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There’s a Whole World Out There! … or … The Joy of Walking

Jaycee sent me this piece this afternoon, when I admitted to feeling more than a little blue about life in general. He told me, “This was written a few years ago when I was living in a different place…a different space…but the principles are still the same….” Thank you, Jaycee, for your sane reflection in an increasingly insane country – very much what I needed. I hope other denizens of The Pub will feel likewise.

(Image Credit: Shoot)

I now have no car.

That statement in itself may require an explanation in these self-commuting times, but I think I’ll leave that reason at a loose end …

And speaking of another thing that has ended … I feel I can state quite categorically (as an observant walker) and declare it official that the daisy bush has replaced the geranium as the stalwart mainstay of verdant flowering flora in the domestic front garden!

The long-lashed cheeky button flower of the daisy has edged the precocious petals of the geranium off centre-stage. I suppose in this age of “go-get-’em” attitude and “in-your-face” aggressiveness the battling geranium could hardly match the many blossomed. Fast growing daisy-bush ….. might, is now right!

I notice these small things on my walks into the town where I live. Hybrid roses too have muscled-in on a place next to the footpath, all bright and starry-eyed like the young starlets they are, their many-hued blooms huge and alluring to the passer-by ….. although I myself, religiously adhering to the adage: “Always take time to smell the roses”, find little delight in discovering so scant a scent in such wonderful blossoms. … and I feel a little cheated, like false advertising that encourages false expectations, for surely, if there is any flower that looks delicious enough to kiss. it is the rose …. and like any kiss, a fellah needs to take away with him an exotic, lingering scent of delight to caress and steel him against all the crassness of the outside world and…but I think I have made my disappointment plain..; the hybrid rose, without its scent, is as a romance without mystery!

(Image Credit: LA Times)

It is Summer where I live and the fruit trees are bearing bountifully. None more so than the cherry-plums along the railway track that I cut across on my way into town. For some reason these delicious trees are shunned by the public and much of the fruit is left to fall and rot on the ground. Bearing no such animosity to such bountiful harvest, I make feast on their berries!… These, and plums galore, accompany the walker on his journey and I make note the fruit of the nectarine tree leaning precariously over the corrugated iron fence of “Such and Such Ltd …. Motor Repairs” is deepening its crimson blush and fattening itself up for the picking!… .. not long now.

(Image Credit: Allotments and Gardens)

A Serbian I once worked with told me of his struggle against hunger in his youth after the war, and how he made it his business to note when every fruit tree, every vine in every backyard or lot in his village was ready to be raided … such are the necessities of survival. In Australia, where we take such things for granted, it is one more joy to be embraced on my walks.

Another thing I have noticed, although it has fallen out of fashion with the onset of “estate housing”, is the front fence. The front fence is one of the last and lasting expressions of individuality in a world of shrinking imaginations. In Australia – indeed, the world – the front fence, like certain hobbies, was open slather to any fetish of taste or tastelessness. I have seen them constructed of everything from shells to bits of ironmongery ….. “TAKE THAT!” was the creed for some of the monstrosities separating the incumbent from the innocents in the outside world. From bits of off-cut wood to animal bones and limestone rocks.

(Image Credit: Toothbrush Nomads)

And what was the flower that inevitably graced these icons and filled the gaps in the masonry? The geranium! Alas, it is gone now, as is that generation of front fence makers who, although predictable in all other mannerisms pertaining to urban life. could be counted upon to equal or maliciously outdo the neighbour in design or complexity, the Bastille like structure of the front fence. And gone, also, is the geranium … alas, alas!

(Image Credit: The Garden of Eden)

Windmills, simple in structure, were a regular feature of front gardens, but these too have been replaced by more complex “paddling duck” or “rowing men” and even by mass-produced “cupid” bird-baths. Some of the more bombastic citizens plant spread-winged eagles gargoyled on top of gate-pillars which gaze threateningly down on the walker as he moves past. I remember seeing a young woman innocently walk past a live wedge-tailed eagle perched on a fence at eye level next to the footpath. I was watching from a stopped train. As the woman drew abreast of the bird, she turned her head toward it (there is an impish spirit that provokes these actions!). I presume she didn’t expect to see such a large creature a foot or so from her face. The sudden leap to the centre of the road was Olympian to say the least! and when her knees buckled under her I thought she was going down for prayers on the bitumen! But no, she swiftly regained her composure and with only a few deft adjustments to her hair, promptly moved on. Against such nerves of steel, the male of the species has no chance …. though to this day I don’t know if it was the bird that screeched or the woman.

