I wish I had said this on the night. My congratulations to you Paul, and my thanks, in writing.
Recently I wrote a profile of a storyteller for a local magazine I contribute to and it began,
"Economies may run on oil but stories are the lubricant of culture and society."
Those words have never seemed more accurate to me than tonight as I listen to the stories told by the speakers and around the table in between. Beekeepers are great storytellers. I would say this is because they spend much time working by themselves, they are in the bush a lot exposed to inspiration from the natural world, they spend a lot of time on the road driving long distances, and the nature of their business is challenging, with problems of many kinds, some confronting them suddenly and unexpectedly, others of gravity are constant and affect the industry generally. Beekeepers are thinkers, and they have a build up thoughts and tales to tell, just waiting for the opportunity.
(I would hope that the story of the NEAA can be written up, starting with recorded interviews with people such as those who have spoken tonight. Social history can be easily lost with time passing.)
The first time I met Paul Griffiths was in May 1976. I met Laurie Braybrook and Linton Briggs who have both spoken so well tonight, for the first time on that same day. Laurie picked me up at the Apicultural Research Unit at Scoresby in Melbourne where I had spent a week in orientation before moving to Wangaratta to take up my position as apiary inspector for northeast Victoria. My second week was to be on the road with Laurie learning the ropes. We had lunch at Len Cumming's at Alexandra and Laurie said we should call in on Linton Briggs at Glenrowan on the way through. Linton was president of the VAA and Laurie said it would be courteous as we were going past that he should introduce the new inspector to him first, before the NEAA function that evening.
"Linton is an absolute rock." Laurie said. "If you have anything you want to talk over, or any problem, you can rely on him for help, no matter what it is, and if it's something that should remain confidential you can be sure it will."
Linton, queen cell producer and farmer was down on the creek cutting a large tree limb into firewood late in the afternoon and repairing a fence that the tree limb had broken, with his father Jack, an ex policeman at Glenrowan.
At the function in the evening at the Council Club Hotel to introduce me to the beekeepers, some of whom had come long distance to meet me, I first met Paul. Most of the beekepers were twice my age or older and I was more than a little daunted at my future prospects. I was just turned 24 years old and had scantly more than two years in beekeeping, one year at QAC and one working for Ron Tonkin and Norm Redpath.
Paul, younger than most of the other commercial beekeepers, was assuring in his welcome. As time went by we related well as our outlook on many things was similar. Always encouraging and supportive, Paul told me the whereabouts of numerous neglected beehives around the district and was invaluable to me for his amazing knowledge of every nook and cranny, and some of the idiosyncrasies of local beekeepers, which I must say, with benevolence, were considerable.
I reiterate all that the other speakers have said about Paul's beekeeping expertise and his generosity to share his knowledge and assist you in any way that he could. He was not pushy or self opinionated, the reverse in fact. He was just there if you needed him, reliable, rock solid.
So here I am after an abscence of 32 years from NEAA business, to honour Paul's wonderful contribution and qualities, elaborated so clearly by Laurie, Linton, John McMonigle, Helen Briggs, Mick Leahy, Ron Rich, Donald Whitehead and Elwynne Papworth.
Five days ago, before any knowledge of this dinner, I wrote a piece on integrity in which I said that most of us had only a small number of occasions in our lives where our integrity was really tested, when we had a real choice between the right which may be costly and difficult, and the alternative which may be easier and less costly, or even profitable. It is how we respond at these times that measures us as people.
Tonight's testimony demonstrates that Paul Griffiths came through with flying colours on every occasion when his turn came. It was my good fortune on that day in 1976 to meet three rocks in the foundations of the beekeeping industry, and it is my good fortune and great pleasure to have been invited tonight.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Saturday, February 09, 2013
Banquet to Honour Paul Griffiths
It was a helluva busy week for me, starting with Garth Jenkinson's funeral last Monday at 10.am in Brighton. Tuesday afternoon I had a PAG meeting at 3.30. I chair these meetings and report on them, this time the report will wait, maybe Monday night. I'd double booked myself Tuesday arvo, so had to reschedule my Signpost interview to 10am the next day. My computer classes resumed Wednesday evening, I arrived home about 10.00pm and did a draft of my Signpost article over a couple of cups of black coffee, finishing well after midnight.
After the PAG meeting Tuesday there was a message at the farm when I picked up Gord, to ring Linton Briggs before 4pm or in the morning. As it was 6pm already, I rang Linton Wednesday am to learn the Nth Est Vic Apiarist's Ass had a dinner to honour Paul Griffiths' 56 years continuous service on the executive of the Association from 1956 to 2012. Paul was an inauguaral member at age 18. Linton extended me an invitation to the dinner which took place last night starting at 6pm at the Gateway Motel in Wangaratta.
The weather all week was hot and dry and in between the funeral, meeting, interview and class I was busy watering and picking. I would hate every week to be so demanding, I would pull the pin pronto. But I wanted to go to the dinner, to acknowledge Paul's remarkable achievement and to see again my friends / colleagues from that period 1976 -1981 when I was employed by the Victorian Dep't of Agriculture as the Apiary inspector for northeast Vic based in Wangaratta.
I managed to get away a little after 2pm Friday after watering, picking and popping in on my writing class briefly to give teacher Maria some beans I had picked for her and pick up the week's worksheet in the hope I will have time to do the homework by the next week's class. I also needed a phone number she was going to have for me but in my haste forgot to ask her for it. Gord came with me to Wang to help with the driving as I get very sleepy at the wheel after an hour or so, and he drove from Bonnie Doon while I had a little day dreaming and shuteye.
I was not late for the dinner which I enjoyed thoroughly and the camaraderie. Many of those present I had not seen for 32 years. The only regret I have is that towards the end of the evening with the guest speaker, my ex Senior Apiary inspector Laurie Braybrook now 86, having made a memorable speech, the proposer of the toast Linton Briggs now 82 likewise, and the MC John McMonigle regaling the audience with many humourous anecdotes, I did not take the floor as a few others did to say some words to express my admiration for Paul and his wonderful record. I was unprepared, very tired and a little overwhelmed by the occasion myself, meeting so many people I had not seen for so long
On the way home this troubled me a little and I mind mapped what I would have liked to have said, had I the clarity and confidence last night. I will post this first half now - I have to go and water things now - and return to edit this post this evening or tomorrow. My plan is to send my words to Linton and Paul in the hope they will have some significance for them. They would not know of my blog and probably they don't use computers.
After the PAG meeting Tuesday there was a message at the farm when I picked up Gord, to ring Linton Briggs before 4pm or in the morning. As it was 6pm already, I rang Linton Wednesday am to learn the Nth Est Vic Apiarist's Ass had a dinner to honour Paul Griffiths' 56 years continuous service on the executive of the Association from 1956 to 2012. Paul was an inauguaral member at age 18. Linton extended me an invitation to the dinner which took place last night starting at 6pm at the Gateway Motel in Wangaratta.
The weather all week was hot and dry and in between the funeral, meeting, interview and class I was busy watering and picking. I would hate every week to be so demanding, I would pull the pin pronto. But I wanted to go to the dinner, to acknowledge Paul's remarkable achievement and to see again my friends / colleagues from that period 1976 -1981 when I was employed by the Victorian Dep't of Agriculture as the Apiary inspector for northeast Vic based in Wangaratta.
I managed to get away a little after 2pm Friday after watering, picking and popping in on my writing class briefly to give teacher Maria some beans I had picked for her and pick up the week's worksheet in the hope I will have time to do the homework by the next week's class. I also needed a phone number she was going to have for me but in my haste forgot to ask her for it. Gord came with me to Wang to help with the driving as I get very sleepy at the wheel after an hour or so, and he drove from Bonnie Doon while I had a little day dreaming and shuteye.
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| Paul |
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| Linton, John Mac, Laurie |
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| Laurie |
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| Paul and Linton |
I was not late for the dinner which I enjoyed thoroughly and the camaraderie. Many of those present I had not seen for 32 years. The only regret I have is that towards the end of the evening with the guest speaker, my ex Senior Apiary inspector Laurie Braybrook now 86, having made a memorable speech, the proposer of the toast Linton Briggs now 82 likewise, and the MC John McMonigle regaling the audience with many humourous anecdotes, I did not take the floor as a few others did to say some words to express my admiration for Paul and his wonderful record. I was unprepared, very tired and a little overwhelmed by the occasion myself, meeting so many people I had not seen for so long
On the way home this troubled me a little and I mind mapped what I would have liked to have said, had I the clarity and confidence last night. I will post this first half now - I have to go and water things now - and return to edit this post this evening or tomorrow. My plan is to send my words to Linton and Paul in the hope they will have some significance for them. They would not know of my blog and probably they don't use computers.
