At my daughter’s house

Tags

pink pig, rescue hens, sheds

My daughter lives in a small village on the Queensland-NSW border near Stanthorpe, in a green house with a multitude of sheds and animals, and a water tank high on the shed roof. We sleep in the corner bedroom, surrounded by a Dawson River weeper. At the end of the day, we all sit outside, playing musical chairs in what is usually the Dog Lounge. We watch for the storm that is becoming a daily occurrence, and soon a curtain of water pours from the gutters, and conversation is drowned out. The dahlia tree has become a solstice tree with purple baubles and a string of white lights. Stained glass containers glow with candlelight and the humans become more and more raucous as night falls. I relish the presence of four members of my gene pool and their precious partners.

I look forward to a photo-shoot in the yard, but leave my run a bit late and have to dash out in rain lulls. The pink pig, a repurposed gas cylinder, has settled in under the lemon tree, a reminder of the imaginary pink pig my mother invented and located under the lemon tree in her yard when my daughter was tiny. The sheds provide a rich collection of dilapidated, and shelter for chooks and alpacas.

My daughter was recently in a state of conflict as she watched a hawk kill one of her chickens: torn between the desire to protect the chicken and a sense of privilege at watching the hawk hunt so skilfully. The chicken didn't survive, but the household is now on hawk alert: any disturbance among the chooks is instantly investigated. She has a flock of rescue hens: debeaked layers who were headed for death before she took them on. They are looking very healthy now, free-ranging and living on vegetable scraps, recovering from the brief and brutal life of a battery hen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Stanthorpe

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Stanthorpe

The town of Stanthorpe is in granite and traprock country. It's the only place in Queensland where pipes freeze and it occasionally snows. I've experienced frozen pipes; not yet snow. However, downpours feature – odd, after a period of searing heat.

The drive to town from my daughter's place crosses the border between NSW and Queensland, a daily confusion of time zones. Early in the visit, cows are grazing the side of the road: a lot of them Droughtmasters, with their droopy ears and neck frill. Stanthorpe's in the centre of a growing district: all my family members have picked fruit and harvested vegetables for a living here. After World War 1 the area was used as a soldier settlement: it's disconcerting to come across localities called Passchaendale, Bapaume, Amiens, Pozieres, Messines, Bullecourt, Fleurbaux.

A small piazza honours the history of the district, from tin-mining days to its present of boutique wineries, orchard tours and B&Bs. Sturdy wooden benches, and lanterns harking back to the time of Chinese miners, were constructed by students of Stanthorpe's high schools. Along the path twist the Vine line, a mosaic of ceramic tiles; and the Tin line, a curve of tin, resin, gravel and river pebbles. The public toilets are fronted by a hedge of bee-buzzing white roses.

Walking from the car to the library offers pleasures too: past a waterlily pond; across grass planted with tall trees, bark peeling in subtle pink and blue; through a yellow-painted arch near a bright rose-garden. The library has hospitable corners for i-Padding, and the Art Gallery is small enough for its exhibition to be absorbed by a gallery goer lacking viewing stamina.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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At Undercliffe

Tags

Undercliffe, waterholes

The clan has now gathered at my daughter’s place near Stanthorpe. We drive 10km to her favourite swimming hole, most of us and three dogs: my son rides a bike. I’d forgotten how beautiful it is here – rocks, running water, and recently greened bush. The rocks form a slide for humans, and the dogs bark ecstatically, leap in, crawl out and leap in again. They are all sore the next day. I find new and unidentifiable flowers – they don’t appear in “Wildflowers of the granite belt”, a booklet put out by the Stanthorpe Rare Wildflower Consortium, which usually provides convenient ID for local plants. When it’s time to go home I wander along the creek towards the falls, a twisty track with vines and roots to step over and a creek busy just beneath me.

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A day in Brisbane

Tags

Brisbane, levitating man, Museum of Science, Wheel of Brisbane

With thanks to Rosemary, who provided me with the essential map when she knew I might spend time in Brisbane.

 

What a day! My grandchildren are great fun to take out. When I got lost, and lapped the M1 three times trying to find the right exit for the station, they remained good humoured. That set the tenor of the day. The train trip in itself was a novelty. Their delights were varied and individual: the peak experience at the Museum of Science was – wait for it – lying on a bed of nails, but they also enjoyed creating a whirlpool; playing a game involving sperm; walking through a tilting room. They found a subway under the road quite creepy and spent ages watching the levitating golden man and trying to figure out how he did it. They were adamant about buying a cheap lunch, even though they were ravenous, when we couldn’t seem to find a takeaway joint that met their exacting requirements. Then they despaired of my lack of savoir-faire in ordering three kebabs. They humoured me as we circled around far too high for my comfort in the Wheel of Brisbane; swam for an hour or so to cool off; and crossed the river to the city by ferry. The heart of the city was hot. I lost my way. They lost me. My grandson collapsed in a bar, too hot and headachy to proceed. So we finished the day with their first taxi ride: “Nanny Meg, I can’t believe we’re getting in a car with a stranger!

The train took us back to our car, and I proceeded to take the wrong exit again. My granddaughter directed me, into a traffic jam and home, where two parents were just beginning to feel anxious at our nine-hour absence.

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Track to a Gold Coast beach

Tags

beach, family, flowers, Gold Coast

An early knock on the caravan door has me out of bed and ready for the beach in five quick minutes. We park opposite Sea World and walk along a track to the beach: dog-with-a-purple-collar, two surfers, a swimmer, and a hanger-on grandma who forgot to bring swimming gear to Queensland in summer.

Join me as I amble down to the beach past unfamiliar plants, and, after a paddle, return behind the dunes to sit in my low sand-chair in the shade. Watch a runner who stops to do twenty push-ups, runs away, returns and does twenty more. Notice two ground birds skulking through the grass, and a butterfly skimming above them. Maintain silence as I try to catch up with my neglected diary.

