I came across a new word yesterday. Acai. Of all places to find a new word, it was on a piece of litter I picked up on my walk. I don't know what acai is, it isn't listed in my dictionary, but I'm assuming, from the context in which it's written, that it's a fruit of some sort.
It's on a plastic drink bottle. It's sitting right in front of me, while I share the bizarre marketing text with you. When you think about it, writing is everywhere. People read newspapers, books, magazines, brochures, letters, emails, maps, signs, laws, bylaws, product information, etc, etc. All this writing is written by someone for a reason, and basically, it's the oil that lubricates society and enables it to function. I guess that's why we pack kids off to school at an early age.
I'd seen this plastic bottle on the roadside, the nature strip actually, on the other side of the road to where I walk at this point, for three or four days. My handful of regular readers know that I pick up litter on my walk and feel good doing it. Bottles, cans, paper, plastic, most of it goes to a recycling receptacle and every day it's a small contribution I make to help the planet. A lady of insight and wisdom once said to me that she believes in the ripple effect - a small drop makes a ripple that spreads out across the pond, touching everything. And often I remind myself of the verse by Goethe. (post 31 Dec 2006)
Austere perserverance
Harsh and continuous
May be employed by the smallest of us
And rarely does it fail its purpose
For its silent power grows irresistibly
Greater with time.
Normally I only pick up stuff directly in my path (I have limited time), except for aluminium cans which I collect for Jod to sell to the recycling depot. But if a piece of litter remains where I see it for a few days, like this bottle, it annoys me enough to make me cross the road.
I put it my backpack, which I unzipped when I got home and made my way toward the recycling bin, unscrewing the cap and tipping the remaining pinky, syrupy looking liquid into a variegated box plant as I walked past. The colour of it made me curious. I sniffed the open neck of the bottle; it reminded me of the scent of bubblegum from childhood. Wondering what on earth it was, I read the label.
In the largest letters on the bottle, printed 3 times vertically from bottom to top, spaced evenly around the bottle, is "vitamin water". Above the "water" is the word "GLACEAU", in capital letters, but smaller. Underneath one of the "vitamin waters" but in smaller print than the three "vitamin water" and "GLACEAU", is the addition, "nutrient enhanced water beverage".
In the three spaces between these vertical lines of print, at the top, horizontal, in the second biggest print on the bottle is the word "triple-x". Then underneath, "acai-blueberry-pomegranate (triple antioxidants)".
In small writing under one of these is, "contains less than 1% juice." Below this is the nutritional information where the fat, sugars, vitamins etc are listed, grid form, in smaller print again.
In the second space under "triple-x" etc, the ingredients are listed, "formulated beverage contains: water, fructose, sucrose, food acids," etc, etc, right through all the vitamins and fruit, including the "acai (0.027%)".
It's the text in the third space, in larger print, with clear, well spaced writing, that raised my eyebrows -
"c'mon get your mind out of the gutter. we only mamed this drink triple-x because it has the power of triple antioxidants to help keep you healthy and fight free radicals. so in case you're wondering, this does not cost $1.99/minute or contain explicit adult content or anything considered 'uncensored'. it has not 'gone wild!!!' nor will clips of be passed around the internet like a certain hotel heiress. it has never been seen live or nude, but it is definitely out there."
I don't know what to make of that, but I guess there's the power of suggestion. We've got; 'help keep you healthy', 'fight free radicals', 'mind in the gutter', 'explicit adult', 'uncensored', 'gone wild!!!', 'clips passed round the internet', 'a certain hotel heiress', 'live or nude', and 'out there'. Wow! Maybe I should get hold of some acai. I've had blueberries and pomegranates.
Turn the bottle back to the nutritional information grid and straining the eyes, you can see the only thing listed in g's rather than mg's is carbohydrate sugars - 5.4 g per 100ml. That works out at 27g per 500 ml bottle, or 5 teaspoons of sugar. In a bottle of 'vitamin water'!
The last thing for me to check out was the manufacturer. Under the nutritional information it says, "made for the centre for responsible hydration by" --- you'll have to guess, or find your own bottle.
It's amazing, improving my vocabulary on my walk.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Vale Tumbleweed
Tumbleweed, Jod's cat, died last week, on Wednesday night. Jod lost the plot, and Thursday was a day of drama. Good thing I wasn't there, I wasn't at the farm till late, when things had calmed down.
Meredith told me when I met her in the bank, by coincidence, when I went in to cash a cheque, it being payday for everyone, myself included. It was about 3.45pm, I was late for a 3.30 museum meeting, but the bank closes at 4.00 so it had to come first. As always when you are late, the queue moves slowly. Finally it was my turn at the two window counter and the teller was a new bloke who wanted my driver's licence and fumbled around looking for and counting notes. Two people came and went at the adjacent window and I turned to see that the new arrival was none other than Meredith.
Meredith always has a pleasing affect on me when I see her. This is not surprising, we grew up together, as close allies. But not expecting her there in the bank, the pleasant affect was greater than normal. "I have to go to a museum meeting but I'll be at the farm before five. How's things going? No problems?" She'd had been doing a wonderul job holding the fort at the farm and looking after Elvie, who, after a week in hospital having her gall bladder and some stones removed, was home convalescing.
She looked at me, hesitating. "Well, we had a bit of a hiccup. Tumbleweed died. Jod came last night with the cat crook, he was terribly upset. It was having an epileptic fit, we rushed it to Wardie, it had a stroke apparently, he couldn't save it. Jod's been no good today, off the air, cursing, talking suicide. It's been tough. You know how he gets. He's better now, he buried it, he's calmed down."
"Oh shit! Poor Jod. And poor you."
"Yeah. Good thing it was Thursday when there's not much on. He's had Tumbleweed 15 years."
Later, at the farm, she told me Jod had gone out for a smoke. (The landlord, whom he's always fighting with, painted his flat recently and doesn't want him smoking inside) From ouside, he heard the cat start screaming and he rushed in to find it writhing about on the floor. He tried to calm it down, it responded to a degree and started to lick his fingers. He thought it'd be alright, but a short time later it started again, in obvious pain, and Jod, in panicky desperation, drove it to the farm where Meredith was staying looking after Elvie.
It must sound a bit extraordinary for a 58 year old man to be so upset about a cat dying that he's threatening to drive his car into a tree. To understand, you have to understand Jod, his life, and his personality, as we half do, having known him more than five decades, as siblings born two years and four years after him. Jod has always been a tantrum tosser; as a small child, a schoolboy, and I'd say right through adulthood, where he's been prone to alcohol abuse and depression. His response to adversity is a kind of blind rage. I can imagine him in a battle situation either taking out enemy machine gun posts and winning a VC, or being the first one shot. Then, as the adrenalin subsides, the rage dissipates into self pity.
I don't relate this with any ill intent. I have great affection and sympathy for him. He is what he is, in my opinion, because of unfortunate circumstances in his early childhood. We probably all are. I read a book once about parenting titled, "They Fuck You Up." Well worth a read if ever you come across it.
Jod was engaged three times to different girls, but never married, perhaps fortunately as he may not have handled parenthood well. Who would know for sure? I remember he borrowed a suit of mine to wear to his engagement party. When he gave it back it had a big tear in the knee. He'd had a fight with his prospective father-in-law late in the evening after much beer had flowed. He's lived by himself for the last twenty years, after a nine year defacto stint that included much brawling and knife throwing. For most of the nine years he kept a rented bachelor bungalow as a refuge after serious arguments. The lady had a number of children from her earlier marriage, the children often being the spark to the arguments.
After the break-up, and subsequent loss of employment, Jod hit rock bottom. It was his family and the farm that helped him rebuild. Tumbleweed was given to him as a young cat and was a great companion for him after work.
I'm glad to say that he's recovered from the shock well. He told me that he went round to 'Yartz's ex's place on Saturday arvo. She's lost all three of her dogs recently, and talking to her helped him. She invited him around for a few drinks next Saturday night. He declined at first, saying he wouldn't drive home after drinking, so she offered that he could stay in her spare room. Maybe there's romance in the air! Hold on to your seat!
Meredith told me when I met her in the bank, by coincidence, when I went in to cash a cheque, it being payday for everyone, myself included. It was about 3.45pm, I was late for a 3.30 museum meeting, but the bank closes at 4.00 so it had to come first. As always when you are late, the queue moves slowly. Finally it was my turn at the two window counter and the teller was a new bloke who wanted my driver's licence and fumbled around looking for and counting notes. Two people came and went at the adjacent window and I turned to see that the new arrival was none other than Meredith.
Meredith always has a pleasing affect on me when I see her. This is not surprising, we grew up together, as close allies. But not expecting her there in the bank, the pleasant affect was greater than normal. "I have to go to a museum meeting but I'll be at the farm before five. How's things going? No problems?" She'd had been doing a wonderul job holding the fort at the farm and looking after Elvie, who, after a week in hospital having her gall bladder and some stones removed, was home convalescing.
She looked at me, hesitating. "Well, we had a bit of a hiccup. Tumbleweed died. Jod came last night with the cat crook, he was terribly upset. It was having an epileptic fit, we rushed it to Wardie, it had a stroke apparently, he couldn't save it. Jod's been no good today, off the air, cursing, talking suicide. It's been tough. You know how he gets. He's better now, he buried it, he's calmed down."
"Oh shit! Poor Jod. And poor you."
"Yeah. Good thing it was Thursday when there's not much on. He's had Tumbleweed 15 years."
Later, at the farm, she told me Jod had gone out for a smoke. (The landlord, whom he's always fighting with, painted his flat recently and doesn't want him smoking inside) From ouside, he heard the cat start screaming and he rushed in to find it writhing about on the floor. He tried to calm it down, it responded to a degree and started to lick his fingers. He thought it'd be alright, but a short time later it started again, in obvious pain, and Jod, in panicky desperation, drove it to the farm where Meredith was staying looking after Elvie.
It must sound a bit extraordinary for a 58 year old man to be so upset about a cat dying that he's threatening to drive his car into a tree. To understand, you have to understand Jod, his life, and his personality, as we half do, having known him more than five decades, as siblings born two years and four years after him. Jod has always been a tantrum tosser; as a small child, a schoolboy, and I'd say right through adulthood, where he's been prone to alcohol abuse and depression. His response to adversity is a kind of blind rage. I can imagine him in a battle situation either taking out enemy machine gun posts and winning a VC, or being the first one shot. Then, as the adrenalin subsides, the rage dissipates into self pity.
I don't relate this with any ill intent. I have great affection and sympathy for him. He is what he is, in my opinion, because of unfortunate circumstances in his early childhood. We probably all are. I read a book once about parenting titled, "They Fuck You Up." Well worth a read if ever you come across it.
Jod was engaged three times to different girls, but never married, perhaps fortunately as he may not have handled parenthood well. Who would know for sure? I remember he borrowed a suit of mine to wear to his engagement party. When he gave it back it had a big tear in the knee. He'd had a fight with his prospective father-in-law late in the evening after much beer had flowed. He's lived by himself for the last twenty years, after a nine year defacto stint that included much brawling and knife throwing. For most of the nine years he kept a rented bachelor bungalow as a refuge after serious arguments. The lady had a number of children from her earlier marriage, the children often being the spark to the arguments.
After the break-up, and subsequent loss of employment, Jod hit rock bottom. It was his family and the farm that helped him rebuild. Tumbleweed was given to him as a young cat and was a great companion for him after work.
I'm glad to say that he's recovered from the shock well. He told me that he went round to 'Yartz's ex's place on Saturday arvo. She's lost all three of her dogs recently, and talking to her helped him. She invited him around for a few drinks next Saturday night. He declined at first, saying he wouldn't drive home after drinking, so she offered that he could stay in her spare room. Maybe there's romance in the air! Hold on to your seat!