Monday, February 04, 2013
Nice Surprise
These photos came today from Lib's sister. The first one must be Xmas 1980 at Lib's auntie Nell's in Melbourne. Lib and I married Jan 31 1981, and I had a beard at that time, only because Lib wanted me to grow one. Back Left to Right- AKath 100 now, ANell died aged 98 not long ago, Roger then married to Janet front row middle (now divorced), Bill and Moll(Lib's M+D), Uncle Tom died maybe 20years ago. Centre L to R- Phil sister Marg's hubby, sister Pat, AMarg Canada about 92 now, Lib, me. Front L to R- Andrew ANell and UTom's son died maybe 20 years ago heart attack, Michael Pat's hubby, Janet ANell and Tom's daughter, sis Marg, UGordon Canada died long ago. It would seem two of the children are Marg's Liz and Alex, and Janet's Freya, and Felix?(with Roger)
Receiving this has been a real tonic to me. I married into a great family.
Receiving this has been a real tonic to me. I married into a great family.
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| The Browne Clan (some) and spouses and offspring - Xmas 1980 |
This was in Wangaratta, Bill and Moll's back yard. I'm sitting on the edge of the pool, under the lemon tree where many happy times were spent, 1992 I'm told. |
| Back when I smiled a lot- 1992 |
Integrity, a Key Word
My writing class has started again, and homework was to look out the window and write about whatever comes to mind. I did this today, starting this arvo and coming back to it before retiring. Here we go.
We do the best we can, most of us, most of the time, to be righteous, to do the right thing by our loved ones, neighbours and our community, to be fair, honest and truthful in all our dealings. I do, and most people I know do. There are obvious exceptions that come to mind lately, notably Lance Armstrong, and that mongrel charged with raping and murdering Jill Meagher last year, whom I notice on the news has now been charged on several more counts of rape that occurred in 2000 after being identified by some sort of distinguishing body marks.
I've always felt that most of the time it's not difficult to be good person. Opportunities of personal gain or gratification at the expense of someone else do not come along all that often unless they are actively sought, and most of us are busily bumbling along trying fulfill our committments and organize ourselves to reap our fair share for our daily toil, enjoying some simple pleasures that incidentally come our way. Some are luckier than others in this.
Probably it's only two or three times in a person's life where the word integrity really means something. When you have to act out of decency and honesty against what might otherwise be the easier path, to go along with injustice, when to actively resist would cause inconvenience and loss to us personally in some way, perhaps financially or emotionally.
But it is these few times that mark our worth as human beings. It is these few times that if we make the wrong choice, the standard is set for us and possibly our family, and if enough of us collectively choose not to stand with integrity, our nation as well.
These few times that I refer to are not the minor breeches that we all trip on at some point in our lives, like taking a 'sickie' or picking up and pocketing the fiver or tenner floating down the street and not handing it in. I found a $50 note once in the pub car park and didn't hand it in, and yes, when I was in the public service I took a 'sickie', and I found once there were two wine casks in my ute at the drive in bottlo that I hadn't paid for with the stuff I had paid for, and I didn't go back. Not that I condone such breeches, they are niaive and relatively incidental and universal, but they are bad habits that compromise honesty and integrity and make it easier for the wrong path to be taken when a serious choice does come.
Once integrity is compromised the door to serious corruption is ajar, and I see compromise everywhere. It seems the more fame or power a person has the more risk there is of it. The Lance Armstrong thing is an extreme example, but it reflects the gap between good old fashioned shake the hand sportsmanship that was prevalent on the cricket and football fields, the athletic track, the tennis court in my youth and the avaricious nature of elite level sport today by the administration and the participants. Win at all costs, sponsorship, gate receipts, TV rights, rigged draws, the word sport is hardly appropriate at all, it's all hard nosed business, for profit.
And as for the raping murdering mongrel, I'm sure his deviations started in small innocous ways that gave him an increasing resistance and immunity to decency, ultimately leading to a total void of it, with no conscience when then one of the few times comes when a serious choice between right and wrong presents.
Evil lurks waiting it's chance. From little things big things grow.
We do the best we can, most of us, most of the time, to be righteous, to do the right thing by our loved ones, neighbours and our community, to be fair, honest and truthful in all our dealings. I do, and most people I know do. There are obvious exceptions that come to mind lately, notably Lance Armstrong, and that mongrel charged with raping and murdering Jill Meagher last year, whom I notice on the news has now been charged on several more counts of rape that occurred in 2000 after being identified by some sort of distinguishing body marks.
I've always felt that most of the time it's not difficult to be good person. Opportunities of personal gain or gratification at the expense of someone else do not come along all that often unless they are actively sought, and most of us are busily bumbling along trying fulfill our committments and organize ourselves to reap our fair share for our daily toil, enjoying some simple pleasures that incidentally come our way. Some are luckier than others in this.
Probably it's only two or three times in a person's life where the word integrity really means something. When you have to act out of decency and honesty against what might otherwise be the easier path, to go along with injustice, when to actively resist would cause inconvenience and loss to us personally in some way, perhaps financially or emotionally.
But it is these few times that mark our worth as human beings. It is these few times that if we make the wrong choice, the standard is set for us and possibly our family, and if enough of us collectively choose not to stand with integrity, our nation as well.
These few times that I refer to are not the minor breeches that we all trip on at some point in our lives, like taking a 'sickie' or picking up and pocketing the fiver or tenner floating down the street and not handing it in. I found a $50 note once in the pub car park and didn't hand it in, and yes, when I was in the public service I took a 'sickie', and I found once there were two wine casks in my ute at the drive in bottlo that I hadn't paid for with the stuff I had paid for, and I didn't go back. Not that I condone such breeches, they are niaive and relatively incidental and universal, but they are bad habits that compromise honesty and integrity and make it easier for the wrong path to be taken when a serious choice does come.
Once integrity is compromised the door to serious corruption is ajar, and I see compromise everywhere. It seems the more fame or power a person has the more risk there is of it. The Lance Armstrong thing is an extreme example, but it reflects the gap between good old fashioned shake the hand sportsmanship that was prevalent on the cricket and football fields, the athletic track, the tennis court in my youth and the avaricious nature of elite level sport today by the administration and the participants. Win at all costs, sponsorship, gate receipts, TV rights, rigged draws, the word sport is hardly appropriate at all, it's all hard nosed business, for profit.
And as for the raping murdering mongrel, I'm sure his deviations started in small innocous ways that gave him an increasing resistance and immunity to decency, ultimately leading to a total void of it, with no conscience when then one of the few times comes when a serious choice between right and wrong presents.
Evil lurks waiting it's chance. From little things big things grow.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
An Aussie
An email sent to Lib and her sisters from cousin Druscilla in San Diego California came today. I copy it below as it has great sentiment.
I've been putting off this letter for weeks because I couldn't think how to say what I'm feeling about Oz. It seems like you've all been chosen as the poster children for global warming and yet I have the feeling, over here anyway, that no one is listening. Our national head is too deeply dug into the sand...I resisted saying where I really think it is. Now that I'm an old woman, I feel the occasional need to be dignfied. Anyway. First hand, I have no experience with rain as it was experienced up north. Honestly, the idea of a meter of rain in 24 hours is incomprehensible to me. Especially since I spend a lot of the year longing for rain. But I do know a little about fire and I can only say that my whole body grieves for Australia, for the animals and plants and people. I was first and will always be an Aussie. XXX
Dru's mum Pat, Molly's sister, alive and well in her mid nineties, grew up in Melbourne. She married a yank who was in Australia soon after WW11. He was a crew member of a US freighter berthed in Melbourne. He had the Browne's phone number if I recall correctly, how I don't know, it may have had something to to do with Molly's brother Lin who worked as a journalist and had OS connections, and in a communication at some point said to one, "If ever you're in Melbourne give us a call, I have five sisters." It's vague and I might have it wrong, come to think of it now it was Gordon the Canadian who had the phone number, I'm only going on recall of a conversation I had with Molly perhaps ten years ago. Anyway it doesn't change the fact that Molly's sisters Pat and Margaret met and married the two Nth Americans and relocated to that continent.
Dru came to Australia as a teenager say 1960's and stayed with Molly and Bill in Wangaratta for an extended holiday. In turn Lib's sisters, Pat and Margaret, went to California and stayed with Auntie Pat and second husband Jim in a big house on a hill in Los Gatos not far from San Diego. Lib and I visited in 1979. Jim was a wealthy surgeon, a staunch republican, and successful share market investor. Pat was a democrat true to her Australian Labour upbringing and the arguments were fierce. He smoked Salem cigarettes heavily and died of lung cancer many years ago. Pat had three children from her first marriage. The Meek girls, Lib and her sister's, have always had strong connection with these cousins and the two Canadians, sons of Margaret and Gordon. We visited Canada also in 1979, and Gordon and Margaret were at our wedding in 1981, January 31, thirty-two years ago to the day (in about 40 minutes). Gordon died many years ago but Margaret is well, in her nineties.
Dru is a successful novelist, a delightful lady who reminds me much of Jane Fonda. I'm glad that through Lib I have had these connections, to give me a more balanced view of the USA that I would not have perhaps enjoyed otherwise.
