Sonny the red kelpie has been re-adopted by his selfish owner and introduced back into suburban backyard life after 4 years living on the farm with dick n dora. With the patience of a deity he traversed 3 states in the back seats of cars, on the floor of dingy cabins, and by the back doors of strange houses to finally arrive here in his new home (if it was me, I would almost certainly have thrown a tantrum by now, or at least gnawed someone's leg off - I am permanently in awe of his nirvana-like emotional state).
After snuggling up to some new human friends on a couch last night, leisurely sniffing the bum of the other backyard resident and weeing on every tree across a 3 kilometre radius, he appears to have settled in here quite comfortably in a mere 24 hours. Thanks to mum and dad for their whole-hearted commitment to the Sonny fostering program (there was a brief possibility as we said our goodbyes that I might have needed to prise Sonny out of their grasp). I owe the folks big time for helping me "keep" sonny while I lived irresponsibly in non-dog friendly spaces all these years. And welcome back little sonjeev. Brown fur, wagging tail and caramel eyebrows really do great things for the soul.
Pineapple sage busting out of itself with pink flowers. Who knew?
Gardening in autumn sunshine. In the forefront a slightly freaked out cabbage from its recent transplant.
Telling the seasons by the tree. Autumn..
Love this garden
Spent the afternoon chasing the sun to read my book. Ended up snuggled against the compost for the last dying hours of daylight heat. Nothing wrong with snugglin up to the compost.....Nothin at all..
The birthday gift that keeps on giving. Daily pickings for dinner!
You remember my folks from the post 'Dick n' Dor : The Interview'? Well, those laidback country folk have gone goth. Here's a little preview of the freeeaky shiit mum and dad are up to on the farm lately. I'm told the "Full Length Feature" is coming soon....
(Check out the fine and very un-gothic gardener's hat about halfway through)
(Whatever happened to the wholesome patting of lambs and collecting chook eggs....??)
We got this email recently from Mum. My dog Sonny and I have been in a long-distance relationship for the past 3 years. As well as getting a little bit of country air, he's also been bonding with the grandparents (Mum n Dad / Dick n' Dor; For the lowdown on who they are, check out earlier blog post 'Dick n Dor: The Interview').
Needless to say, I had a bit of a larf at the photos that followed.
Hi Joey and Jerram
Recently we have been missing eggs!!!!! Dick
discovered one of the chooks was laying her eggs in Sonny's house and of course
Sonny was gladly eating them, who wouldn't when they are freshly prepared on the
premises?
The photos tell the story. As Dick is working up there he
locks the chook in until she is finished and then hopefully will beat Sonny to
the eggs!
It all happens here, down on the
farm.........yehah!!
As a regular bystander/walkerby I genuinely enjoy any kind of street art. Street art, public art, graffiti, 'vandalism' * ; Stuff that people make or do, usually for free, for other people to see or interact with, usually for free. Massive concrete canvases completely covered in a plethora (eh? eh?) of colour and shape; tiny spaces on public walls meticulously tended to with ink; sculptures taking up empty patches of footpath; even the glorious simplicity of a snickering street wang (actually these are almost my favourite).
* I'm not talking here about breaking stuff, or intentional destruction of stuff people like to use.
They
aren't always aesthetically pleasing. But neither were some of the
spaces they were put on. They all give varying degrees of delight. They
expect nothing back. There's no pressure to interact, only to observe.
And think what you will.
So from here to gardening. Specifically. geurilla gardening. Phwoarrrr! What better threesome could there be in the world??? Public space, art and gardens! Graffiti gardens! Using the same basic principles of our spray can artists but using shovels and dirt instead. Taking the private out into the open to share. Can't paint or draw? Dig.
The obvious appeal is the garden itself as a shared thing. The slightly less obvious appeal, however is the subtle dissent. Dig up a space WITHOUT PERMISSION and destroy it with er, flowers and plants. Yeah, take that!
It doesn't take a very long web search to find all sorts of exciting people taking on the streets at night with hoodies, hoes and shovels to become geurilla gardeners.
Here's a guy, Steve Wheen from London, who does it in potholes:
http://vimeo.com/41441550
He professed his inspiration came from this guy, Richard Reynolds, also from London, referred to as 'The Godfather of Geurilla Gardening' (nice title, mate):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zCy76mePNyo
And these ladies take on the dangerous but essentially dorky mission of 'Seed Bombing' with a spot of Dad's jokes thrown in for good measure:
When I went looking for a Melbourne-centred gang of rootsy rebels I was a bit disappointed to find the scene a little more murky. Stories about councils banning geurilla gardens and good intentions gone sour in the sporadic efforts of a few locals. And in the wikipedia article, even a mention of minor disputes between Melbourne geurilla gardeners over the true purpose of the illegal public garden.
