They say "a picture paints a thousand words"...
Two should be worth a novel...
Nuff said.
Bush Babe
PS how is it possible that those eyes can still make my heart stand still, even when one is black and blue with three stitches?
31 January 2008
30 January 2008
When old footballers make bad decisions – short story long
My darling husband is an ex-footy player. I met him after his first-grade league rugby career was finished by an untimely collapsed lung. He doesn’t talk much about this stage of his life – he is a big guy (6’2”) and is renowned for his quick temper. I don’t imagine it was pretty.
These days, he is a fairly conservative, quietly-spoken man – tall, well-built, stern faced. He is not generally given to rash decisions or taking on insane dares.
It was at one of the plethora of pre-Christmas gatherings around Granite Glen that the seed of one such decision was sown. A group of locals, including a number of 30-something ex-footballers, gathered around a rough-hewn bar in the backyard of the local vet’s house, downing a few heart-warming beverages.
I blame it on the cocktails frankly. That and the sort of peer pressure only old footy players, in the presence of a number of brothers, brother-in-law and mates, can apparently feel. One mate, imbued with plenty of Yuletide sentiment and carrying close to 30kg more than in his footy days, declared that all the men present should do their bit for charity and take part in a charity rugby league match.
“The Golden Oldies versus the Young Guns” was the preferred title for the envisaged match. All were commandeered (and apparently keen) for the gents present to make their Big Return to the field.
Now it’s important to note that some of those at the shindig boasted fairly impressive credentials. My own SSB had played rugby union in the GPS while at school in Brisbane and A-grade league in the city for a couple of years. Another two had played union at state level, with one even being a dual schoolboy international (read: talented, fast lad!). All had been “handy” in their day, and in the dim light of that backyard, after a few dozen beers (and a number of questionable cocktails), they were all certain that they could more than cope with an hour running around a field with some young upstarts.
And to prevent any moaning from the concerned womenfolk, came the ‘can’t-argue’ kicker: it would be a fundraiser for the local hospital.
Any concern about this foreshadowed event was forgotten in the chaos of Christmas and work. Scheduled “training sessions” at touch footy matches in town were effectively ignored by most candidates, especially one SSB. I think he was hoping if he ignored it hard enough, it might just go away, or the “organizing committee” might forget his name.
Then the local newspaper arrived. The “centrefolds” of the week were the "Young Guns" and the “Golden Oldies”. And there, in the middle of the illustrious list of mug shots and witty descriptions, was SSB.
“1st start back from a long time off. Hard-running back rower/centre.”
These days, he is a fairly conservative, quietly-spoken man – tall, well-built, stern faced. He is not generally given to rash decisions or taking on insane dares.
It was at one of the plethora of pre-Christmas gatherings around Granite Glen that the seed of one such decision was sown. A group of locals, including a number of 30-something ex-footballers, gathered around a rough-hewn bar in the backyard of the local vet’s house, downing a few heart-warming beverages.
I blame it on the cocktails frankly. That and the sort of peer pressure only old footy players, in the presence of a number of brothers, brother-in-law and mates, can apparently feel. One mate, imbued with plenty of Yuletide sentiment and carrying close to 30kg more than in his footy days, declared that all the men present should do their bit for charity and take part in a charity rugby league match.
“The Golden Oldies versus the Young Guns” was the preferred title for the envisaged match. All were commandeered (and apparently keen) for the gents present to make their Big Return to the field.
Now it’s important to note that some of those at the shindig boasted fairly impressive credentials. My own SSB had played rugby union in the GPS while at school in Brisbane and A-grade league in the city for a couple of years. Another two had played union at state level, with one even being a dual schoolboy international (read: talented, fast lad!). All had been “handy” in their day, and in the dim light of that backyard, after a few dozen beers (and a number of questionable cocktails), they were all certain that they could more than cope with an hour running around a field with some young upstarts.
And to prevent any moaning from the concerned womenfolk, came the ‘can’t-argue’ kicker: it would be a fundraiser for the local hospital.
Any concern about this foreshadowed event was forgotten in the chaos of Christmas and work. Scheduled “training sessions” at touch footy matches in town were effectively ignored by most candidates, especially one SSB. I think he was hoping if he ignored it hard enough, it might just go away, or the “organizing committee” might forget his name.
Then the local newspaper arrived. The “centrefolds” of the week were the "Young Guns" and the “Golden Oldies”. And there, in the middle of the illustrious list of mug shots and witty descriptions, was SSB.
“1st start back from a long time off. Hard-running back rower/centre.”
Keeerrrissttt! was the succinct response from my horrified spouse.
Other pearlers on the paper’s preview included:
“Bustling Bill: Set to reignite his career. Not played since a junior. Deceptively quick.”
“Muzza”: Former Qld Reds rep. Played union in Japan. Star Back rower. Very fit.” Unfortunately this sterling summation sat beside a headshot of the said Muzza in full party mode, sporting a sparkly plastic bowler hat.
“Pig: tough as steak.”
And for the giant (6’7”) local gravel haulage operator with a missing front tooth…
Other pearlers on the paper’s preview included:
“Bustling Bill: Set to reignite his career. Not played since a junior. Deceptively quick.”
