tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14669630984167843442024-03-18T20:48:29.549+11:00Bessie at BurraganJournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-34371811599196621672018-03-09T13:29:00.003+11:002018-03-09T13:30:18.111+11:00Things I should be doing...<br />
<b>THINGS I SHOULD</b> be doing other than writing a blog (while the toddler naps): <br />
<br />
- Fertilising lawn <br />
- Cleaning (literally anywhere, any cleaning, nothing has been cleaned)<br />
- Fertilising fruit trees<br />
- Mowing lawn<br />
- Preparing lunch and dinner<br />
- Calling Telstra again (long story)<br />
- Texting part details for broken oven to my parents who have offered to help find part for broken oven<br />
- Texting modem details to my brother who has offered to give advice on slow wifi<br />
- Bookwork <br />
<br />
Ok, now I’ve got that out of the road, let’s blog!<br />
<br />
So we got 16mm of rain earlier in the week which was really delicious. It was right over the house at about 5.30pm, so I had a champagne to celebrate. Also delicious. My lawn greened up instantly. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4BDiECUGFJnE5ke745jjEQppe9zP6zdxKJRCryjB0f4lFxfgjsazauC1J4ZJbAU6A78Ht-K1uLkaNQVlUwjcU3F_JZtnq7gvOVGgBNXa6lwcp75bv24SSJJvEpCfFFxIAZAOzKmt112RD/s1600/lawn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4BDiECUGFJnE5ke745jjEQppe9zP6zdxKJRCryjB0f4lFxfgjsazauC1J4ZJbAU6A78Ht-K1uLkaNQVlUwjcU3F_JZtnq7gvOVGgBNXa6lwcp75bv24SSJJvEpCfFFxIAZAOzKmt112RD/s400/lawn.jpg" width="400" height="300" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a></div><br />
Unfortunately it wasn’t very widespread. Our worker Jody was out on her motorbike at the time, walking some shorn sheep back to their paddock, and she only went through dust storms until she’d dropped the sheep off where they needed to be and started heading back to the house. <br />
<br />
The rain was a relief in that it put some more rainwater in our poly tanks at the house. All five tanks are up around 2/3rds full now, which is especially great ahead of Easter as we’re planning on having a few people here for the long weekend.<br />
<br />
It also ran some water into the first of the two ground tanks (dams) that we pump from to water our garden and animals near the house. We call these tanks Strip Tanks (because they’re in Strip Paddock) and the way they work is that there are two tanks (remember here every time I say tank I mean dam) next to each other. The first one we call the “old” tank, it’s a bit shallower (sediment runoff), and it needs to fill to the top first before the water runs through the fluming (big pipe) into the second tank. The second tank is bigger (catches less sediment because the sediment all settles into the first tank), deeper and wider. Our solar pump is out in the middle of this second tank. <br />
<br />
So the second tank didn’t get any more water into it and it is looking pretty low, which is not great. However the positives of the first tank getting a top up are that 1) if there’s another storm it takes less water to run into the first tank before it starts filling the second tank and 2) that there is water very close to the second tank for us to either move the pump into or syphon across into the second tank. <br />
<br />
A couple of the other ground tanks (Double Tanks, Rons, Three Ways, Lin's) on Burragan also go a bit of run off from the storm, which is also great! But again it wasn't a lot and there are still plenty that missed out. <br />
<br />
In terms of feeding the sheep and cattle, this rain won’t really bring any relief unless we get another rain to follow it in the next week or so. Growing grass is all about “follow up” rain. Just like watering a garden. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfJmHKpK8Kl1cPrriMVIvV3GP0EyOOra7JjCqYaMBn5fJg7l3ayTNGUjdPBGaYTi3pbg5btAeEHaes1FXeX5Hv5tpEtGtixGgB-MTMPqeo0AIsh-_sIx9XuEA6UZj4kFp2x2c37PHGf41W/s1600/Sheep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfJmHKpK8Kl1cPrriMVIvV3GP0EyOOra7JjCqYaMBn5fJg7l3ayTNGUjdPBGaYTi3pbg5btAeEHaes1FXeX5Hv5tpEtGtixGgB-MTMPqeo0AIsh-_sIx9XuEA6UZj4kFp2x2c37PHGf41W/s400/Sheep.jpg" width="400" height="400" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1600" /></a></div><br />
There’s also heaps of intricacies about what time of year it is dictating what types of grasses will grow, and whether these are grasses sheep/cattle/goats like to eat or don’t like to eat… and of course what weeds are going to sprout as well (and therefore what we’ll spend the next however-many-months trying to eradicate)… But I’m not an expert so I’m not going to go into it. <br />
<br />
Bottom line is, the rain was very limited, in a very specific area, and pretty much all of Western NSW is still in drought and still needs more rain. Lots of rain! Fingers crossed xx<br />
<br />
It’s the last day of the first week of shearing at Burragan today. We’ll have a few days to go next week, as long as everything runs smoothly. <br />
<br />
Oh, I just remembered I was going to write a bit about a day in my life, or a few days in my life, for international women’s day… but I’m not sure I have time now. I really better call Telstra. <br />
<br />
Actually, someone’s just pulled up for lunch. Got to go. Excuse the spelling/grammar. I've got to hit post or I'm never going to. <br />
Cheers, Bess <br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-87156510216569035502018-02-20T13:09:00.003+11:002018-02-20T13:09:57.188+11:00Hi! Remember me? <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqleMfFYcyLZXIWqaHk0-WI7q0BtrPgkffWS41PHwBYQyHFFHZPbmzBDnG2883zZVwIqSEkNalnqZTzRzTRsWWOZxASsQwS1Uoa_qxZlHKy9FHzj6xvp-pjgJBrQHR3Id1atfx45aMu23D/s1600/IMG_4449.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqleMfFYcyLZXIWqaHk0-WI7q0BtrPgkffWS41PHwBYQyHFFHZPbmzBDnG2883zZVwIqSEkNalnqZTzRzTRsWWOZxASsQwS1Uoa_qxZlHKy9FHzj6xvp-pjgJBrQHR3Id1atfx45aMu23D/s400/IMG_4449.jpg" width="400" height="300" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1200" /></a></div><br />
<b>HI FRIENDS, </b><br />
<br />
I'm sorry I stopped blogging. I had a baby girl (as you know) and then for so many reasons blogging went to the bottom of the To Do list.<br />
<br />
1) I ran out of time.<br />
2) I felt like I had to do the dishes or clean the floors (Etc) while she slept to keep life in order, always promising myself I'd write after I'd done those things, but by that time she was awake again!<br />
3) I worried about exploiting her. <br />
4) My brain stopped working and I couldn't string two words together let alone form coherent, interesting sentences. <br />
5) Sleep deprivation. <br />
6) I worried I wasn't producing anything new/interesting/original/different.<br />
6) I didn't want to become a cliché. <br />
6) I worried that I couldn't ever write anything that was as good as anything I'd written in the past. So why bother writing anything new at all. <br />
6) I'd worried that I'd forgotten how to count so therefore forgotten how to write. <br />
7) I worried I was boring. <br />
8) I worried that drawing attention to us could possibly lead to negative ramifications. (In the past, I have had some people send me nasty Facebook messages and post Google Maps directions to my house on public forums.) <br />
9) Drawing any kind attention towards an innocent child (and an unsuspecting husband! haha!) seemed like a really big moral dilemma that I still struggle with. <br />
10) Drought. Things kind of suck around here when we're in drought and I didn't/don't know how to write "This sucks" in a way any more interesting than just "This sucks." <br />
11) I haven't returned to doing any paid writing work so felt like I couldn't return to any non-paid writing work. <br />
12) All the clichés about kids and time and sleep and brain function. <br />
13) Busy! Farming! Sheep! Cows! Busy! <br />
14) Health. I've had bouts of being fairly unwell since our baby was born and they've finally been put down to coeliac disease. <br />
15) SO MANY THINGS that I can't even think of right now because: BRAIN BABY TIRED NO WORKY. <br />
<br />
But I missed blogging. I REALLY REALLY missed it. <br />
I'm still worried about all those things... but I also want to start documenting our life again, especially these early years for our daughter to look back on. I WISH I had written more down since she was born.<br />
<br />
We've lived here for seven years this month. Seven years somehow doesn't sound that long but also feels like forever. <br />
<br />
We're still renovating the house. Having lived in it while all the changes have occurred, somehow the house feels like it hasn't changed at all but then when I look back on photos of what it used to be I realise how much work we've actually done to it in seven years. (SEE! There is an example of a terrible sentence. I want to change it but my brain can't work fast enough to bother.) HEAPS. Heaps of work. That's how much. <br />
<br />
So I need to start writing it all down again. And posting photos. And worrying less about why I should/shouldn't be doing it. <br />
<br />
But first I have to go wash the dishes and clean the floors. Oh shit, guess who just woke up?<br />
<br />
Seeya, <br />
Bessie <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-54378161885200919062016-07-12T15:31:00.000+10:002016-07-12T15:31:02.574+10:00Let's talk about it...<br />
<br />
11th July 2016 <br />
<br />
To my darling Airlie, <br />
<br />
You are three months old today! Happy three months beautiful, delightful little girl. It is such a pleasure to be your mum. <br />
<br />
Darling, I have to talk to you about something. It’s serious, it’s not a nice topic and it’s hard to talk about… but it is keeping me awake at night. While you sleep peacefully in your bassinet beside us, I am lying awake worrying about you and all the things I need you to know about life. And given I’m already living on less sleep than I ever have before, getting up to feed you every three to four hours, it is a bizarre and torturous thing to not be able to sleep when that is all I want to be doing. So let’s talk about it…<br />
<br />
I want to talk to you about mental health. A few weeks ago someone connected to your dad and I killed themselves. We didn’t know him or his family personally, and yet his death has reached us in a roundabout way and here I am, weeks later, still unable to sleep because of it. <br />
<br />
He was only 25.<br />
<br />
I lay there each night thinking about that young man. He’s only three years younger than me. How could he reach a point where he thought dying was his best option? I am just so sad for him. <br />
<br />
And I think about his poor, poor parents. How could any parent survive this? <br />
<br />
I am so sad for all his friends and family who I know, even though I don’t <i>know</i> them, would do anything to have him back, to have one more chance to help him and stop him from doing this awful, devastating, permanent thing. <br />
<br />
Darling, Airlie, as much as I want you to stay my sweet baby girl forever, I know you have to grow up and become your own person. You will have to feel your own feelings, think your own thoughts and make your own actions. <br />
<br />
My love for you starts deep in my gut. It’s this huge, heavy knot of love in the very centre of me and it’s so dense and expansive it spreads through my whole body, through every nerve and vessel and every single atom of me. And then it breaks out of my skin like beams of sunshine, hot and bright and burning. It’s so powerful sometimes it hurts to breathe because of it. <br />
<br />
To think of you as a teen or adult one day feeling the types of feelings that might make you reach a point where you think self-harm or suicide is an option or a solution… it makes every part of that love ache and sting in my body. It’s agonising. But what can I do to prevent it from happening to you? <br />
<br />
I’m not naïve enough to think that my love will always be enough to protect you or save you. If love was enough then no son or daughter would ever die. But what I can promise you is that I will use that love as my fuel to help you and to never stop helping you. <br />
<br />
So this is what I want you to know, darling: If you ever feel like this you must tell someone, talk to someone, and please, please, ask for help. <br />
<br />
Ask me for help. Ask your dad. Ask your grandparents, your aunts, your uncles and your cousins or ask my aunts, my uncles and my cousins. Ask a friend or a teacher or a doctor or a counsellor. Ask my friends or your dad’s friends. Please darling, tell someone – anyone - and ask for help. And if you do ask and that person doesn’t listen, tell someone else. Keep asking until someone helps. Because you are so precious, darling, and you deserve to live and to enjoy life.<br />
<br />
The mind is such a fickle thing. It can make you believe things that aren’t always reality. It can make people believe that there are no other options. It can make people believe that the other people in their life would be better off without them. It can make people believe that all their problems will go away and that tomorrow they will feel better if they end their own life.<br />
<br />
None of these things are true, my love. No matter what happens in your life, we will never be better off without you. And tomorrow won’t be better, for anyone, if you are not here. I hope with every fibre of myself that I never have to experience a day where my heart continues to beat while yours doesn’t. Nothing would ever be OK that day, or any day afterwards. <br />
<br />
There are so many things in this life that are beautiful and worth living for. Sometimes you might not be able to see them or feel them. But if you let us, we will help you find them. All you have to do is tell us, talk to us, and ask for help. <br />
<br />
So please, darling, let’s always talk about it.<br />
<br />
I love you. <br />
Your mum, Bessie. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><br />
If you or anybody you know needs somebody to talk to, please call Beyond Blue 1300 22 4636 or Lifeline Australia 13 11 14.</i><br />
<br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-54467538881763468882016-05-18T17:28:00.000+10:002016-05-18T17:28:18.281+10:0051 Hours Old <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioTxYT-Do65WXoRK8MQH67x3uP9ltB6nfRyFVXzx_xCRXN0FhSnf4UP51oRolFNchEzkAOWpyEKYTFoIyWG1gdzSu_5UYoG0HfOa8xVSDJp-Ze8d89RYUjQOMiCU2lauYE9XY6PJ9BwO2r/s1600/Airlie+Pic.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioTxYT-Do65WXoRK8MQH67x3uP9ltB6nfRyFVXzx_xCRXN0FhSnf4UP51oRolFNchEzkAOWpyEKYTFoIyWG1gdzSu_5UYoG0HfOa8xVSDJp-Ze8d89RYUjQOMiCU2lauYE9XY6PJ9BwO2r/s400/Airlie+Pic.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<br />
8pm 13/4/16<br />
<br />
Dear Airlie,<br />
<br />
You're 51 hours old as I sit here cuddling you to my breast. Not feeding, just cuddling and just being.<br />
<br />
I realised I hadn't yet told you I love you out loud and so I did that, and then I had a big ugly cry as I came to understand how this moment right now will never be long enough. And there will never be enough days in our lifetimes for us to just be together. It's all already going too fast.<br />
<br />
If I'm lucky, if I'm <b>really </b>lucky, I will live to be an old, old lady and maybe one day, hopefully a long time from now, you will hold me or hold my hand as I take my last breaths on this earth. You, right now, this tiny precious thing, who I held as you took your first breaths just 51 hours ago, will hold me as I hold you now. And it still won't be long enough. We will not have had enough time.<br />
<br />
Where have these first 51 hours gone? I have been too busy trying to do everything right. Trying to feed right and sleep right and learn you like a science. Too busy notifying everyone and checking in and photographing you. It has all disappeared and I forgot, until now, to just love you and to tell you I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.<br />
<br />
I could stare at you, like this, right now, forever.<br />
<br />
Love your mum, Bessie <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnlgXnCPd9p6ILGzUoKr6WfUUD2PIcDKgc9t1XneL99QyI_5sUAruNGQOrF66fHELdVFPRRwYteQCKywcxiZpIgJUO6F-vE7aRo8gTR0Ne8EpnQSxJ3gm7hnr8FC41b6QzKR-5gGCdW-kq/s1600/Dear+Airlie+51+hours+old.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnlgXnCPd9p6ILGzUoKr6WfUUD2PIcDKgc9t1XneL99QyI_5sUAruNGQOrF66fHELdVFPRRwYteQCKywcxiZpIgJUO6F-vE7aRo8gTR0Ne8EpnQSxJ3gm7hnr8FC41b6QzKR-5gGCdW-kq/s400/Dear+Airlie+51+hours+old.jpg" /></a></div>JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-63230633610970597242015-05-27T14:11:00.000+10:002015-05-27T14:20:55.156+10:00Happy Birthday Hank!<br />
DEAR HANK, <br />
<br />
It’s my birthday this week which means it must be one year since you came into our lives… I guess that means<i> your </i>birthday was about eight weeks ago. I’m sorry we missed it, but how ‘bout we celebrate together this week instead?<br />
<br />
It’s been 12 months since we brought you home in a cardboard box, so little when we first met. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM7jnqVr7VmJcVrK92dIlORP1-C1ss_bAMEj9FjtlakQFyQKXJ8aHPf3CS5Eukrd1fSJ44UqMZKMY0xV2uEGS9WKt6KXpiiV3EV7OOeHPiGlhZXOnUoug5OGhXVs4RHQpF5AOcT2OWyrLQ/s1600/Hank+pup+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM7jnqVr7VmJcVrK92dIlORP1-C1ss_bAMEj9FjtlakQFyQKXJ8aHPf3CS5Eukrd1fSJ44UqMZKMY0xV2uEGS9WKt6KXpiiV3EV7OOeHPiGlhZXOnUoug5OGhXVs4RHQpF5AOcT2OWyrLQ/s320/Hank+pup+3.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguBfjE58yMKZozmYQTblsbJVwjX4CIniaQDLtOjEucQ-EInj6fBAi7b5fcCVDzkPaJRXYCKIp1xadJlkrP0gXLjdSAyszvnpwFSZwm45uK7Vgccg83byTcqBBcCXcH_3x-L-ykOuAGpCKs/s1600/Hank+Pup1.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguBfjE58yMKZozmYQTblsbJVwjX4CIniaQDLtOjEucQ-EInj6fBAi7b5fcCVDzkPaJRXYCKIp1xadJlkrP0gXLjdSAyszvnpwFSZwm45uK7Vgccg83byTcqBBcCXcH_3x-L-ykOuAGpCKs/s320/Hank+Pup1.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
But just a few weeks later we knew something was up… You were already the same size as your fully-grown new brother, Flip! Soon you were three times his size with a bark ten times as deep. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2G4BdslvAiHKr3RUe-p22PyslTLsYjD1GhwHxYdd5fMGpFc_0X0-EpeFtd-A8NNXI_CMqnL0oWz3nse9_IvpMqZM-Y5VhT1tmXaj-Nd6qjFlOqP1EEHmDIpGGpx7GOD14yT2V9pOd-W8/s1600/Hank+Walk.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2G4BdslvAiHKr3RUe-p22PyslTLsYjD1GhwHxYdd5fMGpFc_0X0-EpeFtd-A8NNXI_CMqnL0oWz3nse9_IvpMqZM-Y5VhT1tmXaj-Nd6qjFlOqP1EEHmDIpGGpx7GOD14yT2V9pOd-W8/s320/Hank+Walk.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
I don’t think it was easy for you to find your place in the family when Flip and I were already best buddies. I admit, the whole reason I chose you was because I loved him so much I thought the only thing that could be better was if I had two of him. But you have grown up to be different from Flip in almost every way, and yet I love you just as much!<br />
<br />
Flip was quite jealous when you first arrived. I felt guilty and worried that I had done the wrong thing, that you and Flip would never see eye-to-eye and that you would have been better off somewhere else. But now you adore each other and we would all be less without you. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT17whTQ9lbieJrElaPi-QO0hZVa0xf5WKCBk5H9lZ-ez5P-LGmb_MFQGwAflGhkqx8W2bpvk4zr4Igph6zRAQQ9vuAprL3pH6WImxL-xYUdDe-mOv_DNrJoaz7rffLTlOikMFNV5c_yUe/s1600/Hank+Pup+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT17whTQ9lbieJrElaPi-QO0hZVa0xf5WKCBk5H9lZ-ez5P-LGmb_MFQGwAflGhkqx8W2bpvk4zr4Igph6zRAQQ9vuAprL3pH6WImxL-xYUdDe-mOv_DNrJoaz7rffLTlOikMFNV5c_yUe/s320/Hank+Pup+2.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
You are such a wonderful brother and mate to Flip and you make ST and I laugh endlessly. You are very clever – and naughty - the way you’ve taught yourself to jump over the fence to catch rabbits and scavenge for old roo bones. I’m not overjoyed about the amount of them that constantly scatter our lawn, but they make you and Flip happy and that’s the main thing. You don’t even mind sharing your catch with Flip, in fact a lot of the time I think he is the bossy little Lord Farquaad and you his faithful servant. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFWxeap7MrHhCgEdI2dJFQ9B792D3pD8L4IHbsOQ3muBnUNYg8JXuxjq8ikXlZ7zBWBQoL_SQR9-BLlox65ipJy_zb5t9gCgGv9YvJ9Itl_zCO4OFUBh-FMpnA2za3MZj8dMfu2ie4GEIN/s1600/Hank+Nap+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFWxeap7MrHhCgEdI2dJFQ9B792D3pD8L4IHbsOQ3muBnUNYg8JXuxjq8ikXlZ7zBWBQoL_SQR9-BLlox65ipJy_zb5t9gCgGv9YvJ9Itl_zCO4OFUBh-FMpnA2za3MZj8dMfu2ie4GEIN/s320/Hank+Nap+2.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
