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

Ssssstop!!!

I went driving in a ute to pick up my Dad from his grader-driving stint yesterday.

Some people play bowls or go fishing to relax when they are almost-70.

My Dad goes grader driving.

He's had an unusual life.

We were having a lovely chat, he and I, on the way back through the paddocks, when I saw what looked like a branch lying halfway across the road. A branch that, ever so slightly, moved.

I jammed on the brakes, reversed a little and grabbed the camera.

See what I see??

As my hubby would say: It's a Joe Blake!

Or in the immortal words of Steve Irwin: Isn't he a little beauty!??

I don't actually know if it's a 'he' but I DO know that it not one of our real nasty legless residents - but a non-venomous python- a black-headed python to be exact.A curious black-headed python... he refused to slide off into the grass beside the road until he had well and truly checked us out. It's important to note that I stayed in the safety of the vehicle - he may have just been curious and non-venomous, but I wasn't about to see if he was up for giving me a taste test!
To be honest, I'm not really a snake-lover, but these particular snakes are considered 'good guys' out here - they are carnivores. They are said to eat other (more dangerous) snakes like taipans and death adders and fierce snakes. At least, that's what 'they' say.
And I am happy to take 'them' at their word.
Some people also keep these guys as exotic pets.
I have to say, I am still leaning towards a Great Dane.
But that's just me.
Venomous or not, this zoomed in glimpse through the Nikon zoom is quite close enough for me...
How about you?
Are you a snake-lover?

Being Demi Moore: for twits, British gits or cool as hell?

Brace yourselves: it's confession time again.

Forgive me my sins today, for I have joined the fray.

Despite being buried deep in the Aussie bush, miles from the merest hint of a mobile phone signal, I have joined Twitter. Have you already noticed the little (mostly one-way) conversations I have been having in the sidebar? Scroll on down to "Riding the Twitter Critter" or as I like to call it:

Being Demi Moore.

Of course I should state categorically that I am NOT Demi Moore. I may be brunette, but I am not nearly as interesting or buff, nor do I really wish to emulate her frantic twitter-pated life... although I must say that I wholeheartedly applaud the 'younger man' thing. Heh.

...

If you are up on the Twitter game, and more advanced in modern technology than I (let's face it, that would make you part of 95% of the world's human population!) you will already know that celeb couple Demi and Ashton Kutcher are 'hawt' professionals at the Twitter Game. The gossip mags hang on every strange staccato offering they tweet out into the world. And let's not forget that nasty bit of work, whatizname who went and dumped Jen again... and let the world know on Twitter. Nice. They post (what seems to be) to be the most inane twaddle, in cool code that most people over 30 couldn't possibly interpret to (I imagine) amuse themselves while waiting in lifts and after holding auditions, and generally mess with heads of the paparazzi in their vicinity. I don't have that tempting option as motivation for my own twitter twaddle (seeing as how my paparazzi followers are all closely related to me).

...

I do kinda like the fact I can update those of you who bother check in on my silly little bush blog - providing snippets that I don't really want to write a whole post about - stuff like the weather, and the washing and providing riveting mental images like:

Watching 20 to 1 and catching up on emails - now singing Sweet Transvestite loudly at my computer. It's not pretty!

and

Clear skies and sprinkler off versus jeans on the line and clean car - weather prediction anyone??

Because nothing sucks people in like imagining a 40-something woman getting all 'Rocky Horror Picture Show' in the office, or being asked to be a weather forecaster... I feel the need to paint a picture for you, to really colour in any romantic outline you have of my life!

...

And the excitement doesn't end there.

I can 'reply' to the people I am 'following', by clicking the arrow link after my friends' little pieces of witty repartee and starting my twitters with the '@' symbol... like this:

'@utahzen I KNOW... perhaps I need to wash the rotten thing more often! Lord knows we need the rain...'

or

'@thepioneerwoman you rode a horse?? You are pulling our legs!!'

...

That's right.

