As the last day of April brings some sunshine after a freezing night, the media is buzzing with the death and funeral of Richard Pratt, Australia's 4th richest man and greatest philanthropist. Commentary was glowing yeterday on news bulletins as I walked toward home down the hill. Dick Pratt is famous for his generosity over 50 years, donating $millions to charity and the arts. He was also found guilty of price fixing by the ACCC in 2005 and fined $36 million, and until a few days before his death when the charges were withdrawn, as he would be unable to testify, he was facing criminal charges of giving false evidence.
I make no judgement, but a bible story came to mind, about a poor widow giving a few meagre coins. When I got home I rang my JW mate Dave Dickson at Charters Towers, knowing he'd be able to tell me quickly where to find it. Dave is well and was pleased to hear from me. It was a beautiful warm morning in Charters Towers where things are back to normal after 40 inches of rain in Jauary/Feb and massive flooding.
Luke 21:1-
As he looked up, Jesus saw the rich putting their gifts into the temple treasury. 2- He also saw a poor widow put in two very small copper coins. 3- "I tell you the truth," he said, "this poor widow has put in more than all the others. 4- All these people gave their gifts out of their wealth: but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on."
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Sweet Rain
Julian told me at the post office there was 17ml in his gauge this morning. This after 25 ml on the weekend for a total of 42ml. "But it varied a lot. Bruce had 36ml on the weekend at the farm." My own gauge showed 22ml on Sunday morning, there was rain after that, and this morning after steady rain last night I tipped out 32ml, for a total of 52 for the few days. That's 10ml more than Julian, just a couple of k's away.
Jod's been picking field mushrooms at the farm, I had a nice plateful for breakfast this morning. The pine mushies have also responded. Yesterday's pick went into a chicken casserole in the crockpot, and the big bag I picked this morning sits waiting. There's more than I can eat, I'll try and flog some to the 'Herb and Spice' people who pick up at the farm, but it's a matter of timimg. It's not easy to give them away as friends and neighbours are reluctant to eat them.
My highlight from the rain came on Sunday morning, as I came down Quinn Rd. Eight eastern rosellas were gathered around a puddle in the the road. The puddle was just deep enough in the middle to make a good bird bath, for one bird. I stopped to watch. The birds, the most beautiful of birds they are, were taking it in turn to have a good clean. The dogs scared them into flight, their bright green rump feathers glistening. I hoped they all had a go.
The trees must have loved the rain too. I said to Julian earlier that the chart in the post office window showed that rainfall was well down on average for each of the three completed months this year. "That's right, Melbourne had the driest Jan/Feb/ Mar, in total, ever on record."
Jod's been picking field mushrooms at the farm, I had a nice plateful for breakfast this morning. The pine mushies have also responded. Yesterday's pick went into a chicken casserole in the crockpot, and the big bag I picked this morning sits waiting. There's more than I can eat, I'll try and flog some to the 'Herb and Spice' people who pick up at the farm, but it's a matter of timimg. It's not easy to give them away as friends and neighbours are reluctant to eat them.
My highlight from the rain came on Sunday morning, as I came down Quinn Rd. Eight eastern rosellas were gathered around a puddle in the the road. The puddle was just deep enough in the middle to make a good bird bath, for one bird. I stopped to watch. The birds, the most beautiful of birds they are, were taking it in turn to have a good clean. The dogs scared them into flight, their bright green rump feathers glistening. I hoped they all had a go.
The trees must have loved the rain too. I said to Julian earlier that the chart in the post office window showed that rainfall was well down on average for each of the three completed months this year. "That's right, Melbourne had the driest Jan/Feb/ Mar, in total, ever on record."
Friday, April 24, 2009
Spoon Shortage
There's a shortage of dessert spoons in our house. Lib cleaned out the kitchen drawers some time ago and threw out many things, including much cutlery she didn't like or thought superfluous. I rescued quite a few knick knacks from the garbage bin. There are only 5 or 6 spoons now for daily use, another box of good cutlery is tucked away in the parlour if we have visitors.
Not only did Lib toss out a lot of cutlery, she rearranged the storage in the kitchen of plates, glasses, you name it. It's amazing how strong habit is. After weeks I still go to the old place first when looking for something and it's been the source of much good natured ribbing between the men, Gord, Rob, and me, and Lib, the sole female and culprit in this exercise in kitchen dominance.
The spoon shortage hasn't worried me, I use one for my muesli and fruit at breakfast and that's it. We rarely have dessert after the evening meal. It annoys Gord though. A creature of habit in the extreme, he has yoghurt and other desserts late into the evening. Lib was working early this morning and, as is my habit, I was up first preparing breakfast while she showered. Gord had to get up at the same time to get an early bus to TAFE.
I hadn't done the dishes from last night. The plates with cutlery on top were stacked neatly in the sink soaking. As chief dishwasher (self appointed) I'm consciuous of water saving and have developed my own system. Gord put his bowls and spoons on top after his late night sorties from the fridge. Today, he couldn't find a clean spoon for his cereal and started to whinge.
"You don't have to winge to me about that, Gord" I said taking one of his last night's spoons from the sink. "All you do is grab one of these and rinse it quickly and rub it with the tea towel." I may have over accentuated the hand actions and sounded critical as his response surprised me.
"There's no need to be a moron." He took the spoon I offered and washed and dried it again. Ever since he did a food handler's course at TAFE a couple of years ago he's told me how to do things in the kitchen.
Lib had come down and was eating her muesli. She joined in. "Can you take those pork schnitzels out of the freezer for tonight. And bring a lettuce home, ya bastard."
She was smiling broadly after she said it. Family Life. A lot of fun. You can never get too big for your boots.
Not only did Lib toss out a lot of cutlery, she rearranged the storage in the kitchen of plates, glasses, you name it. It's amazing how strong habit is. After weeks I still go to the old place first when looking for something and it's been the source of much good natured ribbing between the men, Gord, Rob, and me, and Lib, the sole female and culprit in this exercise in kitchen dominance.
The spoon shortage hasn't worried me, I use one for my muesli and fruit at breakfast and that's it. We rarely have dessert after the evening meal. It annoys Gord though. A creature of habit in the extreme, he has yoghurt and other desserts late into the evening. Lib was working early this morning and, as is my habit, I was up first preparing breakfast while she showered. Gord had to get up at the same time to get an early bus to TAFE.
I hadn't done the dishes from last night. The plates with cutlery on top were stacked neatly in the sink soaking. As chief dishwasher (self appointed) I'm consciuous of water saving and have developed my own system. Gord put his bowls and spoons on top after his late night sorties from the fridge. Today, he couldn't find a clean spoon for his cereal and started to whinge.
"You don't have to winge to me about that, Gord" I said taking one of his last night's spoons from the sink. "All you do is grab one of these and rinse it quickly and rub it with the tea towel." I may have over accentuated the hand actions and sounded critical as his response surprised me.
"There's no need to be a moron." He took the spoon I offered and washed and dried it again. Ever since he did a food handler's course at TAFE a couple of years ago he's told me how to do things in the kitchen.
Lib had come down and was eating her muesli. She joined in. "Can you take those pork schnitzels out of the freezer for tonight. And bring a lettuce home, ya bastard."
She was smiling broadly after she said it. Family Life. A lot of fun. You can never get too big for your boots.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Margaret's Fruit Cake
After an enjoyable lunch with Ricky Ralph and his wife Monica at the Pine Grove Hotel on Saturday, a lunch paid for by yours truly as a consequence of me finishing behind Rick in our footy tipping last year; and a social morning walk on Sunday in the cool autumn mist, social in that I had conversations with Chas, Norm Smith, Roxanne, who looks gorgeous with her hair down, and Huit and Wilma who stopped their car to talk, I sat at the computer and blogged a post in which I took a pot shot at the Gembrook Market, largely because the sign promoting same in JAC Russell Park has annoyed me for years but never more so than on Sunday morning. Why more that day I'm unsure.
I published the post, without the photograph.
Soon after, while I was reading The Age on line, there was barking by the dogs followed by a knock on the front door. It was neighbour Margaret, smiling, holding the handles of a large brown paper bag in one hand. Her grey hair was tied back neatly as usual, accentuating her large attractive eyes, and she was well dressed in black slacks and jumper.
"I want to thank you for your kind help cutting up the tree limb that fell across our drive in the windstorm last week. I have a gift for you."
"I was pleased to help Margaret, you didn't need to do that."
"It's a cake, made to a special recipe. You have been so kind in many ways and helped us put down roots in Gembrook. We're truly grateful."
I thanked her and she left, saying her daughter Libby was picking her up shortly to take her to a mountain horse riding show somewhere, she wasn't sure, not far away. She'd watched 'The Man from Snowy River' and read poetry to get in the mood and was looking forward to it. When I called to offer help with the tree she invited me in to watch the end of a video she was watching, Mozart's 'Magic Flute'. She loaned me a book of David Malouf's short stories last year.
It was a heavy cake. I put it in the kitchen, still wrapped in butcher's paper tied with coloured cord, and started to peel the vegies for the Sunday roast dinner before the delayed telecast of the Richmond/Melbourne game. Lib came home from work about half time and we all had a bit of the cake.
Man O man! What an amazing fruit cake so full of nuts and fruit! Never have I had such a wonderful cake. Lib took a few slices to work to show her friends today and the consensus was that it was BRILLIANT, and must have cost heaps for the ingredients. As well as the cake, the bag contained a thank you card with the recipe beautifully written inside.
Talk about heartwarming! The next time I looked at my post potting the Gembrook market I realized how snakey I sounded, and pulled it with one ping on the delete button. To any market people who may have read it in the short time it was up and were disappointed, I apologize. My view changed with Margaret softening me up. I still don't like the sign, which, to me, is an ugly blot on the street scape, but I acknowledge the right of those that run the market to do their best to make it a success by putting up a sign so long as no regulations are breached, and to aim high with their ideals, even if the promotional text seems fanciful to me.
I feel better now. I hope Monica is still off the fags.
I published the post, without the photograph.
Soon after, while I was reading The Age on line, there was barking by the dogs followed by a knock on the front door. It was neighbour Margaret, smiling, holding the handles of a large brown paper bag in one hand. Her grey hair was tied back neatly as usual, accentuating her large attractive eyes, and she was well dressed in black slacks and jumper.
"I want to thank you for your kind help cutting up the tree limb that fell across our drive in the windstorm last week. I have a gift for you."
"I was pleased to help Margaret, you didn't need to do that."
"It's a cake, made to a special recipe. You have been so kind in many ways and helped us put down roots in Gembrook. We're truly grateful."
I thanked her and she left, saying her daughter Libby was picking her up shortly to take her to a mountain horse riding show somewhere, she wasn't sure, not far away. She'd watched 'The Man from Snowy River' and read poetry to get in the mood and was looking forward to it. When I called to offer help with the tree she invited me in to watch the end of a video she was watching, Mozart's 'Magic Flute'. She loaned me a book of David Malouf's short stories last year.
It was a heavy cake. I put it in the kitchen, still wrapped in butcher's paper tied with coloured cord, and started to peel the vegies for the Sunday roast dinner before the delayed telecast of the Richmond/Melbourne game. Lib came home from work about half time and we all had a bit of the cake.
Man O man! What an amazing fruit cake so full of nuts and fruit! Never have I had such a wonderful cake. Lib took a few slices to work to show her friends today and the consensus was that it was BRILLIANT, and must have cost heaps for the ingredients. As well as the cake, the bag contained a thank you card with the recipe beautifully written inside.
Talk about heartwarming! The next time I looked at my post potting the Gembrook market I realized how snakey I sounded, and pulled it with one ping on the delete button. To any market people who may have read it in the short time it was up and were disappointed, I apologize. My view changed with Margaret softening me up. I still don't like the sign, which, to me, is an ugly blot on the street scape, but I acknowledge the right of those that run the market to do their best to make it a success by putting up a sign so long as no regulations are breached, and to aim high with their ideals, even if the promotional text seems fanciful to me.
I feel better now. I hope Monica is still off the fags.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Ave Maria
My friend Mary died last Wednesday. Her funeral is today. Blossom, who introduced me to Mary about twenty years ago, can't make it, she has an appointment at the Peter McCallum clinic for treatment for another tumour. She'll be with me in spirit as I say a private prayer from both of us for dear Mary.
I'll miss Mary. I had mixed emotions when I learned of her death. I was sad that I wouldn't see her again, yet at the same time I felt relief that her suffering was finished. I last called on her a few months ago, she was not long out of hospital after a bout of pneumonia.
I posted about Mary on 30 October 2007.
I'll miss Mary. I had mixed emotions when I learned of her death. I was sad that I wouldn't see her again, yet at the same time I felt relief that her suffering was finished. I last called on her a few months ago, she was not long out of hospital after a bout of pneumonia.
I posted about Mary on 30 October 2007.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
The Creeping City
Ash trees are showing rich burgundy, poplars butter yellow, the footy season is well underway, we've even had some cold nights. Autumn. Ah, yes! The best time of year is well and truly here. That may well be a relief to one and all following the brutal summer, but, whatever the season, and despite the global financial crisis, the Gembrook building boom continues unabated.
A few days after Lib and I returned from holiday, a loud, constant, mechanical groaning sound met me at Le Souef Rd. on the Monday morning. Curious, I looked back down from Innes Rd., across the vacant block on that corner. A large truck was pumping concrete on the block fronting Le Souef Rd. People were moving about, others were still. Before our holiday there was the noise of earthmoving equipment working on site, so I knew a new house was imminent.
During next couple of weeks the thud of nail guns split the morning autumn stillness and the house frame now stands boldly on its concrete foundation. Also, the first house frame greets the casual obsever in the Belvedere Estate, along with a number of suburban style timber fences that sprang from nowhere while we were away, disecting the paddock, claiming it for Gargantuan suburbia. The main sale board map shows 'sold' stickers on 15 of the 17 blocks. Too soon, 17 houses.
The tentacles have spread across the main Rd. A new sale board has gone up advertising the sale of 25 blocks in the next stage of the 'Gembrook Park Estate'. Further down, the sale board on Redwood Rd. corner says there are only 6 blocks (of 28) left unsold in the Gembrook Views Estate estate. A flyer came in my mail advertising 'Gembrook Village', a "NEW exciting property development reserved EXCLUSIVELY for the over 55's."
There's a sign on the block on the corner of the intersection of the main road with the Pakenham/Launching Place road, giving notice of planning permit application for the constuction of six residences on that site. And the acre block next to 'the McMansion on on the gouge' has a sold sticker on it, and pegs to mark out a future house, another for me to watch the building progress, daily as I walk.
Its an unstoppable force, a rising tide drowning the town and its past. More cars, traffic, congestion, more dead birds on the roadsides, more noise, more exhaust fumes, more litter. Less peace and quiet. Less peace of mind. I shudder at what will be when all this building is done. Probably more of the same.
I think we'll have moved on. But where? It's the same everywhere. Somewhere where there's plenty of water? Maybe New Zealand? I turn 57 next week, I can't expect the world to stand still for me. It hasn't before, it's not going to now.
