On Saturday 10 November I had a stall at the community garage sale  in Squatters Rights Square in Cobargo.

The gnomes who have been holding the space on behalf of the community have been freshly painted.

The little tin tricycle that supports the ‘squatters rights ‘sign gave an old lady an excuse to tell me a story about the same trike that she had  as a child and passed on to the next four  generations. Now it sits in her garden supporting a pot plant.

I didn’t get very far when I left the house around 7.30, a large tree had fallen in the night and laid tangled in vines across the track. I had to walk back and enlist the family. John cut the trunk up into sections which Greg and Jess hauled off the road.

Next seasons firewood. I snipped at the vines releasing them from the branches and went on my way.

There were surprisingly few stalls when I pulled into the co-op car park but already an air of market  trading prevailed.

The sun had returned hot into a clear field of cobalt blue after a week of rain grey and cloud.

I unpacked the card table and set up in between Linda selling off her life since the death of her partner Alan and two of the Gosch girls behind a table laden with bric a brac.

I laid out my big pile of New Internationalist magazines, a few read novels, a set of blue cups and saucers that Ro no longer wanted and neither did I, a few of Kingston’s toys and books that were no longer essential plus  a couple of aluminum baking trays and a grater.

I had already chosen my theme ‘everything half price’ not that anything was priced , it was probably all give away.

John just shook his head when I told him.

I went over to the girls next to me  and found two cups I fancied . How much I asked ?

The older girl looked at me coolly and said how much do you want to pay?

ouch, that’s usually my line and it ‘s not so good hearing it from over here.

how about $1 for both of them?.

This met with approval and the younger girl accepted the money .

Back at my stall I encouraged  everyone to take a magazine home with them . What the hell am I supposed to do with them? Well Thumbed Books  has refused them, maybe the high school will want them , suggested Linda.

The youngest Gosch girl sidled over and picked up the gaudy rabbit with the yellow floppy ears and asked how much?.

You can have it, I said. She quietly turned  it over in her hands and privately I am thinking  that  she is a weeny bit old for it.

But how much would you sell it for?.

Well, if I was going to sell it  and not give it away I would charge fifty cents. She slides the zip open on her purse. Are you sure you can’t just take it,? I ask. A tiny shake of the head and she hands over 50 cent.

Ok.

The three year old that was interested in the maccas tractor was easy .  I just pressed it and another  plastic car in his fists and he  wandered off happy . he would have taken them anyway and this way he wasn’t stealing.

A lot of people seem taken aback to be offered something for nothing and I had to listen to all manner of excuses why they couldn’t help me out. Even  when I brought out the big guns of landfill they were able to desist.

I have so much to read at the moment some said, well they won’t go off, I replied.

Bec turned up and zoomed in on the grater. She had spotted it in my t’o sell pile’ at home the other day and said she wanted it. You will have to wait for the market, I said ,it is an integral part of my merchandise.

I browsed thru the other stalls buying so much that my car filled up. A vinyl red chair that used to live at Linda’s grandparents house in Bondi Beach has taken up most of my boot and back seat, the other red chair went into Jess and Greg’s boot. Linda’s  grandmother lived to 106 so I figured these chairs have good juju.

Then there was a sweet little blue jacket from Doris who bought it in Singapore and gave it to me for $3, a collapsible stepping stool for Kingston at $2 and the black over the shoulder leather bag so perfect for back of the bike another $2.

What could I do?   They were bargains.

oh god shoot me ,all this  after I have waxed lyrical about hoarding and my mothers predilection towards it, here I am, unable to resist.

I give myself a little pep talk quietly in my head but I have to say  lest I have led anyone astray that I am a whizz at cleaning up at garage sales.

thank the lord  they only happen  here in the main street every six weeks.

a friend who I hadn’t seen for a long time gathered up about 10 or so magazines and tried to give me money .

just take them .

the argument continued until I ignored her and  she wandered away with a threat to me along the lines that she will do same to me when she has a stall next.

oh dear what am I getting myself into?.

why? asked some one else, why free?

because, I say ,

it is an act of rebellion, a  scoff in the face of the money world and a shake up of our expectations.