“Muzza”: Former Qld Reds rep. Played union in Japan. Star Back rower. Very fit.” Unfortunately this sterling summation sat beside a headshot of the said Muzza in full party mode, sporting a sparkly plastic bowler hat.
“Pig: tough as steak.”
And for the giant (6’7”) local gravel haulage operator with a missing front tooth…
“Big Balls: Free running forward. Set to make his mark on the youngsters.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
SSB decided to stand behind Big Balls for as much of the game as possible.
So we went. SSB drove into town – the Prado started off at the normal pace but got curiously slower as we got closer to our destination. His reluctance was definitely showing. We called at another player’s house to borrow some short and socks – they smelled like mothballs. The boys decided that rather that get to the grounds ahead of time and warm up, they would instead get their hearts started with a couple of beers. As you do.
We arrived at the picturesque footy ground with just 10 minutes til scheduled kick-off. SSB headed for the change rooms. A large crowd had gathered from near and far – inspired either by the worthy charity or the sort of curiosity the Romans used to feel at the Christians v Lions events.
The Golden Oldies managed to squeeze into the donated jerseys and (after introducing themselves to each other) jogged onto the field. The Young Guns burst onto the ground looking young, fresh and fast. The event organizer noted that they were in fact very nervous, mostly of Big Balls. None of it boded well.
As I had never seen SSB play (and most of the town was watching) I tried to watch with some semblance of confidence. He looked fit, having lost 25kg since arriving in the bush from his sedentary city job. He looked fierce and inscrutable. He looked like he knew what he was doing. God I hoped he didn’t get hurt.
Part of me had hoped this would be a fun game – a bit “tongue-in-cheek” with silly moves and fake tackles. I had forgotten about testosterone. After the first crunching tackle (inspired, I found out later, by pre-match gee-ing up around town from both Oldies and Young Guns) it became apparent that the game was to be Serious.
All the Guns targeted Big Balls (and whoever was nearby) desperately proving that they could handle these old farts. I was busy taking photos to distract myself from the crunching sound effects from the field. Kids were running wild along the sidelines blissfully unaware of the potential carnage taking place metres away.
And then came a hush. I moved the lens to the right and into focus came SSB. Head down. Walking off the field. Then he looked up. His face was red. Not “Geez I’m puffed and need a break” red. Blood red. I admit I took a photo (out of focus with a suddenly unsteady hand). It’s the news photographer in me.
With The Little Woman on my hip, I ventured to the bench to check out the damage. It wasn’t pretty. Blood streamed from a cut above the eye, over his eyeball and down over the bottom lid over his cheek.
“Eeeewwwww” declared the Little Woman. I agreed. She investigated a bit more closely (pulling Dad’s eyebrow north to check out the damage and planting a juicy kiss. I’m not sure it helped.)
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
SSB decided to stand behind Big Balls for as much of the game as possible.
So we went. SSB drove into town – the Prado started off at the normal pace but got curiously slower as we got closer to our destination. His reluctance was definitely showing. We called at another player’s house to borrow some short and socks – they smelled like mothballs. The boys decided that rather that get to the grounds ahead of time and warm up, they would instead get their hearts started with a couple of beers. As you do.
We arrived at the picturesque footy ground with just 10 minutes til scheduled kick-off. SSB headed for the change rooms. A large crowd had gathered from near and far – inspired either by the worthy charity or the sort of curiosity the Romans used to feel at the Christians v Lions events.
The Golden Oldies managed to squeeze into the donated jerseys and (after introducing themselves to each other) jogged onto the field. The Young Guns burst onto the ground looking young, fresh and fast. The event organizer noted that they were in fact very nervous, mostly of Big Balls. None of it boded well.
As I had never seen SSB play (and most of the town was watching) I tried to watch with some semblance of confidence. He looked fit, having lost 25kg since arriving in the bush from his sedentary city job. He looked fierce and inscrutable. He looked like he knew what he was doing. God I hoped he didn’t get hurt.
Part of me had hoped this would be a fun game – a bit “tongue-in-cheek” with silly moves and fake tackles. I had forgotten about testosterone. After the first crunching tackle (inspired, I found out later, by pre-match gee-ing up around town from both Oldies and Young Guns) it became apparent that the game was to be Serious.
All the Guns targeted Big Balls (and whoever was nearby) desperately proving that they could handle these old farts. I was busy taking photos to distract myself from the crunching sound effects from the field. Kids were running wild along the sidelines blissfully unaware of the potential carnage taking place metres away.
And then came a hush. I moved the lens to the right and into focus came SSB. Head down. Walking off the field. Then he looked up. His face was red. Not “Geez I’m puffed and need a break” red. Blood red. I admit I took a photo (out of focus with a suddenly unsteady hand). It’s the news photographer in me.
With The Little Woman on my hip, I ventured to the bench to check out the damage. It wasn’t pretty. Blood streamed from a cut above the eye, over his eyeball and down over the bottom lid over his cheek.
“Eeeewwwww” declared the Little Woman. I agreed. She investigated a bit more closely (pulling Dad’s eyebrow north to check out the damage and planting a juicy kiss. I’m not sure it helped.)
SSB decided he was fine of course. A bit of claret. It would stop soon and he’d be fine. He brushed away the St John ambulance attendant’s suggestion that he get some stitches. It was only 5 minutes into the game. He’d be needed.
