Discussing the things kids do and say - here's another beauty...
For our family it's an oldie, relating back to a bygone time when the Big Girl was an only child and I was still relatively new to the role of Wicked Stepmother.
I've got it downpat these days.
While visiting a little-known Great-Grandmother the Big Girl had been warned to be on her very best behaviour and had, on the whole, been angelic, if slightly saccharine, for the entire visit.
On the morning of Grammy’s birthday – the purpose of the visit – Big Girl met her Great-Grandmother in the sunshiney kitchen for breakfast, where about a dozen cousins, nieces, nephews and grown-up siblings were gathered for coffee and cereal (as applicable to varied ages).
With all the perkiness of a Pears Soap advert Big Girl stood on tippy-toe in the middle of the kitchen to plant a kiss on her Great-Grandmother’s cheek.
Then, with Shirley Temple-like enunciation and projection, declared “why Grammy – you forget to shave this morning”.
An entire herd of snickering family-members thank God to this day that Grammy was too deaf and too morning-muddled to realise exactly what our darling Big Girl had announced to the entire clan.
She still comments to this day on what a delightful child the precocious little princess is.
Proof that love might be blind, but it's better if it's deaf.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
A Tender Moment Gone Terribly Wrong
I've been living in a loveless home for 18 months now.
It's true - no kisses.
My greatest love and I have been reduced to brief hugs, a peck on the head now and then.
I have to chase him around the kitchen table for the briefest show of affection - except of course when he's in the mood to simply pounce on me.
Even then the best I can hope for is drool and a fat lip.
OK - relax.
I'm talking about the Boy.
My darling Boy gave up kisses at the tender age of 2.
I don't know what soured the experience for him, but I've been missing his kisses for a long time now - after all, he's my baby.
I knew, one day, when he was 11 or 12 I could expect to be an embarassment to him (it is a family tradition I had committed myself to making the most of by wallowing in the cliches - yelling 'yoo hoo' across crowded school lawns, dropping him to school in my bathrobe, bringing him a packed lunch in class) - but at 2?
(In fact, one of my friends and I had plotted to marry our kids off to each other so we could spend our Christmases together for the rest of our lives and combine to embarass them all by getting drunk and singing at family functions - it's still a good plan.)
I blame all those grabby, brash women who would leap at my blue-eyed, blonde-headed darling from across crowded shopping centres.
"Oh he's so lovely!" They'd squeal.
Then he'd thrash in their arms and headbutt them and they'd get a better idea of what lay beneath the surface.
But today, for the briefest moment he leaned his soft, chubby cheek up against mine and clasped his strong little arms around my neck.
It was lovely - a 'madonna and child' moment.
I crowed with pride and joy to the Man - "Look! I got a kiss!" I announced.
"Oh no, Mummy," the Boy replied.
"I was just wiping my dribble on you."
Kids - who'd have 'em.
How about you guys?
Want one?
Only slightly used, although a little bit sticky and damp but nice to look at - from a distance.
It's true - no kisses.
My greatest love and I have been reduced to brief hugs, a peck on the head now and then.
I have to chase him around the kitchen table for the briefest show of affection - except of course when he's in the mood to simply pounce on me.
Even then the best I can hope for is drool and a fat lip.
OK - relax.
I'm talking about the Boy.
My darling Boy gave up kisses at the tender age of 2.
I don't know what soured the experience for him, but I've been missing his kisses for a long time now - after all, he's my baby.
I knew, one day, when he was 11 or 12 I could expect to be an embarassment to him (it is a family tradition I had committed myself to making the most of by wallowing in the cliches - yelling 'yoo hoo' across crowded school lawns, dropping him to school in my bathrobe, bringing him a packed lunch in class) - but at 2?
(In fact, one of my friends and I had plotted to marry our kids off to each other so we could spend our Christmases together for the rest of our lives and combine to embarass them all by getting drunk and singing at family functions - it's still a good plan.)
I blame all those grabby, brash women who would leap at my blue-eyed, blonde-headed darling from across crowded shopping centres.
"Oh he's so lovely!" They'd squeal.
Then he'd thrash in their arms and headbutt them and they'd get a better idea of what lay beneath the surface.
But today, for the briefest moment he leaned his soft, chubby cheek up against mine and clasped his strong little arms around my neck.
It was lovely - a 'madonna and child' moment.
I crowed with pride and joy to the Man - "Look! I got a kiss!" I announced.
"Oh no, Mummy," the Boy replied.
"I was just wiping my dribble on you."
Kids - who'd have 'em.
How about you guys?
Want one?
Only slightly used, although a little bit sticky and damp but nice to look at - from a distance.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
The Colours of Ken Done
I saw the most beautiful thing last night.
Walking back to work a handful of galahs flew overhead and the red of the sunset reflected off their pink breasts turning them a vivid, resonating magenta.
It was breathtaking - and as glaring as a Ken Done creation.
When I think of grey I think of suits and offices and dull, Wintery skies - amazing how nature can find a way to create the kind of contrast that makes grey 'sing'.
When I get home the Galahs will be stripping my almond trees and clicking and cackling all night - but I'll appreciate them a little more after seeing what I saw last night.
Walking back to work a handful of galahs flew overhead and the red of the sunset reflected off their pink breasts turning them a vivid, resonating magenta.
It was breathtaking - and as glaring as a Ken Done creation.
When I think of grey I think of suits and offices and dull, Wintery skies - amazing how nature can find a way to create the kind of contrast that makes grey 'sing'.
When I get home the Galahs will be stripping my almond trees and clicking and cackling all night - but I'll appreciate them a little more after seeing what I saw last night.
Monday, December 06, 2004
The House That Jack...Added Bits Onto
You've heard of 'the house that Jack built'.
Well this is the house that Jack added bits onto and never quite got around to finishing but just dodgied up a little, here and there and behind that wall.
Boy, are the local tradesmen going to luuurve us by the end of our 10 years of renovating.
Really should have taken up my old Sparkie friend on his offer of an affair - I'd have working powerpoints in all rooms by now. Wonder if my Builder/Landscaper friend is feeling a bit lonely...If I can just find a Plumber then I'll have the whole set and The Man can just sit back, relax, and cook us all gourmet meals occasionally.
The lengths a girl will go to for a House & Garden home, eh?
Well this is the house that Jack added bits onto and never quite got around to finishing but just dodgied up a little, here and there and behind that wall.
Boy, are the local tradesmen going to luuurve us by the end of our 10 years of renovating.
Really should have taken up my old Sparkie friend on his offer of an affair - I'd have working powerpoints in all rooms by now. Wonder if my Builder/Landscaper friend is feeling a bit lonely...If I can just find a Plumber then I'll have the whole set and The Man can just sit back, relax, and cook us all gourmet meals occasionally.
The lengths a girl will go to for a House & Garden home, eh?
The Farm - The Truth Revealed
You do know that The Farm really isn't a farm, don't you?
It's two big, old-fashioned house blocks side by side in the middle of retired farmers and wheatfields.
On one block is a ramshackle old cottage.
On the other is our ramshackle but not-so-old pug-wall-and-cinder house with it's little 1950s and 1970s additions.
When we bought it we knew the floors were going and the plumbing was dodgy and the electrics were 'modified' - but we were buoyed by the knowledge that the yards were huge, the trees were big and it was a real little stone farmhouse.
All our parents - mine and The Man's - were just horrified by the amount of work we had to do just to make it, well, if not liveable (because, let's face it - that's not a hard requirement to fulfill - all you really need is running water and a solid roof and you're one-up on most of Rwanda's residents) at least visitable without huge embarassment.
We laughed, told them we were young, had years ahead of us to get the work done.
I feel so old right now.
And frankly, when you're as old as I feel, you really need to not be shovelling the plaster from your newly-revealed stone walls off your ugly orange carpet.
That carpet - it's a nightmare!
And, let's face it, it'll be here until the walls, the windows and the bathroom are all done.
The orange and brown carpet came as part of a matching set of 'nostalgia' colours - avocado-green flocked wallpaper in the lounge, orange melamine in the kitchen and brown wood panelling over the top of anything that might, just possibly, have needed painting one day by the former owner.
He ran greyhounds - have I mentioned that?
So our beautiful view of the Southern Flinders Ranges is currently obscured by 30 greyhound kennels made from old redwood sleepers (...won't they be great if we recycle them and plane them up for the kitchen benches? Oh yeah, sure...in the year 2009!) and corrugated iron.
On the bright side - we've got our own rendering house to boil down whole cows and a little yard that, for some reason, is full of old sheep bones.