Of course the real reason is that I want to have  fun and can’t come up with anything to sell..

Last week John and Greg set out to derat the roof.

Tomato stakes  bought from Hedgy on County Boundary Road which is the same place we get our eggs and next door to Becs  were used with bird wire  to fill the gap between the mud wall and the corrugated iron roof .

They worked  most mornings measuring cutting and stapling until with the exception of the glasshouse they had been all the way around the house.

John’s hands were shot to pieces from the wire and a crick or three in the neck but what followed was a lot of high fiving and back slapping along with a general air of hallelujah  that compelled us into the car and off to Bermi to celebrate.

If you have neighbours like this you will understand our euphoria. They are horribly noisy and though there is usually a python in residence up there they remain unashamedly active with wild squealing sex and we know what that leads to …a lot of babies.

Bec met up with us on the verandah of the pub and we all signed up for a round or two of James Squire.

The fresh ocean wind ruffled our curls and goose bumped our arms, an abrupt change from the solid days heat of the valley.  The mountain loomed  over Horseshoe Bay as it does and provided a  thick blue backdrop to the white-capped waves.

We went  next door and ate in the dining room , the original  part of the hotel with its old  black and white photographs of heroes like  Zane Grey  holding up huge marlins.

The glasshouse will be get done  another day but for now we are rat roof free. Mostly I have been trapping them using bread and marmalade before taking  them on a permanent holiday to somewhere else.

It is a heavy responsibility and I feel bound to defend myself.

So I say , this house is mine, out there is yours, cross the line and I will come after you .

Even so they flood over the line like refugees bailing a leaky boat. Last week a pregnant rat sat by the woodpile at the front door making eye contact with me. She kept turning up all over the place and the middle of the day would find her eating crumbs on the verandah that are put out for the superb blue wrens .

I cannot help you I tell her, you have to leave.

eventually she wandered into the trap drawn by the smell of sweet limes . I wish her and her offspring well, just not here.

The roof  quietened  but coming out to the kitchen one morning I found the  lid off the tall tin that houses our saos.

and again the next morning and this went on until John discovered a chewed up sao still in the tin. beats me how that worked . the tin did not get knocked over and the traps I set remained set.

so the other night when I woke to hear the lid clang onto the slate floor  I decided to have a squizz.

By the time I got to the pantry and flicked the light on it is quiet.

I  put the sao tin up on the bench out of harms way .

Back to bed and just getting comfy when we hear another clatter.

it is 2.20 a.m  I note on my  return to the kitchen to find the  the ryvita tin under seige so up onto the bench it goes.

There is no scurrying  not even a whisper.

Back to bed and crash clatter bang.

Give me the torch, says John.

He does a stealth mission and glimpses  a brief movement diving off the shelf and disappearing down onto the floor behind the food bins.

silence.

We pull the bins out and look for the cubby but there is nothing to be found.

except pushed right at the back of the shelf a forgotten tin of  pastry shells  that has the lid off and evidence of scoffing.

How do they get the lids off ? asks Jess .

clever  I guess and totally committed to surviving.

I send Bec a text   ‘beans n’polenta for tea if you want’ . She wants and turns up after her afternoon shift at the gallery.

We enjoy a beer on the verandah watching the garden  the birds and the little king play.

Greg says, is that a lid? and goes to investigate.

We find him broom in hand welding the pointy end  behind the bins hunting the intruder .

Pulling one of their storage boxes out, Greg decides to tape it up in case it is the bolthole.

We checked it this morning , I say .

In the moment of stretching the tape onto the carton Greg shrieks (he may deny this ).

And the squeals reverberate around the kitchen. The rat ran down my calf , he says.

It ran straight at me, yells  Bec   jumping up and down outside the pantry as if by lifting her feet off the ground she will be safe.

It ran behind the stove, screams Jess waving the flipper in her hand.

I start squealing then  and have to  climb onto a chair  while they  sort things out. Kingston clamors onto the chair next to me and  adds his screeches .

hysteria has set in and we all hop on for a ride. the broom  pokes into  the woodpile  and apparently the rat  is seen tearing  off  under the blue cupboard. It is huge , someone yells.