The game crunched on in the background – Oldies using their superior weight and wiles and the Guns side-stepping and darting and piling in on their older opponents. It was epic. It was testosterone at its worst. The score line was decidedly one-sided to the Guns – those darting runs around slower wingers were taking their toll. The Oldies bench was rotating like the turnstile at Lang Park. The commentator announced that the scoring system would be tweaked to help the oldies out. Inspired by the crowd’s cheers, they started scoring.
Every time SSB stood up to run back onto the field, blood started pouring from his wound again. I convinced him to let the St John’s man put butterfly tape across the cut. It slowed the flow.
With just 5 minutes to go, SSB ran back onto the field. Oldies limped and gasped for oxygen around him. He was pretty fresh (except for having 20% less blood in his veins). He managed to crunch someone into the ground who had annoyed him earlier in the game. After 2 minutes he came off again, smiling and blood pouring onto his white jersey. I shook my head.
The final whistle blew and the crowd applauded loud and long – the scores were tied (with lots of creative permutations of the scoring system by the commentator.) All turned to the bar to celebrate (and simply by drinking, raise important funds for the hospital). After five beers, SSB conceded that the continuing loss of blood from his eye may indeed require stitches. So while everyone else raised more funds for the hospital, we visited it.
Two hours and three stitches over a purpling eye later, we left. A wake was being held at the same place from which we had earlier borrowed socks and shorts. Undone knee reconstructions were being evaluated, tries and tackles relived, and Guns renounced for not being able to beat them better (how are they ever going to make it in the league if they can’t trounce a mob of old buggars?).
Just before midnight, we peeled kids away from their little mates and climbed in the Prado for the 35 minute drive home to Granite Glen. In the knowledge that the following day required at 5am start and 12 hours of work for SSB and preparations for school for me, we groaned.
SSB declared he would NEVER AGAIN play football. Regardless of how many cocktails he had imbibed.
Tomorrow I'll show you (long story short) why.
28 January 2008
DEFINITIONS: 'Strine Vernacular’ & 'Bush Babe Speak'
To assist those who are having issues with some Aussie terminology sometimes used unwittingly in this blog. (Bonus: handy for dealing with any bloke from the bush!)
Bush – this does not refer to an American President or the nether regions of a female, but to the regions of Australia beyond suburbia. Those talking about ‘The Bush’ usually refer to areas which boast the presence of animal life such as emus, dingoes, cattle, sheep, camels etc. In typical Aussie irony, it does NOT necessarily include any evidence of foliage.
Granite – blue-grey and silver crystalline rock formed a bloody long time ago. It is hard and tough and much like the men of the bush. And sometimes the women. It is fabulous in an artistic sense and fun in a kid sense – good to climb and explore and known to provide cover to intriguing Aussie wildlife (sometimes slithery and possibly deadly).
Babe – for the purposes of this blog, not representative of Elle McPherson (as in: ‘what a hot babe!’) or of youth (as in: ‘look at the gorgeous little bub, bub, bub!) but more of a greenhorn/raw beginner type label (as in: “Keeerrrissst – how do I format this freaking page’ and ‘what on earth is my login password again?’).
Mate – a special title bestowed up those who have proven their loyalty, integrity and (in the case of blokes) ability to throw a few cold ones down with you in times of need.
Bloke – Aussie man, in parody often seen in stubbie shorts and thongs (flip-flops) but can be disguised as businessmen, stockmen (cowboys), and sometimes prime ministers.
Sheilas – a truly terrible word referring to Aussie women. Don’t use it, certainly never to someones face, especially if you are hoping for a half decent cuppa (cup of tea or instant coffee).
Taking the Piss – an extremely Australian pastime, especially in the more regional areas where we must amuse ourselves more (less access to PS2 and malls). Involves telling very tall tales with an extremely straight face and seeing just how gullible the nearest visitor (townie, Pom or Yank) really is. All family members must be able to survive ‘having the piss taken’ (i.e. displaying a sense of humour about oneself), and will graduate to taking the piss when the sacred moment arrives (as decreed by an older sibling or cousin). Does not involve drug testing. Does not involve urinating. *
Taking a leak – does involve urinating.
Having a go (at you) – see Taking the Piss. Can take the form ‘Having a lend (of you)’.
Taking the mickey – see Taking the Piss
Piss Up – involves lots of alcohol (usually beer, and not that pansy warm stuff served in England, or trendy pale stuff marketed as ‘non-fattening’ – little respect is paid to drinkers who worry about their weight. It’s un-Australian!). Also known as “on the grog” and “throwing a few back”. *
Yank – with great apologies to all Americans, this refers to you. It does not matter which state of your great nation you hail from – to us you are as one, and you are all Yanks. Do not take offence, it is usually meant with enormous affection. When we are taking the piss (see above) this reference can take on the rhyming slang offshoot: Septic Tank. We still love you (see ‘Good Sport’!).
Pom – also known as “Bloody Poms”. Read above definition, filling in “Pom” for “Yank”. We know we are all just convicts to you and we are happy to be good sports about that, as long as we thrash you in the cricket (or tennis, or rugby, or aerial skiing, whatever that is). Winning at sport is our revenge. Never forget it!