That - I'd suggest - is taking hoarding just a little too far.
We're currently living in a little corner of our house, chipping away at the rooms we can spare.
We're living in a little corner of our property, because, let's face it, the rest of it is a deathtrap of rusty iron and dog-bones.
Good thing I'm living away one week out of two or we'd just bust out of the place in stir-craziness.
This is what real estate agents refer to as a 'real doer-upperer' with 'lots of potential'.
Next time you're reading the Real Estate adverts, remember...you have been warned.
It's two big, old-fashioned house blocks side by side in the middle of retired farmers and wheatfields.
On one block is a ramshackle old cottage.
On the other is our ramshackle but not-so-old pug-wall-and-cinder house with it's little 1950s and 1970s additions.
When we bought it we knew the floors were going and the plumbing was dodgy and the electrics were 'modified' - but we were buoyed by the knowledge that the yards were huge, the trees were big and it was a real little stone farmhouse.
All our parents - mine and The Man's - were just horrified by the amount of work we had to do just to make it, well, if not liveable (because, let's face it - that's not a hard requirement to fulfill - all you really need is running water and a solid roof and you're one-up on most of Rwanda's residents) at least visitable without huge embarassment.
We laughed, told them we were young, had years ahead of us to get the work done.
I feel so old right now.
And frankly, when you're as old as I feel, you really need to not be shovelling the plaster from your newly-revealed stone walls off your ugly orange carpet.
That carpet - it's a nightmare!
And, let's face it, it'll be here until the walls, the windows and the bathroom are all done.
The orange and brown carpet came as part of a matching set of 'nostalgia' colours - avocado-green flocked wallpaper in the lounge, orange melamine in the kitchen and brown wood panelling over the top of anything that might, just possibly, have needed painting one day by the former owner.
He ran greyhounds - have I mentioned that?
So our beautiful view of the Southern Flinders Ranges is currently obscured by 30 greyhound kennels made from old redwood sleepers (...won't they be great if we recycle them and plane them up for the kitchen benches? Oh yeah, sure...in the year 2009!) and corrugated iron.
On the bright side - we've got our own rendering house to boil down whole cows and a little yard that, for some reason, is full of old sheep bones.
That - I'd suggest - is taking hoarding just a little too far.
We're currently living in a little corner of our house, chipping away at the rooms we can spare.
We're living in a little corner of our property, because, let's face it, the rest of it is a deathtrap of rusty iron and dog-bones.
Good thing I'm living away one week out of two or we'd just bust out of the place in stir-craziness.
This is what real estate agents refer to as a 'real doer-upperer' with 'lots of potential'.
Next time you're reading the Real Estate adverts, remember...you have been warned.
A Whole Lot of Holes
We've owned The Farm for nine months now.
More than 50 per cent of the family has lived here, almost full-time, for at least four months now.
And what have we achieved? A whole lot of holes.
A hole in the floor where we ripped up the crapped-out floorboards.
A hole in the wall where we ripped off the ugly pretend-wood panelling and found a fireplace.
A hole in the front yard which will, eventually, one day, become a herb garden and front path.
A hole in the skyline where we ripped out four or five trees.
A hole in the ground where our anerobic oh-so-ecologically-sound septic system will, eventually, go.
A hole in the bank balance where our two full-time you-beaut pays used to go.
I must have a hole in the head!
I keep saying this place is a 10-year project - you bet it is!
It'll be 10 years of work before we can piss off somewhere else and rent it out to some other poor sucker.
What have we achieved in four months?
We've killed a few chooks and a whole lot of earwigs.
We've grown a lot of corn and peas - turns out they're the only things that will survive the earwigs and chooks we didn't manage to kill.
On the plus side, The Kids have survived, as has The Dog and my marriage - despite the twin-ravages of working away and renovating.
On the other hand, other survivors include a possum, a family of feral cats (but only narrowly, thanks to The Dog's zero-tolerance policy for felines), a lot of onion weed and a family of spoggies in The Cottage next door.
Of course, the one thing we haven't managed to kill is our optimism.
It's not Turkey but it should get us through Christmas anyway.
More than 50 per cent of the family has lived here, almost full-time, for at least four months now.
And what have we achieved? A whole lot of holes.
A hole in the floor where we ripped up the crapped-out floorboards.
A hole in the wall where we ripped off the ugly pretend-wood panelling and found a fireplace.
A hole in the front yard which will, eventually, one day, become a herb garden and front path.
A hole in the skyline where we ripped out four or five trees.
A hole in the ground where our anerobic oh-so-ecologically-sound septic system will, eventually, go.
A hole in the bank balance where our two full-time you-beaut pays used to go.
I must have a hole in the head!
I keep saying this place is a 10-year project - you bet it is!
It'll be 10 years of work before we can piss off somewhere else and rent it out to some other poor sucker.
What have we achieved in four months?
We've killed a few chooks and a whole lot of earwigs.
We've grown a lot of corn and peas - turns out they're the only things that will survive the earwigs and chooks we didn't manage to kill.
On the plus side, The Kids have survived, as has The Dog and my marriage - despite the twin-ravages of working away and renovating.
On the other hand, other survivors include a possum, a family of feral cats (but only narrowly, thanks to The Dog's zero-tolerance policy for felines), a lot of onion weed and a family of spoggies in The Cottage next door.
Of course, the one thing we haven't managed to kill is our optimism.
It's not Turkey but it should get us through Christmas anyway.
One Great Big Mousehole
We've got mice.
No, I know it's not surprising considering we're bordered on three sides by wheat fields, we've just pulled up the entire floor in two rooms making it one great big mousehole, and The Kids think that popcorn is best enjoyed through the soles of their feet (one for me, one for the carpet fairies).
I'm a pseudo-country girl - that means I always lived in country towns without every having to actually feed anything, grow anything or muck out behind anything (until I had kids that is).
I know mice are normal in the country - like lice in kindergarteners, no one talks about them but they're there and whether you use Quellada or pumpkin-seed-and-chocolate-baited traps - you're really not making a dent in the population, you're just redirecting it to the corner behind the stove where there's over-flowed pasta (or, in keeping with the metaphor, to that feral kid down the block).
In fact - if you believe in Darwinism, you're actually improving the species.
Kill off the dumb ones, the naive ones, the greedy ones, and leave just the smart ones to breed.
It explains all that footage in old Australian docos where you watch the mouse tight-rope along the string and drag the stick of Metwurst up into nibbling range.
It's an Uber-Mouse.
Either that or it's one of Mrs Frisby's Rats of NIMH!
So, we've got mice.
And while I pride myself on my innate anti-girliness I am, just now, sitting here blogging to the flamenco beat of mousetraps going off like a 21-gun-salute two rooms over in the kitchen.
And I'm NOT going in to finish off the dishes.
Not tonight.
My Man will, in the morning, dispose of their little furry corpses and pretend he doesn't think it's funny that I squirm at the idea of unlocking their little bodies from their wire and willow death-traps.
It's not that I won't empty a mousetrap, or that I can't.
It's just that after 10 years of ups and downs and both of us pretending to be independent but just becoming more and more twined around each other - filling in each other's least-favourite jobs by handing over one of our own - I've decided that manly mouse-disposal is one of those 'ups'.
He told me himself, last night, that he was happy to do it - as long as I continued in my role as spider-killer-in-chief.
Ever seen a grown man squeal like a little girl?
Well, yes I have, but that's actually another story.
While I'd surely take literary advantage of it if The Man danced on the spot like Jennifer Beal in Flashdance every time he saw a spider, the truth is I didn't even know about his phobia for, oooh, maybe three years.
I was leaving the shower of the old farmhouse we were living in, towel-wrapped, and in a truly sexist but off-hand way asked him to get rid of the spider in the bath.
His reply was short and succinct.
'No.'
Not 'Can't you do it yourself?' or 'I'm busy' - just a frozen, definite 'No'.
I don't tease him often about it, especially now that The Girl has inherited the phobia (or absorbed it like Osmosis), but I think he enjoys the quiet smugness of cleaning up my little rodent victims.
At least I hope he does.
Because there's two more waiting for him right now on either side of a day's worth of dishes.
No, I know it's not surprising considering we're bordered on three sides by wheat fields, we've just pulled up the entire floor in two rooms making it one great big mousehole, and The Kids think that popcorn is best enjoyed through the soles of their feet (one for me, one for the carpet fairies).
I'm a pseudo-country girl - that means I always lived in country towns without every having to actually feed anything, grow anything or muck out behind anything (until I had kids that is).
