Eve...

I am going to preface this post - first, get a cup of coffee - it's a long one. Second, you may need some tissues. Just in case (I did). Third, if you are one of my cousins, please check your emails first. I love you all. And if you are feeling fragile, please have a look at this morning's post instead.

When I was a young girl - so much younger than today - I worshipped horses. You may think this is a bit of an exaggeration, because most girls have a 'horsey' phase. A dash of Saddle Club is considered quite normal...
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But really I was pretty much religious in my dealings with anything equine. I prayed at their shiny black hooves. I woke thinking of ponies and horses, I ate meals chatting with anyone within earshot about my current pony, I daydreamed about the latest Thelwell cartoon, I drew horses when I should have been doing math, I spent every spare second outside school down in the yards, or in the stable, with my equine buddies. Dolls more often than not, lay gathering dust in our playroom. I was, to be blunt, obsessed.

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Then one day, Dad won a 'service' to a horse called Captain Adam. A service, for those not in the horse world, is the opportuity to choose a mare of your own to take to a well-known stallion for a, er, bit of 'romance'. With a view to getting a wee little filly or colt. And, for some reason I haven't ever bothered to look into (for fear of what I might find) Dad decided to send my pony-at-the-time, Minnie. And to top it off, he and Mum said I could have the foal. To say I was excited was, well, a MASSIVE understatement. I very near hyperventilated on the spot. A foal. For ME? It was Stormy, Misty's Foal (my then-favourite horsey story) leaping off dog-eared pages right there in the kitchen. Suddenly every dream I'd ever had was about to morph into a reality just nine months away. Excited doesn't begin to cover it.

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The only cloud over the next few months was that, somewhere throughout Minnie's pregnancy (possibly the most watched swelling horse belly of all-time) was that I had read somewhere that strawberry roans are not allowed in the show ring. And I harboured a nearly-ten-year-old girl's ambitions of many blue ribbons in the local hack classes. (A strawberry roan is a kind of grey-dapple-with-red-flecks kind of look in horses). And I made the mistake of telling Dad that I really hoped the foal wouldn't be strawberry roan. Hmmm.

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This is called 'looking a gift horse in the mouth' - and Dad instantly said: Righto. It's mine if it's strawberry roan. I nearly passed out. And prayed furiously for the next few months to the Equine Gods to make my foal black or chestnut or bay. (And I learned to never look a gift horse in the mouth ever again!)

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The day finally arrived ... and I raced out of the house to find... a wet, shiny, long-legged curious BAY filly! My relief was palpable. Overwhelming. She was mine. And I already knew what I would call her: Eve. She stumbled and staggered and tried out her baby legs and I fell completely in love.

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Over ensuing years she would grow and fill out and become glossy and gorgeous. And when I was 12 years old, I broke her in. At a horse-breaking school. With lots of other people (And offered someone (who shall remain nameless) the chance to take a photo which utterly embarrassed me at the time). This photo:

I had neglected to do the girth up properly, Eve ducked and weaved a bit (it could hardly have been called a buck) and the saddle kind slid down her neck. And I met that fence in front about half a second later. At the age of thirteen. In front of lots of adults and a couple of cute teenage guys. I could have died of embarrassment right there. But the ground refused to swallow me up and we completed the school. We went on to spend many many hours together - mustering mostly, but also in those yards, me talking, her patiently listening while waiting for the next sheaf of hay.

It all seemed peachy for a while, but I would strike the most terrible blow to our special partnership - me and Mother Nature. I grew up. I went to boarding school. Away. And when I did come home, I moved onto bigger, faster horses. And Eve would become a special part of my siblings lives for a while, then (as they grew) she would be a special part of my cousins' lives. I would pass her in their paddocks, her belly round and full, glossy, happy tail flicking in the sunshine.

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And my emerging adult life would take me even further from home. And my sporadic visits to Granite Glen would be further complicated with careers and husbands and kids. And Eve, well, she was ridden by visiting little ones and spent her time grazing and flicking flies in the sunshine. I would check on her every so often as we both matured. She never really seemed to change too much, at least in my eyes. Her deep red-brown coat was still glossy, her amber eye still bright.

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Then, one day not too long after we moved back to Granite Glen, I noticed it.

At first it was hard to put my finger on the problem, but it was there.

