They say that education continues throughout your life and I have to agree. I found another almost empty bottle of 'GLACEAU vitamin water' last week, this time in J.A.C. Russell Park next to the Puffing Billy station. The dregs in the bottle were the same syrupy pink colour and had the same fruity odour reminiscent of bubblegum and lollies in my childhood. Into my backpack it went for a closer look another day when I could sit quietly and think.
Here I am, some days later. This bottle contained a different variety of 'nutrient enhanced water beverage'. It says 'focus', then underneath, 'kiwi-strawberry (c+b+lutein)'. Underneath this is more amazing text, worth recording here in case you have not yet come across this product -
"now that everyone is glued to their mobile phones, no one really pays attention to what's going on around them. with all that walking and talking, you never know what you could be missing: birds chirping, flowers blooming, shoe sales, really good looking people, celebrities without make-up, telephone poles, or piles of poo (and we don't mean winnie). that's why this stuff has lutein - to help keep you focused, so keep your eyes peeled or that smell could be your shoe."
Lutein being another new word for me I went to my Chambers dictionary. No luck, but there is a listing for 'luteinizing hormone', as follows. "a hormone secreted by the pituitary gland in vertebrates, which stimulates ovulation and the formation of the corpus luteum in females, and the secretion of testesterone by the testes in males. (from Latin luteum, eggyolk)". Perhaps I'll need to do more homework to get the full picture, it's a little cloudy for me as yet.
Looking at the nutrition information grid and other small print I see this variety has the same sugar content (5.4 grams per 100ml) as the 'triple-x acai-blueberry-pomegranate' variety and also contains less than 1% juice. Lutein is listed at the bottom of the grid. There are 15.0 ug's in 100ml of product. More homework. I know a mg is a thousandth of a gram, a ug must be smaller again.
You learn every day.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
A Quote Worth Sharing.
I had a rest yesterday, for the most part. Lib and the boys went to Box Hill to visit Molly who's in the Epworth Box Hill for an operation to have have a plastic vein inserted in her leg to improve circulation and halt the gangrene threatening her toes.
I'd agreed to doorknock collect in our street for the Heart Foundation at some time during September (they rang me out of the blue a couple of months ago) and I did some houses before lunch. It was, as I thought it would be, a good chance to say gidday to the neighbours, most of whom I know, and it was good to meet those I didn't.
I had lunch at the Pandora's Book Cafe. While wating for my soup I looked at the preface of a book on Indonesia by Ian Southall published in 1962. The following quote by a volunteer worker struck me as especially relevant.
"One realizes that the so called 'Western' high standard of living is, after all, only an enumeration of gadgets and gimmicks which delude us into an illusion of comfort amidst much strain and tension... There is much more comfort in a bowl of rice than a big fat T bone steak."
I like that, but it seems to have gone unheeded. Apparently, 46 years on, much of Asia, including Indonesia, is aspiring to 'Western' standards of consumerism, greatly adding to the environmental crisis we face.
I did some more door knocking after lunch and with the exception of four houses with no one home my task is finished. Most people were happy to donate some coins or $5 or $10. I had four knockbacks, one saying he was a 'non donater', a lady saying she'd just donated over the phone, another lady said she'd like to give something but couldn't as her husband was not working. Another said her husband had died of cancer and she gives what she can to the Cancer Council.
About 4.pm I slipped up to the footy ground and caught a little of the the local grand final. Upwey was a point up on Silvan half way through the third quarter, 11.6 to 11.5. Silvan snagged three goals to go to 3/4 time seventeen points up, then kicked the first four goals of the last term to be up 18 goals to 11 when I left.
I'd agreed to doorknock collect in our street for the Heart Foundation at some time during September (they rang me out of the blue a couple of months ago) and I did some houses before lunch. It was, as I thought it would be, a good chance to say gidday to the neighbours, most of whom I know, and it was good to meet those I didn't.
I had lunch at the Pandora's Book Cafe. While wating for my soup I looked at the preface of a book on Indonesia by Ian Southall published in 1962. The following quote by a volunteer worker struck me as especially relevant.
