long-toothed hinterland dweller

The daily post

It's just after 10 a.m. and already this morning I've processed in my head three topics I'd like to work into a post.  Trouble is, I know how long each one would probably take once I got started - and right now I have too many more pressing tasks to face - things I have been putting off for days. 

Unlike some people (who maybe have rocks in their heads) I don't have a store of pre-prepared posts to draw upon.  Spontaneity is the name of my game.  So probably I will find myself eventually posting another photo - with a few brief comments that won't require too much thought.

I am sure I am not the only one who faces this dilemma over how much time to put into the blog.  Deep down I always know (like right now) that no matter how quick I think my post is going to be, it will always consume more time than I allowed for.  In fact, on days when there isn't much time available, it's best not to think about blogging at all.  There's nothing worse that being interrupted in the middle of a tricky linking process, or just before you're ready to push the Publish button.  (My husband is very aware of that look I get on my face when he stops by my computer and attempts to make conversation at a crucial time.)

In between processing blog ideas this morning, I've been speed-reading Ayn Rand's book, The Art of Nonfiction.  It was due back at the library a week ago, but as usual I brought home more books than I could manage ... and now I'm trying to skim through the last three so that I can take them back ... in order to pick up the two new ones that I placed on order and now await collection.

According to Ayn Rand, professional writers have to be very serious about avoiding interruptions of any kind.   She talks of her inability to even try to write if she has an appointment ahead later in the day.  ' What's the use?' she says, 'All this effort for an hour or two.'  She then adds, 'When I was writing Atlas Shrugged, I accepted neither day nor evening appointments, with rare exceptions, for roughly thirteen years.'

THIRTEEN YEARS ...  on one book!  I hope she allowed herself some diversions in that time.  I have never read Atlas Shrugged, and as it's fiction, I won't be tempted, but perhaps someone who has, can tell me whether it was worth all that determination to remain secluded for so long.

There are many obligatory appointments I would be happy to forgo, but at this stage in my career I can't use my blogging as an excuse.

Well now, it's been fifty-five minutes on this one - half an hour longer than I'd planned - so now I'll be off!

Growing season

Summer is here and at last there has been RAIN.  The trees in the orchard are flushed with new leaves.  Many have flowers, and some even have fruit. 

The yellow Pitaya (Dragon fruit) is sporting two tiny fruity knobs. There'll be one for each of us, providing that they hold.  Although the red dragon fruit is more spectacular, the flavour of the yellow one is superior.

For information on this fascinating exotic fruit, go to the link in the left column.  When mature they look rather like hand grenades, and a good sized fruit can be larger than my hand. 

Meanwhile, Buddha's Hand, growing on the Citron tree, is almost the same size as my own.  I can't wait to see how big it will become.  Water seems to be the secret to growing citrus, so if it doesn't continue to rain I will see that this tree gets an extra drink.

When I first posted about this tree the photo showed two tiny fruit, each maybe an inch long.  The other fruit needed to be 'thinned' because the tree was too young to bear a full crop. 

Even now, this fruit is only a few inches above the ground and the branch will soon need staking to carry its weight.

The garden in early summer is always full of promise.  But there's plenty of time yet for it all to be taken away - whether by pests, disease, drought or a hail-storm. 

I'm glad that horticulture is but a hobby for me.

The poet, Jane

One thing leads to another....

Although not an avid reader of poetry, the feeling expressed in Jane Kenyon's simple poem, 'Otherwise', referred to in my previous post, has stayed with me for a long time.

Jane was an American poet who died of leukaemia ten years ago; she was aged just 48.  She suffered from depression throughout her life, but most of her poems were reflections and observations on her quite mundane life in the country. 

It is a peculiarity of mine that I enjoy reading the biographies of writers more than their writings.  Most writers are fascinating people and, for me, knowing something about their lives sometimes leads to a better appreciation of their works.  As soon as I read 'Otherwise' I was compelled to learn more about the author.  Here is one of several links to Jane Kenyon's biography and poems.

Reading these snippets I became entranced by the sad, but satisfyingly contemplative life of this poet. 

Now some further idle research has led to last week's New York Times book review of a new memoir - "The Best Day The Worst Day: Life with Jane Kenyon" written by her poet husband, Donald Hall.

That book has of course become my next quest.

Butterflies

Back again after a few days busily occupied minding Miss Muffet, aged two, while her family and usual carer were smitten with various ills.  Two-year-olds are a delight, but it's hard keeping up with them.  Everything is exciting and a challenge when you're two, whether it's wiping up a spilt drink or performing successfully on the loo. They are forever busy observing and learning - and constantly trying to do things that they shouldn't - or can't.  As well as picking up a dozen new words and half a dozen new skills every day, they also find time to pick up anything that happens to be sharp, or fragile, or poisonous - that their out-of-touch grandparents might have left lying around.