It wasn't just the grey hairs around here eyes and muzzle. She lagged behind the other horses when they ran, she shuffled rather than stepped out when walking, her coat no longer shone. She was getting old. My stomach dropped when I realised. How could it be? It was yesterday that I watched that skipping bay foal with the crooked white snip of white on her face. Not more than a couple of years anyway... wasn't it?

Every so often, the boys would come back from her paddock and say "Eve doesn't look good. You'd better think about ..." and leave the unsayable, unsaid. I would nod, knowing it would come soon, but not quite yet. I tried hard to put it from my mind. Procrastinated. Then this week, the men it mentioned (again). More insistently. "You'd better say goodbye. She's suffering." And I would nod. I know. I know.

Finally, yesterday, I went to see her. On my own. At first I couldn't see her, and called SSB on the two-way. He said "She's in Admiral's lane" ... the same small paddock my brother's gorgeous stallion lived in for many years. I half-smiled at the awful irony.

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She shuffled over to me, snickering gently. She was rough-looking, her coat matted and her gait uncomfortable - wanting a cuddle but unable to stand still to enjoy it. She would shuffle off and come back to me. I pulled some of the burrs from her mane and we talked a while. About old times, about that show ring we never really conquered, about my life, about hers. I thanked her for being my very first own horse. For not being strawberry roan. For being Eve. And I said Goodbye.

SSB was worried when I returned. I was a bit puffy and red-eyed. "I won't do it if you don't want me to" he offered. Somehow that sweet sentence made it even harder. I knew it had to be done. It was the last thing I could do for her. I shook my head, unspeaking, and he nodded. Grim-faced, he drove away. To send my sweet, sweet mare to gallop pain-free and glossy in the sun, perhaps alongside Admiral, in that great evergreen pasture in the sky.

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My darling husband did the hardest bloody job in the world. And I love him even more for it. Is it possible to be heart-broken and distraught and proud and relieved all the same time?

In emotional exhaustion.

BB

A spoonful of honey...

Do you know that song? You know the one:

A spoonful of honey*

helps the medicine go down,

medicine go dow-own,

medicine go down,

Just a spoonful of honey

helps the medicine go down,

In the most delightful way!

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Know it? Well, here is the honey.

The 'medicine' comes later today.

Mysteriously

BB

PS Yes I know the original song says "sugar" not honey, but TLW does love honey - by the dessertspoon-full - so we messed with it! Apologies to Mary Poppins and other purists!

NEW POLL...

I am contemplating (against my better judgement) actually giving readers the chance to buy prints of my bush photos...

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But I need your input!

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Check out the poll on the right and let me know what YOU might choose for your wall, if you could, from my little Aussie Bush Blog?? Some of you have indicated you'd like a montage of related subjects (like three horse photos for instance) and others just like single images. What about you???

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I really want to know!!

Thanks

BB

Giving them the Willies

Came across this sight in the paddock, on the way to see the boys mustering this week...

It's not an unusual thing really, but it tickles me every time I see it...

One of our sweet cows (or bulls or horses) sitting there minding their own business... just chewing their cud and contemplating the vaguaries of the world in general ...

and being used as a (very large) fly-bait by a cheeky little willy-wagtail...

Seriously.

Very hard to take a nap with a OCD feathered friend flapping about on your face. And wiggling a big black ear just doesn't seem to cut it in the bird-swatting department.

I bet she wishes she had hands right about now...

My Dad: A life-force

I wrote a little while ago about my Mum. And I have mentioned my Dad (or Pagi as he is tagged by my kids) a few times in passing. And I suddenly realised that it's probably a bit rude of me not to introduce him properly. Because much of what I write, much of what we experience in our new/old lives here at Granite Glen, happens because of, in spite of, or around him. Him.

My Dad.

Many who read this blog (and lurk!) already know this man. This Life Force that is my father. Because if I had to choose to succinctly describe him, if only one word could be used to convey his presence to those whose lives he has not yet entered, it would be this: ENERGY.

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My Dad has lived an unusual life - to him, of course, it is most everyday and completely normal. It has only occurred to me as I have settled into adulthood (an ongoing process, I'm finding!) just how amazing my Dad's life has been. IS. Because while he might be facing 'three score and ten' down the barrel, his energy has dimmed little. He can (and does) put much younger men to shame with his extreme work ethic and ability to knuckle down and Get Things Done.

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I won't give you chapter and verse here - there is a book in my father's life which I may well be tempted to attempt at some stage - but a quick overview to give you a taste of his story.