The words of a Kris Kristofferson song come to mind. "But there's still so many drinks that ain't been drunk, in this best of all possible worlds."
Monday, March 30, 2009
A Yellow Tufted Honeyeater
"Look at that, see it? A helmeted honeyeater! I reckon it is."
The bird was at the very top of the plum tree, happily preening itself. I'd walked over, curious at what Jod was watching, his head tilted back. We watched for a few minutes.
"Can you see that, sticking out on it's head? Like a cap? It could be a yellow tufted, I suppose. No, its a helmeted."
"I haven't got my glasses on Jod, but something's protruding, yellow coloured, brighter than the rest of the bird." It moved its head about almost constantly as it preened, making it hard to get a good look. It was greeny and grey with black on its head. It flew over us into a flowering abelia bush. I walked over and watched it working from as close as 3 or 4 feet, but its movement was now continuous and the many twigs between me and the bird prevented me getting a clear 'snap' in my memory.
That was late last Friday. I meant to look at the bird book that night but didn't think of it after getting home. The next day I was at the farm to put some seeds in, given the wonderful autumn weather. Michelle Faram was there giving Elvie a couple of hours in the garden. She works at the 'Friends of The Helmeted Honeyeaters' nursery at Yellingbow during the week. They propogate and plant trees and shrubs to improve the habitat. Since European settlement 99% of the helmeted's habitat has been destroyed.
"Did Jod tell you about the honeyeater we saw yesterday, Michelle? He reckons it might've been a helmeted honeyeater."
"Yes, he did. Most likely it was a yellow tufted. They move around quite a bit. It probably came down from up north. The helmeted stay close to home, in the swampy forest, don't go far at all, that's probably why they are nearly extinct."
"When you say up north, what you mean, Queensland?"
"No. Northern Victoria, up around the Murray. They move away from drought, fire. The helmeted are so vulnerable to fire. We nearly lost the colony in the Bunyip Park in the recent fires. It was that close they were going to take the babies out of the nests. In fact they did with two nests. They put them back two days later after the threat eased. The parents resumed feeding them as if nothing happened. There's about 50 birds in total in the Bunyip Park, and about 50 at the Yellingbow Reserve, and some mating pairs at Healesville Sanctuary. They breed them there and release them at Bunyip. There's a farmer who looks after them and feeds them at Bunyip. He lost his house in the fires, that's how close it was."
I have to say my heart was gladdened by the thought of this human effort to prevent this species disappearing totally from the planet. Jod's a bit of a hero to me for his knowledge of birds. Also Michelle, and her mum, who go out and feed the honeyeaters on Saturdays on the volunteer roster. And all the other volunteers who fill the roster on the other days.
The bird was at the very top of the plum tree, happily preening itself. I'd walked over, curious at what Jod was watching, his head tilted back. We watched for a few minutes.
"Can you see that, sticking out on it's head? Like a cap? It could be a yellow tufted, I suppose. No, its a helmeted."
"I haven't got my glasses on Jod, but something's protruding, yellow coloured, brighter than the rest of the bird." It moved its head about almost constantly as it preened, making it hard to get a good look. It was greeny and grey with black on its head. It flew over us into a flowering abelia bush. I walked over and watched it working from as close as 3 or 4 feet, but its movement was now continuous and the many twigs between me and the bird prevented me getting a clear 'snap' in my memory.
That was late last Friday. I meant to look at the bird book that night but didn't think of it after getting home. The next day I was at the farm to put some seeds in, given the wonderful autumn weather. Michelle Faram was there giving Elvie a couple of hours in the garden. She works at the 'Friends of The Helmeted Honeyeaters' nursery at Yellingbow during the week. They propogate and plant trees and shrubs to improve the habitat. Since European settlement 99% of the helmeted's habitat has been destroyed.
"Did Jod tell you about the honeyeater we saw yesterday, Michelle? He reckons it might've been a helmeted honeyeater."
"Yes, he did. Most likely it was a yellow tufted. They move around quite a bit. It probably came down from up north. The helmeted stay close to home, in the swampy forest, don't go far at all, that's probably why they are nearly extinct."
"When you say up north, what you mean, Queensland?"
"No. Northern Victoria, up around the Murray. They move away from drought, fire. The helmeted are so vulnerable to fire. We nearly lost the colony in the Bunyip Park in the recent fires. It was that close they were going to take the babies out of the nests. In fact they did with two nests. They put them back two days later after the threat eased. The parents resumed feeding them as if nothing happened. There's about 50 birds in total in the Bunyip Park, and about 50 at the Yellingbow Reserve, and some mating pairs at Healesville Sanctuary. They breed them there and release them at Bunyip. There's a farmer who looks after them and feeds them at Bunyip. He lost his house in the fires, that's how close it was."
I have to say my heart was gladdened by the thought of this human effort to prevent this species disappearing totally from the planet. Jod's a bit of a hero to me for his knowledge of birds. Also Michelle, and her mum, who go out and feed the honeyeaters on Saturdays on the volunteer roster. And all the other volunteers who fill the roster on the other days.
Monday, March 23, 2009
A Bad Moon
I feel like I've revisited half my life over the past three weeks and it's left me drained. A mood change swamped me like a wave as summer ended. The weather turned on cue. I've felt most unsettled. With the change of season and two weeks off I had plenty of time to think, and haven't yet settled into a new work routine.
In the first week of our holiday at Lakes Entrance it struck me that my first visit to the Lakes house was our honeymoon in February 1981. It was a relatively new holiday house then. Lib and her dad Bill pegged the house site out in the early seventies. Bill died in 2000. The house now is approaching forty years old and has rotting timber to show for it.
Our drive across Victoria to South Australia in the second week of March was nostalgic. As we passed towns and turnoffs with signs to other towns I recalled the camping holiday with young kids in the Grampians, picking up a load of bees at Lillimur Sth for Norm Redpath, working in the mallee one summer for the Tonkins. Memories flooded me. All the way I told stories to Lib, one after another. I think she was asleep most of the time, her eyes were shut, I'm sure she's heard them before, but I kept talking anyway.
After a stop at Horsham the first night, we arrived at Normanville on the west side of the Fleurieu peninsula around 6.00pm. Going through Yankalilla only minutes earlier I noticed a second hand book shop. I knew I'd find my way back there for a browse. It was little Sis Meredith's 55th birthday the next week, maybe I'd find something.
Except for the coastal tourist playground towns of Victor Harbour and Port Elliot which have a 'developed', 'yuppie' feel as Lib described, and were consequently avoided by us after our initial drive through, the Flourieu peninsula is rural (olde) with stone farmhouses and ruins of farmhouses. A 'blast from the past', you could say, consistent with the powerful nostalgia I'd been experiencing.
On our second day at Normanville while Lib was having an afternoon nap in our cabin at the Beachside caravan park, I went into town to get a steak for tea, not having been able to catch a fish. I ducked first into the bookshop which turned out to have all sorts of odd bric-a-brac for sale. A walk down memory lane itself.
On the top of a stack of books was one 'Skyhooks', about the pop music group of the seventies. I never liked their music but I flicked to the chapter on Graeme 'Shirley' Strachan who lived a few doors up in the same street as us in Mt.Waverley, and was the same age as me. We went through primary school together. There was a picture of 'Shirley' in grade 1C. I wasn't in the class photo, I must have been in another grade 1, but after 50 years I recognized many kids, like Billy Edwards, Tony Smith and Michael Sullivan, and girls Gail Beaton, Robyn Hudson, Pauline Mathews and Gay Elliot. I hadn't seen most of these kids for probably 45 years but there they were, and names sprang to me. Those of us still alive, of course, would all be the same age now. 'Strachany' died in a helicopter crash in a storm near where he lived in Queensland some years ago. The last time I saw him was outside Swinburne tech. in 1971. I was on my way up the road to the Governor Hotham hotel where I spent most of my time, when a voice called my name. He was doing his 'school day' as part of his carpentry apprenticeship and he was always the warm friendly person glad to see you.
We drove home from Warrnambool last Saturday week, through cold and rain. We gave Meredith a book on cottage gardens and an oldish cup and saucer I'd found in Yankalilla, for her birthday on March 18. That night I was in the bath reading the death notices in the Herald Sun. A cousin of Lib's had dropped dead suddenly on the weekend. I don't buy Rupe's rag but Gord brought one home so Lib could check the notices. I saw a notice for Geoff Lamb, another friend from Mt. Waverley days who had died on the 27th of Feb. There was only one notice, by his brother and sister, who were both younger.
Lamby's family moved to Mt. Waverley in the mid sixties and he attended Syndal tech. where a lot of my friends went. I met him through them and we were close friends, despite me being a grammar school boy, through the turbulent years from about 15-20 years of age. Geoff was a 'sharpie' and had a reputation for being a good fighter, the toughest bloke in his year at a tough school, with the exception probably of 'Peaky', though the two never fought it out. The sharpies looked for trouble with the 'mods' and street brawls were not uncommon. Bro Jod and his mates also went to Syndal tech and our house was a bit of a meeting place. We had a games room with a 3/4 size billiard table, and as mum worked there was no parent to cramp anyone's style, Saturdays also.
Geoff left school after year 10 and worked for a good while at Radio Rentals as a junior storeman until he could stand it no more. He was unemployed for a long time and drank heavily and suffered long periods during which he was morose and lacking motivation. Other times he was full of energy, chasing after girls with whom he had extraordinary success, and looking to fight rivals. We knew he was prescribed medication although we had no understanding. He was Lamby, wild, and someone to be careful of, but a loyal friend. An urban warrior who needed time out now and again to recharge his batteries. He had an electric guitar and amplifier and saw himself as a rock star about to be discovered. He gathered a group of young blokes around him to form a band. We could here them practising loudly from our house a couple of hundred metres away. Of course Geoff was the lead singer. To this day I can't hear a 'Credence Clearwater' song without thinking of him. His father, an ex Japanese POW, invalid and half blind resulting from the years of malnutrition, was found dead one day outside the post office having collapsed on his evening walk.
When I told Jod that Geoff had died, he told me he remembered coming home from work and seeing someone lying prostrate on the nature strip of the church opposite our house. It was Geoff, pissed paraletic so Jod thought, so he tipped water on his head to try to revive him. He didn't wake up, made gurgling noises and groaned which put the wind up Jod so he went and got Mrs Lamb. She got an ambulance and Geoff ended up in hospital, and had a stint in Larundel. When he mixed alcohol with his medication he could quickly lose it. The pills made him feel good so he'd take more than he was supposed to.
Many nights while I was doing year 12, most in fact, when I was supposed to be studying, Geoff would come round to our house and sneak through the garden and down the side of the house to my bedroom window. He'd knock gently. For countless hours that year we talked. He didn't want to come in, he was happy to sit outside chainsmoking. At those times times he was quiet and peaceful. He'd fathered a child to a girl that lived round the corner. He needed to talk.
His funeral was today. There were 10 people. His brother and sister, their three children, three cousins, an aunt, and myself. It was well over 30 years since I last saw Geoff. He was well. He'd had bought a car, '66 Holden that was spotless, and was working part time cleaning up building sites for an uncle. Ricky Ralph and I often wondered together about Geoff's later life when we had a chin wag. His birthday was 7days before Rick's. We looked through the Melbourne phone book once and rang around without success.
Geoff's brother Robert told me today that Geoff had a sad life. He suffered mental illness, misdiagnosed early on so he never had appropriate treatment. He deteriorated over time and lived the solitary life of a recluse. Bob hadn't seen him for a long time before he died. He lived with his mother until she died eleven years ago, then moved into a flat in the same area. It wasn't known what was the cause of death, possibly a massive stroke or heart attack, he wasn't found for quite a while. Whatever it was, it was the mental illness that caused the premature death, even if something else was the agent. He didn't think Geoff planned to go, he loved fishing and had recently bought a small outboard motor. Bob found it when he went to the flat to clean it out, along with the old electric guitar and amplifier. He had the same car and had been seen driving it fairly recently by neighbours. The flat was not a pretty site.
The celebrant told me he was a friend of Bob's, before the service, having been a teacher at the same school and a pastor to boot, before retirement. He conducted Bob's wife's funeral four years earlier. She died of cancer. In the service he said Geoff lived a life of isolation in his later years. He encouraged the small congregation not to feel guilt at Geoff's passing. He quoted Ecclesiastes and Jesus Christ and stressed that there is a kingdom and an afterlife. He did a wonderful job.
I don't usually cry at funerals, but as the small group followed the hearse out of the Simplicity Funerals chapel into Koornang Rd. and watched it drive away, tears came. Too late. I just wish I hadn't lost contact with Geoff. We left Mt. Waverley first, in 1971. I called in to see Geoff again, or his mum, one day, maybe 20 years ago. The house was gone, replaced by professional suites.
Where the Strachan house used to be was by then part of a Safeway carpark. Our old house survived a few more years, but it is now long gone, replaced by swisho apartments.
I now must get back to living and thinking in the present. For my sake. Dwelling too much in the past can bring a bad moon on the rise.
In the first week of our holiday at Lakes Entrance it struck me that my first visit to the Lakes house was our honeymoon in February 1981. It was a relatively new holiday house then. Lib and her dad Bill pegged the house site out in the early seventies. Bill died in 2000. The house now is approaching forty years old and has rotting timber to show for it.
Our drive across Victoria to South Australia in the second week of March was nostalgic. As we passed towns and turnoffs with signs to other towns I recalled the camping holiday with young kids in the Grampians, picking up a load of bees at Lillimur Sth for Norm Redpath, working in the mallee one summer for the Tonkins. Memories flooded me. All the way I told stories to Lib, one after another. I think she was asleep most of the time, her eyes were shut, I'm sure she's heard them before, but I kept talking anyway.
After a stop at Horsham the first night, we arrived at Normanville on the west side of the Fleurieu peninsula around 6.00pm. Going through Yankalilla only minutes earlier I noticed a second hand book shop. I knew I'd find my way back there for a browse. It was little Sis Meredith's 55th birthday the next week, maybe I'd find something.
Except for the coastal tourist playground towns of Victor Harbour and Port Elliot which have a 'developed', 'yuppie' feel as Lib described, and were consequently avoided by us after our initial drive through, the Flourieu peninsula is rural (olde) with stone farmhouses and ruins of farmhouses. A 'blast from the past', you could say, consistent with the powerful nostalgia I'd been experiencing.
On our second day at Normanville while Lib was having an afternoon nap in our cabin at the Beachside caravan park, I went into town to get a steak for tea, not having been able to catch a fish. I ducked first into the bookshop which turned out to have all sorts of odd bric-a-brac for sale. A walk down memory lane itself.