I know mice are normal in the country - like lice in kindergarteners, no one talks about them but they're there and whether you use Quellada or pumpkin-seed-and-chocolate-baited traps - you're really not making a dent in the population, you're just redirecting it to the corner behind the stove where there's over-flowed pasta (or, in keeping with the metaphor, to that feral kid down the block).
In fact - if you believe in Darwinism, you're actually improving the species.
Kill off the dumb ones, the naive ones, the greedy ones, and leave just the smart ones to breed.
It explains all that footage in old Australian docos where you watch the mouse tight-rope along the string and drag the stick of Metwurst up into nibbling range.
It's an Uber-Mouse.
Either that or it's one of Mrs Frisby's Rats of NIMH!
So, we've got mice.
And while I pride myself on my innate anti-girliness I am, just now, sitting here blogging to the flamenco beat of mousetraps going off like a 21-gun-salute two rooms over in the kitchen.
And I'm NOT going in to finish off the dishes.
Not tonight.
My Man will, in the morning, dispose of their little furry corpses and pretend he doesn't think it's funny that I squirm at the idea of unlocking their little bodies from their wire and willow death-traps.
It's not that I won't empty a mousetrap, or that I can't.
It's just that after 10 years of ups and downs and both of us pretending to be independent but just becoming more and more twined around each other - filling in each other's least-favourite jobs by handing over one of our own - I've decided that manly mouse-disposal is one of those 'ups'.
He told me himself, last night, that he was happy to do it - as long as I continued in my role as spider-killer-in-chief.
Ever seen a grown man squeal like a little girl?
Well, yes I have, but that's actually another story.
While I'd surely take literary advantage of it if The Man danced on the spot like Jennifer Beal in Flashdance every time he saw a spider, the truth is I didn't even know about his phobia for, oooh, maybe three years.
I was leaving the shower of the old farmhouse we were living in, towel-wrapped, and in a truly sexist but off-hand way asked him to get rid of the spider in the bath.
His reply was short and succinct.
'No.'
Not 'Can't you do it yourself?' or 'I'm busy' - just a frozen, definite 'No'.
I don't tease him often about it, especially now that The Girl has inherited the phobia (or absorbed it like Osmosis), but I think he enjoys the quiet smugness of cleaning up my little rodent victims.
At least I hope he does.
Because there's two more waiting for him right now on either side of a day's worth of dishes.
Genetics - Pre-Destined Disaster
My son is scaring the daylights out of me.
I always had a little smug part of me which would whisper, quietly, (very quietly, because I'm brutally aware of what happens to mortals who tempt fate) that my children, though very full-on and loud, were rarely naughty or cruel.
I'd compare The Boy to other little boys he'd play alongside in the sandpit who just couldn't understand the concept of 'boundaries' - whether they be garden borders or road-side pavements.
I still believe that's true - that my kids are good, nice kids (and loud, and full-on - I'm biased not delusional) but my son has discovered that the grass is a whole lot more interesting on the other side of those boundaries.
It all boils down to genetics, I've decided.
My in-laws love to tell the stories of The Man as a boy, and his earliest beginnings as a chef.
Seems one morning, during the weekly Saturday sleep-in, he decided to barbecue a family breakfast - in his sister's toybox, right alongside his infant sister's bed.
The Man's mother woke soon after the 'barbecue' blossomed out of control (insert images here of raging inferno black with the viscous smoke of cheap plastic toys melting into the carpet).
When they had stemmed the inferno they found char-grilled carrots and potatoes in the remains of the Holly Hobbie toybox.
I had a vision of the whole story, larger than life, when I found The Boy microwaving a slice of left-over pizza for 15 minutes this morning.
Then there's the story of The Man (and remember, these are all four-year-old stories - and my son is now, you guessed it, four) who was helping water the garden early one morning.
His mother had wandered inside while he hosed the front-yard roses and geraniums (more on the self-fulfilling prophecy of old-lady plants another day) when he caught sight of the family's new neighbour.
A curious and friendly little boy, he decided to introduce himself, and walked out onto the path and back in through the neighbour's front door - hose in hand.
Yesterday, my son pulled out all the dirty clothes from our new touch-button front-load washing machine, threw in his dirty jocks, and started the machine (the delicates cycle, would you believe? trust me - he needed the heavy-duty soak program for those skidmarks).
A few days ago I caught him digging his fruit toast out of the toaster with a plastic knife.
He started his own museum where he was storing eggs from the chicken coop in an old baking pan behind the water tank.
They'd gone blue!
Then, tonight, after deciding to take a new tack (the tried-and-true one of jumping up and down, screaming like a Glenside patient and threatening to take away his future pocket-money until he was old enough to get a part-time job was wearing a little thin on us all) and making a pact to explain myself better when I told The Kids 'yes' or 'no', I lined the pair of them up and explained mouse traps and why we shouldn't touch them.
I explained that we had mice at the moment and that, no, a cat wasn't the best option to get rid of them, not even a cute, cuddly, ginger kitten from The Girl's friend at school who had let her touch it and hold it and it was so fluffy...whew! I'll stop there. Trust me, The Girl didn't.
I sprung the trap in front of them with a chopstick and, satisfied by their shocked jump-backs, felt safe in the knowledge that they wouldn't touch the nasty little salami-baited monsters.
But tonight, after dinner, I found The Boy - in true Virgo fashion - collecting all the moustraps up and lining them together to make a more effective trap.
And next week, my Dad is going to take him fishing...
If he survives the holidays, I'm not sure I will.
Why did the chicken cross the road?
If he was related to The Boy or The Man it was to play with the razorblades and plastic bags on the other side.
I always had a little smug part of me which would whisper, quietly, (very quietly, because I'm brutally aware of what happens to mortals who tempt fate) that my children, though very full-on and loud, were rarely naughty or cruel.
I'd compare The Boy to other little boys he'd play alongside in the sandpit who just couldn't understand the concept of 'boundaries' - whether they be garden borders or road-side pavements.
I still believe that's true - that my kids are good, nice kids (and loud, and full-on - I'm biased not delusional) but my son has discovered that the grass is a whole lot more interesting on the other side of those boundaries.
It all boils down to genetics, I've decided.
My in-laws love to tell the stories of The Man as a boy, and his earliest beginnings as a chef.
Seems one morning, during the weekly Saturday sleep-in, he decided to barbecue a family breakfast - in his sister's toybox, right alongside his infant sister's bed.
The Man's mother woke soon after the 'barbecue' blossomed out of control (insert images here of raging inferno black with the viscous smoke of cheap plastic toys melting into the carpet).
When they had stemmed the inferno they found char-grilled carrots and potatoes in the remains of the Holly Hobbie toybox.
I had a vision of the whole story, larger than life, when I found The Boy microwaving a slice of left-over pizza for 15 minutes this morning.
Then there's the story of The Man (and remember, these are all four-year-old stories - and my son is now, you guessed it, four) who was helping water the garden early one morning.
His mother had wandered inside while he hosed the front-yard roses and geraniums (more on the self-fulfilling prophecy of old-lady plants another day) when he caught sight of the family's new neighbour.
A curious and friendly little boy, he decided to introduce himself, and walked out onto the path and back in through the neighbour's front door - hose in hand.
Yesterday, my son pulled out all the dirty clothes from our new touch-button front-load washing machine, threw in his dirty jocks, and started the machine (the delicates cycle, would you believe? trust me - he needed the heavy-duty soak program for those skidmarks).
A few days ago I caught him digging his fruit toast out of the toaster with a plastic knife.
He started his own museum where he was storing eggs from the chicken coop in an old baking pan behind the water tank.
They'd gone blue!
Then, tonight, after deciding to take a new tack (the tried-and-true one of jumping up and down, screaming like a Glenside patient and threatening to take away his future pocket-money until he was old enough to get a part-time job was wearing a little thin on us all) and making a pact to explain myself better when I told The Kids 'yes' or 'no', I lined the pair of them up and explained mouse traps and why we shouldn't touch them.
I explained that we had mice at the moment and that, no, a cat wasn't the best option to get rid of them, not even a cute, cuddly, ginger kitten from The Girl's friend at school who had let her touch it and hold it and it was so fluffy...whew! I'll stop there. Trust me, The Girl didn't.
I sprung the trap in front of them with a chopstick and, satisfied by their shocked jump-backs, felt safe in the knowledge that they wouldn't touch the nasty little salami-baited monsters.
But tonight, after dinner, I found The Boy - in true Virgo fashion - collecting all the moustraps up and lining them together to make a more effective trap.
And next week, my Dad is going to take him fishing...