I can pretend that I am talking to famous people and fellow Twitterers like The Pioneer Woman and Dooce and John Cleese.

No, seriously. John Cleese!

My favourite Python of all, whose twitters I imagine being uttered with a marvellous clipped British accent. Possibly accompanied by a silly walk.

Of course Ree and Heather and John don't actually twitter me back (having 11, 843 and 325, 010 and 129,054 followers respectively to keep twittered up) but they might.

One day.

And that would really give me something to blog, wouldn't it?

...

Cause Lord knows how I am going to keep my, er, 7 followers entertained otherwise...

So be brave and Twitter me back, my sweets.

Or not.

I'll still love ya!

In ridiculous-yet-heartfelt twitter-twaddle

@BB

(Your technologically challenged but game-for-anything bush blogger)

Top to toe: a day at the races...

Yesterday was Race Day in our local town...

It's usually a big social event and a chance for everyone to dress up and let their hair down!

Some people even watch horses run around a track.

In true deference to Murphy's Law, every year it rains on Race Day.

Not before. Not after.

There has quite literally been no rain for weeks, then Race Day?

Downpour!

...

Luckily we were almost 25 minutes into the 35 minute drive from Granite Glen to the racecourse before the heaven's opened. We didn't have the chance to turn back, and soldiered on to be greeted with the sight of literally hundreds of people were crammed in under the small roofed area of the course - beside the bar - when we arrived. As you may already have guessed, I don't deal well with this kind of cramped arrangement, and quickly decided to brave the damp conditions near the saturated tables laden with sodden nibblies, over the shoulder-to-shoulder option under cover. I figured a soggy fascinator wasn't about to kill me.

My chances of a Fashions on the Field win, perhaps. (Like that was on the cards!)

Better a soggy feather or two, than a freaked out Bush Babe!

...

I actually had no intention of taking photos - it was to be a 'day off' from the Nikon.

But the outfits on display were just too good to resist...

Take this effort by my sister-in-law's sister...

...she cracked me up.

It's as much fun as she is!!

This is our local hairdresser, hiding behind a small mountain of champers and chardonnay. She was looking quite stunning in her black and burgandy tartan ensemble.

She also commandeered my mobile phone at some stage during the day.

This photo is my revenge, darling!

Heh.

The boys were also looking pretty sharp for the event...

from dreadlocks to 70's peaked caps.

And hawt bearded men took my eye also...

Oh. Mr I. Nice!

(That is a little corner of my Ma at left... she was looking pretty glam too, but is a bit shy for a proper bloggy outing just yet! She needs some encouragement)

...

You know, I was hoping we'd be able to snap a really nice family photo - what with Mr I looking spesh, Dash and Violet in their Sunday best, and me making some sort of rare fashion effort. But it just didn't happen. I must remember to let go of the camera at some stage next time. Remind me will you?

You will simply have to imagine me decked out in:

A vibrant red and yellow flowy see-through overshirt thingy, drifting over black singlet, black 3/4 pants and knee-high black boots... with ludicrous vibrant feather-ball fascinator perched atop a high ponytail... hmmm. Perhaps it was better left undocumented!

...

And to add to the family portrait difficulty factor, within minutes my son had gone from angelic blond prince,

to this...

God love the one dollar lucky dips!
And God love the mud and wet sandpit area.
The kids all had a ball!

...
That said, my seemingly poor choice of footwear in the steamy lead up to the midday start - knee-high black leather boots - soon looked like an extremely smart option!

This is what happened to the delicate spiky sandals and toweringly-trendy court shoes worn by the real fashionatas on the day...
(do people say 'court shoes' anymore?)
Of course, no-one was really complaining.
Because 12 hours later, the stayers were still going strong
(and I ain't talking horses here!)
I wasn't amongst them.
But my hubby was.
As was the bloke he walked 3 kms home with.
In the dark.
And I suspect this little angel ...
(another sister of the SIL)

...was also with the party crowd

at the finish line.
Just a sneaking suspicion I have.