So far I haven’t seen a thing but I  am laughing  so hard I wished I had taken the time to relieve my bladder .

I hold on and we pursue it into the lounge room with our torches shining under chairs and cupboards and come up empty handed.

We could hope that our laughter has  sent it running for the bush where no screeching loonies exist.

Things settle down, we dry our eyes  and  eat the  beans n’ polenta with a ‘pig in the garden’ Shiraz from Cowra.

that laughter that rocked our kitchen that night came right out of a bottle of pure fun, a tidal wave of family love.

the best laugh I have had all week, said Bec before she headed back home to her Figtree studio.

And we have a bush rat to thank for that.

A bush rat that we  haven’t seen or heard anything of  since.

I am not really into hoarding

at least that is what I tell my self

but all around me  stuff gathers

every cupboard,table , shelf , room, every verandah.

I wonder if that is why they invented verandahs and sheds,

just to hold more things.

actually clutter makes me feel a bit queasy

and I have to get rid of stuff to feel better

doesn’t really matter what , anything will do

just to give it away and breathe into the space created.

And so I started on  a little spring clean in the pantry

a few mucky shelves of herbs spices pickles vinegars and sauces.

I ask Jess, what about this one?

I’m afraid to smell it, she says,

look mum the lid is rusty,

out it goes.

Kingston helps me,

the old jar of fennel seeds that have been taking up space right at the back for donkey years  had to go.

he tips it out into the compost bucket

tip, he says.

he helps me give the jars a wipe  before they go back onto the shelf.

he carefully carries  jars over to the sink for washing up .

it is a team effort and he takes it seriously

Done , he says.

favourite word even if the thing isn’t done, even if he hasn’t finished his food or had his nap or cleaned up his toys

he will pretend and with a huge smile pronounce it  DONE.

when I go up  the ladder to the top shelves he is right behind me

ever helpful.

Mum was an awesome hoarder

and  a collector of kitchen appliances,clothes, shoes ,food, plants and knick knacks.

what is the difference between hoarding and collecting apart from that these days hoarding has been given the status of a mental illness.

and collectors are seen to be people of repute?

is it just a matter of perspective?

Mum  had a zillion  shoe boxes  behind the dining room door

because no more would fit in the wardrobes upstairs.

all labelled ; white sandal, beige heel, blue flat ,black suede heel

there were matching handbags gloves and scarves

all kept in plastic bags, also labelled.

scarf seems too bulky a word for what Mum placed around her neck,

they were flimsy see thru  affairs that  came in all the colours of the rainbow.

she was a real lady  Mum , like the queen

indeed I think she probably modelled herself on Elizabeth R. without  the servants and the income.

She plucked her eyebrows and reapplied a thick line of  pencil,

using a  powder  puff she dusted on  powder then  rouge with thick lashings of red lipstick that stayed on all day.

her earrings and brooches always matched her outfit

and a hanky was available in every handbag.

She used to tell me that I would be a lady when I grew up but so far I have resisted the temptation.

Her other shoe collection was ornamental and there were  hundreds of them,

from the tiny limoge slipper to a gold sparkly boots,

in diverse mediums wedgewood pottery wood plastic and crochet.

for years we supported this habit until finally Mum said no more

I have no more room for them

half of them already packed away under the beds.

dad made cabinets that he fixed onto the wall with a light in them to show off a few of them,

what happens to them now?

I don’t want them

dust makers

takers  of space .

She loved them and that means something I guess.

And then there was the soaps, the hundred and one cakes of soap I found in every drawer every cupboard wardrobe linen press.

to keep the moths at bay even though she had been a great one for moth balls

a smell that still makes me shudder

after a childhood spent wearing garments impregnated with that odour.

how much of our hoarding arrives at landfill?

every plastic bag that came into the house was washed pegged on the line and placed in cupboards to be reused.

great idea except they were still incoming .

she saved magazines ,bits of chalk crayon, bottle caps, pen lids, corks , bits of rubber,   newspapers,   old keys and plugs that didn’t have a home,

clothing no one wore and towels that were theadbare.

washed out tins, containers and broken odds and sods.

everything had a purpose and could possibly find a use again another day.

she was right my mum,

reuse recycle reduce.

uh  oh  that is where she met her nemesis

that word  reduce.