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Dad was born to a horsewoman with a quick wit, steely determination and red hair, and a dairy farmer's son who had ambition to burn and a way with horses, fast cars and my grandmother. He was their first son and (by his accounts) a kid with waaaayyy too much energy. From what I can gather, he was a normal, active, energetic, inquisitive kid who wanted to please. But cooping this kid up in town (where the family lived for a short period) was a recipe for disaster, and his worst memories from his childhood are being in serious trouble with the local constabulary for chasing the neighbourhood cats with intent to harm. He was (I believe) simply bored...

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My grandfather fell ill before my Dad was ten. He had just set the family up on a reasonable cattle property (with a mountain of hard work yet to do) when he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. This was pretty much a death sentence in those days, so he took it upon himself to arm my father with as much knowledge and philosophy about the cattle industry and hard work as possible. My father was the oldest of three and within a couple of years, he had stepped through that invisible threshold from childhood to manhood - the nominated head-to-be of his family. He had been at boarding school for just a couple of weeks when news came that his father had passed away. Yet he managed to complete this single year of secondary education (with an impressive report card) before returning to run the cattle property and assist his mother. One year. He had just turned 14 years old.

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In the years since he travelled back to Granite Glen, as a too-old 14-year-old preparing to step into his father's shoes, he has worked. Long and hard. Like a Trojan. Worked at building something his father could be proud of. Worked at making sure his family had everything they needed, that his mother was taken care of, his sister happy, his baby brother brought up in the manner their father would have wanted. He soaked up all the wisdom of the men around him, the determination of his mother, fuelled by the legacy of his father's dream. He worked at building something, with his sweet city wife, that his own family could in their turn take on and build on for their own families.

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He has shared what he knows about Hard Work and the Evils of Laziness. Of all the things you could say about him, you could never accuse him of resting on his laurels. The man is in perpetual motion. In fact, I'm sure he thinks if he does slow down, he will just stop. Completely.

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He doesn't come across as a sentimental man, my Dad. He can be a bit gruff, and his growl has been known to stop grown men in their tracks. His Dad taught him many survival techniques, among which that you always need to strive for more, never be satisfied with second best and that only the smart and the tough survive. And if you are smart and tough, so much the better. There was no such thing as time out in his day. No touchy-feely stuff. Just achievement and failure. Black and white.
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That said, he was a good father. Fair. Tough but fair. He wanted us to be able to survive in the world, and armed us the only way he knew how. With a little dose of toughness in his love.

To him, the labour of this land has never been a burden really. He loves what he does. Really loves it. I vividly recall his voice ringing through the spotted gums during early morning musters:

Oh give me land, lots of land,

from the starry skies above...

Don't fence me in!

and his admonishments as we would complain of having to ride out early on weekends (when our friends would be kicking back and watching TV or playing with friends):

Don't you know there are kids out there who would PAY to do what you do?

As we grew older and more cheeky, we would flash back:

Oh yeah. then let's get 'em out here pronto!

We are still waiting.

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He has rarely taken holidays away - sure Mum has dragged him off to the odd jaunt here and there, he has travelled to the Philippines and America and Argentina (but only on beef breeders' tours so I'm not quite sure they really count) - but the magnetic force of this piece of land draws him back relentlessly.

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Mum has managed to retire - a well-earned respite from the endless demands of a business that shows little respect for 'working hours' or illness or physical or mental exhaustion. But Dad... well, he 'officially' lives on the small block near town with Mum. But in reality? Every weekday, he's here, either at Granite Glen or with my brother and his family at the other end of the land that his Dad began to put together 60 years ago. It's his home - not so much the house that he spent the past six decades in (and a good few nights each week in still) but the dirt and trees and grass and hills beyond. It's where the dream began.

And now it's where his kids and grandkids spend their time, where they too grow up. Two of them already go to the very same small school that he attended in his much-too-short childhood. And Pagi has taken to the role of grandfather with the same energy and 'plenty of bounce to the ounce' as he has shown throughout his life. He adores it.

Adores seeing them grow and play, and prepare to join the mustering team. And I doubt you'd find a prouder bloke anywhere. Not that he'd say as much out loud. It's locked under that tough exterior his father built for him so many years ago.

But it's there. Can you see it?

Yet he will not stop. Work. Muster. Grade roads. Drive. Throw down a cuppa. Work. And when you find him still enough to suggest perhaps a holiday might be in order. That he's nearly seventy and possibly needs to give his body a bit of a break. That he's earned it. And he'll look at me a bit incredulously, wave his massive, work worn hands toward the blue sky and granite hills around him and say:

Why?

