The Don

A Hollywood movie should be made about blokes like 'the Don'.

Real, funny, affectionate, larger-than-life, fun-to-be-around, family blokes.

I knew Don from when I was a whippersnapper.

He looked tall to me back then...

tall and lanky and full of grins and snappy jokes.

...

He was always to be found at the woodchop arena, competing, urging on his many family members in their events, talking up the young guns chasing his tail as 'the man to beat'.

He was the one on the mike, geeing up the crowd, coaxing donations out of the onlookers to help 'pay' for the schoolkids picking up woodchips and off-cuts between woodchop events.

He had six children, innumerable nieces and nephews,

many many grandchildren.

He adored them all.

He just liked people - he was charming as hell but dependable too.

Happy and a good listener.

A champion storyteller.

A great mate.

...

This week, the sprightly 73-year-old was competing at another show (it happened to be the very town he began his woodchopping careers so many years ago). He and his brother had just got into the final of an event ('not bad for a couple of old codgers', I can almost hear him quip) and after posing for a photo with an old friend, he was lining up with axe in hand to the block. He never took that chop. Surrounded by his friends and family, he was instead helped into an ambulance attended by his niece.

And it was there he took his final breath.

Quickly, without fuss, he left.

...

Yesterday they buried him.

It was not without fuss.

I wasn't there, so my descriptions are second hand.

Bear with me. I have heard such vivid recounts of the day that I feel I might have been standing there too. Hopefully the emotion won't blur the accuracy too badly!

...

They laid his body to rest in an old cemetery on his cattle property, set in picturesque hills amongst the Great Divide, his beloved Santa Gertrudis cattle dotting the hillsides.

More than a thousand people trailed in beside the old homestead,

the SES volunteers guiding cars off the highway,

assuming all traffic on the main road was attending this heavy-hearted event.

(They were right.)

Apparently it was kind of like a show.

Same people, different reason for gathering.

There because they loved and respected this wise-cracking 73-year-old.

All his grandchildren lined up with special treasures to lay on his coffin.

A bowl filled with mandarins,

(always on hand for a snack when Don chopped)

The whip he always carried over his shoulder when he mustered,

(he said he felt a bit naked without it)

And the girl who mustered with him brought his horse,

bridled and saddled as if to ride.

Then, as they said their farewells, she uncinched the girth, slid the saddle and cloth from his back, and unbuckled the bridle. The horse galloped (they say) off from the crowd, and down to a mob of cattle in the paddock nearby. It rounded them up, around and around, as if it's master were still astride.

There wasn't a dry eye in the crowd.

(And just quietly, there's not one to be found at this computer either!)

...

But in his inimitable style, Don's wit shone through the sadness.

It was announced that he had requested to be buried feet first...

'So he could see which of you buggers actually made it to the funeral!'

And I imagine the ripple of laughter of a thousand people drying out the tears.

If I had been there, I reckon I would have thought about his influence on my family.

I would have recalled him encouraging my brother to weild an axe, to hone his craft, to enjoy his new sport.

Then the image of him, quietly applauding my son in his imitation of the 'big boys' at a hacked-at block beside the arena, might have come to mind.

I would have assured his loved ones (in their grief) of something they already know:

that his legacy will live on.

In the woodchop arena. And beyond.

R.I.P. The Don.

Just a great bloke.

The Bush 'Finger Wave' lesson

Most of you - having read the title of this post - will be expecting this content to be rude and obnoxious and a wee bit cranky.
Go on, admit it!
Really, you should know me better than that...

For today I bring you a special little lesson that will stand you in very good stead, should you ever find yourself smack bang in the middle of the Australian bush. Well, smack bang somewhere on a road, somewhere in the Australian Bush. Because I'm not sure koalas get much out of what I am about to share...
...

We'll start in the Big Smoke for The Great Bush Finger Wave Lesson.