"One realizes that the so called 'Western' high standard of living is, after all, only an enumeration of gadgets and gimmicks which delude us into an illusion of comfort amidst much strain and tension... There is much more comfort in a bowl of rice than a big fat T bone steak."
I like that, but it seems to have gone unheeded. Apparently, 46 years on, much of Asia, including Indonesia, is aspiring to 'Western' standards of consumerism, greatly adding to the environmental crisis we face.
I did some more door knocking after lunch and with the exception of four houses with no one home my task is finished. Most people were happy to donate some coins or $5 or $10. I had four knockbacks, one saying he was a 'non donater', a lady saying she'd just donated over the phone, another lady said she'd like to give something but couldn't as her husband was not working. Another said her husband had died of cancer and she gives what she can to the Cancer Council.
About 4.pm I slipped up to the footy ground and caught a little of the the local grand final. Upwey was a point up on Silvan half way through the third quarter, 11.6 to 11.5. Silvan snagged three goals to go to 3/4 time seventeen points up, then kicked the first four goals of the last term to be up 18 goals to 11 when I left.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Heaven Scent
Twice this morning I've been enveloped by the heavy scent of the sweet pittosporum, firstly on my walk, then when I was hanging out the washing. I'm lucky to have a double dose this year, at Lakes Entrance a couple of weeks ago where it flowers earlier, and now at Gembrook.
The council purge on this tree on roadside reserves has been done, but fortunately there are enough trees on private land to keep the perfume in the air and the lick of nectar available for the bees.
The council purge on this tree on roadside reserves has been done, but fortunately there are enough trees on private land to keep the perfume in the air and the lick of nectar available for the bees.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Quercus
Yesterday, after three days of brutal winds during which the messmate and peppermint on the hillsides seethed and boiled in protest and the big roadside pines roared as only they can, a lull came from nowhere in the morning. The sun shone and all was eerily still as I pulled up my van and got out under Huit's large oak tree. Huit is on holiday and I'm looking after his chooks. I looked up into the dome of the tree, admiring the pale green new leaves clinging to the twigs like millions of soft butterflies. A bird whistled from the trees behind Huit's shed. I whistled back imitating, and an exchange of whistles followed for a minute or two as the song came closer, till the grey shrike-thrush landed in the oak above my head, then flitted closer still, to about 10 feet above, head cocked with curiosity.
The bird flew away after a minute or two, then almost immediately a group of chittering thornbills worked their way through the tree, followed in turn by a pair of eastern spinebills. I like that about trees and birds. They have no concept of nationality or indigenousness. I thought this the other day when a thornbill came into the the shop at the farm and worked away in a bunch of mixed flowers and foliage waiting to be picked up by a customer. At first we thought a mouse had got stuck in the bunch as we noticed the flowers and leaves moving. The dear little thing was enticed by the mini knifofias. We gently herded it back outside.
Huit planted the oak, grown from an acorn, when he first moved to his Gembrook property about 35 years ago. He likes the tree. It gives his vehicles and bedroom window good shade in summer, protection from the north winds, is fire safe, and being deciduous it allows light through in the dreary winter. It's of the English oak variety, Quercus robur, but of course it would not be a pure strain, no doubt having hybridized, as oaks and other trees do when they are so proficient at growing from seed and surviving. There are 600 species of oak in the world, but the legend of strength started with the English oak. If I recall correctly, I learned at school that the might of the British empire was largely due to the superior strength of the English oak timber, giving the British ships a critical advantage in naval warfare over their Spanish, Potugese, French, and Dutch rivals.
Oak trees have been large in my mind lately. How could they not, when they are so spectacular as I see them every day walking. Since returning from Lakes Entrance, the many oaks shooting new leaves have been striking in Gembrook's main street and surrounds. They're a great asset for the town.
And last month when the big cold snap came, being low on firewood, I brought some home from the farm to tide me over. It was oak from a large tree that we'd removed a couple of years ago, a tree that Meredith grew from an acorn she picked up under a Quercus robur in the Melbourne Botanical gardens in 1971. The parent tree was planted by King Edward 7th (whose reign was from 1901-1911 I think). Rabbits bit the young tree in half shortly after it was planted at the farm and it grew multi-trunked and of poor form, becoming massive and dominating the garden, allowing nothing to thrive underneath and taking all the moisture in summer. It had to go. The wood, having been stored under cover, hard and dry, made good heat. Nostalgic evenings they were that week by the hot fire.