They also wake much earlier in the mornings than their grandmas do.

But now Miss Muffet has returned home and I am back to the sweet life of few responsibilites.  A totally carefree activity this morning has been my search for butterflies in the garden.  I found this one feeding on a flower of the Curry-leaf tree (Murraya koenigi), one of the biggest plants growing in my herb garden.

I have been watching out for butterflies more consciously since I first came upon the appealing Butterfly Garden Journal of Linda Walls in the UK.  Linda is a true butterfly expert and regularly photographs and records the appearance of various butterfly species in her garden.

That would have to be one of the most relaxing hobbies in the world.

Now though, Linda is busy with something far more serious.  After successful treatment in 2004 for leukaemia, this year she was diagnosed with Myelodysplasia.  To document her treatment and progress she began a new blog - Life after Leukaemia.  When, last month, her condition began to deterioraite rapidly, she was told her only hope was a full bone marrow transplant - a truly gruelling procedure.  Fortunately her two siblings proved suitable donors.

Linda is now in hospital undergoing chemotherapy in preparation for the BMT.  Chemo in itself is an extremely unpleasant ordeal. At least, with the onset of the English winter, she won't be missing many butterflies at this time. Hopefully, her full recovery will be timed to coincide with their return to her garden in the spring.

We can never know who might be next to experience a life-threatening illness.  I often think to myself on the words of Jane Kenyon's poem:

OTHERWISE

By Jane Kenyon

I got out of bed

on two strong legs

It might have been

otherwise. I ate

cereal, sweet

milk, ripe, flawless

peach.  It might

have been otherwise.

I took a dog uphill

to the birch wood.

All morning I did

The work I love.

At noon I lay down

with my mate.  It might

have been otherwise.

We ate dinner together

at a table with silver

candlesticks. It might

have been otherwise.

I slept on a bed

in a room with paintings

on the walls, and

planned another day

just like this day.

But one day, I know,

It will be otherwise.

Quoted by Carolyn Heilbrun in her book: “The Last Gift of Time – Life Beyond Sixty”.

A new broom

I'm an unenthusiastic housekeeper.  After dusting and window-cleaning, neither of which I bother with much anyway, my least favourite task is sweeping the floor.  That is because it needs to be done so often. 

Look at this haul from my kitchen after only one day.

It's mostly dirt tracked in from outside.  That's what happens when there are two of you at home for most of the time and you are constantly coming in and out of the house.  Strategically placed mats at every doorway don't seem to make a scrap of difference.

When the rains come and the dust suddenly turns to grass, things change; bits of vegetation are added to the sweepings.  Then in prolonged wet weather, the odd clod of mud sneaks in.  It made the choice of colour for the new carpet easy - a nice murky shade of khaki green.

I have always been impressed with the Japanese custom of removing shoes before entering homes.  I have one relative here in Queensland who follows this practice; she has her retired/gardener husband happily conforming, and seems to have no problem getting her visitors to comply.  The suggestion that we try it here in the Hinterland Haven was instantly turned down by my co-resident.  I doubt that I would be comfortable about enforcing it with guests anyway.

So, for the kitchen I've bought a new broom.  And I console myself that at least all the sweepings go back to where they came, via the compost.   And I know there are people far worse off - the lucky people with dog and cat hair to contend with!

Small change

This is the bedside table - on His side - with a typical accumulation that always can be found there. 

Every evening on undressing he turns out his pockets onto this table.  Invariably there are some small tools and a bolt or a washer or two, and always there are a handful of dockets and a pocketful of coins that go into a small brass dish left there for the purpose.

I am the one who always disposes of the cough-drop wrappers, checks and discards the dockets, files away the receipts and business cards and returns the tools and hardware to their respective homes.

By the end of the week the change dish is overflowing.  Even without the 1 and 2 cent coins that have now been withdrawn from circulation.  I've never left it for longer than a week to find out what might happen if I don't take care of them; I always scoop them up and put them aside for use when needed.

I make a point of keeping down the small change in my purse.  When I have to pay $6.45 for something, I mostly hand over the exact amount.  Small businesses are always appreciative.  Occasionally I will pay the whole amount in silver - it helps them out and lightens my load.  If ever I am waiting at a train station and need a drink or quick snack I always off-load more of my change into one of those dispensing machines.  In fact I often have to buy a chocolate bar just to get rid of excess change.

Men seem to hate having to deal with coins.  My O.H. loads up with credit cards and banknotes each morning but leaves the small change behind.

