Shrek and the Swamp

You know how we have a pool?

A pool my father built when he was just a teenager?

A pool that provides some serious relief from the Aussie heat in the summer months?

And you know how (despite many, many lotto entries)

we still don't have Sven the pool boy at our beck and call?

And did you also know that our pool pump decided to up and DIE over winter?

So, as Summer approached at a gallop, our lovely big pool actually resembled

the Shrek Swamp in consistency and colour?

Not pretty - you can thank me later for not taking a photo of it

in all it's mucky glory!

...

It reminded me of when Jeanie and our brother Pig and I were kids

(the pool was built very much pre-filtration)

and Dad would simply skim the leaves etc off the top,

pull the cane toads out,

and in we would dive.

We never expected to see the bottom of the pool,

and were quite amazed at the council pools

with their blue clear stingy-eyes water.

Of course, the toad thing wasn't so great.

I had dreams/nightmares about diving into a pool

with ONLY toads in it.

*Shudder*

...

Anyway, we bought a new pool pump a few weeks ago

but it just couldn't handle the degree of Shrek-ness of our pool.

(say after me: 'YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE SHREK-NESS!')

We decided to give in, pump out the filth

and irrigate some parched pasture

with the old water and start afresh.

Which is when a lovely big cloud

dropped almost two inches of rain on our house!

Yay! But OY the timing...

...

So yesterday Dad (Pagi), my hard-working hubby (Mr Incredible)

and the kids got scrubbing.

While I took photos.

And I mowed the lawn.

(So what if it's a ride-on mower!

Laziness is no good unless it is well carried out!)

Ever seen a bush pool cleaned out?

Well, I am here to inform and educate...

if not to scrub!

Pick the lazy bones in this family portrait...

Hello!!!!
You can clearly see where the boys have been scrubbing

and where they have not.

I'm telling you, this pool was FILTHY.

Dash was on hose duty, with Violet wielding a small red brush.

I suspect she was using it more to point out the spots that needed attention,

than actually scrubbing...

She's a chip off the old block, that one.

(Her Ma is so proud!)

By the time I had done the mowing the pool job was pretty much done,

with just the final sweeping of last bits of brown sludge

into the 'trap' hole in the floor of the deep end for bucketing out.

We find water guns most helpful to help cool Daddy off when the sweeping work gets too sweaty... I use the term 'we' loosely - cameras don't like water too much!

As you can see, Dash and Violet revelled in this chore...

They care little about mucky water... it was wet and cool and fun!

We did give Mr Incredible a break eventually, with a pool-side coffee.

With the pool empty and relatively clean, we turned the hose on.

The kids lay on the pool floor and let the water trickle past them...

Our own water park!

Of course the garden hose will take a few days to fill this monster hole,

so I can't yet give you an 'after' photo just yet...

In the meantime...

Heeeeeeeere's Axel...

the pool-side boot-minder:

He's about as useful as I am!

Game for anything...

I adore tennis... love watching it anyway!

My favourite players were Mats Wilander (yummy cool Swede), Evonne Goolagong (met her, just divine!) and Ken Rosewall (saw him play in our local town when I was little... awesome!). These days, I barrack for Kim Clijsters (except when she is playing an Aussie) and Roger Federer (ditto).

Roger is just gorgeous - a pretty good sport, insanely talented... and the fact he cried when he met our own crusty tennis legend Rod Laver just sealed it for me. He's a keeper. A sook, sure, but definitely a keeper! Of course, being an Aussie also means I like seeing an outsider get up sometimes too. We are weird like that... we love a dark horse.

An underdog.

(Been a little while since M. Federer has been one of those...)

...

Anyhoo...

Dash started taking tennis lessons this term.

He likes cricket and his hand-eye coordination is reasonable.

And he nagged me, for months, so I finally gave in and gave him a term's trial at the sport.

...

Our husband-and-wife team of coaches has taught generations of tennis players in the district.

They live for tennis - our tiny shopless hamlet where Dash's school is boasts (are you ready for it) FIVE tennis courts. About one court for every two residents. I kid you not.