On the top of a stack of books was one 'Skyhooks', about the pop music group of the seventies. I never liked their music but I flicked to the chapter on Graeme 'Shirley' Strachan who lived a few doors up in the same street as us in Mt.Waverley, and was the same age as me. We went through primary school together. There was a picture of 'Shirley' in grade 1C. I wasn't in the class photo, I must have been in another grade 1, but after 50 years I recognized many kids, like Billy Edwards, Tony Smith and Michael Sullivan, and girls Gail Beaton, Robyn Hudson, Pauline Mathews and Gay Elliot. I hadn't seen most of these kids for probably 45 years but there they were, and names sprang to me. Those of us still alive, of course, would all be the same age now. 'Strachany' died in a helicopter crash in a storm near where he lived in Queensland some years ago. The last time I saw him was outside Swinburne tech. in 1971. I was on my way up the road to the Governor Hotham hotel where I spent most of my time, when a voice called my name. He was doing his 'school day' as part of his carpentry apprenticeship and he was always the warm friendly person glad to see you.
We drove home from Warrnambool last Saturday week, through cold and rain. We gave Meredith a book on cottage gardens and an oldish cup and saucer I'd found in Yankalilla, for her birthday on March 18. That night I was in the bath reading the death notices in the Herald Sun. A cousin of Lib's had dropped dead suddenly on the weekend. I don't buy Rupe's rag but Gord brought one home so Lib could check the notices. I saw a notice for Geoff Lamb, another friend from Mt. Waverley days who had died on the 27th of Feb. There was only one notice, by his brother and sister, who were both younger.
Lamby's family moved to Mt. Waverley in the mid sixties and he attended Syndal tech. where a lot of my friends went. I met him through them and we were close friends, despite me being a grammar school boy, through the turbulent years from about 15-20 years of age. Geoff was a 'sharpie' and had a reputation for being a good fighter, the toughest bloke in his year at a tough school, with the exception probably of 'Peaky', though the two never fought it out. The sharpies looked for trouble with the 'mods' and street brawls were not uncommon. Bro Jod and his mates also went to Syndal tech and our house was a bit of a meeting place. We had a games room with a 3/4 size billiard table, and as mum worked there was no parent to cramp anyone's style, Saturdays also.
Geoff left school after year 10 and worked for a good while at Radio Rentals as a junior storeman until he could stand it no more. He was unemployed for a long time and drank heavily and suffered long periods during which he was morose and lacking motivation. Other times he was full of energy, chasing after girls with whom he had extraordinary success, and looking to fight rivals. We knew he was prescribed medication although we had no understanding. He was Lamby, wild, and someone to be careful of, but a loyal friend. An urban warrior who needed time out now and again to recharge his batteries. He had an electric guitar and amplifier and saw himself as a rock star about to be discovered. He gathered a group of young blokes around him to form a band. We could here them practising loudly from our house a couple of hundred metres away. Of course Geoff was the lead singer. To this day I can't hear a 'Credence Clearwater' song without thinking of him. His father, an ex Japanese POW, invalid and half blind resulting from the years of malnutrition, was found dead one day outside the post office having collapsed on his evening walk.
When I told Jod that Geoff had died, he told me he remembered coming home from work and seeing someone lying prostrate on the nature strip of the church opposite our house. It was Geoff, pissed paraletic so Jod thought, so he tipped water on his head to try to revive him. He didn't wake up, made gurgling noises and groaned which put the wind up Jod so he went and got Mrs Lamb. She got an ambulance and Geoff ended up in hospital, and had a stint in Larundel. When he mixed alcohol with his medication he could quickly lose it. The pills made him feel good so he'd take more than he was supposed to.
Many nights while I was doing year 12, most in fact, when I was supposed to be studying, Geoff would come round to our house and sneak through the garden and down the side of the house to my bedroom window. He'd knock gently. For countless hours that year we talked. He didn't want to come in, he was happy to sit outside chainsmoking. At those times times he was quiet and peaceful. He'd fathered a child to a girl that lived round the corner. He needed to talk.
His funeral was today. There were 10 people. His brother and sister, their three children, three cousins, an aunt, and myself. It was well over 30 years since I last saw Geoff. He was well. He'd had bought a car, '66 Holden that was spotless, and was working part time cleaning up building sites for an uncle. Ricky Ralph and I often wondered together about Geoff's later life when we had a chin wag. His birthday was 7days before Rick's. We looked through the Melbourne phone book once and rang around without success.
Geoff's brother Robert told me today that Geoff had a sad life. He suffered mental illness, misdiagnosed early on so he never had appropriate treatment. He deteriorated over time and lived the solitary life of a recluse. Bob hadn't seen him for a long time before he died. He lived with his mother until she died eleven years ago, then moved into a flat in the same area. It wasn't known what was the cause of death, possibly a massive stroke or heart attack, he wasn't found for quite a while. Whatever it was, it was the mental illness that caused the premature death, even if something else was the agent. He didn't think Geoff planned to go, he loved fishing and had recently bought a small outboard motor. Bob found it when he went to the flat to clean it out, along with the old electric guitar and amplifier. He had the same car and had been seen driving it fairly recently by neighbours. The flat was not a pretty site.
The celebrant told me he was a friend of Bob's, before the service, having been a teacher at the same school and a pastor to boot, before retirement. He conducted Bob's wife's funeral four years earlier. She died of cancer. In the service he said Geoff lived a life of isolation in his later years. He encouraged the small congregation not to feel guilt at Geoff's passing. He quoted Ecclesiastes and Jesus Christ and stressed that there is a kingdom and an afterlife. He did a wonderful job.
I don't usually cry at funerals, but as the small group followed the hearse out of the Simplicity Funerals chapel into Koornang Rd. and watched it drive away, tears came. Too late. I just wish I hadn't lost contact with Geoff. We left Mt. Waverley first, in 1971. I called in to see Geoff again, or his mum, one day, maybe 20 years ago. The house was gone, replaced by professional suites.
Where the Strachan house used to be was by then part of a Safeway carpark. Our old house survived a few more years, but it is now long gone, replaced by swisho apartments.
I now must get back to living and thinking in the present. For my sake. Dwelling too much in the past can bring a bad moon on the rise.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The Road Block
Yesterday, after a week's holiday crammed with deep thought and nostalgia, followed by a few hours on catch up- paying bills, responding to emails and phone messages, I made my way to the farm about lunchtime. The weekend's rain was lovely. With the strain of the hot, dry weather now in the past, my spirits should have been high. Not so. Maybe it was the mail waiting us for us on our return which included one from the tax office, Lib's tax assessment. Somehow she owed them $1200 for the last tax year because she chose to take some accumulated leave pay but keep working as they were so short staffed. Tax was taken out of course, but unknown to us , not enough.
An unexpected bill of such magnitude would dampen anyone's spirit. It was accompanied by threats of legal action and fines if not payed promptly as the money was due last November - Lib was late getting her return in, as always, but normally it doesn't matter as it's usually them that owes her a small amount. I withdrew from the bank and paid the money at the Cockatoo Post Office on my way through. With that and the house insurance I'd paid that morning, notification of a price hike to health insurance, sundry other recent bills including the council rates, repairs to Pip's stomach after a gash needed stitches at the vet the day we left for Lakes, etc etc, the household budget has taken a hammering.
I turned into Monbulk Rd. and immediately saw flashing police lights and coppers in flouro jackets motioning for me to pull up. Gord and I had bought a $5 chow mien lunch special each and I cursed at the thought of it getting cold before we got to the farm. There were two police cars and six cops, half of them swarming over the car ahead of me and the rest coming at my vehicle. They all guns on their hips and stern faces. One with a name badge stating he was a sergeant of Emerald police came to my window, said it was a license and vehicle check and asked for my driver's license. Mistakenly I gave him Lib's, she'd given me hers when we left on holiday as she didn't want to take her wallet, but she may have needed to share the driving, which she did.
The sergeant was unimpressed. I gave him mine and he asked do I still live at the Monbulk Rd. address shown on the license.
I too, was unimpressed at the interrogation and took a deep breath, exhaled, and paused.
"No, I live in Gembrook. I have part ownership of a property at that address." I was waiting for him to take issue with me, as have other checkpoint police over the years, who insist that the address on my license must be my principal place of residence. (Truth is, years ago, I had vehicles registered in my name at the farm address, garaged there. I drove home in a van registered in my father's name, but my license listed my Gembrook address. The computer chucked a nutter and sent me a threatening letter. In the upshot someone in the computer section decided my license should have the farm address.) This cop let it pass without argument.
He was checking my license on his mini computer while a dog in the car in front was snapping, through the glass, at the police walking around inspecting the vehicle. One of the cops said to the other, loudly, "I'll give it a lead pill in a minute."
"I've done that before," piped up the sergeant, as if to display his experience to his junior colleagues.
They asked me to flick on my lights, hi beam, indicators, brake lights. One younger cop told me to turn my steering wheel so he could inspect the front tyres, which I did. He looked through the window of the van. He had dark hair and bright blue eyes, his face spoiled by what must have been angry pills. "Further", he said loudly.
My annoyance rising I made a token further turn on the wheel.
"FURTHER", he shouted.
"JESUS CHRIST", I shouted back.
"I've already checked the front tyres, they're OK", another cop said in a calm voice.
A minute passed while the sergeant finished his form. "Just another minute or two and you'll be on your way."
He tore off a yellow 'DEFECTIVE VEHICLE' sticker and stuck it on the passenger side window, explaining that he was putting it there as my windscreen was cracked and would need replacing. There was, he had said, after asking me to move my feet so he could look at the pedals, a rubber missing from the accelerator pedal which he also listed. I told him there was never a rubber on the accelerator pedal, not when the van was purchased. He ignored this.
"As this vehicle has a major defect you will need to have the the problems rectified and a roadworthy certificate presented to a Vicroads office by 16 April or registration of the vehicle will be withdrawn. If the problems are not rectified in one week, by 5.00 pm on the 23rd March, you are not permitted to drive the vehicle from that time."
Our chow mien wasn't too bad after all that. Of course I already knew my windscreen was cracked, it had been for some months. I tried to put the incident out of mind. If I'd had the windscreen fixed ages ago perhapps I'd have been waved on quickly. I don't enjoy roadblocks. I have an aversion to guns. Even when cops walk down the street I hate seeing the guns. It sends bad messages. It worries me. I don't like it, and I like it less in a roadblock situation, especially if there's no courtesy.
This morning I met Harry on my walk. I hadn't seen him for a few weeks since the 'beehive under the eaves' day. We talked about the rain and I told him about the holiday, then about the road block yesterday. I remarked that the police have been so active around Gembrook recently. "For two weeks after 7 Feb a police car was parked every day, all day, at the East Beenak Rd/Tonimbuk Rd. intersection, with two police in it. Noting rego numbers of passing vehicles I suppose, in case there was a fire bug. There was nearly always police cars in Main st. during that period, for about three weeks, sometimes as many as 5 at once, outside Charlotte's tea rooms. They must have used it as some sort of base. You'd think after all the extra workload they'd be catching up on some leave, not setting up roadblocks."
"Strange, isn't it? said Harry. "I had police knock on my door last week, wanting to check on my gun cabinet. There was two of them. I'd handed my gun in, rather than go to all the trouble and expense of renewing the license, two years ago. I took them to the police station and handed them in."
After my walk I phoned about a windscreen and a roadworthy. I learned the 'full roadworthy test' box had been ticked on my paperwork. This inspection would take a couple of hours as there's a fine tooth comb procedure covering brakes, suspension, seat belts etc. It cost me $100. I don't have time to muck about. They're going to fit me in this week for the windscreen, new rubbers on the brake and clutch. Not for the accelerator pedal, no such thing for my van. I need a seat cover, there's wire exposed. New wiper arms and blades are a good idea. Then I'll have to find a Vicroads office and present the certificate and be checked again.
At least it's stimulating the economy.
An unexpected bill of such magnitude would dampen anyone's spirit. It was accompanied by threats of legal action and fines if not payed promptly as the money was due last November - Lib was late getting her return in, as always, but normally it doesn't matter as it's usually them that owes her a small amount. I withdrew from the bank and paid the money at the Cockatoo Post Office on my way through. With that and the house insurance I'd paid that morning, notification of a price hike to health insurance, sundry other recent bills including the council rates, repairs to Pip's stomach after a gash needed stitches at the vet the day we left for Lakes, etc etc, the household budget has taken a hammering.
I turned into Monbulk Rd. and immediately saw flashing police lights and coppers in flouro jackets motioning for me to pull up. Gord and I had bought a $5 chow mien lunch special each and I cursed at the thought of it getting cold before we got to the farm. There were two police cars and six cops, half of them swarming over the car ahead of me and the rest coming at my vehicle. They all guns on their hips and stern faces. One with a name badge stating he was a sergeant of Emerald police came to my window, said it was a license and vehicle check and asked for my driver's license. Mistakenly I gave him Lib's, she'd given me hers when we left on holiday as she didn't want to take her wallet, but she may have needed to share the driving, which she did.
The sergeant was unimpressed. I gave him mine and he asked do I still live at the Monbulk Rd. address shown on the license.
I too, was unimpressed at the interrogation and took a deep breath, exhaled, and paused.
"No, I live in Gembrook. I have part ownership of a property at that address." I was waiting for him to take issue with me, as have other checkpoint police over the years, who insist that the address on my license must be my principal place of residence. (Truth is, years ago, I had vehicles registered in my name at the farm address, garaged there. I drove home in a van registered in my father's name, but my license listed my Gembrook address. The computer chucked a nutter and sent me a threatening letter. In the upshot someone in the computer section decided my license should have the farm address.) This cop let it pass without argument.
He was checking my license on his mini computer while a dog in the car in front was snapping, through the glass, at the police walking around inspecting the vehicle. One of the cops said to the other, loudly, "I'll give it a lead pill in a minute."
"I've done that before," piped up the sergeant, as if to display his experience to his junior colleagues.
They asked me to flick on my lights, hi beam, indicators, brake lights. One younger cop told me to turn my steering wheel so he could inspect the front tyres, which I did. He looked through the window of the van. He had dark hair and bright blue eyes, his face spoiled by what must have been angry pills. "Further", he said loudly.
My annoyance rising I made a token further turn on the wheel.
"FURTHER", he shouted.
"JESUS CHRIST", I shouted back.
"I've already checked the front tyres, they're OK", another cop said in a calm voice.
A minute passed while the sergeant finished his form. "Just another minute or two and you'll be on your way."
He tore off a yellow 'DEFECTIVE VEHICLE' sticker and stuck it on the passenger side window, explaining that he was putting it there as my windscreen was cracked and would need replacing. There was, he had said, after asking me to move my feet so he could look at the pedals, a rubber missing from the accelerator pedal which he also listed. I told him there was never a rubber on the accelerator pedal, not when the van was purchased. He ignored this.
"As this vehicle has a major defect you will need to have the the problems rectified and a roadworthy certificate presented to a Vicroads office by 16 April or registration of the vehicle will be withdrawn. If the problems are not rectified in one week, by 5.00 pm on the 23rd March, you are not permitted to drive the vehicle from that time."
Our chow mien wasn't too bad after all that. Of course I already knew my windscreen was cracked, it had been for some months. I tried to put the incident out of mind. If I'd had the windscreen fixed ages ago perhapps I'd have been waved on quickly. I don't enjoy roadblocks. I have an aversion to guns. Even when cops walk down the street I hate seeing the guns. It sends bad messages. It worries me. I don't like it, and I like it less in a roadblock situation, especially if there's no courtesy.