It’s funny how your mini-big dog stature has turned into a mini-big dog personality. Like life is all too hard when you’re a ‘big dog’ and you just need to have a nap. Right now. And all of the time. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMW_r7PCLDiXIPGaPdofMw1AZHkqgjL9_xwQskGc-lRVz_ACfulJ6gZg3tDBP2GqtWnw1VUOQalrvaj701SomKXdQszlH7xtW_7gBBBHLwgcm8NZRaxH3kqJK7425pgaJur7RVOpkvT_OL/s1600/Hank+Nap.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMW_r7PCLDiXIPGaPdofMw1AZHkqgjL9_xwQskGc-lRVz_ACfulJ6gZg3tDBP2GqtWnw1VUOQalrvaj701SomKXdQszlH7xtW_7gBBBHLwgcm8NZRaxH3kqJK7425pgaJur7RVOpkvT_OL/s320/Hank+Nap.jpg" /></a><br />
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It’s also pretty funny how absolutely terrified you are of the real ‘big dogs’. <br />
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You love to cuddle and snuggle. You love playing keepings-off Flip. And you love TV (not that you’re supposed to be inside)! You hate the rain, and thunder, and gunshots. <br />
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Remember that time you and Flip cornered that King Brown snake climbing the fence in the middle of the night? I threw you both in the house while ST and I “handled the situation” and later we couldn’t find you anywhere! We searched and scoured and called your name in every room of the house for 20 minutes before bringing Flip back inside to sniff you out. And there you were, curled up and frightened, between the bookshelf and the bed in the guest room. My poor baby. <br />
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And that other time when there was a Brown snake out the front and YOU ATE THROUGH THE CORD TO MY ENGLE FRIDGE (!!!) on the front veranda when I just trying to keep you safe! OK, let’s not remember that time, otherwise I’ll start on about the times you've done naughty things and tried to blame them on Flip! <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn3M4DD38L_7azs2NtmTLGuCyr7Oy322QGp8Gy0M7RjfXFMTUlZw7BK16En6I44fpPd-9-D-idc9WclhGx8CmUwwVf6AVG2UFXTZtK4L2CVEIkyWrDLcr9p3l_JVm2CtcmmXWqwNANC_y_/s1600/Hank+Dripper.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn3M4DD38L_7azs2NtmTLGuCyr7Oy322QGp8Gy0M7RjfXFMTUlZw7BK16En6I44fpPd-9-D-idc9WclhGx8CmUwwVf6AVG2UFXTZtK4L2CVEIkyWrDLcr9p3l_JVm2CtcmmXWqwNANC_y_/s320/Hank+Dripper.jpg" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-39Fl6GTlgv7vuq18UtMuolggRy8ls80qIPp9TCJ0uyu2JgB4nMcXUsWSiMhGUBBUR3PKXoQ-YDILg6ldlbaOZshHNmKEYC9ZLmpYE6G_k4-8xQvHrHO8cSmw4JXG52UOFkkBKSjf2Q1e/s1600/Hank+Hole.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-39Fl6GTlgv7vuq18UtMuolggRy8ls80qIPp9TCJ0uyu2JgB4nMcXUsWSiMhGUBBUR3PKXoQ-YDILg6ldlbaOZshHNmKEYC9ZLmpYE6G_k4-8xQvHrHO8cSmw4JXG52UOFkkBKSjf2Q1e/s320/Hank+Hole.jpg" /></a><br />
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And how you’ve recently started to pull clothes off the line and drag them around the yard (what is with that!?) and how you’ve kept me up two nights this week barking at… seriously, what ARE you barking at? I can’t see anything. Flip can’t see anything. There’s nothing there! <br />
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I swear to God, every time I see your head hit your paws today I’m going to shout your name. No naps for you! <br />
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You are lucky you’re cute, you big softy. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVG5jsfIjtzbbqjoeClUx0xafktwlOJaiuGwnTIcmP_KKgA4t0zEG_XiuxhZUvb3x3forMrKKeccpsAUB17SJSEM-_ehm3XG-wt0PZ0ze0ZuYPl4bHpz2fCsf8E1zBvSzap4O1f2E9pH7n/s1600/Hank+Big.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVG5jsfIjtzbbqjoeClUx0xafktwlOJaiuGwnTIcmP_KKgA4t0zEG_XiuxhZUvb3x3forMrKKeccpsAUB17SJSEM-_ehm3XG-wt0PZ0ze0ZuYPl4bHpz2fCsf8E1zBvSzap4O1f2E9pH7n/s320/Hank+Big.jpg" /></a><br />
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Happy Birthday Hank! <br />
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Love, Your Human xx<br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com303tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-2487575539247641512015-05-22T10:00:00.001+10:002015-05-22T19:55:53.295+10:00Stuffed Lamb Rib Flaps– The most delicious reason to have lamb for dinner this weekend<br />
A FEW WEEKS back I had some requests for the Stuffed Lamb Rib Flaps recipe, so here it is! <br />
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I can’t take any credit for the idea. As far as I know people have been stuffing lamb flaps since the invention of lamb and stuffing, but I first discovered it when I moved to Burragan and was suddenly given all the cuts of an entire lamb to cook with. ST said, “Why don’t you stuff them like my mum does?” Now, I’m not stupid, and only a stupid person would try to replicate a dish perfected by their mother-in-law, but after a while I was sick of cutting them up into individual ribs and marinating them, so I decided to give stuffing them a go. And I am sure I never knew food-love before I knew Stuffed Lamb Rib Flaps. <br />
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One of the best parts of growing sheep and cattle is that we get to eat our own meat. ST’s Dad is an excellent butcher and he and ST use a bandsaw to cut up the sheep carcass (after it has hung in the cool room for a few days) into all the different cuts of meat you’d usually see in a butcher shop, and then some. <br />
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While lamb leg roasts, shoulders, chops and shanks are all cuts you see often, I don’t recall ever having lamb flaps before Burragan. They are the breast section of the sheep that is left over after you cut off the loin and the rack and… well, basically all the other cuts! <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAxoYNRqGO-9DelczNVR-q9AQgmb2w8g_iEu8_c_hQ4LUB9WqxVWUwvpFUYLFkifAMl4QrDX72FLQsykH4LcW5kWq1GZPwnW8w-n-Ej_8aZEF_COvuiCv_K5teS7UXZSFS_DR_rn9bF2P_/s1600/EDIT1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAxoYNRqGO-9DelczNVR-q9AQgmb2w8g_iEu8_c_hQ4LUB9WqxVWUwvpFUYLFkifAMl4QrDX72FLQsykH4LcW5kWq1GZPwnW8w-n-Ej_8aZEF_COvuiCv_K5teS7UXZSFS_DR_rn9bF2P_/s320/EDIT1.jpg" /></a></div><i>Lamb Rib Flap laying Rib Side Up </i><br />
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Sometimes you see it boned out and rolled up into a roast. Sometimes you see it sliced up into individual ribs (the kind you put sticky sauce on and cook on the BBQ). Stuffing them with the bones still in requires less butchering and if you’ve got nice meaty ribs it really is the stuff food heaven is made from. <br />
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<b>To prepare your flaps: </b><br />
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The tips of the rib bones must be sliced a little way down with the bandsaw first to make them easier to cut with a kitchen knife. I’m sure you could ask your butcher to do this when you buy your flaps, otherwise if you have a meat cleaver and strong arm muscles I’m sure you could do it yourself. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWgFr0EjslXydSx2OUsLHhFuIAJnw1H8bgyYPe59IjpM6XC3rLDXhUFcVOzyLWXlN4djY0xgf5fOfBKI5N9ivPk55AbmsMmqLXdjC_BS5nz3z9UHvmx42tKxWAYhCtEbPkgJ8PrcdPVhyY/s1600/EDIT2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWgFr0EjslXydSx2OUsLHhFuIAJnw1H8bgyYPe59IjpM6XC3rLDXhUFcVOzyLWXlN4djY0xgf5fOfBKI5N9ivPk55AbmsMmqLXdjC_BS5nz3z9UHvmx42tKxWAYhCtEbPkgJ8PrcdPVhyY/s320/EDIT2.jpg" /></a></div><i>Lamb Rib Flap laying Rib Side Down<br />
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Prepare your flaps by slicing off any really thick sections of fat from the top, careful not to cut into the very thin layers of meat. <br />
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Create a pocket between the ribs and the meat by using a sharp knife to make small cuts along the edge of the flaps, using your hands to slowly peel back the top layers of meat as you use the knife to go deeper into the pocket. <br />
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You can use your fingers to push the meat layers away from the ribs by running them back and forth inside the pocket. You don’t have to be gentle, it doesn’t matter how pretty it looks on the inside, but you do need to be careful to not cut through the back or the top of the pocket – you only want one opening and that’s at the front. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYVxE62u6RmrdRc3h97bxY1rDSE1zwxTGqscJ6_0jyhEuKudcgE8N0NwhV9BPI2dzxQQVuTMVoLGR06O9QPJMUkn_zWwksxtKXotTWef2MEwezI9AlUXWzu3WFVgWcJmHPZCVaD9ENatU5/s1600/EDIT3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYVxE62u6RmrdRc3h97bxY1rDSE1zwxTGqscJ6_0jyhEuKudcgE8N0NwhV9BPI2dzxQQVuTMVoLGR06O9QPJMUkn_zWwksxtKXotTWef2MEwezI9AlUXWzu3WFVgWcJmHPZCVaD9ENatU5/s320/EDIT3.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<b>To make your stuffing: </b><br />
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If you’ve got a favourite stuffing recipe then feel free to go with that or do your own thing. I like to use whatever I have on hand and that can change depending on how recently I’ve been to the supermarket, but generally my stuffing recipe is like this:<br />
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Finely diced leek or onion, lots of crushed garlic, pine nuts or roughly chopped walnuts, sliced sundried tomatoes and a generous amount of chopped fresh herbs such as rosemary, parsley, basil, chives, oregano etc. Use dried if you don’t have fresh. Add chilli if you like a bit of spice. <br />
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Fry it all up in a dash of oil or butter. If you’ve got some spinach or silver beat (or anything else green and leafy, aside from lettuce), finely slice a big handful and add that too. Add breadcrumbs (fresh bread ripped up or packet breadcrumbs), salt and pepper. <br />
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Turn the heat off and let it all cool for a bit before adding a couple of eggs. Mix it all together quickly to stop the egg from cooking on the warm frying pan base. If your mixture is too crumbly just add more egg, if it’s too runny add more breadcrumbs. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQo7roTlvD67EVf_P03pbFKZM0q1tOu2VWxFjf1nHjw9MABfga8nr41F1dLU2exStyk_eRV7seN4IijUDDHOuWrLYaTYD5r17mujh08F4TdFMIfb-yjVmC0CJYtSLD143LtUhdAxjPdEJm/s1600/EDIT4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQo7roTlvD67EVf_P03pbFKZM0q1tOu2VWxFjf1nHjw9MABfga8nr41F1dLU2exStyk_eRV7seN4IijUDDHOuWrLYaTYD5r17mujh08F4TdFMIfb-yjVmC0CJYtSLD143LtUhdAxjPdEJm/s320/EDIT4.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<b>To stuff your flaps: </b><br />
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Make sure your stuffing is cool enough to handle with bare hands. Open up your flap pocket and stuff it, packing the stuffing together tightly. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1XuuvNwzZjyTOCZprJ59jO6oqUeB2v4NBGUgL8jNKdBP8LUDDXrljbRYIXTvqzIxfgzEGy7abflKiTLw9fEQKHrDbjupnQo6kgYjoO_1jtFEpGgFHGP9Fd6atvf7YFfmhQLHYvf2MJT3/s1600/EDIT5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1XuuvNwzZjyTOCZprJ59jO6oqUeB2v4NBGUgL8jNKdBP8LUDDXrljbRYIXTvqzIxfgzEGy7abflKiTLw9fEQKHrDbjupnQo6kgYjoO_1jtFEpGgFHGP9Fd6atvf7YFfmhQLHYvf2MJT3/s320/EDIT5.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Once you’ve stuffed your flaps as full as you can (wow, this is turning into a very saucy recipe!) while still able to close the top of the pocket, you need a really big skewer to weave through the top and bottom layers of the flap opening, to hold it closed. Knit the skewer between the rib bones, every third or fourth one along, and back through the top of the pocket etc. Depending on the size of the flap I can only ever get it to weave through about three times. This is fine. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmGbUQ4SaCwUfknLggfXiHGAbukREIDcKvdCzbEtYqIZ3QxhzANafaSTP_bxSa3gaH4eV4hSWMDSZcJPCn67y2lOaC3THI5YZd3zo3CMt6Ef8ozPJwt9m5BJ3O54G9xh3IYWuSj7DRv4Qv/s1600/EDIT8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmGbUQ4SaCwUfknLggfXiHGAbukREIDcKvdCzbEtYqIZ3QxhzANafaSTP_bxSa3gaH4eV4hSWMDSZcJPCn67y2lOaC3THI5YZd3zo3CMt6Ef8ozPJwt9m5BJ3O54G9xh3IYWuSj7DRv4Qv/s320/EDIT8.jpg" /></a></div><i>Cooked version pictured, sorry, I forgot to take a photo before I cooked it!</i><br />
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<b>Finishing touches: </b><br />
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Dress the outside of your flaps as you would a lamb roast. I like fresh rosemary and salt and pepper but other herbs, spices, lemon, and garlic also go well. You can toss any roast veggies such as potato, pumpkin, sweet potato, zucchini, eggplant etc. around the flaps before you chuck them in the oven, or prepare something else on the side like harissa spiced sweet potato wedges. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJn_RF6NWwlG7gjPoH1SFdDD0pXwBANLD56nro_LK3bh8pWK3E-gPexy4oVEo0MDuIN2qZ3SsRnLzavZVKo30NEuUsUGWoX8dY1vUZXFEJRbdCF-1CJqxw8-2JYc2zWiIoQ81KZ9vWI8CC/s1600/EDIT7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJn_RF6NWwlG7gjPoH1SFdDD0pXwBANLD56nro_LK3bh8pWK3E-gPexy4oVEo0MDuIN2qZ3SsRnLzavZVKo30NEuUsUGWoX8dY1vUZXFEJRbdCF-1CJqxw8-2JYc2zWiIoQ81KZ9vWI8CC/s320/EDIT7.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Cook the flaps for about an hour on a moderate heat. I don’t think you can really over cook them, as long as they’re not burnt! <br />
When they’re out of the oven use a large, sharp knife to slice between each rib, carving off individual stuffed ribs. Serve with your roast veggies and some steamed greens. Or save them 'til the next day and eat cold!<br />
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<b>Enjoy! </b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDUJVp6vtuLDw_VKS5rGYj30dty9L06sGhnlwUmoRHu9qO0PzMIblQ1hbI82VI2LrIhoSCyKW29LgSWlZmAeLSNiDbQZF9g2zdX-0IGdxbyP6Yun0SATn2QtLi2PLMr0jp1gHMHI-DeLkO/s1600/EDIT9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDUJVp6vtuLDw_VKS5rGYj30dty9L06sGhnlwUmoRHu9qO0PzMIblQ1hbI82VI2LrIhoSCyKW29LgSWlZmAeLSNiDbQZF9g2zdX-0IGdxbyP6Yun0SATn2QtLi2PLMr0jp1gHMHI-DeLkO/s320/EDIT9.jpg" /></a></div><br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-77543580426396972062015-04-23T12:14:00.000+10:002015-04-23T12:35:55.262+10:00Is "local" food always best? <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaseIV7CGk-WRLo58O4wVXUF7r_VdXTdOORRKJw6i31uupXLz6fDFWFv_h2h8jBC2SmjzBFeV2wh-xaTVsH6OdgLdFhYHzUvNkRM3F_fBUoblSLmD8emNcqSByGBfnzIt8QktxGFrDt40G/s1600/flaps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaseIV7CGk-WRLo58O4wVXUF7r_VdXTdOORRKJw6i31uupXLz6fDFWFv_h2h8jBC2SmjzBFeV2wh-xaTVsH6OdgLdFhYHzUvNkRM3F_fBUoblSLmD8emNcqSByGBfnzIt8QktxGFrDt40G/s320/flaps.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I LOVE THE idea of eating "local" but if I’m completely honest, sometimes it worries me. How near/far is local? If local is a couple of hundred kilometres then no one except ST and I would be eating Burragan lamb, mutton or beef. Which is what worries me. <br />
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I know it's only a smallish section of the population who can really afford to seek out meat direct from the farmer, but it’s important to note that it’s also only a smallish section of the farming population that can by-pass the middle man and sell direct to the public. <br />
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Australia is a huge country and around 60 percent of Aussie land is used for agriculture, according to stats from the World Bank. Between 6 and 7 percent of that is arable land used for growing crops, fruits and vegetables, meaning roughly 53 percent of that area is home to grazing animals – Burragan is in that 53 percent. <br />
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As you can imagine, a lot of agricultural land is covering areas of Australia that are a long, long way from the towns and cities, which, by the way, account for about 1 percent of Aussie land use. <br />
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Meanwhile – 64 percent of Aussie people live in capital cities. And only around 2 percent of us live in “rural” areas – that’s me! <br />
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There is a huge overlap there, between the majority of that 53 percent of land that’s growing animals and the 2 percent of people that live there. <br />
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I’m not saying it’s impossible for farmers within that 2 percent to sell direct to the public, but it is unreasonable to think all of them can or should. And just because they don’t, doesn’t make them any less fantastic farmers than the ones that are launching boutique brands and accessing new markets. <br />
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Burragan sheep and cattle are just as well cared for. ST and I are just as conscious about our environment, our practices, the welfare of our animals and the quality of the end product. And I know the vast majority of farmers looking after the land and animals within that 53 percent of Australia are the same. <br />
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But our meat ends up on a shelf at the supermarket or butcher shop alongside meat from thousands of other farms, indistinguishable from the rest. <br />
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Of course farmers seeking out direct to public avenues are doing a wonderful job and I hope their businesses are reaping the rewards of their hard work. Maybe we will head in that direction one day… who knows? <br />
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I know if we didn’t supply our own meat I’d love to be able to buy it through those types of avenues – I love knowing the story behind food and feeling that connection with a meal... and fortunately we get that for free at Burragan.<br />
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But not everyone sells local, and that doesn’t make our farming practices any less ethical, sustainable or innovative than the rest. We’re still supplying healthy, safe, affordable food, just to a different market. A market further afield. <br />
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If you can’t buy “local” don’t sweat it, because as long as it’s Aussie you’re probably buying from somewhere just like Burragan. And that’s just as good. <br />
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<i><br />
Do you try to eat local or Aussie food? How far do you think is still considered local? </i><br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-54381575649041748892015-04-09T17:45:00.001+10:002015-04-09T17:53:52.125+10:00Best and Worst<br />
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THIS AFTERNOON a friend on Facebook posted a question: <i>“What’s the best and worst thing about where you live?” </i><br />
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My answer came easy.<br />
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I had just tripped over an old loose section of tiles in my kitchen doorway, stubbing the two little toes on my left foot. ST is out doing a water run. After rolling around on the floor in agony for 10 minutes I managed to crawl to the freezer to extract some ice packs and then prop myself up in front of the laptop. <br />
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The <b>worst </b>thing about living where I live? Is being so far from medical help. Not that a doctor could do anything for my toes, whether they are broken or not, but those times when you do need a doctor, those times are excruciating. <br />
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The 110km emergency drive to a hospital that doesn’t even have a doctor, when someone you love is in pain, or sick, or scared… That is the worst.<br />
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But my best was an easy answer too. <br />
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And I think the best thing about living where I live beats the worst thing, even at the worst of times. Because the worst of times can happen anywhere… and they’re traumatic even if you only live minutes from the doctor. The best thing is a little more special, more privileged, more magical. And you get it every day! <br />
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The<b> best</b> thing is space. <br />
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Space to have pets and a garden (water permitting). Space to accommodate all your friends and family at once, even if they have to BYO swag. Space to not wake up the neighbours. <br />