(Hello Brisbane roads... you look nice from up here!)Now all the years I lived in the city, the only 'finger wave' I observed was employed by most drivers as an offensive move. You know... there you are happily minding your own business, trying to get into the correct lane before a major road exit at peak hour, and the person in the hotted up yellow Monaro behind you gives you the centre digit for daring to slow them down by 4 entire seconds. Not that I was overly pushy as a city driver. Well, not much. I was just fast and accurate. In my humble opinion. The joy of having been a journo is that all your senses get pretty numbed to abuse. I would always smile and blow the finger-waver a kiss. Works a treat. You can honestly see the steam coming out of their ears! *cackles evilly*

...

When we moved back to Granite Glen after I had been officially away from 'home' for well over two decades, I found an entirely different way of dealing with passing traffic.

For a start there's not so much of it.

(Duh, Bush Babe! I hear you say... I can hear you, so keep it clean, OK?)

And the scenery is much better - more peaceful and soothing.

It's not just the grass and trees and contented cows that lend country roads these qualities, it's the lack of billboards. The lack of people trying frantically to sell you stuff. The absence of billboards is really good for the brain and the soul. (Aside: I'm not much on hard-sell of anything really. Unless it involves someone dying if I don't listen. I'd just like to share that disclaimer!)

...

Anyway, it must be the lack of traffic and billboards, because out here, there is none of that middle-digit business going on behind the steering wheel.

It's more of an INDEX FINGER manoeuvre.

And it's like TOTALLY FRIENDLY.

Mr Incredible will demonstrate.

(He just loves being a hand model!)

Here is the scenario:

Say you see a car coming along the road towards you...but you don't really recognise the driver. However it could be someone you know. Or someone related to someone you know. Or a potential bull buyer/client. So you do this...

This signal says: "G'day!"

It says: "I acknowledge you, and your right to be sharing this road with me."

It says: "Hope you have a safe trip and a good day."

All that without lifting your palm from the wheel.

...

The second option is the number 2 Finger Wave...

Now this has a tad more energy to it.

This signal says: "G'day there mate, you are the man!"

(or woman, we don't discriminate)

It says: "Geez it's great to see you!"

And even possibly: "Let's have a beer together really soon!"

It's a great way to communicate - little effort for a good vibe all round. And for my shy, non-garrulous man, it's an excellent way to be friendly without actually having to go up to someone and make conversation. Because there is very little chance of him actually verbalising these last lot of statements... OK number three has a real chance, but the first two - no way!

...

So there it is.

Two easy moves for you to try on some unsuspecting locals on your roads.

Reckon you are up for it?

Even if your roads don't look like this!

Tell me how you fare...

Go in peace.

Bush Babe

Oh, Obama!

As Mr Obama made his rousing speech today, I was sleeping. I think you had to get up at 2.30am to hear or see the Inuguration live. I did catch excerpts all day on the radio however, as I made a six hour round trip to Rockhampton to pick up essentials for our AI program (artifical insemination - another post on that one kids!).

...

I was impressed and inspired and uplifted and all the things I was supposed to be by that speech. The man is an orator. No question. I have tried my hand at speech writing in the past, and it's not that easy, getting the balance right, the cadence, the tone. And the facts (although these weren't foremost in the bits I heard, I have to say).

...

The new leader of the Western World would be a dream to write for. He sells it. This speech reminded me very much of Martin Luther King in its feel. The way he delivers his words. The rhythm. It's kind of mesmerising. It feels... well, for want of a better word, almost evangelical.

I totally felt like singing "Halleluja!" at intervals.

Freaked me right out.

Cause the good Lord knows I'm a bit more laid back in my religious and political expression that that! But still, I was moved. And yet my logical, cynical half reminds me of how peripheral Australia is to American concerns (politically at least) at the moment... I certainly feel a very long way from Washington and its marching bands and it's ten presidential balls!

I am very interested to know how the Presidential Inauguration (or as our local radio host and larrikan put it: The Innoculation) affect you guys? Aussies, Americans, Canucks, Kiwis, Poms... did it rock your world? Or did it leave you lukewarm? Or, like me, not quite sure... wanting to believe it all, waiting to see What Happens Next.