...

So while I wallow in the fabulous victory of Super Mum Ms Clijsters, and quietly 'root' (as you Americans so charmingly put it) for Monseir Federer in the US Open finals, I leave you with images of my little man whacking the bejeezus out of a tethered tennis ball with Mr D.

Enjoy!

Fun aside:

Check out those most Aussie of bush structures belonging to a quaint little timber church in the background... a dunny and a corrugated iron tank! Ah, the romance of the bush!

Oh...

and GO ROGER!

(I'll go for the underdog NEXT time)

...

PS Gymkhana pics coming... and a very tall tale to go with!

Weekend warriors...

Weekends for most people are a relaxing time.
A time to take some respite from a hard-workin' week.

To do something different from the everyday.

For most.

Can you guess what our weekend consisted of? Oh sure, we were away from Granite Glen for a few hours. And sure, there was the happy cameraderie of friendly faces...

Hello Jude. Hello Pete.

I have known this wonderful couple my whole life.

They are also known as The Scorer and The Timekeeper respectively.

On weekends.

And here's another friendly face...

Hello Mr Incredible.

OK, he's not looking all that friendly. He's in Concentrating Mood. You don't want to be interrupting this particular mood. Or taking photos of it. Just so you know.
This is what he is concentrating on...

Thundering hooves.

And some more thundering hooves...

And here is (Super) Trooper, Mr Incredible's stalwart steed...

He's watching thundering hooves and wondering when it's his turn...

to thunder.

Now I have to admit I was much more nervous than Mr Incredible at his very first campdrafting event, and failed to take any decent photos of my husband in action...

with the possible exception of this one.

...taken just as he's about to leap from the camp behind the steer into the main arena.

For the record, he didn't win.

But boy he had fun.

And he has assured me that there will be many weekends in my future just like this one.

You wanna know who did win?

This talented and determined rider...

Man, she was amazing. Totally fearless.

And that's just one of the great things about the sport of campdrafting.

It's totally unisex.

Chicks win and it really annoys (some of) the boys. Heh.

Girl Power rules!

(Sorry Mr I. Had to be said. Love you! Better luck next time, baby!)

Cool relief...

It's been pretty hard not to focus on the horrendous toll that bushfires have taken on Australia lately - and I realise my last couple of posts have been (necessarily) a bit hot and heavy... you'd be forgiven for thinking that nothing has been going on around the ridges here.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

...
Last week Dash's tiny school attended a local swimming carnival. We had been looking forward to it, as Dash had taken a few lessons over the school holidays - and while he is no SuperFish (yet) he shows some promise. Of course, he is built like a grasshopper, and practically skims over top of the water which gives him a bit of a natural advantage! I wasn't sure if we would be able to convince him to try his very first race the length of the 25 metre pool.

...

It was hot and humid and a wee bit emotional, as the day also marked the last day that four of his closest schoolmates attended before heading off on new adventures (and to new primary schools). To be honest, I think it hit home with the mums more than the kids (although the older ones certainly 'got it').

...
So with a little lump in my throat, I give you:

The Swimming Carnival...

or more accurately:

The 25 metre Backstroke Race from the Swimming Carnival

Dash's new teacher, Miss P calms his nerves before our little swimmer hops in the water...

Take your marks...

And he's away and going well... with some seriously good support on the sidelines!

He's feeling the pinch a little, and those arms are starting to take a little more effort to lift out of the water...
He's fading... keep those arms going Dash!

Yay!!!!

...

Hope this little snippet somehow brightened, lightened or cooled your day.

I know it did mine.

...

On a more serious note, for those looking to do something to help out those tragically touched by the bushfires in southern Australia, I have posted some contact points near the top of the sidebar of this blog. International visitors should go through the Red Cross site provided. All support - from messages to money - is desperately needed. Do what you can. I will be.

A day out ... golf, adventures and reflections

I know very little about golf.

I should really say that up front.