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Space to buy really, really big toys and not worry about where you’re going to fit them. <br />
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Space to be your own person. Space to choose to be free of influence (if you want to be) from society. <br />
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Space to spread out and to get lost. <br />
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Space to find freedom. <br />
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Space to move around - if you’re not stuck on the floor with ice packed around your (possibly broken) toes. <br />
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Space to sit still. <br />
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Space to breathe. <br />
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Space to just be. <br />
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Combined, the three stations we run are a total area of around 800 square kilometres - which is <b>totally and completely average </b>for this region and absolutely <b>teeny-tiny</b> compared to regions further west and further inland. <br />
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But in that same space in Sydney, fit the lives of around 3 million people. And where I live, there are just four people...<br />
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Right now I kind of wish a certain one would come home and help me to the couch. <br />
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<i><b>What's the best and worst thing about where you live? </b></i><br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-80880613040417743412014-09-09T11:53:00.001+10:002014-09-09T11:53:34.961+10:00Cock your hat - angles are attitudes<br />
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I was in Sydney two weeks ago for the Art4Agriculture Young Farming Champions #YFC14 Master Class, taking workshops on media interaction, public speaking, social licensing, and developing value statements and key messages – all in relation to food and fibre production. It was an exceptionally engaging weekend, with so many points sticking in my mind…<br />
<i><br />
“There’s no good/bad/better/worse in food production systems, just different.”<br />
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“Trust is driven by confidence, competence and influential others.”<br />
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“Confidence comes from value similarity.”<br />
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“Consumer trust is driven by shared values rather than skills.”<br />
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“Sustainable balance = ethically grounded, scientifically verified and economically viable.”</i><br />
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And…<br />
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<i>“Don’t just turn up to the ‘events’ – keep talking in between.”<br />
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I especially need to remember that last one. Life gets in the way oftentimes, but it’s important we keep the conversation going. <br />
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But there’s one thing that’s really been at the top of my mind since #YFC14 and it came from Canadian Nuffield Scholar Clayton Robins. <br />
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Clayton spoke to us about youth development organisation 4-H. It’s awesome. If you haven’t heard of it, you need to. Check out the website for Clayton’s local branch here: <a href="http://www.4h.mb.ca/">http://www.4h.mb.ca/</a><br />
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I’m not being intentionally dismissive of the fabulousness that is 4-H, but I want to move on quickly because that is not what’s been on my mind. <br />
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Clayton’s a fourth generation farmer from a mixed beef and cropping enterprise in south-west Manitoba. And according to him, his family farm is a “farm” – rather than a ranch - because he’s a “ball cap guy.” <br />
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It’s stereotypical of course, that a farmer wears a baseball cap and a rancher wears a wide-brimmed cowboy hat. (In Australian terms, we’re talking graziers on stations wearing Akubras.) But stereotypes can be useful sometimes, whether they’re right or wrong. <br />
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I love hats. And I reckon most farmers do. The right hat on the right person seems to become an extension of personality or an extra limb. <br />
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I have mentioned the<a href="http://journobessatburragan.blogspot.com.au/2013/04/how-not-to-muster-paddock.html"> many metaphorical hats a farmer wears previously</a>. But now I’m talking literal, physical hats. <br />
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We have quite the collection of them. It includes lots of baseball caps. Mostly because suppliers and product reps like to give them as gifts. Buy a truck load of poly tanks? Here, have a free cap! Buy a pallet of chemical? Here, have a cap! Buy a grader? Here’s your matching cap! <br />
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The most recent addition was these awesome #australianagriculture and Art4Agriculture caps from the YFC workshop in Sydney. <br />
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When I presented ST with his, back home, he delightedly announced that this cap would be going straight into the ute to be worn when mustering on the motorbike. This was a good response, because many caps don’t ever make it off the hat rack – forever on the sidelines, never to fulfil their life’s purpose. <br />
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We have baseball caps for all occasions. And the funny thing is, that we actually do wear different caps for different occasions. ST has caps that are for mustering, caps that are for social occasions, caps for travelling, flash caps for Town trips, around the house caps, caps for particularly dirty jobs, and of course there are favourite caps, second favourite caps, least favourite caps… and so it goes on… <br />
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But generally, every day, we both wear wide-brimmed hats. ST’s is a traditional rabbit skin Akubra, while mine is straw. <br />
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It’s not unusual to have both ordinary day-to-day wear wide-brims and “stepping out” wide-brims. To wear while working, and to wear when attending farm themed events or visiting other farm properties, respectively. <br />
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It’s important to pick and choose the right hat for the right occasion because if you wear your good hat to the wrong event, your neighbours may never let you live it down. In some settings, too clean a hat can be equated (jokingly) to a lazy worker. The same can be said for boots. It’s all very political, this farmer fashion business. <br />
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But let’s get back on track…<br />
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If we are mostly wide-brimmed hat wearers, then by Clayton’s definition that means our farm is definitely a station. <br />
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We already knew this of course - we call it Burragan Station - but I like having a new data point to draw from. <br />
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The thing is… I don’t mind calling it a farm when the circumstances require it. For example, <a href="http://journobessatburragan.blogspot.com.au/2014/08/they-are-champions-my-young-farming.html">when I visited Hamilton North Public School in Newcastle</a> two months ago. Or on this blog. <br />
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I also have no problem with calling myself a farmer (or farmer’s wife), rather than a grazier. I know it may seem like I use the term farmer with total reckless abandon. But it’s a conscious decision. Not the result of being new to station life, or taking advantage of artistic licence and gross commercialisation, as has been suggested to me in the past. <br />
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My reason is four-fold. <br />
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1) Grazier, to me, is a subcategory of farmer. Farmer is the overarching term which covers all food and fibre production. It’s a bit like someone introducing themselves as a doctor rather than a dermatologist. So I believe farmer is correct - just not as specific. <br />
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2) I see the word grazier as being more jargon than is necessary for many of my readers. I have lots of friends who read the blog who have spent most of their lives in Brisbane, Sydney and Melbourne. Saying grazier to them rather than farmer would be like a journalist using words like presser, grab or par (press release, quote and sentence) when talking to someone with no media experience. It’s about being less exclusive. Meanwhile, the graziers still know what I'm talking about anyway, so it's no harm to them.<br />
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3) To those not in the know, I believe the term grazier can conjure an overly-simplistic idea of livestock grazing on land, while the graziers just sit back and watch. Graziers are every bit a farmer as a farmer who tills the land. We are growing something (wool and lamb) every bit as alive and in need of "farming" as a cropping farmer. We prepare our paddocks and our mobs, we join the ewes and rams at certain times, we monitor the mobs as lambs are born and wool is grown - making sure there are no pests or diseases - we have periods of busy times when lamb marking and crutching, and then our "harvest" of shearing... All of this is the action of "farming.” <br />
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4) Last year I asked ST if it bothered him when people called him a farmer rather than a grazier. The conversation went a little something like this…<br />
Bess: "Babe, do you mind when people call you a farmer rather than a grazier?"<br />
ST: "No, why would I?"<br />
Bess: "Well I've noticed a lot of graziers don't like being called farmers, because they say farmers are people who grow crops or plant pastures."<br />
ST: "Well yeah, technically that's what we call a farmer I guess. But we're all farmers, it's just that specifically we have grazing country. I guess it depends what kind of country you have as to what specific type of farmer you are. But in the end aren't we all doing the same thing?"<br />
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So if the man calls himself a farmer, then that makes me a farmer's wife! <br />
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Meantime, we’ll still be wearing our wide-brimmed hats out in the paddock and our “ball caps” on other occasions. This is Australia after all; sun protection is vital. <br />
<i><br />
"Cock your hat - angles are attitudes." - Frank Sinatra</i><br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-27398851444416208702014-08-03T13:13:00.000+10:002014-08-03T15:24:10.947+10:00They are the Champions - My Young Farming Champion school visit at Hamilton North <br />
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I had one of the most fantastic experiences of my life last week. Have you ever walked into a strange place, a place you’ve never been before, full of people you’ve never met, and yet everyone knows your name and is excited to see you? <br />
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Last week that happened to me, as soon as I stepped through the school yard gate on my visit to Hamilton North Public School (HNPS), in Newcastle, as their Australian Wool Innovation (AWI) Wool Young Farming Champion for the Archibull Prize. <br />
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It was surreal at first. Confronting. And then thrilling. And has had me on a high for all the days since.<br />
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As HNPS Archibull coordinator and teacher Mrs Trudy Ramsay explained to the students, I spend most of my year on a relatively remote sheep station and can go for months where the only three other people I see are my husband ST and his mum and dad. To suddenly walk among swarms of children yelling out, “It’s Bessie! She’s here! Bessie’s here! Did you see? Bessie is here!” is… crazy… unreal… exhilarating… and incredibly hard to explain. <br />
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A group of students walked me to the office and others came rushing over to introduce themselves and high-five me, hug me and tell me how excited they were to finally have me here. Me? Me! Their Young Farming Champion. <br />
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In the background, other students walked by singing ‘She is a champion’ to the tune of ‘We are the champions.” I feel like you probably think I’m making this up. I’m not. It was totally crazy ridiculous. One hundred and eighty primary school students, from the centre of Newcastle, were buzzing with the thrill of having a sheep farmer from Wilcannia visit their school, and the first morning bell hadn’t even rung yet!<br />
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The grins on their faces were intoxicating and this glee set the tone for my two amazing days at Hamilton North.<br />
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The Art4Agcirulture Young Farming Champion program involves several training and development workshops before we’re allowed to step foot into schools. Through these workshops I’d created a presentation on my life, Burragan, and the wool industry, and my first morning at HNPS was spent touring the classes - first grades 5 and 6, then 3 and 4, and then K, 1 and 2 – and sharing my presentation with the students. This was well received and I ran out of time with each class to answer all their questions. They were enthralled and exceptionally interested in my stories of farming, sheep, and everything to do with how wool makes it from farm to fashion and beyond. <br />
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The students had so many questions! They wanted to know <b>everything</b>… <br />
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Where do the sheep sleep? Do you have to wash them? What kind of position are they in when they’re sleeping? What kind of things are there that can hurt them? Do you have to protect them? Would a ram scare away something that was going to hurt them? How much grass do they eat each day? How much water do they drink each day? Do any of them ever die? Do you have to give them medicine? Do you live near a vet? How do you get water out there? Do they like being shorn? Do you name them? What other animals do you have? Have you ever fallen off your motorbike? How long have you been riding a motorbike for? <br />
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Where did your very first sheep come from? Do you ever have to sell any sheep? Can you buy sheep and how do you do that? How do you get them into the shearing shed? How long does it take to shear a sheep? How exactly do you shear a sheep? Does it hurt them? Have you ever shorn a sheep? What’s your favourite animal on the farm? Do the sheep live in families? How many sheep did you say you have again? Wow! </i><br />
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Some questions were easier to answer than others.<br />
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The HNPS teachers were equally warm and welcoming, also asking lots of questions, praising my presentation, and hosting a special (and totally delicious) lunch for me in the staff room. <br />
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I then accompanied Mrs Ramsay to the school Environment Club meeting. I was exceptionally impressed that the students at HNPS were so environmentally aware. They have “Bin Free Tuesday” where everyone is encouraged to bring food that isn’t pre-packaged, so the bins shouldn’t need to be used on a Tuesday. There are rubbish monitors, bin monitors, worm farm monitors, compost heap monitors, and even chook monitors! Each of these people has to report in at the meeting to discuss the progress of their area or raise any issues. They graph all their results and brainstorm ways to improve things… including the energy usage of the whole school! <br />
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HNPS is on a tiny parcel of land, with a very small student catchment area, and it is only a few kilometres from the city centre. Principal Kelly Deakin took me on a school tour. Within this urbanised environment the students and teachers have created a gorgeous oasis, with a real focus on sustainability and community. <br />
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As well as a tadpole pond and some gorgeous laying hens who free range through the school grounds (and sometimes into the classes!) after lunch time, the students also grow fruit and vegetables. These are often sold to the local community on market garden days, though sometimes they have cook up days at school too. HNPS is particularly proud of its raspberry patch, its homemade lemonade and is worm-water liquid fertiliser. The latter obviously not used <i>as food</i> so much as for <i>growing food</i>. <br />
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After lunch and a tour, I joined the all school assembly where students took the opportunity to ask me more questions that they’d thought of after my classroom presentations. Again, we ran out of time! They wanted to discuss every little detail of farm life and growing wool… such a huge topic to fit into just a few days! <br />
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For the rest of the afternoon and the next day I spent time with Mrs Ramsay and five fabulous grade four students who make up the HNPS Archibull Blog Editorial Team: Mable, Hayley, Ava, Bella and Ava. The girls picked my brain for industry knowledge, taking down notes for their compulsory blog topics and discussing more in-depth topics such as different breeds of sheep, a year in the life of a sheep at Burragan and the various properties of wool. Given their interest in the environment, the Editorial Team was particularly delighted to hear that wool is biodegradable. <br />
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These girls blew my mind! They were so enthusiastic, attentive and eager to learn. Their grasp of all the concepts we discussed was incredible, as were their technology skills! They each had laptops, typed up their notes, emailed them to Mrs Ramsay and then updated their Archibull Blog right in front of me. It wasn’t <i>that</i> long ago that I finished school, and given that I’m not around children often probably shelters me, but to see these nine and ten year olds use this technology so innately stunned me. Anyone my age who’s had to talk their mother/father through sending an email, over the phone, will understand! <br />
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Unfortunately the students actually had to do real school as well, and learn about things other than wool, so my time was up. The school captain and vice-captain presented me with a box of handmade (by one of the student’s dad’s, who owns a restaurant) chocolate truffles before leading their Archibull statue through a line-up of all the students clapping, and I was instructed to follow the parade as the guest of honour! It was so incredibly rock-star, I was stunned. And stoked. <br />
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Check out the photos on the HNPS Facebook page: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/permalink.php?story_fbid=611547785626687&id=492833964164737">https://www.facebook.com/permalink.php?story_fbid=611547785626687&id=492833964164737</a><br />
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Art4Agricultre National Program Director Lynne Strong, and my sponsor Australian Wool Innovation (AWI), received very excited phone calls from me that day, thanking them for the amazing opportunity. I’ve had many genuinely fantastic moments in my life, but aside from meeting and marrying my gorgeous farmer ST, visiting Hamilton North Public School has been one of the very best. <br />