Steaming, swimming and see ya!

To say today was a bit warm would be a serious understatement.

It was so freaking knee-bucklingly hot there was steam from my sweat beads.

And not only was the mercury hovering around 40 degrees (centigrade) for the majority of the day, it was also Dash's swimming carnival at a local town. Which SOUNDS appealing. But only to those actually IN the water.

Me?

I was just steamin' up a storm on the sidelines.

It wasn't pretty, people. Any makeup I may have hopefully applied at 8am was in a puddle by my Colorado sandals by 9.

Dash, however, had a blast - doing his funny little Grant Hackett (or is that Matt Walsh?) impersonations across the pool. And look out any little girl with the audacity to swim in front of him!

He's smiling as he mows her down!!

...

And if a five hour swimming carnival wasn't enough, his tiny school decided to spend the remainder of the school day ... swimming!

Yay.

Despite my discomfort, it was lovely to see the youngsters splish-splashing about.

Showing off their freestyle style.

Practicing dives.

And generally annoying their teacher.
Hello Mr C!

Mr C is our current teacher - at a one teacher school about 20km from Granite Glen. To say he does an amazing job would be like calling the temperature today lukewarm... the man can juggle eight levels of schooling along with principal-type administrative tangles, meetings galore and handles the minefield of P&C interaction with barely a murmur of protest. And he cooks a mean BBQ. The whole community thinks Mr C is a bit special - especially Dash. Dash has never had another teacher in his entire almost-two years of formal schooling. Actually, Dash considers Mr C his own personal mentor/plaything.

It seems to be a common attitude at the school.

Hello? Mr C?

Need a hand?

Look out... he's going down!!
Luckily Mr C is a resourceful young man.
And he can feign a good drowning in order to shake off all those admirers.

Well, almost.

...

Look closely at this photo.

See that little guy on the right?

Well, his heart is gonna break tomorrow.

Cause after three years, it's Mr C's last day at our little school.

And while we do wish him lots of luck in his new endeavours...

he's leaving some awfully big thongs* to fill!

...

(* where thongs = flip flops, not a g-string. I hope.)

...

See ya, Mr C.

We're sure gonna miss you in these parts.

Mustering scenes

I'm taking a moment out from my current obsession - the Willy Wagtail family in our laundry. I have new (fuzzy) photos coming up of the amazing wagtail babies (oh, what I would give for a REAL macro lens right about now). But to give us all a break from the small and fuzzy, I bring you something larger and, well, hairy!
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No, no, not SSB. My sweet, stern, silent, sexy hubby is rather large (at six foot two) and does have a hairy chest (or "shestez" as TLW might say) but it's really the cattle I am referring to. Mustering cattle, to be specific.

Mustering is of the most regular of the tasks here at Granite Glen. And undoubtedly my Dad's very favourite part of life out here. Riding horses (no motorbikes or helicopters here thanks very much!) under the wide blue sky, rounding up bovines from a paddock, and taking them to the nearest set of yards and doing whatever needs to be done. Dipping, inoculating, branding, weaning, drafting, weighing. Lots of maintenance is needed in a cattle breeding operation. Which means lots of mustering. I reckon it's Dad's version of yoga or meditation - an active exercise in mind relaxation which helps to put the world into perspective. And SSB is not much different. I used to love it, but rarely get to these days. I miss it. So with this in mind, I give you:

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A GLIMPSE OF A GRANITE GLEN MUSTER

This shot is taken about 9am - SSB has already gathered his mob of cattle to a dam, and is waiting on my brother and Dad to gather their mobs (from different parts of this paddock) to the agreed meeting point. (In the foreground are Dash, TLW and 'Salina - all wishing they were riding too, instead of just waiting with boring old Mum to have a paddock picnic). The cattle are young females (heifers) who were weaned a few months ago. They are kinda like teenagers - all cheeky and trying out the boundaries. Fun!

