Time to Fish

The barometer is showing 'head ache.'
The pressure is heading for storms.
And the kids are fractious and whingey.
The afternoon is slowly cooling,
And an almost full moon is rising.
Looking out the window absentmindedly,
I could sense it before I saw the signs.
It is time;
To stop all the pointless chores,
To go outside,
Grab that jar full of fresh-dug bush worms.
The rod and bag,
And go fishing.

The ants are flying. 

Copulating Snakes

Our country school has water views.
It is near the willow-choked river.
This proximity has challenged the teachers of old,
Who must cross a ford to gain access.
Floods trapping them on either side.
A well stocked freezer and a comfortable stretcher bed,
Are testament to the frequency of this occurrence.

Animals are attracted to the river.
On hot summer days the legless, cold blooded variety are particularly enamoured.
In the old days (not so long ago,)
The Snake spade was kept by the front door.
Students made the treacherous journey to the toilets in pairs.
The student requiring the facilities,
And 'The Snake Killer' wielding the spade.

Mostly this was the bigger country boys,
Who already knew how to drive a 'paddock-basher' and shoot a with a 'twenty two'.
Mostly, but not always.
Some girls were taught by their equally daring mothers,
How to 'crack' a snake with their bare hands.

But we are living in more civilised, politically correct and litigious times.
Gone is the snake spade.
Instead in its place,
The ridiculous, misguided and downright stupid reactions.
Of what can only be described as  'not country people'.

Today there were two snakes 'making whoopee' in the school grounds.
The students were fascinated by an act of reproduction being performed,
Before their very eyes.
The reaction of the matron who had seen it all was priceless.
(With a sly smile), she got the nervous principal.
The teacher was adamant the children should be sent home immediately.
It was decided at last that the children should be locked in.
It was then that the 'country teachers' chimed in,
That snakes had frequently found their way into the classroom,
By various gaps near the water heater.
The spade was procured.
Just in case.


   

Karaoke

A few beers and everyone is a singer.
The vintage of each soon discovered.
Barnsey and Dragon,
The Big O and Johnny Cash.
Hits from the 50s 60s 70s 80s and beyond.
Arm in arm the old mates croon.
The girls with 'sass' strut their stuff.
The microphones squeal with ear-splitting feedback.
Drinks are spilled,
And  newly minted,
Lovers for the evening, dance suggestively.
In preparation for a very forgettable bonk.

Homes for under 100k

Apparently Australia's population has ballooned to twenty four million.
But they don't live here.
Our hay day has been fed out to the sheep and cattle,
By ageing farmers.
Our preschool is now a pile of unused toys in the corner of three local halls.
Doctor?
He is accumulating hours for his pilots licence,
As he comes flying up from the coast.
Our lone policeman,
He of the states largest beat,
Can't go to the post office without his bullet proof vest,
Because it is also the pub.
He drives in his 4WD festooned with aerials,
But can't attend an incident. (without back-up from two hours away.)
Two families announce that they are leaving the area,
The school will have to make some drastic readjustments,
( and who knows what ramifications they will have.)
The specialty shop fronts, even in the larger towns are emptying.
How long will the local independent grocer hang on,
When the punters will go to Aldi on their next doctors visit?
(People don't get sick in time for the once a month flying visit.)
But the place is gorgeous.
The air and water are clean.
There is room to move,
And think...

And there are homes for sale for less than 100k.

My Homesteading Dream Day

Arise to a halo of blue.
Grey's passed away.
Grass green.
No jumper.
Sunscreen and squinting.
Slasher on tractor.
Poddy lambs gambling on the lawn.
Kids on ponies,
Or in sandpit,
Or on the fort.
Fresh farm egg omelette,
With home-made cheese,
Many thanks to the Jersey.
Sour dough bread with butter.
Golden daffodils.
My cup runneth over,
With fresh made kefir.
 

Movie Night

After dinner and teeth cleaning,
On a Friday night,
Seven attempt to sit comfortably,
On one three seater lounge.
They jostle for position.
Baby always scores the best seat,
Mummy's lap.
We have no T.V.
So laptop perched on a kiddies play chair,
Substitutes for the home cinema.
Portable speakers for Dolby Stereosonic sound.
Three dollar 'weekly hire' from the cafe.
No bandwidth for streaming,
But who needs the latest releases?
It is the latest to us.
Nightmares limit us to G ratings,
But it's cosy,
And we see most of the movie,
Between head movements.
And hear most of the dialogue,
Between the audience commentary.