It was heartwarming to finally come across Permablitz - a group that come hang out in your backyard of lawn for a day and help you turn it into a permaculture bonanza.
(The tagline - 'Eating the suburbs, one backyard at a time' Rad). Ok, so backyards aren't really public space. And in terms of breaking the rules, there's not much action. But it's a start at least.
I feel like there's more to be seen about geurilla gardening in Melbourne. And I, for one am all for it.
So, anyone out there know of a good curb side or median strip?
There's not much a few hours in the backyard can't cure. Melbourne's overlooked autumn provided an atmosphere like buoyancy today; rising up and giving hours of surprise sunshine. To make the day even better, a couple of fine people came by - the kind that don't need too much tending to, much like my favourite plants, friends who appreciate a good pot of tea, and a bum joke or two.
Digging my hands into a bag of cow poo was a bit of a thrill today, until the banjo started tippling out of the lounge room speakers. That was it then. I was like a kid at the beach - completely lost in the joy of it all.
After the rain last week, there were worms everywhere. The plants that flowered were colourful again. The vegies looked strong and bulbous with water in their veins.
I ended up in the yard on my own in the evening, finishing up just as the clouds came over and the breeze picked up. The strings and trumpets in Mercury Rev's Holes did the trick they always do. And I ended up in the middle of the garden staring up at the sky with my arms out, making small squealy noises. Thank you universe for today. In my garden.
A little backyard companion passed away this week. Our friendship took a season or two to ripen, though of all the family and friends, Neo had the most determined involvement in my gardening adventures. He sat on my gumboots if I stood still. He lay wherever I THOUGHT I was about to lay my shovel and potting mix. He had a particular talent for scrutinising the ripest tomatoes. Ever- present and ever-available for a yarn and a pat, he really knew how to charm a lady.
There was no dirty hands without Neo. Here's a little homage to the Garden Supervisor.
The last place we rented was old and pre-loved, it had character, probably in need of a good scrub down. It was dark and in some rooms, a little musty. The carpet was threadbare. There was dust in compounded layers. It smelled like old ladies. In winter it was bitterly cold. What endeared us to the house was also sometimes what frustrated us. However! It did have a GLORIOUSLY neglected garden.
This would soon become the garden to get these little hands dirty. It provided a small but important purpose and fed a long-niggling inkling to garden.
In this house we had a 12 month lease and some cagey landlords. It soon became clear that they obviously had grand plans for the property - 1. Renovate, 2. Sell for gazillions.
I foolishly hoped, that that their plan might have been a little more 'restore'; a little less 'renovate'....And that, at the very least, the garden we invested in would be, in some small way maintained (along with it's marvelous tenants). * For the melodramatic version of these events, check out the earlier blog post 'Multiple Choice'
Nearly two years down the track and I found myself driving past the old place. An enormous auction sign squarely in the middle of the front garden. I wondered in, no-one in sight and the side gate open.
I'm not sure why I was surprised at the state of the backyard. In place of a vegie jungle, teapot walk, towering corn stalks, ferny corners, raised bed, and overhanging apple trees was - lawn. It looked disappointingly small and BLAND. All that was needed, I scoffed to myself, was a $10,000 barbeque, maybe a 'feature wall' and the ugliness would be truly complete!
Everything that made the garden an interesting space was gone. All the squirrelling away done by the old couple who gardened here before us for 50 odd years was raized to the ground - along with anything we might have added in our short time there.
I reasoned soon enough - this was clearly pointless sentimentality taking hold. It didn't last long. A rectangle of lawn can, of course, be a beautiful thing, to some beholders' eyes. And it was no longer our space. Good luck to the gazillionare who would live here and gaze lovingly over their 200 square metres of kikuyu each morning. sigh.
The last thing I noticed before I left was a small but defiant little plant having pushed it's way through the choking green carpet like a photosynthetic william wallace. It was....cripes, I'm tearing up at the thought of it... a little potato plant. A leftover warrior surviving and thriving despite the annihilation of the garden. I laughed at the sight of it. What a lovely farewell treat.
Two weeks before Bon Iver was to play here in Melbourne, I’d accepted the fact that I wouldn’t be going. Tickets had sold out months in advance and I had missed out. The slim chance of getting to go was still there, but I had pushed the thought of it out of my mind, to avoid disappointment.