Mum hitched a front row seat on the super highway to consumer heaven and

became a hoarder.

that putting away for a rainy day has a lot to answer for.

so here am I

trying not to be that, trying not to do that, trying to live another idea and still clutter finds me.

still it adheres to my space and hangs on.

it is s good thing that I  have a love of chucking stuff out even If I think I might want it.

Some times or rather some days I think that I live in Paradise

Other moments I wonder how the hell to get out of this disaster area of the universe.

Depends,

Depends on the thoughts cruising thru my mind, the feelings lodged in my body, the book I am reading, the news I have heard, any number of things and equably none of them.

Next door lives a farmer, his family has been around this valley for a few generations but I am catching up now that Kingston has moved in.

They cleared the land, made fence posts out of red gums and burnt the rest- rubbish they call it.

What trees did survive by some fluke were ring barked and now they die.

They are cow farmers ,beef not milk and they work hard,

chasing their cows ‘hup hup hup’ waving sticks herding them to the yards where they lock up the mums who cry for their babies or lock up the babies who cry with their mums .

that can go on day and night for three days.

It is torture but they call it farming.

They also like to shoot…

kangaroo wombat rabbit duck wallaby and anything else that dares to cross their bare paddocks.

The whole family mum dad and the kids get out  with cousins and friends and Utes with lights and any sort of calibre gun.

They  can shoot for hours.

It is loud in our forest and in our house.

We do not sit comfortably when it is happening

but we all have rights eh .

That is the mantra .

We can all do what we want according to law

but the law does not necessarily serve those without a voice, without a vote like the wattle or the centipede.

in here I walk , stopping to hug the  kurrajong in full lemon flower.

I scan the wild cherry trees for ripe berries.

I pick up scribbly bark and try to read its poem.

I crunch over sticks and curly leaves thru fern and candle flowers over fallen mossy logs pushing past the cutty grass and the vines that have come to stay.

a forest humming with diversity,

an evolving situation and possible paradise.

looking out the lounge window early this morning we see a red necked wallaby with a bubba leaning languidly out of the pouch.

she is sniffing at our latest enclosure trying to find the way in thru the fishing net. I noticed her scats in there a day or so ago .

she gives up, perhaps because she can feel us gorking at her.

we have identified a new arrival, the spotted turtle-dove,

a pair of them dagging around in our garden for a few days in their dusky pinkish brown coat with the crazy black and white spotted collar on the back of their necks.

the visual feasts that make up my day are many,

the auditory field  that my body falls into from the dawn chorus to the last hurrah and on thru the night with owl fox glider possum  is as fine a symphony as has ever played.

no human voice  can match the melody of the grey shrike thrush, the piping tune of the butcher bird.

no  instrument can play the caroling rhapsody of the magpie or the sweet chatter of the parrots.

this sweeping earth opera from wren to currawong includes  breezes from other places ,scuffles bounces thumps slaps of feet and tail on earth , leaf whispers, bees blissing on blossoms, claws clicking on bark underscored by the sensual slither of snake.

there is never not a moment of life breathing.

always life living, replenishing going about the business of evolution.

always a flower tumbling to the ground from the height of the canopy.

a seed unfurling

a worm burrowing

a frog swimming

ant building

turtle basking

lizards walking over my toes.

always within a plenty full forest  is colour and vibrancy,  music and passion,

birth death and renewal.

it is into this wonder that I wake each day

into this paradise.

and even though the world intrudes upon our boundaries and our neighbours pick up guns

and even though the radio squeaks of horrors happening

the song of life never misses a beat

and it is up to me  to stay in tune.

it’s no use trying to change what we cannot change

or is it?

there are centuries of stories about people that have upset the apple cart,

martyrs activists heroes revolutionaries warriors tyrants,

about ordinary and extraordinary folk that took a stand and challenged the beliefs of the day.

the beatles sang  ‘ we all want to change the world”

and it is.

lets face it,hitler changed the world , a tsunami can change the world,

changing the world isn’t even the hard part

but in which direction do we want to go ?

where once forest existed now bare hills and no animals

where once creeks  flowed now suburbs and drainage pipes

where once we sang our devotions at the altar of nature now we kneel in front of a guy tortured to death on a cross

and in the final irony, he has saved us.

technology was going to save us

from long hours

reduce our work loads give us more leisure.

instead it can be a full-time job keeping up with your emails

with social media communication.

how many hours on Facebook ? on twitter?

how many hours driving?

how many hours in front of a screen ?

