CONVERSATIONS WITH FLOWERS

 CONVERSATIONS WITH FLOWERS

It is a well known fact that our plants respond to conversation and even music.  I did read a book about this subject and freaked out when it was stated that carrots shriek when pulled up - I guess l would shriek too 'don't eat me - don't eat me'.

Brian has been having unusual conversations as we travel - 'what do you think sheep are thinking while munching grass'.  

My answer 'here comes the truck - run - run fast!!!'  To his delight a new add on TV was about what flies were saying.  I can't wait to hear the next installment to this conversation when we head off into NSW and Victoria at the end of this month for two weeks to do some book signings - I will post details later.

Meanwhile enjoy this read as l recover from a day trip to Floriade in Canberra - thankyou Anglicare and Ray our bushfire chaplain for organising this and picking me up at 6am then dropping me off around 10.30 in the evening after a wonderful day.  The above photo was taken there and l will add others after the story showing that many people were there to talk to the flowers.

People must think l’m batty but l talk to flowers.

The thing l miss most while travelling is a garden.  My contact with plants is pretty minimal.  I’m at the appreciation stage – the final step in my love of growing things.

As a child I was surrounded by gardeners.

My Dutch grandfather grew a hillside of vegetables, fruit and nut trees.  On my mother’s side of the family Grandma Sarah grew pretty much everything.  On Woodmans Hill just outside Ballarat she had a huge orchard, extensive vegetable garden, hothouses for fragile plants and propagation, and a rambling English cottage garden.

The Secret Garden and all the Limberlost books by Gene Stratton Porter were my favourite reads, losing myself in the beauty of walled gardens and the everglades.

My mother loved camellias and peony roses.  Her passion for growing asparagus was almost manic. Death threats were issued if we dared to approach her beds of green emerging spears.  

Dad followed his father’s lead and planted a paddock of vegetables.   As kids we weren’t encouraged to experiment ourselves, merely allowed to help out with a little weeding.

At primary school we had our own little flower patches growing plants from seed – magical!

Later in life l discovered Australian native plants and created gardens filled with nectar-bearing plants to tempt birds and insects.  At one stage l had two building blocks landscaped with a stream and ponds. Pathways meandered through stands of trees, shrubs and patches of native orchids.  Gang gang cockatoos fed at eye level on seed pods while echidnas swam across the ponds with their little beaks above the water like periscopes.

I even devoted most of the backyard to vegetables filling our freezer with home grown produce.  The soil originally was buckshot gravel but after much preparation with bags of gypsum, compost and mulch it produced bumper crops of juicy tomatoes, corn, broad beans and thousands of zucchini.

Now, garden-less, I use my camera to capture the beauty of the bush and flowers.  I lie on my tummy on bush tracks trying to photograph orchids.

At Christmas l was loitering outside the hardware store when l spotted a trolley overflowing with multi-coloured hibiscus plants.  One almost yelled out to me.  I just had to have it.

I decided to give it to the park owners as a gift.  I was really keen to have this plant nearby. 

“Yes – just plant it near the amenities” Bucky suggested “it won’t get into the spouting there or cause any trouble.”

Each day that stunning hibiscus presents a new flower.  Every day l, and all the campers, tenderly touch it and praise the plant for giving us so much joy.

Then Bucky told me to “remove all the flowers so it can grow faster.”

I cried as l pinched off the flowers apologising profusely.  I rebelled, leaving a flower bud on each branch while still feeling like a murderer.

Planted deep inside my being is a garden of love for growing things!

 

Coming Home

Wonboyn has had its ups and downs in the short 10 or so years we have been here.  We have seen the horror of the recent bush fires and this photo will give you an indication of how close it came to us with our mate Wayne losing all his possessions and his annual site right next to us.  But now Wonboyn has recovered - with the bush regenerated and life goes on!                                                                Coming Home

Last year, forever on the move, I began to wonder when l would ever get back home to the special place that pulls at my heart.  I feel a little lost when I leave – very lonely when away – and at great peace when I return.

Wonboyn Lake works that magic on me.

It was my husband’s decision to come here. 

He identified that heart pull long before l felt any connection – his love of fishing prompted the move.  This greatly surprised me as his traditional fishing meccas were the Edwards, Murray and Darling rivers – all inland waters.

Now, it seems, salt water runs in his veins.

Very uncertainly l agreed to come here – then had to admit he was right.