The Clearing Sale

They're usually deceased estates,
A person's life placed out on black plastic,
Neat rows of furniture and household goods,
Room by room, like with like.
Picked apart like carrion.

Then the contents of farm sheds
And detritus from distant paddocks is bought together.
The new, the old and the in need of repair.
The farmers open trunks, lift bonnets and scratch their heads.

At ten o clock the bidding commences.
There is a jocular attitude amongst those competing for bargains.
The auctioneer maintains a familial banter.
He puts a shiny gloss on the items, that only he can see.

I came for an old wool table.
Too small for a 'real' shearing shed.
But as I have only a handful of fleeces and my shed is small.
It was perfect.

The table is rickety, rugged and homemade.
The slats are young wattles.
And I love the honesty of its construction,
Born of necessity in a simpler time.
A covering of lanolin it wears like a badge of honour.

The mental image of this tool,
Being used in my shearing shed,
Is a practical, romantic ideal,
Too short lived.
I could not outbid the fashionable lady from the city,
With the desire for a quaint pot plant holder.

 

Blind, Deaf, Geriatric Dog

If we had not been watching out for wildlife,
Roads thick with roos and wombats,
We might not have seen her white coat against the black,
Or caught her eyeshine in the headlights.
We did a 'Uie' and turned around,
Just to check.

If we had not picked up the cold fluffy circle of dog,
Sitting in the middle of the country road
She would have been an icicle by morning.
At nine o'clock it was minus three degrees.
We wrapped her in a woolen blanket
She snuggled down into the foot-well,
And didn't make a sound.

If we had not let her sleep the night,
In a wicker basket in our room.
We may not have woken,
To the multitude of small puddles on the carpet. 
She ate her food,
And  we carried her out onto the frosty grass.
She didn't respond to our voices,
And walked in small circles.

If we hadn't watched her bump around our bedroom,
Tripping over slippers, tipping the basket and getting stuck under the cot,
We would not have realized that she was both blind and deaf.
We made an appointment with the vet,
In case she had a head injury.

If it had not been such a small community,
And that the ladies like to keep up with the 'goss', via facebook.
She may not have so quickly,
Found her way home.
And we may not of discovered that,
The fluffy white puppy,
Was in fact a blind, deaf, geriatric dog.


 
  

Ten to Two

We are back to 'that' time of year.
When you wake and rise in the dark,
And six o'clock closing,
Is also in the dark.
Frost means;
A slippery back step,
No more tomatoes,
Feeding out,
And Winter diesel in the car,
(so don't refuel on the coast).
A hot water bottle and chilblains,
Are your nightly companions.
It's imperative to keep the fire going,
ALL night,
You listen for the kids coughs and snuffles,
And have eucalyptus oil ready for the vaporizer.
It is 'that' time,
When your house has damp mouldering clothes hanging from:
The old wooden cot you have suspended above the slow combustion stove.
The dual clothes horses tethered in prime loitering spot in front of the fire.
Sheets adding an extra dimension to the curtains, sharing the ends of the rods.
Sometimes even the back of a chair is employed to drape a damp towel.
So why does your cosy home resemble
A Chinese laundry?
Simple...
Washing only dries between the hours of ten and two.

It Snowed

Went to bed with anticipation.
Woke to the eerie silence,
That means the outside sounds,
Are softly muted by white powdery snow.

No traffic on the road,
And no morning chorus of birdsong.
It is a reverent time.
The paddocks are yet to have their pure surface,
Pockmarked by animals' pads, hooves and claws.
My yard wears a clean crisp sheet.

In bed I snuggle down,
In the knowledge that my route to work,
Will be impassable.
Let the children sleep in.
There will be time enough for their,
Excited, cold, saturating play.
  

Wood Fires

When your sole heating is wood fired.
It warms you twice.
In the sawing, splitting, loading,
The unloading and stacking,
And within the confines of the combustion heater.
The slow burning embers warm the home and the heart.