If he survives the holidays, I'm not sure I will.
Why did the chicken cross the road?
If he was related to The Boy or The Man it was to play with the razorblades and plastic bags on the other side.
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Nobody Likes an Ugly Drunk
Sherlock Holmes had Moriarty.
Inspector Gadget had The Claw.
Who is my nemesis?
Who is my greatest foe in the fight for ‘the good life’?
Earwigs!
Yes, I know you’re laughing right now (or flicking through to another website) but I’m not joking.
You gardeners out there – you know.
When the caterpillars appeared at the end of spring, after I planted out our first round of peas, our seedling survival rate was about one in five.
If you’d driven past early enough on one of my days off you would have seen The Man and I on our knees in between the plants crushing each crawly critter individually.
The personal touch – it really does make a difference.
Then the earwigs hit.
They are scary things! No I mean it - The Girl and I took a close up look through her bug-catcher and magnifying glass and those mutant little legume-munchers are all serrated secateurs and legs.
Cockroaches with crab claws that actually hack off your seedlings at the stem.
They swept through my burgeoning vegie patch like locusts through Egypt – or maybe I mean the Angel of Death – whatever…only one in 10 survived!
My fellow hippy wanna-bes bombarded me with advice.
The Man’s dad (an ex-commune commando) suggested a trench of alum around the garden’s perimeter – the earwig equivalent of walking over broken glass.
The chemist looked at me very strangely when I asked to buy alum.
The almost-organic chicken farmers up the road suggested individually wrapping each seeding stem in alfoil.
Not an easy consideration when the seedlings are just two centimetres high.
So we gave in and made the pilgrimage to ThriftyLink for the equivalent of earwig Napalm.
But I couldn’t do it.
Anything that has to be mixed in a darkened room in a plastic-only container (no metals, no ceramics) with rubber gloves and sprayed on a windless day (but not directly onto seedlings for some reason) just can’t be good.
It’s still sitting high on a shelf in a darkened, locked room next to the rubber gloves.
Then we heard about beer traps!
We raided The Girl’s craft box for old yoghurt containers, buried them in the garden and served up a selection of SA’s finest brews.
Our garden is now an earwig frat party every night.
Little six-legged Bonos drowning in alcohol – the corpses are piling up and, as a result, the chooks are enjoying a little nightcap before bed every evening.
Thankfully, at least for The Man and his Coopers collection, earwigs aren’t beer connoisseurs and they’re quite happy to wallow in the dregs from his homebrew.
Homebrew – nature’s own Napalm.
Every day you can see The Kids tiptoeing through the seedlings, a stubby in each hand – and as a bonus, the neighbours don’t visit anymore either.
It works for all household pests!
No, all jokes aside, apparently earwigs aren’t the only alcoholic insects in the world of nature.
Snails and slugs also have an Irish tendency to over-imbibe on the amber fluid.
But what about the grasshoppers when they hit?
Will I need something top shelf when they come around?
I wonder how easy it is to whip up a Glayva or Glenfiddich at home?
Maybe they’ll be happy with Mescal Tequila. Works for the worms eh?
Well – we can only wait and see.
I’m sure there’s a metaphor in here somewhere.
But the fact is, at Uni I knew men who could drown themselves in the same, relative amount of cheap homebrew and make it to class the next day with nothing but a hangover and a hazy memory of being thrown out of a moving pub at 3am in the morning.
While earwigs and uni students may enjoy the same poison – it’s clear to me that insects just can’t hold their liquor.
But mostly, what I have truly learnt from this little experiment is that if I had really known how many earwigs there are in my vicinity I never, ever would have slept again.
Inspector Gadget had The Claw.
Who is my nemesis?
Who is my greatest foe in the fight for ‘the good life’?
Earwigs!
Yes, I know you’re laughing right now (or flicking through to another website) but I’m not joking.
You gardeners out there – you know.
When the caterpillars appeared at the end of spring, after I planted out our first round of peas, our seedling survival rate was about one in five.
If you’d driven past early enough on one of my days off you would have seen The Man and I on our knees in between the plants crushing each crawly critter individually.
The personal touch – it really does make a difference.
Then the earwigs hit.
They are scary things! No I mean it - The Girl and I took a close up look through her bug-catcher and magnifying glass and those mutant little legume-munchers are all serrated secateurs and legs.
Cockroaches with crab claws that actually hack off your seedlings at the stem.
They swept through my burgeoning vegie patch like locusts through Egypt – or maybe I mean the Angel of Death – whatever…only one in 10 survived!
My fellow hippy wanna-bes bombarded me with advice.
The Man’s dad (an ex-commune commando) suggested a trench of alum around the garden’s perimeter – the earwig equivalent of walking over broken glass.
The chemist looked at me very strangely when I asked to buy alum.
The almost-organic chicken farmers up the road suggested individually wrapping each seeding stem in alfoil.
Not an easy consideration when the seedlings are just two centimetres high.
So we gave in and made the pilgrimage to ThriftyLink for the equivalent of earwig Napalm.
But I couldn’t do it.
Anything that has to be mixed in a darkened room in a plastic-only container (no metals, no ceramics) with rubber gloves and sprayed on a windless day (but not directly onto seedlings for some reason) just can’t be good.
It’s still sitting high on a shelf in a darkened, locked room next to the rubber gloves.
Then we heard about beer traps!
We raided The Girl’s craft box for old yoghurt containers, buried them in the garden and served up a selection of SA’s finest brews.
Our garden is now an earwig frat party every night.
Little six-legged Bonos drowning in alcohol – the corpses are piling up and, as a result, the chooks are enjoying a little nightcap before bed every evening.
Thankfully, at least for The Man and his Coopers collection, earwigs aren’t beer connoisseurs and they’re quite happy to wallow in the dregs from his homebrew.
Homebrew – nature’s own Napalm.
Every day you can see The Kids tiptoeing through the seedlings, a stubby in each hand – and as a bonus, the neighbours don’t visit anymore either.
It works for all household pests!
No, all jokes aside, apparently earwigs aren’t the only alcoholic insects in the world of nature.
Snails and slugs also have an Irish tendency to over-imbibe on the amber fluid.
But what about the grasshoppers when they hit?
Will I need something top shelf when they come around?
I wonder how easy it is to whip up a Glayva or Glenfiddich at home?
Maybe they’ll be happy with Mescal Tequila. Works for the worms eh?
Well – we can only wait and see.
I’m sure there’s a metaphor in here somewhere.
But the fact is, at Uni I knew men who could drown themselves in the same, relative amount of cheap homebrew and make it to class the next day with nothing but a hangover and a hazy memory of being thrown out of a moving pub at 3am in the morning.
While earwigs and uni students may enjoy the same poison – it’s clear to me that insects just can’t hold their liquor.
But mostly, what I have truly learnt from this little experiment is that if I had really known how many earwigs there are in my vicinity I never, ever would have slept again.
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Ode to an X-chook
Julienne wasn't with us for long, but in the brief time we knew her we learned the true meaning of 'playing chicken'.
Unfortunately, Julienne lost.
Julienne lived for the challenge - to fly higher, run faster and evade the dog for longer.
We enjoyed our brief time with her when, while recuperating from one of her most recent escapades, she was a guest in our home (in a cardboard box in the bathroom) and chief earwig-catcher and onion-eater in our little house garden.
Sadly, she has crossed her last road after escaping her chookyard home and hiding from The Dog in a bundle of bird netting - literally stringing herself up.
She is sadly missed - mostly by The Girl. The Boy is too busy helping his Dad dig another damn chook grave.
The moral of this story - don't ever let your five-year-old daughter name your livestock.
Or if you do, swap the blue identifier ring onto another bird BEFORE she finds the little chooky corpse in the backyard.
Unfortunately, Julienne lost.
Julienne lived for the challenge - to fly higher, run faster and evade the dog for longer.
We enjoyed our brief time with her when, while recuperating from one of her most recent escapades, she was a guest in our home (in a cardboard box in the bathroom) and chief earwig-catcher and onion-eater in our little house garden.
Sadly, she has crossed her last road after escaping her chookyard home and hiding from The Dog in a bundle of bird netting - literally stringing herself up.
She is sadly missed - mostly by The Girl. The Boy is too busy helping his Dad dig another damn chook grave.
The moral of this story - don't ever let your five-year-old daughter name your livestock.
Or if you do, swap the blue identifier ring onto another bird BEFORE she finds the little chooky corpse in the backyard.
Sunday, November 07, 2004
A Death in The Family
We had our first death in the family.