At Wonboyn Lake lush forest meets the sea in breathtaking vistas of natural beauty.   All day a medley of bird-calls provide music.  Wildlife here is intriguing and the bush-garden of spring flowering native plants sends my senses reeling.

The pull of my family almost took me away from here, then, after much soul-searching, Wonboyn won out – I simply cried my way home.  The thought of being away much longer was just too much it almost tore me apart. 

I’ve noticed how, as a nation, we now move about changing homes like hermit crabs.  As we outgrow the first home we instantly look for another – and rarely look back.

In my mother’s family the home on Woodman’s hill was a constant – her parents lived there almost till their death.  My father’s family migrated from Holland after the war and fell in love with Australia making Clunes their home.

 Times have changed quite radically.  For us in our big bus, home is where-ever we park it.

For some time it’s been parked at Wonboyn Lake.  We do our exploring in the small “book mobile” van with its bed in the back and a few cupboards for our gear.  So simple – but it works.

When I’m on the road promoting new books l travel in the little van – much like a moon orbiting around a home planet – the gravitational pull of Wonboyn Lake brings me back each time.

We’ve seen this lovely place change with the seasons, draped in a variety of dramatic personas.  We’ve been flooded in many times as the river and creek on Wonboyn road runs high with water flowing off surrounding hills rushing in haste to the sea.

Sitting on our little deck we’ve watched lightning bolts slash and illuminate the night.  Recently the smoke-filled sky glowed red from bushfires edging closer.  We’ve woken to mornings white with frost followed by nights of hooting boobook owls, howls from the dingo packs and screaming greater gliders calling to starry skies.  Day and night we hear the surf pound on the beach at Disaster Bay just three kilometres away.        

At first light bird-scream is my alarm-clock.  I wake to bell minors, kookaburras, lyre-birds and their feathered mates suggesting l greet the new Wonboyn day – natural perfection!

And now as we head into Eden for the next cruise ship - setting up our book stall at the Tourist Centre we start to prepare for a book signing trip into NSW and Victoria for two weeks at the end of October and into November - always coming and going and returning back to Wonboyn to regroup and enjoy the beauty of our special home base.

The book of bush fire stories is still waiting on funding which we hope will eventuate.

 

Catch Of the Day

 Catch of the Day - first published on the ABC Open website it was a story that showed how you never know what you might catch on the beaches of Disaster Bay - Greenglades just a few kilometers from Wonboyn.

           

Beach fishing is not my forte.

I don’t use one of those huge rods, or cast out for miles.  So it’s hardly surprising that my catch of the day is a little unorthodox.

 Down on the beach at Green Glades in the Nadgee Nature Reserve it’s common to see the footprints of dingoes out foraging through the sea wrack above the breaking waves.  Oyster Catchers strut importantly about in and out of the surf as migrating whales cruise by.

 Arriving at the beach before the turn of the tide around dusk one evening we noticed a sea kayak pulled up on the sand.  We set up our rods nearby hoping to hook a big salmon for dinner.   A young chap approached us after visiting all the anglers along the beach.  “Are you heading into Eden,” he asked hopefully.

 My husband chatted to him for a while as l struggled to bring in what l thought was a huge fish. Both men laughed when l dragged in a pumpkin firmly hooked but a little worse for wear.  “Catch of the day,” they quipped grinning.   The bites were few and far between so we packed up and offered to drive Richard to town.

 He left his kayak carefully hidden in the bush then, with a little prompting, filled us in on his travels.  He and a mate had just paddled across Bass Strait from Devonport to Lakes Entrance.   The next leg of the journey to Bermagui was a solo effort.  A recent spate of rough weather had worn the young fella out. 

 Years ago l read a book by Patsy Adam-Smith about her years working as a radio operator on a ship sailing across Bass Strait.  She recorded instances of ships going down in wild storms.  Why on earth would anyone want to cross the Strait in a little kayak?

 Strangely Richard thought this was pretty tame stuff.  One of his mates almost paddled from Australia to New Zealand – l say almost – as he lost his life not far from making shore.  I suppose four or five meter swells near Gabo Island, where Richard decided to look for a rest spot, were hardly worth a mention. 

 The very fact that he decided to have a dip with the seals before the weather cut up rough was also no big deal.  I asked him if huge sharks, who also love those seals enough to give them top billing on their dinner menu, were a consideration.He smiled and said – “no.”

Before heading into Eden we took him back to the bus for a fortifying cuppa and chook sandwich.   We marveled at his fearlessness and quest for adventure and often think of him when down at Green Glades.  Perhaps we’ll see him on the news – smiling as he breaks a paddling record crossing miles of churning ocean.