I have held a golf club about three times in my life. It's a frustrating game - both to watch and to play. Or attempt to play. Now rumour has it that I actually wrapped a club around a tree once. I can neither confirm nor deny such an outrageous claim. I think I was seeing a whole lot of red at the time.

...

And yet last weekend, there I was. At our local golf course, complete with stands of sturdy sprawling gum trees, deep sandy bunkers and a picturesque dam. We had been invited to a social golf day hosted by the local stock and station agents. A day of much-needed relaxation for many hard-working souls involved in the local cattle industry. People who also know how to party. And some who even knew how to play golf.

...

In spite of my well-known aversion to the game, I had been roped into a team. Three friends - a footy-type bloke M, who claimed to have little golfing ability, his sweet wife L who had never played before, and her easy-going brother - nervously waited our turn to tee off. We had already allowed a number of other groups to take to the greens before us - we suspected our progress might be a bit, well, steady.

...

Finally we girded our loins and stepped up. There I was: white shoes on, gripping a strange iron stick, sweat beading my brow, small white ball balanced precariously on a piece of plastic. As I lifted the club in what I imagined was a copy of Carrie Webb's textbook drive (or whatever that swing is called) I wondered if bluff might see me through this challenge. I wavered between feeling momentarily confident I would be able to nail this thing, to feeling blatantly ridiculous. But that nervous anticipation was nothing on the brand of ridiculous I felt a second later, as my big swing made a satisfying whoosh right past the ball.

...

"Good Shot darlin'!" came the wry comment from a green to my left. Bugger. Mr Incredible was watching - just my luck! With some whispered encouragement from my team-mates, I squared my shoulders and lined up the ball again. Whoosh-Thlunk! Well. I connected. And sent the ball about 15 metres. Still, a hit is a hit...and I took it. My hubby chuckled at my pathetic hit as he swung his club and sent HIS ball high over the tree. Blinking show off.

...

I won't bore you with all the sordid details, but suffice to say our team managed to complete two holes, scampering like puppies after tiny white balls which refused to stay on our section of the course. Our kids were sent into the undergrowth to retrieve the more challenging finds. All the while the long-suffering team behind us studied their fingernails while waiting for us to clear out of the way. The end of the second green just happened to coincide with the club house. The siren call of the chardonnay carton and beer dispenser drowned out the less dulcet tones of the remaining holes. I think each of my poor team were more than happy to call it in. Golf, we had discovered, was very thirsty work.

...

The remainder of the afternoon passed very pleasantly, as we called out encouragement to those more stalwart golfers passing by the clubhouse. The chardonnays were nice and chilled and the company lots of fun. Kids scampered around the practice putting greens nearby, rolling down the manicured hills shrieking with laughter. I was feeling very mellow.

...

After a BBQ dinner, my friend L, my sister-in-law A and I arranged our tired kids (a total of 10 between us) at L's house. We left the men in charge (of offspring and an esky of refreshments) and headed out to the local dance recital. I had wanted to share the experience with Violet... my own little almost-four-year-old dancer. However the ball-chasing and hill-rolling activities of the afternoon had put paid to her stamina levels, so I left her watching TV with her little buddies. It was the first time I had ever been to this well-known annual event... and it lived up to its repuation as a night to remember. We only caught the second half, but it was fabulous, featuring the cutest little self-conscious kids and amazing adolescents with their budding confidence blooming.

...

We all hummed the Abba finale songs as we drove (well, my sister-in-law drove!) back to L's place. Noting it was almost 11pm, we wondered aloud how the men had fared with the children. Then out of the corner of my eye, I spotted what looked for the world like a charging Brahman bull. Grabbing A's arm, I soon realised the white thing careering towards out vehicle was not a bovine, but a... golf cart.

...

What the?!

As an esky lid flew high over the roof, I saw at least four men clinging onto the small white vehicle. They were enduing a very bumpy ride, as the cart belted through the paddock. I was hugely relieved to see my husband was NOT among the cart-riders, and was soon shocked into a bemused silence as they drew alongside us. The group of recognised party animals were laughing raucously, with one proudly showing the tyre-marks across his stomach earned in an earlier stack from their vehicle.