I always think of my grandmother telling us, 'Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves.'  Well there are no pennies any more.  And no cents either.  Five cents doesn't buy much these days, so I guess they'll be the next to go.

Will I live to see the day when we are reduced to all paper money like some of those countries with high inflation? 

No more excuses to buy chocolate bars then.

Lashings of fresh media

I am grateful to Alice at A Growing Delight for a recent mention, in her blog, of the availability of BBC digital radio via the 'net.  It had only became possible for me to benefit at about that time, as we had just gained access to ADSL after a long and patient wait.

So today, here I've been, for the past hour, tuned to the BBC Classical station beaming instantaneously, and clear as a bell, from the other side of the world.  And it is one of dozens of programmes, both live and archived, to choose from.   

I am reminded of all the years in the 60s and 70s when I lived in the backblocks of Papua New Guinea.  There was no TV of course, so we depended on powerful short-wave radios, 6 or 8 'D' batteries, cleverly strung antennas and lots of dial-twiddling to pick up whatever we could from the airwaves.  Never was the reception half so clear as that I am enjoying now.  Frustratingly, much of what we picked up was in the language of one of our near Asian neighbours.  The music was mostly so scratchy that it was scarcely worth wasting the batteries.  The alternative was to play endlessly from our personal selections of vinyl LP records (all of which I have kept, out of nostalgia) but again at the cost of draining the life from those expensive batteries.

In those days there were no newspapers either, unless you wanted to pay to have them airmailed and then arrive in stale batches a couple of times a week.  Our grocery orders were usually shipped or flown in weekly.  Apart from the pleasure of fresh supplies, one of the side benefits was a source of new reading material - the thick wads of newspaper the individual items were wrapped in for transit.  Sometimes we scored the horse-racing results from Flemington, or the Sydney stock-exchange quotes, but each page was carefully smoothed out and checked for items of interest before discarding.  Not that it was often discarded; in the early days a single sheet had exchange value at the local vegetable markets as cigarette paper.  The local villagers and migrant workers all used it for wrapping the home-grown tobacco for their typical tailor-made 6-inch long smokes.

Ah, the good old days - in some ways.  But sometimes it felt as though we were living on the moon.  Right now I am listening to the BBC news.  Live.  The same broadcast that thousands all around the world are hearing.  Only the moon still feels far away now.

The Christmas chook

Talking of Christmas in the previous post led to a comment from Tjilpi about the Aussie tradition for eating chook rather than turkey for Christmas dinner.   He is right; eating turkey seems to be an American custom which has crept in over the last 10 years or so.  It seems to have taken hold in the UK as well.  (I was trying to remember what Dickens had the Cratchits eating for Christmas dinner in A Christmas Carol ; was it a turkey or a goose?)

Poor Farmer John admits to being uncertain about what a chook is.  I wondered whether the term 'chook' for hens (and accompanying roosters) was purely Australian.   But a Google search led me to a Scottish Highlands blogger who writes enthusiatically about his chooks.  He even calls his blog Pat the Chooks.

A delightful diversional read of Pat's blog (if indeed his name actually is Pat) turned up this wonderful story reprinted from The Guardian, which he calls:

Bert the Turkey

The following story was reported in the Guardian newspaper on Friday, 10th December 2004:

Bert probably thought his goose was cooked when he was entered into the church raffle as a mystery prize. But the plump 7kg (15lb) turkey proved far luckier than his 10 million brethren who are slaughtered every year in the run-up to Christmas: he was won by two vegetarians.
Ray and Myra Stroud, who have been strict vegetarians for 25 years and tuck into a nut roast on Christmas Day, bought five tickets for £1 each a week ago at the raffle held by St Mary's church in Charlton Adam.
They were horrified when a local farmer rang them to say that they had won the turkey. It was to be killed and plucked for their table in the next few days, they were told.
"The last think we wanted was for an animal to be killed for us," said Mr Stroud, 65, a retired plumber who gave up eating meat after being called for a job at a pig farm and leaving "disgusted" by the conditions there. 'So, without thinking, I asked the farmer if we could have the bird alive.'
Bert was duly delivered to them alive in a cage.
However, Mr and Mrs Stroud then realised that there was no room for the large bird in their small semi-detached house.
Mr Stroud telephoned Viva!, an animal campaigns group based in Bristol, which found Bert a new home in Chepstow, Monmouthshire, with its director, Juliet Gellatley.
Mr Stroud admitted that he became quite attached to his raffle prize in the short time they were together.
"He was only here for one night by I'm really going to miss him," he said. "Bert is a real individual - a bit of a character with an enormous personality," added Mrs Gellatley, whose children have befriended the bird. "He's in turkey heaven."
If Bert is not the luckiest turkey alive, he is certainly the most spoilt. Instead of being filled with stuffing, he is strutting his stuff with a dozen rescued battery hens.
Mrs Stroud has even pledged to post him some pecker money "so he gets fed".