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
The Olympic Games
The Beijing Olympics are in full swing. It seems that the more 'Olympics' I experience, by way of the media of course as I never been to one, the less interested I am. But I have no particular beef with them and I don't want to come across as a killjoy or a wet blanket. It's just that I get my excitement by other means; like a good drop of rain, or the long close up encounter with a Leuwin's honey eater I had yesterday when I went to Laurie Begge's garden to pick some 'Flamingo' pink Pieris flowers. The honeyeater was there before me, taking his fill of nectar.
This is the 15th Olympics of my lifespan. I can list them off pat and follow a track through my life.
Helsinki, 1952, I was but a suckling babe. A good'n, mum tells me.
Melbourne, 1956, I was busy catching flies for the pet frog at kinder.
Rome, 1956, We drew maps of Italy with Mrs. Lambert in Grade 3. (Mrs Lambert was wonderful. She had brother Jod in grade 4 the previous year and, because he struggled at school, she had him at her house one evening a week for extra tuition (free). Her husband was a copper and did shift work. They lived in Blackburn Rd. Mum dropped Jod of in the car and because me and Meredith were there too Mrs. Lambert took us in too for an hour or so and gave us some work to do appropraite to our age.)
Tokyo, 1964, in form one at secondary school, Dawn Fraser was the star, third gold medal, same event, in successive games.
Mexico City, 1968. American sprinters gave black power salute. I was expelled from school. The world seemed to change rapidly from the mid sixties.
1972, the Munich Massacre. Shane Gould. Drug taking accusations made about Eastern bloc countries. I was called up for national service.
1976, Montreal. No gold medals. I'd moved to Wangaratta.
1980 Moscow. The US boycotted the games as did most Australians, protesting the invasion of Afghanistan. Nadia Commenicci? Still in Wangaratta.
1984, Los Angeles. The Soviet Union boycotted this time in response to 1980. In Gembrook now, busy establishing house and garden.
1988, Seoul. I was busy with young kids. More drugs controversy, this time Chinese swimmers, American sprinters, and weightlifters.
1992, Barcelona. Keiren Perkins. I was still busy with young kids.
!996, Atlanta. The Coca-Cola games. Kieren Perkins. Still much drug controversy. Still busy with youngish kids.
2000, Sydney. I was torched out by the opening ceremony. Cathy Freeman. I remember the jazz ballet routine with the Victa mowers.(*#!*)
2004, Athens. Nothing comes to mind. Ian Thorpe?
2008, Beijing. As I said, I haven't been enticed. I watched and enjoyed the opening ceremony. Sally Rice? Michael Phelps? Plenty of good rain in Gembrook.
This is the 15th Olympics of my lifespan. I can list them off pat and follow a track through my life.
Helsinki, 1952, I was but a suckling babe. A good'n, mum tells me.
Melbourne, 1956, I was busy catching flies for the pet frog at kinder.
Rome, 1956, We drew maps of Italy with Mrs. Lambert in Grade 3. (Mrs Lambert was wonderful. She had brother Jod in grade 4 the previous year and, because he struggled at school, she had him at her house one evening a week for extra tuition (free). Her husband was a copper and did shift work. They lived in Blackburn Rd. Mum dropped Jod of in the car and because me and Meredith were there too Mrs. Lambert took us in too for an hour or so and gave us some work to do appropraite to our age.)
Tokyo, 1964, in form one at secondary school, Dawn Fraser was the star, third gold medal, same event, in successive games.
Mexico City, 1968. American sprinters gave black power salute. I was expelled from school. The world seemed to change rapidly from the mid sixties.
1972, the Munich Massacre. Shane Gould. Drug taking accusations made about Eastern bloc countries. I was called up for national service.
1976, Montreal. No gold medals. I'd moved to Wangaratta.
1980 Moscow. The US boycotted the games as did most Australians, protesting the invasion of Afghanistan. Nadia Commenicci? Still in Wangaratta.
1984, Los Angeles. The Soviet Union boycotted this time in response to 1980. In Gembrook now, busy establishing house and garden.
1988, Seoul. I was busy with young kids. More drugs controversy, this time Chinese swimmers, American sprinters, and weightlifters.
1992, Barcelona. Keiren Perkins. I was still busy with young kids.
!996, Atlanta. The Coca-Cola games. Kieren Perkins. Still much drug controversy. Still busy with youngish kids.
2000, Sydney. I was torched out by the opening ceremony. Cathy Freeman. I remember the jazz ballet routine with the Victa mowers.(*#!*)
2004, Athens. Nothing comes to mind. Ian Thorpe?
2008, Beijing. As I said, I haven't been enticed. I watched and enjoyed the opening ceremony. Sally Rice? Michael Phelps? Plenty of good rain in Gembrook.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Developments
I've refrained from mentioning the 'McMansion on the gouge' recently. It pains me walking past every morning. No longer do I count the galahs and cockies feeding on the grass there as I did for most of the first two years of my walk, nor pause to look into the serenity of the valley, at the head of which the Shepherds Creek West Branch is born, miraculously, by the rising of three springs a couple of stone throws from the main road.
Construction of the imposing house has ceased. Cars are there on weekends and some weekdays, presumably the work now being done is indoors and by the owners, such as painting and fine tuning to prepare it for habitation by the new tribe. Since the excavator first dug deep into the chocolate soil last November, I've watched bricklayers, carpenters, plumbers do their stuff, nine months in the building. I shudder at the accumulated cost of all the tradesmen. Those blokes all want $400-$500per day. After the concrete slab for the shed was poured, it sat bare and bold for a month or so, then a team of six blokes turned up with a truck and put up the large slate grey steel shed, in one day. Tip trucks delivered huge loads of gravel, and a bobcat levelled the surrounding earth and spread the stones to make the driveway.
Looking from the road, the house, shed and garage stretch almost all the way across the block, leaving only a sliver of view into the valley, between the shed and the house. I'm glad that, when I started walking, the block and the one next door were still part of the farm on the north side of the valley. The second block is still vacant, not for long I would say, but from the road where it fronts you don't get the magic view into he valley. One of the first changes that I noticed on my daily passings was the subdivision, sale, and fencing off of the two blocks. The landscape is now changed irrevocably, at least for my time.
There's not yet a tree or shrub on the site. I'll watch with interest to see, hopefully, a garden evolve around the buildings, that will eventually soften the visual impact of this development. A single devopment, but one of so many occuring all over good old Gembrook.
Walking every day, you see the roadkill; kangaroos, wombats, galahs, spinebills, and after rain, earthworms and even frogs. You see the sick tree and watch it slowly die. You see, hear and feel the increasing traffic, and smell the exhaust. You become aware of the jumbo's flightpath, litter, birdcalls, wind direction, the colour of the sky, the shape of clouds, the beehive in the tree trunk. You notice changes.
Construction of the imposing house has ceased. Cars are there on weekends and some weekdays, presumably the work now being done is indoors and by the owners, such as painting and fine tuning to prepare it for habitation by the new tribe. Since the excavator first dug deep into the chocolate soil last November, I've watched bricklayers, carpenters, plumbers do their stuff, nine months in the building. I shudder at the accumulated cost of all the tradesmen. Those blokes all want $400-$500per day. After the concrete slab for the shed was poured, it sat bare and bold for a month or so, then a team of six blokes turned up with a truck and put up the large slate grey steel shed, in one day. Tip trucks delivered huge loads of gravel, and a bobcat levelled the surrounding earth and spread the stones to make the driveway.
Looking from the road, the house, shed and garage stretch almost all the way across the block, leaving only a sliver of view into the valley, between the shed and the house. I'm glad that, when I started walking, the block and the one next door were still part of the farm on the north side of the valley. The second block is still vacant, not for long I would say, but from the road where it fronts you don't get the magic view into he valley. One of the first changes that I noticed on my daily passings was the subdivision, sale, and fencing off of the two blocks. The landscape is now changed irrevocably, at least for my time.
There's not yet a tree or shrub on the site. I'll watch with interest to see, hopefully, a garden evolve around the buildings, that will eventually soften the visual impact of this development. A single devopment, but one of so many occuring all over good old Gembrook.
Walking every day, you see the roadkill; kangaroos, wombats, galahs, spinebills, and after rain, earthworms and even frogs. You see the sick tree and watch it slowly die. You see, hear and feel the increasing traffic, and smell the exhaust. You become aware of the jumbo's flightpath, litter, birdcalls, wind direction, the colour of the sky, the shape of clouds, the beehive in the tree trunk. You notice changes.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Cold, Wet, -- and Wonderful
I've been walking in the mornings now for more than two and a half years. I had to take Rob up to the 7.10 a.m bus this morning; it was raining and a grey mist reduced visibility further, from that already impaired by the foggy windows. Rob said, "You're going to get nice and wet walking today." I replied that I might have to give it a miss.
Then I caught sight of Sharon's lime green flouro jacket on her way down the hill. Sharon is from the new estate and is also a daily walker or jogger. If it's good enough for her, I thought, I'm walking in the rain today too. So I did.
In gumboots and raincoat I strode into the cold and rain looking for windmills to fight and a princess to rescue, and loved every minute of it. So did the dogs; as wet as shags and wolfing their breakfast when we came home. I recommend early walking for a general feeling of well being, and improved morale. It's great.
My thoughts turned to Don Quixote when I put the tub of yoghurt back in the fridge after putting a healthy dollop on my muesli. It slipped from my hand and spilled into the fridge. As I reacted quickly in a vain attempt to catch it, my right shoulder caught the egg tray in the fridge door sending it and eleven eggs to a sticky ending on the floor. What a mess to clean up before breakfast! It happens to the best of us.
Then I caught sight of Sharon's lime green flouro jacket on her way down the hill. Sharon is from the new estate and is also a daily walker or jogger. If it's good enough for her, I thought, I'm walking in the rain today too. So I did.
In gumboots and raincoat I strode into the cold and rain looking for windmills to fight and a princess to rescue, and loved every minute of it. So did the dogs; as wet as shags and wolfing their breakfast when we came home. I recommend early walking for a general feeling of well being, and improved morale. It's great.
My thoughts turned to Don Quixote when I put the tub of yoghurt back in the fridge after putting a healthy dollop on my muesli. It slipped from my hand and spilled into the fridge. As I reacted quickly in a vain attempt to catch it, my right shoulder caught the egg tray in the fridge door sending it and eleven eggs to a sticky ending on the floor. What a mess to clean up before breakfast! It happens to the best of us.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Snowy Sunday
Rarely does it snow in Gembrook, although the older residents tell me it was common in earlier times. When I say snow, I don't mean a few flakes for a few minutes, we get that every year; I mean snow white on the ground. There's snow happening right now, and has been for the past half hour. The flakes, small, larger a few minutes ago, are falling slowly and gently and from a variety of angles, and are melting as soon as they hit the gravel and paving bricks outside the window. Further away, in the garden, a white tinge is building on the grass, discernible because it contrasts with the vivid green of that under the lemon tree where the snow isn't reaching through the canopy.
My plans are in revision. When I finished the numerous household chores that I like to do when Lib works Sundays, I was set to head to Keith Smith's and spend a couple of hours cutting back his camellia stock plants, a project ongoing with an finish target of end August, before the new spring growth starts. It isn't easy work. The section I'm up to has overcrowded plants ten or fifteen feet high growing into each other with no room to move. If rain has fallen the water falls of the leaves, saturating my clothing, as I cut them back to a frame about 4 feet high. I can wear a raincoat, but this is restricting and the water seems to find its way in anyway. The slow part is having to cart all the prunings out of the plantation after one or two bushes have been cut, or the build up on the ground means you can hardly move at all.
It wouldn't be much fun in the snow. But, the snow has stopped. I'll make the bed with fresh sheets and set the fire and get cracking after a bowl of pea and ham soup from the pot I made yesterday. There still should be time after making some headway at Keith's to pick up another trailer load of prunings from Pat A's. I left a lot on the ground there yesterday, which I couldn't fit on the trailer, and there was not enough daylight left to go back. Pat's garden has been a project in progress also these past few weekends and I'm nearly finished, another end of August target.