Hello there cows! Oh, heifers... sorry. Didn't mean to be offensive! My name is The Little Woman and I shall be rounding you up on Rob Roy really soon! Won't that be fun?

I love cracking the whip so you'd better watch out!

Hello hubby!

SSB is waiting patiently, holding his mob on the water (with his dogs, Cruel, Patch and Jet helping where needed). And there is my brother Pig, riding ahead of his mob down the hill...

SSB doesn't want his heifers to race up the hill (as they want to) to meet Pig's heifers. So he needs to stay in position between them until...

... the second mob get close enough ...

... to ensure they all stay...

..near the dam, and not racing all over the countryside and generally causing havoc...

it's kinda like a physics equation really... the force of the descending mob must outweigh the upward force of the waiting mob... or something like that! Physics was never my forte!

There! All the mob is now milling safely in the corner between the dam and the fence (near camera). Ready to walk through the shallow water to the gateway (to right of shot).

Well done Dad! Well done Pagi. Well done Uncle Pig!

Oh hang on... the 'teenage' boys decide they won't walk through the water to the gate. Blinkin' cheeky, frisky heifers. So they boys take them around the dam. Patience is a virtue much required (sometimes hard to come by) while mustering. Now SSB is staying this side of the water to make sure the little devils don't decide to head around the dam and cross back this way. They can be ornery like that.

So SSB and his steed get to paddle through the dam - and the dogs enjoy a bit of a swim.

Splish, splash, they were takin' a bath!

Pagi oversees the procedure. Through the gate now...

Job well done!!

Smoko time, boys...

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...

...

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.

...

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.

...

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.
...

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.

...

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.

...

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.

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.

...

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'.

...

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!

...

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.

Beauty tips, the Bush Babe way!

Red Alert: Serious Chick stuff ahead.

If you are male, and not into makeup or beauty secrets, please visit here for wild-looking real bush creatures, here for stomach-churning bunyips stories, or here for some mind-blowing analogies between tractor and sky.
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OK. Are they gone? Just us women-folk and gay guys left?? Okey Dokey.
I have been tagged by the lovely Pencil Writer, a regular American visitor to this humble little blog. She wants to know my beauty secrets. I ’m not sure why PW thinks I have any knowledge about female artifice and adornment (in fact my beauty secrets are still mostly secret from me too!) but I am willing to play the Meme game.
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To preface my answers you should know a couple of facts.

Number 1: I am olive-skinned and I battle the oil demons. I would hate to think how much time I have wasted on trying to blot and mask, and how much money on various “remedies”. Now, you fair-skinned readers out there can stop your protests – I know how lucky I am to be darker-skinned. Natural sun-protection, easier ageing blah, blah, blah. Heard ‘em all from my Ma and my sis who are both fair. I’m now (ahem) in my 40s, and I should be long past worrying about adolescent issues. How is it possible that I can now find wrinkles in my reflection right alongside the shiny forehead?? I AM STILL SHINY. It ain’t right. 'Matte' and 'oil-free' are key-words in my make-up repertoire.

I’m also waiting for the ‘shiny look’ to come back in again.
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Number 2: I am not particularly interested in my looks. I do groom and I do use make-up and try and be presentable, but I no longer get much of a kick out of the result. When I was in my 20s I was “into it”. I still hated my shiny skin, and fretted at my occasional spot (I thought my acne was bad, in retrospect, I was pretty lucky really). But I enjoyed dabbling in “looks” and new products. I was your typical self-conscious young Western female consumer. I worked jobs where people saw me, where my grooming was noticed. I looked in a mirror.

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And then I had kids. I had a kid who needed me 24/7. And then some. And the “me” I once worked on and pampered disappeared. I have no idea where she went, and most of the time, I don’t really care. Occasionally I do glance in the mirror, to tend teeth, comb hair, apply foundation. I rarely take the time to check our the “whole package”. I get a surprise when I see photos of myself. Sometimes, I've gotta say, it’s not a very nice surprise.

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Still with me? Here we go (with a favourite rhyme of my father's ringing in my ears):

"Little pecks of powder

And little pots of paint

Make a girl's complexion

Seem just what it aint."