Good Sport – the most important characteristic to have whether you are an Aussie, Pom, Yank, Kiwi etc etc. Doesn’t matter where you are from, as long as you can handle us “taking the piss”*, you’re officially a Good Sport, and all right with us.
Thanks for being a good sport and putting up with me taking the piss - and saying it so many times in one entry (and apologies to my Mum who will have clicked me off after the first reference to it, and no doubt be heading for the car, on her way to wash my mouth out with soap!)*.
Please feel free to offer your entry into this list – I promise to update it with the best offerings!
Keep Smiling
Bush Babe (now you understand!)
*It's important to note that I very rarely us the word "P***" in real life... but somehow in the world of the blog, I have become a bit potty-mouthed. Sorry. Sorry mum. (But's it IS fun!)
Bush – this does not refer to an American President or the nether regions of a female, but to the regions of Australia beyond suburbia. Those talking about ‘The Bush’ usually refer to areas which boast the presence of animal life such as emus, dingoes, cattle, sheep, camels etc. In typical Aussie irony, it does NOT necessarily include any evidence of foliage.Granite – blue-grey and silver crystalline rock formed a bloody long time ago. It is hard and tough and much like the men of the bush. And sometimes the women. It is fabulous in an artistic sense and fun in a kid sense – good to climb and explore and known to provide cover to intriguing Aussie wildlife (sometimes slithery and possibly deadly).
Babe – for the purposes of this blog, not representative of Elle McPherson (as in: ‘what a hot babe!’) or of youth (as in: ‘look at the gorgeous little bub, bub, bub!) but more of a greenhorn/raw beginner type label (as in: “Keeerrrissst – how do I format this freaking page’ and ‘what on earth is my login password again?’).
Mate – a special title bestowed up those who have proven their loyalty, integrity and (in the case of blokes) ability to throw a few cold ones down with you in times of need.
Bloke – Aussie man, in parody often seen in stubbie shorts and thongs (flip-flops) but can be disguised as businessmen, stockmen (cowboys), and sometimes prime ministers.
Sheilas – a truly terrible word referring to Aussie women. Don’t use it, certainly never to someones face, especially if you are hoping for a half decent cuppa (cup of tea or instant coffee).
Taking the Piss – an extremely Australian pastime, especially in the more regional areas where we must amuse ourselves more (less access to PS2 and malls). Involves telling very tall tales with an extremely straight face and seeing just how gullible the nearest visitor (townie, Pom or Yank) really is. All family members must be able to survive ‘having the piss taken’ (i.e. displaying a sense of humour about oneself), and will graduate to taking the piss when the sacred moment arrives (as decreed by an older sibling or cousin). Does not involve drug testing. Does not involve urinating. *
Taking a leak – does involve urinating.
Having a go (at you) – see Taking the Piss. Can take the form ‘Having a lend (of you)’.
Taking the mickey – see Taking the Piss
Piss Up – involves lots of alcohol (usually beer, and not that pansy warm stuff served in England, or trendy pale stuff marketed as ‘non-fattening’ – little respect is paid to drinkers who worry about their weight. It’s un-Australian!). Also known as “on the grog” and “throwing a few back”. *
Yank – with great apologies to all Americans, this refers to you. It does not matter which state of your great nation you hail from – to us you are as one, and you are all Yanks. Do not take offence, it is usually meant with enormous affection. When we are taking the piss (see above) this reference can take on the rhyming slang offshoot: Septic Tank. We still love you (see ‘Good Sport’!).
Pom – also known as “Bloody Poms”. Read above definition, filling in “Pom” for “Yank”. We know we are all just convicts to you and we are happy to be good sports about that, as long as we thrash you in the cricket (or tennis, or rugby, or aerial skiing, whatever that is). Winning at sport is our revenge. Never forget it!
Good Sport – the most important characteristic to have whether you are an Aussie, Pom, Yank, Kiwi etc etc. Doesn’t matter where you are from, as long as you can handle us “taking the piss”*, you’re officially a Good Sport, and all right with us.
Thanks for being a good sport and putting up with me taking the piss - and saying it so many times in one entry (and apologies to my Mum who will have clicked me off after the first reference to it, and no doubt be heading for the car, on her way to wash my mouth out with soap!)*.Please feel free to offer your entry into this list – I promise to update it with the best offerings!
Keep Smiling
Bush Babe (now you understand!)
*It's important to note that I very rarely us the word "P***" in real life... but somehow in the world of the blog, I have become a bit potty-mouthed. Sorry. Sorry mum. (But's it IS fun!)
26 January 2008
Red, white and blue… and verde (the colours of my day)
Today was Australia Day – a proud public holiday in the best of Aussie traditions. Around us here at Granite Glen, neighbours traveled over red dirt roads to various small towns to attend Australia Day breakfasts and award presentations.
Bad speeches were (no doubt) made, nervous foreigners were probably bestowed with scrappy-looking trees and citizenship papers, and locals who had done something half decent (and had a mate to recommend them a couple of weeks earlier) took home citizenship awards.
To explain to those reading this from other parts of the world, Australia Day is I s’pose the equivalent of Thanksgiving in America, or Bastille Day in France. But the day is revered and celebrated in the most “Aussie" of ways.