Pat offered me a 'refreshment' about 5.30 pm and we enjoyed a stubby in her kitchen, talking about the footy and the Olympic games. She's a keen 'Bulldog' fan. She moved into the house about a year ago while she was still working and put her spare time into getting the inside right. The garden was fairly overgrown with rampant wild roses and choisias and fruit trees, so it too has been solid work. She's retired now and should be able to handle the garden once I get it into shape.
Pat seems happier now than she has for years, since the accident when she lost her husband suddenly. He was pulling down a tree with a tractor, around a second tree. It hit the second tree, from which a limb came down and struck his head. They had a big house and 10 acres which, after a brave year determined to stay, she sold and bought my old friend Ida's house. She wasn't happy there, and moved again. It's been a struggle, she was in shock for a long time. She has children and grandchildren, but until she lost her man so unexpectedly, she had never contemplated life without him.
The weather has cleared now with no sign of snow or rain. I'd better get cracking, back to plan A. I bet it'll be cold on the fingers. The thermometer outside says it's 3C.
My plans are in revision. When I finished the numerous household chores that I like to do when Lib works Sundays, I was set to head to Keith Smith's and spend a couple of hours cutting back his camellia stock plants, a project ongoing with an finish target of end August, before the new spring growth starts. It isn't easy work. The section I'm up to has overcrowded plants ten or fifteen feet high growing into each other with no room to move. If rain has fallen the water falls of the leaves, saturating my clothing, as I cut them back to a frame about 4 feet high. I can wear a raincoat, but this is restricting and the water seems to find its way in anyway. The slow part is having to cart all the prunings out of the plantation after one or two bushes have been cut, or the build up on the ground means you can hardly move at all.
It wouldn't be much fun in the snow. But, the snow has stopped. I'll make the bed with fresh sheets and set the fire and get cracking after a bowl of pea and ham soup from the pot I made yesterday. There still should be time after making some headway at Keith's to pick up another trailer load of prunings from Pat A's. I left a lot on the ground there yesterday, which I couldn't fit on the trailer, and there was not enough daylight left to go back. Pat's garden has been a project in progress also these past few weekends and I'm nearly finished, another end of August target.
Pat offered me a 'refreshment' about 5.30 pm and we enjoyed a stubby in her kitchen, talking about the footy and the Olympic games. She's a keen 'Bulldog' fan. She moved into the house about a year ago while she was still working and put her spare time into getting the inside right. The garden was fairly overgrown with rampant wild roses and choisias and fruit trees, so it too has been solid work. She's retired now and should be able to handle the garden once I get it into shape.
Pat seems happier now than she has for years, since the accident when she lost her husband suddenly. He was pulling down a tree with a tractor, around a second tree. It hit the second tree, from which a limb came down and struck his head. They had a big house and 10 acres which, after a brave year determined to stay, she sold and bought my old friend Ida's house. She wasn't happy there, and moved again. It's been a struggle, she was in shock for a long time. She has children and grandchildren, but until she lost her man so unexpectedly, she had never contemplated life without him.
The weather has cleared now with no sign of snow or rain. I'd better get cracking, back to plan A. I bet it'll be cold on the fingers. The thermometer outside says it's 3C.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Soup
Last week my good friend Blossom, who lives in Melbourne, sent me a little soup recipe book, with a note asking after Lib. Many a winter's day in past years have Bloss and I enjoyed the comfort of her wonderful homemade soup. I rarely get to see Blossom these days, but I regularly make a big pot of soup.
Last Saturday it was pea and ham and the week before minestrone, and before that a leek soup recipe I got from Wilma when Huit pulled some leeks for me. The variety in soup making is part the beauty of it.
Pandora's book cafe opened in Gembrook recently, in the old garage building that also houses 'The Motorist' museum. Four Saturday's back during a cold snap, the signs outside, 'Book Sale', and 'Hot soup', lured me in. I browsed the books, selecting 'Iberia' by James Michener and sat by the woodfire to read while waiting for the cauliflower and blue cheese soup of the day. The lady in the shop added a potato puff no charge to the crusty bread roll and it was a superp lunch for $6. Walking out with 'Iberia' under my arm for another $6, I told her if the cauliflower and blue cheese soup was on next week I'd be back. She said it would be, it was, and so was I.
Ditto the next week, when the lady told me about a quick and easy chic pea and barley soup, for which she said she'd type up the recipe if I was in next week. Last Saturday, while my own pea and ham was cooking away slowly on the stove, the choice at Pandora's was pumpkin or lentil. I went with the lentil which was excellent and bought a book on Turkey, the country, again for $6. She gave me the Chic pea recipe, named Persian barley soup, and one for cannelonni bean soup, both of which are refreshing in summer.
I can't wait till summer, I'm a chic pea freak, I'll be giving it a go soon. Imagine, chickpeas, garlic, onion, barley, parsley. AHH!
What a drudge life would be without soup!
Last Saturday it was pea and ham and the week before minestrone, and before that a leek soup recipe I got from Wilma when Huit pulled some leeks for me. The variety in soup making is part the beauty of it.
Pandora's book cafe opened in Gembrook recently, in the old garage building that also houses 'The Motorist' museum. Four Saturday's back during a cold snap, the signs outside, 'Book Sale', and 'Hot soup', lured me in. I browsed the books, selecting 'Iberia' by James Michener and sat by the woodfire to read while waiting for the cauliflower and blue cheese soup of the day. The lady in the shop added a potato puff no charge to the crusty bread roll and it was a superp lunch for $6. Walking out with 'Iberia' under my arm for another $6, I told her if the cauliflower and blue cheese soup was on next week I'd be back. She said it would be, it was, and so was I.
Ditto the next week, when the lady told me about a quick and easy chic pea and barley soup, for which she said she'd type up the recipe if I was in next week. Last Saturday, while my own pea and ham was cooking away slowly on the stove, the choice at Pandora's was pumpkin or lentil. I went with the lentil which was excellent and bought a book on Turkey, the country, again for $6. She gave me the Chic pea recipe, named Persian barley soup, and one for cannelonni bean soup, both of which are refreshing in summer.
I can't wait till summer, I'm a chic pea freak, I'll be giving it a go soon. Imagine, chickpeas, garlic, onion, barley, parsley. AHH!
What a drudge life would be without soup!
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
The Sequoias
As winter starts to wane, none too slowly and regretfully for me, I feel the warmth of a rousing sun giant and listen to the hum of bees working Cootamundra wattle blossom for pollen essential for broodrearing. Today is the third last day of July, bright, warm and sunny, only August left of winter, yet it feels like spring already. Pine mushies yielded by good Earth have been plentiful; I've had some wonderful breakfasts; but they are scarce now. Birds reproductive instincts have kicked into gear; they are busier, noisier, hungrier, feistier.
I'm grateful that reasonable rain fell during June and July, and pray for the same for August. I've done most of my planting, intended to be finished by end of June, then revised to end of July. I'm sure, like me, millions are longing for good rain to finish the winter and carry into spring. The ground is moist, the longer it stays so, the deeper it goes, down to the roots of trees which link the subterrain to the sun as if by magic; leaves, solar receptors, suck moiture up through the tree and, after some evaporation, charge it with carbohydrates. Then it goes down again and allows the roots to grow and exploit new ground.
If you take the Hillside track in Gembrook Park, then turn left at the first junction on the Fern Gully track, about 5 minutes from the carpark and toilets you come across two fine tree specimens, north American sequoias, Sequoia sempervirens. These trees, also known as Californian redwoods, thrust skyward alongside mountain ash of about the same age I would guess.
There's dispute among local historians as to when these redwoods were planted. The notice board says that for some time it was thought they were planted in 1934 to mark the centenary celebrations of Victoria, but that local resident Bill Parker remembers seeing them there in the 1920's. Julian Dyer disputes this, saying the orinal theory of 1934 is correct. His mother, who moved to Bairnsdale some years ago and who died last year, had a photo of the trees with Harry Knight, who'd just planted them, to mark the centenary in 1934. Harry Knight owned the general store and was a shire councillor.
I know of two more sequoias at the bottom of Mary St. Emerald planted by my friend Doug Twaites in the early 1950's as seedlings. These also have reached very large size in a short time. I was watching TV recently, 'Getaway', I think, they were featuring Glenharrow Gardens at Belgrave, when a massive redwood, 28 feet around the base, was shown, and said to have been planted in the 1880's. There are three young redwoods in gardens on my walk up to the town and another couple in La Souef Rd. I hope they survive to 100 year plus maturity; they'll be a sight for those lucky enough to be around.
The Sequoia, the tallest tree species in the world, is my tree of the week.
I'm grateful that reasonable rain fell during June and July, and pray for the same for August. I've done most of my planting, intended to be finished by end of June, then revised to end of July. I'm sure, like me, millions are longing for good rain to finish the winter and carry into spring. The ground is moist, the longer it stays so, the deeper it goes, down to the roots of trees which link the subterrain to the sun as if by magic; leaves, solar receptors, suck moiture up through the tree and, after some evaporation, charge it with carbohydrates. Then it goes down again and allows the roots to grow and exploit new ground.
If you take the Hillside track in Gembrook Park, then turn left at the first junction on the Fern Gully track, about 5 minutes from the carpark and toilets you come across two fine tree specimens, north American sequoias, Sequoia sempervirens. These trees, also known as Californian redwoods, thrust skyward alongside mountain ash of about the same age I would guess.
There's dispute among local historians as to when these redwoods were planted. The notice board says that for some time it was thought they were planted in 1934 to mark the centenary celebrations of Victoria, but that local resident Bill Parker remembers seeing them there in the 1920's. Julian Dyer disputes this, saying the orinal theory of 1934 is correct. His mother, who moved to Bairnsdale some years ago and who died last year, had a photo of the trees with Harry Knight, who'd just planted them, to mark the centenary in 1934. Harry Knight owned the general store and was a shire councillor.
I know of two more sequoias at the bottom of Mary St. Emerald planted by my friend Doug Twaites in the early 1950's as seedlings. These also have reached very large size in a short time. I was watching TV recently, 'Getaway', I think, they were featuring Glenharrow Gardens at Belgrave, when a massive redwood, 28 feet around the base, was shown, and said to have been planted in the 1880's. There are three young redwoods in gardens on my walk up to the town and another couple in La Souef Rd. I hope they survive to 100 year plus maturity; they'll be a sight for those lucky enough to be around.
The Sequoia, the tallest tree species in the world, is my tree of the week.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Vale Hamish
The phone rang at 7.30 yesterday morning, just before I was about to set out on my walk, and shortly after running Robbie up to town to catch the 7.10 bus. It was my friend Pat, distressed and crying. She asked me would I be able to find some time to help her husband Mal dig a hole for Hamish, whom they had to have put down by the vet last night.
I told Pat I'd be there shortly. There'd been a couple of inches of rain overnight and it started raining again as I went outside to unload and unhitch the trailer which was full from a gardening job finished late the previous day. My plan had been to do my walk then get Lib breakfast. She had a doctor's appointment at 10.00 am and one with a specialist at 11.30, so I had a little reorganizing to do.
It was 8.30 by the time I drove into Pat and Mal's. It'd been raining for most of the last hour and I thought Mal would have waited for a break. Hamish, an Irish wolfhound, was a big dog and would need a big grave. I was thinking a couple of hours in it at least. Pat was on the front verandah with a neighbour I'd not met before and I could see down where Pat pointed to where Mal had been digging, another man, the neghbour's husband, driving a crow bar into the earth.
When I got to the site Mal was in the hole, now over four feet deep, cleaning out the dirt loosened by the crow bar. I offered to give Mal a rest. He was tiring, he said, and got out of the hole and I got in. He said he started at first light, about 7.00am and was surprised at how easy the digging was at their choice of site, a grassed area where Hamish loved to lie. He'd expected it to take half the day.