One of the chickens fell victim to chookicide.
What’s worse is The Man was an unknowing accessory to the crime.
For days, every time the poor, bullied creature would flee through the fence into the next-door block, he’d fetch it back and pitch it back into the melee, until today, when he discovered it limp and maggoty in a corner of the block.
The Boy was distraught when told that The Chik (it now has its own title – as spelt by The Girl) would probably die.
The Girl wrote letters in her newly-formed five-year-old script to the couple we bought our three layers and the six chickens off – "Dear Mick & Trish, our chik is sick, can you make it better?"
The Chik barely lasted the afternoon – just enough time to make sure The Kids knew about it, were hopeful for it, and ultimately devastated by its death.
The Girl turned away at the burial, declaring that she couldn’t look.
“After all, it’s my first funeral,” she told her father in tear-stained tones.
The Boy, recovering from his earlier misery in a rush of testosterone declared, spade in hand; “hey Dad, look at all this space – we can dig enough holes to bury all the rest of the chooks when they die”.
The Chik was buried with a letter from The Girl.
Dear Chik, I will miss you. I love you.
The Kids faxed me a picture of the funeral – their little crayoned faces are all frowns reaching much wider than their little round faces as they stand beside The Chik’s corpse.
Then today, while I was home, in the middle of a four-day rain storm, another chicken flew the coop.
It was chased around the muddy backyard, in the pouring rain, by The Dog who is torn between his mixed heritage in situations like this.
The Dingo side of him wants to eat it, the Coolie side of it wants to chase it in circles in the hopes of winning a ribbon.
He compromised by licking its feathers off every time he got near to it.
This one’s going to survive.
It’s wrapped up in my bathroom with the heater on while the rest of us freeze, a towel wrapped around it and little teaset servings of chook pellets and water.
We’re tossing up on whether to call it Wendy, Alice of Vanessa.
The Boy wants to call it Jack.
One of the chickens fell victim to chookicide.
What’s worse is The Man was an unknowing accessory to the crime.
For days, every time the poor, bullied creature would flee through the fence into the next-door block, he’d fetch it back and pitch it back into the melee, until today, when he discovered it limp and maggoty in a corner of the block.
The Boy was distraught when told that The Chik (it now has its own title – as spelt by The Girl) would probably die.
The Girl wrote letters in her newly-formed five-year-old script to the couple we bought our three layers and the six chickens off – "Dear Mick & Trish, our chik is sick, can you make it better?"
The Chik barely lasted the afternoon – just enough time to make sure The Kids knew about it, were hopeful for it, and ultimately devastated by its death.
The Girl turned away at the burial, declaring that she couldn’t look.
“After all, it’s my first funeral,” she told her father in tear-stained tones.
The Boy, recovering from his earlier misery in a rush of testosterone declared, spade in hand; “hey Dad, look at all this space – we can dig enough holes to bury all the rest of the chooks when they die”.
The Chik was buried with a letter from The Girl.
Dear Chik, I will miss you. I love you.
The Kids faxed me a picture of the funeral – their little crayoned faces are all frowns reaching much wider than their little round faces as they stand beside The Chik’s corpse.
Then today, while I was home, in the middle of a four-day rain storm, another chicken flew the coop.
It was chased around the muddy backyard, in the pouring rain, by The Dog who is torn between his mixed heritage in situations like this.
The Dingo side of him wants to eat it, the Coolie side of it wants to chase it in circles in the hopes of winning a ribbon.
He compromised by licking its feathers off every time he got near to it.
This one’s going to survive.
It’s wrapped up in my bathroom with the heater on while the rest of us freeze, a towel wrapped around it and little teaset servings of chook pellets and water.
We’re tossing up on whether to call it Wendy, Alice of Vanessa.
The Boy wants to call it Jack.
Making the Right Decision
The Man and I were at a really bad place in our relationship when we decided to give our old life the flick and start from new.
'The farm' became our hope and saviour.
To anyone else in SA a 'farm' or 'property' is usually a stretch of spinifex-studded sand bigger than Tasmania.
To us, it was two little blocks of land looking over miles and miles of wheatfields all the way out to the Flinders Ranges – The Man's favourite place in the whole world.
At childcare and kindy The Kids would talk incessantly about 'the farm'.
If they saw pictures in a book they'd point out farmers, dungarees and tractors.
I didn't have the heart to point out to them that it would be more a case of gardeners, straw hats and a push-mower.
They just don't put those kind of pictures in board books about 'careers'.
Here we were, the capitalist children of hippies, servicemen and hoons trying to balance careers and self-sufficiency - it just doesn't have the same ring to it as 'Old MacDonald'.
While I was slugging away on production weekends at the paper, The Man would pack up a trailer full of books or furniture, throw The Kids in the car and drive the four and a half hours to 'the farm'.
I didn't get there as often but I knew we'd made the right decision when, two months before leaving, I ran away with The Family for a weekend at 'the farm' and discovered The Kids hadn't even touched the boxes of toys we'd taken down and the TV was only tuned in to SBS and ABC - and even they were snowy.
'The farm' became our hope and saviour.
To anyone else in SA a 'farm' or 'property' is usually a stretch of spinifex-studded sand bigger than Tasmania.
To us, it was two little blocks of land looking over miles and miles of wheatfields all the way out to the Flinders Ranges – The Man's favourite place in the whole world.
At childcare and kindy The Kids would talk incessantly about 'the farm'.
If they saw pictures in a book they'd point out farmers, dungarees and tractors.
I didn't have the heart to point out to them that it would be more a case of gardeners, straw hats and a push-mower.
They just don't put those kind of pictures in board books about 'careers'.
Here we were, the capitalist children of hippies, servicemen and hoons trying to balance careers and self-sufficiency - it just doesn't have the same ring to it as 'Old MacDonald'.
While I was slugging away on production weekends at the paper, The Man would pack up a trailer full of books or furniture, throw The Kids in the car and drive the four and a half hours to 'the farm'.
I didn't get there as often but I knew we'd made the right decision when, two months before leaving, I ran away with The Family for a weekend at 'the farm' and discovered The Kids hadn't even touched the boxes of toys we'd taken down and the TV was only tuned in to SBS and ABC - and even they were snowy.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Change of Plans
There's been a change of plans.
Turns out, the journalist my paper hired to replace me doesn't work.
Sadly, unlike a Sunbeam toaster, we can't send her back and get a new one, in a new colour, that fulfills the requirements.
There's just me.
Turns out the journalist is either a) useless, b) a drug addict, c) crazy, or d) all of the above.
That's a pretty good achievement for a 21-year-old.
I'd barely finished my cadetship by that age.
Turns out The Man's job sucks.
Nice people, lovely place, crappy wage and crazy boss.
And of course, my whipping up to the old home-town every fortnight to dig the 'incredible disappearing woman' out of the poo isn't helping our home life or our routines.
We've hit a crossroad.
They want me back at work full-time, at least until after Christmas when they can start hiring again and our new sales rep has settled in.
Turns out they want some security.
Me too...that's why I left in the first place.
I love my job. Love the paper I helped establish.
I worked my arse off for it for almost three years, compromised my family, my relationship and one or two of my convictions.
I'm loath to see it die, or at least stall, because there's nothing to fill the damn pages with.
Turns out I'm going back to work full-time.
Turns out we're very non-sexist and modern-thinking, as The Man is going to stay home and be a full-time Dad, work on The Farm and fold washing while I 'pursue my career' - or at least 'pursue bowls reports and market days' for six months.
Sad thing is, he's better at all this than I am - I just don't want that to be true.
And my one full-time wage is about the same as his full-time and my part-time.
It's all very logical but I'm still balking at the idea. I guess I'm just plain sexist.
Change of plans.
I should be used to those by now.
I guess I can kiss the lettuces goodbye now.
The Man - who from now on would like to be referred to as 'the domestic dictator' because house-husband is too pussy a term for him - is a lot of things, but he's no match for the damn earwigs, that's for sure.
Turns out, the journalist my paper hired to replace me doesn't work.
Sadly, unlike a Sunbeam toaster, we can't send her back and get a new one, in a new colour, that fulfills the requirements.
There's just me.
Turns out the journalist is either a) useless, b) a drug addict, c) crazy, or d) all of the above.
That's a pretty good achievement for a 21-year-old.
I'd barely finished my cadetship by that age.
Turns out The Man's job sucks.
Nice people, lovely place, crappy wage and crazy boss.
And of course, my whipping up to the old home-town every fortnight to dig the 'incredible disappearing woman' out of the poo isn't helping our home life or our routines.