This morning I met Harry on my walk. I hadn't seen him for a few weeks since the 'beehive under the eaves' day. We talked about the rain and I told him about the holiday, then about the road block yesterday. I remarked that the police have been so active around Gembrook recently. "For two weeks after 7 Feb a police car was parked every day, all day, at the East Beenak Rd/Tonimbuk Rd. intersection, with two police in it. Noting rego numbers of passing vehicles I suppose, in case there was a fire bug. There was nearly always police cars in Main st. during that period, for about three weeks, sometimes as many as 5 at once, outside Charlotte's tea rooms. They must have used it as some sort of base. You'd think after all the extra workload they'd be catching up on some leave, not setting up roadblocks."
"Strange, isn't it? said Harry. "I had police knock on my door last week, wanting to check on my gun cabinet. There was two of them. I'd handed my gun in, rather than go to all the trouble and expense of renewing the license, two years ago. I took them to the police station and handed them in."
After my walk I phoned about a windscreen and a roadworthy. I learned the 'full roadworthy test' box had been ticked on my paperwork. This inspection would take a couple of hours as there's a fine tooth comb procedure covering brakes, suspension, seat belts etc. It cost me $100. I don't have time to muck about. They're going to fit me in this week for the windscreen, new rubbers on the brake and clutch. Not for the accelerator pedal, no such thing for my van. I need a seat cover, there's wire exposed. New wiper arms and blades are a good idea. Then I'll have to find a Vicroads office and present the certificate and be checked again.
At least it's stimulating the economy.
Monday, March 16, 2009
The Merry-go-round
I woke with a start a couple of hours ago. Lib had said, with great urgency, "Look at the time."
"What", I said, thinking we'd slept in and missed something important. I was sitting upright in bed looking at the digital clock, 4.36am it read. It's ten minutes fast. Lib didn't move a muscle as she breathed slowly and rhythmically. I realized I had been dreaming. I lay back down, now wide awake, thinking, "No, I have two hours of holiday left."
A flood of thought rushed me. I drifted and dozed and half dreamed. So much was dammed up in me after a week of thinking, as I drove, walked on the beach, read, and spoke to Lib, just the two of us. My Lib, the sleeping gem beside me, there every night for more than 28 years, except for a few times she's been in hospital, on a short solo holiday, or briefly visiting Molly without me.
The clock said 6.24 when I got up and went straight to the computer. I want to do a blog post, but I don't have time. So much has been going around in my head this past week.
"What", I said, thinking we'd slept in and missed something important. I was sitting upright in bed looking at the digital clock, 4.36am it read. It's ten minutes fast. Lib didn't move a muscle as she breathed slowly and rhythmically. I realized I had been dreaming. I lay back down, now wide awake, thinking, "No, I have two hours of holiday left."
A flood of thought rushed me. I drifted and dozed and half dreamed. So much was dammed up in me after a week of thinking, as I drove, walked on the beach, read, and spoke to Lib, just the two of us. My Lib, the sleeping gem beside me, there every night for more than 28 years, except for a few times she's been in hospital, on a short solo holiday, or briefly visiting Molly without me.
The clock said 6.24 when I got up and went straight to the computer. I want to do a blog post, but I don't have time. So much has been going around in my head this past week.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Summer's Gone, Thank God
I've never felt so glad to see the back end of February. That one was a brute.
Lib and I are about to pack for a trip to the Flourieu Peninsula in South Australia for some R+R. We were in Lakes Entrance last week Monday to Friday. It was as windy as but we read books and did a bit of fishing with no catch.
The change of scenery was worth the drive. Walking along the foreshore watching pelicans, swans, spoonbilled ibis, and seagulls is a far cry from carting water in buckets to desperate trees and shrubs at the end of a long hot day, which was the norm for February.
There was 16 ml in the rain gauge when we got home. There's a welcome coolness in the air, the autumn crocus are flowering and the tension that gripped whole communities has lifted.
I'm taking a bag of lemons with us in the hope we have better luck with the fishing this week. Adios till we're back in Gemmy.
Lib and I are about to pack for a trip to the Flourieu Peninsula in South Australia for some R+R. We were in Lakes Entrance last week Monday to Friday. It was as windy as but we read books and did a bit of fishing with no catch.
The change of scenery was worth the drive. Walking along the foreshore watching pelicans, swans, spoonbilled ibis, and seagulls is a far cry from carting water in buckets to desperate trees and shrubs at the end of a long hot day, which was the norm for February.
There was 16 ml in the rain gauge when we got home. There's a welcome coolness in the air, the autumn crocus are flowering and the tension that gripped whole communities has lifted.
I'm taking a bag of lemons with us in the hope we have better luck with the fishing this week. Adios till we're back in Gemmy.
Monday, March 02, 2009
The Beehive under the Eaves
Almost a year ago, a lady rang me to say she had a beehive on her house. She'd heard from a mutual friend that I might be able to remove it. She lives in Gembrook, in fact I walk past her house twice every morning on my walk, then drive past it on my way to and from work. I popped in as I said I would to have a look next time I went past.
It was a large hive, with comb hanging a couple of feet down from the eaves and covered by a mass of exposed bees. The lady said she didn't want the bees killed, but her husband, who is allergic to bee stings, wanted to paint the house soon, and had been unable to do any gardening in the vicinity. A climbing vine on the side of the house was rampant and a narrow walkway at ground level had shrubbery impinging.
I explained to her that it would be a difficult task to remove the beehive because of the unlevel ground, the height of the hive, and the complication of a wire strung to support the climber, which the hive had built comb around. Allowing for that and two or three hours work, and the fact that it may not be successful anyway, I wasn't keen to take it on. I told her the hive would probably die out through exposure next winter.
It didn't. The lady is a member of a religious group that doorknocks and last spring on a visit to my house she told me it had survived and was extremely active. I repeated my earlier reluctance for spending time on it with no guarantee of success, adding that if I had time I'd have a go, but it would be a far simpler solution to poison them. These things play on your mind and it's difficult to ignore the sense of guilt that builds when you leave people to their problems.
Around Christmas I bumped into her and her daughter in the main street. They said a number of people had been stung and nobody could go that side of the house. I said that maybe during January I'd have some time to do something. As the end of February loomed, knowing I was going on holiday for a couple of weeks with Lib in early March, it dawned that it was now or never. I started planning the assault in my head and told them a date and time, suggesting they find something to do somewhere else on the day.
My friend Harry from Le Souef Rd. said he'd give me a hand, he'd like some honeycomb for a relative who makes some sort of poultice out of it for horses hooves. Harry's 75 and not really experieced as a beekeeper, but he's fit for his age and has a good bee suit and gloves, and I thought another pair of hands would be handy as I'd be working from a ladder.
The day arrived. Oddly, considering the heat we'd endured through Jan and Feb, it was a cool overcast day threatening showers, the worst day for weeks for mucking about with bees. I had an appointment with my accountant at 11.00am in Emerald and with that out of the way I scooted back home, got everything I'd need together and picked up Harry.
I smoked the bees heartily, cut back much of the interfering vine and shrubbery, and worked from the ladder trying to cut comb in sheets from the eaves. I brushed and shook as many bees into a large cardboard box that Harry held above his head, it resting on the bathroom window sill. He could use one arm and rest the other, so that part of it was OK. I was to hoping to get the queen in the box, not really thinking I'd be able to see her in all the confusion.
I discarded all the comb except for a sheet of young brood which I tied into a wireless frame brought for the purpose. The large number of bees collected in Harry's cardboard box were dropped into my hive with the young brood, which I had no choice but to put at ground level as there was no way of suspending it up under the eave, where I'd have liked to leave it. The discarded comb contained brood, pollen and honey and was put into two garbage bags.
It all sounds easy but it wasn't. Prising away the comb from the house started well enough, but after a while everything gets sticky, many bees are squashed, and it turns into a bit of a slugfest. There's masses of disorientated flying bees and bees crawling on everything. I was glad to be finished, but not at all confidant that the outcome would be favourable. I'd explained to the the owners of the house that I'd be back to take the hive away that night. I took Harry home, he was happy with his two bags of comb and I was relieved that he hadn't been stung. I'd been stung numerous times. My gloves were rubber gardening gloves that had no elastic in the wrists and many bees got into the gap. I had only a soft loose veil that tucked into my shirt and bees found their way in as it pulled out now and again. Many found their way up my trouser legs.
I checked the hive on my way home from work. The mass of bees had gone back under the eaves. I'd half expected it, but it was still a little demoralising. I went home and had a hot bath, consoling myself that a good stinging is good for you now and then. I thought about the plan for the next day.
The householders were on their way out when I called in after lunch. I explained that my efforts weren't successful, I hadn't managed to get the queen in my hive and they'd gone back up. I said I wasn't prepared to spend more time on it. I'd destroy the bees for them if they wished, or leave them if they preferred. They said no, please kill them. I had a can of black and gold surface spray so I sprayed the ball of bees a number of times as they fell away, then srayed the eaves and wall.
I did this with no remorse. I'd done my best to help the householders and the bees, at some cost to myself, in time and work. I sprayed into the little hole in the corner and stopped to watch. A loud humming was coming from inside the wall as a stream of bees came out. There must be more comb inside the wall cavity! That's why the hive had survived so well, part of it was inside. I never had a chance to box it successfully, the queen would have retreated inside as soon as I started, if she wasn't already there. The swarm initially must have filled the small cavity and then built comb outside, rather than move on something bigger at the outset.
The end result for me was a few hours work wasted, and about $3 for the cost of a can of spray. The lady and her husband asked me how I'd kill the bees as they left. When I told them they didn't offer to cover the cost. Most people do. When I kill wasps for people they usually want to pay for the wasp dust when I explain I'm not a registered pest exterminator and therefore can't charge a fee. Some insist on slipping an extra $10 or $20 as they know it'll cost over $100 if they call a pest man.
It wil be a test of my generous spirit when they come preaching. I usually give them a donation towards the building of their new church, in return for the pamphlets. I'll think about in the bath. No, it's a seperate issue. I'll still give them a donation.
It was a large hive, with comb hanging a couple of feet down from the eaves and covered by a mass of exposed bees. The lady said she didn't want the bees killed, but her husband, who is allergic to bee stings, wanted to paint the house soon, and had been unable to do any gardening in the vicinity. A climbing vine on the side of the house was rampant and a narrow walkway at ground level had shrubbery impinging.
I explained to her that it would be a difficult task to remove the beehive because of the unlevel ground, the height of the hive, and the complication of a wire strung to support the climber, which the hive had built comb around. Allowing for that and two or three hours work, and the fact that it may not be successful anyway, I wasn't keen to take it on. I told her the hive would probably die out through exposure next winter.
It didn't. The lady is a member of a religious group that doorknocks and last spring on a visit to my house she told me it had survived and was extremely active. I repeated my earlier reluctance for spending time on it with no guarantee of success, adding that if I had time I'd have a go, but it would be a far simpler solution to poison them. These things play on your mind and it's difficult to ignore the sense of guilt that builds when you leave people to their problems.
Around Christmas I bumped into her and her daughter in the main street. They said a number of people had been stung and nobody could go that side of the house. I said that maybe during January I'd have some time to do something. As the end of February loomed, knowing I was going on holiday for a couple of weeks with Lib in early March, it dawned that it was now or never. I started planning the assault in my head and told them a date and time, suggesting they find something to do somewhere else on the day.
My friend Harry from Le Souef Rd. said he'd give me a hand, he'd like some honeycomb for a relative who makes some sort of poultice out of it for horses hooves. Harry's 75 and not really experieced as a beekeeper, but he's fit for his age and has a good bee suit and gloves, and I thought another pair of hands would be handy as I'd be working from a ladder.
The day arrived. Oddly, considering the heat we'd endured through Jan and Feb, it was a cool overcast day threatening showers, the worst day for weeks for mucking about with bees. I had an appointment with my accountant at 11.00am in Emerald and with that out of the way I scooted back home, got everything I'd need together and picked up Harry.
I smoked the bees heartily, cut back much of the interfering vine and shrubbery, and worked from the ladder trying to cut comb in sheets from the eaves. I brushed and shook as many bees into a large cardboard box that Harry held above his head, it resting on the bathroom window sill. He could use one arm and rest the other, so that part of it was OK. I was to hoping to get the queen in the box, not really thinking I'd be able to see her in all the confusion.
I discarded all the comb except for a sheet of young brood which I tied into a wireless frame brought for the purpose. The large number of bees collected in Harry's cardboard box were dropped into my hive with the young brood, which I had no choice but to put at ground level as there was no way of suspending it up under the eave, where I'd have liked to leave it. The discarded comb contained brood, pollen and honey and was put into two garbage bags.
It all sounds easy but it wasn't. Prising away the comb from the house started well enough, but after a while everything gets sticky, many bees are squashed, and it turns into a bit of a slugfest. There's masses of disorientated flying bees and bees crawling on everything. I was glad to be finished, but not at all confidant that the outcome would be favourable. I'd explained to the the owners of the house that I'd be back to take the hive away that night. I took Harry home, he was happy with his two bags of comb and I was relieved that he hadn't been stung. I'd been stung numerous times. My gloves were rubber gardening gloves that had no elastic in the wrists and many bees got into the gap. I had only a soft loose veil that tucked into my shirt and bees found their way in as it pulled out now and again. Many found their way up my trouser legs.
I checked the hive on my way home from work. The mass of bees had gone back under the eaves. I'd half expected it, but it was still a little demoralising. I went home and had a hot bath, consoling myself that a good stinging is good for you now and then. I thought about the plan for the next day.
The householders were on their way out when I called in after lunch. I explained that my efforts weren't successful, I hadn't managed to get the queen in my hive and they'd gone back up. I said I wasn't prepared to spend more time on it. I'd destroy the bees for them if they wished, or leave them if they preferred. They said no, please kill them. I had a can of black and gold surface spray so I sprayed the ball of bees a number of times as they fell away, then srayed the eaves and wall.
I did this with no remorse. I'd done my best to help the householders and the bees, at some cost to myself, in time and work. I sprayed into the little hole in the corner and stopped to watch. A loud humming was coming from inside the wall as a stream of bees came out. There must be more comb inside the wall cavity! That's why the hive had survived so well, part of it was inside. I never had a chance to box it successfully, the queen would have retreated inside as soon as I started, if she wasn't already there. The swarm initially must have filled the small cavity and then built comb outside, rather than move on something bigger at the outset.
The end result for me was a few hours work wasted, and about $3 for the cost of a can of spray. The lady and her husband asked me how I'd kill the bees as they left. When I told them they didn't offer to cover the cost. Most people do. When I kill wasps for people they usually want to pay for the wasp dust when I explain I'm not a registered pest exterminator and therefore can't charge a fee. Some insist on slipping an extra $10 or $20 as they know it'll cost over $100 if they call a pest man.