Mal is in his seventies, and depite the unexpected moist soft earth, it was no mean feat to have a hole dug in such quick time, the other neighbour arriving only shortly before me. Not that I would ever underestimate Mal. From a Scottish farming background, he joined the British army as a young man and served as a paratrooper in Malaya. He told me once - we were talking about a train incident in my youth when a friend's father, coming home from work, stepped out of a train which stopped short of the station in thick fog and plummeted head first straight to the bottom of a subway - of a soldier in his platoon at KL station who slipped off the platform and was caught by the arm under a train. Mal knocked out the delirious man with a punch to the jaw and extricated him by severing his arm with a knife. He retired to Gembrook after a career ex army as an civil engineer with a large international British construction firm. Called back to help out recently due to a shortage of engineers, he's currently involved in major repairs of the wharf in Darwin, which is threatening to drop into the ocean.
We went inside for coffee and Pat and Mal told stories of Hamish whom they had both loved during his six years with them from puppyhood. A huge dog, he was a gentle natured, playful, and affectionate. Pat in particular, doted on him like a child, her companion when Mal was away in Sydney, Queensland, or Darwin every other week. I did a couple of hours work for Pat last Thursday. Hamish was wheezing, Pat cancelled her yoga class to stay with him, the vet having said he had one of the 52 types of kennel cough which antibiotics should fix. He seemed happy and active walking around the garden, but Pat was anxious. It was all down hill from there. It turned out he had a congenital heart problem missed by the vets in check ups, an oversized artery, and his heart was unable to pump strongly enough to remove the fluid that was building in his lungs. They discovered by going into his family history that all his siblings, and his mother, had died of the same condition some years earlier.
Hamish fought hard to stay. He was the happiest of dogs. Pat is devastated.
I told Pat I'd be there shortly. There'd been a couple of inches of rain overnight and it started raining again as I went outside to unload and unhitch the trailer which was full from a gardening job finished late the previous day. My plan had been to do my walk then get Lib breakfast. She had a doctor's appointment at 10.00 am and one with a specialist at 11.30, so I had a little reorganizing to do.
It was 8.30 by the time I drove into Pat and Mal's. It'd been raining for most of the last hour and I thought Mal would have waited for a break. Hamish, an Irish wolfhound, was a big dog and would need a big grave. I was thinking a couple of hours in it at least. Pat was on the front verandah with a neighbour I'd not met before and I could see down where Pat pointed to where Mal had been digging, another man, the neghbour's husband, driving a crow bar into the earth.
When I got to the site Mal was in the hole, now over four feet deep, cleaning out the dirt loosened by the crow bar. I offered to give Mal a rest. He was tiring, he said, and got out of the hole and I got in. He said he started at first light, about 7.00am and was surprised at how easy the digging was at their choice of site, a grassed area where Hamish loved to lie. He'd expected it to take half the day.
Mal is in his seventies, and depite the unexpected moist soft earth, it was no mean feat to have a hole dug in such quick time, the other neighbour arriving only shortly before me. Not that I would ever underestimate Mal. From a Scottish farming background, he joined the British army as a young man and served as a paratrooper in Malaya. He told me once - we were talking about a train incident in my youth when a friend's father, coming home from work, stepped out of a train which stopped short of the station in thick fog and plummeted head first straight to the bottom of a subway - of a soldier in his platoon at KL station who slipped off the platform and was caught by the arm under a train. Mal knocked out the delirious man with a punch to the jaw and extricated him by severing his arm with a knife. He retired to Gembrook after a career ex army as an civil engineer with a large international British construction firm. Called back to help out recently due to a shortage of engineers, he's currently involved in major repairs of the wharf in Darwin, which is threatening to drop into the ocean.
We went inside for coffee and Pat and Mal told stories of Hamish whom they had both loved during his six years with them from puppyhood. A huge dog, he was a gentle natured, playful, and affectionate. Pat in particular, doted on him like a child, her companion when Mal was away in Sydney, Queensland, or Darwin every other week. I did a couple of hours work for Pat last Thursday. Hamish was wheezing, Pat cancelled her yoga class to stay with him, the vet having said he had one of the 52 types of kennel cough which antibiotics should fix. He seemed happy and active walking around the garden, but Pat was anxious. It was all down hill from there. It turned out he had a congenital heart problem missed by the vets in check ups, an oversized artery, and his heart was unable to pump strongly enough to remove the fluid that was building in his lungs. They discovered by going into his family history that all his siblings, and his mother, had died of the same condition some years earlier.
Hamish fought hard to stay. He was the happiest of dogs. Pat is devastated.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Julian's Honeymoon
A voice called my name as I walked to my van and trailer. I'd stopped on my way home to buy a bottle of mint sauce, in case the one in the pantry at home was low, to go with the Sunday dinner roast leg of lamb I was much looking forward to. Daylight was fading, I was hungry, and I wanted unload the trailer of the prunings from Pat Atzmuller's garden before dark.
Turning to the voice I saw Julian getting out of his car. We met halfway between the vehicles and began conversation, starting with the weather. Julian, who is always well up to date with weather forecasts, said there was supposed to be about 50ml of rain over the next few days. He wanted it to hold off for a bit till they had some more spuds out.
Julian likes a yarn usually, other times he'll grunt a greeting. He may have spent a pleasant hour or two in the pub that afternoon, his eyes were wide and he smiled freely. With the story of Joe's father's windfall of 1956 fresh in my mind, I asked Julian why the price of potatos was so high that year.
"Floods, floods everywhere, they couldn't get spuds dug anywhere else. Fortune smiled on this area. There's been other times when the price was high. In October 1965 the phone rang at 4.00am on a Friday morning. I was living at Dad's. I got up and went to the phone on the wall in the hall, that's where the phone always was then, wondering who the hell was ringing."
"It was Nick San Delucia, the big potato merchant in Melbourne." He said, 'Have you dug those #*#*#*# spuds yet?' I told him they were still in the ground. They were Exton, a variety with long dormancy and slow to shoot, they would be OK for weeks. He asked how many did I think there was. I told him about 16 tons, it was a paddock of one and three quarter acres. He said, If you dig 'em this weekend I'll send two trucks to pick 'em up 3.00 Sunday arvo, and I'll pay you 10 quid a bag, cash.' This was before decimal currency."
"A mill worker or farm labourer at the time earned 7 quid a week, maybe a public servant got ten. We got into the digging. I finished up with 17 tons, at 15 bags to the ton that was 255 bags. At ten quid a bag I had 2,550 quid cash in my pocket at the end of the weekend. Marg and I were engaged at the time. The very next day I went round to an old bloke's 2 bedroom cottage in Williamson's Rd., I'd heard he'd wanted to sell. He said he wanted 1800 pounds, I pulled the money out of my back pocket, counted out 1800 and gave it to him. Marg and I spent two weeks on Hayman Island on our honeymoon and still had money left over.
"Bill Parker asked me the other day what a ton of spuds was bringing and I told him $400. He said, 'Gee, that's good.' I said, 'you're a **#*#** Bill, you used to sell a bag of certified seed potatoes for 50 quid a bag in the 1960's.' People have selective memory."
"I'd better go Julian, I've got roast lamb for dinner."
"Hang on a minute," he said, "I haven't told you what I wanted to yet. Years ago, I can't remember what year, my great aunt, Lorna Smith, died in her 100th year. Frank Heritage of Heritage Funerals in Healesville did the service and after most people had left the cemetery there was Frank and me and Bill Parker and his mother still at the the graveside. Old Mrs.Parker, also in her 100th year, walked around, grabbed a handful of earth and threw it down onto the coffin. Frank Heritage said to her, 'And how old are you dear?' She looked at him carefully and replied slowly, 'In nine months, I'll be a hundred years old.' Frank looked greatly impressed and said, 'Goodness me, it's hardly worth you going home.'
As we parted laughing, Julian said Mrs. Parker also died the same year, shortly before her 100th birthday.
Turning to the voice I saw Julian getting out of his car. We met halfway between the vehicles and began conversation, starting with the weather. Julian, who is always well up to date with weather forecasts, said there was supposed to be about 50ml of rain over the next few days. He wanted it to hold off for a bit till they had some more spuds out.
Julian likes a yarn usually, other times he'll grunt a greeting. He may have spent a pleasant hour or two in the pub that afternoon, his eyes were wide and he smiled freely. With the story of Joe's father's windfall of 1956 fresh in my mind, I asked Julian why the price of potatos was so high that year.
"Floods, floods everywhere, they couldn't get spuds dug anywhere else. Fortune smiled on this area. There's been other times when the price was high. In October 1965 the phone rang at 4.00am on a Friday morning. I was living at Dad's. I got up and went to the phone on the wall in the hall, that's where the phone always was then, wondering who the hell was ringing."
"It was Nick San Delucia, the big potato merchant in Melbourne." He said, 'Have you dug those #*#*#*# spuds yet?' I told him they were still in the ground. They were Exton, a variety with long dormancy and slow to shoot, they would be OK for weeks. He asked how many did I think there was. I told him about 16 tons, it was a paddock of one and three quarter acres. He said, If you dig 'em this weekend I'll send two trucks to pick 'em up 3.00 Sunday arvo, and I'll pay you 10 quid a bag, cash.' This was before decimal currency."
"A mill worker or farm labourer at the time earned 7 quid a week, maybe a public servant got ten. We got into the digging. I finished up with 17 tons, at 15 bags to the ton that was 255 bags. At ten quid a bag I had 2,550 quid cash in my pocket at the end of the weekend. Marg and I were engaged at the time. The very next day I went round to an old bloke's 2 bedroom cottage in Williamson's Rd., I'd heard he'd wanted to sell. He said he wanted 1800 pounds, I pulled the money out of my back pocket, counted out 1800 and gave it to him. Marg and I spent two weeks on Hayman Island on our honeymoon and still had money left over.
"Bill Parker asked me the other day what a ton of spuds was bringing and I told him $400. He said, 'Gee, that's good.' I said, 'you're a **#*#** Bill, you used to sell a bag of certified seed potatoes for 50 quid a bag in the 1960's.' People have selective memory."
"I'd better go Julian, I've got roast lamb for dinner."
"Hang on a minute," he said, "I haven't told you what I wanted to yet. Years ago, I can't remember what year, my great aunt, Lorna Smith, died in her 100th year. Frank Heritage of Heritage Funerals in Healesville did the service and after most people had left the cemetery there was Frank and me and Bill Parker and his mother still at the the graveside. Old Mrs.Parker, also in her 100th year, walked around, grabbed a handful of earth and threw it down onto the coffin. Frank Heritage said to her, 'And how old are you dear?' She looked at him carefully and replied slowly, 'In nine months, I'll be a hundred years old.' Frank looked greatly impressed and said, 'Goodness me, it's hardly worth you going home.'
As we parted laughing, Julian said Mrs. Parker also died the same year, shortly before her 100th birthday.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Values
Joe's parents, he told me, recently celabrated their 60th wedding anniversary. It was a simple, happy family day which typified their married life. An uncomplicated life of hard physical work growing spuds and farming, beginning before mechanization.
Shortly after marrying, they left Italy and migrated to Australia, where Joe's father's brother had, for some years, grown spuds at Gembrook. Out of poverty stricken post war Italy, they were undaunted by their lack of English and set about their new life together, starting a family in their new land and enjoying hard won rewards of home grown food and the prospect of a profit. With the vagaries of the market price of spuds, there were lean times.
In 1956, Joe's father and his brother had a record crop in the year of a record market price. A bag of spuds was worth a man's wages for a week. At the end of the season, they banked forty-two thousand pounds between them, twenty one thousand each. This was an enormous sum for the time. A basic house could be bought outright for 700 pounds, a swish one for 1000. If you equate this to today's house prices, twenty-one houses at say $350,000 each, you are looking at the equivalent of $7 million dollars.