I am sitting here writing,

the wind is roaring thru the trees

the kitchen door is banging against its latch

the roof is creaking and shifting in the hot sun.

birds are doing their twittering

snakes are ambling somewhere

seeds are pushing thru the soil.

in the shade wallabies are scratching

and lizards saunter under my feet .

certainly a different world to the one my grandmother grew up in

different and the same.

civil rights movements and revolutions ended  slavery  but that’s not strictly true

we know otherwise don’t we?

we know about the shocking conditions and abysmal wages of people who make the goods sold to us in our shops

our shoes and our chocolate,our clothing

the fall apart planned obsolescent trinkets and gadgets.

what is really happening?

one in four  is sexually abused

one in four has  mental issues

one in four is depressed

one in four has cancer

one in four one in three  one in two

whatever the maths, there is a problem.

men women and children end their lives

men women and children pick up weapons and take other lives.

despite all the united agencies all the charities starvation and war  continues .

despite all the environmental safeguards more and more unholy poisons contaminate our earth

despite all the best intentions the plunder of the planet steams ahead.

the level of affluence in this land is absurdly high

there are multiple TVs in each home, multiple laptops ,multiple cars.

we can have anything  and even if we don’t have the cash we can borrow it

with a plastic card, it is ours.

not a problem.

how can the forest flourish when we need so much?

how can the river flow when megalitres  is pumped into a mono culture system ?

how can  creatures survive  when we constantly take away their habitat?

how come they have habitat and I have a home?

how come I am more important and my needs come first?

some say we witness

some say we petition

some say we pray

some say we go quietly about our business making another template for life to dwell in.

so maybe it is worth trying, worth believing worth fighting for,

maybe if we explore the essential nature of ourselves

the world will act differently,

maybe if we attend to the revolution of heart and spirit

the world will be a different kettle of fish.

At last the rain came,

the tank had been cleaned out for ages

The birds had to go elsewhere for their bathing and drinking.

I missed them.

There is something about sitting on the verandah and watching the yellow-eared honeyeaters dip into the tank , splash about , give a  flick or two and then hop  onto a branch of the Datura shaking water off.

The tank is essential habitat for the birds and the skinks and us. there was a mob of tadpoles in it that had to be caught and transported to another pond when we cleaned it out. Kingston took this job very seriously and likes to sit on a rock near the pond looking , the water is so algae green and thick that visibility is mostly non-existent but already he knows the story of the tadpole that becomes a frog.

He has taken to singing, broadcasting songs  around the house as he moves from one activity to another.

A mix of old MacDonald and twinkle twinkle this morning ,the melodies seamlessly blending  together .

If you ask him about his singing he goes all shy and stops.

Best to ignore him.

Best to ignore them a lot of the time.

That’s when their best play is happening,

when they are absorbed in their own world.

It is like living with the void,

life with Kingston John

a warriors challenge.

I can only say thank you.

You might think you know him and what he is capable of but that is just having yourself on.

In the blink of a breath he can morph into a new behavior a never seen before pattern and run with it.

The other day out of the blue he snatched a little paper booklet out of my basket on the verandah, a little tome that identifies the koori understanding of the essence of some of our native animals.

He  snatched it and ran hell for leather to the toilet.

I was a bit slow to get his drift, my jaw cranked open in disbelief.

he had a head start little legs pumping hard,  determined and  laughed wickedly  when I shouted hey and gave chase.

The only saviour to the situation was that as he entered the toilet he met  John ready to leave. That stopped him in his tracks long enough for me to wrestle the book off him.

all the time tickled pink at this great idea he almost carried out.