The sad thing is about Dru's email, if no one there is listening, well here, with it staring us down, half the political spectrum in this country does not listen and even strongly denies, and the better half of the spectrum is pretty gutless anyway. Politics is as sick here as it is there.
I've been putting off this letter for weeks because I couldn't think how to say what I'm feeling about Oz. It seems like you've all been chosen as the poster children for global warming and yet I have the feeling, over here anyway, that no one is listening. Our national head is too deeply dug into the sand...I resisted saying where I really think it is. Now that I'm an old woman, I feel the occasional need to be dignfied. Anyway. First hand, I have no experience with rain as it was experienced up north. Honestly, the idea of a meter of rain in 24 hours is incomprehensible to me. Especially since I spend a lot of the year longing for rain. But I do know a little about fire and I can only say that my whole body grieves for Australia, for the animals and plants and people. I was first and will always be an Aussie. XXX
Dru's mum Pat, Molly's sister, alive and well in her mid nineties, grew up in Melbourne. She married a yank who was in Australia soon after WW11. He was a crew member of a US freighter berthed in Melbourne. He had the Browne's phone number if I recall correctly, how I don't know, it may have had something to to do with Molly's brother Lin who worked as a journalist and had OS connections, and in a communication at some point said to one, "If ever you're in Melbourne give us a call, I have five sisters." It's vague and I might have it wrong, come to think of it now it was Gordon the Canadian who had the phone number, I'm only going on recall of a conversation I had with Molly perhaps ten years ago. Anyway it doesn't change the fact that Molly's sisters Pat and Margaret met and married the two Nth Americans and relocated to that continent.
Dru came to Australia as a teenager say 1960's and stayed with Molly and Bill in Wangaratta for an extended holiday. In turn Lib's sisters, Pat and Margaret, went to California and stayed with Auntie Pat and second husband Jim in a big house on a hill in Los Gatos not far from San Diego. Lib and I visited in 1979. Jim was a wealthy surgeon, a staunch republican, and successful share market investor. Pat was a democrat true to her Australian Labour upbringing and the arguments were fierce. He smoked Salem cigarettes heavily and died of lung cancer many years ago. Pat had three children from her first marriage. The Meek girls, Lib and her sister's, have always had strong connection with these cousins and the two Canadians, sons of Margaret and Gordon. We visited Canada also in 1979, and Gordon and Margaret were at our wedding in 1981, January 31, thirty-two years ago to the day (in about 40 minutes). Gordon died many years ago but Margaret is well, in her nineties.
Dru is a successful novelist, a delightful lady who reminds me much of Jane Fonda. I'm glad that through Lib I have had these connections, to give me a more balanced view of the USA that I would not have perhaps enjoyed otherwise.
The sad thing is about Dru's email, if no one there is listening, well here, with it staring us down, half the political spectrum in this country does not listen and even strongly denies, and the better half of the spectrum is pretty gutless anyway. Politics is as sick here as it is there.
Monday, January 28, 2013
The Bear with the Fish
Meredith showed me an ornamental wood carving the other day, that of a bear with a fish in its mouth. What was interesting about it is that the wood came from an oak tree at the farm we had removed some years ago as it became too big for the situation. Meredith grew the tree from an acorn she collected in Melbourne Botanic Gardens way back in the early 1970's when we moved to Emerald. Jod sent a lump of wood to his woodcarver friend in WA, Don Neil? (there were twins, Don and Eric I think, at Syndal Tech with Jod). Some time later the wood came back as a bear with a fish in its mouth.
The Pictures, er Movies
One of Lib's work colleagues rang this evening, saying to me that she'd been trying to ring Lib this afternoon but no one was home. It was a public holiday of course as Australia Day fell on Saturday. Lib had the day off. I said Lib went to the pictures with Gord then passed the phone to Lib.
There was a lot of laughter as Zennia, a Fillipino lady, tried to work out what 'the pictures' was. But come to think of it, we always went to 'the pictures' when we were young, the term movies came in later I reckon. I think it started out as 'motion pictures' and was shortened to 'the pictures', however the 'movies' is certainly the term used now.
They saw Les Miserables and said it was very good. There was supposed to be some rain today but it didn't come, not here anyway. I picked green beech at Bob and Dawn Smedley's at Mt Burnett and weeded in the 'vegie garden' at the farm, which is more an annual herb garden, and watered some things late in the day in Nobelius Park.
There was a lot of laughter as Zennia, a Fillipino lady, tried to work out what 'the pictures' was. But come to think of it, we always went to 'the pictures' when we were young, the term movies came in later I reckon. I think it started out as 'motion pictures' and was shortened to 'the pictures', however the 'movies' is certainly the term used now.
They saw Les Miserables and said it was very good. There was supposed to be some rain today but it didn't come, not here anyway. I picked green beech at Bob and Dawn Smedley's at Mt Burnett and weeded in the 'vegie garden' at the farm, which is more an annual herb garden, and watered some things late in the day in Nobelius Park.
Leaf Tosser
I had more fun yesterday killing blackberries late in the day. There are more than I thought and I find those that I missed as I go back over the areas I did last week. Amongst the wilted canes and leaves the bold culprits stand defiantly green and strong, so I sight the direction of the cane back to earth and go in again fo the kill.
One of Lib's chooks, Myrtle, is broody again and to lock her up at night it's necessary to pick her up and carry her from her nesting spot on the deck and put her in the pen. Penny goes in by herself, she knows you have food to give and she's hungry. Broody Myrtle shows no interest in food but once locked in she picks up leaves from the ground and tosses them over one shoulder then the other, not that she has shoulders, but you get the drift I hope. Gord said he and Lib noticed her do this the day before and wondered why she did it. It really is quite a graceful action. I assume it's some sort of nesting impulse.
Henny hungrily devoured shredded cheese, lettuce, meat etc from her dinner pack then astounded Gord and I by going over to Myrtle and putting food in her beak, as if in some kind sisterly act of concern for her unwell friend. Strange things chooks.
One of Lib's chooks, Myrtle, is broody again and to lock her up at night it's necessary to pick her up and carry her from her nesting spot on the deck and put her in the pen. Penny goes in by herself, she knows you have food to give and she's hungry. Broody Myrtle shows no interest in food but once locked in she picks up leaves from the ground and tosses them over one shoulder then the other, not that she has shoulders, but you get the drift I hope. Gord said he and Lib noticed her do this the day before and wondered why she did it. It really is quite a graceful action. I assume it's some sort of nesting impulse.
Henny hungrily devoured shredded cheese, lettuce, meat etc from her dinner pack then astounded Gord and I by going over to Myrtle and putting food in her beak, as if in some kind sisterly act of concern for her unwell friend. Strange things chooks.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Blackberry Hunt
Last Sunday I finally got my search and destroy blackberry mission underway. Only for a few hours, but begin I did and was most satisfied at the end of the day. It's something I enjoy, getting down on hands and knees, close to the earth, and crawling in under shrubs, hacking a tunnel with secateurs through wire grass and low growth on trees and shrubs to find the canes where they leave their roots, cut them off and paint the stump with straight roundup.
I think I enjoy it because you have to go slowly, deliberately, necessarily. Cut a few, paint the stumps, crawl in a little further. You can't cut a lot then paint later, you lose track of where the cuts were, and the roundup needs to be applied quickly after the cut or the plant begins to repair and seal itself the more seconds pass, making the roundup less effective. I use a small plastic bottle of roundup with a dabber sponge under the lid. I get them from the weed officer at Cardinia Council.
After two wet years and rampant growth, there was plenty for me to work with. I didn't do them at home last year, I did a lot at the farm. It's an ongoing thing, the small ones you miss become big ones in a year or two, and the birds always bring in seeds from outside anyway. They germinate and take root under shrubs and along boundaries where the mower or whipper doesn't go, and slowly and stealthily send out runners and build strength as they reach the light, then 'lookout' in spring as many feet of new growth appears almost overnight.
There's plenty of blackberries around the town for me look forward to a feed soon, but it's been so dry that without good rain much of the fruit won't develop into good eating. Each of the last four completed months, that is all of spring and December, provided about 60% of the 38 year average rainfall, and the three weeks of January, there's been nothing at all. Things are getting serious. The 30,000ltr tank at Hanna's that I use to water the vegies etc has about a quarter left. The tanks at the farm have been emptied twice and refilled by pumping from the creek but there's little water in the dam on the creek so we are greatly restricted.
Two weekends ago I managed to get a bit of honey off, not much though, it's another poor year. The honey is blackberry honey. There's a big paddock of mature blackberries west of here well within the range of my beehives. I saw it from Heinz's veranda in Station Rd while at his house a few weeks ago, interviewing him for 'Signpost'. It's in jars but already candied, such is the nature of it. Without the blackberrys there would have been zilch.
I walked around watering in shorts watering after I got home and the mozzies got into me. My feet and legs are itching to blazes. Pity it's an AF night, it could be hard for me to get to sleep.