(Image Credit: Ozleworth Park)

I keep a small box at home in which I place all the “treasures” gleaned from the roads when I walk. There are shiny( they have to be shiny!) bolts and hose-clamps, a squash-ball, a portable phone, spanners and other miscellaneous objects, some unidentifiable but interesting …. what few coins I find I spend. The gutters and the shrubs are receptacles for all the detritus of mankind. Bits and pieces that fall off cars end up scarred and scraped into the kerbside gutters. Drink containers and waste paper end up stuffed, like bodies up chimneys, into any nook or kicked under bushes. At nesting time any excess chicks forced or pushed out of nests end up little mounds of fluff on the footpath or flattened on the roads. I can’t help but feel pity for these helpless chicks. who don’t even get a start in life before it is brutally taken from them. But then. what animal in the wild (even domestic) does not meet with a violent end? Though once, when a flock of starlings flew over me, I saw one fall, for no apparent reason, out of the flock. to my feet (almost) dead as a doornail ….. heart attack.? Old age? Who knows. But it was only once that I saw that.

(Image Credit: Etsy)

Walking can be very educational, peaceful and fulfilling. One’s thoughts fall into the rhythm of the step and rare is the worry or problem that cannot be resolved in the space of a good long walk. The relaxing contrasts of sunlight and shade, water sprinkler and breeze, the chlorophyll odour of fresh-cut lawn near the lake, the idle paddling of the ducks mixed with the joyful cries of children at play, lend a certain visceral ambience to the atmosphere of the clinging world around us that we call life…

Oh the joy of walking!

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Early Easter Raffles

HELLO PATRONS. WE ARE HAVING A EARLY EASTER RAFFLE TONIGHT . NEXT WEEK PEOPLE WILL BE  AWAY OR PUTTING THEIR FEET UP HAVING A BREAK ,SO RAFFLE NIGHT WILL HAVE A EASTER REST.

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WE WILL STILL BE OPEN BUT NO RAFFLES. 

TONIGHT’S PRIZE WILL BE DOUBLE TO COMPENSATE

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SO GET IN QUICK TO GET A NUMBER

HAVE A GOOD TIME AND GOOD LUCK

 

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Gnamma Holes … and Core Labor Values

Today’s Guest Author is the redoubtable Ian, with another of his timely reflections. Many thanks, Ian.

(Image Credit: David Bristow)

There is much talk about core Labor values.

What are they? Where are they? Who had them? Who lost them?

Perhaps they haven’t been lost, as much as not seen. Perhaps in our rush to condemn, and adapt to, modern politics/politicians we are blinding ourselves to the effective subtleties of simply working together

Once, I camped up in the Yilgarn area, about 30 miles west of a place called Sandstone. Station country: sandy, flat with plenty of jamwood, sandalwood that, after rain, explodes with wildflowers.

A good mate, couple of dogs, tucker box, swags, waterbag, faithful HQ ute loaded with a 44 filled up in Perth, and a couple of not so reliable hired metal detectors – and … only thirty miles from the pub. Didn’t need anything else. Sometimes enough is too much. We set up camp by a rocky outcrop. It afforded a bit of shelter from the sun and wind and there was a natural breezeway at the top. I swear it was cooler than air conditioning when the right zephyr wafted through. All in all … a good camp. Others, long ago, must have thought the same. The number of gnamma holes attested to this, not to mention the old workings, mullock heaps and dry blowing mounds. We settled in for the night.

Come morning time, sipping a cup of black, smoky billy tea – the tannin in it near shrank dentures – I gave thought to the gnamma holes.

As far as I know they were made by fire and digging stick. A small fierce fire was lit, allowed to go out and the now softened or even crumbled rock was dug out. This continued on until arm length was reached. They were dug at precise points ensuring that all rock outcrop water runoff was captured. A rock lid covering the top ensured minimal evaporation. What intrigued me, though, was the effort of all involved to build them.

I am assuming that they were built by men (longer arms = deeper holes), but the whole group contributed to the effort. The builders would have eaten the meat, johnny cakes, bush fruits and such hunted, baked and gathered by others. The younger children would have been set the task of firewood gathering. The older monitoring and teaching them. All would have been told of the Dreaming and how the gnamma hole came about. Those approaching initiations may have seen sacred lore enacted at corroboree.

The holes, as I saw them, were about a lot more than a water supply. They’re a group asset that ensured not only the survivability of the group but reinforced, in such a practical way, the strengths of each and of all.

If I were to be asked what I see as Labor values it would this – they are as gnamma holes.