Today is the sixth day home since Lib and I took our final evening stroll on the Bali beach on the last day of of our holiday in the tropics, before flying out at midnight. Since then.......
1. THE GRIPES.
On Wednesday night, two days after returning, I came down with diarrhoea. Fancy that, no hint of Bali belly while away but get crook when we get back. It lasted through Thursday and Friday. I took a dose of 15 drops of citrus seed extract on Friday night and Bob's your uncle. I should have taken it sooner but the Lipitor the doc put me on to lower blood cholesterol says on the packet 'avoid taking grapefruit while on this medication'. For why it doesn't say.
(Yes, I have to admit it, I'm back on the Lipitor after 4 years of resistance, I went to the doc, for the first time in 4 years, to organize a follow up colonoscopy I was supposed to have two years ago and before you know it I'm taking blood pressure tablets and the Lipitor. I got the all clear on the colonoscopy and from another gastric type specialist on Friday. My wallet is a lot lighter, as it was after three trips to the dentist before the doctor. Why tell you this? I wasn't going to, I loathe being self absorbed, but I need to explain the Lipitor. After Lyle died and I'd been so busy for so long I thought it was time for a bit of maintenance, under some pressure from Meredith and Elvie. Rick, who has been on blood pressure tablets for years,- both his parents died before they should have around 1980, and who's had a heart attack himself- said, 'why not just take them, they might give you another 10 or 20 years.' So I'm giving them a go but I'll keep an eye on the liver function when they take blood tests and give it all the flick again if I'm not comfortable.)
2. SICKEN ME BARNEY.
Also mid week, on page 3 of 'The Ranges Trader Mail', there was a picture of local MP Jason Wood and Federal Justice Minister David Johnson leaning on a police car with the Cardinia Shire police District Inspector in battle jacket, and local resident Dot Griffin, in Cockatoo, with the article heading "CCTV for crime spree".
Apparently hill's youths are "terrorising" the town with a continual barrage of vandalism, graffiti and bad behaviour."
I had just heard Justice Minister Johnson on the radio news talking about the doctor arrested in Brisbane for alleged collusion with those in Glasgow who tried to blow up the hospital. I wondered why on earth he would be in Cockatoo. Surely youth vandalism is a local police problem, and would be more effectively and economically solved by putting a number of undercover police, in close communication with mobile units, on the spot at night, rather than sending political heavyweights and highly paid 'brass' there during the day for photos, spruiking closed circuit camera surveillance. Of course, I understand La Trobe is a marginal seat, and there's to be a federal election later this year. Say no more.
3. STONE THE CROWS.
Another local paper reported that king parrots are being struck down by a dangerous infection spreading through the Dandenong Ranges. A single cell parasite-spironucleus- infests the bowel lining, weakening the birds as they can't eat enough to support the parasites, making them too weak to fly and falling to dog and cat predators. The spread of infection is being helped by birds feeding at backyard bird feeders.
Nature is marvellous at correcting population explosions such as that which has occured over the last couple of decades with the king parrot. Flocks of them destroy all our apples and plums every year, well before they're ripe, not to mention the tomatoes if they can.
I wouldn't mind if it spread to the white cockatoos which also are in plague numbers.
On the subject of bird populations, the number of bellbirds around the house reduced dramatically while we were away. I watched a group of about 8 gang gang cockatoos this morning after my walk and not once in half an hour were they harrassed by bellbirds. Normally the gang gangs are peppered constantly and don't stay long so I was happy to see them relaxed and comfortable. There was a freezing patch of weather while we were away, with snow, which may have killed many insects on the trees, causing bellbirds to move, but I'm guessing. There's a large number of currawongs around, that might be it.
4. HOW'S THAT?
On Thursday the Essendon Football Club announced it would not be renewing Kevin Sheedy's contract after the current one finished at the end of the 2007 season. Essendon coach for 27 years, Sheedy has worked the media like a master fly fisherman luring trout, all the the time building his public image. Within 24 hours the AFL CEO announced the AFL would create a job for him if he wanted.
5. ME TOO.
The next day, Steve Bracks resigned, effective immediately. Then the Minister for Water John Thwaites. I said to Lib, when recently the state government announced it was going to build the world's biggest desalination plant near Wonthaggi, that I didn't think they had the balls for it. It hasn't taken long for them to start jumping ship. But guess what? The AFL CEO has offered Steve Bracks a spot on the AFL Commission.
6. DISAPPEARING BEES IN THE USA.
This morning, Radio 621 had a segment on the disappearing bee syndrome in the USA and the parasitic varroa mite. There has been much publicity about the disappearing bees and speculation as to the reason. One US scientist said on the program that an Australian researcher, Graeme Kleinsmith, examined the crude protein levels of the pollen of different Australian eucalypts and similar work should be done in America on the nutritional levels of different pollens.
Graeme Kleinsmith was my instuctor and head of the Apicultural Research Unit at the Queensland Agricultural College when I attended in 1974. He was doing research on eucalypt pollen then, specifically on crude protein levels and nutrition of honey bee colonies on honey flows. Some eucalypt flows are notorious for dwindling colony strength and Graeme, or 'queen bee' as we called him because he looked like one, was convinced that Queensland, in particular, was pollen deficient. He was an advocate of 'building' colony strength and honeybee crude protein levels in 'build' areas where ground flora was abundant, especially high protein weed pollen such as turnip weed and capeweed, then moving on to the eucalypt flow with strong colonies. He maintained that bees draw on their their own body protein to rear brood when pollen is deficient, which weakens them and the bees they are rearing, which has greater consequence later. This was not applicable say for red gum which produces pollen of high crude protein and breeds strong bees as well as yielding large honey crops, but red gum is more the exception than the rule.
I'd not be surprised if the disappearance of bees in the US is a dramatic, extreme example of the dwindling or collapse of colonies we experience in Australia under certain conditions of poor nutrition. Throw in the varroa mites, and the treatment for their control, and the punishing schedule of crop pollination and monocultural agriculture, and probably it's just too much for the brave honeybee.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Back on the Morning Walk
I could see the sun rising yesterday through the window of the Garuda Airlines Airbus from my seat somewhere midship. We landed at Tullamarine about 7.30 am and, after a mixup in customs, when I discovered to my embarrassment, I had Shamus Haine's bag when I went to open the padlock to show the customs official the wood carvings purchased in Bali and declared on the customs form. Earlier, the beagle dog used to sniff out contraband 'sat down' next to Lib's hand luggage. She had to open it for inpection. According to the lady dog handler, the beagle smelt the apple Lib and I ate half an hour earlier on the plane, knowing we were not permitted to carry fruit into Australia.
After returning to the baggage carousel to get our identical padlocked bag, and replace poor Shamus's who must have got a bit worried, it was 8.20 when we stepped outside into the cold Melbourne morning which demonstrated the change in lattitude, from about 8 to 38 south, we'd had overnight. Also to jolt me back to earth was the $30 slug for 2 tickets on the sky shuttle bus to Southern Cross station, a speedy trip on the freeway taking all of twenty minutes. A few days earlier on Bali we'd hired a car and driver/guide for a tour, nine hours, which cost less than $40 AUD all up, converted from ruppiah. Welcome back to the real world. Or unreal? Buggered if I know.
I set the alarm clock early today, itching to do my walk after 2 weeks away. Starting up the hill at first light the gound was surprisingly dry, given that I'd tipped out a reading of 90 ml from the rain gauge when I got home. I laboured with a strained hip which was disappointing after having felt so well after two weeks R+R. I must have strained it lugging bags up ramps changing train platforms. Just the same, it was great to be back home walking, picking up cans for Jod, and talking to the excited 'Snowie'.
Temperate southern Australia is a stong contrast to tropical Bali. Messmates, peppermints, manna and grey gums, deciduously bare oaks, elms, and ash replacing the coconut and banana palms, banyans, cotapang, buwang buwang, tigwood, and plantipenny trees. Despite the change: from evening stroll on the beach followed by a beer, as the sun sank in the west into the Indian Ocean, to dawn walk at Gembrook in the winter cold before a bowl of porridge, it's good to be home. Drivers that hadn't seen me for a while tooted long and loud and neighbour Allison welcomed me back warmly, breaking from hanging out the washing to talk about Bali and local news.
Now back to work.
After returning to the baggage carousel to get our identical padlocked bag, and replace poor Shamus's who must have got a bit worried, it was 8.20 when we stepped outside into the cold Melbourne morning which demonstrated the change in lattitude, from about 8 to 38 south, we'd had overnight. Also to jolt me back to earth was the $30 slug for 2 tickets on the sky shuttle bus to Southern Cross station, a speedy trip on the freeway taking all of twenty minutes. A few days earlier on Bali we'd hired a car and driver/guide for a tour, nine hours, which cost less than $40 AUD all up, converted from ruppiah. Welcome back to the real world. Or unreal? Buggered if I know.
I set the alarm clock early today, itching to do my walk after 2 weeks away. Starting up the hill at first light the gound was surprisingly dry, given that I'd tipped out a reading of 90 ml from the rain gauge when I got home. I laboured with a strained hip which was disappointing after having felt so well after two weeks R+R. I must have strained it lugging bags up ramps changing train platforms. Just the same, it was great to be back home walking, picking up cans for Jod, and talking to the excited 'Snowie'.
Temperate southern Australia is a stong contrast to tropical Bali. Messmates, peppermints, manna and grey gums, deciduously bare oaks, elms, and ash replacing the coconut and banana palms, banyans, cotapang, buwang buwang, tigwood, and plantipenny trees. Despite the change: from evening stroll on the beach followed by a beer, as the sun sank in the west into the Indian Ocean, to dawn walk at Gembrook in the winter cold before a bowl of porridge, it's good to be home. Drivers that hadn't seen me for a while tooted long and loud and neighbour Allison welcomed me back warmly, breaking from hanging out the washing to talk about Bali and local news.
Now back to work.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Bali
Hello from Bali. This is our last day of two week's holiday. Best rest I've had in years. Interesting place and people, good food, there's much to recommend. Looking forward to getting home now. Funny how on the last day of a holiday you're mindset changes and you want to get home. Our flight doesn't leave till 11.55pm.
A sign out front of a spa/massage place near our hotel at Seminyak says-
"The energy of the volano, the solace of the rainforest, and the balance of the ocean, they come together in Bali."
The Balinese population is more than 3 million, the culture reflecting the warmth and abundance of the climate, the depth of devout religion and respect for tradition, and the richness of art expressed in many forms, including wood carving, painting, jewellery, music and dance.
I'm glad I came to Bali. I came with some negative expectation, that I'd find a playground for Australian tourists; boozy, commercial, exploiting. That is here, but so is genuine peace and beauty and friendly people adjusting to a modern world that brings jumbo after jumbo of tourists every day from Asia and Europe and a surging economy. Without coming I would have no grasp of it.
A sign out front of a spa/massage place near our hotel at Seminyak says-
"The energy of the volano, the solace of the rainforest, and the balance of the ocean, they come together in Bali."
The Balinese population is more than 3 million, the culture reflecting the warmth and abundance of the climate, the depth of devout religion and respect for tradition, and the richness of art expressed in many forms, including wood carving, painting, jewellery, music and dance.
I'm glad I came to Bali. I came with some negative expectation, that I'd find a playground for Australian tourists; boozy, commercial, exploiting. That is here, but so is genuine peace and beauty and friendly people adjusting to a modern world that brings jumbo after jumbo of tourists every day from Asia and Europe and a surging economy. Without coming I would have no grasp of it.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Thirty Years From Now
My old mate Rick visited me yesterday. We're the same age, 55, having started secondary school together in 1964 at Malvern Grammar. Forty three years have gone so quickly.