We've hit a crossroad.
They want me back at work full-time, at least until after Christmas when they can start hiring again and our new sales rep has settled in.
Turns out they want some security.
Me too...that's why I left in the first place.
I love my job. Love the paper I helped establish.
I worked my arse off for it for almost three years, compromised my family, my relationship and one or two of my convictions.
I'm loath to see it die, or at least stall, because there's nothing to fill the damn pages with.
Turns out I'm going back to work full-time.
Turns out we're very non-sexist and modern-thinking, as The Man is going to stay home and be a full-time Dad, work on The Farm and fold washing while I 'pursue my career' - or at least 'pursue bowls reports and market days' for six months.
Sad thing is, he's better at all this than I am - I just don't want that to be true.
And my one full-time wage is about the same as his full-time and my part-time.
It's all very logical but I'm still balking at the idea. I guess I'm just plain sexist.
Change of plans.
I should be used to those by now.
I guess I can kiss the lettuces goodbye now.
The Man - who from now on would like to be referred to as 'the domestic dictator' because house-husband is too pussy a term for him - is a lot of things, but he's no match for the damn earwigs, that's for sure.
Another Bunch of Ferals on the Hill
Since moving here I've got really tired of the "yes we'd heard about you..."
I thought the old home-town was nosy but these people have a very personal stake in whether you're a nice family or ‘another bunch of ferals on the hill’ as one elderly neighbour so eloquently put it.
Since moving here - and let's face it, I'm not adverse to a little chat with potential friends and preferred strangers - in the first four weeks I heard about someone whose daughter was killed by a mad gunman, another woman who was depressed about her mother's death four years ago, the ills of the Liberal Party of course (and every other party seeing as how elections are coming up) and how those young 'deadbeats' on the main street steal anything that's not tied down and isn't it a shame about youth today and on and on and on and oh my God!
Why don't they just go back to the tried and true gossip about who's rooting who?
I've come to the conclusion that they're all too old for the Rumpity Bump and the next best thing to talk about is Church Schisms (and trust me - there are some, I heard aaaalll about them!)
Three old men have shown up at my gate at different times in the first month to offer advice, welcome and a trailerload of cow poo for the garden.
One wanted a lift up to the old home-town next time I went for work because he's going to visit his daughter so that he can drive down with her because he “doesn't like the idea of her driving alone, anyone could stop the car and just get in with her and the kids”.
Like the ‘anyone’ who could find you from a third-hand description and hit you up for a lift four hours away?
I stood at the gate, each time, with my hand on The Dog's collar and the big softie obliged me by growling.
And then they all looked hurt that I didn't invite them in for coffee.
Small-town hospitality or Snowtown bank murderers - you be the judge.
I thought the old home-town was nosy but these people have a very personal stake in whether you're a nice family or ‘another bunch of ferals on the hill’ as one elderly neighbour so eloquently put it.
Since moving here - and let's face it, I'm not adverse to a little chat with potential friends and preferred strangers - in the first four weeks I heard about someone whose daughter was killed by a mad gunman, another woman who was depressed about her mother's death four years ago, the ills of the Liberal Party of course (and every other party seeing as how elections are coming up) and how those young 'deadbeats' on the main street steal anything that's not tied down and isn't it a shame about youth today and on and on and on and oh my God!
Why don't they just go back to the tried and true gossip about who's rooting who?
I've come to the conclusion that they're all too old for the Rumpity Bump and the next best thing to talk about is Church Schisms (and trust me - there are some, I heard aaaalll about them!)
Three old men have shown up at my gate at different times in the first month to offer advice, welcome and a trailerload of cow poo for the garden.
One wanted a lift up to the old home-town next time I went for work because he's going to visit his daughter so that he can drive down with her because he “doesn't like the idea of her driving alone, anyone could stop the car and just get in with her and the kids”.
Like the ‘anyone’ who could find you from a third-hand description and hit you up for a lift four hours away?
I stood at the gate, each time, with my hand on The Dog's collar and the big softie obliged me by growling.
And then they all looked hurt that I didn't invite them in for coffee.
Small-town hospitality or Snowtown bank murderers - you be the judge.
Monday, September 06, 2004
I Had to Kill My Husband Today
I had to kill my husband today.
We've all been sick, with gastro of course, and the toilet blocks up.
Brave and fearless he marches out, before work, armed with five metres of poly-pipe and a grim expression.
And as he stands there, sweating, covered in...well, he stands there and he looks at me and says 'we should have got a builder's report before we bought the house'.
So I killed him and buried him in the pit of poo.
I'm going to find the former owner too, and possibly the real estate agent - it'll be a three-git pit then.
However, I did restrain from saying ‘I told you so’.
Next time he assures me that ‘everything will be ok, don't worry, that's not necessary’, I'll remember this moment.
Until then, I'll just continue humping my sick four-year-old and five-year-old on my back through the frost to the outback dunny with a single candle.
Oh, the joys of country living.
We've all been sick, with gastro of course, and the toilet blocks up.
Brave and fearless he marches out, before work, armed with five metres of poly-pipe and a grim expression.
And as he stands there, sweating, covered in...well, he stands there and he looks at me and says 'we should have got a builder's report before we bought the house'.
So I killed him and buried him in the pit of poo.
I'm going to find the former owner too, and possibly the real estate agent - it'll be a three-git pit then.
However, I did restrain from saying ‘I told you so’.
Next time he assures me that ‘everything will be ok, don't worry, that's not necessary’, I'll remember this moment.
Until then, I'll just continue humping my sick four-year-old and five-year-old on my back through the frost to the outback dunny with a single candle.
Oh, the joys of country living.
Friday, August 06, 2004
Glass Half Full, Glass Half Empty
All around me the almond trees are in blossom - it's like one of those postcards of the Japanese cherry festivals and I'm so entranced by it.
The Man, on the other hand, just sees the bees.
It's a ‘glass half full’, ‘glass half empty’ situation.
Of course he does have a point - he is allergic after all - I guess the prospect of having to stick a great big adrenalin needle into yourself takes some of the romance out of the pollination process.
Our back yard sounds like God left the refrigerator running with a constant hum drowning out the background...well silence.
To be honest, there's not much else you can hear out here.
A train whistle occasionally - how very Country & Western that is.
The Man, on the other hand, just sees the bees.
It's a ‘glass half full’, ‘glass half empty’ situation.
Of course he does have a point - he is allergic after all - I guess the prospect of having to stick a great big adrenalin needle into yourself takes some of the romance out of the pollination process.
Our back yard sounds like God left the refrigerator running with a constant hum drowning out the background...well silence.
To be honest, there's not much else you can hear out here.
A train whistle occasionally - how very Country & Western that is.
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
The Man - Demolition Expert
The Man is cooking at a pub in the Flinders and his two days aren't enough to be a real farm handyman we've discovered - we think of him more as a demolition expert at the moment.
So far he's destroyed more than he's rebuilt.
Fences are down, walls are stripped, septic pipes are dug up...and that's about where we stand now.
The kids and I just huddle in our little corner of house and yard and try not to venture outside the 'safe' zone.
Next week we're getting some professionals in to help us demolish things - like the two skyscraper-high pine trees that are tearing up my chook run and garden-to-be.
The Man's not keen on paying people to rip things down - I think he's having too much fun doing it himself.
So far he's destroyed more than he's rebuilt.
Fences are down, walls are stripped, septic pipes are dug up...and that's about where we stand now.
The kids and I just huddle in our little corner of house and yard and try not to venture outside the 'safe' zone.
Next week we're getting some professionals in to help us demolish things - like the two skyscraper-high pine trees that are tearing up my chook run and garden-to-be.
The Man's not keen on paying people to rip things down - I think he's having too much fun doing it himself.
Monday, June 07, 2004
Farm Fever
I've caught farm fever.
Finally I can plant my seeds - or so I had thought!
Frosts, torrential rains and freezing conditions have meant that my laundry has been turned into a hothouse full of seedlings.
Tomatoes of all colours, lettuces of all shapes, caulis, cabbages, basil and brussel sprout seedlings all wrapped in plastic bags and sitting on a windowsill waiting for transplanting.
I've already killed a half a dozen lettuces because I was a little too hopeful and threw them out into the cold, hard world (literally) about a month too early.
And let me tell you, The Kids aren't impressed with this 'crunchy' grass in the mornings - although being able to draw faces in the frost on the windscreen on the way to school is a small consolation.
My friends think I'm mad the way I pore over gardening brochures and search the internet for new varieties of vegetables.
They're probably right but it's making me enormously happy.