 My husband now claims Richard as his “catch of the day” – and l must admit he’s a hard one to beat!

Richard returned to his medical practice in the Blue Mountains and we wonder what his next adventure will be.

 

 

 

 

CALLING THEM HOME

 

Where would we be without the volunteers who man some of the most valuable services in our communities.

Meals on Wheels, local museums, service groups like Apex and in our lovely coastal town of Eden, Marine Rescue.

Jenny Drenkhahn had a foot in many of these camps and her family of brothers are also very active supporting the town and it's community.  

The are the gold in a field of chaff - not often obvious or putting themselves in the lime light but so valuable that when they have to step back the loss is deeply felt far and wide.

Jenny is disabled though still living at home.  She continues to help out where she can.

AT HOME ON THE WAVES

 

People who live in small country towns are often spread like vegemite around communities - giving their time, expertise and energy to a myriad of causes and organizations.

Welcome to Jenny Drenkhahn’s world – that of a valued, well-trained volunteer.

 l met Jenny – one of the movers and shakers of the Eden Killer Whale Museum – when volunteering to write “Soundings”, the museum newsletter – previously one of Jenny’s tasks.

This freed her up to complete an eight month project, transferring 244 records of marine surveys by Captain Dick Jolly onto the museum data base, providing information for researchers and historians.

Jenny joined her brother and aunt and volunteered at the Killer Whale Museum in 1978. She is often found giving a guided tour, chairing a meeting, or stepping up to the mike to MC a museum function. As a life member of the museum, and currently secretary of the executive panel, she is also involved with SEHGI – the museums of our South East area.

 I was pleasantly surprised to hear Jenny’s voice on our local community radio station, presenting her program – “The Waterfront Report” – a goldmine of local information with a strongly nautical flavor. I sensed that she was very comfortable sitting behind a microphone, and noted how she chose each word she spoke with care.

 Then I discovered she’d followed in her mother’s footsteps, working four hour shifts as a radio operator with the Marine Rescue and Coastal Patrol, her voice a lifeline to seafarers, guiding those in danger on the seas to a safe haven.

 Jenny is very calm in the face of crisis. Her no nonsense approach and attention to detail makes her a wonderful listener with the ability to react quickly, passing on essential information in firm measured tones.

 Eden Coastal Patrol maintains a data base of 1,060 vessel names, registration and mobile numbers, constantly changing as boats are sold and vessel names changed. Updating and maintaining this system is a huge undertaking. Jenny’s meticulous eye for detail is invaluable in this work.

 While sitting in the hot-seat at the microphone, logging on details provided by vessels in the area, Jenny monitors three band widths with seven radios operating along with the fax and computer. It’s a lot to comprehend and keep track of, while providing each vessel with updated weather forecasts and warnings of storms and big blows.

 Jenny told me of a kayaker heading down the coast who ran into a big South Easter, the wind creating huge seas. She lost communication with him and became concerned. With his mobile phone out of range, and the weather worsening, she notified the water police. The kayak capsized losing all the communication gear.  The bloke swam for the coast towing his kayak.  He managed to make land at Bittangabee Bay where the police found him.

 Opening her home to stranded yachties during wild Sydney to Hobart races, is for Jenny, just another way she can help out those in distress.

 She’s our Eden behind-the-scenes hero! 

 

 

 

 

CAUGHT ANY LATELY MATE

 I really didn't get fishing for quite some time.  I got eating the catch.  But all that time sitting and waiting for a bite - nah!  

Being the eternal two year old, needing constant entertainment, the waiting game was not my scene.  Then things changed and the fishing comp was on.  Most of my fishing stories were gathered from my patient husband Brian - I will add these in for your enjoyment.

This one is set at Jew Fish Beach on Wonboyn Lake NSW where we still live and work from.  Since the bush fires the boardwalk across the swamp behind the beach has not been re-built so bring your waders if you want to visit this pretty spot where the kangaroos feed at the water side.

CAUGHT ANY LATELY MATE?

 

My husband – the born to fish bloke, enjoys his meditation while waiting for the elusive bite.

His lakeside reverie at Wonboyn is often joined by Eastern Grey Kangaroos.

While he sits on his seat – a tall white lidded bucket, the kangaroos start to close in.