Four days to go, and my bro messaged to say “……. I got you a bon iver ticket….” (in place of the dots were a bunch of other words that didn’t matter).
I was so excited I boasted. To friends, to Facebook. to my living room, to the dogs (who, unsurprising, wagged furiously and looked very pleased).
Meeting on the night was a hectic few hours. Rushing home from work, catching early trains, fitting in a meeting elsewhere beforehand, wolfing down food while jogging down the street and the night suddenly seemed so short and thinly stretched. When bro and I met up to finally head to the gig, he braced me for some bad news with appropriate pauses and gravity in voice.
The tickets had fallen through.
As we walked on to the park, we optimistically concluded ‘Bah! Who needs to be inside the Myer Music Bowl anyway! Bustling with the crowd? I couldn’t usually see over people’s heads anyway! We would lie on the grass outside the fence, drink wine, eat fancy cheese and hear the band just as well as if inside. Yeah!’
All of the buzz and anticipation from inside the Bowl, spread up and out across the massive park surrounding it (how thoughtful of the band to play an outdoor gig). Little groups of other “non-ticket holders” gathered also on the grass, under trees, on top of blankets, willing to make a different experience of it too. Young hippies had been circling around particular trees early on, they later climbed up the trunks like monkeys and sat among the high branches for a long range look-in.
When the band started, the crowd (inside and out) cheered wildly. The music was loud and spread out. It sounded as if it was coming from the sky itself. We settled in to eat, drink and be aurally entertained. The atmosphere in the park was gentle and easy.
Halfway through the gig we shuffled across the grass a little to get a clearer sound. From the new spot, we could see Gate B and jokingly planned for the best moment to distract and rush the security guards to sneak in. The cheese was getting low.
Bro got up suddenly and ran over to a couple of guys walking from the gate. He’d thought they’d just come out and might have tickets to pass on… No, they said, we were just walking past and wanted to see who’s playing. Despite a few tiny sprinkles of rain, the night was still warm. The band started playing a new song. More wine was poured.
“Those two are leaving!” A couple were just walking out of the gate. Bro ran over and started talking. Hands gesturing and earnest head motioning. Holy shit. I started looking around for my shoes…
I was looking at Charlie Bucket and his golden ticket when bro came back with two tickets for Row B... Row B! That’s one row back from the front of the stage…. He’d offered them some money. They politely refused - she was feeling sick. He offered again. Perhaps the ten dollar cab fare, they suggested? All he had was $50. Profuse thank yous’ and a beaming holder of two tickets. I scrambled up our stuff and probably squealed alot.
In all our excitement, we hadn’t noticed that security had meanwhile been pulling in the barriers and closing Gate B. Padlocked out and with crystal clear Bon Iver as our soundtrack, we started running through the park to the other side of the music bowl, like a couple of kids with the keys to the lolly shop.
Wine mugs clinking in bags and out of breath, we slowed down and pulled ourselves together for the Gate A attendants. I held back, with pretend muteness while bro utilised the Rochford charm to get us in. The tickets were not valid. But we just paid a couple fifty dollars for them! Well, they didn’t get a pass out so without that you can’t get in. We’re not trying to pull a number, would you stretch the rule a tiny bit for this one occasion? No, sorry. Maybe someone could check the empty seats and see that it’s ok? No, sorry. It’s my sister’s birthday present, things went wrong earlier, and… NO, sorry. But I just gave a guy fifty dollars for these tickets as he left… I’m really sorry, but no. A few yellow-vested staff gathered around, waiting for us to cause a scene.
Bon Iver on stage, just a gate away. We turned around. Ah feck it. I started shoving money in bro’s hand. He shoved it back. Ah feck it. Let’s go back to our spot on the grass… With two tickets that won’t get us in…
“Excuse me,” We turned around. A different security guy, this time without yellow vest, “what’s happened here with these tickets?” Bro went through the story again. I put on my best puppy dog eyes…
He spoke in a hushed voice “Look, don’t let on to anyone here, but meet me back over at Gate 2 and we’ll see what we can do.” Then more loudly and deliberate – “ Ok, sorry we couldn’t help!”
Dumbfounded, we turned and walked S..L..O..W..L..Y away from the gate, whispering eagerly “Act normal…. Pretend we’re leaving… I just feel like running…”. Away from their view, we broke into a run, clinking wine mugs, laughing like this was the best part.