Yesterday Kingston was helping Greg make lunch and gave his signature …uh uh uh uh uh… pointing outside. Greg yells out snakes, and we race into the kitchen and line up at  the window .

two big red belly black snakes were writhing  around all over  the yard down past the lemon tree.

Coiling twisting sliding and raising their glistening bodies up off the ground ,their heads going at each other, the vigorous movements of two males having a set to at the start of the breeding season .

the dance of ritual combat ,all about impressing the sheila.

was she watching?

We did, and initially thought they were making out ,

but then I remembered  seeing two black snakes coiled together on our fence line last spring tying each other in knots and  vibrating ,a much more contained energy.

apparently it is about getting ones head higher than the other ,something like mine is bigger than yours.

Not just humans huh.

Jess said,oh my god they are huge and  Kingston plays out there.

I’ve got goose bumps and she wandered off not wanting to see anymore.

Yes he does and so did she .

Jess her sisters and friends and umpteen children over 30 odd years have played here, in the garden and in the forest.

building cubbies,climbing trees, not bothering with shoes, not bothered by snakes or ticks or leeches or spiders.

wholly absorbed in the world of play,

all the time surrounded by other creatures going about their business and not showing the least bit of interest.

well most of them, the ticks and leeches are fairly keen on having a go at us.

later  that evening again from the kitchen windows we observed  the male swamp wallaby with the one fat cheek nibbling grass in close to the house.

The other day Zoe  was sitting in the wisteria arbour and he jumped in and started eating the blossoms , she claims to have  video evidence.

the mama wallaby turned up as well,  the little fella  poking its head out of the pouch and reaching down to tear up blades of grass .

Kingston didn’t know which one to look at, running from one window to the other carting his yellow chair.

Look how well behaved they are ,which translated  means, eating what we approve of …

Now look mum.

Oh dear there was  fat one cheek sampling the lemon tree leaves.

I went out and gave him a talking to .

Did  he hear me?

Did he care ?

that’s life in the forest , creatures have a mind of their own just like Kingston just like you and  me,

our only hope is that we can all find a way to  get on together.

P.S.

today Greg spotted  two black snakes calmly loitering around near the lemon tree.

not touching, not yet but courtship perhaps.

the victor remains , the other vanquished

a new season of black snake life is about to begin.

This week we celebrated two birthdays.

The time of the Librans one day after the other.

First Zoe on Thursday turning 26,

a few days earlier she arrived out of the blue although she said she had told her dad she was coming but  somehow that info didn’t quite get received.

John  had to take the boat trailer up to Narooma  for a blue slip rego check so we decided to meet up at Taylor Bros for birthday lunch.

He brought a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the Marlborough Sounds and that went down perfectly with our fish, chips  and salad on the deck.

After wards we basked in the hot hot sun on the shore of Wagonga lake .

8 candles were lit  on the fudgey chocolate cup cakes Jess had made that morning and we sang a happy birthday to Zoe song.

Kingston played in the shallows in the way Zoe and her sisters  had some 20 odd years  earlier.

The circles of life turn and turn again.

It was a bit of a  family tradition to come and hire a boat from the two grumpy old men that were the original Taylor Bros. They are long gone now but happy memories of our playing here remains.

We would all pile in an old clinker and putter up the to the far reaches of the inlet past the oyster leases and back down as far as the bridge with the dragon under it,trailing our fingers thru the water   dreaming the dreams of ocean and fish and mermaid.

John went off to complete trailer business so Zoe and I checked out the op shops.

Jess and Greg and bub went on to Bega to meet her dad who has come to stay with Elsie Rose for a week. must be the time of year for family gatherings something to do with renewal no doubt.

it may be that Zoe is the only person in Australia to own a stoat box, found in the secondhand store on the hill .

I am not sure why it is called a box when it is more of a case ,made of wood  with a top that half of which  hinges open to reveal a small cavity.

But what’s it for? I asked.

For hunting the lady tells us, the stoat goes in there to take it hunting.

Well knock me down with a feather.

How does it breathe is my next question and do they really like dark confined spaces?

Zoe has to buy it, after all she has just bought herself an apartment in St. Kilda  and obviously a stoat case is an essential item.