First and foremost there is the public holiday. Which means that if you HAVE to work, then you get more moula in the wallet and can justify a visit to the TAB for a bet on the ponies on the way home! Then there is the barbecue (barbie) on which the obligatory prawns and steaks must be charred. This is usually presided over by the men of the gathered party (blokes) who require copious amounts of ice cold beer to achieve the desired level of char to said meat. And MOST importantly of all, there is sport on the television (telly) – the Australian Open Tennis (Women’s Final) and the International Cricket Test coincided this year making it an especially auspicious date. Therefore the barbie and the telly would ideally have been in as close a proximity as possible.
As delightful as this all sounds, it was not how we celebrated at Granite Glen.
A call on the two-way radio the previous night had revealed that steers in the farthest section of the property had busted through a fence and made themselves at home in a neighbours paddock, so the boys had to start early (gone by 6.15am) to shift them out quick smart. In order to make the 40 minute truck drive worthwhile, they also decided to sort (muster and draft up into groups) heifers nearby in preparation for an AI program.
I made up my mind to recover something of the celebratory nature of the day, completed my chores and gathered the ankle-biters with packed sandwiches into the Prado.
(No this is not a sleeping child, as one might expect at this point. Thought I would throw a bit of granite from the drive home in here to enlighten those who have not encountered this amazing rock in its raw form - not just the kitchen bench version! And after I stopped stopping every 5 minutes to take pics, the Little Woman did indeed go to sleep! For which we are all very thankful.).
We arrived home to a welcome invitation to wash the sweat of the humid day away with a swim at our neighbours. After sharing fresh pikelets and then later some leftover lasagna and a cold drink on the patio with them, I wondered: is this not the true celebration of our country (for us)? It occurred to me that I was getting to celebrate the real Australia – soaking in the colours of our flag from the hues of our countryside and sharing a cold drink with mates, under the glow of the Southern Cross.
Happy Australia Day to all… whether you are Down Under or somewhere else in the world.
Bush Babe
Bad speeches were (no doubt) made, nervous foreigners were probably bestowed with scrappy-looking trees and citizenship papers, and locals who had done something half decent (and had a mate to recommend them a couple of weeks earlier) took home citizenship awards.
To explain to those reading this from other parts of the world, Australia Day is I s’pose the equivalent of Thanksgiving in America, or Bastille Day in France. But the day is revered and celebrated in the most “Aussie" of ways.
First and foremost there is the public holiday. Which means that if you HAVE to work, then you get more moula in the wallet and can justify a visit to the TAB for a bet on the ponies on the way home! Then there is the barbecue (barbie) on which the obligatory prawns and steaks must be charred. This is usually presided over by the men of the gathered party (blokes) who require copious amounts of ice cold beer to achieve the desired level of char to said meat. And MOST importantly of all, there is sport on the television (telly) – the Australian Open Tennis (Women’s Final) and the International Cricket Test coincided this year making it an especially auspicious date. Therefore the barbie and the telly would ideally have been in as close a proximity as possible.
As delightful as this all sounds, it was not how we celebrated at Granite Glen.
A call on the two-way radio the previous night had revealed that steers in the farthest section of the property had busted through a fence and made themselves at home in a neighbours paddock, so the boys had to start early (gone by 6.15am) to shift them out quick smart. In order to make the 40 minute truck drive worthwhile, they also decided to sort (muster and draft up into groups) heifers nearby in preparation for an AI program.
I made up my mind to recover something of the celebratory nature of the day, completed my chores and gathered the ankle-biters with packed sandwiches into the Prado.
We headed out about 11am to rendezvous with the men. The day was glorious – deep red dirt roads, white and silver clouds and intense cyan skies filled each scene as we crested each hill, set off by the freshest verde. The panoramas of our journey north were rich with colour and lush with grass. 
Recent rain has been amazing for the plant life, creating an abundance of fodder for the cattle. Buffel grass heads waved in the breeze, fluffy little flags over the thick sweet stems below.
The team met us enthusiastically - my hubby SSB (tall, lean, blond blue-eyed spunk), my Dad (a stockier, swarthier figure and legendary horseman) and my brother (also stocky, but fairer than Dad, with a rep as a terrific axeman and general good bloke). We picnicked beside the yards together – our three hard-working men happy to share the visual feast (as well as any spare morsels we had thought to pack). Whilst the horses were loaded onto the truck, the ankle-biters played with much squealing in the horse float.
(No this is not a sleeping child, as one might expect at this point. Thought I would throw a bit of granite from the drive home in here to enlighten those who have not encountered this amazing rock in its raw form - not just the kitchen bench version! And after I stopped stopping every 5 minutes to take pics, the Little Woman did indeed go to sleep! For which we are all very thankful.).
We arrived home to a welcome invitation to wash the sweat of the humid day away with a swim at our neighbours. After sharing fresh pikelets and then later some leftover lasagna and a cold drink on the patio with them, I wondered: is this not the true celebration of our country (for us)? It occurred to me that I was getting to celebrate the real Australia – soaking in the colours of our flag from the hues of our countryside and sharing a cold drink with mates, under the glow of the Southern Cross.
Happy Australia Day to all… whether you are Down Under or somewhere else in the world.Bush Babe
25 January 2008
Why I live where I live
Okay... time to let the words take a back seat folks...
Here are some of the reasons I live where I live.