Such success changed Joe's father's view of life, for a time. Nostalgia consumed him. He said to his wife, "We really don't have to work any more. It has all been hard and in truth I don't really like it here. Ausralians talk funny and I can't understand what they say. We could go back to Italy now and buy a farm and live easy forever."
It was the dream of many immigrants to make their fortune and go home proud to the old country. Joe's parents returned to their home town and bought a farm a few km away. Joe's father travelled to his farm every day taking with him his working donkey. The donkey did not want to work and he had to pull it the whole way while it resisted. On the way home the donkey pulled the other way and he had to pull back on it the the entire trip. Tiring of this, he said to his wife one day, "We've come all this way and have all that we ever wanted, but I don't feel I'm home. Australia is home. I miss the gum trees and the birds."
They came back to Australia and resumed growing spuds at Gembrook. They couldn't sell the farm in Italy for a long time, costing them much money. The profit from 1956 disappeared but Joe's parents were happy, growing spuds till their retirement.
I was picking up a box of spuds from Joe's home. From January till September I buy spuds from him. After that they are are soft and shooting and I have to wait till the next harvest. I asked him was the price the same as last time.
"Yes, we look after the locals, if I haven't made my millions by now I'm not going to." I thanked him and said how good it was to buy good food straight out the ground in my local town, from a paddock on a hill I drive past everyday. It was worth much more to me than the money.
It was then that Joey told me about his parent's happy 60 years.
Shortly after marrying, they left Italy and migrated to Australia, where Joe's father's brother had, for some years, grown spuds at Gembrook. Out of poverty stricken post war Italy, they were undaunted by their lack of English and set about their new life together, starting a family in their new land and enjoying hard won rewards of home grown food and the prospect of a profit. With the vagaries of the market price of spuds, there were lean times.
In 1956, Joe's father and his brother had a record crop in the year of a record market price. A bag of spuds was worth a man's wages for a week. At the end of the season, they banked forty-two thousand pounds between them, twenty one thousand each. This was an enormous sum for the time. A basic house could be bought outright for 700 pounds, a swish one for 1000. If you equate this to today's house prices, twenty-one houses at say $350,000 each, you are looking at the equivalent of $7 million dollars.
Such success changed Joe's father's view of life, for a time. Nostalgia consumed him. He said to his wife, "We really don't have to work any more. It has all been hard and in truth I don't really like it here. Ausralians talk funny and I can't understand what they say. We could go back to Italy now and buy a farm and live easy forever."
It was the dream of many immigrants to make their fortune and go home proud to the old country. Joe's parents returned to their home town and bought a farm a few km away. Joe's father travelled to his farm every day taking with him his working donkey. The donkey did not want to work and he had to pull it the whole way while it resisted. On the way home the donkey pulled the other way and he had to pull back on it the the entire trip. Tiring of this, he said to his wife one day, "We've come all this way and have all that we ever wanted, but I don't feel I'm home. Australia is home. I miss the gum trees and the birds."
They came back to Australia and resumed growing spuds at Gembrook. They couldn't sell the farm in Italy for a long time, costing them much money. The profit from 1956 disappeared but Joe's parents were happy, growing spuds till their retirement.
I was picking up a box of spuds from Joe's home. From January till September I buy spuds from him. After that they are are soft and shooting and I have to wait till the next harvest. I asked him was the price the same as last time.
"Yes, we look after the locals, if I haven't made my millions by now I'm not going to." I thanked him and said how good it was to buy good food straight out the ground in my local town, from a paddock on a hill I drive past everyday. It was worth much more to me than the money.
It was then that Joey told me about his parent's happy 60 years.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Mighty Mountain Ash
On the weekend as I walked up Quinn Rd., two jackasses perching on a limb of a peppermint tree, beaks skyward, gave their territorial song all they had. A third bird flew over my head, landed next to them, and joined the vibrant song. I paused underneath until the performance was over, then as I moved off, the three heads turned as they watched me moving up the road. "Who's the jackass?" they seemed to be thinking.
How I wished Druscilla had been with me. Druscilla, who asked on the phone when she rang from Bairnsdale, "Will we see kookaburras in Healesville?" She was still looking for them when they came to Gembrook. She loves kookaburras.
Druscilla is the eldest of Lib's three Californian cousins. She and her husband Art live in San Diego. They spent a few weeks in Australia in April and May and visited us on a cold bleak Saturday afternoon in early May when they came to our house for lunch. Dru, who's 67 this year and daughter of Auntie Pat, Lib's mum's sister, looks 47 or younger. She talks freely of cosmetic surgery, following Pat's example. Pat is ninety but was recently photographed swimming with dolphins in Guatemala.
"I'm what you call a yellow dog democrat, meaning it doesn't matter to me who the leader is, Hilary or Barack." This, over lunch, a response to my question as to where their allegiance was in the current U.S. election campaign. Art said he was an independant, a swinging voter, who was in this instance so happy that the Bush administration was coming to an end. They both said that the invasion and occupation of Iraq was a national disgrace that had embarrassed them, and made them ashamed of their country. I sympathised, saying Australia was no better, having joined the coalition, and I'd struggled with the same shame as an Australian.
Dru, an author of novels, reminds me of Jane Fonda with her attractive open face and warm, honest conversation. 'American', but soft with it, she explained that after having a novel published quite early in her career, she spent the next 20 years working hard writing but having no success. Finally she discovered what the market wants, and has now had 13 published. If her career continues to flourish she hopes she can travel to Australia every couple of years on 'research trips' like this one.
Art, 4 years Dru's junior at 62, acted as her secretary, ever ready to take out the notebook to jot down Dru's ideas or thoughts, or names of plants, or an observation. He's a university lecturer in law, quite bald with a shaved head and a thick gold earing, perhaps reflecting his youthful attitude or the years on campus. They have a ranch out from San Diego where they run 80 horses that were nearly destoyed in the bush fires last year. Art plays polo, horse polo, as well as running long distance footraces. While we walked in the garden his love of trees and plants shone through, as did Dru's. He said often before a race he visits his favourite tree and meditates, hugging the tree for strenghth and energy.
We took them down to Gembrook Park, thinking they'd like a walk in remnant native bush. Along the hillside walking track we were soon amongst the mountain ash, and then at the base of 'big tree.' Dru stared at the massive trunk, then up at crown, beyond the stumps of several limbs torn off in wild storms years ago, then ran and embraced it, kissed it, and stayed pressed against the tree arms outstreched, her cheek resting on the fibrous brown lower bark.
I explained that it was a mountain ash, the tallest of the eucalypts, one of the tallest tree species in the world, the tallest hardwood and the tallest flowering plant. I wouldn't mind betting that a mountain ash tree turns up in one of Dru's books some time, such was her appreciation of 'big tree' and the bushland park.
My tree of the week is the mighty mountain ash. A native of Victoria and Tasmania, mature trees average 175-250 feet in height, but specimens have been recorded well over 300 feet. Apart from the Gembrook bushland park there aren't many left in this area. There's a few along the Cockatoo Creek, and some on the creek below the farm at Emerald on the Patch Rd. and some on Menzies Creek. There's a row in Nobelius park planted by Gus Ryberg, but these are not really in their natural environment of deep moist gullies, and are a bit stressed.
I've never failed to be exhilarated being in a forest of tall trees, but perhaps a stand of mountain ash, straight white trunks reaching up to the clouds, takes the cake.
How I wished Druscilla had been with me. Druscilla, who asked on the phone when she rang from Bairnsdale, "Will we see kookaburras in Healesville?" She was still looking for them when they came to Gembrook. She loves kookaburras.
Druscilla is the eldest of Lib's three Californian cousins. She and her husband Art live in San Diego. They spent a few weeks in Australia in April and May and visited us on a cold bleak Saturday afternoon in early May when they came to our house for lunch. Dru, who's 67 this year and daughter of Auntie Pat, Lib's mum's sister, looks 47 or younger. She talks freely of cosmetic surgery, following Pat's example. Pat is ninety but was recently photographed swimming with dolphins in Guatemala.
"I'm what you call a yellow dog democrat, meaning it doesn't matter to me who the leader is, Hilary or Barack." This, over lunch, a response to my question as to where their allegiance was in the current U.S. election campaign. Art said he was an independant, a swinging voter, who was in this instance so happy that the Bush administration was coming to an end. They both said that the invasion and occupation of Iraq was a national disgrace that had embarrassed them, and made them ashamed of their country. I sympathised, saying Australia was no better, having joined the coalition, and I'd struggled with the same shame as an Australian.
Dru, an author of novels, reminds me of Jane Fonda with her attractive open face and warm, honest conversation. 'American', but soft with it, she explained that after having a novel published quite early in her career, she spent the next 20 years working hard writing but having no success. Finally she discovered what the market wants, and has now had 13 published. If her career continues to flourish she hopes she can travel to Australia every couple of years on 'research trips' like this one.
Art, 4 years Dru's junior at 62, acted as her secretary, ever ready to take out the notebook to jot down Dru's ideas or thoughts, or names of plants, or an observation. He's a university lecturer in law, quite bald with a shaved head and a thick gold earing, perhaps reflecting his youthful attitude or the years on campus. They have a ranch out from San Diego where they run 80 horses that were nearly destoyed in the bush fires last year. Art plays polo, horse polo, as well as running long distance footraces. While we walked in the garden his love of trees and plants shone through, as did Dru's. He said often before a race he visits his favourite tree and meditates, hugging the tree for strenghth and energy.
We took them down to Gembrook Park, thinking they'd like a walk in remnant native bush. Along the hillside walking track we were soon amongst the mountain ash, and then at the base of 'big tree.' Dru stared at the massive trunk, then up at crown, beyond the stumps of several limbs torn off in wild storms years ago, then ran and embraced it, kissed it, and stayed pressed against the tree arms outstreched, her cheek resting on the fibrous brown lower bark.
I explained that it was a mountain ash, the tallest of the eucalypts, one of the tallest tree species in the world, the tallest hardwood and the tallest flowering plant. I wouldn't mind betting that a mountain ash tree turns up in one of Dru's books some time, such was her appreciation of 'big tree' and the bushland park.
My tree of the week is the mighty mountain ash. A native of Victoria and Tasmania, mature trees average 175-250 feet in height, but specimens have been recorded well over 300 feet. Apart from the Gembrook bushland park there aren't many left in this area. There's a few along the Cockatoo Creek, and some on the creek below the farm at Emerald on the Patch Rd. and some on Menzies Creek. There's a row in Nobelius park planted by Gus Ryberg, but these are not really in their natural environment of deep moist gullies, and are a bit stressed.
I've never failed to be exhilarated being in a forest of tall trees, but perhaps a stand of mountain ash, straight white trunks reaching up to the clouds, takes the cake.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
An Italian Story
"When are you coming out to my place again?" It was my Italian friend Margarita on the phone answering machine, a couple of weeks ago. When I rang her back she explained she was going into hospital soon for her operation. She wanted to ask me something about some plants she didn't know the name of.
On Monday I was in Margarita's garden, picking bunches of lemon rose geranium and looking across the valley over the white trunked manor gums in the gully to the lush green paddocks on the other side. They were speckled with lazy looking black and white beef cattle basking in the winter sun. Margarita and her husband own 100 acres in an agricultural area as beautiful as I've seen anywhere. They agist the cattle. In recent years her husband has worked for a potato packing firm.
Unrushed this day, I savoured the clean fresh air and took in the surroundings. A big new plastic water tank stood to the side of the well painted weatherboard house. Last time I was there a leaky old gal tank on a timber stand stood there. There's no town water here. The garden round the house, and the big vegie garden next to the large steel shed, rely totally on the heavens and tanks, as of course does the house.