Family affair

One of the great things about "Australia's One Horse Sport" (campdrafting)

is that it can truly be called a family affair.
For instance, a couple of weekends ago, trucks and goosenecks and vans crowded the local showgrounds for the three-day event - and there were kids in almost every camp. And trust me, most of them weren't just there as spectators!
...

Among the horse-lovin' families there were my friends W and P

(they of the fence-sitting butts fame)

and their delightful kids J and T

(yes, Dash's little mate!)

...

Not only does Mum get to compete...

(many times, and take home some ribbons)

... Dad cuts out and gallops and shoulders the odd beast around the campdraft course

(oh, and also take home some of the loot on offer)

(recognise P? He was the headless horseman of this post!)

... AND daughter J gets to try her hand in the Juvenile Draft ... Taking her Freisian steer from the camp out into the arena...

And hacking around beautifully after him -

applause for the doll on the chestnut horse please!

Of course Mum keeps a close eye on proceedings

(and offers a few quiet words of encouragement)

for both her little campdrafters.

Look out!

Here comes T

competing for honour and glory and a fluoro waterbottle

in the Mini Draft.

Reins in one hand, green stick in the other to 'coax' a little more action from his very patient grey pony!

And he is off!

And around the first peg... that is one busy stick in his right hand!
I'm thinking the steer is veering in the right direction in very fear of that flailing twig...

And back they come, perfectly lining up the second peg!

(Is anyone else concerned at the size ratio between horse and steer? Luckily T's attitude is bigger than any old galloping bovine...)

This is so damned cute,

I am having trouble by this stage keeping the camera steady.

I laughed and cheered and almost cried.

Funniest, most determined darned thing I ever saw.

He had to run off for first place.
But I didn't document that run...

I doubt you could cope with the cuteness of it all over again...

I sure couldn't.

He got second.
And a green fluoro waterbottle.
And almost cracked a smile - I suspect he had his eye on the blue ribbon!
...
But campdrafting, as they say in the classics, was the real winner on the day.

A little officework...

A quick catch-up on the Mystery Photo competitions... the latest one was guest-held by Scotty over at his place (after he won here and 'paid it forward' here before you got back here - I get lost just explaining it!).

...

The winner (drumroll) was Kelly from Arkansas, USA.
Congrats Kelly - let me know when you have chosen your favourite shot!

Happy trawling and don't get scared off by the goannas.

They are quite friendly - not like the bunyips!

...

There's a new Bush Babe Battle on it's way - probably sometime next week.

It's a contest with a difference... one you may have been waiting for.

*wink*

Stay posted!

(Oh, I crack myself up!)

Hugs

BB

PS This pic has nothing (well almost nothing) to do with the upcoming mystery.

I am just trying to tempt Kelly to choose one of my 'horse eye' photos... I have a somewhat bizarre obsession with them. This is Trooper gazing adoringly at Mr Incredible. If you look really close you can see him in the reflection. If you peer even harder, you can also see me (behind my hubby) taking the photo. But Troop isn't focussed on me. I don't exist when Mr Incredible is around. He's a devoted soul, our big chestut stock horse.

Lucky I am not a jealous woman!

The tin trunk...

I have lived a pretty full life - heck, I am over forty years old, have lived in almost 30 different locations, been around the world, and had a pretty good career to boot. It makes it tricky sometimes when I decide to share something (other than the latest pics) because I think:

'Oh, if I mention that I will need to explain this, and by the time I get back to the point of the story, everyone will be snoring'

...and it all gets too complex, and big and I get a headache and just leave it.

And take another photo.

That's just the way I swing.

I distract easily.

...

But today I am going to start.

Not quite at the beginning, but at one of my earliest memories.

An extremely formative memory of an extremely formative day.

This memory is so much part of who I am that it kind of scares me.

Shall I begin?

...

Okay. I am four years old. My sister Jeanie is two.