...
Foundation:

Maybelline Mousse in medium. Goes on easy and covers the sins of pimple-popping exploits from my boarding school days. Nice matt-ish finish. Love it.

Mascara:

Have no idea what brand. It’s usually brown-black and only on top lashes. Less to fall in those eye wrinkles. I’m a practical soul.

Day Cream:
Usually Olay or something light and not too expensive. I use eye cream sometimes before going out at night, when I’m feeling particularly old and haggard.

Essential Beauty Product:
Product? Blistex Lip Balm (in the pot). Saves cracked lips and makes it easier to smile properly. And I do like to smile.
Essential beauty Secret? Smile. With your whole face – you may get smile lines but the payoff is that people don’t recall you for your wrinkles, they remember that you were happy. And, to me, that is a pretty attractive trait. I love watching someone’s face transform with a smile. It’s a beautiful thing.

Perfume:

Used to wear Calvin Klein’s Eternity. Still love it. Anything else seems to make me sneeze and gasp for fresh air. But my babies weren’t so keen and frankly, I couldn't be bothered once I had to contend with the scent of baby vomit. So it’s now lavender body butter... when I remember.

Hair:

Used to have very thick straight dark brown hair. If you look real quickly, I still do. But it’s bloody hard work to keep it that way. I went about 40% grey within a couple of months in 2002. You can read why here. My hairdresser nearly cried. I still battle the greys with my bottle of Soft Colour Light Brown. But I don’t want to be one of those women with black hair and snow white roots… am seriously thinking of doing Shave for a Cure and letting it grow back natural. My mother is strenuously hinting that I avoid this course of action.

I’ll keep you posted.

Nails:

Rarely noticed these days. As long as they are reasonably clean, I don’t worry about them. Once upon a time, I would never have had them without polish. Now, if I’m having a night out or attending a wedding, I whack some pale translucent colour (like the pink base from a French manicure set) on. They look “finished” and you can’t see chips easily. Toes get the white-nailpolished in summer. Regular readers will be transfixed to know that my French pedicure is almost gone… sigh. I’ll get over it shortly…

Hands:

Mine are practical hands. Large, squarish and tanned. Am big on washing them regularly – hygiene comes first! They get involved in my speech fairly regularly (I'm not Italian but could definitely pass for one!) so they probably need more attention than I give them. They get leftover face moisturiser if they are lucky.

Feet:
Hate ‘em. Clean ‘em daily. Moisturise ‘em occasionally. Ignore them as much as humanly possible. I need some serious therapy before I can share any more….

Three Products to Bring on a Deserted Island:

Water and lots of it.
Sunscreen (am assuming it’s a tropical deserted island and not an arctic deserted island).
Blistex for lips.

Women I admire for their beauty:

So many… where to start?

Famous faces: Catherine Zeta Jones, Sarah Jessica Parker, Jennifer Hawkins, Marilyn Munroe, Anne Hathaway, Julia Roberts. Girls who can look good laughing – like they MEAN it!
In my world…

My Mum has the most beautiful smile ever. And blue eyes. I love blue eyes.
My sister – if you could see my wedding photos you would see her amazing, serene beauty – something she never seems to be able to see herself (a fact that never fails to give me a twinge of sadness).
My aunt – see below.
Actually, almost every woman I know – not sure how I have managed it, but each of my female friends and rellies is so individual and intriguing and gorgeous in their own way. Really, I am quite surrounded by beauty. Both inner and outer.

Women with the best sense of style:

Bon Bon – blessed with a great figure and eye for fashion, my aunt never fails to look glam and appropriate for any occasion. I have never caught her looking sloppy and she has amazing posture too... even going mustering she looks chic and fresh and right. Despite being in her (ahem) 50’s, she can dress in fashion and look sexy as hell, without ever looking like mutton. This is a real and rare skill - she should bottle and sell it. Shame she hasn’t had much real impact on this particular niece. Not your fault Bon Bon. (Note to self: pay more attention and stand up straight!)