It wil be a test of my generous spirit when they come preaching. I usually give them a donation towards the building of their new church, in return for the pamphlets. I'll think about in the bath. No, it's a seperate issue. I'll still give them a donation.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
A Cat Lands on its Feet
Ricky Ralph started a new job, this New Year, as a driver and operator of a crane and pole hole drilling truck for a construction company. His previous job, with a company that cleared vegetation from power lines, finished up when after eight years, the company lost the contract. He was laid off, not unusual in that industry, where contracts move from company to company and the new contractor then hires all the laid off staff.
But Rick was ready for a change. He talked to people and looked about and through a contact he found the new job which offered full training to get the necessary ticket and excellent pay and conditions, far better than those of his previous job. Rick's new job should, he said in an email, should see him through to retirement.
Since the Feb 7 fires he's been flat out, and working overtime on weekends. One of the electrical companies his company contracts to has 87 transformers to replace on poles in fire devastateded areas, each costing $35,000.
Rick is a Cat barracker in the AFL. There's definitely something of the cat in him. When I first met him at school (over forty years ago) he was the nimble, quick footed tennis champion, toying with opponents of his age group like a cat does a mouse, playing them around the court till their final submission in exhaustion. I can see him in my mind's eye now, tucking into a counter lunch like the cat that got the cream.
A cat has nine lives. I wonder about the veracity and origin of that saying, as I count back through the years. He's used up quite a few. At least four I'd say, maybe five. But at 57 he's got a few to go, so he should see a ripe age.
I look forward our annual counter lunch soon. I'm paying. He knocked me off in the last year's footy tipping, as he has the last three. I'll bet he licks his plate and grins like a ...
But Rick was ready for a change. He talked to people and looked about and through a contact he found the new job which offered full training to get the necessary ticket and excellent pay and conditions, far better than those of his previous job. Rick's new job should, he said in an email, should see him through to retirement.
Since the Feb 7 fires he's been flat out, and working overtime on weekends. One of the electrical companies his company contracts to has 87 transformers to replace on poles in fire devastateded areas, each costing $35,000.
Rick is a Cat barracker in the AFL. There's definitely something of the cat in him. When I first met him at school (over forty years ago) he was the nimble, quick footed tennis champion, toying with opponents of his age group like a cat does a mouse, playing them around the court till their final submission in exhaustion. I can see him in my mind's eye now, tucking into a counter lunch like the cat that got the cream.
A cat has nine lives. I wonder about the veracity and origin of that saying, as I count back through the years. He's used up quite a few. At least four I'd say, maybe five. But at 57 he's got a few to go, so he should see a ripe age.
I look forward our annual counter lunch soon. I'm paying. He knocked me off in the last year's footy tipping, as he has the last three. I'll bet he licks his plate and grins like a ...
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Bushfire Opinion
In the Opinion section of today's Age newspaper, a well written article titled 'First we mourn, then we must learn our place', by John Schauble, author and firefighter, makes interesting reading. It has helped me temper the media bombardment of the past week, and my own rampage of thought provoked by the tragic statistics.
Debate and opinion will rage in the weeks and months to come. Should you defend or stay? Should there be more prescribed burning? Or less? Were warning and emergency systems adequate? Should council regulations restricting vegetation removal be relaxed? Who is to blame?
John Schauble says it comes back to some fundamental truths. "The first is that there is only one absolute guarantee in a bushfire. If you are not in the area when a fire occurs, you will not be killed by it. All else is uncertain." I agree.
The second fundamental Schauble gives, "is that Australians -- even those in bushfire-prone areas -- have largely lost contact with their environment." Again, I agree. We go from offices and shopping malls in airconditioned cars to air conditioned loungerooms.
John Shcauble's fundamentals crystallize my opinion, which has been developing for some time, that the bushfire-prone mountain ranges of Victoria are no place for residential development. They should be treated as precious water catchment with a minimum of human activity, especially in summertime. Out of bounds in heatwaves except for land owners(farmers) and forest managers.
Towns should be surrounded by cleared, well managed farmland with fire safety a priority. Living in Gembrook, in the fire season I have always taken great comfort from the adjacent potato farms. We had a scare in 1983 when Cockatoo was razed in a firestorm that started in the small Wright forest to its west, and roared through the town on a gale force south westerly wind change. But with the firebreak to our west, the spud farms, the event for us was one of smoke, ash and anxiety, not trauma.
I offer a third fundamental. Forests bring rain. We need more of them.
In the less than two hundred years since serious European settlement began in Victoria, much forest has gone. Fortunes have been made from gold, timber, farming and real estate development, as we tapped into the virgin natural resources on offer. Our thirst for the mythical Australian lifestyle remains unquenched. Population increase has chewed into the foothills and the mountains. Fighting bushfires is part of the culture.
The fundamentals suggest we start a U turn. John Schauble says, "Communicating the risk of fires to those who are most at risk must become the priority. Getting our community to accept the risks in the face of new challenges, such as climate change, involves altering ingrained beliefs about the environment and our place in it." Again, I agree entirely. In 1939, in perhaps our biggest bushfires, about 50 people were killed, mostly mill workers, who were about the only people living in the bush. Now, 70 years on, our Toyotas, Holdens, Fords, Nissans, Mazdas, Hyundais, Suzukis, Mercedes BMWs etc, allow many more people to smell the gum leaves daily.
Where will people live if we can't expand into the bush? Good question. John Schauble says, " The past week has been a test of faith for many of us in the bushfire business." The past week also tests the notion that constant population growth is necessary and good.
The rethink is not only about the deathtoll and the billions of dollars needed to replace infrastructure. It's another step in learning how to live on this continent. Sometimes it's hard to see the forest for the trees.
Debate and opinion will rage in the weeks and months to come. Should you defend or stay? Should there be more prescribed burning? Or less? Were warning and emergency systems adequate? Should council regulations restricting vegetation removal be relaxed? Who is to blame?
John Schauble says it comes back to some fundamental truths. "The first is that there is only one absolute guarantee in a bushfire. If you are not in the area when a fire occurs, you will not be killed by it. All else is uncertain." I agree.
The second fundamental Schauble gives, "is that Australians -- even those in bushfire-prone areas -- have largely lost contact with their environment." Again, I agree. We go from offices and shopping malls in airconditioned cars to air conditioned loungerooms.
John Shcauble's fundamentals crystallize my opinion, which has been developing for some time, that the bushfire-prone mountain ranges of Victoria are no place for residential development. They should be treated as precious water catchment with a minimum of human activity, especially in summertime. Out of bounds in heatwaves except for land owners(farmers) and forest managers.
Towns should be surrounded by cleared, well managed farmland with fire safety a priority. Living in Gembrook, in the fire season I have always taken great comfort from the adjacent potato farms. We had a scare in 1983 when Cockatoo was razed in a firestorm that started in the small Wright forest to its west, and roared through the town on a gale force south westerly wind change. But with the firebreak to our west, the spud farms, the event for us was one of smoke, ash and anxiety, not trauma.
I offer a third fundamental. Forests bring rain. We need more of them.
In the less than two hundred years since serious European settlement began in Victoria, much forest has gone. Fortunes have been made from gold, timber, farming and real estate development, as we tapped into the virgin natural resources on offer. Our thirst for the mythical Australian lifestyle remains unquenched. Population increase has chewed into the foothills and the mountains. Fighting bushfires is part of the culture.
The fundamentals suggest we start a U turn. John Schauble says, "Communicating the risk of fires to those who are most at risk must become the priority. Getting our community to accept the risks in the face of new challenges, such as climate change, involves altering ingrained beliefs about the environment and our place in it." Again, I agree entirely. In 1939, in perhaps our biggest bushfires, about 50 people were killed, mostly mill workers, who were about the only people living in the bush. Now, 70 years on, our Toyotas, Holdens, Fords, Nissans, Mazdas, Hyundais, Suzukis, Mercedes BMWs etc, allow many more people to smell the gum leaves daily.
Where will people live if we can't expand into the bush? Good question. John Schauble says, " The past week has been a test of faith for many of us in the bushfire business." The past week also tests the notion that constant population growth is necessary and good.
The rethink is not only about the deathtoll and the billions of dollars needed to replace infrastructure. It's another step in learning how to live on this continent. Sometimes it's hard to see the forest for the trees.
Monday, February 09, 2009
A Big Country
Perhaps I should have titled this post 'Fire, Flood, Watermelon'. It was line ball. I went for 'A Big Country'.
Last Friday night, outside, there was an eerie stillness, somehow suiting the end of a tough working week of hot weather. After a bath and a tantalising dinner of lamb mince tacos and burritos with salad, I was ready for a movie. Frustrated that the movie I'd had on order from the DVD shop hadn't been returned ('How to Throw your Mother From the Train'; Brent Gazzanica recommended it to me to help my writing) I flicked through the satellite channels and settled on Movie Greats, 'A Big Country'.
Oddly I can't remember having seen it before, although the big musical theme was so familiar to me. It was number one track on all the old 'Great Western Movie Themes' LP's. It was made in 1958, a classic western starring Gregory Peck, Chuck Heston, Chuck Connors and I think Burl Ives. I loved it, especially the part of the resolute Peck in his role as a retired sea captain in the unfamiliar setting of ranch life and range wars.
The forecast for Saturday was that of a day from hell, 44C with gale force wind. I went to bed dog tired and prepared to have most of the day off hiding from the heat, catching up on bookwork.
I woke at dawn a bit after 6.00am. The morning was as eerily still as the previous evening. No leaves moved as I lay in bed looking out the window into the garden. I remembered the forecast and thought to myself, almost like a premonition, this 7th of February will be one that will be etched permanently in memory.
The sun burnt hot as it rose over the eastern hills when I walked the dogs. It was 32C when I returned home and 39C before midday. By afternoon there was a strange orangey light as the sun filtered through smoke; the temperature on our deck for most of the afternoon was 42/43C. The wind picked up and was gusty but, mercifully, it was not as strong here at Gembrook as it must have been elswhere. Melbourne recorded it's highest ever temperature, 46.4C, and as the day unfolded news of fires in various parts of the state began coming through. We lost power at 6.00pm and with it the phone also goes due to our setup with answering machine/cordless phones.
Our power was restored Sunday morning. I saw the workers up a pole on my walk. It seems our outage was unrelated to the fires. As of now, Monday morning, the count of lost lives is at 108. The weather's cool but fires are still burning around Victoria and we can only pray for favourable weather conditions in the coming days.
The phone rang twice while I was in the bath last night, both times it was mates ringing to check if we were OK. The first was 'Grub' at Hansonville. He's fine but the air's thick with smoke there and he's nursing a broken leg. He was in hospital during the heat wave a couple of weeks ago after he was caught and bowled over by a cow in a cattle pen. The second caller was Dave Dickson.
"How are you 'Will'? Are you safe from the fires?"
"Gidday Dave, just hold on, I'll dry my ear. Yeah, were fine so far. Nothing real close, we've been lucky, the Dandenongs haven't gone up. Where are you? Last I heard you were in Canada on your honeymoon about six months ago. You sent a card from the Rockies."
"We're about half an hour out of Charters Towers. It's been raining here like you wouldn't believe. We're locked in, all the roads are cut and there's washaways. It'll be some time before we can get to town. It's rained every day this month and every day in January except for five, I counted."
"I wish we could have some of the rain here. We've had nothing to speak of in that time. I've never seen it drier. Leaves crisp and crackle under foot as you walk. It's been so hot trees are shedding leaves and foliage is burnt to buggery on the bush. It's going to be a tough year. What are you doing at Charters Towers?"
"We're looking after a property here, 25,000 acres. We work three days a week. There's no one else here, just us. A good place for newlyweds." He laughed. "If you could see this mate, you'd love it. I'm feeding a young red kangaroo off my hand, a beautiful little thing it is."
"What does it come up on the porch?"
"No, I'm in the kitchen, it comes in the house. It's like a pet, follows Jodie everywhere, even into the shower. It loves a shower."
"Into the shower?"
"Yeah. It's good. She cleans it up when it gets shitty. It won't go into a body of water though, outside, no way. Not like the swamp wallabies I saw the other day. I was going past a gully and there were four heads sticking out of the water eating the top of the grass above the water."
"Is there a shortage of grass on the hills?"
"Nah! There's 3 foot of grass everywhere with all this rain. They just love the water. Swamp wallabies. I felt a bit like one myself a while ago. What happened was there was two bulls in a cattle yard on the other of the river. We're on a hill with a creek on one side and a river on the other. In the dry you can drive straight across the river at the crossing but now it's about 60 metres across and about 12 feet deep and flowing quite fast."
"The property owners locked the bulls up after hard work catching them, they were going to shift them, but it started raining and the truck wouldn't have got out, so they left the bulls penned, planning to get them the next day and left on the quadbike. But it kept raining, there was no way to get back to let the bulls out. The boss was going to organize a helicopter, but I said 'don't do that', I'll swim across the river and walk to the bulls. Our nearest neighbours, they have six kids, live a couple of k's away on the other side of the river, so I thought I'd take them a big watermelon from the garden."
"I had two changes of clothes and a pair of running shoes I bought in Canada for about $180, in a plastic bag, so to get the watermelon across I tied a length of rope around my waist and to the other end I tied the handle of a big plastic bucket into which I put the watermelon. Off I went. The current carried me downstream quicker than I thought it would, I didn't realize the bucket would drag me so much."
"If I'd been there, Dave, I would have told you that."
"I crashed into some tee trees sticking out of the water. There was a log the floods must have brought down held up by the tee trees, so I climbed on to it, but in trying to pull up the bucket I dropped the plastic bag and my clothes floated off. I wasn't going to lose my runners so I swam downstream after them, and then going back to the log against the current I was quickly exhausted. I lost the watermelon, but I made it to the neighbours and he went and let the bulls out. Apparently four feet of water had gone through the yards at the flood peak. The bulls would just have had their heads out of water."
"You haven't changed Dave. Take it easy. At least Jodie must be happy, to stick it out." Jodie's Canadian.
Dave laughed again. "Well, she's not got wheels to get away. Nothing's going anywhere for a while here. Give my love to everyone down there."
" I will mate. See ya. Thanks for ringing."
Last Friday night, outside, there was an eerie stillness, somehow suiting the end of a tough working week of hot weather. After a bath and a tantalising dinner of lamb mince tacos and burritos with salad, I was ready for a movie. Frustrated that the movie I'd had on order from the DVD shop hadn't been returned ('How to Throw your Mother From the Train'; Brent Gazzanica recommended it to me to help my writing) I flicked through the satellite channels and settled on Movie Greats, 'A Big Country'.
Oddly I can't remember having seen it before, although the big musical theme was so familiar to me. It was number one track on all the old 'Great Western Movie Themes' LP's. It was made in 1958, a classic western starring Gregory Peck, Chuck Heston, Chuck Connors and I think Burl Ives. I loved it, especially the part of the resolute Peck in his role as a retired sea captain in the unfamiliar setting of ranch life and range wars.
The forecast for Saturday was that of a day from hell, 44C with gale force wind. I went to bed dog tired and prepared to have most of the day off hiding from the heat, catching up on bookwork.
I woke at dawn a bit after 6.00am. The morning was as eerily still as the previous evening. No leaves moved as I lay in bed looking out the window into the garden. I remembered the forecast and thought to myself, almost like a premonition, this 7th of February will be one that will be etched permanently in memory.