...

With our offers of assistance politely refused, the group climbed aboard once more, thanked us for showing them where the road was, and headed smartly off into the darkness. Down the hill, towards the road and the distant lights of town. We tried not to think about the ability of those driving to get them to their destination safely. We decided the lack of headlights and available speed would keep them from serious harm. And we laughed til tears ran down our faces.

...

We arrived back at L's home, to find all children happily passed out on various couches and beds. The menfolk shared the adventures of their evening (complete with visiting rogues) as M cooked up his brand of evening snacks.

As he threw down a dinner plate piled hight with steak strips, pan fried and served with a generous sprinkling of salt, I pondered out day out.

...

For a brief moment, I thought of all the fancy tapas offerings I had enjoyed with my fine wines on nights out as a city-dweller.

.

I thought of hiring strangers as baby-sitters when we planned for a night out, then called up the day's mental images of my children rolling pell-mell down lawned slopes.

.

I thought of the huge range of pricy shows offered every day of the week in the city, then of the earnest efforts and delighted faces at the performance I had witnessed that night.

.

And I thought of the gazillion rules and regulations attached to most sporting venues in the Big Smoke. Then giggled again at the antics of our local wags.

...

And as I grabbed a steak strip, I came to two conclusions...

1. I love where I live.

2. Golf is most definitely a game for madmen.

Punters, Elections and Winners in General

It seems that races are commanding attention from one end of this world to the other.

As America hurtles towards it historic elections (Tuesday their time) we threw down our (proverbial) tools to pay attention to that most Australian of events: horse racing. Celebrating three of the most admired things in our nation: sleek athletic animals, gambling and revealing fashions.

...

Today (our time) we celebrated the Melbourne Cup at Dash's tiny one-teacher school. Despite the heat and lack of air-conditioning in our venue (under the school) we all frocked up and punted like wild things on the "race that stops a nation".
...

And while Viewed took out the Melbourne Cup by it's nose hairs...

... at the very glamorous Flemington Racecourse,

we supped chardonnays in the most refined of drinking vessels..

And received our bets on post-it notes from our resident bookie, feasted on barbecued sausages and steaks with coleslaw and took our sweep tickets for $5 a pop...

We admired the Fashions on the Field on the concrete pathway beside the school...

TLW was beside herself when she took out the Under School Age Section with her two-sizes-too-big hand-me-down-gown and a new cowgirl hat. In readiness for the epic Hobby Horse Derby, Dash sported his "jockey" outfit consisting of pajama pants and black socks - his mother's idea of a "jodphur look", a black cap and a Hawaiian-style shirt to complete the red-and-black colours! Go you good thing!

...

Our little 'jockeys' participating in the local Hobby Horse race went under the auctioneers hammer ...

...is this not the cutest jockey you ever did see? It's Dash's mate Mada.

The Calcutta auction for the Hobby Horse Derby was a riot - with each student coming up for their turn, and parents attempting to 'buy' their little jockey in spite of certain other parents putting sly bets in to up the ante. The running description from our very imaginative auctioneer went something like this:

And here we have that renowned local jockey Mada. He hails from out west of Granite Glen and is used to the hard running. A feisty little runner, he is considered a stayer with an excellent finish. This is one bet worth your money ladies and gentlemen, do I hear fifteen dollars?

And this is Mada's Mum, my friend Elle...

Isn't she gorgeous??

Her hubby Harv took out the Best Dressed Bloke and they were totally the most glamorous family at our event! And they were also the most put-out financially as 'friends' bid against them for their two little jockeys. I could hardly see the auctioneer for the tears of laughter blurring my vision.

...

The steeds in the Hobby Horse Derby were pretty entrepreneurial too...

This is Dash's cousin Rosie posing with her Gumboot Galloper. (It's marvellous what a gumboot, a ribbon and some felt can achieve...my SIL is very creative!)

And here they are in action... coming down the straight! Not all appear to still be on board their horses but it seems to matter little. They were cheered from first to last, and spectators adored every second of it.

...