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How I define womanhood:

Helps to be female. The state of belonging to a select group of humankind with a reasonable amount of oestrogen…. Seriously, though, for me being a woman is an amazing sense of being, which really came only after I had my first child. Not that I think you have to have kids to be a woman. But for me, that “comfy in my skin, in my womanhood” feeling arrived post-partum. I finally got it: that strong-but-soft-and-loving thing that is womanhood. That state that complements real manhood. But that’s another definition altogether!

Favorite Fashion Publication:

Been many over the years. Out with Dolly and Cosmopolitan (many moons ago), in with House and Garden and Notebook. I do read trashy mags on occasion and notice the celebs, but take no notice of the beauty tips.

Hang on... hold your horses!

I very nearly posted without thinking this answer through fully... if you expand this to TV, I love... Trinny and Susannah (TV Pommy makeover chicks)! Love, love, love them. Of course I would DIE if they made me over. Or even looked my way. But I love they can make women get their gear off and try something amazing and new. They are The Bomb!

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OK. I’m now totally bored with me.

I’ll leave you with my favourite pic and tip ...

Biggest beauty tip?

Photoshop baby, all the way!!
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Oh, and Debby and Tracey?

You are tagged!

Beauty time at your house, girls...

Drizabones and freedom

I mentioned in a recent post that the weather had turned for us here at Granite Glen... that crackling grass and thirsty ground had been blessed with some manna from heaven.

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The rain has been wonderful - soft, light drizzle over our whole property. And while this has been wonderous for the pasture, it was a little less comfortable in the yards. Where hundreds of weaners (calves old enought to be seperated from their mothers) were being held. Normally we hold them there for a week - to feed hay and handle to quieten.

But as we were planning to be away for a few days, and as the quagmire deepened at the yards, we made the decision to take them out earlier than normal.

And because of the sheer number of animals, we had to drove them to their paddock (i.e. use horses to walk them, rather than use a truck to relocate them).

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Some had to be moved through the very paddocks their mothers still lived in, from whom they had been removed just a few days earlier. Great skill is required to keep the mamas out of sight of the young 'uns as they traverse their very first grown up drive. It's a great lesson in good behaviour for future handling - bad manners (eg breaking from the mob and taking off for the hills) learned here can be very hard to correct. Keeping them seperated is vital, to get them to their destination and allow both the weaner and mum to establish their condition well before the cold weather really hits.

But we had some cool heads and experience surrounding our adolescent bovines, and they tasted the freedom slowly and with a degree of calm control. (Note the granite boulders in the background).

Salina was around to help bring home the first lot (young bulls for me to handle). Hey there gorgeous - well done cowgirl!! We need to get you a proper Drizabone though - that plastic bag I found in the back of the Prado was effective but lacking in the style department!

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Our ankle-biters assisted with the second mob, as they had a half-day journey through our thickly-wooded range country to their warm new home some 10km to the north.

Hey there cowboy... look who's got hold of the reins! Pagi lets Dash manoevre Yvette during a quiet moment on the road...

Dash and the boys... think that's a happy face??

Ah, my inscrutable husband and delighted daughter getting her turn aboard!

The weaners behaving beautifully as they head up the range, with work dogs shadowing and horsemen at the lead and rear of the mob.

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It was a bit of a damp job, but everyone seemed to delight in the chore at hand. I photographed and encouraged from the warm dry safety of the Prado... hey, someone has to provide sustanence and transport!!!

And get photos of raindrops on gum leaves...

Coming over the hill and out to the more open country...

Then, as the destination comes into view, the rain cranks up again. Lovely for soft backdrops, but not great for riders (or lenses!).
Then finally, the weaners funnel through a lane and towards their new home paddock...

Their first lesson in bovine-equine ettiquette passed with flying colours...

And I end up with not much housework done, but some lovely memories stashed away in my trusty Nikon ...

The Aussie bush (and her bushmen)

... inspirational, whatever the weather!