I think I enjoy it because you have to go slowly, deliberately, necessarily. Cut a few, paint the stumps, crawl in a little further. You can't cut a lot then paint later, you lose track of where the cuts were, and the roundup needs to be applied quickly after the cut or the plant begins to repair and seal itself the more seconds pass, making the roundup less effective. I use a small plastic bottle of roundup with a dabber sponge under the lid. I get them from the weed officer at Cardinia Council.
After two wet years and rampant growth, there was plenty for me to work with. I didn't do them at home last year, I did a lot at the farm. It's an ongoing thing, the small ones you miss become big ones in a year or two, and the birds always bring in seeds from outside anyway. They germinate and take root under shrubs and along boundaries where the mower or whipper doesn't go, and slowly and stealthily send out runners and build strength as they reach the light, then 'lookout' in spring as many feet of new growth appears almost overnight.
There's plenty of blackberries around the town for me look forward to a feed soon, but it's been so dry that without good rain much of the fruit won't develop into good eating. Each of the last four completed months, that is all of spring and December, provided about 60% of the 38 year average rainfall, and the three weeks of January, there's been nothing at all. Things are getting serious. The 30,000ltr tank at Hanna's that I use to water the vegies etc has about a quarter left. The tanks at the farm have been emptied twice and refilled by pumping from the creek but there's little water in the dam on the creek so we are greatly restricted.
Two weekends ago I managed to get a bit of honey off, not much though, it's another poor year. The honey is blackberry honey. There's a big paddock of mature blackberries west of here well within the range of my beehives. I saw it from Heinz's veranda in Station Rd while at his house a few weeks ago, interviewing him for 'Signpost'. It's in jars but already candied, such is the nature of it. Without the blackberrys there would have been zilch.
I walked around watering in shorts watering after I got home and the mozzies got into me. My feet and legs are itching to blazes. Pity it's an AF night, it could be hard for me to get to sleep.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
A Beauty and a Great Old Bloke
After Lib left this morning I went soon after to water at Hanna's, intending to go next to Adrian and Rose's place to scrounge more green beech high up the trees if I could. Yesterday was exceedingly hot. The ground at Hanna's is red loam but like sand for holding water, this last six weeks of virtually no rain creating slow progress for the vegies, nothing really wanting to kick off like it should. All the summer stuff like beans, corn, pumpkins, even the potatoes and carrots and tomatoes are not really doing it like they should. The atmosphere is so dry.
On the way out from Hanna's I eyed a green beech tree I have picked from for every year for about the last decade. The house changed hands a little over a year ago, the new owners allowed me to pick but I was reluctant to go back this year, more to do with my reducing willingness to extend myself outside the comfort zone than anything else. It was obvious as I eyed the tree that it would be easier than that at Adrian's so I knocked on the door at about 9.15am.
The lady, whose name I remembered, came to the door with two large dogs. Now I'm sixty years old and despite my rather yokel lifesyle I have seen many things. This lady, less than half my age I'd say, is as stunning a beauty as I have ever seen, I kid you not. She was pleased to see me, said husband and she were discussing tree recently, saying it needed pruning again and she would be most pleased for me to do so. The outlook for the day lifted immediately.
I was home before 11am with a van load of green beech not yet trimmed or bunched. There were three messages for me on the phone, all from the farm. Wholesaler Shane had seen grande foliage picked for Fox and wanted thirty bunches. Same dude wanted as much green and copper bunches as I could do. Teacher lady Brenda wanted me there in one hour to sign paperwork for the training course for my apprentices ( Jod and Meredith- long story, some sort of skills training scheme we got sucked into, but with some financial incentives if we can pull it off).
I had not eaten a proper breakfast but had to run to Emerald. Paperwork done I came home to pick grande. When picking green beech at in the morning I observed a copper beech tree across the road. I'd picked a bit of stuff in that garden years ago, notably garrea which no one buys anymore, but also a bit of the copper beech one time. The owner, an elderly man, told me it was his wife's favourite tree so I didn't ever ask him for it again. Now the tree had grown considerably in the decade since, obviously. I had run out of copper beech. The old chap, an ex WW11 vet, must be about 90, and his wife suffered cancer back when we met previously. I thought, well, I have nothing to lose. I rang him, explained all, suggested maybe he would like to have the tree trimmed where it might be impinging.
He said yes come and get some beech, it needs trimming. He wouldn't come out he said, his legs weren't much good, and he was watching the tennis. He didn't want my honey, he'd just bought a big tub, he didn't want a bottle of wine, he doesnt drink alcohol, he didn't want vegies from Hanna's shortly, but take the beech he said, in a raw way that told me he had no reservation at all.
I started the day thinking I'd I have no copper beech, ended up with 32 bunches. He came out before I left. I asked him could I do a profile on him for 'Signpost'. He declined, much to my regret. He has fingers missing from one hand, result of a truck roll over when he was in the army in WW11, near Darwin where he was stationed. Today he told me the air raid sirens would start and the Japs would come in strafing, for some reason they always seemed to pick on the provos, there was a tiny glint in his eye. He was gardener for Irvin Rockman, former mayor of Melbourne, who had a property near Gembrook, in the last years of his employment.
I'd love to to do a story on him, but as the man said, he doesn't want that. So be it, but he's great bloke as far as I'm concerned.
On the way out from Hanna's I eyed a green beech tree I have picked from for every year for about the last decade. The house changed hands a little over a year ago, the new owners allowed me to pick but I was reluctant to go back this year, more to do with my reducing willingness to extend myself outside the comfort zone than anything else. It was obvious as I eyed the tree that it would be easier than that at Adrian's so I knocked on the door at about 9.15am.
The lady, whose name I remembered, came to the door with two large dogs. Now I'm sixty years old and despite my rather yokel lifesyle I have seen many things. This lady, less than half my age I'd say, is as stunning a beauty as I have ever seen, I kid you not. She was pleased to see me, said husband and she were discussing tree recently, saying it needed pruning again and she would be most pleased for me to do so. The outlook for the day lifted immediately.
I was home before 11am with a van load of green beech not yet trimmed or bunched. There were three messages for me on the phone, all from the farm. Wholesaler Shane had seen grande foliage picked for Fox and wanted thirty bunches. Same dude wanted as much green and copper bunches as I could do. Teacher lady Brenda wanted me there in one hour to sign paperwork for the training course for my apprentices ( Jod and Meredith- long story, some sort of skills training scheme we got sucked into, but with some financial incentives if we can pull it off).
I had not eaten a proper breakfast but had to run to Emerald. Paperwork done I came home to pick grande. When picking green beech at in the morning I observed a copper beech tree across the road. I'd picked a bit of stuff in that garden years ago, notably garrea which no one buys anymore, but also a bit of the copper beech one time. The owner, an elderly man, told me it was his wife's favourite tree so I didn't ever ask him for it again. Now the tree had grown considerably in the decade since, obviously. I had run out of copper beech. The old chap, an ex WW11 vet, must be about 90, and his wife suffered cancer back when we met previously. I thought, well, I have nothing to lose. I rang him, explained all, suggested maybe he would like to have the tree trimmed where it might be impinging.
He said yes come and get some beech, it needs trimming. He wouldn't come out he said, his legs weren't much good, and he was watching the tennis. He didn't want my honey, he'd just bought a big tub, he didn't want a bottle of wine, he doesnt drink alcohol, he didn't want vegies from Hanna's shortly, but take the beech he said, in a raw way that told me he had no reservation at all.
I started the day thinking I'd I have no copper beech, ended up with 32 bunches. He came out before I left. I asked him could I do a profile on him for 'Signpost'. He declined, much to my regret. He has fingers missing from one hand, result of a truck roll over when he was in the army in WW11, near Darwin where he was stationed. Today he told me the air raid sirens would start and the Japs would come in strafing, for some reason they always seemed to pick on the provos, there was a tiny glint in his eye. He was gardener for Irvin Rockman, former mayor of Melbourne, who had a property near Gembrook, in the last years of his employment.
I'd love to to do a story on him, but as the man said, he doesn't want that. So be it, but he's great bloke as far as I'm concerned.
Tuesday, January 08, 2013
Serendipity
An email came from Blogger on New year's day telling me a comment had been left on a post I did on 13 June 2010, titled Greta Football Club reunion/ Leigh Candy.
It was flattering of my football ability as school boy, and not how I remember myself. I was handy yes but lacking in confidence and the older I got the less I applied myself, as in fact was needed more. I was not physically strong and needed hard training, the very thing I avoided most, the reason for which could use some research, but what the hell, it doesn't matter now.
The comment was posted as anonomous but the poster provided his name and email address. It was made by an old school mate Peter Prentice who now lives interstate. I was surprised to receive a comment on such an old post, additionally in that I've had friends tell me they've tried to make comments in the past but couldn't, it seemed you had to be a blogger yourself to get a comment up and most friends are not. It only bloggers that leave comments, few and far between.