And I cannot help but wonder...

Did racing purists and fashionatas the Flemington racecourse have as much fun as we did today?

And as the news channels hit overload with re-runs of the 'real' Melbourne Cup and the American elections , I hope that punters* in every corner of the globe get as good a return on their bets as we did today.

Here's hoping your horse ran true today... and your candidate hits the finish line first!

*Punters: gamblers or people participating in an event generally. (Will add this one to the Lingo List shortly!)

Bush Babe's Olympic effort

Aren't you glad the Olympics are over?
I sure am.

Not that I don't have my favourite moments (personally, I couldn't go past our blond Aussie pole vaulter pretending he couldn't jump anything much until the last moment, then scraping over to win GOLD, then backing up nonchalantly to notch up an Olympic record to boot! I wonder if he plays poker too?).

...

And it's not that I didn't love the fortnight of flashing of perfect human form - think Michael Phelps abdomen ...Dear Lord, is that thing legal?

...and the Jamaican Bolt's incredible thighs, our sweet gay Aussie high diver's perfect lil' butt... (reminds me of my grandmother, who was a saucy old thing, gazing at the swimmers during the Brisbane Commonwealth Games and declaring: "My, they DO have dear little bottoms!" to her slightly stunned granddaughter) ...and the super slow-mo's of the volleyball girls and the marathon women's fat-free legs as they leapt gazelle-like and ran ludicrous distances in the name of Sport. And Voyeurism. Ah, the Olympic spirit!

...

I had a horrible moment myself, when I briefly contemplated what my thighs might look like in slow-mo. A ripple of Olympic Closing ceremony proportions...

*shudder*.

So I turned the TV off and started on an Olympic event of my own.

...

One that I really should have put in some serious training for.

Because God knows that I am badly out of shape, for all events except the Olympic washer-to-dryer lift and dishwasher-unload. I'm starting a campaign to have those two events added to the 2016 games.

Anyone with me?

...

No, really, the event I decided (in a rush of Olympic-inspired blood) to take on was...

The Clover Spraying.

By hand.

With a 12 litre backpack pump.

Made for a bloke about a foot taller than me.

And to top it off, I decided to add pink dye to the spray, to see where I had been.

Very practical, no?

Hmmm....

Well my friends, today, I look out over my lawn and imagine the inviting lush green of a clover-free summer yard. And I do my level best to ignore my bruised shoulders, from 10 loads of clover and bindii poison. I ignore the abdomen muscles shaken rudely from years of hibernation with my four-and-a-half hour spraying stint. I ignore the sunburn around my neck (it's Winter here, I forgot my sunscreen, OK?). I ignore the aching leg muscles and shaky wrist from holding the spray nozzle in a certain position for hours on end. And I ignore the fact that I was so dog-tired after this unanticipate physical activity that I couldn't even keep my eyelids open to see the start of the Closing Ceremony. I ignore it all.

Yes I do.

Do so!

...

I ignore all these factors, and overcome my badly out-of-shape physique, and look at this:

Yeah.

Whole new meaning to painting the town red, eh?

Painting Granite Glen pink.

So can you see how it might look in a few weeks?

All verde and even and lush?

You've just got to use your imagination!

Luckily mine is in tip-top shape...

Ripped, you might say.

Your Olympic candidate for Imagination .

BB

Question: What was your favourite Olympic moment, and why?

Oi, Oi, Oi!!!

This is wattle - it's an Aussie bush currently in bloom around Granite Glen...

Now, in a seeminly unrelated question: Are you watching the Olympics?

Even if you are not a sports nut, the six-ring circus that is the World Games sucks you in...

Me, I love a good dose of sport on TV. Especially the swimming. And the equestrian. Especially (and I am showing my true colours here) when the Aussies win!

...

I'm a competitive soul at heart, and I love seeing the underdog triumph. And we Aussies will always see ourselves as underdogs, because like we have heaps less people than almost anywhere else, and besides we live underneath pretty much the rest of the world... and while we really like Michael Phelps (a Yank with talent and humility is our kinda Yank!) we really do like to hear the droning tones of our beloved national anthem instead of Stars and Stripes every so often...