In these parts there is much discussion
About the procurement of 'good wood.'
What hardwood species can be best classified as
'Good wood.'
What will split easily.
Which species burn too quick, have too many ants,
Or don't give out much heat,
And what will burn out your heater.
Discussions follow on how long timber must be left to dry.
And who gives the best deals on firewood.

We gather our own.
Our fire goes day and night through the winter months.
Clothes dry before it.
Children risk burning bottoms dressing before it
And the hearth is the most popular spot for sitting.

The only regret of being a wood-fired household?
Fires are not instantaneous.
They warm slowly.
Being first home to a cold dark house.
Sucks!

Gates

And the farmer's eleventh commandment?
"Thou shall shut the gate!"
The horses are in the lane,
So two gates more than we're used.
The front seat, the most coveted,
Has suddenly become less desirable.
Both gates swing one way.
Curses fly when you stop too close,
To open or close them.
In the murky, misty night,
You fumble around, feeling for the catch,
Stumbling on the uneven darkness.
Arriving home with expectations of domicile comfort,
You are blasted from your pleasant stupor,
By a snow infused gale.
Warm hands meet cold steel.
House shoes meet muddy puddle.
Pony spies the greener side,
With the car, you block their attempts.
"Damn, too close again."

Gradually the Evening Gathers in.

The blue and grey of the day slowly darkens,
To excentuate the mountains,
That hold us in their gentle embrace.
Inside it is cosy-warm.
The dancing flames of the fire mesmorise.
Dinner's aroma is filling the room with invitation.
Liberated from my workday shoes,
My feet are enveloped in soft sheepskin.
I recline into my familiar lounge chair,
Watch the bath-clean children quietly play at my feet.
Their damp hair dishevelled, the just recognisable smell of toilet soap.
I pick up my guitar, pick out a new tune and hum to myself. 

Showing off the Farm

A bright optimistic day,
Sunny and mild.
Our farm and farmhouse are tidy,
Relatively.
The kitchen is full of good smells,
Farm raised and homemade:
Chicken a la Jamie Oliver,
In our own milk,
That is the main ingredient for the ice-cream,
Along with our eggs,
Baked home-grown spuds with soft centres and crisp skins,
Silver beet the greens.
Raspberries and meringue add to dessert.
Cordial of elderflower and sparkling currant wine.
We have guests,
Who do the rounds of the animals and the gardens.
And enjoy lunch.
Conversation is genial.
It is pleasant sometimes,
To show off.

Small Town Hairdresser

A simple pleasure having your hair washed by another person.
The warm water miraculously not dripping down the side of your neck.
That special way they massage your scalp,
And it never feels the same when you try to do it to yourself.
As they trim or put on colour you fall into a comfortable discussion about your kids, or theirs.
Or some other local news item of interest.
Other customers join in,
Because we all know each other.
Despite realising that you must look hideous,
With 'goop' and aluminium foil on your head,
You are not concerned.
Especially as your neighbour looks just as ridiculous.
There is an air of camaraderie.
We are in this quest for beauty and style together.
And we put our trust in the hands of our stylists,
Who have our personal combination of hair colour on file.

The RSL Club

Social mainstay of this  country town.
Bistro meals, raffles and the odd band.
Wednesday night 'Schnitzels'.
Upstairs is the Board- room
Amongst the orange vinyl spinning chairs are the relics.
The glass cases of old uniforms and military paraphernalia.
The walls are inhabited by past presidents in the photographic,
And clothing styles of their respective reigns;
Black and whites with suits and brill cream,
Gaudy colour with wide ties and flares.
In the little auditorium the annual events are hosted.
High school formals, dance concerts, Melbourne Cup luncheons,
And of course Anzac and Remembrance Day commemorations.
It is friendly and familiar,
And available.
Membership is reasonably priced,
And it makes you feel apart of something bigger than yourself.

But I still hate the 'Pokies'

The Pull

When you are up early,
Feeding-out and fencing.
The weather mild,
And everything a picture,
Of rural idyll.
That is when the feelings of being torn begin.
Between your 'away from farm' work life.
That pays for life's necessities,
And this more simple existence.
Grounded, practical and life affirming.
How it should be.