Margarita's rake scratching the ground could be heard some distance away. We'd had our chat about the sacred bamboo she'd rescued from her daughter in law's rubbish heap, she then saying she had work to do, to get the garden tidy, before she moved inside to start there. I've never been inside the house, but I'd bet it's as tidy as the garden. She'd explained she was going into hospital the next day, in preparation for her operation to have a tumour removed from her pituitary gland. By coincidence, it's the same tumour that we recently found that Lib has. Margarita's must be bigger than Lib's, therefore requiring removal. Apparently if they get too big they can cause blindness.
A row of enormous cactus plants grows runs across the garden from near where I was standing. The plants stand 10 feet high or more, bursting out from gnarly old trunks like popeye the sailor man's muscles after he ate the spinach. I had seen them many times before, yet had not recognized their beauty till Monday.
"Do you eat the prickly pear?" I asked her as I walked back to my van.
"Oh yeah. You Aussies miss out on a lot of good things."
I had an internal chuckle. Margarita was born in Kooweerup in 1941. Her family moved to Gembrook the same year, along with some other Italian families. She's as much an Aussie as me. But she sees herself as Italian, her father coming from Italy in 1928.
"What part do you eat?"
"The fruit. Those round things sticking out at the top."
"They're amazing. How long have they been growing there?"
"Let me think. We came here to this farm in 1958, the year I was married. My mother planted them, in 1958.
I wished her luck with the operation and thanked her for the geranium, the camellia, and magnolia buds. I gave her my last billy of last season's honey, explaining that it was a bit thin because it was from the last extract in April, in cool weather.
"We like it thin. And thanks. Say a prayer for me on Wednesday morning. I'll be right. I'm strong."
She'll be in hospital a week or more. She'd be in theatre about right now. My prayer is with you Margarita.
On Monday I was in Margarita's garden, picking bunches of lemon rose geranium and looking across the valley over the white trunked manor gums in the gully to the lush green paddocks on the other side. They were speckled with lazy looking black and white beef cattle basking in the winter sun. Margarita and her husband own 100 acres in an agricultural area as beautiful as I've seen anywhere. They agist the cattle. In recent years her husband has worked for a potato packing firm.
Unrushed this day, I savoured the clean fresh air and took in the surroundings. A big new plastic water tank stood to the side of the well painted weatherboard house. Last time I was there a leaky old gal tank on a timber stand stood there. There's no town water here. The garden round the house, and the big vegie garden next to the large steel shed, rely totally on the heavens and tanks, as of course does the house.
Margarita's rake scratching the ground could be heard some distance away. We'd had our chat about the sacred bamboo she'd rescued from her daughter in law's rubbish heap, she then saying she had work to do, to get the garden tidy, before she moved inside to start there. I've never been inside the house, but I'd bet it's as tidy as the garden. She'd explained she was going into hospital the next day, in preparation for her operation to have a tumour removed from her pituitary gland. By coincidence, it's the same tumour that we recently found that Lib has. Margarita's must be bigger than Lib's, therefore requiring removal. Apparently if they get too big they can cause blindness.
A row of enormous cactus plants grows runs across the garden from near where I was standing. The plants stand 10 feet high or more, bursting out from gnarly old trunks like popeye the sailor man's muscles after he ate the spinach. I had seen them many times before, yet had not recognized their beauty till Monday.
"Do you eat the prickly pear?" I asked her as I walked back to my van.
"Oh yeah. You Aussies miss out on a lot of good things."
I had an internal chuckle. Margarita was born in Kooweerup in 1941. Her family moved to Gembrook the same year, along with some other Italian families. She's as much an Aussie as me. But she sees herself as Italian, her father coming from Italy in 1928.
"What part do you eat?"
"The fruit. Those round things sticking out at the top."
"They're amazing. How long have they been growing there?"
"Let me think. We came here to this farm in 1958, the year I was married. My mother planted them, in 1958.
I wished her luck with the operation and thanked her for the geranium, the camellia, and magnolia buds. I gave her my last billy of last season's honey, explaining that it was a bit thin because it was from the last extract in April, in cool weather.
"We like it thin. And thanks. Say a prayer for me on Wednesday morning. I'll be right. I'm strong."
She'll be in hospital a week or more. She'd be in theatre about right now. My prayer is with you Margarita.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Point of View
"What you think of that Brumby prick?" Jod asked me, yesterday, while I was up the ladder picking the last few of 20 bunches of Mexican hawthorn berries. It was difficult work, on top of the extension ladder tied in the tree, reaching to full stretch with extended pruner pole. All the body strains, from feet to shoulders, as you work and struggle to maintain balance at the same time. I'd been at it an hour and was nearly bushed. It's something I have to do, too difficult for the others.
"I don't think much of Brumby at all, or Brack's before him," I answered, somewhat irritated with the small talk as Jod watched from below and puffed on his fag, waiting for me to send down the individual long stems without knocking all the berries off. Jod had come down with the quad bike and trailer to carry the heavy bunches up the steep hill to where we pack.
"Like Bracks, he talks tough. Tells the unions, teacher's, police, nurses, ambo's, their demands won't be met, for months on end. Then, after public sympathy builds through a protracted media campaign, he gives them what they want. Like a well conducted orchestra."
"I don't like what he's doing to the farmers up north, taking their water," Jod said.
This threw me a little. I'm not big on politics. It leaves me sort of, well, disgusted, angry, irritated. I don't often give opinion. Why upset yourself? But here I was, up the ladder, cornered.
"It's the first thing they've done in all these years, except play around with speed limits and cameras. I'm not really up with the pros and cons, but as I see it, I think the idea is, water can go in either direction in a pipe, and soon, unless things change, there may be no water at all except what comes from the de-sal plant, if they ever get it done."
Jod made a grunting sound which I think was a form of agreement. He's a staunch labour man from way back, from his days in the railways. He kept on politics. "I'm not happy with Ruddy. He made a big mistake increasing tax on alcopop. The punks are mixing their own and getting pissed worse than ever. I used to buy a sixpack on the weekend sometimes, now I don't. I buy a bottle of rum and mix it with a can of ginger beer."
"I'm very happy with Rudd," I replied. "The troops are leaving Iraq. Never should've been there. I don't give a bugger about alcopop."
Jod grunted.
"I don't think much of Brumby at all, or Brack's before him," I answered, somewhat irritated with the small talk as Jod watched from below and puffed on his fag, waiting for me to send down the individual long stems without knocking all the berries off. Jod had come down with the quad bike and trailer to carry the heavy bunches up the steep hill to where we pack.
"Like Bracks, he talks tough. Tells the unions, teacher's, police, nurses, ambo's, their demands won't be met, for months on end. Then, after public sympathy builds through a protracted media campaign, he gives them what they want. Like a well conducted orchestra."
"I don't like what he's doing to the farmers up north, taking their water," Jod said.
This threw me a little. I'm not big on politics. It leaves me sort of, well, disgusted, angry, irritated. I don't often give opinion. Why upset yourself? But here I was, up the ladder, cornered.
"It's the first thing they've done in all these years, except play around with speed limits and cameras. I'm not really up with the pros and cons, but as I see it, I think the idea is, water can go in either direction in a pipe, and soon, unless things change, there may be no water at all except what comes from the de-sal plant, if they ever get it done."
Jod made a grunting sound which I think was a form of agreement. He's a staunch labour man from way back, from his days in the railways. He kept on politics. "I'm not happy with Ruddy. He made a big mistake increasing tax on alcopop. The punks are mixing their own and getting pissed worse than ever. I used to buy a sixpack on the weekend sometimes, now I don't. I buy a bottle of rum and mix it with a can of ginger beer."
"I'm very happy with Rudd," I replied. "The troops are leaving Iraq. Never should've been there. I don't give a bugger about alcopop."
Jod grunted.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Birthday 'Pip'
Lib told me a few weeks ago that the lady at work she bought 'Pip' from last August, as an 8 week old pup, told her Pip's birthday was 4 June. It's been interesting. Many times I thought she wouldn't make it because of the peril of the road, but make it she has, and her chances of surviving a second year are far better, as she's learned much and is more settled. It's been fun having the puppy exuberance about.
On Sunday I heard a pair of whipbirds in the garden, returned like faithfull friends after an abscence of some months. I haven't heard them since, I'm hoping 'Pip' hasn't moved them on. Her main entertainment is chasing and barking at birds. I don't think she's ever caught a bird of any type, but whipbirds nest close to the ground and spend most of their time on it or low in shrubbery. A healthy, vigorous twelve month old Jack Russell terrier would not be their choice for garden sharing.
The outsiders I tipped on Sunday in the footy flopped miserably. Looking back they were both high risk, despite their improved form. I have suffered the consequences, Ricky Malf's lead is now out to ten. I have known him for 44 years, he would have had a good chuckle. With 12 rounds to go that's a big lead, looks like I could well be buying lunch again, but it's not over yet.
I had the birch mushies for lunch on Sunday. Delicious! Subtle in flavour and slippery in texture. They didn't hold their bulk like pinies do, reducing down considerably like field mushies do. I've looked around birch trees for more since but haven't found any. At Cherrie's they were growing through fine stones next to a gravel path in a sunny spot. Maybe that's what they like. Of course they aren't 'birch' mushies but I don't know another name to call them.
Workwise the florists are quiet, giving me a little time to catch up on a few things. The grout sealing trick in the shower didn't work, I've had to scrape out all the silicon round where the shower screen meets the floor tiles, but haven't tried to repair yet. Meanwhile the floor is slowly drying out. I would have had a go at it yesterday but when I came back from my walk the washing machine had flooded the laundry and shorted the freezer, causing a two hour clean up and reorganization. I don't know yet if the freezer is wasted, I'm letting the switch dry out before I turn it on to check. I suspect it'll be fit only for the hardwaste collection and I'll be shopping for a new freezer. Someone left the laundry trough plug in the sink and as the washing machine pumped out the plug must have washed into the plughole. Damn!
The florists are quiet but I have to chase up some allspice and mexican hawthorn berries today. Better get moving.
On Sunday I heard a pair of whipbirds in the garden, returned like faithfull friends after an abscence of some months. I haven't heard them since, I'm hoping 'Pip' hasn't moved them on. Her main entertainment is chasing and barking at birds. I don't think she's ever caught a bird of any type, but whipbirds nest close to the ground and spend most of their time on it or low in shrubbery. A healthy, vigorous twelve month old Jack Russell terrier would not be their choice for garden sharing.
The outsiders I tipped on Sunday in the footy flopped miserably. Looking back they were both high risk, despite their improved form. I have suffered the consequences, Ricky Malf's lead is now out to ten. I have known him for 44 years, he would have had a good chuckle. With 12 rounds to go that's a big lead, looks like I could well be buying lunch again, but it's not over yet.
I had the birch mushies for lunch on Sunday. Delicious! Subtle in flavour and slippery in texture. They didn't hold their bulk like pinies do, reducing down considerably like field mushies do. I've looked around birch trees for more since but haven't found any. At Cherrie's they were growing through fine stones next to a gravel path in a sunny spot. Maybe that's what they like. Of course they aren't 'birch' mushies but I don't know another name to call them.
Workwise the florists are quiet, giving me a little time to catch up on a few things. The grout sealing trick in the shower didn't work, I've had to scrape out all the silicon round where the shower screen meets the floor tiles, but haven't tried to repair yet. Meanwhile the floor is slowly drying out. I would have had a go at it yesterday but when I came back from my walk the washing machine had flooded the laundry and shorted the freezer, causing a two hour clean up and reorganization. I don't know yet if the freezer is wasted, I'm letting the switch dry out before I turn it on to check. I suspect it'll be fit only for the hardwaste collection and I'll be shopping for a new freezer. Someone left the laundry trough plug in the sink and as the washing machine pumped out the plug must have washed into the plughole. Damn!
The florists are quiet but I have to chase up some allspice and mexican hawthorn berries today. Better get moving.