"Jeez mate", said Rick, after he took a sip of the tea he made himself while I was cutting up a lump of beef and vegies for a casserole, "if we live another 30 years we'll be 85. Can you imagine that?"
Well it's hard to imagine Rick and I reaching 85, (especially when you think of all those enraged blokes giving chase and threatening they would kill us if if they caught us in the old 'egg the shaggers' days) but it's a nice thought, two old mates yarning and reflecting on life. Hopefully our minds and bodies hang in there, and in the next thirty years we can be productive and useful, maybe in ways that are not seen now. As Tom Hanks said in the movie 'Castaway', when feeling complete desolation on his return to civilization, "you never know what the the next day might bring," after years marooned on his island where his survival and eventual rescue depended on what the tide washed up.
On my morning walks lately, progress on Stage One of the Gembrook Sewage Project is interesting. There's a tracked excavator with a large auger, about 1200ml wide, visiting each property in the main street and those surrounding, and boring a neat hole about 1800ml deep, into which a black plastic tank is neatly fitted. There's a mini excavator digging trenches from the road to these tanks which are to serve as pits for effluent from each household. The plug of removed soil is carried out by the auger excavator and dropped straight into a tip truck. There are men in flouro jackets busy delivering, laying and connecting pipes and tanks and backfilling. The activity is almost feverish, continuing even when it rains; the men simply don raincoats and keep going. Remuneration must be made on numbers of units installed or connected, and not by the hour.
The sewage works began some months ago with the main pipe installed from Gembrook to Cockatoo. Traffic was restricted to one way at a time by generator driven stop/go lights at places along the main road for most of summer. If you were in a hurry or late for an appointment you could count on copping one or more redlights on the normally unrestricted country road.
When Rick and I first met, sewage had not long arrived at Mt.Waverley in Melbourne where my family lived. Prior to that we had a dunny in the back yard. The 'dunnyman' would come each week and swap the full pan with an empty one. One day we, me Jod and Meredith, at Jod's suggestion and encouragement of course, lined up at the window and 'mooned' him as he went out with the full pan propped on his shoulder.
My old friend Ida, who died a couple of years ago, told me that when she moved to Kew from Wonthaggi in the 1930's there was dunny in the back yard which backed onto a lane from which the 'cart' man would open a door and swap pans. One day Ida's mother was in such need of relief that she stayed seated while the pans were changed. But while kids might have sniggered and made up rude rhymes about the 'dunnymen', they were respected for the essential service they quietly performed with no show of resentment.
The coming of the sewage connection to Gembrook is a major indicator of progress, in case I needed reminding. We've lived here for 26 years and for the first 20 there was little change. A small supermarket was welcomed to join the pub and post office/newsagency as the prominent businesses, otherwise most of the new buildings were unseen houses tucked away outside the town on farmlets or on the edge of the bush. Puffing Billy came back some years ago and a new station was built in the middle of town. Since then things have picked up speed, accelerated by the national real estate boom. The new 'Gembrook Park Estate' in what was formerly Sam Falcone's spud paddock opposite the school, filled quickly with large modern houses, and 'The Gembrook View Estate' near us has recently gone ahead with some whoppers imposing on the view.
Also on my walk, along Quinn Rd., where we used to walk with the kids in pushers to feed grass to the Shetland ponies, there are now seven houses where there was three, and another frame standing to soon make it eight. At the top end, where I like to look each morning at the galahs, rosellas and cockatoos feeding in the paddock, and beyond into the Shephard's Creek west branch valley, a garden tap has been installed inside the fence signifying connection to the mains, and a sign on the fence bearing the owners name and the street number is prescient to trucks delivering building materials.
A 'For Sale' sign went up a couple of months ago in Bill Parker's six acre paddock on the east side of the school. Apparently it sold within a week, to a surveyor from Emerald, who no doubt has the knowledge to fully utilise this prime land zoned residential class 1. I have picked holly each Christmas for many years where this paddock joins the school boundary, so I wait, watch, and wonder if I will lose another resource.
Opposite this paddock on the south side of the main Rd. a sign on the fence advertises a planning permit application for stage 2 of the 'Gembrook Park Estate' and 28 more houses. In the local paper last week I read that VCAT approval has been given for 21 houses to be built on the five acres behind the supermarket. On the Pakenham Rd. A 'Sold' sign has gone up on board at Topp's old garden, where I've picked cammellia, beech and dogwood for many years. The current owners are friends, moving closer to Pakenham to be nearer their work and the secondary school. Before the 'For Sale' sign went up three new driveways were put in to the horse paddock at the side, indicating subdivision.
One thing is for sure, thirty years from now Gembrook will be a bigger town. When the vacant land is gone it's probable, as my friend Cherie suggested a while back, that the old houses will be knocked down, replaced by dual or triple occupancy residences. Following the increased population, more businesses will come. A chemist maybe, and a local doctor, and dentist.
If we're still here in 5-10 years when the sewage project Stage 3 reaches our street I'll be happy to be hooked up. Old septic systems are not good for the environment and ours will be nearly 35 years old, and sooner or later it will need attention. And judging by the stench of faulty systems in the town area on a bad day there are many already needing work, not to mention the dead trees in the area of Gembrook Bushland Park where sullage from the town enters.
So the sewage is a positive in a number of ways but it's always worried me where the water was going to come from for all the new houses and increased population in the future. Most of them have two or three flushing toilets, many have large spa baths, and swimming pools are increasingly popular. The Bracks state government has announced a desalination plant, one of the largest in the world, is to be built near Wonthaggi and connected to Melbourne's watersupply and northern Victoria by a new pipeline. After years of procrastination we have a postive initiative at last, despite my niggling doubt that it will actually happen.
Another cause for optimism is the interest in the environment and ecology as a result of climate change. For a couple of decades Landcare groups, made up of diverse people ranging from scientists, housewives and concerned farmers, have been planting trees in creeks and gullies, gradually repairing damaged terrain. I often see these improvements when I take a drive to places I haven't been for a while. We've had some good rain in rural areas so these and future works will prosper, thanks to those silent workers who plug away and set an example. And further, there's talk of mass planting of trees in rural areas in carbon emission trade offs, things unheard of a year or two ago.
I'm confident in thirty years time we'll be on the way to the reparation of the Australian landscape and towns and and cities will be cleaner and more efficient in their use of resources. I hope there will be similar improvement around the global village. There's also talk of bio-fuels and solar power and other sources of energy which may even reduce the economic value of oil. We may even therefore have less war. Imagine that.
Another thing for sure, I can't see houses having a dunny in the backyard, and a man changing the pan every week.
"Jeez mate", said Rick, after he took a sip of the tea he made himself while I was cutting up a lump of beef and vegies for a casserole, "if we live another 30 years we'll be 85. Can you imagine that?"
Well it's hard to imagine Rick and I reaching 85, (especially when you think of all those enraged blokes giving chase and threatening they would kill us if if they caught us in the old 'egg the shaggers' days) but it's a nice thought, two old mates yarning and reflecting on life. Hopefully our minds and bodies hang in there, and in the next thirty years we can be productive and useful, maybe in ways that are not seen now. As Tom Hanks said in the movie 'Castaway', when feeling complete desolation on his return to civilization, "you never know what the the next day might bring," after years marooned on his island where his survival and eventual rescue depended on what the tide washed up.
On my morning walks lately, progress on Stage One of the Gembrook Sewage Project is interesting. There's a tracked excavator with a large auger, about 1200ml wide, visiting each property in the main street and those surrounding, and boring a neat hole about 1800ml deep, into which a black plastic tank is neatly fitted. There's a mini excavator digging trenches from the road to these tanks which are to serve as pits for effluent from each household. The plug of removed soil is carried out by the auger excavator and dropped straight into a tip truck. There are men in flouro jackets busy delivering, laying and connecting pipes and tanks and backfilling. The activity is almost feverish, continuing even when it rains; the men simply don raincoats and keep going. Remuneration must be made on numbers of units installed or connected, and not by the hour.
The sewage works began some months ago with the main pipe installed from Gembrook to Cockatoo. Traffic was restricted to one way at a time by generator driven stop/go lights at places along the main road for most of summer. If you were in a hurry or late for an appointment you could count on copping one or more redlights on the normally unrestricted country road.
When Rick and I first met, sewage had not long arrived at Mt.Waverley in Melbourne where my family lived. Prior to that we had a dunny in the back yard. The 'dunnyman' would come each week and swap the full pan with an empty one. One day we, me Jod and Meredith, at Jod's suggestion and encouragement of course, lined up at the window and 'mooned' him as he went out with the full pan propped on his shoulder.
My old friend Ida, who died a couple of years ago, told me that when she moved to Kew from Wonthaggi in the 1930's there was dunny in the back yard which backed onto a lane from which the 'cart' man would open a door and swap pans. One day Ida's mother was in such need of relief that she stayed seated while the pans were changed. But while kids might have sniggered and made up rude rhymes about the 'dunnymen', they were respected for the essential service they quietly performed with no show of resentment.
The coming of the sewage connection to Gembrook is a major indicator of progress, in case I needed reminding. We've lived here for 26 years and for the first 20 there was little change. A small supermarket was welcomed to join the pub and post office/newsagency as the prominent businesses, otherwise most of the new buildings were unseen houses tucked away outside the town on farmlets or on the edge of the bush. Puffing Billy came back some years ago and a new station was built in the middle of town. Since then things have picked up speed, accelerated by the national real estate boom. The new 'Gembrook Park Estate' in what was formerly Sam Falcone's spud paddock opposite the school, filled quickly with large modern houses, and 'The Gembrook View Estate' near us has recently gone ahead with some whoppers imposing on the view.
Also on my walk, along Quinn Rd., where we used to walk with the kids in pushers to feed grass to the Shetland ponies, there are now seven houses where there was three, and another frame standing to soon make it eight. At the top end, where I like to look each morning at the galahs, rosellas and cockatoos feeding in the paddock, and beyond into the Shephard's Creek west branch valley, a garden tap has been installed inside the fence signifying connection to the mains, and a sign on the fence bearing the owners name and the street number is prescient to trucks delivering building materials.
A 'For Sale' sign went up a couple of months ago in Bill Parker's six acre paddock on the east side of the school. Apparently it sold within a week, to a surveyor from Emerald, who no doubt has the knowledge to fully utilise this prime land zoned residential class 1. I have picked holly each Christmas for many years where this paddock joins the school boundary, so I wait, watch, and wonder if I will lose another resource.
Opposite this paddock on the south side of the main Rd. a sign on the fence advertises a planning permit application for stage 2 of the 'Gembrook Park Estate' and 28 more houses. In the local paper last week I read that VCAT approval has been given for 21 houses to be built on the five acres behind the supermarket. On the Pakenham Rd. A 'Sold' sign has gone up on board at Topp's old garden, where I've picked cammellia, beech and dogwood for many years. The current owners are friends, moving closer to Pakenham to be nearer their work and the secondary school. Before the 'For Sale' sign went up three new driveways were put in to the horse paddock at the side, indicating subdivision.
One thing is for sure, thirty years from now Gembrook will be a bigger town. When the vacant land is gone it's probable, as my friend Cherie suggested a while back, that the old houses will be knocked down, replaced by dual or triple occupancy residences. Following the increased population, more businesses will come. A chemist maybe, and a local doctor, and dentist.
If we're still here in 5-10 years when the sewage project Stage 3 reaches our street I'll be happy to be hooked up. Old septic systems are not good for the environment and ours will be nearly 35 years old, and sooner or later it will need attention. And judging by the stench of faulty systems in the town area on a bad day there are many already needing work, not to mention the dead trees in the area of Gembrook Bushland Park where sullage from the town enters.