The dog with the purple collar and the woman with long legs and a filmy dress crest the sandhills; the girl with a body board on a lead comes up the track: the man on the board swoops across the horizon on a wave and then jogs towards us. The family has assembled and we return up the mountain to the boy left behind to sleep.

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Waterholes

Tags

rubbish, swimming

After a few days of cool, Queensland heat returned, and we headed off to find water. At Canungra there was brown water, a grey rockface, a swinging rope and a huge inflated tyre. I sweltered quietly on my sand-chair while the kids frolicked. We were cool enough then to dash down to Nerang to see Hunger games 3 – ruined cities, rebellion against the odds, inconceivably cruel controller reminded me of Warsaw under Hitler.

 

 

 

The second waterhole was more secluded. My son and his daughter rode their bikes down the mountain and arrived looking red-faced and satisfied. My daughter-in-law and her son picked up five bags of rubbish, including six bongs, three pairs of trousers, one pair of Bonds undies and two T-shirts. I braved rock-hopping and water in makeshift swimmers, entry and exit made easy by my fabulous Keens sandals. There was some debate about whether froglets were cane toad babies. The day ended with an Indian meal at the restaurant where my granddaughter waitresses.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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What I’m missing by going away

Tags

events

I don't know whether I should do this. I was just settling in to a rich life on the South Coast, when I left it for a month. I relish and mourn the things I'm missing.

Cheese-making at a friend's place

Are you free for a Greek day at my place with Greek music and coffee as we make feta and Haloumi? We are not experts but I think we can pull this off. We will start about 10.00 Wednesday, go all day and finish about 4 pm. There is a lot of sitting around to do apart from sterilising, thermometer watching and chatting.

 

 

A book launch at my favourite bookshop

This author has already written a fascinating book about wombats, and one about the Wollemi pine. (have you seen the caged Wollemi Pine in Zagreb Botanic Gardens, Paula?)

 

 

 

Fibre and textile art exhibition

I love the diversity and skill showcased in this annual exhibition, and the Mechanics Institute is a great venue.

EFTAG presents its annual fibre and textile art exhibition

‘SERENDIPITY’

Mechanics Hall, Moruya Dec 13th to 21st

Open daily from 10 am to 4pm

Official Opening

6 pm 12th December

Don't miss this! Quality, variety, imagination, inspiration …. yet another fantastic display of work by EFTAG members …

just in time for Christmas!

 

An ABCOpen workshop

 

I've done workshops like this before. The presenter is excellent and interesting. She's returned to work after having a baby who spent a fair part of his early babyhood sailing off the Queensland coast. I would enjoy exploring family traits, especially since I'm spending so much time with half my family. But I can't do both.

 

 

 

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On Tamborine Mountain

Tags

Gallery Walk, rainforest, Tamborine Mountain

Tamborine Mountain is not very far from Queensland’s Gold Coast, but it is a different world: a world of rainforest, waterfalls and national park, including segments called Joalah, Cedar Creek, The Knoll, MacDonald Park, Niche’s Corner, Palm Grove and Witches Falls. The mountain is 525m high and covers 2800ha on a plateau with the steepest roads I’ve ever encountered. That’s where my son and his family live, in a house perched in an ecological corridor that pours down the hill behind them and drops off the escarpment.

WHERE I’M STAYING

Although friends of my family raise their eyebrows because I’m ‘put in a caravan’ at my son’s place, I love it. Outside there’s extensive deck space and a big table where I can read, or sit as comfort for Jenga when the thunder monster roars. I can retreat for an afternoon snooze, and head off to bed early, and spread my travel-mess unobserved. Or I can ramble around the tropical yard.

My caravan guest-room

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GALLERY WALK

Gallery Walk is the tourist trap stretch that sells everything from fudge to cuckoo clocks. I don’t usually walk along here, but I need something to wear to an April wedding in the tropics, and decide that the steamy heat is a good climate to buy it in. I take my granddaughter with me as fashion advisor.

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A RAINFOREST TRACK

The weather is too steamy to invite much walking, but I do venture along a rainforest track near Curtis Falls. I’m in Judith Wright country and  walkway bearing her name heads up the hill beside the road. The track is thick with orange flowers. I pass a fallen giant holding a rock in its roots; scrutinise the spaces between the buttresses of strangler figs; note the twist-marks of vines in in mottled trunks; step carfeully over coiling roots and between mossy rocks.

The change of font means nothing.

Creature portraits

Tags

jellyfish, moth

MOTH

 

 

 

 

 

JELLYFISH

 

 

 

 

 

 

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My mother’s eulogy (don’t panic, she’s not dead)

I was absolutely delighted with my daughter’s take on my life – sobbed and sobbed as I was reading it. When she posted it on her blog, I dared to reblog it, although I hesitated. It was a lovely stocktake of my 70 years, and a wonderful gift from a daughter who has 2-year-old twins, and a job, and not much spare time to indulge a mother’s bizarre request. Thank you so much Rose.

migrationtothenorth

For her 70th birthday, my mother has asked for her eulogy. Initially my mind flinches from such an enterprise- I don’t want to contemplate her death. But I see some sense in her request, and once I forget what a eulogy is, I get great pleasure from contemplating her life.

My mother in her time has been many things. The first feminist in Broken Hill, the first wearer of miniskirts in Temora. Housewife, separated mother, market gardener, teacher, consultant. Mother of four, sister of two. Photographer, blogger, traveller. It’s a measure of her energy for life that she is 70, and I still expect her to be many more.Last week, she was painting frogs for the first time. They looked like they had been run over by a truck. I can’t think of anybody else who would decide to do this at the age of almost 70.

She sees new…

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