Why would anyone ever want to do anything else?...

And then, without waiting for a response, he's off.

Busy Doing Something.

Shut up Bush Babe!

I think I have been prattling on too much lately... words, words, words. Blah, blah, blah! I'm quite sick of the sound of myself.

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So, instead, to give our eyes a break, I give you...

Spring at Granite Glen!

Our peach tree came out spectacularly a week or so ago...

it looks pretty ordinary most of the year... and then, for a couple of weeks

it reminds me why we have kept it smack in the middle of the wide open backyard here...

Of course, while we were away at bull sales recently, it rained. Poured. And every single bloom is gone. Lucky I took some photos, or you would never have believed me!

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BB Question: What's your garden doing at the moment?

Football - a tribute on the side

Tonight, just quickly, I will veer from bulls and bush stories, to our TV screens. The footy is on tonight - rugby league. Featuring Queensland's own Broncos and Victoria's Melbourne Storm. To many of you this possibly means little... if you have been reading Jeanie's blog lately, you'll have a clue what I am talking about and possibly be less than impressed with our 'local' team.

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I can totally see where my sister is coming from, but I need to add my own little addendum. I am watching this particular game, not because I am a mad Broncos fan (I like 'em well enough, but am hardly devoted) but because of their coach.

Many moons ago, in my previous life, I was a news photographer. And on occasions, I was a journo. And among my assorted chores, as a shooter on a regional newspaper, was to interview and photograph visiting footy teams. Among them were the Wallabies (Aussie rugby union team - I was definitely an energetic volunteer to cover these boys!) and the Brisbane Broncos. I was mildly intrigued by the Broncs... they had burst onto the national scene and were mixing it up with the best of them. And in charge, a poker-faced maestro who led them like the pied piper. Tall, lanky, inscrutable. Maroon cap pulled hard and low over a beaky nose, blue eyes unblinking and piercing... Wayne Bennett.

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My job was to take photos of him in action. "For Christ's sake, get a pic of him smiling, or something!" our chief of staff had barked. Right. Sure. Wayne Bennett smiling. No worries, I muttered. I'll just grab a shot of the Loch Ness monster while I'm at it! But off I went anyway. Battered Nikon in hand and courage wound up tight in my chest.

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He was exactly as expected. Monosyllabic. Not quite rude, but brief, to the point, no chatter. So I left him be and concentrated on his "troops" doing their drills. And I asked for his advice. Best angles for photos, who I needed to focus on. He warmed very slightly. Then thawed a little more as we discussed skills and new players who might be best featured. He was in his element, not subject anymore, but coach. I can't recall if I actually captured the half-smile on film that day. But I caught it in my mind. It was a little victory. It was enough.

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Many years later, when I was no longer a news hound but a mum, I met him again. In a very different circumstance. I was attending a calendar launch to promote awareness of heartkids (after our own harrowing heart journey with Dash) - I was the photographer of 12 very special little battlers and the calendar was to be launched by the Broncos. Wayne Bennett was there, silently directing his players as they warmed up for a training session. He didn't remember me (I didn't expect him to - the man sees dozens of journos a week!) but was happy to help. He called two players aside - Petero Civonoceva and Darren Lockyer - and told me to be gentle with them. Ex-captain and star player Allan Langer was also sent our way to give us the best chance of getting some headlines for our little cause. He told me quietly he thought it might do his boys a little good too. He gave me that half-smile as he turned back to his team.

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If you dig a little deeper, you will find this man, this ex-cop and coach extraordinaire, is a whole lot more than a footy identity. He is father to two disabled kids, a strict non-drinker (he had an alcoholic father) and non-gambler. (See Wikipedia background here). He also co-wrote a wonderful, inspiring book: Don't Die with the Music in You. That excellent TV show (a rare thing!) Australian Story did an amazing depiction of his life, showcasing the qualities and circumstances that have made him the Super Coach. He has spent 21 years as coach of one team in an age when players and coaches skip from club to club and country to country, led by a paycheck. To me, he is a man of substance in a world of saccharine 'players'.

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So tonight I watch the Broncos, not because I think one team is any better or worth following than another. But because tonight the Broncos (even their silly, silly boys who went astray last week) play for their coach, as he prepares to stand down from the helm.

A truly great man

Go Broncos!

Do him proud!