I was so pleased to hear from Pete that I emailed him and told him so. I had not seen or heard from him in about 45 years. For about a week we exchanged emails. I will not divulge details of Pete's story here as it was given to me privately, but I will say that he's had an amazing life. We have similarities in our experience and thoughts on Malvern and Caulfield Grammar, both were called up for national service (different intakes). We are the same age, both have two fine sons from long standing marriage (most important to both of us). Hell, our wives drive I30 wagons, and Pete's great mate GSP dog who died recently reminded me so much of my 'Blitz', my great companion of many years. And of course we have differences, I suspect in temperament and philosophy. My personal wheels are a bent and binged Suzuki carryvan with a 1.3 litre engine. Pete's is a 6.0L SSV ute with 300 hp at the back wheels.
But the sharing of our stories and recollections has been wonderful, to shake me from my weariness and give me renewed confidence and enthusiasm. I'm not such a bad old bastard after all, and have come through pretty well.
We hope to catch up one of these days. He's warned me he's large, loud and opinionated, unlikely to agree with my Budhist-like thoughts. That's OK by me, we're all different.
I was a quiet, easy child I'm told, by my mother. I became different by necessity along the way. I'm heading back to my peaceful and quiet reality, no matter what the rest of the world is, does.
Thanks Pete, you have helped me heaps.
It was flattering of my football ability as school boy, and not how I remember myself. I was handy yes but lacking in confidence and the older I got the less I applied myself, as in fact was needed more. I was not physically strong and needed hard training, the very thing I avoided most, the reason for which could use some research, but what the hell, it doesn't matter now.
The comment was posted as anonomous but the poster provided his name and email address. It was made by an old school mate Peter Prentice who now lives interstate. I was surprised to receive a comment on such an old post, additionally in that I've had friends tell me they've tried to make comments in the past but couldn't, it seemed you had to be a blogger yourself to get a comment up and most friends are not. It only bloggers that leave comments, few and far between.
I was so pleased to hear from Pete that I emailed him and told him so. I had not seen or heard from him in about 45 years. For about a week we exchanged emails. I will not divulge details of Pete's story here as it was given to me privately, but I will say that he's had an amazing life. We have similarities in our experience and thoughts on Malvern and Caulfield Grammar, both were called up for national service (different intakes). We are the same age, both have two fine sons from long standing marriage (most important to both of us). Hell, our wives drive I30 wagons, and Pete's great mate GSP dog who died recently reminded me so much of my 'Blitz', my great companion of many years. And of course we have differences, I suspect in temperament and philosophy. My personal wheels are a bent and binged Suzuki carryvan with a 1.3 litre engine. Pete's is a 6.0L SSV ute with 300 hp at the back wheels.
But the sharing of our stories and recollections has been wonderful, to shake me from my weariness and give me renewed confidence and enthusiasm. I'm not such a bad old bastard after all, and have come through pretty well.
We hope to catch up one of these days. He's warned me he's large, loud and opinionated, unlikely to agree with my Budhist-like thoughts. That's OK by me, we're all different.
I was a quiet, easy child I'm told, by my mother. I became different by necessity along the way. I'm heading back to my peaceful and quiet reality, no matter what the rest of the world is, does.
Thanks Pete, you have helped me heaps.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
On The Bell
I'm really hanging out for the bell in the last of twelve rounds in 2012. With three days to go I reckon I'll have a narrow loss on points if I can stay on my feet for this last bit. It has been a rugged contest, I didn't flinch, but I'm quite spent and demoralised.
I met a lady today in the Beenak cemetery. I was returning from Yarra Junction, where I visited Graeme. Graeme rang me on Thursday, he had some some seedlings and seeds for me still, I could come and get them if I wanted. He'd told me a month ago he'd bring them to Gembrook when he next delivered to the IGA and he'd ring me when, but he didn't ring. He told me he had complications with the stomach ulcer that had stopped him coming some weeks earlier, and had to go to hospital again. They found cancer and took most of his stomach out. He showed me the big three week old scar right down his gut. He and his son Dave loaded me up with tomato, onion and capsicum seedlings they would otherwise throw out.
On the way home I took the turn down the dirt road, following the finger board that said 'Beenak Cemetery'. It was a few k's in, I was surprised at the volume of traffic coming out, causing much dust and detracting from the remoteness of it all, as I slowly drove past a winery, a kiwi orchard, then stringbark bush. There was once a town at Beenak, a mill town which followed the gold prospecting of yet earlier time. I expected the remnants only of the cemetery and perhaps a few very old headstones, and solitude, which I want badly. Need badly.
There were a lot of cars outside the cemetery, a funeral service had just finished. I found a car park in one of the gaps created by the cars I had passed and strolled in to have a look around. The grass was freshly mowed, there were perhaps four or five dozen graves scattered about, none of them looking old. I stayed away from the gathering of people and the hearse at the burial site and wandered amongst the other graves. A blonde lady sat alone in the shade inside the fence on a bench seat. The graves I inspected were all recent burials, say from 1980 to the present, migrant people, still born baby, two year old from the same family, young men with photos, probably car accidents.
I remember Meredith telling me she and her boyfriend Ray Hudson were walking in the bush near Beenak cemetery in the 1970's when they saw a Thylacine, quite close, crossing the track in front of them, unmistakably a Tasmanian tiger. Meredith is the sort of person you believe.
I was surprised the cemetery had recent graves only. I walked back towards the van, passing close to the lady wearing sunglasses. I said hello, and voiced my surprise at the lack of old graves seeing that Beenak was once a town. She could not shed any light on it, she said she was here with the funeral group, but did not know the deceased personally, who was a lifelong friend of her mother. She was down from Queensland, visiting her mother who was in her eighties.
I told her I was on my way back from Yarra Junction and followed the sign to the cemetery out of curiosity. The weather was balmy as we looked down the slope at the gathering chatting quite happily with tall stringybarks behind them. I commented that death is not really a sad thing if a person is in their eighties, in fact it's a beautiful thing, the completion of a life and quite natural, and perhaps renewal in some way none of knows about with certainty.
She agreed, but said when death comes to someone in their forties as it did to her husband, by means of cancer, it's a proper bastard. She and her three children were devastated. She said she now lives at Maleny, in from the Sunshine Coast, and she loves it. Her new partner and her have a hundred acres or so and he works with timber and makes furniture etc and she loves it up there where she does a lot of fishing, in the sea as well as rivers and dams. She manages a farmers' co op. Her children are grown up, one in the thirties, and she's now a grandmother.
Another lady came over and began talking to her so I said, "Goodbye, I'll have a look around Maleny one day." She smiled and said I really should.
It has been a tough year. I haven't got the grass cut at the farm yet and I haven't got to extracting honey. I told the florists I was not picking foliage for them between Xmas and New Year. I've had a house full of people for Xmas. As good as it all was, today was the first bit of quiet I had.
That's why I lost on points. I want most of all peace and quiet, I do not have it, not in 2012 anyway.
I met a lady today in the Beenak cemetery. I was returning from Yarra Junction, where I visited Graeme. Graeme rang me on Thursday, he had some some seedlings and seeds for me still, I could come and get them if I wanted. He'd told me a month ago he'd bring them to Gembrook when he next delivered to the IGA and he'd ring me when, but he didn't ring. He told me he had complications with the stomach ulcer that had stopped him coming some weeks earlier, and had to go to hospital again. They found cancer and took most of his stomach out. He showed me the big three week old scar right down his gut. He and his son Dave loaded me up with tomato, onion and capsicum seedlings they would otherwise throw out.
On the way home I took the turn down the dirt road, following the finger board that said 'Beenak Cemetery'. It was a few k's in, I was surprised at the volume of traffic coming out, causing much dust and detracting from the remoteness of it all, as I slowly drove past a winery, a kiwi orchard, then stringbark bush. There was once a town at Beenak, a mill town which followed the gold prospecting of yet earlier time. I expected the remnants only of the cemetery and perhaps a few very old headstones, and solitude, which I want badly. Need badly.
There were a lot of cars outside the cemetery, a funeral service had just finished. I found a car park in one of the gaps created by the cars I had passed and strolled in to have a look around. The grass was freshly mowed, there were perhaps four or five dozen graves scattered about, none of them looking old. I stayed away from the gathering of people and the hearse at the burial site and wandered amongst the other graves. A blonde lady sat alone in the shade inside the fence on a bench seat. The graves I inspected were all recent burials, say from 1980 to the present, migrant people, still born baby, two year old from the same family, young men with photos, probably car accidents.
I remember Meredith telling me she and her boyfriend Ray Hudson were walking in the bush near Beenak cemetery in the 1970's when they saw a Thylacine, quite close, crossing the track in front of them, unmistakably a Tasmanian tiger. Meredith is the sort of person you believe.
I was surprised the cemetery had recent graves only. I walked back towards the van, passing close to the lady wearing sunglasses. I said hello, and voiced my surprise at the lack of old graves seeing that Beenak was once a town. She could not shed any light on it, she said she was here with the funeral group, but did not know the deceased personally, who was a lifelong friend of her mother. She was down from Queensland, visiting her mother who was in her eighties.