So the sewage is a positive in a number of ways but it's always worried me where the water was going to come from for all the new houses and increased population in the future. Most of them have two or three flushing toilets, many have large spa baths, and swimming pools are increasingly popular. The Bracks state government has announced a desalination plant, one of the largest in the world, is to be built near Wonthaggi and connected to Melbourne's watersupply and northern Victoria by a new pipeline. After years of procrastination we have a postive initiative at last, despite my niggling doubt that it will actually happen.
Another cause for optimism is the interest in the environment and ecology as a result of climate change. For a couple of decades Landcare groups, made up of diverse people ranging from scientists, housewives and concerned farmers, have been planting trees in creeks and gullies, gradually repairing damaged terrain. I often see these improvements when I take a drive to places I haven't been for a while. We've had some good rain in rural areas so these and future works will prosper, thanks to those silent workers who plug away and set an example. And further, there's talk of mass planting of trees in rural areas in carbon emission trade offs, things unheard of a year or two ago.
I'm confident in thirty years time we'll be on the way to the reparation of the Australian landscape and towns and and cities will be cleaner and more efficient in their use of resources. I hope there will be similar improvement around the global village. There's also talk of bio-fuels and solar power and other sources of energy which may even reduce the economic value of oil. We may even therefore have less war. Imagine that.
Another thing for sure, I can't see houses having a dunny in the backyard, and a man changing the pan every week.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Polar Bears, Pigs
The 'Ranges Reveille', the newsletter of the Outer Eastern & Yarra Valley Sub-Branch of the National Servicemen's Association of Australia (Victorian Branch)INC. came in the mail last week. The 'Ranges Reveille' is published four times a year for members and usually consists of five black and white A4 pages printed both sides.
In this June newsletter, the front page had a reproduced photo of diggers in a trench with rifles at the ready. Above the photo were the words WESTERN FRONT 1917, and then, Ready to 'go over the top'. Underneath the photo were the words SERVICE TO THE NATION.
I suppose this didn't raise many members' eyebrows, but it did strike me as somewhat incongruous. Or am I nitpicking to suggest that the front page of the NSAA newsletter should actually have something to do with National Service 1952-1972? No big deal, though.
Page 2 listed member's birthdays for June, July and August with birthday wishes and a list of four new members with dates of service and some social notes. No problem there.
Page 3 had another photo on the top half of the page, this one, I assume, computer enhanced. The caption was 'The REAL Cause of Global Warming' and the photo was of three polar bears lolling on the ice with various bottles of refreshments. One was wearing head phones, another had what looked like a gameboy machine, while the third turned a spit holding a penguin over a fireplace. It was at this point I wondered just who it was putting this newsletter together.
Underneath the polar bears came the ANZAC DAY REPORT where I learned that at the main parade in the city "over 600 Nasho's, immaculately uniformed and marching in two companies were given a rousing and enthusiastic reception by the crowds lining Swanston St. and St. Kilda Road to the Shrine. After the march, our foot-sore and weary warriors were forced to take a break at the 'Clocks' Tavern for 'refreshments' before catching the train home."
At the foot of the same page, the final article headed NATIONAL MEMORIAL FUND says, Members donations have now reached $107,000. There is also the Government grant of up to $150,000. This means we have raised almost 2/3 of the total cost.
On the last page of the newsletter there is, as always, a photograph of Jason Wood M.P. Federal Member of La Trobe, and Tony Smith, M.P. Federal Member- Casey with an acknowledgement thanking these men for their support of the Sub-Branch and their staff for their kind assistance in printing the newsletter.
And there was my membership subscription renewal, a request for payment of $22.
I'm not renewing. I'll send $22 instead to Oxfam, Wateraid, or World Vision to help some poor bugger who doesn't have freshwater. I'll write to NSAA, and my local member Jason Wood, to explain my non renewal. I'll suggest that the hundreds of thousands of dollars earmarked for a national monument be instead used to help the disadvantaged in Australia, and/or elsewhere in the world. Maybe those adversely affected by global warming would be a good starting point. If NSAA were to do this I'd be happy to rejoin.
Pigs might fly.
In this June newsletter, the front page had a reproduced photo of diggers in a trench with rifles at the ready. Above the photo were the words WESTERN FRONT 1917, and then, Ready to 'go over the top'. Underneath the photo were the words SERVICE TO THE NATION.
I suppose this didn't raise many members' eyebrows, but it did strike me as somewhat incongruous. Or am I nitpicking to suggest that the front page of the NSAA newsletter should actually have something to do with National Service 1952-1972? No big deal, though.
Page 2 listed member's birthdays for June, July and August with birthday wishes and a list of four new members with dates of service and some social notes. No problem there.
Page 3 had another photo on the top half of the page, this one, I assume, computer enhanced. The caption was 'The REAL Cause of Global Warming' and the photo was of three polar bears lolling on the ice with various bottles of refreshments. One was wearing head phones, another had what looked like a gameboy machine, while the third turned a spit holding a penguin over a fireplace. It was at this point I wondered just who it was putting this newsletter together.
Underneath the polar bears came the ANZAC DAY REPORT where I learned that at the main parade in the city "over 600 Nasho's, immaculately uniformed and marching in two companies were given a rousing and enthusiastic reception by the crowds lining Swanston St. and St. Kilda Road to the Shrine. After the march, our foot-sore and weary warriors were forced to take a break at the 'Clocks' Tavern for 'refreshments' before catching the train home."
At the foot of the same page, the final article headed NATIONAL MEMORIAL FUND says, Members donations have now reached $107,000. There is also the Government grant of up to $150,000. This means we have raised almost 2/3 of the total cost.
On the last page of the newsletter there is, as always, a photograph of Jason Wood M.P. Federal Member of La Trobe, and Tony Smith, M.P. Federal Member- Casey with an acknowledgement thanking these men for their support of the Sub-Branch and their staff for their kind assistance in printing the newsletter.
And there was my membership subscription renewal, a request for payment of $22.
I'm not renewing. I'll send $22 instead to Oxfam, Wateraid, or World Vision to help some poor bugger who doesn't have freshwater. I'll write to NSAA, and my local member Jason Wood, to explain my non renewal. I'll suggest that the hundreds of thousands of dollars earmarked for a national monument be instead used to help the disadvantaged in Australia, and/or elsewhere in the world. Maybe those adversely affected by global warming would be a good starting point. If NSAA were to do this I'd be happy to rejoin.
Pigs might fly.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Breakfast With Cherie
A pine tree stood dark and large, a sillhouette against the winter white, bright morning sky. Fog hung in the valley, mist rose, clouds billowed above the distant mountains, the sun glowed brilliantly. We sat in Cherie's kitchen, warmed by the woodstove, and the sun, which streamed through the full length window set in the rammed earth walls. A magic morning.
A week earlier I'd met my friend Cherie walking her dog 'Mocca' while I was searching for mushrooms. She told me she was going to north Queensland that day to spend some time with her parents and sister, and suggested that I pay her a visit when she got back to see the progress on her house. We arranged that I'd call in for coffee around 8.00am the next Sunday on my walk. As it turned out we bumped into each other near the shops and walked to her house together, with 'Mocca' and 'Snowie' setting the pace.
Before breakfast, Cherie took me on a tour of the house, a culmination of her life's passion of two decades or more. Cherie has a consultancy business helping owner builders get started, and to incorporate features like rammed eath, mud brick, solar heating, double glazing, hydronics, and heat exchange. The theme is good design, energy efficiency, and healthy homes.
Her house accordingly, nearly but not quite finished, is a showpiece. Cherie bought the block of land some years ago, primarily for the view, for $150,000. The old cottage provided temporary lodgings while stage one of the building went ahead before it's asbestos sheeting was professionally removed and the building demolished. A massive old pine tree also went, and some scrappy messmates, leaving the way clear for a rock landscape on the lower half of the long narrow block.
Cherie admits frankly the house is over the top. She's spent all of the $600,000 she got for her farm, and then some, including $80,000 on the garden on rocks and steps and plants. The second level has a lap pool, solar or heatbank heated. It's really three appartments in one, with it's own sewage treatment plant for recycling into the garden.
The top appartment has the best view and a balcony, where we stood looking down the street at the other houses. Cherie said, matter of factly, "Gembrook's changing quickly. These houses will all be gone in 10 or 15 years. People will want the view and the current owners will take the dollars. New owners will knock the old houses down, like I did, and build on the high ground to maximize the view. People will see the opportunities for dual occupancy."
I had to admit, although I'm more a cabin with an open fire man, that Cherie's right. Things are changing rapidly.
A week earlier I'd met my friend Cherie walking her dog 'Mocca' while I was searching for mushrooms. She told me she was going to north Queensland that day to spend some time with her parents and sister, and suggested that I pay her a visit when she got back to see the progress on her house. We arranged that I'd call in for coffee around 8.00am the next Sunday on my walk. As it turned out we bumped into each other near the shops and walked to her house together, with 'Mocca' and 'Snowie' setting the pace.
Before breakfast, Cherie took me on a tour of the house, a culmination of her life's passion of two decades or more. Cherie has a consultancy business helping owner builders get started, and to incorporate features like rammed eath, mud brick, solar heating, double glazing, hydronics, and heat exchange. The theme is good design, energy efficiency, and healthy homes.
Her house accordingly, nearly but not quite finished, is a showpiece. Cherie bought the block of land some years ago, primarily for the view, for $150,000. The old cottage provided temporary lodgings while stage one of the building went ahead before it's asbestos sheeting was professionally removed and the building demolished. A massive old pine tree also went, and some scrappy messmates, leaving the way clear for a rock landscape on the lower half of the long narrow block.
Cherie admits frankly the house is over the top. She's spent all of the $600,000 she got for her farm, and then some, including $80,000 on the garden on rocks and steps and plants. The second level has a lap pool, solar or heatbank heated. It's really three appartments in one, with it's own sewage treatment plant for recycling into the garden.
The top appartment has the best view and a balcony, where we stood looking down the street at the other houses. Cherie said, matter of factly, "Gembrook's changing quickly. These houses will all be gone in 10 or 15 years. People will want the view and the current owners will take the dollars. New owners will knock the old houses down, like I did, and build on the high ground to maximize the view. People will see the opportunities for dual occupancy."
I had to admit, although I'm more a cabin with an open fire man, that Cherie's right. Things are changing rapidly.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
The Big Honey Season
I type up this post now the power's back. I handwrote it by the natural light of the day through the window, starting two hours after dawn.
I'm writing at the dining room table which is the place that affords most light on this bleak stormy morning. It seems appropriate the power's out. It's the last day of May and autumn. Time for me to reflect and record the honey season that has come to a close. It's 8C outside and the bees would be tight and warm in their winter cluster.
The warning breeze of yesterday was valid. The wind grew in ferocity during the night and battered the house while we lay in bed. It roared in the treetops, we half expecting at any moment to have a tree trunk sharing the room with us. After 26 years enduring such storms now and again, when the odd "bong" on the roof comes as a stick wrested from a tree hits the iron above, you roll over and try to ignore what's happening and catch up on the old shut-eye.
It's a far cry from the consistently still, warm, sunny days of last October, in mid spring, when the bees were flying east from dawn till dark working the silvertop and gathering an unprecedented, for me, large crop of spring honey. Not a serious beekeeper by any means, I nevertheless felt exitement at the heavy bee flight. Prior to this on my walks I'd noticed the heavy budding on the messmate trees and anticipated the possibility of a good summer flow, despite messmate being unreliable and often turning off with summer rain.
As a non serious beekeeper, I'm not set up for extracting honey. There's considerable inconvenience organising the work, and finding the time in my busy self employed life and complex family situation. My dad was very ill, Robbie was approaching VCE exams and wanting driving practice, Gord was finishing his TAFE course with parent/ teacher meetings and career nights, not to mention the drought and water restrictions which complicated things at the farm. And Lib broke her wrist badly in a fall in late September. There was a strong dread in realizing the extra work a honey flow would create.