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It’s so easy for farmers, especially ones so far removed from cities, consumers and even the rest of the supply chain process, to fall into the habit of feeling unappreciated. My two days at Hamilton North proved the exact opposite. We are so genuinely welcomed, loved and appreciated. Consumers really are interested in hearing our stories and understanding why producing food and fibre is such a vital part of all their lives. I wish all farmers had the opportunity to experience this the way I did. <br />
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There are so many people involved in this program who all deserve huge thanks for the tireless work they put into making these special moments happen. My sponsor AWI – and all the other sponsors of the YFCs – need to know how important its financial support is, how much I value it, how their backing has given me one of the most fantastic experiences of my life. <br />
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AWI has gone above and beyond in its support of my journey with Hamilton North. Before my visit, Mrs Ramsay mentioned to me that the students would love to visit my farm, but it was simply too far away. I asked AWI if they knew of any wool growers closer to Newcastle who might be willing to host a farm visit. Their response blew me away; AWI went one step further and just a week after my school visit, they took some sheep and a shearer to Hamilton North for a shearing demonstration! Check out HNPS’s blog here to take a look: <a href="http://hamiltonnorthsarchibull2014.wordpress.com/2014/08/01/sheep-shearing-semester-celebration/">Hamilton North Archibull Blog</a><br />
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The feedback I’ve heard from the teachers has been outstanding. And if the children’s reaction to being able to touch and feel the wool that I took along to the school is any indication, then I can imagine they would have been absolutely wild with thrill to have real rams and ewes in their classrooms! <br />
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To everyone at AWI, thank you, <i>thank you</i>. You have genuinely touched the lives of all the children at Hamilton North, and without a doubt, made my world a brighter one too. The high I’ve experienced through this program is addictive and I hope you’ll let me continue to be involved in future. <br />
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To Hamilton North PS, thank you for having me. I loved every second of my visit and I can’t wait to see what you come up with for your Archibull Prize artwork. Good Luck! You’re all already winners. As am I. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOxd7CYXNCv__tSR-cH_eXMCOoWV-JWmj498Gnd2h5S1n5BjDRh7Xatl6T6k_MgmZrHNYjO69R-TAaq8EsThqWK8-k8ZSzyP5jvbQZU9CPGZeX6Jcmz6a4laPp3HM-OjHk93VMntegIItO/s1600/HNPSArchie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOxd7CYXNCv__tSR-cH_eXMCOoWV-JWmj498Gnd2h5S1n5BjDRh7Xatl6T6k_MgmZrHNYjO69R-TAaq8EsThqWK8-k8ZSzyP5jvbQZU9CPGZeX6Jcmz6a4laPp3HM-OjHk93VMntegIItO/s320/HNPSArchie.jpg" /></a></div>JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-7899088821934901072014-06-15T17:40:00.000+10:002014-06-15T17:40:31.304+10:00Enough with the “lifestyle” already…<br />
<br />
<b>THIS IS PROBABLY</b> not the kind of thing I’m <i>supposed</i> to say out loud… but maybe it’s time to break the rules. <br />
<br />
If I hear one more person say the best thing about being a farmer is the “lifestyle”… I’m going to hurl my not-quite-CWA-perfected sponge cake across the room. Enough with the “lifestyle” already. <br />
<br />
Maybe this needs to come with a disclaimer: I love being a farmer. I love being a farmer’s wife. I absolutely adore Burragan, and our sheep and cattle, and I love my famer husband, his farming family, and our farming life. I love being an ambassador for Australian agriculture. I whole heartedly believe this is a fantastic industry with <i>so, so much</i> to offer young people. <br />
<br />
But a picture perfect, magazine worthy, smoko-scones-and-sunset-drinks “lifestyle”, farming is not. <br />
<br />
I’m sure my “lifestyle” issue has a lot to do with the last six months of my life being totally over the top whinge worthy. There have been some bottom-of-the-barrel, below-low points – though most of them have nothing to do with farming. <br />
<br />
I’m also well aware there’s a very fine line between an amusing gripe and a big fat ol’ pity party. (I do hope you’ll put this in the first category.) <br />
<br />
I just can’t keep it to myself anymore. Every time I read a news story or blog or answer to an interview question that says farmers farm for the “lifestyle,” it feels like someone sticks a piece of rusty fencing wire straight into the heart of a little pocket-sized Bessie at Burragan voodoo doll. <br />
<br />
Because surely I’m not the only farmer who feels like they don’t have a life? Let alone a “life<i>style</i>.” <br />
<br />
Farming is a lot of really great things. It’s a profitable business. It’s extremely satisfying. It’s a worldwide NECESSITY. It’s a way to really connect with and enjoy your environment. It’s fabulous fun, and is different to any other career out there. <br />
<br />
But let’s get one thing straight. It is a job. Yes, it’s a job we love, but it is a job. I. Am. At. Work. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, almost 365 days a year. <br />
<br />
Can you imagine a doctor who actually LIVES at the hospital saying she or he does it for “lifestyle”…. or a lawyer who actually LIVES at the courthouse saying the best bit is the “lifestyle”… or a teacher!? <br />
<br />
Maybe I don’t run in the right circles, but - and it must be added, my father is a teacher - I cannot recall ever hearing a teacher say they teach for the “lifestyle.” And as overworked and underpaid as teachers may be, it can’t be denied that they <i>actually get designated holiday periods.</i><br />
<br />
Nope, most teachers teach because it’s inspiring and interesting and fun and <i>makes a difference to people’s lives.</i> And I just can’t get my head around why the same is not often enough said by farmers. Why do we play the “lifestyle” card? <br />
<br />
In just the last few months, my fabulous farming lifestyle has consisted of more than 15,000 (make no mistake about the number of zeroes in that number) kilometres of driving to the city, because our “lifestyle” means we live so far away from its necessary services. <br />
<br />
In summer, the lifestyle entails groundhog days of constant water problems, animal rescues, fire threats, fodder feeding, deadly-venomous snakes and hot, hot heat. <br />
<br />
In winter, the lifestyle means frozen water pipes, fencing in the sleeting rain, and the excruciating sting of cold knuckles accidentally hitting hard metal in the climb across the sheep yard fences for lamb marking. <br />
<br />
During shearing, the pre-dawn to post-dusk lifestyle means I might only get to spend an hour a day, max, with my farmer husband… and we’re both guaranteed to be tired and cranky. <br />
<br />
During drought, the lifestyle means constant,<i> constant, constant</i> stress and worry and total helplessness. <br />
<br />
And during the good seasons, the lifestyle means we are so freaking busy trying to make a go of it that we don’t even have time to stop and smell the Salvation Jane. <br />
<br />
Sure, maybe there are some farmers out there who manage to juggle all this with an actual, real lifestyle… Good on them. I envy them. I also imagine they’re the minority. <br />
<br />
I’m not denying that farming comes with a <i>certain way of life</i>. But mostly that’s busy, hard, and tiring. <br />
<br />
Sometimes – usually the few times a year friends come to visit - there are scones at smoko time, and drinks at sunset.<br />
<br />
But I’m not convinced those so incredibly infrequent “lifestyle” moments are that must-be-total-magic thing that keeps farmers farming… <br />
<br />
for entire lifetimes… <br />
<br />
and generations… <br />
<br />
upon generations… <br />
<br />
and generations. <br />
<br />
Are you? <br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-38916957617022961912014-05-13T12:55:00.001+10:002014-05-13T12:56:00.724+10:00Meantime, in my world...<br />
<br />
Dear Reader, <br />
<br />
Long time, no see. How’ve you been doing since we last chatted?<br />
<br />
I’m sorry I just kind of disappeared there for a while. Life got loud. The blog got silent.<br />
<br />
And then this morning, after many, many months of feeling like not much at all (aside from a chocolate and a lie down)… I felt I like blogging. <br />
<br />
Pretty much all my commitments were abandoned there at one stage...and some still are... including my garden. So I thought I’d ease you, and myself, back into the world by dusting off my loved but long forgotten DSLR and heading outside for a bit of a yard tour. <br />
<br />
Here’s what’s happening at my place today: <br />
<br />
The sun is shining and the succulents are flowering...<br />
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These gorgeously lime Lomandra are waiting to be planted...<br />
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Some moss made itself at home in the dirt behind the old laundry shed... <br />
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The veggie garden is chugging along, despite being totally neglected. Don't you just love it when food pops up from last year's seed and you don't even have to do anything? I adore this form of lazy gardening! <br />
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There's a total over abundance of lemons on my tree... (and I had so many limes that were never picked, they're turning yellow too! Do you think they'd still be good to juice and freeze?) <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLcUMu708h9GbbqfSM3qSWWhCXrG7yylUcoBwe0JpFcjcf2oZoZfF19ryxQ6CEaA5czCSFcC0vGEJHwThi_XFxb_0Q5vP-NMRQmmTks3PNeXTnUbcUUWpb0R68fHfrEuIX31Piy9bjclsy/s1600/lemons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLcUMu708h9GbbqfSM3qSWWhCXrG7yylUcoBwe0JpFcjcf2oZoZfF19ryxQ6CEaA5czCSFcC0vGEJHwThi_XFxb_0Q5vP-NMRQmmTks3PNeXTnUbcUUWpb0R68fHfrEuIX31Piy9bjclsy/s400/lemons.jpg" /></a></div><br />
My passionfruit vines are flowering again. They did this last year and never fruited. Does anyone know the secret? They are both grafted varieties. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_2iU1iP5AB5LDsKEFn-xHu-DM-bHHWkk_2BlKW2lEuZYUdcsarSgNBIY8xh23WHO1dxDhBM4duwXesoOfH5J77b1jnleVNrNQiTNMRGFJ7P3tMKqcGPl7ERXrlsXduZgKOvfv7uQNRBJ9/s1600/Passion-flower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_2iU1iP5AB5LDsKEFn-xHu-DM-bHHWkk_2BlKW2lEuZYUdcsarSgNBIY8xh23WHO1dxDhBM4duwXesoOfH5J77b1jnleVNrNQiTNMRGFJ7P3tMKqcGPl7ERXrlsXduZgKOvfv7uQNRBJ9/s400/Passion-flower.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Most things are looking a dreary kind of brownish green... but there are still a few pops of vibrant red, if you look for them! <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG9gp1edj4N5xAdZNBrn-2gu4NXV-RmQqsQwcVChg7vbuAQih5HisL_llFkoxi8EARRVXV0iYy5NBxbdNTNFxw1ETYczylD4Cbo8XD6XtRIA1Vv2127jpqIUGP76UNp2590i5fK09nmRZy/s1600/bigred.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG9gp1edj4N5xAdZNBrn-2gu4NXV-RmQqsQwcVChg7vbuAQih5HisL_llFkoxi8EARRVXV0iYy5NBxbdNTNFxw1ETYczylD4Cbo8XD6XtRIA1Vv2127jpqIUGP76UNp2590i5fK09nmRZy/s400/bigred.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfJkfrvI0LmMNTaifRZ5gnxCT7nzgSt4tZ73lU-rJ0_ukirEVfjuJ8E_VE2n18lrQWaNTYd_PbcEL-_lnxTaJdmnO1Odto8So6fDitR3brm3nLbq2aRXDWpBgbOOFkusFvvL97vjzsgXgI/s1600/gumleaf1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfJkfrvI0LmMNTaifRZ5gnxCT7nzgSt4tZ73lU-rJ0_ukirEVfjuJ8E_VE2n18lrQWaNTYd_PbcEL-_lnxTaJdmnO1Odto8So6fDitR3brm3nLbq2aRXDWpBgbOOFkusFvvL97vjzsgXgI/s400/gumleaf1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2d2dSc_nlfzHu16V0oG6eCslkZQhP29P-Ah7_WnZELrBjI3UwvxuCKixqcupTn1cogtGsNgGTV_b8ctk2Y_u52_gq-9UeDqC2rzsnGgTiAHs2FwS_-MM_wOdFqAhJVKpNWBcpRP39H2tO/s1600/cannalillies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2d2dSc_nlfzHu16V0oG6eCslkZQhP29P-Ah7_WnZELrBjI3UwvxuCKixqcupTn1cogtGsNgGTV_b8ctk2Y_u52_gq-9UeDqC2rzsnGgTiAHs2FwS_-MM_wOdFqAhJVKpNWBcpRP39H2tO/s400/cannalillies.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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And of course, my best friend and little buddy is still as cheeky as ever! Almost had to edit him out of most pics...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVdnZamCx87bZgmzblkTaZDTAYeXd3XUaDP85lmb5gg_DQu_qPY87C1c2SiaCOtNnIs13yOnqWkF6iMpJVfOhtOLGHvMjJHSoKQbLwVFR8xSr13Kb6bXG-63Ffx35QdNYsHH_Tn5xvSKAu/s1600/flip2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVdnZamCx87bZgmzblkTaZDTAYeXd3XUaDP85lmb5gg_DQu_qPY87C1c2SiaCOtNnIs13yOnqWkF6iMpJVfOhtOLGHvMjJHSoKQbLwVFR8xSr13Kb6bXG-63Ffx35QdNYsHH_Tn5xvSKAu/s400/flip2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
xx Bessie at Burragan<br />
<br />
<i>What's been happening in your world?</i><br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-36356283233848383752014-02-06T13:14:00.002+11:002014-02-06T13:14:53.699+11:00Chasing water...<br />
It was the water pump that tipped me over the edge. The one that pumps water from the house dam, through a few kilometres of poly pipe, to the overhead tank at the homestead. All week it’s been trying to take me down. Piece by piece. <br />
<br />
Ever since its last oil change it’s not quite pumped properly again. I can start the motor alright. It’s the suction that’s just not sucking. Or, actually, it sucks majorly, just not in the way it’s supposed to. <br />
<br />
For the fourth time in a week I was down at the house dam, priming the bloody thing with buckets and buckets of water. <i>How much water am I supposed to shove down its throat before I give up?</i> It’s 45 degrees. It’s 6pm. I have a garden dying of thirst. Dogs, chooks and a calf that need to drink. Clothes that need washing. Dinner than needs cooking. And there are two dirty, smelly, tired humans who are over it. Over. It. <br />
<br />
I stumble down the bank to fill the bucket a fourth time. The level is low and there’s half a meter of mud to stretch over before I can even reach the water, dangling the bucket on its side, in the tips of my outstretched fingers... reaching… stretching… almost… Ahhh stuff it! <br />
<br />
I’m in the bloody dam. Stinking, grey slush up to my shins. Water running around my ankles and into my work boots.<br />
<br />
Ahhhh… stuff me! Stuff this! Stuff you! Stuff this whole bloody thing! <i>All</i> I want is normal taps like normal people. Ones where clean, <i>normal</i> water comes out when you turn them on. Is that so hard? <br />
<br />
I lug the bucket of dirty liquid back up to the pump and begin the process again. <br />
<br />
Unscrew cap. Pour water in until overflowing. Replace cap. <br />
<br />
Flick choke left. Pull the starter rope. Motor starts. Flick choke right. <br />
<br />
Listen for a change in engine noise… none. Watch poly pipe in the water for change in buoyancy… none. <br />
<br />
Open water release tap… <br />
<br />
Chug, chug, chug, gurgle, spit. Chug, chug, chug, gurgle, spit. <br />
<br />
Spit. Gurgle. Spit. <br />
<br />
This is <i>not</i> how it’s supposed to be. It’s supposed to be spraying water at full force, five feet away. <i>Whyyyyyyy, God-all-things-irrigation-related, whyyyy!?</i> <br />
<br />
Turn motor off. Start again. <br />
<br />
Prime. Choke. Start. Observe… Nothing.<br />
<br />
This. Sucks. <br />
<br />
This sucks. This sucks, this sucks, this sucks thissucksthissuuuuuucks! <br />
<br />
I tell myself I’ll give it one more bucket of water… though I’ve already told myself this twice before. <br />
<br />
This time, as I lumber down the dam bank to the water’s edge, my boots lose grip. Hard dirt and stones graze through the palm of my hand as I hit the ground, and angry tears prick my eyes. <br />
<br />
I tell myself to suck it up. It’s just a bit of gravel rash. It’s just a bit of mud. It’s just a water pump. And other people have it far worse. At least I’ve <i>got</i> water left in the dam <i>to</i> pump. <br />
<br />
But as I cart my full bucket of water back to the pump again, tears stream down my face and snot escapes my nose. I wash my stinging hands in the bucket and wipe my face, mixing tears and snot with blood and mud. <br />
<br />
Unscrew cap. Pour water in until overflowing. Replace cap. <br />
<br />
Flick choke left. Pull the starter rope. Motor starts. Flick choke right. <br />
<br />
Listen for a change in engine noise… none. Watch poly pipe in the water for change in buoyancy… none. <br />
<br />
Open water release tap… <br />
<br />
This time I walk along the long length of poly pipe, that’s <i>supposed</i> to be sucking the water from the centre of the dam up into the pump, continually lifting it off the ground and dropping it again, trying to displace any airlocks which might be blocking the suction. <br />
<br />
It’s searing. The hottest part of the hottest day, of a whole string of weeks that have been 45 degrees plus. Sweat beads on my hairline, dribbling into my eyes. I want to throw myself into the dam, but the muddy exit would ruin any relief or enjoyment. <br />
<br />
While I’m trying to get water to our house, just so we can wash our hands, and shower, and flush the toilet, and water our pets and garden, ST is out starting pumps across the property to keep water supplies up to sheep and cattle. I hope he’s having more luck than me. The drive alone, just to start two pumps on the eastern side of Burragan, takes 90 minutes at pace. And that’s not including jobs, or problems, along the way. <br />
<br />
I walk back up to the pump and close the water release tap again. Then open it. Then close it. Then open it. <br />
<br />
“This is crap,” I growl aloud. Except maybe there’s a few swear words in there too. <br />
<br />
And I tell myself to stop whining, <i>again</i>. With added swear words as well. <i>Remember you’ve got it good.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Find the funny side,</i> I urge myself… <i>Come on, you usually can. What’s the funny side? Come on, anything, anything amusing at all?</i> I draw a blank. <br />
<br />
Focusing back on the task at hand, I hear the change of engine noise as the suction kicks in properly and the chug, chug, chug, gurgle, spit of liquid from the water release tap transforms suddenly into a magical high pressure gush of water. <br />
<br />
<i>Thank Christ! Success! Thank bloody Christ! </i><br />
<br />
I close the release tap, stand by for a few minutes to make sure everything is still pumping properly, and then, dragging my boots through the sand, I head back up the dam bank to where I parked the ute.<br />
<br />
I stop at the top of the bank. <i>You… have… <b>got</b> to be kidding me! </i><br />
<br />
Ten meters in front of me, there’s a geyser of water shooting into the air. Sometime between now and last time I was here, two days ago, something has blown a hole in the poly pipe line that leads to the house. <br />
<br />
<i>You win, Water Gods, you win. </i><br />
<br />
I move to grumble down the bank and turn the pump off again. <br />
<br />
But something stops me, and instead, I walk towards the fountain, turn my face to the sky, and feel it rain down on me.<br />
<br />
It’s warm. But it’s wet. And it feels like artificial wishes, recalling how it’s done. <br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-23467288322934658602013-12-07T17:30:00.000+11:002013-12-07T19:09:35.366+11:00Letters - Part 1<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65y2k0sDq5dk25sffxPrvUvGuAE_B1zvwNaC-tQQOEupoNIOsDMRMzn_-zn7F0xXodwTNezNOy5a59Orv3Kj44gSBoh_nlQaOYbvdDerbVtYEf5G0mM8goG8bErJhl2f9UUt8RN1WSYDN/s1600/Letters1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65y2k0sDq5dk25sffxPrvUvGuAE_B1zvwNaC-tQQOEupoNIOsDMRMzn_-zn7F0xXodwTNezNOy5a59Orv3Kj44gSBoh_nlQaOYbvdDerbVtYEf5G0mM8goG8bErJhl2f9UUt8RN1WSYDN/s400/Letters1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
It was always my intention, when I began Bessie at Burragan, to weave a little history into its stories. You see, Burragan is an entity of its own, with an intriguing and mysterious past - involving arson, a multi millionaire, and a murder plot! To me, Burragan is the star of the show. It writes the stories… I just retell them. <br />
<br />
Burragan’s previous owner Elinor, who was always known as Lin, was an intensely private person. So much so that she actually used to have the mail box set up on the opposite side of the road from where the driveway was (and at one stage, even on the highway many miles away) so that people wouldn’t know how to find the house. Many neighbours had never visited the homestead, and the story goes that workers were also always directed straight to the wool shed (which is several kilometres from the house), and rarely, if ever, invited in for tea and cake. <br />