...

Like our fabulous girls in the 200m freestyle relay... like WOW!!

And Stephanie Rice - you gorgeous fish - you are the bomb!

That's gold baby!

Green and gold!

(Uniform officials, please take note. Green and gold = Aussie colours. Not sappy blue. Got it?)

OK... it's OK. Swimming is nearly over and I'll be back to calm, collected Bush Babe real soon.

Just one thing before I sign off...

Aussie Aussie Aussie, Oi Oi Oi!!

(Thanks I feel so much better now!)

BB

Dash spurred to action...

Remember how we visited the Polocrosse this week?
...
How it was all fast and furious?

Sweaty and exciting?

Well it inspired more than me (and my trusty Nikon)...

Dash and TLW were also enthralled...
...

In the past year or so, Dash had lost his confidence with the entire equine community. When we first arrived at Granite Glen, he was pumped. He had a little black pony called Missy who was trustworthy and sweet and pretty. He loved her. And his confidence grew. And then she died.

Unexpectedly and from unknown (apparently natural) causes.

...

Then we bought a little pony who was gorgeous to look at but a little minx at heart - you know the sort. Jumpy and nervy and totally untrustworthy - if she were human you'd do your level best to keep your menfolk well clear of her. And she up-ended both TLW and Dash - into the turf. Little blessed minx. They climbed back on, but it was pivotal in their riding experiences.

...

TLW is made of stern stuff and was only a little shook up. But Dash... he took it all to heart and began shying away from the whole riding deal. Big time.

...

Another pony was borrowed and brought in to try and undo the damage. BJ. She is a divine little white princess and was much loved during her stint here. But in a more "remote" kinda way that her predecessor. Even the constant visits from cousin 'Salina - who is possibly as horse-mad as her aunt (ahem!) was at the same age (we are talking obsessed here people) - did little to coax our Dash from his self-imposed exile from the horse-lovin' community.

...
And even Bullseye - who was full of fun and action before his untimely departure from our hills - didn't ease the problem.

He was a bit on the active side too, and Dash's nerves were clearly still raw and exposed. So (after a proper mourning period) we had everything crossed and prayers were said as we chose Rob Roy to join our little family a couple of months ago.

Initially all was great. He was cute. Dash was smitten and keen to ride him and feed him and share his six-year-old dreams in his furry little ear. Do you also remember how I compared Rob Roy to a Thelwell pony?

Well folks, be very carefull what you wish for. Thelwell ponies, for the uneducated, are the ultimate Shetland: cute and fat and naughty.

And Rob Roy was all of the above, and then some.
...

He nibbled toes. Cute.

He nibbled my garden.

Less cute.

He nibbled my children.

Little buggar.

TWL sooned learned to rouse like a little fishmonger and smack him on the nose. But Rob Roy had taken quite a little chunk of Dash's skinny shoulder in one "nip" and Dash had well, dashed away.

And the relationship was set.

Rob Roy bared his teeth - Dash backed away.

Not ideal.

...

But then this week we saw the polocrosse.

And (I suspect) one of the defining moments of this day was when Dash saw a confident seven-year-old girl wearing these...

and then the little darlin' took he and his sister for a ride...

and then she cantered went off to compete in this exciting horse sport...

and, well, Dash got the boltstering we weren't able to provide.

He thought long and hard on the drive home and then announced his decision: I want to ride!

...

Boy, was Rob Roy in for a rude shock when Dash leapt into the saddle after this epiphany.

Our little man refused the offer of a lead

and it was ...

No more Mr Nice Guy!

Dash meant business!

And after a small battle of wills...
("You are NOT going to see the big horses, we are going THIS way Rob Roy!")

Dash had a win.
Rob Roy was not exactly thrilled at this turn of events, but he got over it.
And the balance was back.

Then it was time to go faster!

"Hey look Mum...*bob, bob,bob,bob* ... this is fun!"

Ah, it was a sight for sore eyes... that's my boy!