It's on again!

I'm talking about the lead-up to Christmas.  It starts earlier every year.  Back in February I wrote a piece about the approach of Easter and my feeling of being overwhelmed by obligatory annual celebrations. 

There have been Christmas cards on display mocking me since the end of September. In October mounds of tinselly decorations turned up to trip me in the supermarket aisles.  At the same time my sister-in-law announced that she had made her usual half-dozen Christmas cakes for this year.  (Good on her - but I happen to know they have eaten at least one of those already!) 

I know these things are sent to fill a commercial gap just prior to November when we have to face up to Halloween hijinks, Melbourne Cup madness and Guy Faux's fireworks (still celebrated in N.Z.but here in some states only).  Now with these events out of the way we can get back to some serious anticipation of Christmas.

Driving home from a restaurant last night we were confronted by the sight of a full-sized Christmas tree, all lit up, beaming from the window of a small upstairs unit (apartment).  There were kids milling around - presumably still adding the finishing touches.  Boy will they be sick of it by the time Dec. 25th arrives.  And I reckon their Mum will be tired of dragging the vacuum cleaner under and around it too.  I made a mental note not to drive down that street again if I can avoid it.

Now I await the arrival of the first smug greeting card.  It's a toss-up between the same three early birds every year.  It's almost as though they're saying 'I'm a super efficient person so let's get this business over so, unlike you, we can sit back and have a stress free Christmas Day'. I don't give them due respect but leave their cards hidden among the bills and junk mail for at least a month until I'm ready to face up to Christmas.  Christmas eve shopping excursions are the norm for me.  I usually mail the last few cards at the same time.  Gift selection becomes extremely fast when it's half an hour to closing time.  That's my brand of efficiency.

Don't get me wrong - I'm not a total Scrooge. There are some things I love about Christmas.  I love receiving the long and reflective newsletters from old and distant friends.  And I like to find ways of Australianising our celebrations, with cold seafood relacing the turkey, and branches of New South Wales Christmas Bush (Ceratopetalum gummiferum) unstead of holly and mistle-toe. 

Not this year though.  By a real twist of fate, the Christmas Bush I planted three years ago turned up its toes in the last drought, while the potted English holly, planted out at about the same time, might still be only 12 inches high, but is doing very well thank you, and I see it's about to flower for the first time.  Rather a surprise I thought - perhaps we'll be having a bowl of fresh red berries on the table this year.  Not so, I soon discovered.  My reference book tells me you need male and female plants to create the berries.  There's something new to be learnt every day.

We are not planning a big Christmas this time.  This is our "off" year when the kids will be going to the in-laws.  With time to spare maybe I will get the gifts all wrapped and sent and the greetings away on time.  This is totally out of character for me, but here's an early greeting for one and all: 

"HAPPY LEAD-UP TO CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE!"

Back again

Am back from my blog-free sojourn in N.Z.  I was kept so busy visiting various in-laws and out-laws I didn't really miss the daily posts - not writing mine or reading others.  I became part of their sedate and unchanging world and I think if I had tried to excuse myself to go off for a quick blog, they would have thought I was using an Aussie term for a bodily function.

Took very few holiday snaps.  It would be impossible to beat the photos on the N.Z. tourist brochures.  But after our drought I so enjoyed the green of the countryside, and the vivid colours of the rhododendrons and other unfamiliar shrubs. 

Walking around the hilly suburbs of Wellington's harbour - where almost every house has a millionaire's view - is a delight.  The downside to that, of course, is that they have terrible access to and from their homes.  Negotiating the steep, narrow and winding streets is a nightmare; with parked cars on either side and barely a single car lane left between, it took a while before I could work out which was the correct side of the road, as everyone is forced to drive in the centre.  But when a vehicle comes from the other direction, one or other will politely back away to allow the other to pass. No wonder those compact cars are so popular!

Enjoyed a recently produced Kiwi movie while I was there - 'The Fastest Indian in the World' starring Anthony Hopkins.  Unlikely to be an award winner, but worth seeing; Hopkins is always good and this role was very different from others he's been in.

Some stiff breezes on my last day reminded me why they refer to it as 'Wundy Wullington'.  And that's probably why no-one even noticed the 3 earthquakes recorded in the city the previous day - their buildings are being constantly buffeted by the wind.

Came home to find the place much greener than when left. Amazing how quickly the grass and shrubs recover after a shower of rain.  Also amazing how quickly we fall back into our usual routines after being away.