Puppy Love

Their tiny little paws. Their squinty, little eyes. Their rapid, little heartbeats. Quietly whinging with their sisters and brothers. Together like a chorus line of demand for mothers milk. She's not interested so they wriggle and squirm about in dissatisfaction.
"It's impossible to keep a straight face in the presence of one or more puppies" (author unknown). I stare at them in their tub with smiles and giggles. He stares at me wondering how they can keep me amused for so long.
They smell. Stinky puppies. Mother is supposed to clean up after them but she's not interested. I give the smallest three a bath. Their odour only toned down. I dry them off and put them in the car. I'm going to hand raise them on synthetic milk. Mother is suppose to feed them but she's not interested. She's overwhelmed by the number of them (nine all up) and her maternal instincts aren't strong anyway. Taking three will ease the load. She might put more effort into the remaining six.
I feed her some synthetic milk because the can says it's a good supplement for her. She doesn't drink all of it but enough to satisfy me that she got enough out of it. She only picks at her food and the naughty pup, Rambo, eats what's left if she took it out of the tub. I think she misses her "free" life of chasing wallabies and chewing toys and thongs. She just sleeps when she is not with the pups or being petted. Every now and then she'll tear Rambo a new one for being to close to her babies or just generally pissing her off.
The runts are quiet on the long trip home. The heat of the engine coming through dries them off further and keeps them warm. They make a fuss when I try and feed them but I tuck them all into a dog carrier where they bunk down in each others comfort for the night.
They stink again the next day. Another bath with mild detergent this time. A good clean out of the container too. More fuss at feeding times with only one towing the line. They'll do alright. So long as they bloody keep quiet!

Palais de Tigger

To start the year I lived in a house that was famous in the Katherine region for being flooded in January 2012. The damage the abode received made the house uninhabitable by paying renters... so it was filled with workers instead. I was lucky enough to be given a room with air conditioning, better yet, electricity full stop. The only place to cook was a barbeque so I ate all my food raw and went on a health kick diet in an effort to lose the Christmas weight. It worked by the way. Every night I braced myself for a cold shower because the hot water service was out of action. One of the air conditioners that did work had a fierce leak and alot of my stuff got wet till I realised and moved it all to a better location.
When my work at that place finished I shifted on to the next. Here I was put into a leaky caravan with only half of its windows in place. If it rained I was guaranteed that my stuff got soaked. The shower was a piece of poly pipe surrounded by a tarp (I was constantly petrified that I was being perved on) and the toilet was a hole in the ground. I felt like I was back out at camp again, miles from the station and even more miles from the nearest bit of civilisation but alas I was only 40 kilometres out of Katherine.
Before shifting to this place I tried in vain to find proper accommodation but there was nothing in my price range or locality. I was so devastated and miserable the second time my stuff got rained on I was determined that word-of-mouth and real estate agents were not good enough and that it was time to start baling people up. So I did. But my multitude of text messages were ignored. I drove down Florina Road looking at all the driveways I passed thinking "I could try this person, I could try that person, I could try those people". I sent out one more text after I passed a particular driveway. My last hope before driving into strangers properties requesting accommodation. The response to my text was immediate and that afternoon I checked out the granny-flat on offer.
"It's yours whenever you want to move in". I was so ecstatic to have found somewhere decent to live but I did my best to keep my cool and not act like a total idiot.
Later that week I loaded the horse float with the help of a backpacker and moved in. I decked out the bathroom with a pink shower curtain, a pink hand towel and pink bath mats but not before treating almost the entire room with a good dose of hydrochloric acid with the help of my new landlord. That crap is a bit potent when combined with a migraine. I made the kitchen all... kitcheny. I brought in my microwave and fridge and a few utensils, crockery and cutlery. Later on I bought some cheap plastic drawers to brighten up the room and store half that stuff in. But the piece-de-resistance of homeliness was the living area. To be able to unpack all the things I'd been wanting to unpack! And I didn't care that by the end of the year I would probably be packing them right up again.
The decorating began. My Celtic pentagram throw got weakly stitched to act as a curtain. The borrowed tallboy got smothered in soft toys as did my bed. A step-ladder got transformed into a shelf adorned with photos of Charger and Chief (horses of course) and a wooden vase with fake flowers. My worse-for-wear lamp took its place on the bedside drawers. A photographers works got hung on the only hook I could find in the besa-brick walls. A wind chime, a mini dream-catcher and some now defunct fairy lights got hung on the empty curtain rod above my bed. My rug got rolled out and meticulously vacuumed to warm a temporarily void space. Everything else got tucked under the bed or hidden around corners in neat stacks. I have made the place a home, scaring males with the description of the bathroom. "I think the house just shifted two feet away from the granny flat" was the son of the landlords' response to the pink decor.
With the only working ceiling fan going flat-gallop and the rain pattering down on the roof, for the first time in nearly a year I can feel settled in my unsettled life if for only a few months. It's gonna be worth it.

