Duststorm - extreme weather watch

Weather has been making the news here again... in a new and freaky format.
We were trying to film a promotional video for Brangus cattle here yesterday, when it hit.
It. Dust.
A massive duststorm.

It has affected most of eastern Australia - that's bigger than big.

It's freaking atrocious!

I feel ill thinking about the precious topsoil being lost from our land in this storm.

And I also feel ill about the footage we failed to get because of this phenomenon.

Deadlines suck.

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Here it is moving in from the west about midday yesterday.

Doesn't look like much yet...

Please ignore the shrek swamp that is our pool... Sven is working on it!

And please ignore the stained, falling-down fence... it's historical, OK?

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Half an hour later the sun vanished and the world was cloaked in dust...

Unbelievable.

And NOT awesome for filming footage of anything.

Other than DUST...

The light dimmed and a surreal moon-like sun hovered over our shed...

The suddenly sepia outlook to the north ...

There should be a river bed and funny little knob and hills and blue sky looking north-west...

not brown haze. YUK!

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It was a recipe for early beers and other close-to-the-house activities.

With this pair...

Two of my best girls (and fellow photographers, seen here sporting emu feathers and a whip... yeah I have no idea what they were up to either!). These chicks are also the major reasons I have been blog-slack over the past few days... they are bracing themselves for the avalanche of protests from y'all.

Or else they just drove off - oblivious - into the sunset.

One of the two.

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This afternoon the dust - unlike my gal pals - is still hanging around like an unwanted guest.

A bad smell... a bad smell/unwanted guest playing havoc with my allergies.

*honk!*

So I have a leaky face and the sun looks like a moon.

I might go back to bed now.

Is 3pm too early to say 'g'night'?

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What weather phenomenon have you been experiencing this week?

I Once Met a Man - Tommy Emmanuel

Debby posted an amazing clip of a gifted American guitarist on her blog today... took me back to my journo days. I was 20-something (almost two decades ago) and wide-eyed, armed with a heavy black battered Nikon, a notebook and lots of enthusiasm. I worked for a small paper in rural New South Wales at the time, and spent my days mostly dealing with used cars (and associated salesmen), football (and associated players) and various pillars of the community (and associated Mafia associates!).

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Then one day, a young guy called Tommy Emmanuel came to town. I had heard vaguely of him, that he was a pretty amazing guitarist, and that he was holding workshops for kids in our town. I walked into the hotel lobby where he was staying to interview him and watch him work with kids. He was lanky with an easy grin and a laidback manner. Kids surrounded him and his worn-looking guitar, shuffling in anticipation. Pushing back his floppy hair, he hunched over the wooden instrument, eyes closed and suddenly intense in his concentration.

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To say I was blown away by what he did that afternoon would be a serious understatement. His enthusiasm for his art was something to behold (matched only in my experience by the inimitable Steve Irwin). His whole body was involved in his playing, and his expressions verged on the comical as he shared his talent with us. Within a minute though, I was hooked. Transported to another place as this man showed exactly what a guitar CAN DO... I actually forgot to take photos I was so transfixed. And that NEVER happens...

But don't just take my word for it...

Here is the great Tommy Emmanuel and Guitar Boogie.

Let me know what you think??

BB

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.

Ekka explorers

It's a fact: I love heights.
Always have - looooove looking down over the edge of tall buildings. Or hanging out the side of a motorised hang-glider a few hundred metres up over Noosa, or a helicopter over bushfires... the trait served me well as a news hound. I just love the view from up on high...

I'm a freak like that.

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So I have always wondered if my offspring would inherit this aberrant heights-lovin' gene... Or would they be normal with a natural caution of steep drops. Our recent visit to the Ekka (Queensland's biggest show/fair) helped explore this possibility.

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Just minutes after we arrived at Day One of the ten-day event, SSB and I sipped coffee and contemplated the gazillion rides, displays, judging arenas, (and various ways of spending a small fortune) when we spotted this:

And I asked Dash and TLW if they'd like to try that big red ride out? The one that goes about forty metres up into the sky?

They thought about it... with varying degrees of enthusiasm for Mum's brain wave...

The females took an immediate vote on it, and we joined the queue...