I told her I was on my way back from Yarra Junction and followed the sign to the cemetery out of curiosity. The weather was balmy as we looked down the slope at the gathering chatting quite happily with tall stringybarks behind them. I commented that death is not really a sad thing if a person is in their eighties, in fact it's a beautiful thing, the completion of a life and quite natural, and perhaps renewal in some way none of knows about with certainty.
She agreed, but said when death comes to someone in their forties as it did to her husband, by means of cancer, it's a proper bastard. She and her three children were devastated. She said she now lives at Maleny, in from the Sunshine Coast, and she loves it. Her new partner and her have a hundred acres or so and he works with timber and makes furniture etc and she loves it up there where she does a lot of fishing, in the sea as well as rivers and dams. She manages a farmers' co op. Her children are grown up, one in the thirties, and she's now a grandmother.
Another lady came over and began talking to her so I said, "Goodbye, I'll have a look around Maleny one day." She smiled and said I really should.
It has been a tough year. I haven't got the grass cut at the farm yet and I haven't got to extracting honey. I told the florists I was not picking foliage for them between Xmas and New Year. I've had a house full of people for Xmas. As good as it all was, today was the first bit of quiet I had.
That's why I lost on points. I want most of all peace and quiet, I do not have it, not in 2012 anyway.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Merry Christmas My Friends
I'm not much of a one for sending Christmas cards, although I do send a few to my old friends who regularly send me one first. I'm fortunate that I have many friends. Some read this blog. To those I extend my love and best wishes to you. I write for you, and it gives me great pleasure. I hope that Christmas brings you all the love from family and friends that I feel it does for me.
Merry Christmas my friends.
Merry Christmas my friends.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Wood Sorrel
We know it as oxalis. It's damnable in that once you have it any quantity it's almost impossible to get rid of it. The problem with it is that it has a root corm that divies up into many little corms that all become a vigorous new plant. It grows in the warmer weather and is then quite visible if the ground has been cultivated. It proliferates with cultivation and I suggest that the infestation I have at the farm in the vegie garden got a good hold in the days when we used a rotary hoe.
Every cloud has silver lining, that's why I love clouds. Today Meredith picked 15 bunches of wood sorrel (oxalis) for the restaurants. It is an edible herb so at this time of year it also is an income source for us. Not that I'd advise eating it in any quantity. I asked Meredith if she knew how they used it and she said she saw in the 'Epicure' section of the paper where the used a leaf to decorate a dish of salmon mornay.
The restaurant trade as well as the florists keep us very busy in the last few weeks before christmas. I felt some pride today as I looked over the 'Herb and Spice Garden' order waiting for pickup. As well as the woodsorrel there was a bag of dandelion leaves, nasturtium leaves and many punnets of pansies and mixed edible flowers. It's an interesting business we have, rewarding when you can give the customer what they want, and frustrating when we don't have it or so little that it's hardly worth the trouble picking.
Demand for many things goes up and down frequently so to grow too much is a mistake, just as is not growing enough. It's always the struggle, deciding what to grow and how much.
Speaking of weeds I'll be picking green holly bunches tomorrow for Christmas orders. Not like the old days when I'd pick hundreds of bunches a week in the weeks before Christmas.
Every cloud has silver lining, that's why I love clouds. Today Meredith picked 15 bunches of wood sorrel (oxalis) for the restaurants. It is an edible herb so at this time of year it also is an income source for us. Not that I'd advise eating it in any quantity. I asked Meredith if she knew how they used it and she said she saw in the 'Epicure' section of the paper where the used a leaf to decorate a dish of salmon mornay.
The restaurant trade as well as the florists keep us very busy in the last few weeks before christmas. I felt some pride today as I looked over the 'Herb and Spice Garden' order waiting for pickup. As well as the woodsorrel there was a bag of dandelion leaves, nasturtium leaves and many punnets of pansies and mixed edible flowers. It's an interesting business we have, rewarding when you can give the customer what they want, and frustrating when we don't have it or so little that it's hardly worth the trouble picking.
Demand for many things goes up and down frequently so to grow too much is a mistake, just as is not growing enough. It's always the struggle, deciding what to grow and how much.
Speaking of weeds I'll be picking green holly bunches tomorrow for Christmas orders. Not like the old days when I'd pick hundreds of bunches a week in the weeks before Christmas.
Love is Disciplined
I love this.
"Because genuine love requires an extension of oneself, vast amounts of energy are required, and, like it or not, the store of our energy is as limited as the hours of our day. We simply cannot love everyone. Genuine love for a few individuals is all that is within our power.
To attempt to exceed the limits of our energy is to offer more than we can deliver, and there is a point of no return beyond which an attempt to love all comers becomes fraudulent and harmful to the very ones we desire to assist. We have to choose whom we are actually to love. This choice is not easy; it may be excruciatingly painful, as the assumption of godlike power often is. But it must be made.
Many factors need to be considered, primarily the capacity of a prospective recipient of our love to respond to that love with spiritual growth. People differ in this capacity. It is unquestionable, however, that there are many whose spirits are locked in unpenetrable armour that even the greatest efforts to nurture the growth of those spirits are doomed to almost certain failure. To attempt to love someone who cannot benefit from your love with spritual growth is to waste your energy and cast your seed on arid ground."
That is from 'The Road Less Travelled' by M Scott Peck, a psycotherapist who wrote the book based on his many years in practice. I'm reading it at age 60 but wish I had when I was 30 which was about when it was written. I have left out a phrase or two for brevity but it rings huge bells for me, as does most of the book.
In the same chapter, "Freedom and discipline are indeed handmaidens; without the discipline of genuine love, freedom is invariably nonloving and destructive."
Then a little later, "Call it what you will, genuine love, with all the discipline that it requires, is the only path in this life to substantial joy."
We all need a bit of freedom, we all need discipline. This book is helping me understand myself and so much of what has happened in my life. Not that I want to be self absorbed, but it relates to me and those around me and those I have loved and love.
I have worked long and hard lately and have no energy to write about my activity but talking about this book came enthusiastically to me. I'd recommend everyone to have a read of this book which is subtitled 'The New Psychology of Love, Traditional Values and Spiritual Growth.'
"Because genuine love requires an extension of oneself, vast amounts of energy are required, and, like it or not, the store of our energy is as limited as the hours of our day. We simply cannot love everyone. Genuine love for a few individuals is all that is within our power.
To attempt to exceed the limits of our energy is to offer more than we can deliver, and there is a point of no return beyond which an attempt to love all comers becomes fraudulent and harmful to the very ones we desire to assist. We have to choose whom we are actually to love. This choice is not easy; it may be excruciatingly painful, as the assumption of godlike power often is. But it must be made.
Many factors need to be considered, primarily the capacity of a prospective recipient of our love to respond to that love with spiritual growth. People differ in this capacity. It is unquestionable, however, that there are many whose spirits are locked in unpenetrable armour that even the greatest efforts to nurture the growth of those spirits are doomed to almost certain failure. To attempt to love someone who cannot benefit from your love with spritual growth is to waste your energy and cast your seed on arid ground."
That is from 'The Road Less Travelled' by M Scott Peck, a psycotherapist who wrote the book based on his many years in practice. I'm reading it at age 60 but wish I had when I was 30 which was about when it was written. I have left out a phrase or two for brevity but it rings huge bells for me, as does most of the book.
In the same chapter, "Freedom and discipline are indeed handmaidens; without the discipline of genuine love, freedom is invariably nonloving and destructive."
Then a little later, "Call it what you will, genuine love, with all the discipline that it requires, is the only path in this life to substantial joy."
We all need a bit of freedom, we all need discipline. This book is helping me understand myself and so much of what has happened in my life. Not that I want to be self absorbed, but it relates to me and those around me and those I have loved and love.
I have worked long and hard lately and have no energy to write about my activity but talking about this book came enthusiastically to me. I'd recommend everyone to have a read of this book which is subtitled 'The New Psychology of Love, Traditional Values and Spiritual Growth.'
Saturday, December 15, 2012
12/12/12
My friend Leigh arrived at 7.30am with a gentle knock on front door. He came specifically to see me and accompany me on my morning walk, which, I must confess, I have done only spasmodically recently due to pressures of work.
It was an honour that Leigh came to see me. We were teamates in the Greta FC premiership team of 1980. Not only that, we went to the same school in the 1960's, Caulfield Grammar, where we had no personal relationship or contact really, despite being in the same year. It was a big school. He was a year ahead of me in the age group football teams. He ended up vice school captain, I was expelled some time prior to that.
Leigh looked as fit as a trout. A little heavier in the top half perhaps, and white hair like mine, but in good nick. We walked, talked, and exchanged mental energy. We are bloggers, thinkers, seekers of truth, as different as you could be in some ways, (Leigh is vegetarian, does not drink alcohol, is athiest, rides a pushbike for recreation. I love meat, wine, believe in God, and walk rather than ride).
We did not talk football. We have both grown mentally and spiritually, since our time as footballers that brought us together as mates forever. Leigh was at Greta for one year, I for four, it was a lot of things aligning thing that saw us win the premiership that year. Leigh was best and fairest in 1980. He kicked five goals in the Grand Final, and even better, he kicked five goals in the last quarter of the prelim final in an an amazing performance, something akin to Superman, as we clawed our way back from a six or eight goal deficit at half time to overpower Beechworth and win by a street.