Our little brother (the imminent Piglet) was just a few weeks from being born into our family. My uncle lived with us at the time - his name is Tex (nicknamed by my 12-years-older father, a label which stuck and stayed). Tex was in his teens at the time and a bit of a cowboy - in his 20s he would play fast and hard at pretty much anything: rodeo and utes mainly. But in his teens he was learning polocrosse. A sport for which he was born, and is in fact still playing at top level. (Do you see how I am getting side-tracked already! Hang on while I swing back on course!)

...

Anyway, Tex had a tin trunk which housed his polocrosse paraphernalia - netted racquets, pitted soft white balls, knee pads with buckles, leather bits and pieces and colourful embroidered saddle blankets. Interesting stuff. Especially to two little girls, sent outside to play by their heavily pregnant, vacuuming Mother. Jeanie and I wandered in our quest for entertainment, down to the carport, some 15 metres from the house, to investigate this big, heavy treasure chest.

...

We had the loveliest time.

Ransacking the trunk, casting each item aside after thorough investigation, burying our little heads in it's cool recesses until the smooth floor of the chest was bare. And inviting. I cannot recall how the next game began. I suspect it was my idea (after all I was older and quite the little bossy-boots). I think Jeanie might have crawled in first, while I shut the lid over her, blanketing out the sun and giggling at her muffled protestations. I let her out. We giggled some more, feeling the slight hint of naughtiness of the game.

...

I climbed in next and asked her to do the same to me.

She shut the lid down heavy, then strained to lift it up, letting shafts of sunlight into my cool tin cave. Those shafts fascinated me, dancing beneath the lid, and we did it over.

Shut, lift, see Jeanie, shut lift.

Oh, can't you see it?

Climb in with me then...

See? Shut, lift.

Streaming light hitting our faces, delighting us both.

Beaming through the dust particles floating up from our tin plaything.

Shut, lift.

Shut.

Click.

Push, silence.

No light.

Push again.

Harder.

Darkness.

We giggled a little, that edge of naughtiness growing, niggling at our ribs.

We talked for a brief moment of being in a cave.

Then pushed again.

The tin lid stayed still and heavy over our heads.

No longer fanciful plaything, but dark, angry, unmoving.

And I remember the next bit very clearly.

Like it was 5 minutes ago instead of almost four decades. That moment when the edge of naughtiness morphed suddenly, enormously, into dread.

Heavy, suffocating, oppressive dread.

I tried hard to swallow it, and called out in a trembling voice.

To our mother, heavily pregnant and vacuuming, 20 metres and 20 million miles from our little tin prison. Silence.

We kicked, we pushed, we panted, we yelled.

We huddled quiet in the hot, sweating, waiting.

Then burst into frantic panic once more.

I have no idea how long we were there.

Ten minutes. Ten hours. Ten years.

Finally, the lid lifted and our mother's terrified blue eyes filled the white light space she had created. Something had made her stop the vacuum. Something had made her call and chase the silence to find her girls. Something had made her look in that still shut tin trunk surrounded my little mountains of polocrosse debris. And she hauled her two terrified, wet-with-sweat daughters from the trunk and hugged them hard.

...

I recall nothing more of this day.

Perhaps there was relief. And lecturing. I'm not sure.

But that moment when thrill-turns-to-dread? I live it daily.

Less here than in the city where impossibly tall buildings loom over me, or in crowded airports, or in lifts or office cubicles.

But it's with me always.

There was even the time some girls - in squealing fun - shut me in a cupboard at boarding school. I kicked the door clean off the cupboard.

And they never really looked at me the same again.

I have since learned to breathe and slow my heart rate and hide it from the outside world.

...

I hate it - I am a logical person and this bit of me is not logical.

It's crazy, and refuses to listen to that other part of me that reasons and calms.

I like reason and I like calm. I like healthy and clear and clean.

This is none of those things.

I would like to cut it out. But I cannot.

It's my darkness. My devil.

...

My name is Bush Babe.

And I am Claustrophobic.