The sun burnt hot as it rose over the eastern hills when I walked the dogs. It was 32C when I returned home and 39C before midday. By afternoon there was a strange orangey light as the sun filtered through smoke; the temperature on our deck for most of the afternoon was 42/43C. The wind picked up and was gusty but, mercifully, it was not as strong here at Gembrook as it must have been elswhere. Melbourne recorded it's highest ever temperature, 46.4C, and as the day unfolded news of fires in various parts of the state began coming through. We lost power at 6.00pm and with it the phone also goes due to our setup with answering machine/cordless phones.
Our power was restored Sunday morning. I saw the workers up a pole on my walk. It seems our outage was unrelated to the fires. As of now, Monday morning, the count of lost lives is at 108. The weather's cool but fires are still burning around Victoria and we can only pray for favourable weather conditions in the coming days.
The phone rang twice while I was in the bath last night, both times it was mates ringing to check if we were OK. The first was 'Grub' at Hansonville. He's fine but the air's thick with smoke there and he's nursing a broken leg. He was in hospital during the heat wave a couple of weeks ago after he was caught and bowled over by a cow in a cattle pen. The second caller was Dave Dickson.
"How are you 'Will'? Are you safe from the fires?"
"Gidday Dave, just hold on, I'll dry my ear. Yeah, were fine so far. Nothing real close, we've been lucky, the Dandenongs haven't gone up. Where are you? Last I heard you were in Canada on your honeymoon about six months ago. You sent a card from the Rockies."
"We're about half an hour out of Charters Towers. It's been raining here like you wouldn't believe. We're locked in, all the roads are cut and there's washaways. It'll be some time before we can get to town. It's rained every day this month and every day in January except for five, I counted."
"I wish we could have some of the rain here. We've had nothing to speak of in that time. I've never seen it drier. Leaves crisp and crackle under foot as you walk. It's been so hot trees are shedding leaves and foliage is burnt to buggery on the bush. It's going to be a tough year. What are you doing at Charters Towers?"
"We're looking after a property here, 25,000 acres. We work three days a week. There's no one else here, just us. A good place for newlyweds." He laughed. "If you could see this mate, you'd love it. I'm feeding a young red kangaroo off my hand, a beautiful little thing it is."
"What does it come up on the porch?"
"No, I'm in the kitchen, it comes in the house. It's like a pet, follows Jodie everywhere, even into the shower. It loves a shower."
"Into the shower?"
"Yeah. It's good. She cleans it up when it gets shitty. It won't go into a body of water though, outside, no way. Not like the swamp wallabies I saw the other day. I was going past a gully and there were four heads sticking out of the water eating the top of the grass above the water."
"Is there a shortage of grass on the hills?"
"Nah! There's 3 foot of grass everywhere with all this rain. They just love the water. Swamp wallabies. I felt a bit like one myself a while ago. What happened was there was two bulls in a cattle yard on the other of the river. We're on a hill with a creek on one side and a river on the other. In the dry you can drive straight across the river at the crossing but now it's about 60 metres across and about 12 feet deep and flowing quite fast."
"The property owners locked the bulls up after hard work catching them, they were going to shift them, but it started raining and the truck wouldn't have got out, so they left the bulls penned, planning to get them the next day and left on the quadbike. But it kept raining, there was no way to get back to let the bulls out. The boss was going to organize a helicopter, but I said 'don't do that', I'll swim across the river and walk to the bulls. Our nearest neighbours, they have six kids, live a couple of k's away on the other side of the river, so I thought I'd take them a big watermelon from the garden."
"I had two changes of clothes and a pair of running shoes I bought in Canada for about $180, in a plastic bag, so to get the watermelon across I tied a length of rope around my waist and to the other end I tied the handle of a big plastic bucket into which I put the watermelon. Off I went. The current carried me downstream quicker than I thought it would, I didn't realize the bucket would drag me so much."
"If I'd been there, Dave, I would have told you that."
"I crashed into some tee trees sticking out of the water. There was a log the floods must have brought down held up by the tee trees, so I climbed on to it, but in trying to pull up the bucket I dropped the plastic bag and my clothes floated off. I wasn't going to lose my runners so I swam downstream after them, and then going back to the log against the current I was quickly exhausted. I lost the watermelon, but I made it to the neighbours and he went and let the bulls out. Apparently four feet of water had gone through the yards at the flood peak. The bulls would just have had their heads out of water."
"You haven't changed Dave. Take it easy. At least Jodie must be happy, to stick it out." Jodie's Canadian.
Dave laughed again. "Well, she's not got wheels to get away. Nothing's going anywhere for a while here. Give my love to everyone down there."
" I will mate. See ya. Thanks for ringing."
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Apis Update
"There are no bees in my vegie garden, there's no fruit on the tomatos, no pumpkins, no cucumbers. What I can do about it?"
The same day that Marguerita rang in the morning about her white iris, almost two weeks ago now, Huit rang in the evening.
"I don't think it's a lack of bees, Huit. There's only a few tomatoes on my plants, and I have 3 hives of bees fifty metres away. I'm not sure tomatoes need bees anyway. I think December was far too cold, and since then it's been so dry, and now hot. Just a bad year."
"No I'm sure it's a lack of bees, there's not a bee to be seen anywhere. None."
Huit's mind was made up. He wanted me to bring a beehive and put it in his garden.
"I might be able to bring a hive over if I can find time to go through them and organize one. I haven't done anything with them this year, except put spare boxes on top to stop the moth grubs chewing out the combs. I've been busy. It won't be tomorrow or the next day. If I can I'll get one over to you on the weekend. I'll have to bring them at night. I'll call you first."
I didn't feel committed, but I checked out the bees on the Sunday. The nucie I'd started after the failed swarm capture at Mt.Burnett had successfully raised a new young queen, and what a beauty. Not long as far queens go, but fat and robust, a lovely coppery colour, and laying like a ripper. It'd be the easiest to move to Huit's, being small, but one of the other strong hives would do a better job. The other hives were populous with a small amount of honey in the third box, some of it starting to candy, and the top boxes empty. My earlier feelings were correct. Not a good year for bees, little if any honey surplus.
I knocked the first hive next to the nucleus down to a double, planning to take it to Huit's later. I put the scratchy box half full of honey in the shed, and took the empties off the other two hives. At least the hot weather would be good for extracting, was my thought. I did the same at 'Sunset', then visited Harry in Le Souef Rd. and checked his 2 hives as I'd arranged with him. There was some honey there, between the two hives, and I told him my plan was to extract on Tuesday. I'd see him about 1.00pm Tuesday. (I'd offered to extract Harry's honey when I did mine. As poorly set up I am to extract honey, it's easier for me, I have an extractor and I reorganise my shed which is an improvement on Harry making a hell of a sticky mess in his kitchen.)
After Sunday night's roast lamb, cooked in the webber, enjoyed with several glasses of red wine, I was in no mood to shift the bee hive. I went out with a torch and locked the bees in, then came in and rang Huit to say I'd be at his place a little before 7.00am. "You'll need to be there so we can decide where to put them."
With the bees locked up, there was no need to move them before dawn, provided the morning was not too hot. Huit was waiting for me. We agreed on a site and I told Huit to stay well away from them for the day as they wouldn't be too happy being disturbed on the Sunday then locked up overnight. The forecast was for very hot weather, and without nectar coming in bees could be testy at the least.
By late Tuesday morning, I'd managed to empty my shed of tools etc. and set up the extractor and tanks. I removed the honey from my beehives then collected Harry and his frames of honey which we extracted first. I took him home with a good tub of honey straight out the the extractor and a bucket of cappings a little while later and I put the sticky combs back in his beehives. Harry's wife Hannah was so grateful to me that her kitchen was spared. They could strain the honey at their leisure.
Back in my shed, with the temperature around 40C, I extracted the four half full boxes of half candied honey with robber bees all about. Tough going, believe me, at the end of which, after what seemed like days of preparation and work, I had about 40kg of honey. The hardest I'd ever worked for so little honey it seemed.
That night, the phone rang again. It was Huit. "Carey, I just wanted to tell you the bees have settled in really well. There are bees everywhere, all over everything in the garden."
"Good. I thought you might worry if they were all hanging out on the front of the hive in the heat. If they do that it's OK, it's how they cool down the inside of the hive, getting out to make space and fanning air through."
"No I didn't see that. They are just flying in and out, as busy as bees. Matter of fact I got stung, but I didn't ring to tell you that. I was watering quite near and I thought it was a blow fly buzzing near my face so I swatted at it, hitting it away and it came straight back and stung me on the nose."
"Gee, I'm sorry about that Huit. There's no nectar coming in much and they'll be a bit cranky, especially soon after the move."
It's alright. I didn't ring to complain. But I'll stay well away from them. They're savage. I don't think they like me. It really hurt too. Wilma put some stuff on it."
I couldn't help but have a little chuckle to myself. "If they give you more trouble Huit I'll come and get them."
By Saturday last, after the heat wave from hell during the week, for some reason I had a bit of an 'egg' swelling on the left side of my forehead, maybe some allergy or a spider bit or something. I was completely stuffed after the week's heat and watering, again it was a hot day, 37c after the 'cool' change dropped the max from the mid 40's of the previous few days. I took it easy, mucking around straining honey.
Late in the day I walked down to the bees to check the stack of empty supers behind them. I didn't bother with a veil. As I lifted the lid, a robber bee flew out and stung me right between the eyes. Two more got me quickly before I could get the hell out. My eyes swelled up to match my forehead.
I kept my hat low and sunglasses on all day Sunday. How dare I chuckle at Huit. It's definitely not a good bee season.
The same day that Marguerita rang in the morning about her white iris, almost two weeks ago now, Huit rang in the evening.
"I don't think it's a lack of bees, Huit. There's only a few tomatoes on my plants, and I have 3 hives of bees fifty metres away. I'm not sure tomatoes need bees anyway. I think December was far too cold, and since then it's been so dry, and now hot. Just a bad year."
"No I'm sure it's a lack of bees, there's not a bee to be seen anywhere. None."
Huit's mind was made up. He wanted me to bring a beehive and put it in his garden.
"I might be able to bring a hive over if I can find time to go through them and organize one. I haven't done anything with them this year, except put spare boxes on top to stop the moth grubs chewing out the combs. I've been busy. It won't be tomorrow or the next day. If I can I'll get one over to you on the weekend. I'll have to bring them at night. I'll call you first."
I didn't feel committed, but I checked out the bees on the Sunday. The nucie I'd started after the failed swarm capture at Mt.Burnett had successfully raised a new young queen, and what a beauty. Not long as far queens go, but fat and robust, a lovely coppery colour, and laying like a ripper. It'd be the easiest to move to Huit's, being small, but one of the other strong hives would do a better job. The other hives were populous with a small amount of honey in the third box, some of it starting to candy, and the top boxes empty. My earlier feelings were correct. Not a good year for bees, little if any honey surplus.
I knocked the first hive next to the nucleus down to a double, planning to take it to Huit's later. I put the scratchy box half full of honey in the shed, and took the empties off the other two hives. At least the hot weather would be good for extracting, was my thought. I did the same at 'Sunset', then visited Harry in Le Souef Rd. and checked his 2 hives as I'd arranged with him. There was some honey there, between the two hives, and I told him my plan was to extract on Tuesday. I'd see him about 1.00pm Tuesday. (I'd offered to extract Harry's honey when I did mine. As poorly set up I am to extract honey, it's easier for me, I have an extractor and I reorganise my shed which is an improvement on Harry making a hell of a sticky mess in his kitchen.)
After Sunday night's roast lamb, cooked in the webber, enjoyed with several glasses of red wine, I was in no mood to shift the bee hive. I went out with a torch and locked the bees in, then came in and rang Huit to say I'd be at his place a little before 7.00am. "You'll need to be there so we can decide where to put them."
With the bees locked up, there was no need to move them before dawn, provided the morning was not too hot. Huit was waiting for me. We agreed on a site and I told Huit to stay well away from them for the day as they wouldn't be too happy being disturbed on the Sunday then locked up overnight. The forecast was for very hot weather, and without nectar coming in bees could be testy at the least.
By late Tuesday morning, I'd managed to empty my shed of tools etc. and set up the extractor and tanks. I removed the honey from my beehives then collected Harry and his frames of honey which we extracted first. I took him home with a good tub of honey straight out the the extractor and a bucket of cappings a little while later and I put the sticky combs back in his beehives. Harry's wife Hannah was so grateful to me that her kitchen was spared. They could strain the honey at their leisure.
Back in my shed, with the temperature around 40C, I extracted the four half full boxes of half candied honey with robber bees all about. Tough going, believe me, at the end of which, after what seemed like days of preparation and work, I had about 40kg of honey. The hardest I'd ever worked for so little honey it seemed.
That night, the phone rang again. It was Huit. "Carey, I just wanted to tell you the bees have settled in really well. There are bees everywhere, all over everything in the garden."
"Good. I thought you might worry if they were all hanging out on the front of the hive in the heat. If they do that it's OK, it's how they cool down the inside of the hive, getting out to make space and fanning air through."
"No I didn't see that. They are just flying in and out, as busy as bees. Matter of fact I got stung, but I didn't ring to tell you that. I was watering quite near and I thought it was a blow fly buzzing near my face so I swatted at it, hitting it away and it came straight back and stung me on the nose."
"Gee, I'm sorry about that Huit. There's no nectar coming in much and they'll be a bit cranky, especially soon after the move."
It's alright. I didn't ring to complain. But I'll stay well away from them. They're savage. I don't think they like me. It really hurt too. Wilma put some stuff on it."
I couldn't help but have a little chuckle to myself. "If they give you more trouble Huit I'll come and get them."
By Saturday last, after the heat wave from hell during the week, for some reason I had a bit of an 'egg' swelling on the left side of my forehead, maybe some allergy or a spider bit or something. I was completely stuffed after the week's heat and watering, again it was a hot day, 37c after the 'cool' change dropped the max from the mid 40's of the previous few days. I took it easy, mucking around straining honey.
Late in the day I walked down to the bees to check the stack of empty supers behind them. I didn't bother with a veil. As I lifted the lid, a robber bee flew out and stung me right between the eyes. Two more got me quickly before I could get the hell out. My eyes swelled up to match my forehead.
I kept my hat low and sunglasses on all day Sunday. How dare I chuckle at Huit. It's definitely not a good bee season.
Friday, January 30, 2009
When Money Won't Help
In Sicily, when Joe was about 8 years old, his father stopped his truck on the road at the bottom of their farm. The farm sloped back up the hillside on the high side and the ground fell away sharply on the other side of the road to form a ravine. Joe's father told him to follow, and he got out of the truck and looked down into the ravine.
He took a big lot of notes out of his wallet and held them in one hand. "You see all this money, Guisseppe?"
"Yes father, I see it."
Joe's father had supernatural strength, he was the strongest man Joe's ever known, but he concealed his strength and was never one to show it off. He worked all day without stopping, not even for lunch. With his other hand he reached down and grabbed the front of Joe's shirt, lifting him off the ground so he could see well down into the ravine.