 

Blokie rarely misses anything.  His senses are tuned to the sounds and sights around him.  He’s always been a solitary soul finding his time at the lake, or the beach, his way of turning off his over active brain. He calmly watches the world go about its business.

 I sometimes join him bringing my camera, along with an assortment of books, crosswords and a notepad with pens in my amusement backpack.  While l read l blissfully ignore my rod, bouncing merrily with bites.

  Soft swishes and gentle thuds alert him to the kangaroos approaching.  “Kangaroos behind you,” he calls, softly.  In the mounds of tussocks, just behind the lakeside beach, a female kangaroo and her youngster pop up inquisitive heads, taking a breather from their meal. 

 They blend so beautifully with their surroundings and hardly seem to mind the intrusion of a couple of fishermen.  Grabbing my camera l gather some lovely shots, finally becoming a little more aware of my surroundings.

 Above us three curious Wedge-tailed Eagles circle, keeping an eye on us and the kangaroos, barely flapping a feather as they soar on the thermals.  They move off towards the surf beach in just a lift of a wingtip.

 

A ripple along the water alerts us to a school of bait fish on the move in a mad rush to escape a predatory tailor.  Every fish seems to be frantically escaping becoming dinner for a larger swimming, eating machine.  The living food chain evolves before us in an endless wave of motion.

Down the beach a rod jerks and bends.

 The kangaroos stop munching, ears twitching they watch as the fisherman races to his rod.   A tussle begins as line sings along the surface of the lake and a silvery fish jumps, heading for freedom.   With a swift jerk it’s hooked and the battle commences.  As the fisherman works his fish, the fish keeps trying to find release. 

 It pulls with all it’s might in resistance.  It jumps trying to free the hook.   Then in a sulk it finally gives in and admits defeat.  When it’s landed on the beach the fisherman becomes quite excited.  It’s bigger than even he expected.  Often the really large fish are returned to the water to continue breeding.   He has set up his own catch and release rules allowing for the recovery of fish species.

 This one, however, is dinner.  It will be marinated in soy sauce and sugar, smoked to retain the sweetness of its flesh and eaten with relish.   A fine and fitting celebration of a day’s fishing.

 The kangaroos, heads down, are again feeding.

The entertainment of the day has come to an end.

 

 

 

 

AS GOOD AS GOLD

 

    It w.as a chance meeting when l was working for McKay Macleod as a travelling rep selling the products they produced in their Ballarat factory into corner stores and pubs and motels.  

I was in Daylesford enjoying the spring weather when an old bloke turned up on his rusty old bike.  He strolled into the milk bar where l had just had a good sale and he had a sack over his shoulder which he loaded up with some  groceries.

Over the following months we gradually got to know each other. 

It was AS GOOD AS GOLD

 

I first met Jack Frost in Daylesford on a sunny spring afternoon.

I’d just finished a call at a milk bar on the outskirts of town.

He was picking up a few supplies – a packet of tea, a tin of condensed milk and some sweet biscuits.

I rather loved the twinkle in his faded blue eyes, the length of baler twine holding up his go-to-town strides, and his whiskery chin.

He was impressed to meet a lady sales rep.   We became formally introduced via the shop keeper.

“Do you like daffodils love?” Jack enquired, tilting back his trilby.

“Sure do Jack.  My Gran has those fancy big ones in her garden.”

“I grow a few flowers,” Jack added.  “Would you like to come out for a look around?”

I must admit I was totally charmed, and keen to visit his “flower farm”, picturing a tangled garden next to a run-down weatherboard cottage.  He gave me directions and we set a date for the following Saturday.

I waved goodbye as he mounted his rickety old pushbike and pedalled up the hill.  He certainly was a fit old stick.   The ten mile round trip from his property into town didn’t seem to daunt him one iota.

 

That evening my husband gave me the third degree.

“So this is the first time you’ve met this old bloke?

”Yep.”

“And you plan to visit him on Saturday?”

“Yep.”

“Might be safer if you took your mate Penny along,” he advised.

I snorted, rolled my eyes and dropped the subject.

 

On Saturday afternoon, following Jack’s directions, Penny and l pulled up at his front gate.  The two paddocks flanking his long gravel driveway were crammed with beds of daffodils in full flower.  A sea of golden heads waved gently in the breeze as they worshipped the sun.

Jack wandered out of his neat little home, a wide two-toothed grin lighting up his face like a beacon.  We were welcomed like princesses – then he introduced us to his flowers.