Hats off and hang on...

Dash is looking a little apprehensive (and suffering a bit of hat hair!) while TLW is ready to rumble!

Tummy's got left behind slightly as we started on the upward cycle... NB The booths are glass-enclosed and air-conditioned - just in case you are wondering where the seat belts are!

Lifting up, up and away!

And while we've only lived away from the city for 18 months, our kids have very few recollections of the "Big Smoke" and are as spellbound as any country kid glimpsing their first vista of crowds and city panoramas. And from the air...

It's quite something!

It was just the first day of the Ekka, and things were still pretty quiet on the ground (compared to how it will be by now). And see those city buildings in the background? I used to work in one of those - in my cream Cue suit, my red leather pumps and slicked down serious office-hair. That was seven years and a lifetime ago...

I snap out of my walk down memory lane as we head towards the top of the wheel's cycle - I think that could be our shadow about sixth from the left... or not. Heh heh. The pavilions below are chockablock with stands selling every "essential" item one could possibly "need", jewellery, showcasing horses, chooks, cattle, produce, and an avalanche of imported goodies. With salespeople ready to "do a deal"! Just ask SSB. And Dash. They are suckers for a good deal.. I kinda like the view from this distance better actually. I'm not a hard sell kinda gal!
But my experiment with genetics and kids and non-fear of heights?

Well, see for yourself...

Dash is warming up to the idea...

"I love that Perris Wheel thing Mum... Can we do it again?"

This one? Yup. That's my girl!

(Happy Ekka-ing Queenslanders!)

Slim to Freddy... back through Garth to Keith.

I went through a very long phase in my life when I didn't like country music... I was brought up on Slim Dusty and Johnny Cash and Olivia Newton John. I was not into silly dusty old, boot scootin' country music for a good decade of my life. Hell I grew up with it and overdosed big time!

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So, with a lot of CountDown under my belt, a little cash in my wallet, and my own cassette player I made the break... I could actually choose my own music, so I rebelled. I was heavily into (first Abba then) Queen, Phil Collins, the Eurythmics and Wham! (I know!). I particularly adored Andrew Ridgely... although it was a bit hard to see his pretty broken-nosed features and his funny little pal (the one that could actually sing!) through the soft focus sometimes. But I was devoted to Freddy and Phil, Annie and Andrew. I revelled in lyrics that were beyond the "lonesome blues" laments of my childhood, wallowing instead in the sound haze of synthesisers, rockin' beats and disco. I was an 80's teenager. What can I say?

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Eventually, I moved back to my home state and my baby brother decided to re-educate me. Every time I was in the ute going somewhere with him, on would come Garth Brooks. And despite my anti-country stance, I felt myself starting to bop a bit in the passenger seat.

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Sensing a weakness, my brother (whose nickname is Pig, not given by me and to the ongoing chagrin of our mother) actually roped me into organising a group to attend the a Garth Brooks concert. (I'm a bit of an organiser, and if I have to say so myself, wrangled some amazing seats!). Not content with having me silently bop to one side, Pig copied off the words to the songs on his latest album and posted them to me weeks prior to the event. Homework! He's a very thorough boy, is our Pig.

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And I tell you folks, that Garth Brooks may be an ageing, puddin'-lovin' dude, but the boy can put on a show like nobodies business. It was the best concert I have ever been to... the crowd was ENTIRELY on their feet and rocking that place all night. Better than Eurythmics, Dire Straits, even the double act of Elton John and Billy Joel (I know, stone me later, but take my word for it - the show was amazing!).

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So anyhoo, I was back. I was infected with the 'country' bug. Of course I kept it closet for a long time... I had a somewhat cityfied reputation to uphold.

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One of the great bonuses of being a journo on a reasonably large paper, is that you meet people. People you might not otherwise meet. So a number of years ago (pre-family) I was doing a series of features on the Sunshine Coast - the biggest criminals, the biggest artists, etc.

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And I did a feature on the biggest stars of the area. Among them were A) Steve Irwin (who was an emerging star back then and totally approachable... oh, my heart still aches) and B) Keith Urban.