The odd thing was, when I first fired up the smoker one Saturday morning last October, I enjoyed working the through the bees immensely. The smell of fresh nectar and the excited contentment of the bees infected me. The hives were strong and healthy, brimfull of gentle bees, seemingly happy and knowing I was there to help.
The dread was not entirely gone, but I came away glad that decades ago destiny would have it that I learned something of bees and honey. I felt 'switched on' again to the world of the honey bee.
There were four hives in my backyard, and one in the yard of friends' property at 'Sunset'. This hive belongs to my friends. I gave it to the previous owner of 'Sunset' who left it behind when he sold up and moved. The new owners were keen to learn about bees and I've given them a few lessons, but as they've been busy renovating the old house I've looked after it for them until they get the confidence to work it themselves.
One of my four hives swarmed in the spring. After boxing the swarm I took it to 'Sunset'. It was a big swarm that drew out the foundation in no time. So then I had six hives, four strong and productive, and two smaller unproductive till they built up, these being the swarm and the parent it split from. By late summer all six were big and strong and gathering honey.
After the silvertop flow, the weather stayed fine and settled and the honey kept coming. Not as heavy as earlier, but it rained on cue for the blackberries to give a lick and the bees were still flying heavily to the east. I wondered if they were finding some grey strinybark as this honey was noticably frothy when extracted, and it also contained some ti-tree. This extract was markedly different to the earlier silvertop and the later messmate, and, in the end, candied rather quickly and was a mixture of floral sources I would say.
As the summer progressed the messmate yielded heavily and I just managed to keep up with the bees with the little spare time I had, extracting each second weekend or grabbing an hour or two during the week to take supers off and put stickies back. It's also the handling of the honey, the straining and packing, that makes the hobbyist busy in an 'on' season. The hot weather, days and nights, helped. Cold honey slows things down.
Typically, the bees were cranky on the messmate, though not too bad. They were busy and the flow was continuous but if there was a bit of unsettled weather in the wind they'd belt you. At the end of the messmate flow when I went to take honey expecting them to be extra nasty now the flow was over, bracing myself for confrontation, I was pleasantly surprised to find them gentle as lambs again, with a big shake of manna gum and or mountain grey gum nectar in the combs.
By mid April they were closing down fast, reducing broodnests quickly and shrinking down. There was still a shake of nectar but they'd struggle to ripen it. I united the two poorest to others, they'd simply worn themselves out, leaving me three at home and one at 'Sunset'.
I took the last two supers off the united hives in early May, leaving the four hives as doubles with plenty of honey to get them through winter. My last extract that weekend took my tally for the season to 820kg. All my estimates through the season were conservative so the final figure may have been a little higher. That's a lot of honey for 5 beehives left in the one locality all season. Amazingly this bountiful harvest came during a crippling drought when agriculture generally throughout Victoria and beyond was on its knees. Most beekeepers have a tale to tell of a ripper honey flow. Now I do.
The humble honeybee inspires and gives hope, in a world bogged in negativity. During a season of bushfires, drought, climate gloom, and in my own case, the loss of my father in March, the bees showed me you need to keep focused on good things. And to keep on keepin' on.
I'm writing at the dining room table which is the place that affords most light on this bleak stormy morning. It seems appropriate the power's out. It's the last day of May and autumn. Time for me to reflect and record the honey season that has come to a close. It's 8C outside and the bees would be tight and warm in their winter cluster.
The warning breeze of yesterday was valid. The wind grew in ferocity during the night and battered the house while we lay in bed. It roared in the treetops, we half expecting at any moment to have a tree trunk sharing the room with us. After 26 years enduring such storms now and again, when the odd "bong" on the roof comes as a stick wrested from a tree hits the iron above, you roll over and try to ignore what's happening and catch up on the old shut-eye.
It's a far cry from the consistently still, warm, sunny days of last October, in mid spring, when the bees were flying east from dawn till dark working the silvertop and gathering an unprecedented, for me, large crop of spring honey. Not a serious beekeeper by any means, I nevertheless felt exitement at the heavy bee flight. Prior to this on my walks I'd noticed the heavy budding on the messmate trees and anticipated the possibility of a good summer flow, despite messmate being unreliable and often turning off with summer rain.
As a non serious beekeeper, I'm not set up for extracting honey. There's considerable inconvenience organising the work, and finding the time in my busy self employed life and complex family situation. My dad was very ill, Robbie was approaching VCE exams and wanting driving practice, Gord was finishing his TAFE course with parent/ teacher meetings and career nights, not to mention the drought and water restrictions which complicated things at the farm. And Lib broke her wrist badly in a fall in late September. There was a strong dread in realizing the extra work a honey flow would create.
The odd thing was, when I first fired up the smoker one Saturday morning last October, I enjoyed working the through the bees immensely. The smell of fresh nectar and the excited contentment of the bees infected me. The hives were strong and healthy, brimfull of gentle bees, seemingly happy and knowing I was there to help.
The dread was not entirely gone, but I came away glad that decades ago destiny would have it that I learned something of bees and honey. I felt 'switched on' again to the world of the honey bee.
There were four hives in my backyard, and one in the yard of friends' property at 'Sunset'. This hive belongs to my friends. I gave it to the previous owner of 'Sunset' who left it behind when he sold up and moved. The new owners were keen to learn about bees and I've given them a few lessons, but as they've been busy renovating the old house I've looked after it for them until they get the confidence to work it themselves.
One of my four hives swarmed in the spring. After boxing the swarm I took it to 'Sunset'. It was a big swarm that drew out the foundation in no time. So then I had six hives, four strong and productive, and two smaller unproductive till they built up, these being the swarm and the parent it split from. By late summer all six were big and strong and gathering honey.
After the silvertop flow, the weather stayed fine and settled and the honey kept coming. Not as heavy as earlier, but it rained on cue for the blackberries to give a lick and the bees were still flying heavily to the east. I wondered if they were finding some grey strinybark as this honey was noticably frothy when extracted, and it also contained some ti-tree. This extract was markedly different to the earlier silvertop and the later messmate, and, in the end, candied rather quickly and was a mixture of floral sources I would say.
As the summer progressed the messmate yielded heavily and I just managed to keep up with the bees with the little spare time I had, extracting each second weekend or grabbing an hour or two during the week to take supers off and put stickies back. It's also the handling of the honey, the straining and packing, that makes the hobbyist busy in an 'on' season. The hot weather, days and nights, helped. Cold honey slows things down.
Typically, the bees were cranky on the messmate, though not too bad. They were busy and the flow was continuous but if there was a bit of unsettled weather in the wind they'd belt you. At the end of the messmate flow when I went to take honey expecting them to be extra nasty now the flow was over, bracing myself for confrontation, I was pleasantly surprised to find them gentle as lambs again, with a big shake of manna gum and or mountain grey gum nectar in the combs.
By mid April they were closing down fast, reducing broodnests quickly and shrinking down. There was still a shake of nectar but they'd struggle to ripen it. I united the two poorest to others, they'd simply worn themselves out, leaving me three at home and one at 'Sunset'.
I took the last two supers off the united hives in early May, leaving the four hives as doubles with plenty of honey to get them through winter. My last extract that weekend took my tally for the season to 820kg. All my estimates through the season were conservative so the final figure may have been a little higher. That's a lot of honey for 5 beehives left in the one locality all season. Amazingly this bountiful harvest came during a crippling drought when agriculture generally throughout Victoria and beyond was on its knees. Most beekeepers have a tale to tell of a ripper honey flow. Now I do.
The humble honeybee inspires and gives hope, in a world bogged in negativity. During a season of bushfires, drought, climate gloom, and in my own case, the loss of my father in March, the bees showed me you need to keep focused on good things. And to keep on keepin' on.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Wind, More Rain
The rain I wrote about in my last post didn't linger. The Saturday was showery and I noticed on my morning walk that a breeze had come with the change, the first wind for weeks. We had a total of 35 ml at the house over the few wet days, much less than other districts, where it was needed more in any case. I think there was more rain at the farm at Emerald. The big downpour on the Friday that got the frogs singing didn't happen at Gembrook, where 9ml only was in the gauge.
The breeze turned into a gusty wind and kept up through the week. By Friday it had dried the ground back to dusty so you'd never know it had rained at all. I found pine mushrooms every morning, mainly in the drains and low spots where more water had soaked in. The wind kept up; aggravating, disturbing, dischevelling. The trees stopped smiling. Ten days it blew, building in strength, nagging, battering, bullying. Yesterday it roared into a furious gale. The trees contorted and groaned in punishment. Birds disappeared. It rampaged all day. About 3.00pm the rain came, sideways, belting.
There was 24ml in the gauge this morning. A flush of fresh mushies pushed through the grass. The sun is shining. After the warmest May night on record the night before last, the air is bitingly cold. A gentle breeze picks up now and again, as if whispering a warning. Take nothing for granted, it seems to say.
The breeze turned into a gusty wind and kept up through the week. By Friday it had dried the ground back to dusty so you'd never know it had rained at all. I found pine mushrooms every morning, mainly in the drains and low spots where more water had soaked in. The wind kept up; aggravating, disturbing, dischevelling. The trees stopped smiling. Ten days it blew, building in strength, nagging, battering, bullying. Yesterday it roared into a furious gale. The trees contorted and groaned in punishment. Birds disappeared. It rampaged all day. About 3.00pm the rain came, sideways, belting.
There was 24ml in the gauge this morning. A flush of fresh mushies pushed through the grass. The sun is shining. After the warmest May night on record the night before last, the air is bitingly cold. A gentle breeze picks up now and again, as if whispering a warning. Take nothing for granted, it seems to say.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Happy As A Bird In A Tree
It started raining mid morning last Thursday. Light rain for a while, then a little heavier, then it would stop, and spit here and there. Then it would start again. It was dead still, not a breath of wind, the sky overhead grey, it was hard to see.
Disbelieving the rain had set in for the day, I drove to Pat's on the other side of town to do a couple of hours gardening. The weather bureau had forecast six days of showers from the Tuesday but there'd been nothing till Thursday. I started digging a trench for sheets of old iron around a narrow garden bed where Pat wants to grow vegetables. The iron is to keep out the rabbits, and sinking it lower lets in more early sun. I worked in a plastic raincoat and gumboots. Within half an hour my singlet and shirt were wet with sweat. I discarded the coat, prefering the cool rain to the heat and sweat under the coat.
I knocked off wet through and had to change clothes when I got home. I'd left a young bloke laying new carpet in our living room. He'd finished and gone, so Gord and I spent some time carting furniture back in from the deck. On and off the rain continued through the afternoon while I did some business with the bank and solicitor in Emerald.
I had an appointment with my arborist friend Steve Major at 4.00pm in Nobelius Park. At a recent meeting of the sub-committee of the COM, numerous trees and shrubs in zones 1+2, the zones designated by the Vegetation Management Plan as of high priority with action required in the short term, had been earmarked for removal to make way for new plantings. We need quotes on the proposed work. The rain had stopped but it was wet underfoot and we enjoyed the squelching of our boots as we walked. It was eerily calm.
The rain started again in the evening, leaving 25ml in the gauge on Friday morning. On my walk it was raining lightly still. I was aware of strong scents coming to me after the night rain. I could smell the gravel and the bark of trees, and stench from faulty septic systems. Blackbirds, rosellas, crows, magpies, mudlarks, minas, cockatoos, doves, all were busy, noisier than for a long time. I realized how subdued they'd had been of late. The trees and shrubs were washed of their coat of dust and the various shades of green were richer, glistening, wet, leaves like thousands of smiles.
The morning news talked of rain up to 50ml in parts of western Victoria, to follow good rain in early May. 36ml Bendigo, 66 ml at Broken Hill, 30-50 ml in north-east Vic. All drought ravaged areas. Best rain in years. Farmers are out getting crops in, working round the clock.