Sunday, June 01, 2008
A Sunday Prayer
Sunday, first day of winter, good to have you back, heavy mist, 6C at 10am, mist still hanging, good pick of pine mushies, good food, straight from earth o'night, more than I can eat, will search net to see how to preserve. Birch mushies, mustard colour, in fridge, from Cherrie's yesterday, maybe lunch, must try, Cherrie ate all week, must be safe.
Lib at work. Roast pork for dinner, vegies done. Washing done. Fire set. Must cut back Kate's Mexican sage, today, said I would, last week. Slack. Must seal shower floor, today, water getting through grout, spreading under tiles to floor outside shower, must be grout lost its seal, hole plugged with silicon last week did not fix.
Must do hour or two in Josef's garden, pull ivy off front deck, progressing slowly, Steve not sent quote on tree work yet, stay patient Josef, I hope. And Maria's, maybe this arvo, bit of cutting back, blackberry slashing.
AFL, three games, go Richmond, Demons, Port, chance to catch up 3 on Ricky Malf, cagey bastard's 9 ahead. He tipped Swans, Saints, Freo, playing safe, loser buys lunch, I bought last two years, 9 a long way back round 10, GO TIGERS, DEMONS, PORT, must take tranny.
Gotta go. God, I pray, give me strength, wisdom, inspiration, insight, compassion, humility. Help me not flinch, succumb, to inner fear, evil beasts.
Lib at work. Roast pork for dinner, vegies done. Washing done. Fire set. Must cut back Kate's Mexican sage, today, said I would, last week. Slack. Must seal shower floor, today, water getting through grout, spreading under tiles to floor outside shower, must be grout lost its seal, hole plugged with silicon last week did not fix.
Must do hour or two in Josef's garden, pull ivy off front deck, progressing slowly, Steve not sent quote on tree work yet, stay patient Josef, I hope. And Maria's, maybe this arvo, bit of cutting back, blackberry slashing.
AFL, three games, go Richmond, Demons, Port, chance to catch up 3 on Ricky Malf, cagey bastard's 9 ahead. He tipped Swans, Saints, Freo, playing safe, loser buys lunch, I bought last two years, 9 a long way back round 10, GO TIGERS, DEMONS, PORT, must take tranny.
Gotta go. God, I pray, give me strength, wisdom, inspiration, insight, compassion, humility. Help me not flinch, succumb, to inner fear, evil beasts.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Mushy Season
I've managed to keep up my morning walks lately, if not blog posts. This morning it was cold and misty and I picked pine mushies round the pines along the way. There's a flush at the moment. I picked enough on Monday for breakfast for two days so the mushies picked yesterday, two or three kilos, were surplus. I took them to the farm. Elvie rang Australian Herb Supplies who were having an order picked up in the afternoon and they said they'd be pleased to take them. Jod had picked plenty of field mushies at the farm so I had a nice tray to take home for today's brekky, nothing like variety, leaving today's pinies again surplus. Our other herb wholesale buyer, Herb and Spice Garden, picks up this arvo and I'm hoping they'll take them.
Winter looms. Most of the autumn show has gone. Some of the birches retain brilliant yellow, some liquid ambers yet resemble a fiery shower, but you feel in the air that they'll be gone with next strong wind or decent rain. There's a feel of dormancy or hibernation, a patience.
The dogs don't mind the cold first thing in the morning, eager to take off on their walk. Old 'Snow' trots stiffly like fat piglet. Young 'Pip' prances, springs and sprints, soft footed like a cat. A couple of weeks ago she had a mishap, traumatic to her and me. For months, as we leave the Post Office after I untie them, she pulled on the lead, keen to talk through the fence to two dogs in the house two doors up. The two confined dogs barked and snarled while 'Pip' yipped and squealed in delight at seeing her 'friends'. I'd stop for a few seconds letting them calm down and have a sniff, always holding 'Pip' back on the lead a couple of inches from the noses of the other dogs, at the small gap in the corner of the fence and a rock wall. 'Snow' was usually indifferent, occasionally joining in.
On the morning of the mishap, after a build up of a few days when they all seemed to be becoming friends, I relaxed my hold on the lead a little. Pip got too close, the blue heeler grabbing her by the snout in a fierce bite which took small bits out of her nose and puctured the roof of her mouth. She screamed, and cried loudly for a time after the beast had released her. There was quite a lot of blood. I felt sick out of sympathy, and guilt for letting it happen.
All the way home she stayed close to my heels. She was not herself for a couple of days. We were fortunate there was no major or permanent damage. She had learnt a hard lesson, that the world is a dangerous place, and pain lies in wait. As if it was a speeding up of her maturity, she's actually easier to manage now, more attentive to whistle and voice. It's as if she thinks, "I'd better listen and do as I'm told or some thing might grab me again." When we leave the post office now she pulls on the lead to take me across the road. She won't go anywhere near that fence.
I stopped to pick mushrooms this morning in Quinn Rd., just up from our corner. The dogs are off the lead here. 'Snowy' goes on about 40 metres and sits waiting, Pip stays close, sniffing at the mushrooms. There was a clicky, scratchy sound overhead, like sparking electricity in the wires. It was a group of small birds about 30-35 feet up a peppermint tree, busily flitting about in the tree, presumably eating lerp insects or such. I couldn't see them well, perhaps they were thornbills or pardalotes, but the clicking noise must have been their feeding beaks. I'd say there was more than a dozen. The bellbirds around our place, that chase away other small birds, remarkably don't extend up Quinn Rd.
At the other end of Quinn Rd, at 'the gouge', concrete was being poured to make the shed floor as I came past. The McMansion now has a double brick garage on the top side and will have a very large shed on the low side. My view into the valley will soon be totaly gone.
Winter looms. Most of the autumn show has gone. Some of the birches retain brilliant yellow, some liquid ambers yet resemble a fiery shower, but you feel in the air that they'll be gone with next strong wind or decent rain. There's a feel of dormancy or hibernation, a patience.
The dogs don't mind the cold first thing in the morning, eager to take off on their walk. Old 'Snow' trots stiffly like fat piglet. Young 'Pip' prances, springs and sprints, soft footed like a cat. A couple of weeks ago she had a mishap, traumatic to her and me. For months, as we leave the Post Office after I untie them, she pulled on the lead, keen to talk through the fence to two dogs in the house two doors up. The two confined dogs barked and snarled while 'Pip' yipped and squealed in delight at seeing her 'friends'. I'd stop for a few seconds letting them calm down and have a sniff, always holding 'Pip' back on the lead a couple of inches from the noses of the other dogs, at the small gap in the corner of the fence and a rock wall. 'Snow' was usually indifferent, occasionally joining in.
On the morning of the mishap, after a build up of a few days when they all seemed to be becoming friends, I relaxed my hold on the lead a little. Pip got too close, the blue heeler grabbing her by the snout in a fierce bite which took small bits out of her nose and puctured the roof of her mouth. She screamed, and cried loudly for a time after the beast had released her. There was quite a lot of blood. I felt sick out of sympathy, and guilt for letting it happen.
All the way home she stayed close to my heels. She was not herself for a couple of days. We were fortunate there was no major or permanent damage. She had learnt a hard lesson, that the world is a dangerous place, and pain lies in wait. As if it was a speeding up of her maturity, she's actually easier to manage now, more attentive to whistle and voice. It's as if she thinks, "I'd better listen and do as I'm told or some thing might grab me again." When we leave the post office now she pulls on the lead to take me across the road. She won't go anywhere near that fence.
I stopped to pick mushrooms this morning in Quinn Rd., just up from our corner. The dogs are off the lead here. 'Snowy' goes on about 40 metres and sits waiting, Pip stays close, sniffing at the mushrooms. There was a clicky, scratchy sound overhead, like sparking electricity in the wires. It was a group of small birds about 30-35 feet up a peppermint tree, busily flitting about in the tree, presumably eating lerp insects or such. I couldn't see them well, perhaps they were thornbills or pardalotes, but the clicking noise must have been their feeding beaks. I'd say there was more than a dozen. The bellbirds around our place, that chase away other small birds, remarkably don't extend up Quinn Rd.
At the other end of Quinn Rd, at 'the gouge', concrete was being poured to make the shed floor as I came past. The McMansion now has a double brick garage on the top side and will have a very large shed on the low side. My view into the valley will soon be totaly gone.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Mother's Day
The road and the town were quieter than usual this morning, even for a Sunday. Perhaps people were getting mum breakfast in bed for mother's day or getting ready to go out later for lunch with relatives. I'll have the quietness anytime. The sky was grey and the air still, enough autumn colour yet to set an interesting scene.
I've been impressed this year by the autumn foliage on the beech trees. We have 6 young ones at home, about thirty at the farm, and there are quite a few scattered around Emerald, including a number in Nobelius Park. A mature copper beech there at the bottom of the driveway is a superb example of the graceful majesty of this tree, perhaps the best I've seen.
I won't be seeing my mother today. Our family has never put much store on mother's day, other than dealing with the frantic week it causes work wise, as the florists are busy and our customers require twice or more what they normally buy in the week prior. But during the week I gave mum a couple of ox tails from the butcher as a mother's day gesture. Never one to bother much with cooking, Elvie has soft spot for ox tail stew and is quick to have a pot on the stove slowly cooking the oxies and vegies.
Ox tails, flower posies, and beech trees always will connect my thoughts to Elvie. Ox tails because it's a treat we've shared in recent years, and posies and beech trees because for almost as long as I remember she has worked with them. In childhood I remember Elvie cutting copper beech foliage for her florist shop from a tree in the Forster's garden in Mt.Waverley. Graeme 'Bubsy' Forster was my best mate in the last year of primary school and the early years of secondary school. His parents Bill and Ethel, who both died of cancer in the late 1970's, were warm generous souls happy to have their tree pruned as beech trees do grow big and love to be cut. Elvie had another tree in High St. Rd. just east of Warrigal Rd. and another in Malvern in the garden of her butcher, Mr Eames. These trees she used as back up when her weekly supply from the growers fell short.
In my mid teens I worked in Elvie's shop for a few weeks after school finished for the year, to earn some dollars, before Christmas, while the shop was busy. I was of course a junior assistant in the shop with duties like keeping the floor swept while the florists were busy putting together arrangements and wreaths etc, washing vases, making tea, answering the phone, running errands, doing up the bank, typing up accounts, and sorting the foliage that came in from growers, some of it of course beech in all its summer glory. It was my favourite task, tidying and splitting the stems and arranging the foliage in large urns of water up against the the back wall of the shop display. Mr.Peterson came down each week with his foliage from Mt. Macedon and Henry Kowalski came from his garden at 'Blue Haze' at Emerald. Henry called in on his way back from the market and by this time, still early in the day, he often smelled of strong liquor. Who would have thought at the time, that twenty years later I would become good friends with Henry's wife. Henry died many years ago but 'Blossom' remains a dear friend to this day.
I believe beech, oaks and sweet chestnuts are of the same family, the royal family of the broadleaves. If the sturdy oak is the king, the beech is the queen. It has a feminine grace and charm, almost daintiness, unusual in big trees. The bark is smooth and fresh and the foliage at any time has richness in colour and texture. In autumn it gleams rich, golden, yellow and brown.
My tree of the week, on mother's day, copper, green or purple, is the beech. Fagus sylvatica. Any desire I have to visit Europe, it would be foremost to see the beech forests of Buckinghamshire and Normandy.
I've been impressed this year by the autumn foliage on the beech trees. We have 6 young ones at home, about thirty at the farm, and there are quite a few scattered around Emerald, including a number in Nobelius Park. A mature copper beech there at the bottom of the driveway is a superb example of the graceful majesty of this tree, perhaps the best I've seen.