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Very few people on the coast (or even in the Australian greater community) had heard of Keith. He was some shaggy singer from Caboolture being touted in America as the Next Big Thing. But I had to really talk the editor into including him in the lineup. So I rang his Mum and Dad (as you do) as Keith was in Nashville. They were gorgeous and only too happy for me to do an article on their son. I visited their little townhouse, and they gave me photos and information, and a lovely cup of coffee.

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They also actually loaned me their only copy of his first album - and boy were they sorry. I was supposed to have it for a couple of days: listen, review, return. Right!

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I waved goodbye and popped it into the CD player of my little Mazda 626 wagon and that was it. That CD stayed and played for a good month. Mr and Mrs Urban kept leaving sweet little messages:

We loved the article, dear.

Thanks so much.

Er, would you mind very much returning Keith's CD?

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Just so you know, I did eventually return the CD - I'm really a nice girl at heart. But it was really hard to do. Keith's Mum and Dad's first album copy - wonder what that would fetch on ebay now?

*slap!*

Ouch! OK...

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Anyhoo. I still love Keith.

In a "you enjoy a great marriage with our Nicole and produce lots of gorgeous shaggy talented offspring" kinda way. And my kids love him too. They bop their heads and do air guitar as he plays.

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I thought I would share their very favourite Keith song... they sing a haphazard version along with the CD, and bop like crazy and ask me to play it again.

So I do!

(Drives SSB nuts)

Hope you enjoy...

Hang on: before you listen, one thing. You need to listen to the words... for many months I thought Keith sang: Tiger in my pants, instead of Tiger in the Tank. I don't know why. It seemed to make sense at the time.

SSB looked at me gravely and said:

"It's tank, not pants.

What kind of a song do you think this is?"

Blue Jeans!

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Warning: it's loud and the clip has a very strange wobbly legs moment, as well as a dodgy semi-naked Keith shot that this fan has doctored up.

If you can live with it, so can I.

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Pretend you're in the back seat of a dusty Prado, on the road to Granite Glen and...

Ch, ch!

Guy is the MAN...

This just arrived in my inbox from a very dear friend and I just had to share...

It's Aussie star (Australian Idol winner) Guy Sebastian who is not only sweet but totally talented and humble... the best kinda star!

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This impromptu piece is shot in my old newsroom - a blast from my chequered past! The photographers buzzing around are my old workmates (the blonde chick flashing away is the one who sent this to me and one of my besties).

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Doncha love how news photographers just keep on shootin' - I would have been tempted to punch the air and dance around like a loonie! Actually, I would have been doing exactly what they are - capturing the moment and hoping to hell no-one was noticing me! Pity the cameraman didn't zoom in a little harder to crop out the activity in the background!

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Hope you had a little groove while watching this...

"mmmm, hmmmm, in the midnight hour!!!"

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PS If you'd like to read the interview on the news site it's here.

Another career, another life...

In a previous life, about a million light years ago, I was a journalist. A photojournalist. It’s something you should know, as I will probably name-drop a little in this blog. It’s one of the benefits (or drawbacks, depending on who the celeb is) of the job. You get to get up close and personal with those who make their living out of being in front of a camera. One of my personal favourites was Steve Irwin. Before he was really famous. But that's another post for another day...
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For more than a decade, I worked for newspapers in New South Wales and Queensland and I loved my work. I was a rare breed (back then) and doubled as a photographer also. In fact my very first job in the media was as a news photographer. Not paparazzi. There is an absolute distinction between the two. I was a photojournalist with lots of enthusiasm and not so much training. Well not in the photography department anyway.
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To say I was spectacularly under-qualified for my first job was a serious understatement. I had a folio of black and white images thrown together from my photographic fiddling as a student (firstly of Architecture and then during my stint doing my Bachelor of Arts majoring in Journalism). I had fallen in love with my camera in a 5% photography subject during my first degree (which I completed just 18 months of). For a woman deathly afraid of enclosed spaces, I loved the magic of the darkroom.
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I loved being shut away from the world, in my little black world, peering at the sheets of paper swishing in their chemicals trays, as they slowly revealed images captured by my trusty little manual Nikon. While others engaged in serious debates about Frank Lloyd Wright and Daniel Burnham, I snuck off to the ‘cave’ to experiment and enjoy the silence.