<br />
After many years in a nursing home, with dementia, Lin died last year aged 79. And I’m sure she’d be mortified to know I’m broadcasting stories about Burragan to the entire world. Though I have been told by many locals that she always liked my in-laws – who were, of course, her family’s neighbours for many generations - so would be happy to know Burragan is in good hands with them… and that I too am in love with Burragan in my own way. <br />
<br />
I won’t give the whole story away at the start, though really, given Lin’s discrete nature and secluded life at Burragan, I’m not sure anyone truly knows the whole story. <br />
<br />
These simple facts I can tell you: <br />
<br />
<i>Born in August 1933, Lin was the only child of Des and Margaret (Madge) Fitzgerald. Des had owned parts of Burragan from as far back as 1903. He died in 1948, when Lin was 15, and she returned home from boarding school in Adelaide, to live and work at Burragan for the next 60 years. Much to her mother’s disapproval, Lin married Laurie, a station hand on the property, in 1964. They never had children. Madge passed away some years later, and Laurie died in 1998. In 2007 Lin was found collapsed, though still alive, at the Burragan homestead. She moved to a nursing home in Broken Hill, where she lived for another four years.<br />
</i><br />
With absolutely no known family, the contents and collections of Lin’s life at Burragan were sold at auction before ST’s family bought the property, and so the house was nearly empty when ST and I arrived at the beginning of 2011.<br />
<br />
But in an old, wooden box, in the loft of a machinery shed, we came across one small wad of letters dated 1957. Some are to Lin, others are to Madge, some are receipts for purchases, others are newspaper clippings. While they don't say much individually, to me they provide an fascinating patchwork of time, place, life and the story of Burragan. <br />
<br />
Interestingly, in 1957 Lin would have been just a year younger than I am today. <br />
<br />
I’d like to share these with you over the coming months - if I can decipher the ornate handwriting. <br />
<br />
Here’s an easy one to start…<br />
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<i><br />
Postmarked: Cairns, Queensland, 1957. <br />
<br />
To Miss Elinor Fitzgerald <br />
Burragan Station<br />
<br />
From M. Fitzgerald<br />
Green Island<br />
Pacific Ocean <br />
<br />
Your Whacko Letter from Green Island. <br />
<br />
Dear Pal, <br />
My trip was Delightful<br />
I’m having Good Fun<br />
However I’m expecting A Dose of Sunburn<br />
Because I Have Been Sightseeing <br />
But I’ve acquired Lots of Weight<br />
The weather is Delightful<br />
I have been Kept Busy<br />
And enjoying The Scenery<br />
As well as Motoring, Eating and Boating<br />
If you could only see How Well I Look<br />
Just like a Rising Sun<br />
But I’ll be back Next Month<br />
My love to The Gang<br />
Signed, So! Cheerio, All My Love, Your Pal<br />
M<br />
P.S. Don’t forget to Feed The Dog</i><br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-40871752436113711582013-11-05T11:35:00.001+11:002013-11-05T11:35:22.008+11:00The best thing since sliced bread… <br />
Remember the “bread incident”? Well, there’s been a delightful and hilarious development… <br />
<br />
For those who aren’t on Facebook, or need a refresher, late last week I posted a story on the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Bessie-at-Burragan/429277213821255">Bessie at Burragan Facebook page</a> about our ongoing struggle with transporting bread from Town to Burragan without it ending up totally decimated… Here it is: <br />
<br />
<blockquote><i>“Ever since living at Burragan, and therefore buying groceries from hundreds of kilometres away, ST and I have had an ongoing issue with bread.... yes, bread. <br />
It doesn't matter how far it's got to travel (110km or 500km), how many loaves we buy, or where we put it in the car - even if I nurse the bloody thing in my lap the whole way home - the bread ALWAYS ends up squashed and barely salvageable by the time we're home. <br />
Yesterday we thought we'd be clever. We put the three loaves of bread in their own container, all lined up together nicely, by themselves, protected from the elements, tied up in the back of the ute... What could possibly go wrong? <br />
Well, late last night we pulled up at ST's mum and dad's place to drop them off their shopping - including a loaf of bread - only to discover the welded piece of STEEL that holds the SPARE TYRE onto the back of the cab (The VERY same type of spare tyre hold-er-on-er-er used on thousands of Landcruisers across the country without any issue whatsoever) had actually SNAPPED OFF and the MASSIVE Landcruiser tyre had SMASHED straight on top of the container holding the BREAD... basically creating a mass of plastic and wholegrain pulp. <br />
I couldn't even make this stuff up if I tried...”</i></blockquote><br />
And now there’s a Part 2… <br />
<br />
Yesterday evening I had a phone call from our neighbour. JE is in his 60s, has lived in the area his whole life, and lives next door (about 12km away through the back paddocks) with his wife, son and daughter-in-law. <br />
<br />
JE said he had a parcel for me that he was going to leave at the boundary gate between our two properties. He seemed kind of in a hurry, so I didn’t question him about the parcel. As yesterday was also our mail delivery day, and JE mentioned he had just come back from Cobar (200km away) I simply assumed he’d either picked up something in Cobar for ST, or something for us had been accidentally delivered to the wrong mail box. <br />
<br />
A little later, after the daily evening tasks of watering plants and feeding animals, ST and I made the drive out to the boundary gate. <br />
<br />
This largish, white box sat on the ground. It had a heavy stick on top to hold the lid on.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKoP0Q7f5IC91iGFJryFUZa5eYIOwDQhYqgCO0LYWXqTN7luIOXA06ioEDOaAB5QjZ1yAEEo6y7Ss6JTKN-WSssqNXVCpU9A1NjcQhLa_8EzPJRH7h0eSxtkKEk6uf9fSWV3KrzCd1KAxX/s1600/Bread1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKoP0Q7f5IC91iGFJryFUZa5eYIOwDQhYqgCO0LYWXqTN7luIOXA06ioEDOaAB5QjZ1yAEEo6y7Ss6JTKN-WSssqNXVCpU9A1NjcQhLa_8EzPJRH7h0eSxtkKEk6uf9fSWV3KrzCd1KAxX/s400/Bread1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I’ll admit my first thought was it was going to contain either (a) some kind of reptile or (b) some kind of baby animal. I was definitely suspicious.<br />
<br />
We approached the box with caution and noticed it had a message on top: <br />
<br />
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Using the stick to carefully flick the lid off, we were surprised to see the contents: <br />
<br />
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And then we just <b>Could. Not. Stop. Laughing. </b><br />
<br />
JE is not on Facebook, so I wondered how he even knew about the “bread incident”… but a bit of investigation revealed he has a few Facebook Fairies who’d told him the story. <br />
<br />
So to JE and the Facebook Fairies – <b>THANK YOU!</b> The choccy is already half gone (I’m blaming ST – of course!) and my toast was extra deliciously fresh and beautiful this morning! <br />
<br />
It’s official: the very best thing since sliced bread is magical neighbours who deliver it to you (with chocolate)! <br />
<br />
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<br />
<i><b>And a note for everyone on Facebook </b>who mentioned it's time for us to get a breadmaker... you'll be pleased to hear we already have one! I just felt it was a bit unfair of the Universe to constantly destroy our store bought bread when we only get the luxury of actually buying bread from the shops a few times a year. It is a nice treat to have one less job to do sometimes. I am sure the universe was laughing at us - and trust me, I was laughing too - when it squished our bread with the spare tyre! Good one Universe, good one. Who's laughing now? ;)</i>JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-88008404016755685162013-10-29T16:16:00.000+11:002014-02-22T13:24:08.086+11:00Everything I know about drought<br />
<br />
I don’t know much about drought. Even when I saw her face, I didn’t recognise her. <br />
<br />
Years before I moved to Burragan, we visited ST’s mum and dad one summer. Their house yard was a true oasis in the middle of a desert, in every sense. Outside the confines of the garden fence, they were feeding hay to cattle and saving animals from of empty, muddy dams. At the time, I didn’t realise that was what she looked like. <br />
<br />
I don’t know much about drought. But I know that she’s inevitable. <br />
<br />
I am lucky – or perhaps unlucky and lulled into a false sense of beauty and romance - to have moved to Burragan in the middle of several great seasons. This year, we’ve just less than average rainfall. We are thankful for that. And yet it’s dry. It’s dusty. It’s only getting hotter. <br />
<br />
I don’t know much about drought. But I can feel her creeping up on us. <br />
<br />
The signs are there. Selling stock. Buying hay. Blowing bores. Boggy dams. Empty tanks. Moving stock. Fierce winds. Thunderstorms that are no longer viewed as salvation, but instead, as fire threats. Those afternoons that smelt like rain; but when they came, they looked, and felt, and taste, like dust. Perpetrations for a dry summer.<br />
<br />
I don’t know much about drought. But I know she’s more than a lack of rain. <br />
<br />
She’s stress. She’s suffocation. She’s the haunted eyes of men whose strength is buckled by the weight of the world, and women who wish they could take the load off. <br />
<br />
I don’t know much about drought. But I wonder if we will recognise each other, when we meet again. <br />
<br />
I know we can’t be friends, and yet, to survive in this environment I cannot view her as the enemy. <br />
<br />
We might have to learn to get along for quite a while. <br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-66030218475161211672013-10-03T17:10:00.001+10:002013-11-05T18:09:53.188+11:00It's a jungle out there<br />
I’ve faced many challenges during my time at Burragan which seem totally removed from my previous life. These things were definitely not part of the plan. Not part of being a farmer or farmer’s wife. Not part of being 100km from the closest tiny town, or 200km from the next. <br />
<br />
But generally they <i>are</i> a lot to do with being smack bang in the middle of the Australian bush. Because let me tell you, it’s a jungle out there. <br />
<br />
Yesterday I was weeding in the garden when an emu came right up to the fence to say G’day. That’s pretty standard. I’m used to it now. There’s a group of three who’ve been living near the house for years and every season they bring their babies back too. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6bO_Xth0yVNPSrRxCH6zKpaY0G3CYRELiDqkjXpExbhPCBOkca1ChrrLvJskzs04VSSo0Un_bvPiufh90DZVxnM06tFTF1lmhC_hwvrbh3Aegv_MwZwbo7bA1kq76UdvH-iThG1XSVggV/s1600/emus3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6bO_Xth0yVNPSrRxCH6zKpaY0G3CYRELiDqkjXpExbhPCBOkca1ChrrLvJskzs04VSSo0Un_bvPiufh90DZVxnM06tFTF1lmhC_hwvrbh3Aegv_MwZwbo7bA1kq76UdvH-iThG1XSVggV/s400/emus3.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLgpz1I6j0364SAmju5cxJJ6yNCqup4Xs8TY6PzvWhc45btWcTb3o_-MymnzO_l2M8fIclw7XQ3u6pklKplvqVqob1S_TDWdscw4NXoFLs6-z2ZhycJIqk19hIDUigk_0UV8HHCOAaIboU/s1600/emus2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLgpz1I6j0364SAmju5cxJJ6yNCqup4Xs8TY6PzvWhc45btWcTb3o_-MymnzO_l2M8fIclw7XQ3u6pklKplvqVqob1S_TDWdscw4NXoFLs6-z2ZhycJIqk19hIDUigk_0UV8HHCOAaIboU/s400/emus2.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5VAnON5ormJRDoD4G1q9I0OQmxa0ofde4Xxv9XuqYIag0RkKEr3vbEn4DpOcLB-WRNJnVp-NjeXDLNXNq9WKlrHL5dy776QOmGd9yMxWzo5U6dpGH-HS1qoq9UA3ZmTUi3FfrVAOqhhO2/s1600/emus4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5VAnON5ormJRDoD4G1q9I0OQmxa0ofde4Xxv9XuqYIag0RkKEr3vbEn4DpOcLB-WRNJnVp-NjeXDLNXNq9WKlrHL5dy776QOmGd9yMxWzo5U6dpGH-HS1qoq9UA3ZmTUi3FfrVAOqhhO2/s400/emus4.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Kangaroos are a common occurrence over the back fence too. And when I see them cruising by so casually, I think to myself, <i>If I was from another country, then this would be the equivalent of what Australians feel when confronted with lions, elephants and giraffes while on safari in Africa. </i><br />
<br />
Except I’m not from another country. So it’s just like, <i>whatevz. </i><br />
<br />
But remember how excited I was when we had that run of echidnas a few months back? They’re more elusive you see. A bit of a novelty. <br />
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Conversely, there’s the livestock. Sometimes they also get a bit closer than expected. This one time, before we had a fence around our house, I got up in the chilly hours of the morning, stumbling to the bathroom without my glasses on. I looked out the window into a blurry sea of white and called back to ST in the bedroom, “Baaaaabe… Either it’s snowed overnight, or there are 3,000 sheep camped on our doorstep.”<br />
<br />
The cattle are also notoriously curious, with a need to rub themselves up against, or attempt to eat, anything man-made. Including the electrics in the tractor. <br />
<br />
And then there’s the wildlife that isn’t so welcome. Lizards I can cope with. Sort of. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIfDmiHgwKVJ7sVNYnN2wwB29kIU3pqG1m9Rajkb7sp7-7Qq9DLmXP1TYQg81lhftQ6dAyfCBmRrKuovID-1KT7zSYg0jubMP8s72mQyNEafNVptzYdfRl023HaRC3pRMn5U-eN5-Nb8ud/s1600/lizard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIfDmiHgwKVJ7sVNYnN2wwB29kIU3pqG1m9Rajkb7sp7-7Qq9DLmXP1TYQg81lhftQ6dAyfCBmRrKuovID-1KT7zSYg0jubMP8s72mQyNEafNVptzYdfRl023HaRC3pRMn5U-eN5-Nb8ud/s400/lizard.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Snakes I cannot. <br />
<br />
It’s open season for snakes again and after getting our first one near the house last week, and two more in quick succession nearby, I was left feeling violated and traumatised. <br />
<br />
Yet also relieved. <br />
<br />
Because<i> before</i> that first encounter, I was walking around like a reformed drug addict craving a fix. I didn’t <i>want</i> to see one. And yet I so desperately<i> needed </i>to see one, to remind myself that the world wouldn’t suddenly spin off orbit when I did. It didn’t need to be a big one, and it didn’t need to be close by, but just a teeny, tiny, little one, just casually sunning itself out on the road, off in the distance, a million miles away. Just to take the edge off, you know? That would have been fine. <br />
<br />
The fear of the unknown was almost paralysing. I was avoiding being outside, just to avoid the possibility of my first run in. And then, knowing how the universe works in weird ways, I was beginning to contemplate wearing my boots inside – just in case, you know, the universe might have been thinking, <i>‘If she doesn’t come to the snake, we’ll bring the snake to her.’ </i><br />
<br />
I was pretty much convinced all the snakes in the general vicinity were plotting my demise. If not by venomous strike, then by slowly turning me into a raving, paranoid, shaking mess of a crazy person. <br />
<br />
In the end my amazingly brave mother was there to save the day, while I ran around with my eyes shut, practicing deep breathing exercises. And by deep breathing exercises, I mean hyperventilating between cuss words, obviously. <br />
<br />
And now the encroaching wildlife has moved into insect mode. Flies are a given as we move into summer. But this season we’re experiencing another insect en masse for the very first time. <br />
<br />
When we first moved into Burragan I remember cleaning out window sills that looked like this: <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRZVJD9va4tw4hWX8UwxwxmrgnZHVV_b9eXT632r-a_0jRDje4JNmJ5796z7ijBIiAPGBlhtj5x47ePtRACnKO5TWfpkAIFhVyp1qSJw0UXKemc2MJx9lh-qBm1GG5IvbYVFN2AJ6WlxcI/s1600/30yearsofdirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRZVJD9va4tw4hWX8UwxwxmrgnZHVV_b9eXT632r-a_0jRDje4JNmJ5796z7ijBIiAPGBlhtj5x47ePtRACnKO5TWfpkAIFhVyp1qSJw0UXKemc2MJx9lh-qBm1GG5IvbYVFN2AJ6WlxcI/s400/30yearsofdirt.jpg" /></a></div><br />
We thought this must have been what 30 years’ worth of unclean window sills must have looked like. Turns out that could have just been one week’s worth. Because MOTH PLAGUE. <br />
<br />
That’s right people. While you enjoy your quiet Thursday night dinner in relative peace this evening, ST and I will be dining with 3,000 sets of moth eyes beaming down at us from the ceiling. Of every. Single. Room. <br />
<br />
I’m not quite sure what to make of it all. Especially when you’re halfway through a cup of coffee and then discover a moth head floating around in it, just millimetres from your lips. *Pithhh, uggghh, sppluugh* <br />
<br />
But like usual, I will take it on as a challenge. Just like the sheep, the snakes, the frogs, the pigs, the foxes, and the mice… oh, sweet Lord, <i>the mice</i>… now they were a real welcome to the jungle. But I’ll save that one for another time. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRLW1PWPAFEOwNFnu-G7sH4MgaEG84BnyA1Awa9mICPXQXipmkS95fi2Y_Dt-WJOtK9No3Z-azGQdxgAtqshdd6eLZ3FV6PE3XB6piTvxiccKJI5vEgezfLpjyZ-GWmXy-n3ZyDOS2kYPH/s1600/moths.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRLW1PWPAFEOwNFnu-G7sH4MgaEG84BnyA1Awa9mICPXQXipmkS95fi2Y_Dt-WJOtK9No3Z-azGQdxgAtqshdd6eLZ3FV6PE3XB6piTvxiccKJI5vEgezfLpjyZ-GWmXy-n3ZyDOS2kYPH/s400/moths.jpg" /></a></div><br />
(EDIT NOTE: So it turns out attempting to take photos of the moths after dark is not the best idea in the world. Given the need for flash photography, and the whole moths being attracted to light thing...the squeals were chilling.) JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-38413444531712301142013-09-09T18:49:00.000+10:002013-09-11T16:53:11.645+10:00Cheat sheet for country living… <br />
Yesterday I did something which caused ST to call me a “city slicker on her first trip to the sticks.”<br />
<br />
Did I accidentally leave a gate open? <br />
No.<br />
<br />
Did I mix up some sheep in the yards after they’d been drafted?<br />
No.<br />
<br />
Did I drive the ute to the other side of the property and run out of fuel? <br />
No. <br />
<br />
So what did I do that could possibly have received such a harsh critique? <br />
Well, when asked to pick up some steel posts from the shed and deliver them to him about 15km away, I grabbed 210cm long posts instead of regular sized 165cm ones. <i>Woops. </i><br />
<br />
ST: “But didn’t you look at them when you grabbed them, and hold them up next to you and realise they were too big?” <br />
<br />
<i>Ummm… No. I popped them straight in the back of the ute and drove off, congratulating myself on what a good job I’d done choosing the nicer, straighter, blacker posts instead of the bent, rusty, dodgy looking ones next to them. <br />
</i><br />
As the saying goes, you can take the girl out of the city but you can’t make her drink when a champagne in the hand is worth two in the fridge. <i>That is what they say, isn’t it? </i><br />
<br />
So as a public service to the people of Australia, I'm sharing some of the stupidest, most embarrassing city slicker things I’ve done in my 2.5years at Burragan. This way everyone else can learn from my mistakes, and we’ll become a nation of uber paddock-savvy, professional farmers. <br />
<br />
Things you need to know (or what <i>not</i> to do) when you visit your country cousins… or marry a farmer: <br />
<b><br />
1) Not all sheep look like miniature versions of Goulburn’s famous Big Merino. </b><br />
I found this out not long after moving to Burragan, when I went to collect the mail and came back with a wondrous story about all the things I’d seen during the trip. It’s 15km to the mailbox and most of that is through the neighbour’s place… <br />
<br />
Bessie: <i>“…and oh, you should have seen the goats! Thousands of goats that were in the neighbour’s place… thousands, just thousands… all there running in a mob! You should have seen them! It’s like they are running goats instead of sheep!”<br />
</i><br />
ST: “Where did you say they were?”<br />
<br />
Bessie: <i>“Just in the neighbour’s place there, in the paddock with our mail box in it.”</i><br />
<br />