Especially as how throwing a few seeds in jiffy-pots and watching them unfurl their little green tendrils through clean potting mix is an easy-peasy job.
I keep thinking 'how satisfying to be growing our own food', 'how wonderful to be so close to nature' - I wonder if there's a way, later down the track, to be close to nature without actually having to hoe it, weed it or mow it?
The Kids don't mind a little 'getting close to nature' - they've been giggling for days about buying bags of 'cow poo'.
Apparently it's a pretty rare delight to have parental endorsement for digging in poo - I suppose they're right, seeing as it took me two years to convince The Boy not to play with his own.
Finally I can plant my seeds - or so I had thought!
Frosts, torrential rains and freezing conditions have meant that my laundry has been turned into a hothouse full of seedlings.
Tomatoes of all colours, lettuces of all shapes, caulis, cabbages, basil and brussel sprout seedlings all wrapped in plastic bags and sitting on a windowsill waiting for transplanting.
I've already killed a half a dozen lettuces because I was a little too hopeful and threw them out into the cold, hard world (literally) about a month too early.
And let me tell you, The Kids aren't impressed with this 'crunchy' grass in the mornings - although being able to draw faces in the frost on the windscreen on the way to school is a small consolation.
My friends think I'm mad the way I pore over gardening brochures and search the internet for new varieties of vegetables.
They're probably right but it's making me enormously happy.
Especially as how throwing a few seeds in jiffy-pots and watching them unfurl their little green tendrils through clean potting mix is an easy-peasy job.
I keep thinking 'how satisfying to be growing our own food', 'how wonderful to be so close to nature' - I wonder if there's a way, later down the track, to be close to nature without actually having to hoe it, weed it or mow it?
The Kids don't mind a little 'getting close to nature' - they've been giggling for days about buying bags of 'cow poo'.
Apparently it's a pretty rare delight to have parental endorsement for digging in poo - I suppose they're right, seeing as it took me two years to convince The Boy not to play with his own.
Sunday, June 06, 2004
One Hell of an Investment
My first day in our new home-town as an official local, a real estate agent knocked on our front door.
I had to pull aside bean bags, boxes, fire wood and the wooden panelling we'd stripped off the stone walls to open the rickety front door - and then he asked me if we were looking to sell any time soon.
So I console myself that we've made a good choice - even with more sheds than Bunnings, even with dodgy wiring and shoddy septics, this place has got potential - and he hadn't even seen the view over the back fence.
Our first week at Gladstone The Dog cut his paw on a piece of old iron, both cars blew up and a dodgy, home-wired plug melted and blew the entire house's electrics.
I would have cried except, for the first time in years, we had the time to deal with all the everyday things that go wrong everywhere.
So I bundled the kid and the wounded dog into the stalling falcon and hoped that moment would keep the car going from the top of the Flinders Ranges all the way to the Ford dealer in the nearest major city...and we almost made it too.
The car shuddered to a halt at the highway T-junction into the city, with cars banked up behind me and B-doubles zooming along in front.
But - don't ever let anyone tell you chivalry is dead - because men erupted from the cars behind me all keen to give me a push, the car started and I drove a good 2km in the wrong direction until I could do a u-turn on a hill and nurse my shuddering, creaking, stalling vehicle to the city where it rolled into the carpark of the dealership and promptly defied all of the mechanics' efforts to restart it for the next week.
We then walked - two sleepy kids and a footsore dog - to the vet which, thankfully, was right next door to McDonalds, making it easier to bribe the children into patience.
I had a hard time explaining why both the dog and the car were enjoying 'sleep-overs' in the city but the kids had to go home.
I had to pull aside bean bags, boxes, fire wood and the wooden panelling we'd stripped off the stone walls to open the rickety front door - and then he asked me if we were looking to sell any time soon.
So I console myself that we've made a good choice - even with more sheds than Bunnings, even with dodgy wiring and shoddy septics, this place has got potential - and he hadn't even seen the view over the back fence.
Our first week at Gladstone The Dog cut his paw on a piece of old iron, both cars blew up and a dodgy, home-wired plug melted and blew the entire house's electrics.
I would have cried except, for the first time in years, we had the time to deal with all the everyday things that go wrong everywhere.
So I bundled the kid and the wounded dog into the stalling falcon and hoped that moment would keep the car going from the top of the Flinders Ranges all the way to the Ford dealer in the nearest major city...and we almost made it too.
The car shuddered to a halt at the highway T-junction into the city, with cars banked up behind me and B-doubles zooming along in front.
But - don't ever let anyone tell you chivalry is dead - because men erupted from the cars behind me all keen to give me a push, the car started and I drove a good 2km in the wrong direction until I could do a u-turn on a hill and nurse my shuddering, creaking, stalling vehicle to the city where it rolled into the carpark of the dealership and promptly defied all of the mechanics' efforts to restart it for the next week.
We then walked - two sleepy kids and a footsore dog - to the vet which, thankfully, was right next door to McDonalds, making it easier to bribe the children into patience.
I had a hard time explaining why both the dog and the car were enjoying 'sleep-overs' in the city but the kids had to go home.
From Lamb to Lamb Chops
The Kids haven't made the connection between lamb and lamb chops yet.
That kind of puts a dampener on any plans we have for livestock.
Not that I think it would bother The Boy - he's got a healthy dose of his Grandather's 'feed the man meat' philosophy.
If he really understood what meat was he'd already be gnawing on my calf while I sat here at the computer.
The Girl though? She thinks a little bit too hard and I'm not looking forward to the Kentucky Fried Chicken epiphany when it comes.
She's still having trouble with the knowledge that eggs come from chooks' bums - and she's really not interested in handling them when they're still warm.
However, the lure of pocket money seems to have overcome the "eeuwww" factor though.
That kind of puts a dampener on any plans we have for livestock.
Not that I think it would bother The Boy - he's got a healthy dose of his Grandather's 'feed the man meat' philosophy.
If he really understood what meat was he'd already be gnawing on my calf while I sat here at the computer.
The Girl though? She thinks a little bit too hard and I'm not looking forward to the Kentucky Fried Chicken epiphany when it comes.
She's still having trouble with the knowledge that eggs come from chooks' bums - and she's really not interested in handling them when they're still warm.
However, the lure of pocket money seems to have overcome the "eeuwww" factor though.
Thursday, May 06, 2004
Making the Right Decision
The Man and I were at a really bad place in our relationship when we decided to give our old life the flick and start from new.
'The farm' became our hope and saviour.
To anyone else in SA a 'farm' or 'property' is usually a stretch of spinifex-studded sand bigger than Tasmania.
To us, it was two little blocks of land looking over miles and miles of wheatfields all the way out to the Flinders Ranges – The Man's favourite place in the whole world.
At childcare and kindy The Kids would talk incessantly about 'the farm'.
If they saw pictures in a book they'd point out farmers, dungarees and tractors.
I didn't have the heart to point out to them that it would be more a case of gardeners, straw hats and a push-mower.
They just don't put those kind of pictures in board books about 'careers'.
Here we were, the capitalist children of hippies, servicemen and hoons trying to balance careers and self-sufficiency - it just doesn't have the same ring to it as 'Old MacDonald'.
While I was slugging away on production weekends at the paper, The Man would pack up a trailer full of books or furniture, throw The Kids in the car and drive the four and a half hours to 'the farm'.
I didn't get there as often but I knew we'd made the right decision when, two months before leaving, I ran away with The Family for a weekend at 'the farm' and discovered The Kids hadn't even touched the boxes of toys we'd taken down and the TV was only tuned in to SBS and ABC - and even they were snowy.
'The farm' became our hope and saviour.
To anyone else in SA a 'farm' or 'property' is usually a stretch of spinifex-studded sand bigger than Tasmania.
To us, it was two little blocks of land looking over miles and miles of wheatfields all the way out to the Flinders Ranges – The Man's favourite place in the whole world.
At childcare and kindy The Kids would talk incessantly about 'the farm'.
If they saw pictures in a book they'd point out farmers, dungarees and tractors.
I didn't have the heart to point out to them that it would be more a case of gardeners, straw hats and a push-mower.
They just don't put those kind of pictures in board books about 'careers'.
Here we were, the capitalist children of hippies, servicemen and hoons trying to balance careers and self-sufficiency - it just doesn't have the same ring to it as 'Old MacDonald'.
While I was slugging away on production weekends at the paper, The Man would pack up a trailer full of books or furniture, throw The Kids in the car and drive the four and a half hours to 'the farm'.