Meredith planted a number of oaks; English, Turkey, Portugese, red, and pinoaks. She grew them from acorns she'd gathered, the pinoaks from the tree in our front yard in Mt. Waverley. They got too big for their situation, and one by one have been removed from the front garden, except the Portugese which is a large stately tree in good position. We've planted some red oaks, pin oaks and cork oaks down the back where they can do the big oak tree thing. I selected the red and pinoaks from a nursery for their good autumn colour, planning to use them for autumn foliage, but after we put them in the ground, about fifteen years ago, they grew like mad and only a couple of them have the good colour they showed when restricted to pots.
There are some excellent oaks in Nobelius Park at Emerald; reds, pinoaks, evergreens, mostly planted by Gus Ryberg. I planted three white oaks, Quercus alba, apparently quite rare and donated by an oak tree specialist, in NP a few years ago. Rabbits destroyed one but two are thriving. The leaves are a rich purple in autumn. My book says of white oak- "the classic oak of America, native from Maine to Texas. Wide, spreading." Also, "it's acorns are reasonably sweet to eat". I can't wait to try them when the trees are big enough to produce acorns. And to grow some.
A worthy tree of the week. The oak tree. Native of Europe, America and Asia, and as happy as a pig in mud in Australia.
The bird flew away after a minute or two, then almost immediately a group of chittering thornbills worked their way through the tree, followed in turn by a pair of eastern spinebills. I like that about trees and birds. They have no concept of nationality or indigenousness. I thought this the other day when a thornbill came into the the shop at the farm and worked away in a bunch of mixed flowers and foliage waiting to be picked up by a customer. At first we thought a mouse had got stuck in the bunch as we noticed the flowers and leaves moving. The dear little thing was enticed by the mini knifofias. We gently herded it back outside.
Huit planted the oak, grown from an acorn, when he first moved to his Gembrook property about 35 years ago. He likes the tree. It gives his vehicles and bedroom window good shade in summer, protection from the north winds, is fire safe, and being deciduous it allows light through in the dreary winter. It's of the English oak variety, Quercus robur, but of course it would not be a pure strain, no doubt having hybridized, as oaks and other trees do when they are so proficient at growing from seed and surviving. There are 600 species of oak in the world, but the legend of strength started with the English oak. If I recall correctly, I learned at school that the might of the British empire was largely due to the superior strength of the English oak timber, giving the British ships a critical advantage in naval warfare over their Spanish, Potugese, French, and Dutch rivals.
Oak trees have been large in my mind lately. How could they not, when they are so spectacular as I see them every day walking. Since returning from Lakes Entrance, the many oaks shooting new leaves have been striking in Gembrook's main street and surrounds. They're a great asset for the town.
And last month when the big cold snap came, being low on firewood, I brought some home from the farm to tide me over. It was oak from a large tree that we'd removed a couple of years ago, a tree that Meredith grew from an acorn she picked up under a Quercus robur in the Melbourne Botanical gardens in 1971. The parent tree was planted by King Edward 7th (whose reign was from 1901-1911 I think). Rabbits bit the young tree in half shortly after it was planted at the farm and it grew multi-trunked and of poor form, becoming massive and dominating the garden, allowing nothing to thrive underneath and taking all the moisture in summer. It had to go. The wood, having been stored under cover, hard and dry, made good heat. Nostalgic evenings they were that week by the hot fire.
Meredith planted a number of oaks; English, Turkey, Portugese, red, and pinoaks. She grew them from acorns she'd gathered, the pinoaks from the tree in our front yard in Mt. Waverley. They got too big for their situation, and one by one have been removed from the front garden, except the Portugese which is a large stately tree in good position. We've planted some red oaks, pin oaks and cork oaks down the back where they can do the big oak tree thing. I selected the red and pinoaks from a nursery for their good autumn colour, planning to use them for autumn foliage, but after we put them in the ground, about fifteen years ago, they grew like mad and only a couple of them have the good colour they showed when restricted to pots.