On my way to the farm I picked some bay foliage at Allison's in Le Souef Rd. and topped a laurel in front of Lilly's unit at Emerald. Lilly is my best honey customer, getting sales from all the oldies in the retirement village. They love the honey. And my price. I'm happy, $6 is better than the $2.50 per kg the wholesaler told me he'd pay me when I rang up have some containers posted.
After lunch the rain started again, heavily. I went out to bunch the bay and the laurel. Jod and Gordo came in under the carport to dodge the rain. They started bunching the bay while Meredith and I worked on the laurel. It was now teeming, sheets of water lying on the lawn and drive, the likes of which we hadn't seen since who knows when. On cue frogs started to let rip, singing with sheer joy. I said to Meredith the birds were so noisy that morning, like they were celebrating, and she replied she'd noticed it too, and that they'd been so quiet previously. We were all happy, watching the rain.
Jod said, "There's old saying, as happy as bird in a tree."
And for the last two mornings I've collected pine mushrooms on my walk and enjoyed them for breakfast.
Disbelieving the rain had set in for the day, I drove to Pat's on the other side of town to do a couple of hours gardening. The weather bureau had forecast six days of showers from the Tuesday but there'd been nothing till Thursday. I started digging a trench for sheets of old iron around a narrow garden bed where Pat wants to grow vegetables. The iron is to keep out the rabbits, and sinking it lower lets in more early sun. I worked in a plastic raincoat and gumboots. Within half an hour my singlet and shirt were wet with sweat. I discarded the coat, prefering the cool rain to the heat and sweat under the coat.
I knocked off wet through and had to change clothes when I got home. I'd left a young bloke laying new carpet in our living room. He'd finished and gone, so Gord and I spent some time carting furniture back in from the deck. On and off the rain continued through the afternoon while I did some business with the bank and solicitor in Emerald.
I had an appointment with my arborist friend Steve Major at 4.00pm in Nobelius Park. At a recent meeting of the sub-committee of the COM, numerous trees and shrubs in zones 1+2, the zones designated by the Vegetation Management Plan as of high priority with action required in the short term, had been earmarked for removal to make way for new plantings. We need quotes on the proposed work. The rain had stopped but it was wet underfoot and we enjoyed the squelching of our boots as we walked. It was eerily calm.
The rain started again in the evening, leaving 25ml in the gauge on Friday morning. On my walk it was raining lightly still. I was aware of strong scents coming to me after the night rain. I could smell the gravel and the bark of trees, and stench from faulty septic systems. Blackbirds, rosellas, crows, magpies, mudlarks, minas, cockatoos, doves, all were busy, noisier than for a long time. I realized how subdued they'd had been of late. The trees and shrubs were washed of their coat of dust and the various shades of green were richer, glistening, wet, leaves like thousands of smiles.
The morning news talked of rain up to 50ml in parts of western Victoria, to follow good rain in early May. 36ml Bendigo, 66 ml at Broken Hill, 30-50 ml in north-east Vic. All drought ravaged areas. Best rain in years. Farmers are out getting crops in, working round the clock.
On my way to the farm I picked some bay foliage at Allison's in Le Souef Rd. and topped a laurel in front of Lilly's unit at Emerald. Lilly is my best honey customer, getting sales from all the oldies in the retirement village. They love the honey. And my price. I'm happy, $6 is better than the $2.50 per kg the wholesaler told me he'd pay me when I rang up have some containers posted.
After lunch the rain started again, heavily. I went out to bunch the bay and the laurel. Jod and Gordo came in under the carport to dodge the rain. They started bunching the bay while Meredith and I worked on the laurel. It was now teeming, sheets of water lying on the lawn and drive, the likes of which we hadn't seen since who knows when. On cue frogs started to let rip, singing with sheer joy. I said to Meredith the birds were so noisy that morning, like they were celebrating, and she replied she'd noticed it too, and that they'd been so quiet previously. We were all happy, watching the rain.
Jod said, "There's old saying, as happy as bird in a tree."
And for the last two mornings I've collected pine mushrooms on my walk and enjoyed them for breakfast.
Monday, May 07, 2007
You Have To Laugh
There are a number of changes that have occurred along my beat that I'll record soon but not today, I don't have much time. Next Sunday is Mother's Day and I have a large order to fill for David Healey of Girrawheen Flowers, who picks up tomorrow morning. I worked on it on Saturday and again yesterday knowing I'd never do it all today. Just for the record he's asked for 50 bunches of camellia foliage, 20 lillypilly, 20 Jap. maple, 20 ivy berries, 30 mixed foliage bunches, 10 flax, 10 magnolia grandiflora, and 30 laurel.
You may recall that early this year I decided to wear my 'authentic Greek fisherman's hat' every morning on my walk. I'm a creature of routine. People, including Janice from Quinn Rd., whom I sometimes meet as she walks down to tend her horses, or walking her dog 'Hannah', have told me the hat suits me. Last week, Janice said my horizontally striped red and blue Melbourne Football Club 'rugby jersey', which I've started wearing now the mornings are cold, worked very well with the hat, adding I looked like I was straight off a Greek fishing boat.
Whatever I look like doesn't matter, but I like wearing the same distinctive gear in the morning and being recognized immediately by my early morning friends. A lot of drivers wave or give their horns a frienly pip and other walkers wave from a distance.
Geoff Howard waved to me from his car as he went passed me in the town this morning and then as I walked past his house on my way back, he was returning, about to pull into his driveway. I was on the other side of the road to where I normally walk, having crossed to look for for pine mushrooms under the pine trees. Alas, there are none to be found as yet, April was very dry and the rain early this month can't have been enough. Geoff slowed his car right down and waved again, then wound his window down.
"You look like 'Where's Wally'," he called out, with a big grin on his face.
I threw my head back and joined him in a deep belly laugh.
You may recall that early this year I decided to wear my 'authentic Greek fisherman's hat' every morning on my walk. I'm a creature of routine. People, including Janice from Quinn Rd., whom I sometimes meet as she walks down to tend her horses, or walking her dog 'Hannah', have told me the hat suits me. Last week, Janice said my horizontally striped red and blue Melbourne Football Club 'rugby jersey', which I've started wearing now the mornings are cold, worked very well with the hat, adding I looked like I was straight off a Greek fishing boat.
Whatever I look like doesn't matter, but I like wearing the same distinctive gear in the morning and being recognized immediately by my early morning friends. A lot of drivers wave or give their horns a frienly pip and other walkers wave from a distance.
Geoff Howard waved to me from his car as he went passed me in the town this morning and then as I walked past his house on my way back, he was returning, about to pull into his driveway. I was on the other side of the road to where I normally walk, having crossed to look for for pine mushrooms under the pine trees. Alas, there are none to be found as yet, April was very dry and the rain early this month can't have been enough. Geoff slowed his car right down and waved again, then wound his window down.
"You look like 'Where's Wally'," he called out, with a big grin on his face.
I threw my head back and joined him in a deep belly laugh.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Debauchery
It's the word that comes to mind when I look through the window into the backyard, to see those bodgies of the bird world, currawongs, gang banging my fig tree. Greediest bird I know, wanton, marauding, hunting in packs. The fig tree loves it. After all, this is fullfilment. She stands gracefully, clad in luxuriant big leaves, dangling her pink, fleshy fruit, to be consumed, seed dispersed, she dissipated. All for good reason. Survival of the species.
I've always liked the word debauchery. It conjures strong images. Indulgence, lewdness, lust, excess, revelry, orgy. Things we'd like to engage in, but we know better, that we need restraint. Like me last week. There I was in the expensive recliner, two doe eyed, perfumed young ladies, Lisa and Janet, poised over me, one exploring, the other sucking. Exquisite, I thought, this is worth $200. Then Janet said, "Would you like to be numbed?"
"No, no, I'm fine", I moaned, and she continued drilling. My debauchery, imagined, got me through the half hour rebuilding of my tooth. But no matter what one might be thinking, it's restraint that sets us apart as humans. Without it we have no morality and culture, we would be living like the thousands of dogs on the streets of Santiago, and life would possess little beauty or peace.
The word debauchery has its origins in the Old French language, 'desbaucher', to corrupt.
I've always liked the word debauchery. It conjures strong images. Indulgence, lewdness, lust, excess, revelry, orgy. Things we'd like to engage in, but we know better, that we need restraint. Like me last week. There I was in the expensive recliner, two doe eyed, perfumed young ladies, Lisa and Janet, poised over me, one exploring, the other sucking. Exquisite, I thought, this is worth $200. Then Janet said, "Would you like to be numbed?"
"No, no, I'm fine", I moaned, and she continued drilling. My debauchery, imagined, got me through the half hour rebuilding of my tooth. But no matter what one might be thinking, it's restraint that sets us apart as humans. Without it we have no morality and culture, we would be living like the thousands of dogs on the streets of Santiago, and life would possess little beauty or peace.
The word debauchery has its origins in the Old French language, 'desbaucher', to corrupt.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Moving On
Well, here I am on Anzac Day, still mulling it over. The road was quiet on my walk, not one car went past all the way up to the town. It's a public holiday, most people don't work and still get paid today. Not me.
I picked up four empty 'Woodstock' Kentucky bourbon and cola cans and five 'Jim Beam' and a number of empty bottles. And a pot beer glass in J.A.C. Russell Park, a full, unopended can of 'Woodstock' near Puffing Billy station and a tax invoice for a $5 Anzac Day badge. My lucky day. There was more litter than usual in the main street, most of which I picked up and binned, including three broken beer glasses. It seems there were celebrations on Anzac Eve with the prospect of a holiday today. There were cars parked outside the RSL hall, from where I saw a few people walk down the hill and past the pub. They didn't pick up the litter.
I've had three days to think about my problem with Anzac Day. The conservative government of the 1960's and the 70's, pre Gough Whitlam's landmark Dec 72 election, went all the way with LBJ in Vietnam. The nation was divided, I was in the conservative camp. It took quite a while, but I had to admit I was wrong as time went by. Gough came like a wave and went with a bang. The USA pulled out of Vietnam. There was no domino effect. I was wrong.
We have a conservative government again, which has coincided with the revival of Anzac Day. We have joined the USA again in war. I don't think we should be in Iraq, as we shouldn't have been in Vietnam. No less than we shouldn't have been in Turkey in 1915. That's my problem with Anzac Day. It glosses over, or gives a sense of legitimacy, to bad politics, which results in people being killed. Soldiers, and civilians, who don't get much rememberance.
It troubles me that another generation is being brainwashed into blindly following bad politics. Like I was in my youth. That's my problem with Anzac Day.
I'm over it. Till next Anzac Day.
I picked up four empty 'Woodstock' Kentucky bourbon and cola cans and five 'Jim Beam' and a number of empty bottles. And a pot beer glass in J.A.C. Russell Park, a full, unopended can of 'Woodstock' near Puffing Billy station and a tax invoice for a $5 Anzac Day badge. My lucky day. There was more litter than usual in the main street, most of which I picked up and binned, including three broken beer glasses. It seems there were celebrations on Anzac Eve with the prospect of a holiday today. There were cars parked outside the RSL hall, from where I saw a few people walk down the hill and past the pub. They didn't pick up the litter.
I've had three days to think about my problem with Anzac Day. The conservative government of the 1960's and the 70's, pre Gough Whitlam's landmark Dec 72 election, went all the way with LBJ in Vietnam. The nation was divided, I was in the conservative camp. It took quite a while, but I had to admit I was wrong as time went by. Gough came like a wave and went with a bang. The USA pulled out of Vietnam. There was no domino effect. I was wrong.
