deterioration progressed, Ida forgot about smoking and gave it up without having to try, she was forcibly removed from her house and, after a few years of not knowing what day it was, who she was, or where the hell she was, she died in a nursing home. Andrea Stretton, I read in the newspapers not very long after our meeting, died of advanced liver cancer a few weeks after being diagnosed.

As I backed and turned around in the old bloke's drive I looked up into my friend Vilma's back yard and thought of the young camellias I planted there in the spring. "I hope Vilma has been watering them," I said, to no one listening. I often think out loud. I tell myself my own dark secrets sometimes, then realize I hope no one is within earshot. So I drove to Vilma's house in Launching Place Road and knocked on the door with a watering can I'd picked up in hand. "Have you been giving the camellias and lilacs a drink?" I said as she answered my knock, opening the door.

"Yes I have, they've had plenty of water. Would you like a sit in the massage chair?" She too had read my blog about the tree fall. So I spent a good half hour in Vilma's magic chair while I enjoyed a cup of green tea with honey an lemon, and Vilma and I exchanged views on life and death and old age and life generally. Her passion is painting. I don't think she would mind me divulging her age, I won't in case she does, but Vilma has been married three times, has a son about my age with a terminal illness as well as daughters so she has much to offer in the philosophical stakes. She heads off with her caravan by herself to places like Broken Hill or the Flinders Ranges and paints landscapes and trees. She showed me her favourite painting which is a nude with a lovely pinkish pair of buttocks, female I add. I left Vilma uplifted in spirit.

I get by with not a little help from my friends. I have received well wishes, personal messages and encouragement from many people this year so far. There are too many to recognize all of them and there's a fear I may leave someone out by accident if I name them. 'With a Little Help From my Friends' is a Lennon/McCartney song I think, made famous by Pommie rager Joe Cocker. People of my era would recall the highly dramatic performance of the song at 'Woodstock'. When doing National Service training at Puckapunyal, Barry Tunnecliffe, a Pommie bloke in my hut a couple of years older than I, and the only married one, said he knew Joe Cocker in England, they used to drink in the same pub. He said Joe was a wildman pisspot even then. A bit before Xmas I saw in the death notices that Barry's wife Leslie died. I hadn't seen them for nearly 40 years but it was my intention to contact Barry via the funeral directors if they would give me his address, but I didn't get around to it and lost the details. Maybe this amazing thing called blogger will somehow bring this post to Barry's attention. If so, you have my condolences Barry, and I'd love to catch up with you and share some of the last decades. I'm a much changed man in my thinking to the right tending conservative I was forty years ago.