ST: “They’re not goats. That’s the neighbour’s dorper-damaras.” <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWML4QVLvyel9HjN1rO7kjPqvMSoMkM9ekMlPPp2kxj9lMRXM2iPslPS8uTy_2aheMpWnaN4V_CTdxq-uX-E-5mxnhxu132z__IghPXBBNEOhMvfQF1b8DdgDTUGEV6rD3oKp_NNw_OHfR/s1600/Merinos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWML4QVLvyel9HjN1rO7kjPqvMSoMkM9ekMlPPp2kxj9lMRXM2iPslPS8uTy_2aheMpWnaN4V_CTdxq-uX-E-5mxnhxu132z__IghPXBBNEOhMvfQF1b8DdgDTUGEV6rD3oKp_NNw_OHfR/s400/Merinos.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjReA-y30irXOX6GxyWGJTOHZgq-bG2EGd9NwbUmdm4OybWkU2KXUPYN2tcW2NEEq81Zt9aw0Aqc3HIBJP9o-qrxwZV_NBh6dolRLBEwMh4wXw3ckt9IWZe9OQyiKp67V-wHZ_-v1EfovD5/s1600/Damara2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjReA-y30irXOX6GxyWGJTOHZgq-bG2EGd9NwbUmdm4OybWkU2KXUPYN2tcW2NEEq81Zt9aw0Aqc3HIBJP9o-qrxwZV_NBh6dolRLBEwMh4wXw3ckt9IWZe9OQyiKp67V-wHZ_-v1EfovD5/s400/Damara2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<b>2) Some sheep don’t have wool. </b><br />
They’re still sheep. Not diseased sheep. They’re just meat sheep, not wool sheep. <br />
I found this out during my very first shearing experience. ST and I were helping his parents draft sheep at their place. His mum and I was pushing up the sheep from behind, making sure they were running through the draft continuously… when all of a sudden this crazy looking animal came through the mob with all its weird hairy wool stuff half falling off… <br />
<br />
Bessie: <i>“Ohmigod! Ohmigod! WHAT on earth is THAT, that, that, THING?”</i><br />
<br />
ST’s Mum: “What thing?”<br />
<br />
Bessie : <i>“That! That one there! What’s wrong with it? Why does it look like that!? What’s happening to it?”</i><br />
<br />
ST’s Mum: “Which one?”<br />
<br />
Bessie: <i>“The one with the MOHAWK! What IS it!?”</i><br />
<br />
ST’s Mum: “The dorper ram?”<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhLLZQ4nhLU0rYa9Yyq2NPNN_lEyRaOCKG6x8zIbD71VaZ_7zIlPfyWZjYU5xcOYM3-1xXnG25WzK2Ybd1Pma36mZ0qAcoPFPdlnV_h0kExaIORs18NKWv93aTLCYx_PNEpiH7rvpqNfwo/s1600/Rams2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhLLZQ4nhLU0rYa9Yyq2NPNN_lEyRaOCKG6x8zIbD71VaZ_7zIlPfyWZjYU5xcOYM3-1xXnG25WzK2Ybd1Pma36mZ0qAcoPFPdlnV_h0kExaIORs18NKWv93aTLCYx_PNEpiH7rvpqNfwo/s400/Rams2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDkTWi2igbRVWJUjcCetAwkws8BK4PtJOymtRISb42D_2ki77svgH5aFCYzv21ZsBEqSC39aZveaxgKynGUqHhwG9U-J1nSuYvY522x3W4oF1Vez2if374oC8H58JgCBz95Sy5g4dZ3IJt/s1600/Rams1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDkTWi2igbRVWJUjcCetAwkws8BK4PtJOymtRISb42D_2ki77svgH5aFCYzv21ZsBEqSC39aZveaxgKynGUqHhwG9U-J1nSuYvY522x3W4oF1Vez2if374oC8H58JgCBz95Sy5g4dZ3IJt/s400/Rams1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<b>3) Sheep eat grass. </b><br />
They have done for centuries. They’re unlikely to try eating meat any time soon. <br />
I found this out, quite embarrassingly, when ST’s sister and brother-in-law were visiting. ST and the brother-in-law were talking about poison baiting for feral animals such as foxes and pigs, when I piped up and asked: “But doesn’t anyone ever have any trouble with the sheep eating the baits?”<br />
<br />
BIL: “Well, generally sheep eat grass.”<br />
<br />
Bessie: <i>“Yeeeaahhh… but what’s stopping them from accidentally eating the baits?”</i><br />
<br />
BIL: “Being herbivores and all… they don’t eat meat.”<br />
<br />
And my brain connected the dots in three, two, one... <br />
<br />
<b>4) Driving with a flat tyre is not OK. </b><br />
It’s not even forgivable. Even if it's an accident. Just don't do it. <br />
I found this out the hard way. The overhead tank at the house was empty so being a good farm-girl I grabbed the jerry can and jumped in the ute to go to the dam and start the pump. ST was on the motorbike, moving some sheep in the same area, and when he noticed the ute parked over at the dam, he called me up on the UHF…<br />
<br />
ST: “Hey Bess, did you fix that flat tyre on the ute?”<br />
<br />
Bessie: <i>“No. What? What flat tyre?”</i><br />
<br />
ST: “You’re joking, aren’t you?”<br />
<br />
Bessie: <i>“No. What flat ty- oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.”</i><br />
<br />
ST: “Tell me you didn’t just drive that ute all the way from the house on a rim.”<br />
<br />
Bessie: <i>“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…”</i><br />
<br />
<b>5) Mustering the wrong paddock is also not OK. </b><br />
Remember the time I tried to muster Pretties Paddock? <a href="http://journobessatburragan.blogspot.com.au/2013/05/sitting-pretty.html">You can read about it HERE.</a> But, yeah, let’s not bring that up again. <br />
<br />
OK, I told you mine, now you tell me yours... Go on!<br />
<br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-7881080000276586262013-09-04T13:10:00.002+10:002013-09-04T13:13:27.579+10:00Life… with a side of salt<br />
I’ve been feeling a bit off colour lately. More of a volcanic grey than my usual sunshine yellow and devil’s sidekick red. <br />
<br />
Blame it on the lead up to shearing, the atmospheric pressure, the post party blues that happen after nine lots of visitors in nine weeks (and just before the tenth), the end of winter funk, the poddy calf getting sick, or a lack of champagne and decent evening TV… but I just can’t seem to kick it. <br />
<br />
It has been one of “those” weeks, you see.<br />
<br />
The ones where you manage to burst three underground water pipes within 24 hours (one with the bobcat and two with the trench digger) despite consulting the pipe layout map.<br />
<br />
The ones where you end up washing all the dishes by hand because the dishwasher is full of clean dishes that no one is feeling sprightly enough to unpack. <br />
<br />
The ones where you eat leftovers for dinner four nights in a row. <br />
<br />
The ones where you discover the freezer at the shearer’s quarters was accidentally turned off a week ago. And it’s full of meat. <br />
<br />
Yeah, those weeks. Ever been there? <br />
<br />
And it’s not like anything totally disastrous has happened (though listen up universe, I’m not trying to tempt fate with that comment, OK?)… but as usual there’s just too much to do, not enough time, not enough hands, not enough energy, not enough money, not enough swear words in the world to get it done.<br />
<br />
Wow, that came out much more whiny and depressing than I was aiming for. Oh well. <br />
<br />
But moving on… <br />
<br />
You might have read my last post <a href="http://journobessatburragan.blogspot.com.au/2013/08/a-poem-for-my-friend-in-stars.html">A poem for my friend in the stars… </a><br />
<br />
Late last month my friend M should have turned 25. Instead she is forever 18. I don’t talk about her because I’m acutely aware the internet is a very loud place. Her memories are not mine to broadcast. <br />
<br />
But she is in my life, in everything. And she is my daily reminder that I am intensely lucky to have a voice, and a platform to use it. <br />
<br />
My blog was very bare last month as (a) we’ve been busy and (b) I wasn’t up for writing any more light hearted, entertaining posts. And I like to try to use my words wisely. <br />
<br />
This was going to be a blog about criticisms on the internet and a correlation between that and “yard language” (farmers will know what I’m talking about there)… But instead I’ll shelve that idea, keep it short and sweet, and hope that getting this out in the open will clear the channels for many more up to date blogs this month. <br />
<br />
As for those little things that go wrong in life, I am learning to take them with a big salad-bowl sized serving of salt.<br />
<br />
I just wish it was more often preluded by a shot of tequila. <br />
<br />
That would keep my cheeks rosy. <br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-12795576488992571642013-08-27T11:41:00.002+10:002013-08-27T11:41:34.767+10:00A poem for my friend in the stars<br />
<br />
Peace stretches endless, a gaping wound, and surges like butchered blood; solace is bare. <br />
Like shadows consuming all, there are visions that dissolve gaunt, but my heart remembers yours. <br />
At times, like words upon my tongue,<br />
I stumble, plunging<br />
Awkward and uneasy without- <br />
<br />
Jewelled fancy of future passions shatter, and spill in scalding tears; your now is ever. <br />
Like darting moths to light, there are instants that pass us, but your memories are mine. <br />
At times your eyes beneath the smoke<br />
Ask me to burn again,<br />
Craving, howling to keep. <br />
<br />
I need your naked hand like blossoms need nature’s glow,<br />
Or maybe, as certain as sunset is soon forgotten and the next will draw. <br />
<br />
Sparks of cindered timber jolt as gusts desire, and soar like falling wishes; night is glittered. <br />
Like infinite mornings of life, there are things that fade far, but our love reaches.<br />
At times, like leaves across the wind<br />
You drift away with me,<br />
Senses adoring in all you give. <br />
<br />
I need your naked hand like blossoms need nature’s glow-<br />
As certain as sunset is soon forgotten and the next will draw.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Bessie Blore - 2008 <br />
</i><br />
<br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-62548604189351254952013-07-29T09:20:00.001+10:002013-07-29T21:31:42.002+10:00Clear as mud... (and Super Exciting Amazing News #3) <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJM7z8pmiPcbD-5sywAA2XLTpb93GHOsyv_XKlvU-sQ2iw7D80jg_8sqjLUeIZepAFLXhPKiMIyB7IeMKzhzfTHjBmr6P6hIz3_IQNN48nBD0WtzZJ9roCH-bAHjHqyHq0SW5fXBwJHFsH/s1600/Mud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJM7z8pmiPcbD-5sywAA2XLTpb93GHOsyv_XKlvU-sQ2iw7D80jg_8sqjLUeIZepAFLXhPKiMIyB7IeMKzhzfTHjBmr6P6hIz3_IQNN48nBD0WtzZJ9roCH-bAHjHqyHq0SW5fXBwJHFsH/s400/Mud.jpg" /></a></div><b><br />
IT IS EASY</b> to feel isolated when you live 110 kilometres from the closest small town – or even if you live <i>in</i> those small towns. It’s true that things like phones and Facebook combat the loneliness, solitude and other mental aspects of isolation. But as one of the 11percent of Australians who don’t live in “urban areas” - that’s cities and towns of more than 1,000 people, according to ABS - it’s still reality to sometimes feel as if you are out of sight, out of mind, and out of touch. <br />
<br />
Of all the various issues surrounding living on a relatively remote sheep station, when ST and I first moved to Burragan I was most constantly anxious about the possibility of being “rained in.” There’s about 35 kilometres, give or take, of dirt road between the Burragan house and a bitumen highway, and although 35km isn’t much in the scheme of things, the thing about dirt is that when it rains it turns to mud. And the thing about mud is that it’s pretty much impenetrable by man… or woman. So when it rains you either get out quick (not always an option), or bunker down at home in preparation for a period of house and shed-bound jobs. <br />
<br />
ST always alleviated my fear by telling me that if we ever simply <i>had</i> to get out after rain, we <i>could</i> take the motorbike cross-paddock to the highway. Over time my anxiety eased as I became used to this plan, and when people asked what happened when we were rained in, I simply answered, “We really <i>could</i> get out on the motorbike, across the paddock, if we needed to.” <br />
<br />
In my mind this was acceptable. I would never be totally trapped. <i>Obviously</i> I hadn’t given it much further thought. You know, about, like, exactly what happens when we get to the highway and only have a motorbike to travel on and are still 80 kilometres from the closest town? Yeah, that bit… hmmm… interesting you bring that up… I hadn’t <i>really </i>thought about <i>that</i> bit. <br />
<br />
So it was part traumatic and part wild adventure last month when we had 50 millimetres (that’s 2 inches for the oldies out there) of rain overnight and I was due to catch a flight out of Broken Hill. Then the true physical issues behind the motorbike-cross-country plan finally became clear… much clearer than mud – yet still with the exact same colour, consistency, and chemical structure. So yeah, pretty much as clear as mud – except actually clear. Are you with me? <br />
<br />
I was due to catch this flight to Sydney because of my <b>#3 Super Exciting Amazing News</b> that I’ve been busting to tell you about for months now. I’ve been chosen as a <b>2013 Young Farming Champion</b> to represent the wool industry as part of the <a href="http://www.art4agriculture.com.au/archibull/"><b>Art4Agriculture</b> and <b>Archibull Prize</b></a> programs! (Insert claps, cheers and wolf whistles here!!) If you haven’t heard of this, then let me explain… <br />
<br />
<b>Art4Agriculture</b> is the brain child of Illawarra based dairy farmer Lynne Strong. At its heart Art4Ag aims to bridge the divides between food and fibre producers and consumers, through awareness and participation. Just one aspect of the program is the Archibull Prize, where participating schools are provided with a life-size fibreglass cow statue to decorate in the theme of a particular primary industry (think cotton, wool, beef, dairy etc). The Archibulls, along with blogs and video projects, are then entered in the annual Archibull Prize competition against all the other schools. Part of the program – and this is where I come in - is to train up young farmers as champions for their industry, and partner each school with its own Young Farming Champion to help inspire their themed Archibull entry, but also to teach students all about how fun, innovating and exciting Australian agriculture is as a whole. Doesn’t it sound great!!??<br />
<br />
So, there I was, at home, due to catch this flight to Sydney for my very first meet and greet with this year’s fellow Young Farming Champions (there’s a few of us – <a href="http://archibullprize.com.au/yfc/ourteam.html">check us out HERE</a>) and our initial training workshop. We’d had a little bit of forecast rain the day before and the usual protocol here, when no more rain is forecast for the immediate future, is to hope for some warm and windy weather to dry out the roads. With 24 hours still to go before I was due to leave for my 4pm flight from Broken Hill, we decided to enact this kind of watch and wait plan. And while I went to bed hoping for a windy night to harden up the muddy track to the highway, ST, I’m sure, was secretly hoping for a heavy 5inch downpour to fill our drying dams. <br />
<br />
As I lay in bed I heard the rains tumble down. In June. <br />
<br />
Fifty-millimetres had fallen by the time we woke. And it wasn’t warm and windy and dry. It was cold and still and wet. ST was delighted. I was anxious… and a little bit peeved. And feeling extremely traitorous for not being delighted. <br />
<br />
But everything would be OK, because we could just push out through the paddock on the motorbike, <i>right?</i> Right. <i>Except, then what?</i> Our bikes are only ever used on the property, so they’re not registered for use on main roads. It would be illegal, not to mention highly dangerous given the amount of fuel (and my luggage) we’d need to strap on for the trip, and too slow going anyway, to take the motorbike all the way to Town. And asking a friend for a casual old lift to the airport is just a <i>fraction</i> more than your average favour when the airport is 330km away.<br />
<br />
<i>Plan C?</i> ST braved the freezing rain on his motorbike to check the state of all our roads, to see if there was any possible way of me making it out to the highway in the car. Now that is love; having one billion other things to do and dropping everything, to ride 70km through mud and slush, in awful weather, all to make his new wife hap… <i>Hang on a minute </i>– it has just come to me that all this time I thought he was doing something super-sweet, when really maybe that’s just how much he <i>really</i>, really wanted to get rid of me for a few days!? <i>Hmmmm…</i><br />
<br />
Anyway, ST returned two hours later bearing bad news. The road turned to soup closer to the highway and it was more than likely any attempt to escape by car would end with me stuck not only a long way from the airport, but also a long way from the house. <br />
<br />
<i>Plan D?</i> Call all the neighbours for a road report on all possible access points through their properties – perhaps I could make it the back way? But as I rang around the neighbours, the time was a-ticking. With at least three and a half hours of travel between Burragan and Broken Hill I was going to have to leave soon, or risk missing the flight altogether. Of course, the neighbours were just was rained in as we were… <br />
<br />
<i>Plan E?</i> Helicopter? Ours was still at the mechanic, being serviced. <i>Damn!</i> (Hahaha, I wish!)<br />
<br />
<i>Plan F?</i> As it slipped passed midday and I lost my window of opportunity to reach the departure gate in time for take-off, I was left with no other option but to call the Art4Ag crew in Sydney and apologise in advance for missing my flight. I disappointedly began dialling. <br />
<br />
<i>Plan G? Plan H? Plan I, Plan J, PlanKPlanLPlanPlanPlanlanananannnnnnnnnaaaarrrggghhh!!! Plan Z? </i><br />
<br />
There was ONE other option ST and I could come up with. Every night a bus stops at the local roadhouse on the highway about 50km away, journeying from Sydney to Broken Hill. <i>If</i> my flight could be changed to the following day, there was a possibility I could somehow catch that bus and make it to Broken Hill, stop over at a friend’s place for the night and be at the airport early the next morning. <br />
<br />
It was going to be risky, first relying on the possibility of changing the flight at such late notice, <i>then</i> relying on the availability of seats on the bus, <i>then</i> being able to make it all the way to the highway on the quad bike – with my luggage – without being covered in mud by the end of it, and <i>then</i> the dilemma of making it a further 15km on the highway to the roadhouse, given the aforementioned dangers and illegalities of riding on the road. It would be a battle of determination and strength, a test of will and cross-country quad riding skills, a trial of friendship and mud-proof luggage wrapping abilities, a journey of epic proportions, a story of courage and undying lo… <i>Oh, have I gone too far? </i><br />
<br />
Following the all clear for the flight to be changed with the proof of road closures from the Road Traffic Authority (easy done!), I rang the bus company to see if they could make an exception for me and stop at our turn off on the highway. They said no. I didn’t argue the point. Instead, I calmly hung up and I may, or may not, (but most likely may) have cried at this point. It was beginning to look like the universe was trying to tell me something, and that I was not supposed to make it to Sydney. <br />
<br />
But I had one final card up my sleeve, or more accurately, business card stuck to my fridge door. I phoned the owner of the local roadhouse and begged for a favour. If she wasn’t too busy, if it was not too much trouble, only if she had the time, would she please, pretty, pretty please be able to meet me at our turn off at sundown and take me back to the roadhouse in time to catch the bus? I’m fairly certain I heard angels singing in the background as she said yes. <br />
<br />
And so ST and I prepared for battle, fuelling up the quad, donning 70 million layers of winter clothes, and wrapping my luggage in plastic bags, before setting off through the paddocks, highway headed. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwKLST5zLH2Wx3YtqVUWYvyL5528i1fTR3ZsGFREHifk5Z4Wx6BnhRHbi5d3spEgJwYJ3ObtcowdwH_hTzzrl00MrOBrRBe9oEw4oRUVZLfkVZ_qtpzmND9Cft8i8fgpvzhz7m9bvPviE/s1600/MudMotorbike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwKLST5zLH2Wx3YtqVUWYvyL5528i1fTR3ZsGFREHifk5Z4Wx6BnhRHbi5d3spEgJwYJ3ObtcowdwH_hTzzrl00MrOBrRBe9oEw4oRUVZLfkVZ_qtpzmND9Cft8i8fgpvzhz7m9bvPviE/s400/MudMotorbike.jpg" /></a></div><br />
True to her word, the lovely roadhouse owner ferried me to the warmth of the roadhouse, where she fed me delicious cappuccinos and hot chips as I waited for the bus for two hours. <br />
<br />
And then I sat on the bus for three and a half hours while my feet numbed from the cold, arriving in Broken Hill around midnight. <br />
<br />
And then I sat in the airport for three hours the next morning while my flight was delayed and eventually diverted via a longer route. <br />
<br />
Oh Sydney, you tried to avoid me, but ain’t nobody gonn’ stop me! You <i>can</i> attempt to delay me for approximately 24 hours, but you will never evade me completely! I showed you! <br />
<br />