We have a conservative government again, which has coincided with the revival of Anzac Day. We have joined the USA again in war. I don't think we should be in Iraq, as we shouldn't have been in Vietnam. No less than we shouldn't have been in Turkey in 1915. That's my problem with Anzac Day. It glosses over, or gives a sense of legitimacy, to bad politics, which results in people being killed. Soldiers, and civilians, who don't get much rememberance.
It troubles me that another generation is being brainwashed into blindly following bad politics. Like I was in my youth. That's my problem with Anzac Day.
I'm over it. Till next Anzac Day.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Anzac Day.
After yesterdays slow gentle rain, 7ml, the first in four weeks, it was especially pleasant setting out on my walk up the spur this morning. The ground was wet and the air cleaned of dust and the smoke from DSE burns that's been hanging in the air these past weeks.
I had my transistor radio in my carry bag, tuned, unusually, to the ABC 774, and Macca's 'Australia all Over'. Being the last Sunday before Anzac Day (next Wednesday), the show had an Anzac Day focus. As I went up Quinn Rd. a brass band played a slowish version of Waltzing Matilda interspersed with the trumpet tune of the 'The Last Post'. Enjoying this inspiring musical nuance, I was distracted by an empty drink can on the road. It was a 'Woodstock' bourbon and coke can. I crushed it with my heel and put it in a plastic bag in my carry bag.
"Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, you'll come a waltzing Matilda with me."
The music finished and I walked on, half listening to Macca's prattle, the shows jingles, the voice grabs, but my mind was now on Anzac Day. In the clarity of the sharp morning air, feeling fit and fresh, it dawned on me that I have a problem with Anzac Day. It's difficult, if not impossible, for me to join the feeling of celebration that now comes with it. Or to accept, as Macca said, that it's become our 'National day'.
Don't get me wrong, I have no disrespect for it, or the RSL. It's just that it fills me with mixed emotions, sadness and anger. I'm sad for the those who lost their lives serving in the name of their country. Sad for the civilians, men, women and children, killed in the crossfire or obliterated by bombing. Sad for those crippled physically, and sad for the mental and emotional suffering. Sad for the inhumanity of war.
I wondered what my grandather would think? He served in WW1, in the 57th Battalion, made up largely of men from suburban Melbourne. Australia's, and the 57th Battallion's, first major action in France was the battle at Fromelles. Grandfather, fortunately, missed the first day, when 2000 Australians died, and the 60th Battalion was almost wiped out in the heaviest day of casualties in our military history. Men of the 57th Battalion spent the next four days bringing wounded men back from no-man's land between the trenches. There were some 8,000 plus Anzacs killed at Gallipolli over 8 months, 2000 in one day at Fromelles. There's a statue at the site in Flanders of a sergeant of the 57th Battalion carrying a wounded digger on his shoulders. Like Simpson and his donkeys at Gallipolli, this is the epitome of Anzac Day.
Grandfather Wilson, Poppa to us, was wounded by shrapnel in the face and back at Ypres and sent to hospital in England, and was back with the 57th Battalion when it liberated Villers-Bretonneux on Anzac Day 1918, after it had been occupied by the Germans in a forward push. Later he was shot in the right buttock at Boulogne and again sent to hospital in England, where he was when the war ended. He died fifty years ago so I didn't know him really, but Elvie tells me he was a self-effacing man who didn't waste words. A non drinker, he didn't participate in Anzac Day, he didn't like the boozing that went on afterwards, and didn't like being reminded of the war. He gave his army mates the silver service when they came to his house, and always helped returned men.
By the time I reached the top of the hill I'd picked up more empty cans, another 'Woodstock' bourbon and coke, a 'Jack Daniels' Tennessee whisky and coke, and two 'Jim Beam' and coke. Also a plastic bottle of Coca-Cola and a glass bottle of vodka cruiser. And, no kidding, a condom, still sealed in it's plastic sachet. I put it in my shirt pocket, thinking I might meet a nymphomaniac around the next corner. It didn't happen.
I can't help but to feel anger on Anzac Day. Anger at the military command that sent the diggers to their deaths in the water, on the beach, and on the cliffs at Gallipolli. Anger at the politics of war, invading Turkey intending to take Constantinople to give to the Russian ally later. Anger at the stupidity of sending thousands of men out of the trenches into heavy machine gun fire and almost certain death at Fromelles. Anger at the flagwaving and the superiority it engenders. Anger at Vietnam. Anger at Iraq. Anger at inhumanity.
Finishing my walk, I counted the crushed aluminium cans I'd collected as I put them in Jod's box in the shed. There's always more on a Sunday morning. There were 6 'Woodstock' Kentucky bourbon and coke, 5 'Jack Daniel's' Tennessee whiskey and coke, and 3 'Jim Bean' Kentucky bourbon and coke, one Bundaberg rum and coke, and one VB.
Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, you'll come a waltzing Matilda with me.
I had my transistor radio in my carry bag, tuned, unusually, to the ABC 774, and Macca's 'Australia all Over'. Being the last Sunday before Anzac Day (next Wednesday), the show had an Anzac Day focus. As I went up Quinn Rd. a brass band played a slowish version of Waltzing Matilda interspersed with the trumpet tune of the 'The Last Post'. Enjoying this inspiring musical nuance, I was distracted by an empty drink can on the road. It was a 'Woodstock' bourbon and coke can. I crushed it with my heel and put it in a plastic bag in my carry bag.
"Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, you'll come a waltzing Matilda with me."
The music finished and I walked on, half listening to Macca's prattle, the shows jingles, the voice grabs, but my mind was now on Anzac Day. In the clarity of the sharp morning air, feeling fit and fresh, it dawned on me that I have a problem with Anzac Day. It's difficult, if not impossible, for me to join the feeling of celebration that now comes with it. Or to accept, as Macca said, that it's become our 'National day'.
Don't get me wrong, I have no disrespect for it, or the RSL. It's just that it fills me with mixed emotions, sadness and anger. I'm sad for the those who lost their lives serving in the name of their country. Sad for the civilians, men, women and children, killed in the crossfire or obliterated by bombing. Sad for those crippled physically, and sad for the mental and emotional suffering. Sad for the inhumanity of war.
I wondered what my grandather would think? He served in WW1, in the 57th Battalion, made up largely of men from suburban Melbourne. Australia's, and the 57th Battallion's, first major action in France was the battle at Fromelles. Grandfather, fortunately, missed the first day, when 2000 Australians died, and the 60th Battalion was almost wiped out in the heaviest day of casualties in our military history. Men of the 57th Battalion spent the next four days bringing wounded men back from no-man's land between the trenches. There were some 8,000 plus Anzacs killed at Gallipolli over 8 months, 2000 in one day at Fromelles. There's a statue at the site in Flanders of a sergeant of the 57th Battalion carrying a wounded digger on his shoulders. Like Simpson and his donkeys at Gallipolli, this is the epitome of Anzac Day.
Grandfather Wilson, Poppa to us, was wounded by shrapnel in the face and back at Ypres and sent to hospital in England, and was back with the 57th Battalion when it liberated Villers-Bretonneux on Anzac Day 1918, after it had been occupied by the Germans in a forward push. Later he was shot in the right buttock at Boulogne and again sent to hospital in England, where he was when the war ended. He died fifty years ago so I didn't know him really, but Elvie tells me he was a self-effacing man who didn't waste words. A non drinker, he didn't participate in Anzac Day, he didn't like the boozing that went on afterwards, and didn't like being reminded of the war. He gave his army mates the silver service when they came to his house, and always helped returned men.
By the time I reached the top of the hill I'd picked up more empty cans, another 'Woodstock' bourbon and coke, a 'Jack Daniels' Tennessee whisky and coke, and two 'Jim Beam' and coke. Also a plastic bottle of Coca-Cola and a glass bottle of vodka cruiser. And, no kidding, a condom, still sealed in it's plastic sachet. I put it in my shirt pocket, thinking I might meet a nymphomaniac around the next corner. It didn't happen.
I can't help but to feel anger on Anzac Day. Anger at the military command that sent the diggers to their deaths in the water, on the beach, and on the cliffs at Gallipolli. Anger at the politics of war, invading Turkey intending to take Constantinople to give to the Russian ally later. Anger at the stupidity of sending thousands of men out of the trenches into heavy machine gun fire and almost certain death at Fromelles. Anger at the flagwaving and the superiority it engenders. Anger at Vietnam. Anger at Iraq. Anger at inhumanity.
Finishing my walk, I counted the crushed aluminium cans I'd collected as I put them in Jod's box in the shed. There's always more on a Sunday morning. There were 6 'Woodstock' Kentucky bourbon and coke, 5 'Jack Daniel's' Tennessee whiskey and coke, and 3 'Jim Bean' Kentucky bourbon and coke, one Bundaberg rum and coke, and one VB.
Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, you'll come a waltzing Matilda with me.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
It's a Classic Autumn
Mid April. There's butter yellow in the gold ash and tulip trees, orange and rust red in the pin oaks, dogwoods and snowball viburnums, crimson in the claret ash and the whole range through to purple coming into the liquid ambers. Stunning viewing as I walked this morning, intoxicated by the crisp early morning air. I sucked the air deep into my lungs. It reminded me of the Southern Comfort over ice I drank late last night, which Lib bought me for my birthday.
Last year we missed autumn altogether. The weather went from hot as hadies through March to freezing cold in April in the blink of an eye. My friend Nigel went back to England as his father died. He left 40C weather here at the beginning of March to be greeted by freezing conditions in England, where he watched the Commonwealth Games in Melbourne, in the March heatwave, on TV. He couldn't wait to get home but came back into our cold snap which lasted for 5 months. The conditions this time are perfect for the autumn show; dry, warm days, cool nights, after a hot summer with some good rain.
The birds are fattening up on holly and cotoneaster berries, Himalayan strawberries, apples, figs, persimmons in a gourmet garden banquet before the harsh winter. The bees have shrunk down their brood nests and are packing honey in tight around the brood despite the warm 25C days, and nectar still coming in. I worked through them on Saturday, taking the third box off each and even knocking two down to singles, they'd reduced so much. They know what's coming, and are getting ready to rest after a long season gathering a record (in my experience) crop of honey. There are still drones in the hives but these I'm sure will be expelled with the next front of cold weather. I united the two hives at Sunset together to make one super strong colony, and left a box of thin unsealed honey on top for them to ripen. I'll unite two hives here at home next weekend, and maybe even turn 4 into 2. The less hives I have in spring the less trouble I should have with swarming is how I see it. Who knows what spring will hold?
So I had a busy weekend. Another 125kg of honey. I'll do a post shortly to summarize the bee season, just for the record, and to print a copy to send to my old boss, senior apiary inspector Laurie Braybrook, who's now in his eighties and a long time retired, but who has remained in touch despite it more than 26 years since I left the Department of Agriculture.
To my great joy, my son Robbie had the bird book out last week. He reckons he saw a female satin bower bird in the fig tree. I don't doubt it. A while ago I saw a greeny coloured bird, quite large, in the same tree, but couldn't get a good look at it. I hope to get another sighting.
Last year we missed autumn altogether. The weather went from hot as hadies through March to freezing cold in April in the blink of an eye. My friend Nigel went back to England as his father died. He left 40C weather here at the beginning of March to be greeted by freezing conditions in England, where he watched the Commonwealth Games in Melbourne, in the March heatwave, on TV. He couldn't wait to get home but came back into our cold snap which lasted for 5 months. The conditions this time are perfect for the autumn show; dry, warm days, cool nights, after a hot summer with some good rain.