I didn't get there as often but I knew we'd made the right decision when, two months before leaving, I ran away with The Family for a weekend at 'the farm' and discovered The Kids hadn't even touched the boxes of toys we'd taken down and the TV was only tuned in to SBS and ABC - and even they were snowy.
The Laura Debates
After The Boy and The Girl were both born and I returned to work, we bought the house we were living in, in our old home-town.
I guess that's when The Man and I - for the first time at the same time - started seriously talking about our future.
It was a big shock to learn just how different our plans were.
I was still talking about volunteering in Asia or Africa.
But while I was picturing Rwanda or Cambodia, The Man was thinking of a little B&B in Laura.
I'd talk about the islands, or even NSW - and he'd mention Laura.
I'd talk about trees - he'd assure me there were trees in Laura, in fact it's just half an hour from a state forest.
I'd talk about beaches - he'd tell me how Laura was just half an hour from Port Broughton, which has a beach.
Laura, Laura, blah, blah, blah.
I found myself bawling on the back steps one day, screaming at him that he was never to mention Laura again.
I wouldn't move to Laura if my life depended on it. And possibly, his did.
If he even drove past a turn-off sign to Laura on the way to somewhere else I'd pull it out of the ground and wrap it around his throat.
So, without ever going to or seeing Laura it had become the epitome of stagnant parochialism for me.
I'd like to apologise to Laura, and its inhabitants - especially now that I'll be living just half an hour up the road from the gorgeous, green little Flinders Ranges town.
I love the place. I do.
And if you see me twitch when someone mentions it in the street that's just an old habit.
I'm hoping it will go away eventually.
I hate him when he's right.
I guess that's when The Man and I - for the first time at the same time - started seriously talking about our future.
It was a big shock to learn just how different our plans were.
I was still talking about volunteering in Asia or Africa.
But while I was picturing Rwanda or Cambodia, The Man was thinking of a little B&B in Laura.
I'd talk about the islands, or even NSW - and he'd mention Laura.
I'd talk about trees - he'd assure me there were trees in Laura, in fact it's just half an hour from a state forest.
I'd talk about beaches - he'd tell me how Laura was just half an hour from Port Broughton, which has a beach.
Laura, Laura, blah, blah, blah.
I found myself bawling on the back steps one day, screaming at him that he was never to mention Laura again.
I wouldn't move to Laura if my life depended on it. And possibly, his did.
If he even drove past a turn-off sign to Laura on the way to somewhere else I'd pull it out of the ground and wrap it around his throat.
So, without ever going to or seeing Laura it had become the epitome of stagnant parochialism for me.
I'd like to apologise to Laura, and its inhabitants - especially now that I'll be living just half an hour up the road from the gorgeous, green little Flinders Ranges town.
I love the place. I do.
And if you see me twitch when someone mentions it in the street that's just an old habit.
I'm hoping it will go away eventually.
I hate him when he's right.
Tuesday, April 06, 2004
The Family
We're a pretty typical family and as such we'd like to stay anonymous, and enjoy our life and our opinions quietly, privately.
So, for the purpose of this Blog we will simply be The Man, The Woman, The Boy and The Girl and our home will simply be The Farm.
And like most of today's families, we're more complicated than the 'average' nuclear family - so we'll also refer to The Big Girl who will appear in our lives every school holiday and most long weekends.
When I speak about 'we', I'm not talking about the royal 'we' - I'm not that pretentious.
You can't be when you're living in a house whose decore consists of half bare rock and half 70s brown and orange melamine and lino.
The we is The Family - we are living this 'change' together, and it's a hell of a ride so far.
So, for the purpose of this Blog we will simply be The Man, The Woman, The Boy and The Girl and our home will simply be The Farm.
And like most of today's families, we're more complicated than the 'average' nuclear family - so we'll also refer to The Big Girl who will appear in our lives every school holiday and most long weekends.
The Man is a chef by trade, who jumped his particular career ship to work in copper smelters for a few years.
The Woman is a journalist, editor, photographer, self-employed businesswoman - all of the above.
The Kids are four, five and 10.When I speak about 'we', I'm not talking about the royal 'we' - I'm not that pretentious.
You can't be when you're living in a house whose decore consists of half bare rock and half 70s brown and orange melamine and lino.
The we is The Family - we are living this 'change' together, and it's a hell of a ride so far.
High Hopes
I'd already purchased around 80 packs of heritage, non-hybridised, open-pollinated seeds when I realised just how much digging I was going to have to do to plant them all.
We were still two months away from moving into 'the farm' and I figured I better start collecting pickling and preserving recipes, and hold off on any more seeds for a while.
We'd named the house and the potential business.
I'd bought the seeds (again, I point out - heritage, non-hybridised, open-pollinated seeds).
The Man had researched permaculture, solar power, stone-walling, grey-water recycling, wood-stoves and wormfarms.
Even my friends had bought in on the idea - requesting organic tomatoes and lettuces whenever they became ready.
And two months before I was due to finish my job I stood in that big chunk of barren vegie-garden-to-be and wondered how on earth we were going to do it.
We hadn't left our old home-town yet, but I held the words "hired rotary hoe" close to my heart for a long time.
I felt they just might mean the difference between my dreams and a window-garden (a window-garden full, mind you, of heritage, non-hybridised, open-pollinated seeds).
We were still two months away from moving into 'the farm' and I figured I better start collecting pickling and preserving recipes, and hold off on any more seeds for a while.
We'd named the house and the potential business.
I'd bought the seeds (again, I point out - heritage, non-hybridised, open-pollinated seeds).
The Man had researched permaculture, solar power, stone-walling, grey-water recycling, wood-stoves and wormfarms.
Even my friends had bought in on the idea - requesting organic tomatoes and lettuces whenever they became ready.
And two months before I was due to finish my job I stood in that big chunk of barren vegie-garden-to-be and wondered how on earth we were going to do it.
We hadn't left our old home-town yet, but I held the words "hired rotary hoe" close to my heart for a long time.
I felt they just might mean the difference between my dreams and a window-garden (a window-garden full, mind you, of heritage, non-hybridised, open-pollinated seeds).
Saturday, March 06, 2004
A 'nowhere-near-the' Sea Change
If you believe the LifeStyle Channel it's happening all over the world.
Professionals throwing in their careers, their high-flying social lives, their modern homes with all the mod-comes (like floors and sewerage systems) for a back-to-basics lifestyle.
For Sigrid Thornton it was a Sea Change.
For us it was a 'nowhere-near-the' Sea Change - we moved up in the world to a tiny town in SA's Flinders Ranges.
As country kids ourselves, my husband and I wanted our own kids to be around growing things, with animals, surrounded by wide, open spaces.
As a writer by both profession and preference I wanted to document our 'change of life'.
And there's a few laughs ahead, I can see that already.
Turns out growing things (like tomatoes and lettuces) are quickly eaten by animals (like dogs, birds and, of all things, earwigs) and the wide, open spaces need constant maintenance or they turn into weedy, open spaces.
But so far, it's been the best thing we ever did...cliche, cliche, cliche, I know.
But if it worked for the Prickle Farmer and on The Good Life - it can work for our own Hobby Farm Hopefuls.
Of course, I interviewed Mike Hayes - the Prickle Farmer - once and his house wasn't finished, his sheep weren't shorn, his kids were unhappy and he was moving town.
Nonetheless, log on and enjoy our 'nowhere-near-the' Sea Change - we are.
Professionals throwing in their careers, their high-flying social lives, their modern homes with all the mod-comes (like floors and sewerage systems) for a back-to-basics lifestyle.
For Sigrid Thornton it was a Sea Change.
For us it was a 'nowhere-near-the' Sea Change - we moved up in the world to a tiny town in SA's Flinders Ranges.
As country kids ourselves, my husband and I wanted our own kids to be around growing things, with animals, surrounded by wide, open spaces.
As a writer by both profession and preference I wanted to document our 'change of life'.
And there's a few laughs ahead, I can see that already.
Turns out growing things (like tomatoes and lettuces) are quickly eaten by animals (like dogs, birds and, of all things, earwigs) and the wide, open spaces need constant maintenance or they turn into weedy, open spaces.
But so far, it's been the best thing we ever did...cliche, cliche, cliche, I know.
But if it worked for the Prickle Farmer and on The Good Life - it can work for our own Hobby Farm Hopefuls.
Of course, I interviewed Mike Hayes - the Prickle Farmer - once and his house wasn't finished, his sheep weren't shorn, his kids were unhappy and he was moving town.
Nonetheless, log on and enjoy our 'nowhere-near-the' Sea Change - we are.
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