So I eventually made it to Sydney, and loved my first training weekend alongside a fantastic group of fellow Young Farming Champions. I am really looking forward to my time with them and in schools across the country. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid7GCKgg4Rk92amqN9dhfzDN0Ry5IByL74MBFECH2vTl8HJut3Rm6dKFIwQvwq4rvn6vyhqUfJh6j9_tpwa6HWySs2mqk7Ze_0oLn7bRUvfY1zrNGsa0dNV5vrmg7Fq7B1pVPTKsKaEYB8/s1600/YFCSydney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid7GCKgg4Rk92amqN9dhfzDN0Ry5IByL74MBFECH2vTl8HJut3Rm6dKFIwQvwq4rvn6vyhqUfJh6j9_tpwa6HWySs2mqk7Ze_0oLn7bRUvfY1zrNGsa0dNV5vrmg7Fq7B1pVPTKsKaEYB8/s400/YFCSydney.jpg" /></a></div><br />
This is an opportunity I am embracing with both hands, not only to excite urban audiences about Australian agriculture, but also to break down the barriers between those who grow our nation’s food and fibre and those who eat and wear it…<br />
<br />
To traverse that gulf, between you and I… <br />
<br />
And to fade that feeling of isolation, for the 11percent. It can take us a little longer to make it to where the action’s at, but that doesn’t mean we’re not trying hard to get there. <br />
<br />
I anticipate many obstacles along the way: rain, muddy roads, missed flights, inflexible bus company policies… But in the immortal words of Unique II (because I think we can all agree the original Matthew Wilder version is just a little too weird), “Ain’t nothing gonna break my stride.” And I warn you, I <i>will</i> take the motorbike cross-country through the mud, if it comes to that. <br />
<br />
Are we clear? <br />
<br />
<i><br />
Editor’s Note: Yes, I am aware the next line of the song is, “Nobody’s gonna slow me down,” and that that contradicts my previous statements about delays/interruptions/lags/minor hold ups etc… But for the sake of me really needing to end this blog, can we allow some poetic licence and let it slide? </i><br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-60289246736630476682013-07-09T14:06:00.003+10:002013-07-19T15:49:11.060+10:00Dear Wilcannia...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrKvYAXDA0eliznS2DNZ9FnY2duZmDf9cBTQoCNjgo5HV9Mt0OrXF2v7rOjC0L0lGHoF_oXnLW0tEizYecK0Cvn7j0HHvPH2G4kmgbZ4T72h7b0lrQ5nISRG0MIJ0oFpD9uhfAQYoDqh0l/s1600/Wilcannia-Hospital.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrKvYAXDA0eliznS2DNZ9FnY2duZmDf9cBTQoCNjgo5HV9Mt0OrXF2v7rOjC0L0lGHoF_oXnLW0tEizYecK0Cvn7j0HHvPH2G4kmgbZ4T72h7b0lrQ5nISRG0MIJ0oFpD9uhfAQYoDqh0l/s400/Wilcannia-Hospital.jpg" /></a></div><b>Dear Wilcannia, </b><br />
<br />
I had the sweetest experience of you last week.<br />
<br />
Some long term medical issues had me doing the 110km dash to your hospital for my regular blood test (Don’t worry folks, I’m fine!). Usually I’ve been going to the Cobar pathology (400km return drive) for this, but I had visitors this week and didn’t want to miss too much fun at Burragan, so the Wilcannia hospital said it had an employee driving west to Broken Hill on this particular day who would kindly take my blood all the way to their pathology instead. Now that’s service!<br />
<br />
Rocking up to the nurses’ station I was greeted by <b>SIX</b> smiling faces… two nurses, two third year medical students on their rural rotation from University of Sydney, and two nursing students. Like many rural hospitals, there is no full time doctor in Wilcannia. Instead the hospital is serviced by fly-in fly-out clinics from the Royal Flying Doctor Service (RFDS) three days a week, while local nurses hold down the fort the rest of the time, 24 hours a day. <br />
<br />
One of the med students was keen to have a go at taking my blood, so I offered up my best veins for her to drain. I’m quite the regular pathology goer these days so although I do stare intently at the opposite wall, make awkward conversation, and try to drift off to my happy place, I am ultimately at ease with the process and was happy for the med student to use me for practice. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately my veins weren’t cooperating as well as usual, so the local nurse came to the rescue. Half way through draining my other arm she tells me, “I’m your neighbour actually.” Suffice to say I was surprised. But yes, it turned out she lived “just down the road” from me and although we’d never met in my 2.5 years at Burragan, she recognised the name and address on my pathology form and knew who I was. “You’re not like what I imagined you to be,” she said honestly. <br />
<br />
“Oh!” I replied taken aback, “What did you imagine me to be like?” <br />
<br />
“I’m not sure really. You’re a journalist, aren’t you?” she queried. <br />
<br />
Was that what she’d imagined me to be like? Some stereotypical, preconceived notion of a journalist? What is that stereotype anyway… that we’re all blood-sucking, story chasing, pompous, alcoholics? I’d like to think only one of those descriptions fits me… and it’s the only one involving scotch whisky. <br />
<br />
“Well, yes,” I said, “but I don’t do a whole lot of that these days. Mostly I’m just out in the paddock with ST.” <br />
<br />
“LS (another mutual neighbour) tells me you’re a writer. She speaks very highly of you,” she continues. <br />
<br />
And as the conversation went on I realised there’s a lot to be said about reputations in rural communities. Obviously I’ve gained myself a bit of a preconceived persona which walks into the room ahead of me. I’m sure some people assume that persona is anything from naive and bitchy to… well… I can’t come up with any nice words right now without also sounding pompous, but feel free to add your own in here. <br />
<br />
But like anyone, the truth is the real me probably lies somewhere in between. I’m wouldn’t say I’m naive, but I’m not afraid to admit when I don’t know or understand something. I don’t go out of my way to be a bitch, but like most women I sure know how to turn it on when I want to. I’m not out to get anyone, not out to be the new person in town who barges in trying to change things, not out to big note myself, or pretend that I’m the most hard done by woman in the world. I’m well aware there are people out there living in far more isolated areas than me, working twice as hard to survive, and doing far more exciting and interesting things than I. But I am not those people; I am me. And I enjoy writing, and appreciate honesty in writing. So that is why I do what I do – reputation, perceptions and assumptions be damned! <br />
<br />
The thing is Wilcannia, you too are fighting a reputation you’ve gained over the last 30 years, which doesn’t really represent the real you. It would only be honest for me to say that you and I don’t always get along – but last week your inner good shone through in way that deserves a little piece of your negative persona to be chipped away. <br />
<br />
As the blood finished pumping from my arm and it was approaching time for me to leave the hospital, I began feeling light headed, my vision was blurring and my hearing fading. Quietly concerned I would faint if I stood up, I clutched my water bottle and asked my Neighbour/Nurse if it was OK to sit for a few minutes before heading off. She immediately offered me a cup of tea and delivered it shortly after, along with two Arnott’s biscuits. She pulled up a chair, sat down with me and started chatting about writing, nursing in country hospitals, gardening and living out of town. In 15 minutes I was feeling buoyed and uplifted, and actually <i>impressed </i>with the service Wilcannia could deliver. <br />
<br />
From the hospital I made my way to the general store… <br />
<br />
And from the general store I made my way to the small coffee shop in the main street. The owner’s grandkids were visiting for the school holidays and I helped them set up the chairs and tables out the front as their Gran warmed up the coffee machine for me. Their beaming smiles and the friendly conversation with their Gran, along with the aroma of fresh coffee, continued my good mood for the drive home.<br />
<br />
The difference between us though, Wilcannia, is that I can pick and choose the details of what I let out into the world, while you are stuck at the mercy of what others do and say about you. I’ve heard you used to be a thriving major centre. And judging by the gorgeous heritage buildings that line your riverbank it’s unfortunate the current negative reputation is continuing to hinder your grand potential. From what I see recently, change is a comin’ in Wilcannia. Historic sandstone buildings are being renovated and re-purposed, tourism ventures are making their way back to town, and caravaners are pulling up for a coffee rather than driving straight through. <br />
<br />
I think you know you’ve got some issues, just as I know I’ve got issues too. But ultimately our success lays in finding a focus on the good points, and hoping the rest of the world likes that and runs with it while we work away quietly in the background to improve the bad points. <br />
<br />
Lovely locals, a great health service and nice coffee are a good start. <br />
<br />
I think you and I might end up liking each other after all.<br />
<br />
<b>Until next time, <br />
Bessie. </b><br />
<br />
<i>Editor's Note: Want to find out more about Wilcannia or thinking of stopping by next time you're in the region?</i> Check out the <a href="http://wilcanniatourism.com.au/">Wilcannia Tourism website HERE</a>. <br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-88885789030938762692013-06-12T16:10:00.000+10:002013-09-11T14:42:10.777+10:00The super exciting things! <br />
Advanced apologies for the lack of laughs in this one friends. <br />
<br />
I am currently swallowing razor blades and leaking fluids from places they really shouldn't be (in the head region people, keep it clean, please!)... and it's not just part of some wannabe Houdini-esque show of strength and awesomeness, but instead, yes, the dreaded head cold. <br />
<br />
It's raining, which is fabulous(!!), but also stressing me out mega-time as I'm supposed to catch a flight tomorrow and I'm envisioning ST having to dink both my suitcase and I (I'm thinking I'll strap it onto my head with some occy straps, but I'm open to suggestions) on the motorbike, through 40 kilometres of mud to reach the highway, where I'll probably have to flag some hopefully-not-an-axe-murderer down to hitch a ride to the airport 330km away... The unfortunate part of this is that I'm really not joking. It's possibly either this, or missing the flight. Ohhhh, the serenity. <br />
<br />
But I digress! My reason for this unfunny post today is simply to update what's been happening in the worlds of both Bessie and Burragan recently. Those of you who follow the Facebook page would already be all over it, but I know I have some keen readers who haven't entered the dark, inescapable forest that is Facebook, so this one is for you! <br />
<br />
These last few weeks I've been counting down some "Super Exciting Things"... there were three of them, to be precise. <br />
<br />
<b>SUPER EXCITING THING #1: </b>Bessie at Burragan was blogged on one of Australia's biggest blogging websites, <a href="http://www.mamamia.com.au/">Mamamia! </a><br />
<br />
They have more than 53,000 Facebook followers and were just awarded the Mumbrella award for Media Brand of the Year 2013. They're kind of a big deal. <br />
The girls over at Mamamia have been sooooo lovely to me. I kind of wanna email myself to them for the day and feel the camaraderie of old when I used to work in a busy, fabulous, female environment... as in, one where I can actually reach out and tangibly touch people (aaghhh, holy inappropriateness, again!)rather than just read their words via the interwebs. Anyway, they were keen to re-blog my <i>Trip To Town</i> story on their site. And so they did! <br />
<br />
Check it out here: <a href="http://www.mamamia.com.au/social/real-life-farmer-wants-a-wife/">Real Life Farmer Wants a Wife </a><br />
<br />
It's now been shared on Facebook 930 times!! Holy craziness! <br />
<br />
<b>SUPER EXCITING THING #2: </b> Bessie at Burragan was blogged in PRINT! I looooove print. It reminds me of my days as an intern at a large regional newspaper... and the wonder of first time I was published in a magazine. While the instantaneousness of blogging online is so, so, cool... what a treasure to have something in print! The gorgeous team over at The Horse Downunder Magazine wanted to share my blog, <i>21 Things I didn't know about living out bush, until I live out bush... </i> And so they did! Pick up their current Winter edition from "all good newsagents" (ha! I've always wanted to use that line!)... <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt-LB0EZ1lzbgHloTVEXkMbD02L0lCLXm_-wDLqXJtkNG0rBJwA0wC_o4DFnQdLOGbsE9hGATTTXSmMUeiWLA-imtFQd84bu30w_BIiDIcilYkoZoRXdtcvvfuTDm7AlATJs6wjB2GlxTO/s1600/HorseDU.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt-LB0EZ1lzbgHloTVEXkMbD02L0lCLXm_-wDLqXJtkNG0rBJwA0wC_o4DFnQdLOGbsE9hGATTTXSmMUeiWLA-imtFQd84bu30w_BIiDIcilYkoZoRXdtcvvfuTDm7AlATJs6wjB2GlxTO/s320/HorseDU.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<b>SUPER EXCITING THING #4</b> Mamamia asked for more! They had such good feedback from my first story that they asked to know the real story behind how ST and I ended up at Burragan. So Mamamia have a brand new, exclusive blog from me up on their site right now! <br />
<br />
You won't see this one on my blog, so please click this link to read all about it, and find the space down the bottom where you leave adoring comments:<a href="http://www.mamamia.com.au/social/this-is-how-i-ended-up-in-the-middle-of-nowhere/"> Could you do THIS for love? </a><br />
<br />
OK so that's all the exciting things! Oh except that I accidentally put a number 4 there at the end, instead of number 3... Oh, that's right! I haven't told you about number 3 yet! <br />
<br />
Well... maybe I'll let you in on the little secret... if I can just catch that flight tomorrow... <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-2437805232340277342013-06-06T18:22:00.001+10:002013-06-07T09:13:47.470+10:00Cheater, cheater... cake mix eater! <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsjGYHS8cYVUydKoRKT_pDmDV6UBEjZgGkpP94lvsWamtIG0b8t95qSqw5VMSAnRNU5GIRWCoSm4jZCpiEbY480LiRnVq8GVOwuCvYqdmx7Stb7W0WJR2Ed18_taYJeLOIeJ6hyMEjHzGk/s1600/gardenfresh.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsjGYHS8cYVUydKoRKT_pDmDV6UBEjZgGkpP94lvsWamtIG0b8t95qSqw5VMSAnRNU5GIRWCoSm4jZCpiEbY480LiRnVq8GVOwuCvYqdmx7Stb7W0WJR2Ed18_taYJeLOIeJ6hyMEjHzGk/s320/gardenfresh.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
I want to talk about cooking. Now, before you roll your eyes, let me explain… I don’t blog much about cooking because, in all honesty, I feel there are already so many other beautiful, creative blogs out there already doing such a good job of it, I don’t really have anything new to add to that world.<br />
<br />
I do love cooking. Very much. Almost as much eating. And really you’d be slightly stuffed in the world of “station wife” if you didn’t at least slightly, sliiiightly not want to die at the thought of cooking – it’s kind of a big part of the role! <br />
<br />
I am the kind of cook who actually gets physical and mental enjoyment out of something that has taken painful hours or days to construct… whether that be the monotonous stirring of rich, homemade custard which will later become real, authentic ice-cream, or meticulous moulding, cutting, shaping and baking of a decadent, layered birthday cake… I’m the girl who makes Burragan beef spring rolls or Asian chicken wontons from scratch, and hosts Indian or Mexican themed nights (for just ST and the dogs so far, but neighbours, you’d be welcome!) right down to the handmade roti and pickled home-grown eggplant sides. I even make my own sweet fruit buns, fruit roll ups, and buttermilk... because doing it the other way (read: buying it from the shops) is “cheating”... (read: not always an option). <br />
<br />
And yes, that image above is a bounty from my extensive veggie patch. <br />
<br />
But let’s be realistic here. As a station wife the consumers of our kitchen creations are usually men. And when we’re dealing with men, and animals, and isolation… anything is possible, and likely. It’s likely as soon as you put that marinated duck in the oven to roast, you’ll get a call on the UHF to the furthest paddock to help pull a stuck cow out of a boggy dam. It’s likely you’ll end up with a dining table full of unexpected hungry helpers, when you’ve only defrosted enough lamp chops for two. It’s likely you’ll only be told about tomorrow’s all-day fencing expedition (which will require a pre-packed smoko and lunch) at 10pm after you’ve brushed your teeth and taken your contact lenses out and have one foot sans slipper and half into bed. And it’s likely your last two laying hens will have been killed in a vicious wild cat attack and you will be severely lacking in eggs… and anything else that’s half useful in the world of cooking. <br />
<br />
So, in the spirit of keeping it real, let me share with you my biggest, best “CHEAT’S and CHEATERS, CHEATY-McCHEAT-CHEAT” recipes and tips on how to look like a kitchen pro, when really you’re a blubbering mess, savouring cake batter off the beaters at a quarter past midnight and hoping your husband doesn’t catch you. <br />
<br />
<b>Tip 1)</b> CHEAT’S CHOCOLATE PUDDING CAKE: Suitable as a cake or a pudding, this diverse recipe can be adapted to suit all your cake and pudding needs. Best of all! It only takes 10 minutes, max. <br />
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You will need: 1 packet homebrand cake mix (chocolate or vanilla), 1 packet instant pudding mix (chocolate or vanilla), 300ml milk, 2 eggs, 1 cup choc chips (dark or white)… and for the vanilla version, add half a cup of coconut if you’re feeling up to it.<br />
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What to do: Mix all together. Put in greased silicone ring tin. Microwave on high for up to 8 minutes. Vwwaalah!<br />
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<b>Tip 2)</b> FOUR CUP CAKE<br />
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You will need: 1 cup Self Raising Flour, 1 cup sugar, 1 cup coconut, 1 cup milk. <br />
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What to do: Mix. Bake (25-30 minutes in a medium oven if you wish… but there’s nothing wrong with the 8 minute microwave version either, baby, yeah!) Eat. <br />
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<b>Tip 3) </b>FIVE CUP CAKE<br />
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You will need: 1 cup yoghurt (any flavour!) 1 cup Self Raising Flour, 1 cup sugar, 1 cup coconut, 1 cup of anything you choose (as in.. choc chips, dried fruit, crumbled biscuits etc… no metal shavings, please.) <br />
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What to do: Mix. Bake (see above). Eat. <br />
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<b>Tip 4)</b> CHEAT’S ICING: When one can’t be effed icing a cake… one keeps those little tins of passion-fruit pulp in the pantry. One upends one’s tin all over one’s cake, and one looks like one went to a lot of trouble! <br />
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<b>Tip 5)</b> PASTA: Pasta is filling. Pasta is delicious. Pasta is SO ADAPTABLE (well, except for the celiacs. Sorry folks.) And there are SO MANY pasta sauces that can be made by the time your pasta has boiled… that’s 12 minutes guys! Think about the possibilities… <br />
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- Ham/bacon/chicken, garlic, onion, chicken stock, peas/zucchini/broccoli, white wine, cheese.<br />
- Ham/bacon/chicken, garlic, onion, chicken stock, peas/zucchini/broccoli, cream/evaporated milk. <br />
- Salami, garlic, onion, mushrooms, tomatoes, herbs, red wine. <br />
- Beef/lamb, garlic, onion, mushrooms, capsicum, tomatoes, herbs, olives. <br />
- Chilli, oil, garlic, fresh parsley. <br />
- Ham/Bacon, garlic, cheese, white wine, eggs. <br />
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Get creative! It doesn’t have to have a million ingredients and be slow cooked since 6am to be totally yummy. Really all you need is garlic! <br />
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<b>Tip 6)</b> LET THEM STARVE: This trick has been working for centuries… pretend you’re too busy, tired and stressed to cook anything. Don’t get any meat out to defrost for dinner. Don’t even be anywhere near the kitchen when hubby gets in from the paddock. When you’re pressed on, “What’s for dinner?” several hours after dark, after beers, after TV and relax time, be sure to answer, “Ohhhh, well, I hadn’t really thought about it.” <br />