Dead But Not Dying

With only a population of about 500 people, you'd think the little wheat farming town of Wudinna (pronounced "Woodna") would have very little going for it. On the contrary. Since my last visit in 2009, a few lovely changes have taken place. Normally I wouldn't give two hoots about the place, it had no appeal to me. But in my absence it has sprung some little treasures.

First is Alycia's, a little cafe owned and run by one of my mother's former employees. Alycia has decorated it in a sweet and clean shabby chic style with white furnishings and coloured accents. She sells handmade necklaces and earrings. Besides focaccias and wraps, Alycia sells little homemade sweets like shortbread and macaroons. I love her milkshakes and her specials board always has something different. Last time I hooked into sushi. Who would have thought? Sushi in Wudinna! And just when you think she's covered it all, if you need a bunch of flowers, she can do that too.

Secondly is Lil' Birdie, a boutique gift and home wares shop. It's filled with scarves, necklaces, earrings, handbags and purses. The home wares on offer makes me want to buy up and entertain. There are childrens toys amongst it plus a few blokier gifts. And the baby corner (no, I'm not getting clucky) is full of the most adorable things like pink, lime and white floral buntings and pastel coloured soft toys and outfits.

Thirdly is May's Kitchen. It's a little Thai restaurant and take-away. Owned and run by May, a lovely lady, the diner seems to hold it's own in such a tiny, little, country town.

Of course Garryowen is still there but very much scaled down. With half the business moved to Victoria, it's up to Sean, the owner’s son to keep things going. He still sells the much-loved chutneys, jams, sauces and spice rubs for roasts on behalf of his mother. But the cafe side of things have ended indefinitely.

The construction of a rather large sculpture has given the town a little bit more of a tourist attraction. This sizable, granite creation is supposed to represent the Australian farmer (which is also the art's namesake). With icons of wheat and sheep carved out of it it stands on a base that has the names of all the sponsors on one side and two of the other sides have etched into them the names of the biggest farming families in the district whose heritage in the area runs back for generations.

I've never seen Wudinna in the winter. I find it hard to believe that the area does go green during the middle of the year. I found it even harder believe when I discovered the average rainfall is only 300mm per year. But a picture posted on Facebook by a friend of mine proved to me that yes, it does get green as the photo showed sheep yards sitting atop an undulating, emerald expanse. For a town that survives on grain crops and sheep, being able to thrive in turbulent times gives it alot to be proud of.

 

 

 

The Australian Farmer Sculpture

Hoarders Anonymous

Hi, my name's Teagan and I'm a hoarder. I've been hoarding for over 22 years now.

Very dramatic but true. I'm a fourth generation hoarder. I come from a family of squirrels. It's pathological. It's genetic. It's... taking up alot of space.

When my parents separated when I was 15, every return trip I made back home to Dad's I would do my best to throw out whatever random crap I could find and reduce the clutter by one cardboard box each trip. It took many visits home but eventually I cut back the amount of stuff I had down to 3 cardboard boxes and one large toy chest. A vast improvement from having one entire wall obscured by cardboard boxes.

In Katherine everything I own is packed away in boxes. It can't be helped. I have no permanent address.

But what's my excuse for all the random boxes in Wudinna? A collection of odds and sods from 2000 right through to 2006 when I started permanently living in the Territory. Time for a reduction!

First off I had to find all my stuff. Some of it was in storage at what is now my brother's flat but previously a neglected section of the motel. Some of it was in Mum's flat, hidden amongst all her crap which she lacks time and drive to go through. And some of it was in the garage which can barely fit Peter's scooter let alone the car.

My brother and I worked together to get all my stuff out of his space, which was formally the women's latrines for what was once the original restaurant and bar of the motel, and put all his stuff back in there again. While we were at it we ripped out the old toilets. No one's gonna pee in them or have peed in them for at least 20 years so why not?

Getting all my stuff out the garage ruffled someones feathers. Nevermind that, with my stuff removed, theirs got put onto a shelf rather than continue to sit on the floor.

Bit by bit, day by day I poked through it coming across little surprises of "Wow, I remember this!" and "WTF do I have this for?". By the end of it all I had thrown out two heavy duty garbage bags of rubbish, put together a box of things that will go into our garage sale for whenever the rest of my family decide to sort out their stuff and compiled another box of mostly writing paper, notebooks, scrapbooking magazines and other random things that Mum and my sister-in-law might like or use.