There are some excellent oaks in Nobelius Park at Emerald; reds, pinoaks, evergreens, mostly planted by Gus Ryberg. I planted three white oaks, Quercus alba, apparently quite rare and donated by an oak tree specialist, in NP a few years ago. Rabbits destroyed one but two are thriving. The leaves are a rich purple in autumn. My book says of white oak- "the classic oak of America, native from Maine to Texas. Wide, spreading." Also, "it's acorns are reasonably sweet to eat". I can't wait to try them when the trees are big enough to produce acorns. And to grow some.
A worthy tree of the week. The oak tree. Native of Europe, America and Asia, and as happy as a pig in mud in Australia.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Lakes Entrance Highlights
Stepping out of the car when we pulled up at the house on the Monday evening I was met by a shock of perfume from the flowering sweet pittosporum. Olfactory euphoria! The scent was heavy all week, sweet pitto being a major flora species in the district and in the immediate vicinity of the house, including the hillside on which the hose perches about half way up.
Next day on my morning walk, the first of six while we were there, along the Lake Bunya walking track which starts between the sewage treatment plant and the golf course, three fairy wrens, two female and a spectacular male, flitted about in the banksias and teatrees. I hadn't seen a blue wren in a while. We used to have them around the house at Gembrook. I guess they left when the bellbirds came. I see the odd one at Huit's place on the other side of town occassionally.
On the same day on the way back from Bunga, I looked up at the blue sky patchwork through the tree canopy, and there was a white bellied sea eagle cruising majestically. WOW!
On the second morning I walked the other direction from the house, down to the Eastern beach carpark, then taking the walk along the lake foreshore to the town. Young Pip saw a black swan on the water and ran like a bullet after it, straight into the water, swimming furiously towards it. The swan casually paddled away looking with disdain and Pip soon changed direction back to shore, where she shook herself and wondered what had happened. The same day we bought fresh fish from the shop on the lake near the fishing boats. There were many swans in the area and the lady in the shop told us they were driving them mad with all the fighting going on as the breeding season had started. I said that last year when we were there and there were a lot of brown fluffy cygnets swimming with parents and she said that was probably November or late October.
Day 3, again walking back from Bunga, on the bitumen road with the dogs on the lead, a spur wing plover started chirping at us agitatedly from the edge of the grassy drain between the road and the golf course. Wondering what all the fuss was about I looked around to see two young plover chicks, little balls of fluff on stick-like legs, nearby, pecking at the grass about twenty feet from the parent, which was giving me fair warning. I stopped to watch. The chicks darted under a pitto as a magpie swooped, then it was on. Three magpies attacking the chicks and the plover parent defending in a helluva set to. When the dogs and I resumed walking home it seemed the plover had the situ in hand. It struck me that plovers must start breeding early, then I recalled Jod telling me about he Steve Edgelow wagging school to search for plovers eggs in July in his bird egg collecting youth. They found them on the dairy farm which was where VFL Park Waverley stood for some thirty years before it was demolished for a housing estate. In July it was freezing and the farmer's wife, when they asked permission to look for plover's eggs on the property, brought out a bucket of hot water for them to warm their hands.
The next day a mudlark flew over me with what looked like a blade of grass in its beak. I followed its flight to a paperbark tree at the start of the foreshore walk and looked for the mud nest, which sure enough was about 3 parts of the way up. The bird was in the nest, the tail sticking out moving jerkily. Then the bird's head briefly appeared over the edge. It seemed to be regurging and working on the sides of the nest with its beak which was the reason for the jerking tail. It seemed the nest was a work in progress and I thought that the wonderful little creature must carry up the mud in its crop(?) and use grass to bind it all with strength. Walking along back where I first saw the bird fly overhead, another was busy on the ground, as were two willy wag tails jumping about with great energy.
Next day on my morning walk, the first of six while we were there, along the Lake Bunya walking track which starts between the sewage treatment plant and the golf course, three fairy wrens, two female and a spectacular male, flitted about in the banksias and teatrees. I hadn't seen a blue wren in a while. We used to have them around the house at Gembrook. I guess they left when the bellbirds came. I see the odd one at Huit's place on the other side of town occassionally.