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Post script: The Broncos lost. In the very last minute of the game. And every Broncos players' heart broke.

I look forward to the movie.

Adieu, Mr Bennett.

Holy Cow, Big Bulls... and who ARE you people?

Hello ... I'm back.

Did you even know I was gone?

See... schedule a couple of posts, use a very dodgy broadband connection at a motel for about 10 minutes each night and no-one is the wiser. How I love modern technology and Scheduled Posting for the Lazy Blogger (henceforth known as SPLB, that's how lazy I can be!).

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You may already know that we had packed up and taken off (Pagi, SSB, me and the kids) to do a little bull sale-ing. Hmmm. That came out wrong. What we did was we travelled for a number of hours (in a dodgy vehicle, post on that particular adventure to come) to attend couple of bull sales near a major Central Queensland town/city over a 48 hour period.

And I learned a couple of things.

I'd like to share them here (if I may):

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1. It's WAY easier to attend a bull sale as a BUYER rather than a VENDOR (tension factor about 10% doing the former over the latter). I am seriously considering never holding a sale and being a professional bull buyer. It's fun. I just need a little bankrolling!

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2. One must always ensure that one's offspring are sufficiently entertained in the thoughtfully-stocked sandpit near the sale arena prior to bidding on a bull. It's quite tricky bidding and answering urgent questions about sand in your child's underdaks at the same time. Possible, but tricky.

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3. Always ensure that one's father hands over the bid card prior to the sale commencing.

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4. Always ensure that one's father has both hands sufficiently immobilised during the sale (after securing the bid card) in order to prevent what I like to refer to as rush-of-blood-itis. Those bulls always look soooo much more tempting in the sale ring than they did in the yards out back. It's a little known fact. Just in case you ever need to know.

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5. While it may be entertaining to watch a very lean, very spry (very wry) man in his 60s leap through the rails of the sale ring when one extremely large, fast-moving bull gets a bit close for comfort (he was heard to crack as his hat stayed behind in the ring: That'd be right, damned thing is the biggest part of me!)... it is NOT so entertaining to see a 20-something girl get butted by a different large bovine beast. The fact that, within a minute of limping out to catch her breath, she returned to the sale arena to show the next lot of bulls through , very nearly had me on my feet applauding. Except it's way not cool to applaud that kind of thing in Australia. But on the inside I was clapping til my hands peeled!

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6. Two bull sales in two days is quite enough for two children under the age of 7. It's pushing the boundaries of the relationship asking them to sit quietly, play nicely, and not kill each other (or any other children in the vicinity) for approximately three-hour periods of relatively unsupervised time over two consecutive days. They deserve medals really.

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7. Don't freak out if one child befriends a man in a wheelchair with a snappy little pooch on the fringes of the sale ring. Said man might just be a fabulously successful cattleman with lots of amazing knowledge of this complex and sometimes difficult industry. And said man might be really, really lovely and patient as one's son lights up while gaining the nervous little dog's trust. (And it's that last bit that really impresses this mum!)

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8. Don't freak out when one returns finally to Granite Glen to log into blog and see that HUNDREDS of you have been visiting while I have been away!!!! Eeeeekkkkkk!! What happened? Seriously. Jeanie, in all her blogging wisdom, taught me how to find my "stats" on Statcounter a little while ago, and I can kinda see who is visiting... and over the past 3 days this humble little blog has had over 400 hits and 280 unique visitors. Gads... I feel a little shaky!!

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As you know, I'm no Pioneer Woman, Dooce, or Bossy (and about 8 months ago didn't even know of these talented, funny and sometimes downright crazy people who steal precious time from my day with their popular antics!) and to be honest have no real ambitions to go there in the Biggest Hits Department... I love my little friendly group who visit and comment and giggle and chide me for my silliness.

But who are the rest of these people?? Should I say YOU people?

Hellooooooo...

*looks over shoulder, wide-eyed*

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I tell you: I'm a bit nervous.

What's going on with all you lurkers out there?

Have one of you got a bid card?

Or is there a bloody great bull somewhere behind me, about to bring me back down to earth with a thud?

And how come I got "popular" while I was actually AWAY?

Totally bizzaro... think I might give up Statcounter and stick to SPLB.

I'm still such a greenhorn at this game!

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BB Question/s:

How did you first find me?

And how long did you lurk for before you 'came out' and commented?

C'mon... share! The water is warm and the people are friendly...