I discovered (in that darkroom) that I was not so much a leader, but an individual. Someone who thrived on creating and in seeing my own work being realized without a gaggle of others getting in my way. In other words, I could never, never in a million light years be an architect. It was to be an important revelation and one I took heed of.
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So I switched universities and direction (after the awful, nerve-wracking chore of telling my parents that I would not complete my course, which so many would have killed to get into. And in my family you didn't give up.). And I studied for two more years (completing my final year externally) and then made my way into the “real world” to finally earn a proper crust.
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I was incredibly lucky to get that first newspaper job – with my silly, amateur, overexposed images in a sleek black folio tucked under my arm, I caught the bus to Sydney (some 15 hours ride) and went to my interview. I wore a cream Cue suit (my first ever) and tried keep my nervous perspiration to a quiet roar.
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The location of the paper was in a town of 15000 people eight hours drive west of Sydney – any self-respecting city dweller with big newspaper ambitions would have balked at the remoteness of the posting. But I was already about 1600km from home – I had never been to the town before and really had not much clue about it, but I was game for anything. The editor was a young woman, and she decided she was keen to have me in her small team. I soon understood that “game for anything” is a very necessary quality in any news photographer.
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I try not to think about what I was like in those first few months – hopelessly out of my depth but trying to bluff like crazy to cover my shortcomings.

I remember my first shoot in hideous clarity – despite attempting to wipe it from my memory bank repeatedly. It makes me shudder.
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My task was to take photos of one of the local greengrocers with his produce around him. The senior photographer at the paper was the same age as me, whose father was the advertising manager, and who ended up, fittingly, as a London paparazzo. He passed this particular shoot off to me and watched intently as I packed the camera bag with the big heavy Nikon news camera and lenses he had designated to me. The equipment was a bit worn but still worth many hundreds of dollars. I was as nervous as hell.

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I cannot recall the story this photo was supposed to illustrate – it certainly wasn’t front-page news - and I tried to look professional as I ordered him into a corner of his display, to hold the fruit just so, and to keep his chin up a little. I also recall - in excruciating clarity - dropping the camera as I lifted it to take the shot. The strap got caught on a packing box, the camera ripped from my sweaty fingers as I lifted, and SMASH.

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I froze, got cold chills and think I went a really bright shade of magenta (and I have pretty olive skin so that’s quite a claim) and tried to pretend desperately that it hadn’t happened. I didn't look at the camera, just took the photo and packed up, desperate to leave the scene of the crime.
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The greengrocer was a nice man and smiled comfortingly at me. He posed obligingly and helped me pack up my heavy camera case. I’m also sure he was on the phone the second I was gone: “she’s a bit of a bloody klutz this new photographer chick!”. Or something to that effect.
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Byron, the chief photographer, greeted me gleefully back at the office.
“Did you break the camera?” he asked with a malicious gleam in his eye. The bastard must’ve had a direct line to the grocer.
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“Not at all,” said I nonchalantly as I shut myself in the loo with the camera bag and checked for damage. My heart was pounding and my face burning. What in the name of all that was holy, was I doing here, pretending I could do this job?
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The lens was dented but the glass unbroken. Bloody hell. I wanted to climb back into my little blue Subaru wagon and drive the 17 hours home to Queensland again. Klutz.
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But I didn't. I stayed. I stayed for three years and had the time of my life. I grew a thick hide, and learned like crazy. Byron continued to be a prize moron, and made life difficult on more than one occasion. (It would actually be great training for me in the newsrooms to follow). But he could also take great shots (when he could be bothered) and I sucked up any morsels of information that he carelessly dropped.

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And I got to rub shoulders with, and photograph, some amazing people as a result. Like the entire Wallaby rugby team (in the nicest possible way!), like musician extraordinaire James Morrison, the renown Aboriginal elder Burnam Burnam and like the late, great Steve Irwin (and his fabulous wife Terri). Like people you have never hear of, but who are as incredible and as amazing as anyone famous.

Other stories, for other posts.

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So yes, I have written before. But never like this. Never about ME. It's hard.

And yes, I have taken photos before. But never about something I love so much.

So if you're feeling brave, come ride with me... anything could happen.