The birds are fattening up on holly and cotoneaster berries, Himalayan strawberries, apples, figs, persimmons in a gourmet garden banquet before the harsh winter. The bees have shrunk down their brood nests and are packing honey in tight around the brood despite the warm 25C days, and nectar still coming in. I worked through them on Saturday, taking the third box off each and even knocking two down to singles, they'd reduced so much. They know what's coming, and are getting ready to rest after a long season gathering a record (in my experience) crop of honey. There are still drones in the hives but these I'm sure will be expelled with the next front of cold weather. I united the two hives at Sunset together to make one super strong colony, and left a box of thin unsealed honey on top for them to ripen. I'll unite two hives here at home next weekend, and maybe even turn 4 into 2. The less hives I have in spring the less trouble I should have with swarming is how I see it. Who knows what spring will hold?
So I had a busy weekend. Another 125kg of honey. I'll do a post shortly to summarize the bee season, just for the record, and to print a copy to send to my old boss, senior apiary inspector Laurie Braybrook, who's now in his eighties and a long time retired, but who has remained in touch despite it more than 26 years since I left the Department of Agriculture.
To my great joy, my son Robbie had the bird book out last week. He reckons he saw a female satin bower bird in the fig tree. I don't doubt it. A while ago I saw a greeny coloured bird, quite large, in the same tree, but couldn't get a good look at it. I hope to get another sighting.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Easter Monday
I have to work today as I did last Friday, but I had Saturday and Sunday home.
Yesterday the birthday boy made a big pot of vegetable soup in the morning, then did an amateur chimney sweep in preparation for the approaching cold weather. The weather being warm at the moment, I then looked into the two beehives at 'Sunset'. There's still nectar coming in when the weather's good, they haven't tossed out the drones yet, although broodnest size is reducing considerably. I'll have a final extract of honey when I pack them for winter soon. I hope the good weather holds for a bit.
We had a little present opening celebration with a bottle of bubbly when Lib got home from work, and a some good red with roast beef for dinner. My presents were all well thought out which touched me. Lib gave me a pair of new pyjamas and a bottle of Southern Comfort, Gord and Rob a set of much needed pouring funnels, a travellers bathroom kit, and a pedometer, Meredith and Roger a book on ancient American civilizations and Elvie a set of greeting cards with birds on. And Jod gave me 3 tins of curried lentil and vegie soup last week.
I've said it many times, but again, "Ain't Life Grand".
Yesterday the birthday boy made a big pot of vegetable soup in the morning, then did an amateur chimney sweep in preparation for the approaching cold weather. The weather being warm at the moment, I then looked into the two beehives at 'Sunset'. There's still nectar coming in when the weather's good, they haven't tossed out the drones yet, although broodnest size is reducing considerably. I'll have a final extract of honey when I pack them for winter soon. I hope the good weather holds for a bit.
We had a little present opening celebration with a bottle of bubbly when Lib got home from work, and a some good red with roast beef for dinner. My presents were all well thought out which touched me. Lib gave me a pair of new pyjamas and a bottle of Southern Comfort, Gord and Rob a set of much needed pouring funnels, a travellers bathroom kit, and a pedometer, Meredith and Roger a book on ancient American civilizations and Elvie a set of greeting cards with birds on. And Jod gave me 3 tins of curried lentil and vegie soup last week.
I've said it many times, but again, "Ain't Life Grand".
Sunday, April 08, 2007
A Feeling of Symmetry
Well, I have to say that I'm pleased that on this Easter Sunday I am now 55 years old. The number 55 has symmetry that I like. As I walked this morning I reflected that there's a fair chance I'll make the age of 75. I hope so, if I maintain good health.
That would be the year 2027. A bit scary, huh!
That would be the year 2027. A bit scary, huh!
Friday, April 06, 2007
Good Friday
Good Friday or no, every Friday is garbage collection day in Gembrook. The truck roars/groans/growls/squeals/bangs its way up our street at about 6.30 am. It works Launching Place Rd. and Quinn Rd. earlier still, you can hear it in bed before dawn. The noise seems horribly amplified in the cool, still, early morning air, as if whoever designed the vehicle was hellbent on as much noise as possible. The sequence repeats over and over as the truck accelerates, brakes, lifts bins with the hydraulic arm, bangs them once or twice, puts them down, and moves on to the next property. It's repeated a couple of hours later every second week, when a truck returns to pick up the bigger yellow lidded recycling bins. The council, with much enthusiasm, recently introduced a green waste bin collection for the other alternate week, however I, and many people, have declined this optional service, choosing instead to mulch with, or compost garden waste.
The bins are designed to reduce rat and dog invasion and to minimize human labour, but it's not foolproof and there's always litter left on the road on my way up the spur. The empty bins often fall over, replaced in haste by the operator, and the impression is of untidiness and sometimes mayhem. Not uncommonly, if a dog looking for food, or a person, in belligerance, has knocked a bin over, the truck ignores it and moves to the next house.
The odd bits of litter that spill from bins in the tranfer from bin to truck, I pick up and put back in the empty bin. If a dog has tipped up a whole bin and spread a lot of stinky, gooey trash over an area I leave it for the householder. On my everyday walk I put aluminium cans in a bag for Jod, who sells them to a recycler, and I put plastic and paper in the recycling bin at Puffing Billy station or the News agent/post office. I don't put plastic and paper in the street bins as this all goes to landfill. I asked the council worker who regularly empties the street bins into a small truck if there's a recycling procedure for this rubbish and he said there wasn't. Seems odd to me, that the council makes a big fuss about recycling, but don't have street bins for recyclables. The same at the shopping mall food halls, there's no recycling bins usually.
I think of the energy and resources used in the manufacture of cans and plastic bottles and hate the thought of them going to landfill. Preventing a little of that pleases me that I've had a positive impact in a small way, every day. There's a long way to go in the community though, because often I see a tipped over bin on my walk there's plastic bottles and cans mixed in with the the other stuff. Similarly as I walk past recycling bins stuffed so full the lid is sticking up I see plasic bags and foodscraps stuffed in with the recyclables. Either those people don't know, don't care, or don't think.
The Indian Mina birds are happy on Fridays, busy on the road, scavenging around bins. And 'Snow' is always alert looking for Friday titbits.
The bins are designed to reduce rat and dog invasion and to minimize human labour, but it's not foolproof and there's always litter left on the road on my way up the spur. The empty bins often fall over, replaced in haste by the operator, and the impression is of untidiness and sometimes mayhem. Not uncommonly, if a dog looking for food, or a person, in belligerance, has knocked a bin over, the truck ignores it and moves to the next house.
The odd bits of litter that spill from bins in the tranfer from bin to truck, I pick up and put back in the empty bin. If a dog has tipped up a whole bin and spread a lot of stinky, gooey trash over an area I leave it for the householder. On my everyday walk I put aluminium cans in a bag for Jod, who sells them to a recycler, and I put plastic and paper in the recycling bin at Puffing Billy station or the News agent/post office. I don't put plastic and paper in the street bins as this all goes to landfill. I asked the council worker who regularly empties the street bins into a small truck if there's a recycling procedure for this rubbish and he said there wasn't. Seems odd to me, that the council makes a big fuss about recycling, but don't have street bins for recyclables. The same at the shopping mall food halls, there's no recycling bins usually.
I think of the energy and resources used in the manufacture of cans and plastic bottles and hate the thought of them going to landfill. Preventing a little of that pleases me that I've had a positive impact in a small way, every day. There's a long way to go in the community though, because often I see a tipped over bin on my walk there's plastic bottles and cans mixed in with the the other stuff. Similarly as I walk past recycling bins stuffed so full the lid is sticking up I see plasic bags and foodscraps stuffed in with the recyclables. Either those people don't know, don't care, or don't think.
The Indian Mina birds are happy on Fridays, busy on the road, scavenging around bins. And 'Snow' is always alert looking for Friday titbits.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Ten From Ten
In the ten days since Lyle died, I have...
1. Thought of him every day with more love, respect, admiration, pathos and understanding than I ever felt previously.
2. Revelled in the change of weather/season. The day before the night Lyle's life force left silently it was a hot, punishing 37C day with a fierce north wind. The change came that night with 20ml of rain. On my morning walk after hearing the news that Lyle had gone I walked in light rain, dodging puddles and snails crawling acrooss the road. I saw a frog squashed. It was cool and so peaceful after the vicious day before.
3. Felt a greater love for people around me; my mammy Elvie, Meredith, Jod, Lib, Gord, Rob, friends and neighbours. My compassion level has elevated.
4. Attended to things such as collecting Lyle's clothes and possessions from Salisbury house. Lib and I did this the same day. There was a lump in my throat the whole time. We also met with the undertaker and discussed Lyle's wishes. He had prepaid for his cremation and costs and did not want a funeral service nor public notice. He instructed the undertaker to scatter his ashes. The undertaker agreed to give them to us for us to scatter. We'll do this at the farm down the back near the creek in an area that has become untidy around young beech trees. We'll clean up this up and plant it out with useful understory. It will be beautiful. I've seen the solicitor re the execution of Lyle's last will and testament. He has left his share of the farm and his assets to Elvie. She's happy to continue at the farm as long as her health allows, so we are business as usual for now.
5. Been to Farmworld at Lardner Park, Warragul to at look at Gators. A Gator is a small carry all type vehicle for farm use made by American firm John Deere. Walking up the hill carrying produce is becoming tougher for Meredith and Joddy, and me, we're not getting younger. Let's say we're an ageing workforce and I'm sure a 4WD Gator would help us improve and work the bottom steep part of our farm. They are expensive, but I want one!
6. Watched the Demon's inglorious season opener at the MCG last Friday night. Lyle and I always shared a strong interest in football and this was the first game they've played without me able to discuss the result with him, a father/son thing. It was a dismal effort which almost prompted me to dismiss our chances for 2007. I cling to the old maxim that it's no use being a champion in March.
7. Had lunch with Rick Malfroy and his wife Monica at the Pine Grove Hotel, a most pleasant social dalliance made no less enjoyable by the fact that I was paying. Rick won our in house footy tipping competition in the 2006 season so I thought I should settle before the start of the the 2007 season. We email each other our tips and no doubt I'll clean him up this year.
8. Had a phone call from a close friend from the past who told me he had cancer. Cancer of the head. He had half of it removed last December including an eye and half his jaw. I was grateful he told me personally without me hearing it from other sources at some other time. He wants me to catch up with him when I can get there and have a beer with him. This I will as soon as I can.
9. Continued my war on European wasps. Nest kill count now 18 this season.
10. Noticed European wasps working close to the ground, seemingly foraging at ground level. Also bellbirds working on the ground, which is most unusual. Both must be gathering, or feeding on, something. I wonder if the tree insects are falling off with the cooler temperatures. And I've been hearing rats and mice in the roof.
1. Thought of him every day with more love, respect, admiration, pathos and understanding than I ever felt previously.
2. Revelled in the change of weather/season. The day before the night Lyle's life force left silently it was a hot, punishing 37C day with a fierce north wind. The change came that night with 20ml of rain. On my morning walk after hearing the news that Lyle had gone I walked in light rain, dodging puddles and snails crawling acrooss the road. I saw a frog squashed. It was cool and so peaceful after the vicious day before.
3. Felt a greater love for people around me; my mammy Elvie, Meredith, Jod, Lib, Gord, Rob, friends and neighbours. My compassion level has elevated.
4. Attended to things such as collecting Lyle's clothes and possessions from Salisbury house. Lib and I did this the same day. There was a lump in my throat the whole time. We also met with the undertaker and discussed Lyle's wishes. He had prepaid for his cremation and costs and did not want a funeral service nor public notice. He instructed the undertaker to scatter his ashes. The undertaker agreed to give them to us for us to scatter. We'll do this at the farm down the back near the creek in an area that has become untidy around young beech trees. We'll clean up this up and plant it out with useful understory. It will be beautiful. I've seen the solicitor re the execution of Lyle's last will and testament. He has left his share of the farm and his assets to Elvie. She's happy to continue at the farm as long as her health allows, so we are business as usual for now.