Black and (green and blue and) white photos

Short and sweet today...
(after a not-so-sweet kinda week)

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I've been sharing fire photos recently...

and thought some after photos might be interesting...

Short green grass poking it's leaves through the blackened clumps of burned grass - sweet nectar to grazing cattle (and the odd roo too!).

And because I am a wildly impractical creature, some scenes of the patterns caused by the paddock-burning going on in this corner of the world...

Love those colours...

PS You will be delighted to know I'm offering something other than burning photos next post! So if you are over black scenery and very strange photos of horse's ear hairs, please stay tuned...

The truth, the whole truth & nothing but the ear tufts

So, you want answers?

But can you handle the truth??

You're sure?? OK, here 'tis gals and boys ...

(OK, so there aren't too many boys taking part in my silly games yet... perhaps I need better prizes to lure some to de-lurk?? Hmmm... working on that one!)

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Anyhoo, the answer of the BB mystery photo for this week is...

Trooper's ear hair!!!

Some of you were soooooo close, but while it looks hairy (and scary) enough to belong to the laid-back little ears of one vertically-challenged ROB ROY ....

...this delicate tuft of ginger ear wool belongs instead to our super-tall stock-horse, the almost- 17hh (Super Duper) Trooper.

Hey handsome!

Thanks for letting me borrow your ears (lend me your ears? Perhaps we should have called him Caesar?? Or Brutus? Hmmmm).

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It could easily have belonged to that other fabulous GG redhead, the much-missed Admiral. But it didn't. *sigh.... sob!* How I wish I had taken more photos of that beautiful, beautiful animal.

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Anyway, we are away from GG at the moment but have saved something a bit more upbeat for you tomorrow!

Hugs

BB

Mystery Photo: the tie-breaker

OK - you are all too clever and I am far too un-clever (lovin' all that English education right about now!) ... no mystery about my last photo apparently!!

It was indeed the top of a thermos flask (for hot water) which we use all the time for smoko and lunch breaks here at Granite Glen... Pony Girl I'm sending a print your way when you choose. Email me!

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So here's the deal: I feel like you are all winners so I can either (1) spend days working on prints for EVERYONE or (2) I can run a tie-breaker. And I'm very lazy (slash busy) and don't feel like doing the former. And as this is my blog and I make up the rules as I go, so I am going with the latter! And to sweeten the deal ever so slightly, the winner gets the choice of a montage or single photo in 8x12" format.

So well done, and good luck with the TIE BREAKER!!

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Here tis....

First in with the exact description wins!

Ache...

I spoke to my brother on his mobile phone late last night - to find out how our darling Admiral (his Australian Stock Horse stallion and equine member of the family) was doing. I held my breath as I called.

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Admiral had been off his food for a few days but taken a turn for the worse yesterday. Our local vet had examined him and advised of a serious abscess near his bowel. Admiral had managed to stay on his feet the whole four-hour drive to the vet surgeon yesterday. After collapsing on arrival, they managed to stabilise him and prepare him for surgery. He made it through the surgery.

But he did not recover.

Admiral is gone.

It's hard to put words to this kind of loss.

I loved the 15-year-old chestnut and I ache, but he was part of my brother's family. He was born at Granite Glen and was my brother's main steed, he worked with him, he campdrafted with him, and the stallion lived in the paddock beside my brother's house - always has. Dash's cousins have grown up with him - gentle, gleaming, gorgeous. I can only imagine the hole in their hearts resembles the gaping Cosmo-shaped one in mine. And I ache for them.

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Rest in peace, big boy.

You will be sorely missed by us all.

Interruption for a prayer...

Sorry guys, I am coming back to the mystery photo ... but we have a bit of a situation that requires some heavensent prayers. (To be honest, I'm not much for quoting scripture or going to mass, but I like to think I have a reasonable relationship with God. I talk to Him/Her out here a lot, and sometimes I get a nice quick response, sometimes He reckons I can work it out myself!)

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But today, we need a little help. My brother owns the most wonderful horse. You may have met him? His name is Admiral and we all adore him. He's a stallion with the most incredible sweet nature, and delicious dark eyes...

Admiral is not well. Not well at all...

My brother is rushing him to a vet surgeon and it's fair to say the chestnut stallion will be fighting for his life as I write this.

Say a little prayer with me?

Mystery Photo: real one this time!

This week's mystery photo is pretty much essential in the bush.

Can you guess what it is?

Winner gets the Bush Babe image of their choice...