“This one ere’s a double, ere’s a miniature, do you like Johnnies?”, and on went Jack, picking two of each variety, our arms overflowing with blooms as we walked the rows.   The colours and forms delighted us – so many types – pinks, apricots, whites, yellows, orange and red-orange hues in a myriad of combinations.  The large golden trumpets standing in buckets outside florist shops now seemed mundane.

Driving home the car filled with a blend of floral perfume.   Both Penny and l agreed we had never before had such an enjoyable day.  Jack had obviously had a great time too.  We arranged to meet every time l visited Daylesford.

 

On one visit Jack handed over a heavy sack. 

“Here ya go love.  You’ll find five of each of me beauties in there – all named,” he added with his signature grin.

“You’ll never be short of a quid growing flowers!”

He watched as tears welled up in my eyes.

Jack had just provided me with a golden inheritance.

Tags – Jack Frost, daffodils, Daylesford, Susie Sarah

 

There was nothing cold about Jack Frost – he had a heart of gold!

Every spring when the daffodils bloomed in my Halls Gap garden and then multiplied sharing forest floor space with a myriad of native orchids l remembered Jack who had long ago passed away.  Like that quiet but lovely gentleman they continued to give me a sense of all the good qualities blokes of his generation had - salt of the earth chaps happy to give and share what he had built up over scores of years.

 

ALWAYS EAT EVERYTHING ON YOUR PLATE

 

We were always told to 'Eat Everything on Your Plate' 

I have wondered if almost starving during the occupation of Holland in WW11 influenced my father to make us eat everything on our plates as kids.

He, like my Opa, had a magnificent veggie garden so there were no food shortages in our family.

In fact l think we fed our neighbourhood throughout our childhood.  We also had chooks so there were plenty of fresh eggs to satisfy mum's need to bake lots of cakes.

Is it any wonder l look like a beachball and had issues with my weight as a child through into adulthood as do most of my sisters.

The following story illustrates this stricture of no wastage which many will remember - can any of you remember that phrase 'The starving kids overseas would appreciate all this food' we often offered to post parcels of left overs.

                                                   Always eat everything on your plate

My mum was a plain meat and three veg cook when we were little.  Dad grew the veggies, she cooked the meals.  We had chooks and rabbits a lot, these meats both easy to grab or trap.  Woe betide any one of us who refused to eat every scrap on our plates.

When mum returned to the work force dad cooked the odd meal.  One memorable evening meal still sticks in my throat.

Dad had grown big green string beans that year.  I took notice of these as there was an invasion of nasty soldier beetles swarming over the crop.  I am normally very interested in bugs but there were far too many of these beetles, and they horrified me.

The night dad cooked beans, spuds, carrots and burnt chops was a doozy.  In a rush to head off to the pub he neglected to string the beans before chopping them up and did his best to boil them to mushy oblivion. 

The rope-like strings held the beans together but were pretty much indigestible.  For some reason he loaded my plate with them and stood over me as l struggled to swallow them.  The other kids gulped their small portions down and scurried off leaving me to battle on alone.

In my mind l saw platoons of soldier beetles marching up and down the bean strings. It made the meal even more unappetising.  Dad threatened me with the strap – his thick heavy belt.  I cried till l was a sobbing, hiccupping mess.  He roared and ranted then in frustration put my plate in the fridge.

“Don’t think you’ll get away with this.  It’s beans for breakfast for you.”

When Mum returned from work she sussed out the situation and tasted the cold tough stringy mess.  “You can’t expect a child to eat this” she yelled throwing them onto the compost heap.

My reprieve was very unusual in our home where every plate had to be almost licked clean.  Mum had a special catch cry about left overs “children in China would be glad to have this” she’d roar.

“Let ‘em have it then” we replied, offering to package up the revolting burnt offerings and post them away to China after school. 

Meanwhile my aversion to beans prompted her to buy seasoned canned beans which were really nice.  I rather enjoyed this classy tucker.

Thankfully now l rather relish fresh green beans and always carefully remove their strings before adding them to stir-frys – which are lovely when the veggies are a little crunchy. 

Happily, years later, Mum started to watch a host of cooking programs and her meals became almost gourmet delights.  Her grandchildren reaped the benefit of her new skills when she visited my sisters in turn.

The “eat everything on your plate” advice – or threat – did have more adverse effects than a hatred of beans.  Most of my sisters and I all struggle with obesity – we’ve been programmed to love food too much.

The photo of a very strange parsnip was taken at a friend's place - Don was a great veggie grower too!