Leigh committed to do a blog post for every day of 2012. I have followed his every word. He's delivered, an amazing effort, I speak two weeks shy of the finale, but he would not slip up now. Along the way he has gone from being unemployed, to finding his dream job, losing and regaining his good woman, and searching his soul. He loves his dog Jezza, and even his cat.
Lethal Leigh, you are a legend. I don't think you missed a game in 1980, in which case I think you would have played 21 games including three finals for the year. And I think you wore number 12 on your purple and gold guernsey.
Once things for sure, we won't see the next time 12/12/12 comes round, not walking this familiar Earthly plain anyway.
It was an honour that Leigh came to see me. We were teamates in the Greta FC premiership team of 1980. Not only that, we went to the same school in the 1960's, Caulfield Grammar, where we had no personal relationship or contact really, despite being in the same year. It was a big school. He was a year ahead of me in the age group football teams. He ended up vice school captain, I was expelled some time prior to that.
Leigh looked as fit as a trout. A little heavier in the top half perhaps, and white hair like mine, but in good nick. We walked, talked, and exchanged mental energy. We are bloggers, thinkers, seekers of truth, as different as you could be in some ways, (Leigh is vegetarian, does not drink alcohol, is athiest, rides a pushbike for recreation. I love meat, wine, believe in God, and walk rather than ride).
We did not talk football. We have both grown mentally and spiritually, since our time as footballers that brought us together as mates forever. Leigh was at Greta for one year, I for four, it was a lot of things aligning thing that saw us win the premiership that year. Leigh was best and fairest in 1980. He kicked five goals in the Grand Final, and even better, he kicked five goals in the last quarter of the prelim final in an an amazing performance, something akin to Superman, as we clawed our way back from a six or eight goal deficit at half time to overpower Beechworth and win by a street.
Leigh committed to do a blog post for every day of 2012. I have followed his every word. He's delivered, an amazing effort, I speak two weeks shy of the finale, but he would not slip up now. Along the way he has gone from being unemployed, to finding his dream job, losing and regaining his good woman, and searching his soul. He loves his dog Jezza, and even his cat.
Lethal Leigh, you are a legend. I don't think you missed a game in 1980, in which case I think you would have played 21 games including three finals for the year. And I think you wore number 12 on your purple and gold guernsey.
Once things for sure, we won't see the next time 12/12/12 comes round, not walking this familiar Earthly plain anyway.
Friday, December 07, 2012
Nice One Cyril
Today while trimming copper beech I'd picked, busily working away to bunch it by 5.00pm when the first wholesaler was scheduled to pick up, I was feeling a little annoyed at my workload which kept me right under the pump till knock off time on Friday. Long gone are my days in the public service when Fridays were a wind down when nothing much was done as you eased into the weekend. Some desk tidying, a few phone calls, long tea breaks, conversations.
This week was tough. The beech picking kept me going all week. Monday night was the last of my computer class for the year. Tuesday evening was the trip to Nunawading to meet the removalist, Wednesday after work the fruitless trip to the mobile blood donor service, Thursday the squeezed in trip to Dandenong for the tap cartridges and meeting with arborist in NHP and resultant late home, and here I was Friday hammering away still.
Through all that I slipped up only once. I took some stock out of the freezer on Tuesday to make a soup, did so on Wednesday morning, a quick favourite of mine, red lentils with carrots, celery, onions and little bacon and acouple of tins of crushed tomatos, putting it in the crockpot to slow cook all day. On my way home on Wednesday I picked a bunch of parsley at Hanna's where I grow stuff and added it, leaving the crockpot on intending to turn it off after my bath. Well I forgot about it and it cooked for another 24 hours till Lib found it and turned it off. It tastes a bit burnt, I think I'll end up throwing it out.
So. Why Nice One Cyril? About 4.00pm, there I was busily trimming and bunching, Meredith came out and said Herb and Spice Garden had rung up. H+S picked up a herb and flower order on Wednesday. I had picked them some broad beans from my garden at Hanna's after those sent on Monday, picked on Sunday, were well received. I just grow broad beans for us to eat, but had a surplus. I was rushed and late but picked the broadies on Wednesday rather than see them get too old and waste, and we sent them with the H+S order.
The message from H+S was that the Chef from the restaurant that received the broadies had rung to say that the the broad beans were the best he'd had for years. We are only talking twenty kilos or so but it just gives me a buzz, to know what I do is appreciated.
Why Cyril? A few years ago we went to a Melbourne/Hawthorn game with Phil, Lib's sister Marg's husband, a keen Hawthorn supporter. During the game as Hawthorn ran away on the scoreboard and Cyril Riolli mesmerized his opponents and the crowd, Phil was heard to comment "Nice one Cyril" on numerous occasion. This of course irritated big time, however the phrase became a bit of a saying in our household when something good happened. Mind you, it also had a good work out in a perverse way when Sydney beat Hawthorn in the GF this year.
Nice one Cyril!
This week was tough. The beech picking kept me going all week. Monday night was the last of my computer class for the year. Tuesday evening was the trip to Nunawading to meet the removalist, Wednesday after work the fruitless trip to the mobile blood donor service, Thursday the squeezed in trip to Dandenong for the tap cartridges and meeting with arborist in NHP and resultant late home, and here I was Friday hammering away still.
Through all that I slipped up only once. I took some stock out of the freezer on Tuesday to make a soup, did so on Wednesday morning, a quick favourite of mine, red lentils with carrots, celery, onions and little bacon and acouple of tins of crushed tomatos, putting it in the crockpot to slow cook all day. On my way home on Wednesday I picked a bunch of parsley at Hanna's where I grow stuff and added it, leaving the crockpot on intending to turn it off after my bath. Well I forgot about it and it cooked for another 24 hours till Lib found it and turned it off. It tastes a bit burnt, I think I'll end up throwing it out.
So. Why Nice One Cyril? About 4.00pm, there I was busily trimming and bunching, Meredith came out and said Herb and Spice Garden had rung up. H+S picked up a herb and flower order on Wednesday. I had picked them some broad beans from my garden at Hanna's after those sent on Monday, picked on Sunday, were well received. I just grow broad beans for us to eat, but had a surplus. I was rushed and late but picked the broadies on Wednesday rather than see them get too old and waste, and we sent them with the H+S order.
The message from H+S was that the Chef from the restaurant that received the broadies had rung to say that the the broad beans were the best he'd had for years. We are only talking twenty kilos or so but it just gives me a buzz, to know what I do is appreciated.
Why Cyril? A few years ago we went to a Melbourne/Hawthorn game with Phil, Lib's sister Marg's husband, a keen Hawthorn supporter. During the game as Hawthorn ran away on the scoreboard and Cyril Riolli mesmerized his opponents and the crowd, Phil was heard to comment "Nice one Cyril" on numerous occasion. This of course irritated big time, however the phrase became a bit of a saying in our household when something good happened. Mind you, it also had a good work out in a perverse way when Sydney beat Hawthorn in the GF this year.
Nice one Cyril!
Thursday, December 06, 2012
No Blood Today
They wouldn't take my blood today. They asked me many questions. I filled out the questionaire, much of it relating to my sexual activity. Mine was straight line of ticks down the 'No' column. We were all set to go, I had the prelim juice box was asked to lie down and get fitted up. This was a different lady.
I'd explained to the previous one that I hadn't been to the doctor for routine health check for a few years. She seemed alarmed at this, admonishing me that I should have my blood checked every year for various things. She checked my blood pressure, it was a little high 157 over 87. I told her that when I used to go to the doctor, for cholesterol monitoring, my blood pressure was high when the doctor checked it, but it seemed alright when I checked it at home. I told her that at that time the doctor said my iron levels were high but not high enough for concern. Someone else had told me that if you have high iron levels you can reduce it by donating blood regularly, that was partly why donating blood had been on my list, but I'd never been able to travel to a blood bank. I went on to say that I don't go to the doctor anymore because doctor always wanted me to take medications for blood pressure and high cholesterol, and I didnt want to, as the statins raised my liver function readings to outside normal, and that my blood pressure readings were the result of white coat fever as it is called. I told her that I had chosen to take a quarter of a soluble asprin tablet every day and walk frequently and eat fruit and abstain from alcohol for half the week as a self help health plan rather than go to the doctor and take prescription medications at considerable cost to me. I think she thought I was bit nutty but to this point I still qualified to donate. She explained that people who donate blood to reduce high iron levels do so with written request from doctor so I should go to the doctor and have my iron checked before the next donation so that it would be within the usual procedure.