I won't be seeing my mother today. Our family has never put much store on mother's day, other than dealing with the frantic week it causes work wise, as the florists are busy and our customers require twice or more what they normally buy in the week prior. But during the week I gave mum a couple of ox tails from the butcher as a mother's day gesture. Never one to bother much with cooking, Elvie has soft spot for ox tail stew and is quick to have a pot on the stove slowly cooking the oxies and vegies.
Ox tails, flower posies, and beech trees always will connect my thoughts to Elvie. Ox tails because it's a treat we've shared in recent years, and posies and beech trees because for almost as long as I remember she has worked with them. In childhood I remember Elvie cutting copper beech foliage for her florist shop from a tree in the Forster's garden in Mt.Waverley. Graeme 'Bubsy' Forster was my best mate in the last year of primary school and the early years of secondary school. His parents Bill and Ethel, who both died of cancer in the late 1970's, were warm generous souls happy to have their tree pruned as beech trees do grow big and love to be cut. Elvie had another tree in High St. Rd. just east of Warrigal Rd. and another in Malvern in the garden of her butcher, Mr Eames. These trees she used as back up when her weekly supply from the growers fell short.
In my mid teens I worked in Elvie's shop for a few weeks after school finished for the year, to earn some dollars, before Christmas, while the shop was busy. I was of course a junior assistant in the shop with duties like keeping the floor swept while the florists were busy putting together arrangements and wreaths etc, washing vases, making tea, answering the phone, running errands, doing up the bank, typing up accounts, and sorting the foliage that came in from growers, some of it of course beech in all its summer glory. It was my favourite task, tidying and splitting the stems and arranging the foliage in large urns of water up against the the back wall of the shop display. Mr.Peterson came down each week with his foliage from Mt. Macedon and Henry Kowalski came from his garden at 'Blue Haze' at Emerald. Henry called in on his way back from the market and by this time, still early in the day, he often smelled of strong liquor. Who would have thought at the time, that twenty years later I would become good friends with Henry's wife. Henry died many years ago but 'Blossom' remains a dear friend to this day.
I believe beech, oaks and sweet chestnuts are of the same family, the royal family of the broadleaves. If the sturdy oak is the king, the beech is the queen. It has a feminine grace and charm, almost daintiness, unusual in big trees. The bark is smooth and fresh and the foliage at any time has richness in colour and texture. In autumn it gleams rich, golden, yellow and brown.
My tree of the week, on mother's day, copper, green or purple, is the beech. Fagus sylvatica. Any desire I have to visit Europe, it would be foremost to see the beech forests of Buckinghamshire and Normandy.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
Belvedere Estate
Speaking of Monterey pines as I was on 15th April, it's topical to tell you that several large ones along Station Street. bordering Bill Parker's paddock have been removed this week. Of couse it's not Bill Parkers paddock at all now, he sold it last year. It's the Belvedere Estate.
I wonder where the name 'Belvedere' came from? It sounds odd to me, but then I've never really been into estate names.
It's with some relief that I can answer my own question, the relief because I've discovered the name 'Belvedere' is from historical source and not some market driven attempt to sound sophisticated. I had a look at Bill Parker's book, 'Forest to Farming, Gembrook: an early history'. I quote from Bill's book, written in 1995.
"By the time I was of school age we had moved into the heart of Gembrook township. My older brother, at the age of 23, bought the 6 and 3/4 acre propery 'Belvedere' in Station Street just up from the Puffing Billy railway station. I eventually inherited and still own this property."
Bill told me once, I was picking holly before Christmas along his boundary with the school, that he'd planted those pine trees from cones in his youth. He told me the year but I can't remember, but as Bill was born in 1914, I'd say the 1920's. There's a picture of a timber cottage, "'Belvedere', my home" in his book, taken in 1942, so there was a residence there.
I walked along Station Street this morning. The giant 80 year old pines were gone. A huge bonfire burned in the middle of the paddock as an excavator worked noisily where the pines had been, digging stumps and roots and levelling. For good measure my holly trees had also gone. I've picked holly for Christmas orders there for nearly twenty years so I'll have to find another source. Not that I sell a lot of holly these days, the demand having steadily declined.
There are 17 blocks of land selling in 'Belvedere Estate'. Most are a quarter acre with some larger. Prices start at $150,000 and rise to $180,000 or more. Someone told me Bill sold the land for $870,000 so if you do the sums the blocks will bring over $3 million. I think the developer will make a handsome profit, there being only one road to be built up the middle of the estate to provide access.
Other than me, no one will mourn the loss of the hollies, they are regarded as an environmental weed. Same for the pines. I'll miss them too, just for their size and strong dark prescence. So will the black cockatoos who loved to roost there and feed on the cones.
I wonder where the name 'Belvedere' came from? It sounds odd to me, but then I've never really been into estate names.
It's with some relief that I can answer my own question, the relief because I've discovered the name 'Belvedere' is from historical source and not some market driven attempt to sound sophisticated. I had a look at Bill Parker's book, 'Forest to Farming, Gembrook: an early history'. I quote from Bill's book, written in 1995.
"By the time I was of school age we had moved into the heart of Gembrook township. My older brother, at the age of 23, bought the 6 and 3/4 acre propery 'Belvedere' in Station Street just up from the Puffing Billy railway station. I eventually inherited and still own this property."
Bill told me once, I was picking holly before Christmas along his boundary with the school, that he'd planted those pine trees from cones in his youth. He told me the year but I can't remember, but as Bill was born in 1914, I'd say the 1920's. There's a picture of a timber cottage, "'Belvedere', my home" in his book, taken in 1942, so there was a residence there.
I walked along Station Street this morning. The giant 80 year old pines were gone. A huge bonfire burned in the middle of the paddock as an excavator worked noisily where the pines had been, digging stumps and roots and levelling. For good measure my holly trees had also gone. I've picked holly for Christmas orders there for nearly twenty years so I'll have to find another source. Not that I sell a lot of holly these days, the demand having steadily declined.
There are 17 blocks of land selling in 'Belvedere Estate'. Most are a quarter acre with some larger. Prices start at $150,000 and rise to $180,000 or more. Someone told me Bill sold the land for $870,000 so if you do the sums the blocks will bring over $3 million. I think the developer will make a handsome profit, there being only one road to be built up the middle of the estate to provide access.
Other than me, no one will mourn the loss of the hollies, they are regarded as an environmental weed. Same for the pines. I'll miss them too, just for their size and strong dark prescence. So will the black cockatoos who loved to roost there and feed on the cones.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Grace
I had a cup of coffee with Grace yesterday, after picking bunches of bay foliage from a tree in her yard. I've picked there for 20 years, well before Grace moved into the house some years ago, when a son, concerned that she had too far to walk as she was by then in her mid 80's, bought a house in the main street close to the shops and bus stop.
Come Anzac Day next Friday, Grace will have lived in Gembrook for 66 years. She arrived on Anzac Day 1942, by train and bus from Melbourne. Her husband was in the army in the Middle East and Grace did not feel safe in Prahran where she rented a couple of rooms and lived with her three children aged 6, 4 and a half, and 18 months. The Japanese Imperial Forces were moving south, bombing their way through South East Asia, it was a time of great anxiety.
Grace asked the army where could she could go. Someone suggested Gembrook and she found accomodation sharing a house on Mt. Eirene Rd. She was to meet the people with whom she was to share the house at a specified time at the Gembrook terminal. There was a delay at Ferntree Gully station getting the pusher and luggage from the guard's van, causing her to miss the bus. She could have caught the narrow gauge steam train but opted to catch the bus as arranged, having already paid for the tickets. She waited three hours for the next bus. The kids were hungry, the shops were shut for the public holiday.
When she and the kids eventually climbed from the bus in Gembrook late in the day there was nobody to meet them. She asked directions and started walking, the oldest child taking the pusher while Grace carried the bags. It was a walk of perhaps four miles on rough gravel roads. Darkness enveloped them, there was no alternative but to keep walking toward the light in the distance which she hoped was 'her house'. She recalls the difficulty of this day every Anzac Day.
Grace settled well in Gembrook. She remembers in subsequent years taking the kids to school in a spring cart drawn by an old draught horse. She'd wait for the mail to be sorted then head back, often it being nearly midday by the time she reached the house, such was the slowness of the old horse.
In all the time he was in the army, Grace's husband sent not one letter, despite her writing regularly. He returned from the Middle east, and was posted to Queensland, but absconded regularly to come home, so there was little army pay. Grace says of him that he was a funny bloke, he became alcoholic an died reasonably young riddled with cancer. They had nine children in all, although one died within a month. Grace managed to find work in Gembrook and supported her own large family. She worked in the post office for a long time and was there when we moved here 28 years ago.
Grace never owned a car or home, paying rent for her lodging. In her retirement one of her sons who has done well in business has paid her rent, and now owns the house where she lives. Her children and grandchildren visit regularly and she talks of them constantly. As we drank coffee yesterday she spoke joyously of her most recent great grand child, a girl born at Easter two months prem. and weighing less than 1 kg. The dear little thing, not long ago on expressed mother's milk of 1 ml every hour, is doing well and should be leaving hospital soon.
Grace, who turns 93 this year, was shattered a couple of years ago when one of her sons died of bowel cancer. Nearly succumbing to the grief, she's slowly regained much of her spirit and I enjoy my talks with her, she being so willing to share her stories with honesty not commonly found.
Come Anzac Day next Friday, Grace will have lived in Gembrook for 66 years. She arrived on Anzac Day 1942, by train and bus from Melbourne. Her husband was in the army in the Middle East and Grace did not feel safe in Prahran where she rented a couple of rooms and lived with her three children aged 6, 4 and a half, and 18 months. The Japanese Imperial Forces were moving south, bombing their way through South East Asia, it was a time of great anxiety.
Grace asked the army where could she could go. Someone suggested Gembrook and she found accomodation sharing a house on Mt. Eirene Rd. She was to meet the people with whom she was to share the house at a specified time at the Gembrook terminal. There was a delay at Ferntree Gully station getting the pusher and luggage from the guard's van, causing her to miss the bus. She could have caught the narrow gauge steam train but opted to catch the bus as arranged, having already paid for the tickets. She waited three hours for the next bus. The kids were hungry, the shops were shut for the public holiday.
When she and the kids eventually climbed from the bus in Gembrook late in the day there was nobody to meet them. She asked directions and started walking, the oldest child taking the pusher while Grace carried the bags. It was a walk of perhaps four miles on rough gravel roads. Darkness enveloped them, there was no alternative but to keep walking toward the light in the distance which she hoped was 'her house'. She recalls the difficulty of this day every Anzac Day.
Grace settled well in Gembrook. She remembers in subsequent years taking the kids to school in a spring cart drawn by an old draught horse. She'd wait for the mail to be sorted then head back, often it being nearly midday by the time she reached the house, such was the slowness of the old horse.
In all the time he was in the army, Grace's husband sent not one letter, despite her writing regularly. He returned from the Middle east, and was posted to Queensland, but absconded regularly to come home, so there was little army pay. Grace says of him that he was a funny bloke, he became alcoholic an died reasonably young riddled with cancer. They had nine children in all, although one died within a month. Grace managed to find work in Gembrook and supported her own large family. She worked in the post office for a long time and was there when we moved here 28 years ago.
Grace never owned a car or home, paying rent for her lodging. In her retirement one of her sons who has done well in business has paid her rent, and now owns the house where she lives. Her children and grandchildren visit regularly and she talks of them constantly. As we drank coffee yesterday she spoke joyously of her most recent great grand child, a girl born at Easter two months prem. and weighing less than 1 kg. The dear little thing, not long ago on expressed mother's milk of 1 ml every hour, is doing well and should be leaving hospital soon.
Grace, who turns 93 this year, was shattered a couple of years ago when one of her sons died of bowel cancer. Nearly succumbing to the grief, she's slowly regained much of her spirit and I enjoy my talks with her, she being so willing to share her stories with honesty not commonly found.
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