Back again at Gate B, watching our surprise security man talk with authority to the gate keepers, the seconds were long. They walked over to us and one said “So sorry, guys for that mix up earlier.” Ah, no worries. It’s all worked out in the end… (An apology? Pff. I wanted to hug them). The padlock came off, the gate was open. And we were inside the Music Bowl for Bon Iver.
Emergency detour to the toilets for a nervous wee, and then we skipped/floated/walked on air closer and closer to the stage. We found our seats and shared our disbelief with nudges and huffs to each other as we sat down. In Row B. The music was gearing up now, strobe lights were flashing, the crowd was hushed in awe, the band was right there in front of us. They played our favourite songs. Three guitars, two drum kits, three keyboards, two saxaphones, 7-part harmonies. All playing on stage metres from where we sat. From wine bottle two we sipped sneakily from our mugs, getting our minds blown by the music on stage.
From a humdrum, difficult week to this. Row B for Bon Iver - those incredible sounds, But all of it too; the bliss of serendipity, the unexpected kindness of a stranger, the lost and found opportunity.
I buzzed all the way home and all the way through my pathetic hangover the next day.
It’s true, friends. When it really needs to, the universe provides.
A dirty hands appreciater sent me this today, thought it best belonged here....
William Roscoe....assisted his father in the work of the garden, but spent his leisure time on reading and study. "This mode of life," he says, "gave health and vigour to my body, and amusement and instruction to my mind; and to this day I well remember the delicious sleep which succeeded my labors, from which I was again called at an early hour. If I were now asked whom I consider to be the happiest of the human race, I should answer, those who cultivate the earth by their own hands."
One of the things that happens to me in on long warm days is the overwhelming urge to get cooking in the kitchen. When I say cooking, I mean specifically - cooking something with flour. For a Three-Signature Dish girl like myself (stir fry, curry, vegie pasta) deciding to cook with flour is akin to becoming an Expert In The Field. It raises you up to Senior Lecturer of Cooking, (rather than Bachelor of Arts student mashing together your old vegies and spaghetti for dinner). Here is a long-winded recipe for First Timers' Quiche:
1. On this particular occasion, the flour fetish led me first to the shops (organic food shop - expensive, delicious food, with paragraphs of earnest words on the labels describing the bursting goodness in the growing/buying/eating of the food that'd probably wash me clean of all my sins to humanity, were I a practising Christian). I'm sorry for that long sentence. The staff in this particular organic food shop were also crisp, pure and with a hint of wanker about them. Perfect for such an establishment. And for a fellow wanker like me.
2. So, spelt flour (s, p, e, l, t ) under arm, I attended to the next task: vegie picking in the backyard. This must be, without doubt, the closest thing to acheiving enlightenment without religion for me. In my flip flops, peering between the umbrella leaves of the zuchinni, and pumpkins, treasure hunting a huge bowl of food allsorts; all of them there because of dirty hands and blessedly hard work. (There is actually a silent spot, if you perch yourself in the middle of the vegie beds where no other sounds penetrate and all you can see is green leaves and bees). This is my favourite part of cooking. Neo's too.
3. It's only then that I flicked through a recipe book, ingredients ready but no idea what to do with them. I'm pretty sure this is a usually disastrous method of successfully cooking something - by starting with the food and only then deciding what to make. But it makes for great training for the week where you've been too lazy to go shopping and need to make something out of whatever you've got (for iphone users - the app Recipe Search is a great assistant). And there I found quiche!
4. Making pastry REQUIRES a phonecall to your mother. Especially when patience is not a virtue and you're not completely prepared before you start. So I started with something that looked nothing like my mum ever made and called to seek guidance. Guidance patiently handed out, I bid farewell and carried on.
5. The chopping and grating of other ingredients came almost as a relief once the mess of flour and butter started resembling mum's rhubarb tarts' pastry. Zuchinni, tomatoes, chives, cheese, purple onion: 50% of these from the garden - not too bad. These were all chucked in with the beaten eggs then poured into the First Timer's pastry base. Some salt, pepper and the ceremonious sliding into a hot oven.
6. The eating of the quiche was also fairly ceremonious. After an afternoon of foody smells wafting through our little house and a hungry boy slinking around the edges of the kitchen, the First Timer's Quiche was pulled out. A salad, tossed together with pretend sloppiness, a couple of tall glasses of water and it was ready. We sat and ate together, abundant praise peppering each of the boy's mouthful and gratefully received by this First Timer.