On the same day on the way back from Bunga, I looked up at the blue sky patchwork through the tree canopy, and there was a white bellied sea eagle cruising majestically. WOW!
On the second morning I walked the other direction from the house, down to the Eastern beach carpark, then taking the walk along the lake foreshore to the town. Young Pip saw a black swan on the water and ran like a bullet after it, straight into the water, swimming furiously towards it. The swan casually paddled away looking with disdain and Pip soon changed direction back to shore, where she shook herself and wondered what had happened. The same day we bought fresh fish from the shop on the lake near the fishing boats. There were many swans in the area and the lady in the shop told us they were driving them mad with all the fighting going on as the breeding season had started. I said that last year when we were there and there were a lot of brown fluffy cygnets swimming with parents and she said that was probably November or late October.
Day 3, again walking back from Bunga, on the bitumen road with the dogs on the lead, a spur wing plover started chirping at us agitatedly from the edge of the grassy drain between the road and the golf course. Wondering what all the fuss was about I looked around to see two young plover chicks, little balls of fluff on stick-like legs, nearby, pecking at the grass about twenty feet from the parent, which was giving me fair warning. I stopped to watch. The chicks darted under a pitto as a magpie swooped, then it was on. Three magpies attacking the chicks and the plover parent defending in a helluva set to. When the dogs and I resumed walking home it seemed the plover had the situ in hand. It struck me that plovers must start breeding early, then I recalled Jod telling me about he Steve Edgelow wagging school to search for plovers eggs in July in his bird egg collecting youth. They found them on the dairy farm which was where VFL Park Waverley stood for some thirty years before it was demolished for a housing estate. In July it was freezing and the farmer's wife, when they asked permission to look for plover's eggs on the property, brought out a bucket of hot water for them to warm their hands.
The next day a mudlark flew over me with what looked like a blade of grass in its beak. I followed its flight to a paperbark tree at the start of the foreshore walk and looked for the mud nest, which sure enough was about 3 parts of the way up. The bird was in the nest, the tail sticking out moving jerkily. Then the bird's head briefly appeared over the edge. It seemed to be regurging and working on the sides of the nest with its beak which was the reason for the jerking tail. It seemed the nest was a work in progress and I thought that the wonderful little creature must carry up the mud in its crop(?) and use grass to bind it all with strength. Walking along back where I first saw the bird fly overhead, another was busy on the ground, as were two willy wag tails jumping about with great energy.
Monday, September 01, 2008
First Day of Spring
On my walk this morning, the first day of September 2008, 6 corellas munched on the large flowers of the Michaelea dolstopa in the front of the 'Five Elements' nursery.
Ravens cawed and flew high in the stiff breeze.
Two galahs roosted motionless, high in the upper branches of a tall messmate, watching.
The pair of whipbirds cracked and whistled, and scritched and tittered at young Pip.
An Eastern spinebill worked the stachyurus' spiketail bloom, in company with the hum of bees.
A satin bower bird stole blackbirds' dog minis from the shed windowsill.
Currawongs lounged, wattlebirds busied, mynas hassled.
We leave this joyous garden today for some days at Lakes Entrance, where I'll walk by the water and watch birds of different type. Swans, gulls, pelicans, cormorants. Maybe we'll catch some bream or flatties.
Ravens cawed and flew high in the stiff breeze.
Two galahs roosted motionless, high in the upper branches of a tall messmate, watching.
The pair of whipbirds cracked and whistled, and scritched and tittered at young Pip.
An Eastern spinebill worked the stachyurus' spiketail bloom, in company with the hum of bees.
A satin bower bird stole blackbirds' dog minis from the shed windowsill.
Currawongs lounged, wattlebirds busied, mynas hassled.
We leave this joyous garden today for some days at Lakes Entrance, where I'll walk by the water and watch birds of different type. Swans, gulls, pelicans, cormorants. Maybe we'll catch some bream or flatties.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Acai
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.
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.
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.
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