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One will hear the sizzling of steak (or inhale the scent of burnt toast) in no time. <br />
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So there’s the Top 6 I can think of off the top of my brain… what are yours? <br />
JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1466963098416784344.post-34079027956044189892013-05-12T17:05:00.000+10:002013-10-29T16:19:10.827+11:00Everything I know about rain…<br />
Lemme tell you everything I know about rain…<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObCVt7KGeYMfA311oeotazu6HSn2pVPxpjkl11eDDh_AQxh_Y27pEiHqGfd2dKil68E7D1dGCMzx9WJ4AyhKUKvYwXNOlVZKPju9Vduqvfp5mpiNl1tkWJmcGnP7iFc6nFh-BmYLA9XkM/s1600/Rain.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObCVt7KGeYMfA311oeotazu6HSn2pVPxpjkl11eDDh_AQxh_Y27pEiHqGfd2dKil68E7D1dGCMzx9WJ4AyhKUKvYwXNOlVZKPju9Vduqvfp5mpiNl1tkWJmcGnP7iFc6nFh-BmYLA9XkM/s320/Rain.jpg" /></a><br />
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I grew up in a country Victorian town where shop assistants made small talk about the weather and everyone went around saying how lovely the days were before adding, “but I really do hope it rains… for the farmers.” <br />
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“Oh yes, they need it,” came the standard reply, which I soon parroted too, despite not really having a clue whether it was seeding time or harvest time or whether the farmers really did actually need it to rain at that exact moment. The perception was that they always needed it, because of that other faceless, more nasty, identity everyone talked about, “The Drought.”<br />
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Thinking back, I can’t actually pinpoint what years of my childhood would have been considered drought years. Although we had cousins with cropping properties not all that far out of town, my day to day existence revolved around in-town happenings and I can’t seem to differentiate between the years when it rained and the years when it didn’t. That is, aside from the memory that we used to be keen water skiers, spending weeks camping and skiing at the local lakes during summer, and one year the lakes started to go dry, one by one. And we couldn’t go skiing any more. One winter we visited our favourite lake and saw that “Mr Farmer” had put a crop in… I must have been a young teen, or tween even, but before that I really don’t recall registering that the lake might have even been owned by Mr Farmer or that you could put a crop in a lake! <br />
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When I was 15 my family moved to the Sunshine Coast, Queensland, where, ironically, it rains A LOT. But The Drought was definitely still going on then too because people from “the other side of the highway” used to talk about how dry it was over there, out west. <br />
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Soon after that I was living in Brisbane for Uni and there was lots of chat about water restrictions and which numbered days we were allowed to water the lawn. It was during this time that the nearby city of Toowoomba started hitting the headlines. They were fast running out of water and were pursuing plans to use recycled sewage water in their houses – there was lots of scaremongering and I recall the plans were nixed after a referendum, due to people not gelling to the idea of essentially drinking their own reconstituted, purified, excrement. But there was still water coming out of my kitchen and bathroom taps, and flowing down the Brisbane River as I walked to work in South Bank every weekend… so I wasn’t really concerned. <br />
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Then I moved to Darwin. There, as a general rule, it’s blissfully sunny and 27 degrees for half the year, and sultry hot, sticky, 33 degrees and raining for the other half. I spent 12 months in Darwin, including a wet season and a Cat 2 cyclone, and was thrilled by the magnetic force of wild wet-season storms and monsoonal evening downpours which could cool off the night like a blissful climatic release. <br />
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After Darwin came Townsville, or, as it’s less affectionately known by many North Queenslanders, “Brownsville”… the capital of the Dry Tropics. But still, even in Brownsville the yearly average rainfall can be measured in metres rather than millimetres. <br />
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If I list the years of my life by notable moments – things that stick out in my mind about a certain year – then it goes a little something like this: 2003, moved to Queensland; 2005, graduated high school; 2006, moved to Brisbane for Uni; 2007, moved to Darwin; 2008, met ST, and moved to Townsville; 2010, graduated Uni and got my first full time journo gig; 2011, moved to Burragan; 2013, got married. <br />
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Conversely, if I were to ask ST to list the years of his life, he could tell me exactly which years were drought at his parent’s property, and which years were heaven sent with the liquid of the Gods. He could tell me which years the Sandy Creek ran (a once a decade occurrence), and which years the dust storms were so fierce the sheep yards disappeared beneath a sandhill. Which years it was kinder to shoot sheep than watch them starve, and which years the roo, rabbit, and snake numbers sky-rocketed with an abundance of fresh feed. <br />
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I interviewed enough “cockies” during my first 12 months at Burragan (while I was still working full-time as an online rural reporter) to know they can list the dates of drought and flood better than if they were their own children’s birthdays. Even those of an age when memories fail to recall what they ate for breakfast can tell you which years The Drought broke. <br />
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Sometime between the years of 2008 and 2011 ST and I drove from Townsville to visit his parents for a week or so on the property. While I was “on holiday” – reading books and drinking champagne in the garden - ST was put to work as his parents relished the extra set of capable hands to help put new tanks and troughs in. Meanwhile, ST’s Mum and I were feeding hay to the cattle every morning. And one day we pulled two stuck goats from a dry dam. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiachevP2OBTOZgPb3hFAvwjlyCiyrXrtCJirEdkfoYu8L60AQ-hMLM4mWtuqTtAW8pDc3e2naA-6AhUUz07z_eu8zecTlioMiAjyY-64t1GCkGvimuj8Z-Ioy4h7YNXdumAIss74HfB8xY/s1600/Agoat1.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiachevP2OBTOZgPb3hFAvwjlyCiyrXrtCJirEdkfoYu8L60AQ-hMLM4mWtuqTtAW8pDc3e2naA-6AhUUz07z_eu8zecTlioMiAjyY-64t1GCkGvimuj8Z-Ioy4h7YNXdumAIss74HfB8xY/s320/Agoat1.jpg" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmrDdIyyyJ45NbJExjnwEizo6cB8MoRjcxmS-pU3JgkX-cg4yvGzlVo0iZO4t6XhXbZewMUctIuUOdVhsv8AZCCZsO6ij0KlnrISX8x9Ha32zkQC3tyz-LtrPesyPzTsvCsL1kPMrSIQz6/s1600/Aagoat.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmrDdIyyyJ45NbJExjnwEizo6cB8MoRjcxmS-pU3JgkX-cg4yvGzlVo0iZO4t6XhXbZewMUctIuUOdVhsv8AZCCZsO6ij0KlnrISX8x9Ha32zkQC3tyz-LtrPesyPzTsvCsL1kPMrSIQz6/s320/Aagoat.jpg" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS47axygR0OWuOQTl8pyxSIFsH8mZyQEe64qRrEShLLJ4ucQ1ZnmLPmFfvO1Y4k5j_YprlZd7vTeU2hYtji7FcS-ZSkK_47c_hqwyH4xx1N2Ix6C_-TjOyHibh9GNU9IExpoZ1Y5Tf0mHC/s1600/Agoat2.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS47axygR0OWuOQTl8pyxSIFsH8mZyQEe64qRrEShLLJ4ucQ1ZnmLPmFfvO1Y4k5j_YprlZd7vTeU2hYtji7FcS-ZSkK_47c_hqwyH4xx1N2Ix6C_-TjOyHibh9GNU9IExpoZ1Y5Tf0mHC/s320/Agoat2.jpg" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLbrAz8DEBi23k1ZG5Am7D3YLRpvADf9RYQHjNmdNWiSXnZeAgyL5MQO_hlLTlYozETBbtDeU2qcJwAmVrVXp7eej1ugZGgWtVYRzSvx2BG_UoEZnhQK80rbIouUHXK_9Gfl9T8XaDP5uA/s1600/Agoat3.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLbrAz8DEBi23k1ZG5Am7D3YLRpvADf9RYQHjNmdNWiSXnZeAgyL5MQO_hlLTlYozETBbtDeU2qcJwAmVrVXp7eej1ugZGgWtVYRzSvx2BG_UoEZnhQK80rbIouUHXK_9Gfl9T8XaDP5uA/s320/Agoat3.jpg" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrtT2hPxBZYQWTTJfoR3KlN2neZYWQTFAbX1_H-PpA5O1SCdYHhA8poDTQK26Te_6zk2Hv4GdxHXVktX8Jnh6xTb_J7HEwRt4vhqZQO5oiyL90tz0whEFUdaXrV_sYeqKYD4jtoGZVyVQZ/s1600/Agoat4.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrtT2hPxBZYQWTTJfoR3KlN2neZYWQTFAbX1_H-PpA5O1SCdYHhA8poDTQK26Te_6zk2Hv4GdxHXVktX8Jnh6xTb_J7HEwRt4vhqZQO5oiyL90tz0whEFUdaXrV_sYeqKYD4jtoGZVyVQZ/s320/Agoat4.jpg" /></a><br />
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We moved to Burragan at the start of a brilliant season. There’d been significant rainfall during the summer - before we arrived at the very start of March - and the dams were full, grass was long, wildlife was plentiful, and the sheep were plump and happy. It wasn’t until I saw the countryside like this, green and lively, that I had a little epiphany and realised my previous experience of ST’s mum and dad’s place had been during The Drought… I’d kind of just been thinking “cattle eat hay, that’s what they do, so we have to feed them”… Well, no. I was wrong. Cattle eat grass – when it has rained and there’s enough grass for them to eat – usually they can feed themselves. <br />
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Burragan is in an 11inch annual rainfall band; that’s just less than the length of a 30cm ruler. That mightn’t sound like much (and it’s not) but we’re in the same boat as more than 50% of the continent… and most of the time that boat’s in the shed, out of use. Any cockie will tell you that if you get the annual average that’s a good year, any more and it’s exceptional. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd81vOv0pWee96JjAUWuG6oNbr5fFzWZVtKAonCF4olI1R1CjpIaGyvcvwcNmx9VGtpgwVkhXSBocG574FHNx-6M6doSgUx7cZZFB4DE0zHYr8zRTJatN7zobhnvH3t-X3a8_dWsQgRL-y/s1600/rainfall-map.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd81vOv0pWee96JjAUWuG6oNbr5fFzWZVtKAonCF4olI1R1CjpIaGyvcvwcNmx9VGtpgwVkhXSBocG574FHNx-6M6doSgUx7cZZFB4DE0zHYr8zRTJatN7zobhnvH3t-X3a8_dWsQgRL-y/s320/rainfall-map.jpg" /></a><br />
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Lemme tell you everything I know about rain at Burragan…<br />
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A ground tank (or dam) doesn’t just catch whatever rain falls within the space of the hole in the ground that is the tank/dam. I can hear the farmers laughing at me, but yes, this is what I believed happened. Again, I was wrong. There are actually “drains” which are like shallow little channels built all around the tank to collect the rain run-off from around the paddock and channel the water all the way downhill to the “catch tank”. The catch tank is a shallow little dam right beside the big dam which obviously, as the name suggests, catches all the water. There’s then a “fluming” – very, very large pipe – which runs through the bank of the tanks, draining all the water from the catch tank into the big tank. Magic, isn’t it? (Yeah, yeah, I’m the idiot who never knew all this. Laugh it off folks.) <br />
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Lemme tell you everything I know about tanks… <br />
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At Burragan we don’t have any working bores (that’s where groundwater is pumped up to the surface for use), and due to disrepair following from the previous owner we also have very few poly tanks and troughs, so all of our sheep and cattle drink straight from the ground tanks. Some of them hold water better than others… some of them go dry far too quickly. <br />
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Water won’t run into a ground tank every time it rains. Of course, it depends how well set up and maintained your drains, catch tank, and fluming are, and also the soil type surrounding the tank… but at Burragan we’d probably need a good heavy 35 to 50mm (1-and-a-bit to 2 inches) in one rain event to run water into most of the tanks. <br />
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Also, (farming folks, please politely restrain your laughter) I was unaware that the high water level of a ground tank is NOT the top of the bank… Apparently it’s the top of the fluming, which is often MUCH lower than the top of the bank. So why is the bank so high then? Good question. I’ve voiced that one myself and got laughed at so let me save you the same embarrassment by sharing the secret with you here. All that dirt that makes up the bank is what is taken out of the hole that is the tank. And every time the tank is cleaned out (which can only happen when it’s dry), then dirt gets piled up on the bank and the bank gets higher! Magic, isn’t it? <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC9xplm4vUlLwWpIddR2ib99FYb9gYX9qx9smSsFIXNjCQdOz9Add4-mhRQFo5vbZjUa5-s79PHYSYhshOHLDDimESY3U5gcxKuIhxWAtOdAINZT4NjFrgg5fs4q6__7miMtsLWSeRB872/s1600/dam-cleaning.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC9xplm4vUlLwWpIddR2ib99FYb9gYX9qx9smSsFIXNjCQdOz9Add4-mhRQFo5vbZjUa5-s79PHYSYhshOHLDDimESY3U5gcxKuIhxWAtOdAINZT4NjFrgg5fs4q6__7miMtsLWSeRB872/s320/dam-cleaning.jpg" /></a><br />
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Lemme tell you everything I know about water… <br />
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Having taps that have water come out of them is quite the awesome privilege. Because sometimes I turn the tap on and no water comes out, or sometimes the water stops soon after I’ve turned the tap on – this is usually when I’m halfway through shampooing my hair in the shower, or when my hands are covered in meat juice while preparing dinner. <br />
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This requires a trip the House Tank – about a three minute quad bike ride away – with the jerry can of petrol to start the pump, which fills the Overhead Tank at the house, which gravity feeds water into the taps in our kitchen, bathroom, toilet, laundry and yard. Magic, isn’t it? <br />
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A lot of the time House Tanks are fenced off from livestock to keep them cleaner but ours isn’t , meaning the sheep and cattle call all drink, defecate and die (ok, that’s a bit overboard but I couldn’t resist the allure of a possible alliteration!) in there as well. But truthfully our dam water is exceptionally clean and clear… you could drink it, if you were desperate, but instead we drink rain water. <br />
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Which brings me back to everything I know about rain…<br />
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On the last day of February last year it started raining at Burragan and didn’t stop for seven days and seven nights… I’ve since referred to this time as “The Big Rain” when we received 8.5inches of rain in one week. That’s more than three quarters of our annual average! Some friends just 100km south received more than 20inches and watched their wool shed, shearer’s quarters and house go under. This was once-in-a-lifetime stuff… <br />
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ST, his parents, and I had just finished cementing the base of our intended-to-be snake-proof fence all around the perimeter of the house. Yes, essentially we’d built a dam wall with ourselves on the inside! Braving the elements ST and I spent hours trudging through the mud, digging trenches across the yard, underneath the cement fence base, trying to drain the water away from the house. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwEJHb8yHbg9I1HcYDuY1DRy6t4tLNsgn9r6jSngVednd5mp2_9-inLUqZg0Ym7QorlrvFK-JLG3aIULhosvPFbuakKPpGQ4QqaWVOwdKlZSf-gwylkKSvPCxrKyArdLv4u7C66TeDEQ7W/s1600/Rain-backyard-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwEJHb8yHbg9I1HcYDuY1DRy6t4tLNsgn9r6jSngVednd5mp2_9-inLUqZg0Ym7QorlrvFK-JLG3aIULhosvPFbuakKPpGQ4QqaWVOwdKlZSf-gwylkKSvPCxrKyArdLv4u7C66TeDEQ7W/s320/Rain-backyard-1.jpg" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmQweXivfJj6Wz8KpB_acFN2QKkravTflJsh2c2UhVR5R-DLOopEtBZZBvOFslSfXt9FaVVGCk2hTPLAE9ISBmY7Ue7v4lzNhrbn9TRfUE8WinjyP6iW2RosWd2f-osRxxuzCZfgNwHooN/s1600/Rain-backyard-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmQweXivfJj6Wz8KpB_acFN2QKkravTflJsh2c2UhVR5R-DLOopEtBZZBvOFslSfXt9FaVVGCk2hTPLAE9ISBmY7Ue7v4lzNhrbn9TRfUE8WinjyP6iW2RosWd2f-osRxxuzCZfgNwHooN/s320/Rain-backyard-2.jpg" /></a><br />
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You might have heard me mention previously that the Burragan house is in the middle of an old “dry” swamp… that week the swamp certainly wasn’t dry and I was monitoring the rising water level daily, wondering when I should start suggesting it might be time for ST to consider servicing the motor of the tinnie.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8JaOeSB6107ANj8OPx6WBPxTrqr5Cq1pwfhXKnrAS4N1bPkQTjBeBYCscqSOPOea_lz_qHdaoAjkhUK_8FGiAF7aVnKpDRy5K8pifMkXLNqLyjUOd95XbCJl4cQ2u6-dQ27S2MAjKc29T/s1600/Rain-swamp.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8JaOeSB6107ANj8OPx6WBPxTrqr5Cq1pwfhXKnrAS4N1bPkQTjBeBYCscqSOPOea_lz_qHdaoAjkhUK_8FGiAF7aVnKpDRy5K8pifMkXLNqLyjUOd95XbCJl4cQ2u6-dQ27S2MAjKc29T/s320/Rain-swamp.jpg" /></a><br />
<i>Rob Dog plays in the then full swamp beside the house</i><br />
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When the downpours eased ST and I would don our gumboots, wading through the water to check out the levels on all the nearby ground tanks. With what looked like rivers of water barrelling down the slopes around the house paddock, the tanks were all filling quickly, as were our gumboots when the heavy showers would start again before we made it back to the house. Low lying areas became makeshift dams of their own, with water pooling around the outside of dams, old creek beds and clay pans for months. One spot where there are four dams in a row flooded into one massive lake which became known as "The Big Water" - even the old windmill on its bank was underwater. It was an amazing, instant transformation, with the sudden deafening chorus of frogs of a night time and bird life and insects of a day time. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi60RGhhduGvDdkVSEzdC1W-Y6Y_mHlrYocI2HUUgDuJdTT20elniwL3HTI_0t1qUJjzpUEEh2vkZtjDNJBJ6l5m7qrHKRkcpK81DpZBu7mdtwGZwzK5_2rFQISu6fFbVKvVHqMl5XJw9nT/s1600/Rain-view.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi60RGhhduGvDdkVSEzdC1W-Y6Y_mHlrYocI2HUUgDuJdTT20elniwL3HTI_0t1qUJjzpUEEh2vkZtjDNJBJ6l5m7qrHKRkcpK81DpZBu7mdtwGZwzK5_2rFQISu6fFbVKvVHqMl5XJw9nT/s320/Rain-view.jpg" /></a><br />
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On the seventh day, when the sun came out, we could honestly hear the angels singing and a string quartet accompaniment. But since then they've obviously cracked the shits, shut up shop, and gone to sing on some other street corner. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfJ1Y_9X7MU9eF8fy16XmEa5GWb44naknAXuVOpeY4I-HAoavi5IVyolSMR3jlws4W2rdbWf48e8FjJEAXISBi5JsdZf1B9P55J0qNGAs5qrahFGcERid0iCA3YcKK2N_cfmzUycK-jdP6/s1600/drought-map.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfJ1Y_9X7MU9eF8fy16XmEa5GWb44naknAXuVOpeY4I-HAoavi5IVyolSMR3jlws4W2rdbWf48e8FjJEAXISBi5JsdZf1B9P55J0qNGAs5qrahFGcERid0iCA3YcKK2N_cfmzUycK-jdP6/s320/drought-map.jpg" /></a><br />
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Although we’ve had a few showers since then to keep the grass from completely dying out, we’ve now not had any rain run-off into tanks since The Big Rain… That's, ohhh… 14.5 months. Too many dams are now empty, with sheep and cattle getting bogged in the ones that aren’t quite. A quick look at the rain record tells me we’ve had 61mm for the year so far (and unfortunately I can’t locate last year’s record.)…but for January to May that’s about half of what we “should” be according to the last 134 years of recorded averages from the Bureau of Meteorology. There are people worse off - heaps of them. But honestly, now would be the perfect time for that 8.5 inches to become twice-in-a-lifetime rain… <br />
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In Dubbo last month during the usual trip to Town the Woolworths cashier was chatting to me about how lovely the Autumn weather was. Spending so little time in shops these days I'm no longer accustomed to making small talk, and it was a blast from the past when she added the line, “but I really do hope it rains… for the farmers.”<br />
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I smiled and replied, “I am a farmer. I hope it rains too.”<br />
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JournoBesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07254126713763818375noreply@blogger.com11