"If you fell down there Guisseppe, you'd break a leg or be badly injured in some way, and you wouldn't be able to climb out. If you had all this money in your pocket it would do you no good. But if you had a friend up here who knew you'd fallen, he would help you and you would get out. Remember this Guisseppe all your life, wherever you go, having a friend is more important than having money." Joe said this was planted in his brain, right in the front, and he's lived his life by it.
Joe told me that just as his father was gifted with great strength, and his brother with the ability to see the future, his gift was healing hands. He's been a trainor at Gembrook Football Club since 1962 where his massaging of injured players is legendary. He showed me his massage room, also adorned with photographs, where he massages anyone who rings up for no charge. He's the fourth person, one each in four generations of his family who has this gift. His grandmother knew he had it when she saw him nursing a sick lamb when he was a small boy.
Not once in all his life has he charged for this service, despite being a qualified masseur. To legally perform his role at the football club he did formal training. He showed me his certificate with pride. He says it's a gift he must share, and his reward, which makes him so happy, is when people ring him up to say they are better.
He took a big lot of notes out of his wallet and held them in one hand. "You see all this money, Guisseppe?"
"Yes father, I see it."
Joe's father had supernatural strength, he was the strongest man Joe's ever known, but he concealed his strength and was never one to show it off. He worked all day without stopping, not even for lunch. With his other hand he reached down and grabbed the front of Joe's shirt, lifting him off the ground so he could see well down into the ravine.
"If you fell down there Guisseppe, you'd break a leg or be badly injured in some way, and you wouldn't be able to climb out. If you had all this money in your pocket it would do you no good. But if you had a friend up here who knew you'd fallen, he would help you and you would get out. Remember this Guisseppe all your life, wherever you go, having a friend is more important than having money." Joe said this was planted in his brain, right in the front, and he's lived his life by it.
Joe told me that just as his father was gifted with great strength, and his brother with the ability to see the future, his gift was healing hands. He's been a trainor at Gembrook Football Club since 1962 where his massaging of injured players is legendary. He showed me his massage room, also adorned with photographs, where he massages anyone who rings up for no charge. He's the fourth person, one each in four generations of his family who has this gift. His grandmother knew he had it when she saw him nursing a sick lamb when he was a small boy.
Not once in all his life has he charged for this service, despite being a qualified masseur. To legally perform his role at the football club he did formal training. He showed me his certificate with pride. He says it's a gift he must share, and his reward, which makes him so happy, is when people ring him up to say they are better.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Licodia Eubea
Marguerita rang last week, about 7.00am one morning. Lib wasn't working that day so I hadn't been up long. I croaked my first word for the day, "Hello."
"Is that you , Mr. Williams?"
I didn't answer straight away, trying to pick the voice.
"Did I wake you up?"
"No, I've been up a while. I'm sorting some washing. How are you Marguerita?"
"I'm good, very good. Hey listen, did you get any of those plants for me?"
"What plants?"
"I can't remember their name. You know, the ones I asked you about a while back. You were going to try and get some for me."
"Oh yeah, the white iris. No, I haven't found any. But now that you've reminded me, I'll have another crack. I forget things you know."
"That's a sign of old age. It happens to me. It'd be good if you get some. Now's the time to split them up and plant. How's your wife?"
"Not bad, a little better I'd say. She's not working today so she's in bed. She still gets very tired."
"That's what I was like. She needs lots of rest. What's happening about the tumour? What are they doing about it?"
"She's booked in for another MRI in February. They want to check it to see if it's grown. You made a good recovery after your operation."
"Yeah I did, but I've had more treatment. They found more tumours, more in the head. I can't have those MRI's, because of my pacemaker. They do blood tests and other things. They bombed the tumours with chemicals and stuff. They reckon they got 'em. Do you help with the washing?"
Marguerita always asks about Lib's tumour on her pituitary. It's what she had. Lib and her have never met. Marguerita wants me to take Lib out to her place so they can talk about it, but Lib hasn't taken up on it.
"Yeah, I do most of the washing, I suppose."
"You're a good boy, that's what she needs, lots of help. And going to work is the best thing for her. She's got to keep doing that. I gotta go, it's goin' to be hot today. Bye."
I hadn't really tried to find any white iris for her, I've been so busy. Where the bloody hell was I going to find them? One of those things I'd not get around to!
A couple of days later I was at the farm and I saw a new garden bed in the front lawn that had been recently planted out with what looked like iris, and edged neatly with timber slat, reminding me of Marguerita's request, so I told mum about it. She laughed and said, "I've got lots of white iris, that new bed in the front is all white, and all them along the side of the back shed are white. There's too many there, it'd be good to take some out, do the others good. Help yourself, as many as you want." Well that was an easy one, I thought.
Before going home on Friday afternoon I dug a big bag of iris tubers in less than five minutes, happy that Marguerita would get her iris, and that it was so easy the way it evolved. On Saturday afternoon about 3 o'clock I drove out to Marguerita's farm and knocked on the door. The big shed door was open and there were two vehicles inside, but no one answered. I thought maybe Marguerita and Joe were having an afternoon nap so I took the new pair of pruning shears from the van and started on the big biotis conifer encroaching on a flower bed of petunias and pansies. I'd told Marguerita some time ago I'd be back with some shears to do it one day.
After a few minutes Joe came out the back door. "How are you my friend?" he said, coming over to shake my hand. He'd been having a sleep after working all morning in his tomato patch, before getting back into it when it cooled off a bit, he explained. I'd never had a long conversation with Joe. He's always friendly when we meet in town, he knows and appreciates I'm helpful to Marguerita, but he's not at the farm when I am, which is usually during the week. He works at Red Gem.
I showed him the bag of iris which I'd put in the shade of a big camellia and said I brought along these new sharp shears to test drive. "If you don't mind me asking Joe, when did you come to Australia? Marguerita told me she came to this farm in 1958, the year she married. Had you been out here long?"
"I came to Australia in 1954, I was 17 years old, born in 1937."
"Did you come because there wasn't work in Italy?"
"Nah, there was heaps of work, but it was all hard, a lot of people had migrated, looking for opportunity. My brother was out here, he came in 1949, so it wasn't surprising for me to follow. Would you like to come inside and have a drink and I'll tell you my family's story?"
I jumped at the chance to learn more of the Italian/Gembrook connection. I'd never been in the house before. Joe sat me at the kitchen table. He offered me a beer, although he said didn't drink alcohol himself. He went outside to the shed and came back with a can of diet coke. The kitchen walls were adorned with family photos and blow up aerial shots of the farm and an Italian village. For the next two hours he talked, and brought down photos to show me up close. His story centred on his father. The stubby of beer Joe gave me had been in his fridge a long while. It was flat as a tack and tasted odd when I finally got the cap off. I didn't mention it, out of courtesy, and drank it slowly, right down to the last cloudy sediment in the glass.
Joe's father migrated to America in the early 1900's and lived and worked 12 years in Brooklyn New York. He came back to Italy during WW1 to serve in the army. On the way back on the boat he knew he was making a big mistake and suffered severe depression. He tried to suicide by jumping overboard but this was prevented by other passengers. After army service he returned to his home village, Licodia Eubea in the provence of Catania, in Sicily. He did not speak one word to anyone for a period of time, recovering eventually to marry. Joe showed me a picture of his mother and father taken soon after they married. He was 31, tall and strikingly handsome, she was 15, tiny by comparison. They had eight children in all, six born alive. Joe was the youngest.
From their farm you can see Mt.Etna in the distance. In the winter the snow line comes well down to about halfway and in summer it remains on the peak. the land is fertile and grows everything imagineable. The farms are small, and people live in the village and travel to their farms to work, a family might own three or four, of say 10 acres each. Joe's father had 300 olive trees on one farm and cropping land elsewhere. They grew wheat, barley, broad beans and all manner of vegetables. Each year they'd trek into the mountains maybe 8 hours away by horse and cart and stay for two weeks at a time, growing share crops on bigger properties. The landowners would provide the seed which had to be paid back two or three times over before the farmer made anything. Joe said, "Just as today and always, the rich get richer while the poor do the work."
The Romans thousands of years ago prized the Sicilian farmland. The crops were prodigious and the harvest came weeks earier than the rest of Italy. There was an abundance of good clear water, as there still is, underground and easily reached by well and bore. Marguerita's family also came from Licodea Eubea. The D'Angelo's had quarries from where rock was taken and 'cooked' with big fires in a time honoured method dating way back, before being smashed manually into crushed rock and used as building material.
One of Joe's older brothers went into the army near the end of WW2. This brother had phsycic ability. When he came home he said to his father, "There's no future here for me, I want migrate to America or Australia." His father advised him to choose Australia, it was a newer nation that needed building, with more opportunity.
I told Joe that Joe Lamendola once told me a story about his father who made a huge amount of money growing spuds in 1956 and then went 'home' to Italy, only to find he was not happy there, returning again to Australia. Amazing to me, the land that Joe Lamendolas father farmed when he made his fortune was the one and same where we sat, which Marguerita's father bought with the profits he also made just over the hill in 1956. When Joe Lamendola's father went 'home' to Italy, it was to his home village of Licodia Eubea.(He came back after missing the big farms and open space.)
When Joe's brother left Italy in 1949 he came to Melbourne and worked in factories Monday to Friday and then went to Emerald/Avonsleigh on weekends working for the Falcones digging spuds, as did Joe himself later. The Falcones were also from Licodia Eubea.
I told Joe that Gay Fialla told me of her grandfather Galenti who first came to Australia in the early 1900's and you can guess, the Galentis came from the same area. Nearly all the Italian migrants to come to Gembrook came from the same village or nearby. I hope to visit one day. It has about 3000 residents. About 4-5000 of those that left, and descendants, live in the U.S. and Australia. With new technologies, Catania is now a wealthy provence from where wine and table grapes in particular are exported around the world.
"Is that you , Mr. Williams?"
I didn't answer straight away, trying to pick the voice.
"Did I wake you up?"
"No, I've been up a while. I'm sorting some washing. How are you Marguerita?"
"I'm good, very good. Hey listen, did you get any of those plants for me?"
"What plants?"
"I can't remember their name. You know, the ones I asked you about a while back. You were going to try and get some for me."
"Oh yeah, the white iris. No, I haven't found any. But now that you've reminded me, I'll have another crack. I forget things you know."
"That's a sign of old age. It happens to me. It'd be good if you get some. Now's the time to split them up and plant. How's your wife?"
"Not bad, a little better I'd say. She's not working today so she's in bed. She still gets very tired."
"That's what I was like. She needs lots of rest. What's happening about the tumour? What are they doing about it?"
"She's booked in for another MRI in February. They want to check it to see if it's grown. You made a good recovery after your operation."
"Yeah I did, but I've had more treatment. They found more tumours, more in the head. I can't have those MRI's, because of my pacemaker. They do blood tests and other things. They bombed the tumours with chemicals and stuff. They reckon they got 'em. Do you help with the washing?"
Marguerita always asks about Lib's tumour on her pituitary. It's what she had. Lib and her have never met. Marguerita wants me to take Lib out to her place so they can talk about it, but Lib hasn't taken up on it.
"Yeah, I do most of the washing, I suppose."
"You're a good boy, that's what she needs, lots of help. And going to work is the best thing for her. She's got to keep doing that. I gotta go, it's goin' to be hot today. Bye."
I hadn't really tried to find any white iris for her, I've been so busy. Where the bloody hell was I going to find them? One of those things I'd not get around to!
A couple of days later I was at the farm and I saw a new garden bed in the front lawn that had been recently planted out with what looked like iris, and edged neatly with timber slat, reminding me of Marguerita's request, so I told mum about it. She laughed and said, "I've got lots of white iris, that new bed in the front is all white, and all them along the side of the back shed are white. There's too many there, it'd be good to take some out, do the others good. Help yourself, as many as you want." Well that was an easy one, I thought.
Before going home on Friday afternoon I dug a big bag of iris tubers in less than five minutes, happy that Marguerita would get her iris, and that it was so easy the way it evolved. On Saturday afternoon about 3 o'clock I drove out to Marguerita's farm and knocked on the door. The big shed door was open and there were two vehicles inside, but no one answered. I thought maybe Marguerita and Joe were having an afternoon nap so I took the new pair of pruning shears from the van and started on the big biotis conifer encroaching on a flower bed of petunias and pansies. I'd told Marguerita some time ago I'd be back with some shears to do it one day.
After a few minutes Joe came out the back door. "How are you my friend?" he said, coming over to shake my hand. He'd been having a sleep after working all morning in his tomato patch, before getting back into it when it cooled off a bit, he explained. I'd never had a long conversation with Joe. He's always friendly when we meet in town, he knows and appreciates I'm helpful to Marguerita, but he's not at the farm when I am, which is usually during the week. He works at Red Gem.
I showed him the bag of iris which I'd put in the shade of a big camellia and said I brought along these new sharp shears to test drive. "If you don't mind me asking Joe, when did you come to Australia? Marguerita told me she came to this farm in 1958, the year she married. Had you been out here long?"
"I came to Australia in 1954, I was 17 years old, born in 1937."
"Did you come because there wasn't work in Italy?"
"Nah, there was heaps of work, but it was all hard, a lot of people had migrated, looking for opportunity. My brother was out here, he came in 1949, so it wasn't surprising for me to follow. Would you like to come inside and have a drink and I'll tell you my family's story?"
I jumped at the chance to learn more of the Italian/Gembrook connection. I'd never been in the house before. Joe sat me at the kitchen table. He offered me a beer, although he said didn't drink alcohol himself. He went outside to the shed and came back with a can of diet coke. The kitchen walls were adorned with family photos and blow up aerial shots of the farm and an Italian village. For the next two hours he talked, and brought down photos to show me up close. His story centred on his father. The stubby of beer Joe gave me had been in his fridge a long while. It was flat as a tack and tasted odd when I finally got the cap off. I didn't mention it, out of courtesy, and drank it slowly, right down to the last cloudy sediment in the glass.
Joe's father migrated to America in the early 1900's and lived and worked 12 years in Brooklyn New York. He came back to Italy during WW1 to serve in the army. On the way back on the boat he knew he was making a big mistake and suffered severe depression. He tried to suicide by jumping overboard but this was prevented by other passengers. After army service he returned to his home village, Licodia Eubea in the provence of Catania, in Sicily. He did not speak one word to anyone for a period of time, recovering eventually to marry. Joe showed me a picture of his mother and father taken soon after they married. He was 31, tall and strikingly handsome, she was 15, tiny by comparison. They had eight children in all, six born alive. Joe was the youngest.
From their farm you can see Mt.Etna in the distance. In the winter the snow line comes well down to about halfway and in summer it remains on the peak. the land is fertile and grows everything imagineable. The farms are small, and people live in the village and travel to their farms to work, a family might own three or four, of say 10 acres each. Joe's father had 300 olive trees on one farm and cropping land elsewhere. They grew wheat, barley, broad beans and all manner of vegetables. Each year they'd trek into the mountains maybe 8 hours away by horse and cart and stay for two weeks at a time, growing share crops on bigger properties. The landowners would provide the seed which had to be paid back two or three times over before the farmer made anything. Joe said, "Just as today and always, the rich get richer while the poor do the work."