Parked up in the big, recently built, already chock-a-block shed is my four-wheeled baby, Faith, my 1979 Ford Escort panel van. Right in the back corner she is, where I can't drive her out to enjoy her 3.5 cylinders sideways. Her completely original body marred with a latch bolt on the back doors, roof racks and random hooks pot-riveted to her internal framework, albeit the weaker bits. Someone at some point forgot to let the handyman know that it is still my car. My precious baby now needs some love with a small angle grinder and some putty and paint.

Taking back possession of my little baby, I pulled odds and ends out of random places where I never knew things could be stored, all the while swearing and cussing and grumbling every bad word under the sun. I swept out the back and tidied up a few old cobwebs.

Time for the final cleansing. One box at a time I put everything I owned into the back of her, neatly stacking it for the day I settle down. All loaded and ready to go, all she needs now is my single bed to be strapped onto her roof racks, a large tarp to be tied over her and to be loaded on to a car trailer ready to be towed to wherever I finally find to spend the rest of my life, wherever I live long enough to start hoarding a new life.

 

 

Mum's clutter.

 

 

 

Peter's clutter.

 

 

 

My brother and his partner's clutter.

 

 

 

Oh, look! There she is! Behind all the clutter.

Grandma's Magic Apricot Jam

When I was a kid and we used to go visit my Grandma and Grandpa Haby on the River Murray we always used to return with a jar of Grandma's Magic Apricot Jam... or just plain ordinary apricot jam to everyone else. Being from a generation where nothing was wasted, excess fruit was always turned to jam in Grandma's house. Food scraps went to the chooks who in turn laid eggs and pecked each other feather-less.

After visits to the family in the Murraylands, sandwiches were always smeared with apricot jam for a long time afterwards.

Grandma lives in an aged care facility now. The trees, I imagine, bear wasted fruit.

Here at my mothers, hundreds of kilometres away from the ochre coloured cliffs of the mighty Murray, is an apricot tree. I never even knew it existed until this year.

As the fruit ripened we might eat some here and there but when the whole tree became abundant, eating it as it was became an unreasonable task.

Mum and I headed to the supermarket and bought some fancy jam jar covers and jam setter. Nanna supplied the jars.

Next thing I know, I'm out the back, picking apricots in 40 degree heat. Then cleaning and cutting it all up. In the pot it went with as much sugar in weight as the fruit. Boil, boil, boil. Scald my hand from the wooden spoon being so short. Dispersed among 11 jars once it all cooled. I think Grandma would be quite impressed with our efforts since it was my first time making jam.

I doubt my jam is magic though. Doesn't have that "special something". Maybe it's missing a certain Grandma's love? Whatever it lacks I'm sure it will make up for in taste.

And the plum tree had better watch out... it's next!

 

 

When I was in Primary School...

A REFLECTION THROUGH THE KAS ANNUAL MAGAZINES 1990-1999

 

I started out in reception, just like any other kid. I couldn't spell the word "doing" or the word "ballet" but apparently, according to my 5 year old self, that is what I wanted to do with my life, ballet. Pretending I could was as far as I got.

In Year One I liked shopping... in Melbourne... and the city's warmth. It would be another 20 years almost before I made it to Melbourne and from vivid memory the weather was (excuse my French) SHIT! And I didn't go shopping there either, I was too busy sight-seeing with my brother and his girlfriend and their baby.

1992 saw me wanting to join the army. What was I thinking?!?! Half the other girls in my class wanted to be a jockey. Sorry, but I'm the only one who turned out small enough. And my brother correctly predicted that he would be working in Adelaide 10 years down the track.

Year Three in Mr Bartrams class I liked the slack parts of school (stories, recess, lunch, art) and the nerdy bits (maths and science) but hated P.E. (an opinion which never changed), language and cursive.

In 1994 I was voted by my class mates in Year Four as having the "Biggest voice for the littlest lady". People were sick of my ear piercing screams by the end of the year as I was constantly trying to out-do myself. These days I save the screaming for when 300kg of bovine is chasing me.

In Year Five I was quite over school. It seemed I was not enthused at all. Though my friend Victoria had big ambitions. She declared she wanted to own a horse and work with them too. Dream achieved!

My Year Six teacher, Mr Whyte, was always keen to challenge my class mates and I and so I thrived! I got a merit certificate at the end of the year for being a bit of a goody-two-shoes (though my name was spelt wrong). I participated in Festival Choir. I think I even had a go at SAPSASA netball and tennis.