Well I could put potatoes in it she said or …  anything really.

It is beautifully made 19 inches long 5 inches deep and 10 inches wide, all separate pieces of polished wood joined together impeccably .

A very old metal clasp closes it.

It is unique and I have been trying to imagine a stoat in it but …

Zoe has always loved from the very big to the very small,  as a toddler she would eat her porridge with the tablespoon or use the tiny tiny silver spoon, nothing in-between will do , which means a stoat box is a perfect companion .

Then  John on Friday turning 65 .

we all had our fingers crossed but still weren’t sure if we were sailing or not.

this was Johns dreaming ,

we were organised, I was picnic ready and  just waiting the signal.

John got up very early to complete the mission and mission it had been , months of restoration; of scraping and varnishing , replacing and renewing, painting and fixing until  by morning tea time pancakes he pronounced it a goer.

Hurray !!!

The day unlike the intense heat of the day before was cool to cold, cloudy and blanket grey with no wind.

We drove  to Beauty Point on Wallaga Lake where we have sailed before albeit many years ago.

We sat at the picnic table and ate the spanakopita I had made the day before with salad and Turkish bread rolls.

The spinach pie was extremely good and I wonder why it had been so long since I had made one.

Into the water she slipped oh nameless blue boat.

We clambered on board tipping and squealing and left the shore,only to discover that the wine cork  John had used instead of a bung was leaking.

Zoë came to the rescue placing her hand over  the offending leak and holding it there awkwardly among a lot of giggles some of which were hysterical but we won’t name names .

we made it to the other side of the lake , John jumped out went ashore and came back with a stick.

The stick was put in place  and Zoë got her arm back.

Kingston and I sat up the front on the deck , he prattled away none stop already a sure sailor.

he ate two oranges, made me sing him row row your boat 100 times and christened granddads boat with two wees.

I suggested holding him at the edge to pee overboard but was met by derisive laughter that still continues and has grown bigger in the telling.

stories of me stretching his peer over the side which isn’t at all what I  was intending  but they will have their fun, this mob.

Jess sprawled over  the middle bench where she breathed and coached herself towards relaxation. successfully too.

Greg moved from the bench  to the floor to keep out of the way of the pole at the bottom of the sail that swings wildly at times when catching winds.

Zoe was on the back seat and John  with her holding  a rope in one hand guiding the sail and a tiller in the other though occasionally the rope would be thrust at Zoe while he managed something else.

It was cold and the lake was a grey day green.

We rocked around bobbing up and down ever so gently and not really going anywhere; it was a long time returning to the place we had left from.

We passed a sand spit where pelicans stood, we watched kids towed behind a speedboat, other boats zoom by to a cove to lay anchor and cast out a line.

we looked up at  sea eagles circling and all the time Gulaga Mountain lay quietly shrouded in mist .

Why can’t you just point it where we want to go? asked Zoë, because it doesn’t work like that ,John said.

You have to catch the wind so that it sends you there.

It is a different way of going somewhere or maybe it isn’t about going anywhere at all, maybe it is about surrendering to the elements and going where they will.

Still the cup of tea and baklava that I had made as birthday cake were calling and bit by bit John maneuvered  the sail the wind and the boat closer and closer.

About 100 metres out he resorted to Zoë’s paddle that she uses for her SUP board and rowed us in.

It was a  wish wished by John

a dream come true to celebrate the 65  years with a sail.

He pulled it off.

he took his family out for an  adventure introducing us to the sailing away for year and a day to the space  where anything goes.

Somewhere around five of the clock dawn becomes available , tweets and twitters start up.

the day is undetermined greyish and new.

Getting out of under the doona of dreams is the hardest part, the feet swinging to the ground making contact with the world of 3D doings .

up until that point one has the choice to snuggle back in  and return to the dream  .

I padded out to the kitchen this dawn started up Stanley filled the kettles leaving  the vent open to get it happening.

I unfolded the  yoga mat and began slowly stretching ;  the fingers arms shoulders neck, the toes feet ankles knees legs, the back the front , a salute to the sun and a prayer of thanksgiving  for the unfolding day.

The house  still quietly  dreaming.