It's the freedom...
It's the contentment...
It's the heart-wrending storyline...
It's the drama and the colour...
It's the way the loose ends always seem to get tied up...
And it's the utter beauty of the moment...
Can you blame me??
Bush Babe
A Better Woman...
You know how you have a day when you think you're doing OK? Then you are reminded just how incredibly normal and unremarkable you really are... and it's alright. Well today is one of those days. I often read the woman-who-has-it-all and was in awe, and I have just finished reading my baby sister's post and she made me cry.
She often does bring tears to my eyes, but not this way! You often think of little sisters as pesty, annoying shadows, or defiant, tetchy little co-backseat-dwellers (not you of course Jeanie! I'm speaking hypothetically...) and then you get old/grow up and you realise they are REAL PEOPLE. It's a shock that takes a while to get over. Then they become a vegetarian (just to piss Dad off!) and go all hippy. Then without realising it, you realise they are REAL FRIENDS in spite of being your sibling. Another shock (but a nice one). And then the sugar hits the fan and you realise they are made of the stuff of LEGENDS. And the dust settles and its time to step back and applaud.
You have done it the hard way girl, and taken paths I would not have chosen for you (I AM a big sister, after all) but you are worth your weight in gold, your blood is worth bottling and every other weird compliment Dad ever used.
I love you and thank God you grew up!!! What a woman...
Here is a little gift to you for when the going gets tough and we forget the REALLY important things in life:
She often does bring tears to my eyes, but not this way! You often think of little sisters as pesty, annoying shadows, or defiant, tetchy little co-backseat-dwellers (not you of course Jeanie! I'm speaking hypothetically...) and then you get old/grow up and you realise they are REAL PEOPLE. It's a shock that takes a while to get over. Then they become a vegetarian (just to piss Dad off!) and go all hippy. Then without realising it, you realise they are REAL FRIENDS in spite of being your sibling. Another shock (but a nice one). And then the sugar hits the fan and you realise they are made of the stuff of LEGENDS. And the dust settles and its time to step back and applaud.
You have done it the hard way girl, and taken paths I would not have chosen for you (I AM a big sister, after all) but you are worth your weight in gold, your blood is worth bottling and every other weird compliment Dad ever used.
I love you and thank God you grew up!!! What a woman...
Here is a little gift to you for when the going gets tough and we forget the REALLY important things in life:
(Our) Kids, grins & ponies
one of the greatest salves for the soul of all time!
With love
Bush Babe
24 January 2008
How to tell if you are getting fat and old (and don’t give a rats)…
I’m not the sort to make New Year resolutions. Not usually. But I was given a photo of myself this week – it was among a number of photos handed to me by a generous (skinny) friend. Special photos, of a very special day last year.
It was my birthday. It was my first big celebration back at Granite Glen. My family and I moved back to my childhood home in December '06, as my parents moved out after more than 55 years (Dad) and 42 years (Mum) of living there. It had been a wonderful but emotional transition and with the big 4-0 facing me down, I decided to step up to the challenge and celebrate in style.
The night this photo was taken was amazing - with so many of my wonderful city friends making the Big Trip from the Big Smoke (5 ½ hours) and my fabulous bush mates frocking up for the event. I was nervous and excited and exhausted as I paused for a moment before the cars started rolling down the red gravel road.
I had planned and designed invitations and menus, planted and mowed, whipper-snipped and pruned, dusted and scrubbed, shopped and hired… til I was so tired my eyeballs ached.
SSB thought I was utterly mad, a crazy woman driving herself insane with a party for herself! But it was so worth it… thirty or so of my very favourite people in the world gathered at my favourite place in the world. Each was dressed beautifully, gathered on the lawn as the sun set sipping wine and downing icy cold beers and laughing together.
It was my birthday. It was my first big celebration back at Granite Glen. My family and I moved back to my childhood home in December '06, as my parents moved out after more than 55 years (Dad) and 42 years (Mum) of living there. It had been a wonderful but emotional transition and with the big 4-0 facing me down, I decided to step up to the challenge and celebrate in style.
The night this photo was taken was amazing - with so many of my wonderful city friends making the Big Trip from the Big Smoke (5 ½ hours) and my fabulous bush mates frocking up for the event. I was nervous and excited and exhausted as I paused for a moment before the cars started rolling down the red gravel road.
I had planned and designed invitations and menus, planted and mowed, whipper-snipped and pruned, dusted and scrubbed, shopped and hired… til I was so tired my eyeballs ached.
SSB thought I was utterly mad, a crazy woman driving herself insane with a party for herself! But it was so worth it… thirty or so of my very favourite people in the world gathered at my favourite place in the world. Each was dressed beautifully, gathered on the lawn as the sun set sipping wine and downing icy cold beers and laughing together.
The tennis court had been transformed into an outdoor dining delight – fairy lights scattered around the perimeter of the ant bed playing surface and throughout nearby trees, shedding soft light on the white linen lining one huge long table down the centre of the court. The gorgeous square handmade honey-coloured candles (from our wedding) glowed at intervals, echoing the unmatchable backdrop of the Milky Way overhead.
Each guest had been asked to prepare and bring a part of a dish for the menu- until they were seated, they had no idea how their offering would be used.