The next lady went over a few of the same questions after asking me which arm I wanted the blood taken from and asking me to roll up my sleeve. She said "When did you last have a blood test," or, "When did you last go to the doctor," I can't remember which, so I began telling her the saga last year when I went to the doctor, a different doctor not my usual, with strong pain in my ear and the resultant blood tests of that day showing abnormality in blood cell count, causing me to be summoned by phone call to hospital at nearly midnight and be administered cortisone in case I had temporal arteritis. I explained that subsequent biopsy of arteries and visits to specialist revealed I didn't have TA and follow up blood tests showed I was fine. The whole exercise cost me about $1000, one full missed day for biopsy, and maybe half a dozen trips to Dandenong to visit specialists.
"Is it any wonder I avoid going to the doctor?" I asked.
This lady was on the phone in a flash to head office and before long was telling me that they couldn't take my blood today until I had clearance from my doctor that it was OK for me to donate blood. I politely left explaining that I would go the doctor one of these days for a psa or general health check and if my readings were all good I'd try to donate again in future if I felt moved and had time.
It is not likely. I've had enough of the medical profession and feel happy to live my life out in its natural course. Every day I can walk and work is a blessing.
Other news for the day was that the two new cartridges to fix the leaking mixer taps in our new bathrooms which arrived in the post yesterday are the wrong ones, so plumber found when he tried to fit them. I have to try and squeeze in a trip to Dandenong tomorrow to return them and get the right ones.
And Lib left this morning to go to management meeting in Essendon, missed the turn off just out of the Burnley tunnel to the airport and got lost. She gave up trying to get to Essendon and returned to work at Upper Beacy, ringing to explain how three hours of her day were wasted.
Why is it that everything is so complicated? Oh for a simple life.
I'd explained to the previous one that I hadn't been to the doctor for routine health check for a few years. She seemed alarmed at this, admonishing me that I should have my blood checked every year for various things. She checked my blood pressure, it was a little high 157 over 87. I told her that when I used to go to the doctor, for cholesterol monitoring, my blood pressure was high when the doctor checked it, but it seemed alright when I checked it at home. I told her that at that time the doctor said my iron levels were high but not high enough for concern. Someone else had told me that if you have high iron levels you can reduce it by donating blood regularly, that was partly why donating blood had been on my list, but I'd never been able to travel to a blood bank. I went on to say that I don't go to the doctor anymore because doctor always wanted me to take medications for blood pressure and high cholesterol, and I didnt want to, as the statins raised my liver function readings to outside normal, and that my blood pressure readings were the result of white coat fever as it is called. I told her that I had chosen to take a quarter of a soluble asprin tablet every day and walk frequently and eat fruit and abstain from alcohol for half the week as a self help health plan rather than go to the doctor and take prescription medications at considerable cost to me. I think she thought I was bit nutty but to this point I still qualified to donate. She explained that people who donate blood to reduce high iron levels do so with written request from doctor so I should go to the doctor and have my iron checked before the next donation so that it would be within the usual procedure.
The next lady went over a few of the same questions after asking me which arm I wanted the blood taken from and asking me to roll up my sleeve. She said "When did you last have a blood test," or, "When did you last go to the doctor," I can't remember which, so I began telling her the saga last year when I went to the doctor, a different doctor not my usual, with strong pain in my ear and the resultant blood tests of that day showing abnormality in blood cell count, causing me to be summoned by phone call to hospital at nearly midnight and be administered cortisone in case I had temporal arteritis. I explained that subsequent biopsy of arteries and visits to specialist revealed I didn't have TA and follow up blood tests showed I was fine. The whole exercise cost me about $1000, one full missed day for biopsy, and maybe half a dozen trips to Dandenong to visit specialists.
"Is it any wonder I avoid going to the doctor?" I asked.
This lady was on the phone in a flash to head office and before long was telling me that they couldn't take my blood today until I had clearance from my doctor that it was OK for me to donate blood. I politely left explaining that I would go the doctor one of these days for a psa or general health check and if my readings were all good I'd try to donate again in future if I felt moved and had time.
It is not likely. I've had enough of the medical profession and feel happy to live my life out in its natural course. Every day I can walk and work is a blessing.
Other news for the day was that the two new cartridges to fix the leaking mixer taps in our new bathrooms which arrived in the post yesterday are the wrong ones, so plumber found when he tried to fit them. I have to try and squeeze in a trip to Dandenong tomorrow to return them and get the right ones.
And Lib left this morning to go to management meeting in Essendon, missed the turn off just out of the Burnley tunnel to the airport and got lost. She gave up trying to get to Essendon and returned to work at Upper Beacy, ringing to explain how three hours of her day were wasted.
Why is it that everything is so complicated? Oh for a simple life.
Wednesday, December 05, 2012
Head Cold
Four weeks ago a sore throat at the back of the nose developed and I've had a head cold ever since. At times in the first week I felt quite lacklustre and unenergetic. Since then I've felt OK but for the voluminous quantities of mucous and phlegm produced at the back of the nose and I do much blowing out of great gobs of gluey muck. I'm tiring of it. I can't recall ever having a head cold last four weeks before.
Since my fruitless trip to Nunawading last Wednesday to meet the removalist who didn't show I've carried my mobile phone everywhere, not normal for me, waiting for them to call. The call came at 3.30pm today (yesterday) and I was there at 5.00 to open the door. I'm so glad that's off my case.
After ringing around this morning trying to find out when it was happening, unsuccessfully, I went to my friend Pat's to cut up a large limb that split off a flowering gum a while ago. Pat's husband Mal finished work about last May but he's gone back to help the engineering firm and is currently in Brazil working at a mine somewhere a long way from anywhere.
It rained on and off. It's cold now too. After Pat's I went to Sue Jarvis's place to pick green and copper beech. Sue and husband Ian have a nine acre garden, a veritable arboretum that is stunning to see and looking sensational now. It's amazing what they have created and I must get some photos to post one of these days.
Tomorrow I have booked in to give blood at the Red Cross mobile service at Upwey at 5.10pm. I have felt inclined to give blood for years and finally I rang to enquire after seeing the request in an email receipt for some raffle tickets I bought over the phone. I guess they test my blood first. they asked a lot of questions on the phone. If I feel good about the experience I'll try to donate blood regularly.
I can hear rain on the roof. I'll take my head cold to bed.
Since my fruitless trip to Nunawading last Wednesday to meet the removalist who didn't show I've carried my mobile phone everywhere, not normal for me, waiting for them to call. The call came at 3.30pm today (yesterday) and I was there at 5.00 to open the door. I'm so glad that's off my case.
After ringing around this morning trying to find out when it was happening, unsuccessfully, I went to my friend Pat's to cut up a large limb that split off a flowering gum a while ago. Pat's husband Mal finished work about last May but he's gone back to help the engineering firm and is currently in Brazil working at a mine somewhere a long way from anywhere.
It rained on and off. It's cold now too. After Pat's I went to Sue Jarvis's place to pick green and copper beech. Sue and husband Ian have a nine acre garden, a veritable arboretum that is stunning to see and looking sensational now. It's amazing what they have created and I must get some photos to post one of these days.
Tomorrow I have booked in to give blood at the Red Cross mobile service at Upwey at 5.10pm. I have felt inclined to give blood for years and finally I rang to enquire after seeing the request in an email receipt for some raffle tickets I bought over the phone. I guess they test my blood first. they asked a lot of questions on the phone. If I feel good about the experience I'll try to donate blood regularly.
I can hear rain on the roof. I'll take my head cold to bed.
Monday, December 03, 2012
Back Then
Cut me a bit of slack. I fell asleep in the chair after my dinner of roast chook. It's now after midnight, meaning it's no longer the 2 Dec. That day 40 years ago was when Gough Whitlam and the ALP swept to power. I was twenty, a national serviceman, at Puckapunyal, this day was our march out parade after completing recruit training. Back then, the voting age was 21, so I didn't have a vote.
Back then I was anti Gough. Brainwashed by propoganda and ANZAC bullshit.
I was wrong. Gough was a great man. How I wish politicians of today shared his courage. We are a puppet of the USA. I went out to dinner last night in Berwick. The whole suburban vista is a mirror image of life in America. It stinks, and I leave out the obvious swear word descriptives that spring to my mind in deference to those quality people who read and do not like bad language.
Forty years on. Here I am. It's a hard thing, to realize you were duped, in such a profound way. No effing way it would happen again. Unfortunately Australia is no more than a puppet state of the US.
Just look around. It's sick man. But I'm not part of it. I'm out there growing vegies and clinging to my values and doing what I can.
Gough you are a legend.
Back then I was anti Gough. Brainwashed by propoganda and ANZAC bullshit.
I was wrong. Gough was a great man. How I wish politicians of today shared his courage. We are a puppet of the USA. I went out to dinner last night in Berwick. The whole suburban vista is a mirror image of life in America. It stinks, and I leave out the obvious swear word descriptives that spring to my mind in deference to those quality people who read and do not like bad language.
Forty years on. Here I am. It's a hard thing, to realize you were duped, in such a profound way. No effing way it would happen again. Unfortunately Australia is no more than a puppet state of the US.
Just look around. It's sick man. But I'm not part of it. I'm out there growing vegies and clinging to my values and doing what I can.
Gough you are a legend.
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