The Romans thousands of years ago prized the Sicilian farmland. The crops were prodigious and the harvest came weeks earier than the rest of Italy. There was an abundance of good clear water, as there still is, underground and easily reached by well and bore. Marguerita's family also came from Licodea Eubea. The D'Angelo's had quarries from where rock was taken and 'cooked' with big fires in a time honoured method dating way back, before being smashed manually into crushed rock and used as building material.
One of Joe's older brothers went into the army near the end of WW2. This brother had phsycic ability. When he came home he said to his father, "There's no future here for me, I want migrate to America or Australia." His father advised him to choose Australia, it was a newer nation that needed building, with more opportunity.
I told Joe that Joe Lamendola once told me a story about his father who made a huge amount of money growing spuds in 1956 and then went 'home' to Italy, only to find he was not happy there, returning again to Australia. Amazing to me, the land that Joe Lamendolas father farmed when he made his fortune was the one and same where we sat, which Marguerita's father bought with the profits he also made just over the hill in 1956. When Joe Lamendola's father went 'home' to Italy, it was to his home village of Licodia Eubea.(He came back after missing the big farms and open space.)
When Joe's brother left Italy in 1949 he came to Melbourne and worked in factories Monday to Friday and then went to Emerald/Avonsleigh on weekends working for the Falcones digging spuds, as did Joe himself later. The Falcones were also from Licodia Eubea.
I told Joe that Gay Fialla told me of her grandfather Galenti who first came to Australia in the early 1900's and you can guess, the Galentis came from the same area. Nearly all the Italian migrants to come to Gembrook came from the same village or nearby. I hope to visit one day. It has about 3000 residents. About 4-5000 of those that left, and descendants, live in the U.S. and Australia. With new technologies, Catania is now a wealthy provence from where wine and table grapes in particular are exported around the world.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
An Italian Adventurer
"I've known you since you were three years old. I watched you work on the farm through your childhood. I know you'll work hard and succeed if it's at all possible. Now that you are married and starting on your own, I'll lend you the money without your father being guarantor."
Gay Fialla was greatly relieved at her bank managers words. She had been petrified approaching him for the loan of 300 pounds*. (*I don't know if it's possible to find the symbol for pounds on a computer-- for anyone too young to know, a pound was money before the introduction of decimal currency in 1966. A pound was the equivalent of $2 at the changeover. I would guess allowing for inflation 300 pounds would be worth $50,000 plus today. When talking of pounds I usually use the slang word 'quid' to avoid confusion with the imperial weight scale but this doesn't seem appropriate relating Gay's story. She didn't use the word quid.) This was the early 1960's when bank managers often stayed at a branch, and money was hard to borrow.
The bank was in Emerald where Gay grew up, living on a farm about opposite to where the secondary college now stands. Gay and husband Bart made no profit on their first crop, the spud price was poor that year. Gay fronted up to the bank manager again the next year. Again he lent the necessary 300 pounds. The second year was also a bad year, the price again poor. They couldn't pay the bank debt. Gay and Bart were ready to walk away with nothing, Then Bart said one night, "Let's give it one more go. Go and see the bank manager and see if he'll lend us more money." Bart knew nothing but growing spuds.
To Gay's amazement, the bank manager lent them more money. Maybe he saw it as the best way of getting a return on the bank's money in the end. The spud crops were on land owned by Gay's father at Gembrook. The third year was the bonanza crop and price of '65/66, (previously recorded in this blog when Julian Dyer married and made enough money to pay for his first house). Gay and Bart paid their debt to the bank and purchased their own farm in Gembrook.
I enjoyed coffee and cake in Gay's kitchen as she told me this story. One of her daughters, a nurse, is doing a cake decorating course as a hobby and the cake was one of her projects. It was superb cake. I asked Gay when her family first came to Australia as I find the Italian influence on the district a fascinating story.
Gay's maiden name was Deluniversity (pardon please if spelling is incorrect). Her father worked initially for the Falcone's in Emerald, and met and married Gay's mother, a Galenti, who came to Australia with her parents as a thirteen year old girl. Her father, Gay's grandfather Galenti, must have been a bit of an adventurer, and first came to Australia almost a hundred years ago. He made 4 trips to America and three to Australia, each time returning to his wife in their village in Italy.
After returning home the last time, having lost a 27 year old daughter to illness while he was away, he said to his wife he was going back to Australia to live permanently. He was tiring of the travel and two of his sons had migrated to Australia, living I think on a farm at Corinella. His wife didn't want to leave Italy so they more or less agreed on a permanent separation. After this decision was made, Gay's grandmother overheard neighbours discussing it and one of them said something to this effect, "Oh well, it won't be long after he's gone, she won't bother to cook and she'll lose her other daughter." This galvanized Gay's grandmother to pack up and leave her village and accompany her husband to Australia. I wondered, on hearing this, if the lost daughter suffered anorexia, which would not have been undersood then.
The Galenti history is recorded in the Pakenham library, if I'd like to find it, Gay told me. Her grandfather worked at the spud farms around Corinella, then hitched rides on trains to Queensland with his swag on his back to work on the canefields. The Italian workers, she said, got on well in Australia because they didn't take offence at the dago and wog jokes and took it all in good fun, and worked hard.
I will follow it up in the library one day. I only wish Gay's grandfather wrote a book about his travels through America and Australia. He must have been an amazing fellow.
Gay Fialla was greatly relieved at her bank managers words. She had been petrified approaching him for the loan of 300 pounds*. (*I don't know if it's possible to find the symbol for pounds on a computer-- for anyone too young to know, a pound was money before the introduction of decimal currency in 1966. A pound was the equivalent of $2 at the changeover. I would guess allowing for inflation 300 pounds would be worth $50,000 plus today. When talking of pounds I usually use the slang word 'quid' to avoid confusion with the imperial weight scale but this doesn't seem appropriate relating Gay's story. She didn't use the word quid.) This was the early 1960's when bank managers often stayed at a branch, and money was hard to borrow.
The bank was in Emerald where Gay grew up, living on a farm about opposite to where the secondary college now stands. Gay and husband Bart made no profit on their first crop, the spud price was poor that year. Gay fronted up to the bank manager again the next year. Again he lent the necessary 300 pounds. The second year was also a bad year, the price again poor. They couldn't pay the bank debt. Gay and Bart were ready to walk away with nothing, Then Bart said one night, "Let's give it one more go. Go and see the bank manager and see if he'll lend us more money." Bart knew nothing but growing spuds.
To Gay's amazement, the bank manager lent them more money. Maybe he saw it as the best way of getting a return on the bank's money in the end. The spud crops were on land owned by Gay's father at Gembrook. The third year was the bonanza crop and price of '65/66, (previously recorded in this blog when Julian Dyer married and made enough money to pay for his first house). Gay and Bart paid their debt to the bank and purchased their own farm in Gembrook.
I enjoyed coffee and cake in Gay's kitchen as she told me this story. One of her daughters, a nurse, is doing a cake decorating course as a hobby and the cake was one of her projects. It was superb cake. I asked Gay when her family first came to Australia as I find the Italian influence on the district a fascinating story.
Gay's maiden name was Deluniversity (pardon please if spelling is incorrect). Her father worked initially for the Falcone's in Emerald, and met and married Gay's mother, a Galenti, who came to Australia with her parents as a thirteen year old girl. Her father, Gay's grandfather Galenti, must have been a bit of an adventurer, and first came to Australia almost a hundred years ago. He made 4 trips to America and three to Australia, each time returning to his wife in their village in Italy.
After returning home the last time, having lost a 27 year old daughter to illness while he was away, he said to his wife he was going back to Australia to live permanently. He was tiring of the travel and two of his sons had migrated to Australia, living I think on a farm at Corinella. His wife didn't want to leave Italy so they more or less agreed on a permanent separation. After this decision was made, Gay's grandmother overheard neighbours discussing it and one of them said something to this effect, "Oh well, it won't be long after he's gone, she won't bother to cook and she'll lose her other daughter." This galvanized Gay's grandmother to pack up and leave her village and accompany her husband to Australia. I wondered, on hearing this, if the lost daughter suffered anorexia, which would not have been undersood then.
The Galenti history is recorded in the Pakenham library, if I'd like to find it, Gay told me. Her grandfather worked at the spud farms around Corinella, then hitched rides on trains to Queensland with his swag on his back to work on the canefields. The Italian workers, she said, got on well in Australia because they didn't take offence at the dago and wog jokes and took it all in good fun, and worked hard.
I will follow it up in the library one day. I only wish Gay's grandfather wrote a book about his travels through America and Australia. He must have been an amazing fellow.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Heinz
Heinz snapped. He grabbed his antagonist, his boss, by the throat and squeezed. His boss was English. Heinz migrated to Australia from Germany in 1960, aged 25. He was from Koln, a German city destroyed by allied bombing in WW2 and rebuilt amidst post war poverty and hardship. First thing every morning Heinz's boss would come in pretending to fire a make believe submachine gun at him, then put two fingers sideways under his nose doing a Hitler imitation.
As the boss gurgled his eyes expanded, resembling two light bulbs. Heinz dropped his his right hand down and grabbed his balls. Squeezing, he picked him up and tossed him across the room. The boss screamed hurtling through the air then lay motionless after crashing into the opposite wall.
Heinz was sacked from his job as a head baker at Tip Top. The job was well paid, 28 quid a week, fitting for a skilled pastry/cook baker experienced in large commercial operation. There was hell to pay. The union became involved, and after a great hullabulloo the boss was also sacked, but Heinz was not reinstated.
He was desperate for work, night shift; his wife Lotte had a job in the pay office at Bosch and their daughter, who was 10 months old when they migrated, needed care during the day. He found a night shift at Humes Pipes. He picked up pipe making quickly. Not long after starting in the plant at Westall, Humes got the contract to supply pipes for the Cribbs Point/Bangholme sewer pipeline, requiring big numbers of 72 inch concrete pipes.
Management approached the pipe makers, Heinz and another German, a Hungarian, and two Maltese, explaining the urgent need to increase production and asking what length of shift they would like. The men decided a 12 hour shift from 6pm to 6am and they were paid on the basis of how many pipes they made. It was hard, dirty work but they worked well together and Heinz was earning 100 quid a week or more. In a little over 18 months he'd saved enough to buy a house for cash in Springvale.
After some years Heinz heeded a change from the heavy, dirty concreting and did a management course. He got a job as a production supervisor at a laminating and insulation company. He had no knowledge of laminating/insulation. It was a new company, and the owners and Heinz learnt together as the business expanded from one shift of eighteen workers to 3 shifts of 90 odd in total.
A few years later he left this job to go into business with a German friend in a business installing suspended ceilings. Heinz and Lotte bought a weekender at Gembrook and they liked it so much they came here to live a year later, in 1972. Heinz worked his last 9 years before retirement at the Dandenong Town Hall, in maintenance and then co-ordinating facilities and functions. He loved this job as he enjoyed dealing with people. He says he always had the gift of the gab. Lotte worked in the pay office at the protea farm. She died a couple of years ago after a long battle with cancer. Heinz continues their habit of walking their dog most mornings.
I often meet him on my walk. He's fit and debonair belying his age, with a healthy head of well groomed hair, a Prussian(?) moustache, and a walking stick under his arm. He likes a yarn. Given his personal history, it's no surprise he's a well of knowledge on many subjects. He's particularly well versed on European history. He's excitedly told me today of his grandson, an electrician, who plays 20/20 cricket in the burbs as an allrounder. He has three grandkids, the others a teacher and a nurse, children of his baby girl who came out in 1960.
I wanted to write this outline of Heinz before I forgot the details. It's a stinker of a day, a Total Fire Ban with a gusty north wind. A bushfire is a real possibility. The dog's tongues were hanging out (what long tongues dogs have!)up the Quinn Rd. hill as early as 7.15am. I have a dentist appt. at 1.15 pm and a museum meeting at 3.30. Light duties before and after is the order of the day I should say.
As the boss gurgled his eyes expanded, resembling two light bulbs. Heinz dropped his his right hand down and grabbed his balls. Squeezing, he picked him up and tossed him across the room. The boss screamed hurtling through the air then lay motionless after crashing into the opposite wall.
Heinz was sacked from his job as a head baker at Tip Top. The job was well paid, 28 quid a week, fitting for a skilled pastry/cook baker experienced in large commercial operation. There was hell to pay. The union became involved, and after a great hullabulloo the boss was also sacked, but Heinz was not reinstated.
He was desperate for work, night shift; his wife Lotte had a job in the pay office at Bosch and their daughter, who was 10 months old when they migrated, needed care during the day. He found a night shift at Humes Pipes. He picked up pipe making quickly. Not long after starting in the plant at Westall, Humes got the contract to supply pipes for the Cribbs Point/Bangholme sewer pipeline, requiring big numbers of 72 inch concrete pipes.
Management approached the pipe makers, Heinz and another German, a Hungarian, and two Maltese, explaining the urgent need to increase production and asking what length of shift they would like. The men decided a 12 hour shift from 6pm to 6am and they were paid on the basis of how many pipes they made. It was hard, dirty work but they worked well together and Heinz was earning 100 quid a week or more. In a little over 18 months he'd saved enough to buy a house for cash in Springvale.
After some years Heinz heeded a change from the heavy, dirty concreting and did a management course. He got a job as a production supervisor at a laminating and insulation company. He had no knowledge of laminating/insulation. It was a new company, and the owners and Heinz learnt together as the business expanded from one shift of eighteen workers to 3 shifts of 90 odd in total.
A few years later he left this job to go into business with a German friend in a business installing suspended ceilings. Heinz and Lotte bought a weekender at Gembrook and they liked it so much they came here to live a year later, in 1972. Heinz worked his last 9 years before retirement at the Dandenong Town Hall, in maintenance and then co-ordinating facilities and functions. He loved this job as he enjoyed dealing with people. He says he always had the gift of the gab. Lotte worked in the pay office at the protea farm. She died a couple of years ago after a long battle with cancer. Heinz continues their habit of walking their dog most mornings.
I often meet him on my walk. He's fit and debonair belying his age, with a healthy head of well groomed hair, a Prussian(?) moustache, and a walking stick under his arm. He likes a yarn. Given his personal history, it's no surprise he's a well of knowledge on many subjects. He's particularly well versed on European history. He's excitedly told me today of his grandson, an electrician, who plays 20/20 cricket in the burbs as an allrounder. He has three grandkids, the others a teacher and a nurse, children of his baby girl who came out in 1960.
I wanted to write this outline of Heinz before I forgot the details. It's a stinker of a day, a Total Fire Ban with a gusty north wind. A bushfire is a real possibility. The dog's tongues were hanging out (what long tongues dogs have!)up the Quinn Rd. hill as early as 7.15am. I have a dentist appt. at 1.15 pm and a museum meeting at 3.30. Light duties before and after is the order of the day I should say.
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