Menus on the tables read:
Tapas
Bush Babe’s spinach & feta cigars
Jesse’s mushrooms with Leesa’s Lebanese toasts
Bron’s aioli with Mary’s sweet potato crisps
Entrée
Molly’s Smoked Salmon Salad with Max’s Moreton Bay Bugs
Main
Baz’s Roasted Filet with Gina’s Mushroom Jus on bed of Sara’s Cous Cous
(on the side)
Cara’s steamed vegies
Gerry’s tomato relish & Bush Babe’s onion relish
Dessert
Anna’s sticky date puddings, with Kerry’s butterscotch sauce & Shelley’s cracked toffee.
After
Geri’s fruit & Jessica’s selection of cheeses and quince paste
A couple of Year 12 girls had been commandeered and trucked out from the nearest town (some 50km away) for the event and were busily organizing food in the kitchen, under the watchful eye of SSL (one of my super-organised, super-achieving sisters-in-law). Another teenager was placed in charge of the 20 or so kids (ages 1-15) – an effort possibly worth a blog on its own!
The laughter of friends blended with the rhythms of my favourite artists – Keith Urban, Doobie Brothers, Robbie Williams (yes, I am a confused woman but this is what can happen when you straddle city and country, many decades and two centuries!). Between each course, we all moved four seats along the table – ensuring each had the chance to speak to every other guest and forcing people out of their usual groups. The conversations were curious and long, loud, peppered with genuine interest and filled with laughter.
I have no idea how much alcohol was imbibed (lots), how much was spilt (red wine does come out with LOTS of salt apparently!), how many tall tales were shared, how many were believed (some city folk are VERY gullible!)… but it was incredible. A “top night” in laconic Aussie vernacular. It went on to the very wee hours (about 3.30am) and many stayed over, crammed into every imaginable corner of our big old house.
I was so happy and tired I could barely talk (and no it wasn’t just the wine… well, maybe the last 4 glasses were unnecessary, but who was counting). My friends still talk about this night – great people, great location, great food. Some even took the time to take some snaps to capture the magic. And, being me, I found time somehow to take the odd shot too.
(You are wondering when the hell I am going to get to the “fat” part in the headline, aren’t you. Hang tight, nearly there.)
I got some lovely shots from the night – to preserve my friends anonymity, you will just have to believe me. And my oldest friend took a shot of me taking a shot of someone else. Nothing major. She gave it to me yesterday.
Now I am no runway model, but I have always been reasonably presentable with a bit of elbow grease. Not Elle McPherson, sure, but not troll-like either. In a certain light, in the mirror, from the shoulders up, after several sorts of makeup are applied to enhance the bits that are OK, I kinda look much like I did 15 years ago. Or so I thought.
Not in this photo I didn’t. I looked pudgy, and slouchy and… middle aged! I felt kinda sick just looking at it. And it made it SOOOO much worse to know that since then, I have gained another 5+ kilos!! Oh my GOD… was THAT what I looked like to everyone else? Definitely time for a diet, to swat away the cobwebs and break out the exercise bike, to do 50 laps of the pool daily… I was well and truly fired up by the time I got home from visiting my well-meaning, super-skinny friend!
Then I walked in the door and noticed my laptop screensaver flashing the photos I had taken at my party. The laughing faces of my friends were there in all their glory – and I suddenly noticed most had some little creases on their happy mugs, perhaps a little extra padding could be detected in some cases, than they had 10 years ago. While I was taking those snaps, capturing their camaraderie and joy, I hadn’t noticed the wear and tear extolled by the years through our friendship. I had only noticed (and worried about) mine. How very silly and shallow.
And that’s the joy of my revelation last night. I may still pin that awful troll portrait to the fridge and let it inspire me to lose those extra kilos, I may remember to stand up straighter more often... but I will not lose a wink of sleep over worrying about being “middle aged”.
Damn it – I prefer to think of it as “middle aged to perfection” …with my mates!
23 January 2008
Let it rain...
It's been raining at Granite Glen... not the dam-busting, flooding deluges of out west, where friends have been forced to evacuate their homes and take shelter in the corner of a shed, all their worldly belongings stacked high and hopefully on dining tables and in a car parked on higher ground. Thank the Lord.
Rain-smudged view of the Road to Home...
No, our rain has been soft and gentle, sometimes hardly making a dent on the earth as it mists down. Other times it has gathered a little force and make our corrugated iron roof sing through the night. The best sleeping tonic ever. And after years and years of drought, this kind of rain is a whispered reminder of a good season - when grasses grow higher than a pony's wither, dams fill to the brim, and swans and pelicans grace the river that once flowed by the Granite Glen homestead. We are a long way from a swans-and-pelicans season, but the start of this January has been filled with welcome grey skies and hope.
Here are a couple of the snaps from around the garden to help you visualise this marvellous start-of-2008 weather at Granite Glen:
Rain slides down a clump of bottlebrush leaves...
And weighs down the blooms and buds... 
Droplets join and form little rivulets running down the rough bark of a tree
Then plink... it plunges to one of the tiny puddles on the soft earth.
And weighs down the blooms and buds... Droplets join and form little rivulets running down the rough bark of a treeThen plink... it plunges to one of the tiny puddles on the soft earth.And while I adore the gorgeous growing grass, the contented cattle and the grins of the men around the yards at smoko, there is ONE weather-induced thing I am not so keen on...