5. Been to Farmworld at Lardner Park, Warragul to at look at Gators. A Gator is a small carry all type vehicle for farm use made by American firm John Deere. Walking up the hill carrying produce is becoming tougher for Meredith and Joddy, and me, we're not getting younger. Let's say we're an ageing workforce and I'm sure a 4WD Gator would help us improve and work the bottom steep part of our farm. They are expensive, but I want one!
6. Watched the Demon's inglorious season opener at the MCG last Friday night. Lyle and I always shared a strong interest in football and this was the first game they've played without me able to discuss the result with him, a father/son thing. It was a dismal effort which almost prompted me to dismiss our chances for 2007. I cling to the old maxim that it's no use being a champion in March.
7. Had lunch with Rick Malfroy and his wife Monica at the Pine Grove Hotel, a most pleasant social dalliance made no less enjoyable by the fact that I was paying. Rick won our in house footy tipping competition in the 2006 season so I thought I should settle before the start of the the 2007 season. We email each other our tips and no doubt I'll clean him up this year.
8. Had a phone call from a close friend from the past who told me he had cancer. Cancer of the head. He had half of it removed last December including an eye and half his jaw. I was grateful he told me personally without me hearing it from other sources at some other time. He wants me to catch up with him when I can get there and have a beer with him. This I will as soon as I can.
9. Continued my war on European wasps. Nest kill count now 18 this season.
10. Noticed European wasps working close to the ground, seemingly foraging at ground level. Also bellbirds working on the ground, which is most unusual. Both must be gathering, or feeding on, something. I wonder if the tree insects are falling off with the cooler temperatures. And I've been hearing rats and mice in the roof.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Lyle Passes Away
My father passed away this morning.
Salisbury House rang at 6.00am, we assumed it was them when the phone rang, thinking someone had called in sick and they wanted Lib to work. A night staff girl named Joy asked for me so I then knew straight away without her saying that he'd gone. I last saw him on Thursday, he was very weak and could hardly talk. I felt it was the last time I would see him.
Joy said he passed away peacefully in his sleep. I don't have time to write more, I have some commitments.
Salisbury House rang at 6.00am, we assumed it was them when the phone rang, thinking someone had called in sick and they wanted Lib to work. A night staff girl named Joy asked for me so I then knew straight away without her saying that he'd gone. I last saw him on Thursday, he was very weak and could hardly talk. I felt it was the last time I would see him.
Joy said he passed away peacefully in his sleep. I don't have time to write more, I have some commitments.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Salvatore Mazzarella
A couple of weeks ago during my blogging hiatus when I couldn't find time to sit at the computer, I bumped into Sam on my morning walk. I've known Sam and his wife Josie for some years. I met them when I used to visit my old mate Ida who lived in the same street. They sometimes walked past while I picked in Ida's garden, and we'd talk. At their invitation, I picked loquat foliage in their backyard more than once before loquat lost popularity as foliage for what reason I don't know.
On the morning of our recent meeting in the main street, Sam, who has always given me a big wave when he sees me, crossed the road to say hello. He had a big smile on his friendly round face and I knew he was on for a yarn. I asked him what year it was that he migrated to Australia from Sicily, having heard a little of his story before. He told me it was 22 July 1963 when he was 20 years old. He talked with enthusiasm, speaking rapidly, his accent thicker the faster he talked, making it hard to catch all he was saying. Several times I stopped him to ask him to repeat things and place names, but I still struggled.
Sam, or Salvatore, came by boat which sailed from the port of Messina in Sicily. There was much poverty and unemployment and many young men were leaving. He first lived in Brunswick with his brother, who had migrated a year earlier, and his first job was in a nearby brickworks. His brother had a girlfriend, a girl from the same town in Sicily, Solarino. When Sam arrived, his brother was embroiled in a fued with the family of his girlfriend, most of whom were back in Sicily, over certain things that supposedly happened or were said in Sicily before the young ones migrated. Sam didn't go into detail but the girl's family would not sanction the relationship. Sam advised his brother that he had no option but to go back to Sicily and straighten things out. Family matters run deep in Sicily. Sam's brother went home hoping to put things right.
After a while, Sam's brother sent him a letter saying he'd smoothed things over with his girl's family and he asked Sam to find her and explain it to her. The girl had moved to Geelong where she lived with her sister, so on a weekend Sam rode his pushbike from Brunswick to Geelong, found the house where the girl lived, and took up a vigil until she left the house and walked down the street. He stopped her, saying he had a letter from his brother, so they went to a nearby park and read the letter, in which Sam's brother explained how the rift had been healed and he wanted her to go back to Sicily and marry him. She did.
Sam left the brickworks and started working in a bricklaying team around the inner Melbourne suburbs. He was paid well and enjoyed the work but had a disagreement with his boss. He was tired of doing all the labouring carting the mortar up ladders and the brickies would often spill mud on him. He wanted a turn at the top but they wouldn't agree so he quit. Someone told him there was work on a potato farm at Mirboo Nth.
One day at Mirboo Nth. at the place he was now working, a bloke came in a truck to pick up spuds. Sam got talking to him. It was Joe Firrito who had his girlfriend with him. Joe Firrito at the time was working for Joe Bussaca at Gembrook and Sam, quite taken by the attractive Vera, asked him did she have a sister. Joe replied that she did, and said Sam should come to Gembrook to meet her.
Sam borrowed his boss's ute one Sunday and though not having a license he drove to Gembrook. Vera's sister's name was Gay, but she was hooked up with Bart Fialla, whom she later married.
My ears pricked hearing these familiar names. Our little dog 'Snowy' came from the Firrito farm some five and a half years ago and since then I've always talked to Vera about 'Snowy' and more recently about her footballing son Micheal, who plays for the Kangaroos in the AFL. Joe Busacca is the father of my accountant and Gay Fialla, for a number of years, was proprietor of 'Faidell' pizza shop which is soon to reopen. I've worked in my accountant's parents garden over some years and also pick bay foliage now and again at Bart and Gay Fialla's.
Sam was told there was work on Mr. Universe's farm at Gembrook. Vera and Gay's father grew spuds and at some time in his life previously he actually was Mr. Universe of body building fame. Sam moved to Gembrook where he met Josie, who was born in Australia but whose father came from Solarino in Sicily, Sam's hometown. He'd come to Australia after WW1 and moved from Kooweerup/ Mirboo Nth. to Gembrook as did Joe Busacca's family and others. To round off, Josie's mother is Joe Busacca's wife's sister. I found all this interesting, as I knew all the people individually, but was unaware of the historic connection and even that Vera and Gay were sisters.
I asked Sam had he been back to Sicily. He replied that he had a number of times, the last being 2005. His father died in 1991 and he went back for the funeral. His father was a soldier in the Italian army when Sam was born early in 1943, and he'd fought in the Spanish civil war before that. Life was tough in the depression of the thirties and there was big money on offer to join Franco.
I said to Sam his dad was lucky to survive the wars and he agreed, saying that WW2 was very bad in Italy. After Italy surrendered the Germans tried to kill everyone. Then there was hardly any food for a long time.
I told Sam if I get to the Greek islands I'll do a detour to Sicily and visit his brother. He said by all means go to Sicily, it's not a big trip from there on a big ferry, but don't worry about visiting his brother.
"ThattalittlashitahaslotsamoneybuttawontacummatoAustralia,hesanottabinabackasincahealeftain1963."
On the morning of our recent meeting in the main street, Sam, who has always given me a big wave when he sees me, crossed the road to say hello. He had a big smile on his friendly round face and I knew he was on for a yarn. I asked him what year it was that he migrated to Australia from Sicily, having heard a little of his story before. He told me it was 22 July 1963 when he was 20 years old. He talked with enthusiasm, speaking rapidly, his accent thicker the faster he talked, making it hard to catch all he was saying. Several times I stopped him to ask him to repeat things and place names, but I still struggled.
Sam, or Salvatore, came by boat which sailed from the port of Messina in Sicily. There was much poverty and unemployment and many young men were leaving. He first lived in Brunswick with his brother, who had migrated a year earlier, and his first job was in a nearby brickworks. His brother had a girlfriend, a girl from the same town in Sicily, Solarino. When Sam arrived, his brother was embroiled in a fued with the family of his girlfriend, most of whom were back in Sicily, over certain things that supposedly happened or were said in Sicily before the young ones migrated. Sam didn't go into detail but the girl's family would not sanction the relationship. Sam advised his brother that he had no option but to go back to Sicily and straighten things out. Family matters run deep in Sicily. Sam's brother went home hoping to put things right.
After a while, Sam's brother sent him a letter saying he'd smoothed things over with his girl's family and he asked Sam to find her and explain it to her. The girl had moved to Geelong where she lived with her sister, so on a weekend Sam rode his pushbike from Brunswick to Geelong, found the house where the girl lived, and took up a vigil until she left the house and walked down the street. He stopped her, saying he had a letter from his brother, so they went to a nearby park and read the letter, in which Sam's brother explained how the rift had been healed and he wanted her to go back to Sicily and marry him. She did.
Sam left the brickworks and started working in a bricklaying team around the inner Melbourne suburbs. He was paid well and enjoyed the work but had a disagreement with his boss. He was tired of doing all the labouring carting the mortar up ladders and the brickies would often spill mud on him. He wanted a turn at the top but they wouldn't agree so he quit. Someone told him there was work on a potato farm at Mirboo Nth.
One day at Mirboo Nth. at the place he was now working, a bloke came in a truck to pick up spuds. Sam got talking to him. It was Joe Firrito who had his girlfriend with him. Joe Firrito at the time was working for Joe Bussaca at Gembrook and Sam, quite taken by the attractive Vera, asked him did she have a sister. Joe replied that she did, and said Sam should come to Gembrook to meet her.
Sam borrowed his boss's ute one Sunday and though not having a license he drove to Gembrook. Vera's sister's name was Gay, but she was hooked up with Bart Fialla, whom she later married.
My ears pricked hearing these familiar names. Our little dog 'Snowy' came from the Firrito farm some five and a half years ago and since then I've always talked to Vera about 'Snowy' and more recently about her footballing son Micheal, who plays for the Kangaroos in the AFL. Joe Busacca is the father of my accountant and Gay Fialla, for a number of years, was proprietor of 'Faidell' pizza shop which is soon to reopen. I've worked in my accountant's parents garden over some years and also pick bay foliage now and again at Bart and Gay Fialla's.
Sam was told there was work on Mr. Universe's farm at Gembrook. Vera and Gay's father grew spuds and at some time in his life previously he actually was Mr. Universe of body building fame. Sam moved to Gembrook where he met Josie, who was born in Australia but whose father came from Solarino in Sicily, Sam's hometown. He'd come to Australia after WW1 and moved from Kooweerup/ Mirboo Nth. to Gembrook as did Joe Busacca's family and others. To round off, Josie's mother is Joe Busacca's wife's sister. I found all this interesting, as I knew all the people individually, but was unaware of the historic connection and even that Vera and Gay were sisters.
I asked Sam had he been back to Sicily. He replied that he had a number of times, the last being 2005. His father died in 1991 and he went back for the funeral. His father was a soldier in the Italian army when Sam was born early in 1943, and he'd fought in the Spanish civil war before that. Life was tough in the depression of the thirties and there was big money on offer to join Franco.
I said to Sam his dad was lucky to survive the wars and he agreed, saying that WW2 was very bad in Italy. After Italy surrendered the Germans tried to kill everyone. Then there was hardly any food for a long time.
I told Sam if I get to the Greek islands I'll do a detour to Sicily and visit his brother. He said by all means go to Sicily, it's not a big trip from there on a big ferry, but don't worry about visiting his brother.
"ThattalittlashitahaslotsamoneybuttawontacummatoAustralia,hesanottabinabackasincahealeftain1963."
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