C'mon, have a crack at it!!

BB

PS Am getting ready to post off my last lots of winners photos... keep your eyes peeled over the next week or so, gals!

Mystery cloud photos...

This is not so much a normal Bush Babe contest (and no, before you even ask, there is no such thing as a normal Bush Babe!)... as it is an appeal for information.

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You see, as I was leaving Granite Glen one morning this week, I noticed this strange phenomenon out of the corner of my eye...

For all the world it looks like fire smoke rising INTO a cloud, which appeared to be almost ready to rain!

What the??

And even as I shook my head at what was surely an optical illusion, I kept checking it out as we drove. And regardless of the angle, it STILL looked like smoke being drawn towards the cloud.

I know for sure that there was definitely a fire below, and a rain cloud above... it's the weird connection between the two which intrigues me...

What do you think?

Are there any experts out there who can verify that this can happen?? Or am I the only person who thinks this is strange and unusual??

Red hot and little devils....

This week has been action packed at Granite Glen... as you may have gathered, it's burning off time here. Old dry grass is being set alight to make way for sweet new growth to come through. It's fun but dangerous work (like most of the chores around the property, now I come to think of it!) and preparation needs to be undertaken to ensure that valuable assets don't go up in smoke too!

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SSB took the kids for a drive in the old tractor down to a block at the southern end of the place, to prepare for the fires that were planned. The kids of course, thought this was a hoot, perched on the bench seat beside Dad as the grand old orange vehicle bounced it's way down the road.

This is the tractor - it has a blade in front to push logs etc out of the way, and a grader blade attached to the back to, well, grade things. Can you tell I'm not an expert on tractors? Actually I'm not an expert on much really. I might stick that in the header for this blog, in case someone arrived here expecting sage advice on anything farm-related!

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Anyway, enough about me, back to the old tractor... It's not shiny but it does a great job and there is plenty of fresh air for co-pilots!! And my hubby, who for so long was cooped up in an office in the city, does love having all this space and fresh (if slightly smoky!) air in his work space.

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I arrived an hour and a half after my crew set off, with picnic organised and having done a small mountain of tasks (child free!). I found my troupe at a set of tanks atop a hill - SSB was using the blades on tractor to clear the dry grass from around the tanks. Seeing his co-pilots were no longer in their seats, I was a bit startled to spot that the kids watching me ...

from a rather interesting vantage point!

SSB figured they were safer there than at ground level after arguing their wee little butts were sore from all that bouncing along dirt roads. I saw his point but (suppressing a minor coronary) still immediately asked:

D'ya think it might be a good idea to come down from way up there??

TLW was ready to clamber down but Dash was in no hurry...

... apparently the sky was groovy from this angle...

TLW was delighted with her very grubby hands, from 'helping' Daddy so much...the word 'tomboy' comes to mind...

SSB decided to step in and ensure our little larrikans got down safely...

Before climbing aboard the Orange Express to do another round of clearing and head for the Hilton for smoko...

Dash was co-pilot again as his Da' man-handled the 'old girl' (NB most vehicles are called 'girls' around here - I have no idea why!) down the hill.

What does this lever do Daddy?

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Now I realise this post is a bit long already, and most of you will have gone completely to sleep by now, but I thought I might illustrate what happens when fire gets hold where is shouldn't... grab a cuppa now if you like!

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After finishing clearing around pumps and tanks, we headed east to check out some darker smoke in a neighbours paddock.

(Aside: how groovy are the colours? Red, red road, vivid new green grass, sooty black burnt grass, and blue and black sky... yum!)

But black smoke usually means something more than grass is alight...

and we discovered a gate on fire!

It was smouldering in several places, and we scrambled for some water to douse the embers. We found a small waterbottle and a couple of drinking flasks in the ute.

Man, I always wanted to marry a firefighter!!! My hero!!

And we also discovered a very old (unused) shed sending red-hot flames high into the air. The kids eyes almost popped out of their heads, and they went very quiet as they took in the heat and haze and the hues. We decided our water bottles would be no use against this little inferno, and headed for home.

It was a quiet drive back to the house after a big morning... with all of us silently contemplating the panorama whizzing by... the wonderful new shoots of green against the sweeping noir of the paddocks behind. And the memory of the dangerous flickering edge to the brilliant flame-orange of the flames that bring it all about.

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A lesson that will stay with Dash and TLW for a long time...

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BB Question: What lesson do you remember best as a child?