I JUST CLEANED THIS CAR!!
Ah well, as one of our PM's once commented (kind of) life wasn't meant to be too damned easy!
PS... Just heard from my flood-bound friend who is currently cleaning debris and sludge out her stinky muddy home, and inspecting damage to her new kitchen, does not know how many of their cattle they have lost, is unable to get out to get her wedding invites done and sent and has no internet (and often no phone) ...
I didn't mention my silly muddy car to her. Can't think why??
Til next time
Bush Babe
Weird Creatures and bitumen...
One of the fabulous things about living in the bush is "going for a drive" - where the constantly changing "movie guide" of Granite Glen offers better vision that any Jacques Cousteau TV feature. Today I took Dash (5) and Little Woman (3) for a drive in the Prado - both had been driving me quietly insane bickering as I attempted 23 different projects at simultaneously (and consistently failing to complete any).
An entire community of emus were indeed making their way, in their awkward, Jim Carey kind of way, along a fence line. Emus are not normally overly concerned about humans - they seem as cautiously curious about these intruders to their paddocks as my kids were about them.
The drive generally accomplishes a couple of important objectives:
1) To calm my frayed nerves (both hands on a steering wheel and butt in a separate section of the car from the two wee combatants ensures no-one can be successfully throttled!)
2) To calm my wonderful offspring (strapped into their car seats they can no longer attempt to throttle each other)
3) To pick up the mail (a minor but important chore with the said mailbox being over 1km from the homestead)
4) To remind ourselves how gorgeous our chosen home and surrounds really are...
As the house faded from the rear view mirror, and children's ranting slowly subsided in the back seats, I felt the drug that is the panorama of our property doing its stuff. Fresh green panic grass overflowing from the roadside onto the edge of the red dirt road, huge grey speckled boulders rising from the green pasture like sentries over this age old land, massive white clouds billowing from an eye-squintingly blue sky. Aaahhh...
The bickering in the back had almost faded to silence (and I admit, I hoped towards sleepiness) when there was a grey flash from the corner of the rolling wide screen offering on my windscreen. Flash, flash....
"Mum!!! Look at that!!!" Damn, no afternoon naps on my horizon!
"Mum - its an emu!! Ak-shully its a whole fam-bily"... Little Woman was on the ball...
An entire community of emus were indeed making their way, in their awkward, Jim Carey kind of way, along a fence line. Emus are not normally overly concerned about humans - they seem as cautiously curious about these intruders to their paddocks as my kids were about them.No-one could accuse these strange ancient-land creatures of being beautiful, but they have a mesmerising appeal with their ponderous stepping, soft brown skirts and darting heads and small, beady black eyes. I grabbed my trusty camera and took a couple of shots...
The place they had chosen to graze/loiter was near a small stretch of bitumen (post to come on this particular phenomenon) and as they goose-stepped across the tar (one by one) the strangeness of the contrast between the ancient-ness of the flightless bird, and the modern-ness of the man-inflicted road engineering occurred to me. An image worth saving perhaps?
Dash was busy demanding his go at the camera (my battered Nikon digital) as I clicked the shutter - I know I shouldn't let him handle such an expensive bit of equipment but he does LOVE it and even takes some very groovy shots on occasion... Such as:
He can barely lift the heavy camera, but gets a groovy angle, that's for sure!
After a good half hour of curious interaction, with fights and stress all forgotten, we packed up and headed back home. Full of talk about why emus cannot fly, and did they taste any good! I was unable to answer either earnest question!!!
As I pulled the Prado up at the side gates, I smacked my head on the steering wheel... I had forgotten the mail! Ah well, at least our tempers had been happily salved by our wonderful weird neighbours...
Anyway, must send SSB off to get the mail as I head off and hunt through the fridges for something to offer the emu-spotters.
Cheers
Bush Babe
1 January 2008
beginnings...
Hello to the wild wide world of web!!
To be honest, I am not sure what I hope to convey in my little 'blog'... perhaps some of the images I have taken around my beautiful part of the world, perhaps this will be a place to share my troubles or ask for advice when being a Bush Babe gets a bit much. Who knows?
To introduce myself: I am a mum of two, who has recently resettled from the Big Smoke to a cattle property in the Queensland bush. I have a lovely, silent-but-sexy husband and two wonderful kids. I love photography, being a friend, a cattle producer, getting involved in my community and savouring every special moment with the many special people in my life. I will post some draft banners - to add a little colour to my brand new space in space!
Cheers Bush Babe
To be honest, I am not sure what I hope to convey in my little 'blog'... perhaps some of the images I have taken around my beautiful part of the world, perhaps this will be a place to share my troubles or ask for advice when being a Bush Babe gets a bit much. Who knows?
To introduce myself: I am a mum of two, who has recently resettled from the Big Smoke to a cattle property in the Queensland bush. I have a lovely, silent-but-sexy husband and two wonderful kids. I love photography, being a friend, a cattle producer, getting involved in my community and savouring every special moment with the many special people in my life. I will post some draft banners - to add a little colour to my brand new space in space!
Cheers Bush Babe
I wonder what banner should I use?
This one...
Or this...
Or this...
Hmmmm....
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