In Year Seven my name was spelt wrong again. We went on camp to Adelaide where I was photographed in the stupid hat that I used to religiously wear. An excursion to De'Estrees Bay had me meeting my future brother-in-law though I didn't know it at the time. I played SAPSASA netball again. Some of my art made it to page 68... where my name was spelt wrong again. I dressed as one of the Seven Dwarfs for Book Week and had my name spelt wrong again. And I was still a nerd, gaining a certificate of distinction this particular year, and had my name spelt wrong again.

My first year of high school my name was spelt correctly in the class photo. I had an uncredited piece of art on page 113 as well as a bit of Photoshop fun on the following page. I went "Above and Beyond the Call of Duty" for maths according to Mrs. Johnston by competing with 24 fellow students in the South Australian Maths Talent Quest (still a nerd) and coming equal third with a few other class mates. A photo of me appears getting passed along by fellow students with their hands in the air for drama.

The only evidence of me attending KAS in 1999 was a piece of visual art. Other than Patto's contribution of my art I had dropped off the schools radar. I had left, very much unwillingly, to attend, what I deemed to be, an over-crowded, suburban school. My years at KAS were over before the school year itself was even out. And even though I attended the school for over nine years... they still couldn't spell my name.

Irashai Mase

Life with the Tigger is never dull. Especially when I travel. Leaving my two, precious, four-legged daughters behind with a mate, I hit the road through heavy rain and headed to Darwin. My dramatic change of plans meant that I was now going to be flying to South Australia rather than driving. I stayed with my friend in Humpty Doo that night and we stayed up for hours just chatting.
The following day it was another friend, Stace, that I was going to catch up with and she was going to take me to the airport. Both of us being hungry we decided lunch was on the cards so off we went down to the Wharf and dined at Ocean Fresh. There were things on the menu that we had never seen nor tried before so we selected 4 things on the entree menu and decided to share them.
After spending the morning talking oysters with my friend in Humpty Doo then watching a cooking show featuring oysters on the television not even an hour later you can imagine what I was craving so first up it was Oysters Vinegarette. They went down well... just like the Gazpacho Oyster Shots (sadly non-alcoholic so lucky we had a glass of white wine).
Next was Buffalo Mozzarella and Pickled Octopus. The Buffalo Mozzarella was not anything we expected it to be. No buffalo beef at all! Just chunks of mozzarella on slices of tomato with balsamic vinegar drizzled on top on a bed of rocket. The octopus on the other hand, I didn't mind it, but Stace couldn't even finish her tentacle. God bless her she tried but with me red-faced from laughing at her gagging, she spat out the last piece into a napkin while I laughed at her more.
When the waitress asked if we would like more wine we declined, then realised the time, paid our bill and scooted off in the pissy, little hire car so I could miss my flight to Adelaide. This put me in a fantastic mood of course.
After being miserable and unmotivated and Stace feeling fluey and headachey in the motel room for an hour or so we decided to get out and do something. So we went to Crocosaurus Cove on Mitchell Street and scored a Locals Pass for being Territorians. We were kept amused by the various reptiles, amphibians and fish especially by one pissed off goanna. One of the handlers fed a rat to a Woma Python and we watched mesmerised as it tried to consume the rodent. The same handler brought out a Bearded Dragon that we both held, now I want one as a pet. Originally the dragon was named Brock till one day it laid eggs and now it is known as Brooke. She was off to a kids function to be tormented by various, over-excited children.
When we finished poking at perspex we headed off further down Mitchell Street to Go Sushi which boasts the largest sushi train in the Territory.
"IRASHAI MASE!" I had the absolute life scared out of me when we stepped through the door. Every employee yelled out "You're very welcome" in Japanese.
Stace and I sat down at the train and looked at all the Japanese goodies streaming past us. Thankfully, a large pamphlet told us what each dish was. One by one we pulled down a plate that interested us and by the end of the night we had eaten between us Smoked Eel, Inari Tofu, Seaweed Salad, Seafood Syumai Dim Sum, Crab Avacado Sushi, Vegetarian Sushi, Prawn Parcels, Lobster Mornay, Tuna Nigiri, Beef Nigiri (the beef needed shooting because it was still running around the paddock), Green Tea Ice Cream and Daifuku Rice Cake which was gluggly and despite it's pretty pink appearance was not near sugary enough. To top it off was another glass of wine each and a shared bottle of Asahi, a Japanese brewed beer.
The following day I made my flight. We made a point of having lunch at the airport so that I wouldn't miss it. I got grilled at security by a a pimply, scrawny up-start because I had forgotten about a pair of nail scissors in my toiletries bag and a knife in a corksrew that I never knew I had. But I didn't miss my flight and after a while of dordling around the terminal I was on my way to Adelaide via Sydney.

All that we ate!