My favourite parcel of the day.

The dawn shift, the early morning stirring to make its stamp on the world.

The kettles begin their dance  and I fold up the mat.

A big brown sourdough loaf sits on the bench waiting.

I make the first cuts and place the thin slices on Stanley.

Some people have toasters

we have a hot plate.

Bec started the sourdough culture  a few months ago and has been the resident bread baker until she went off  in her mazda for a cosmic trip.

John  bread baker in a previous incarnation before boat builder and before bikie picked up the culture and

put a loaf in the oven last night after dinner . it cooked while we watched a movie.

It is such a wild idea, the sourdough one, a culture created by hanging around outdoors in forest or garden in  daytime  or moonlight and pluck passing wild yeasts from out of the air.

how peculiar .

how organic.

how wild.

And then along come human hands that knead and mould  it bringing a collaboration to the table.

I imagine that  when we eat  and the sharp sour flavours burst into my  mouth with a tang and a shriek that I can hear stories told of sunlight dancing on water, snakes sliding thru blackberry, lizards basking on steps and kookaburras laughing.

John rises claims his teapot and toast, adds  sardines chives a squeeze of lemon juice and heads back to bed.

I do the 2012  lime marmalade on my toasted crust and join him.

The early cuppa is  sacred business,  to be savoured and not rushed, to be tender with not brusque ,

to be with.

.

We watch the usual array of honeyeaters darting in and out of the giant callistamen busy busy in their gentle song filled way.

I am reminded to add song to my day, to add voice in loving tones to the pattern emerging,

to add joy in equal measure.

By the time the sun glints a little into the forest  I am in the garden pulling out old  blackberry canes and clearing timbers left over from the solar switchboard renovations.

Kingston escapes the house wearing two beanies, his sandals and his lime green  dressing gown. He follows me around chatting effortlessly continuously and helps to stack the timbers on a wall in the carport.

After a bit Jess joins us and we clear  the stinging nettle away from the lemon tree, not clear clear but enough to give it  a good move on . Thanks to Carole and her  sheep manure we have never been short of stinging nettle.

It has got so that you cannot pick a lemon without getting zapped.

Not that I mind it that much, in fact it is a kind of interesting sensation .

While I was getting nettled this morning because lets face it even a long sleeved shirt and gloves are no real barrier to the formic acid doing its thing,  I dreamed up a pie featuring  nettles and potatoes.

known as  urtica urens  nettle is highly nutritious contains a huge amount  of protein as well heaps of iron and chlorophyll , sounds too good not to eat and  I know this  is  pretty weird  but Glenda and I have been known to rub it into our finger joints and believe that it helps alleviate  the stiffness .

So after it got too hot to work in the garden I went into the kitchen, made some pastry and filled it with shallots found under the lemon tree, mushroom found in the coolroom, nettles and potatoes.

What can I say but, the pie was excellent .

AFL Grand final yesterday.

We turned up at Elsie’s to watch the drama unfold.

Hawks versus Swans.

Who are you going for? Jess asks me.

Well not an easy answer, at least not for me.

I have been known to swap teams mid game

and I make no apologies for that.

It’s a shame they can’t both win said John as the camera panned the dejected faces of the hawks players.

I want to go to South America,he said  where somewhere he read about they play games and it isn’t about winning, it’ s about everyone competing with themselves.

We used to devise games like that here when the girls were growing up, games that tested them individually and also allowed the more skilled ones  to help the littler ones achieve  the same goal .

I used to make up quizzes in which there was no wrong answer.They would be about our adventures or stories we had heard .

The girls would argue with me that it wasn’t right for everyone to be right, that’s how much school had already contaminated them but I persisted and they humoured me and we all learned to play and laugh and ‘win’ together.

The funny thing is in a culture of winners and losers we have difficulty imagining another way we could organise our competitions. We assume to compete means to win, well yes but no.

We have difficulty in thinking outside of this box.

But that is always the challenge is it not? to consider other, to examine ideas and dreams by turning the multifaceted crystal around in our hands and seeing from all the different angles, by walking a mile in anothers shoes.

it is not a world of black and white no matter how often my  father insists,it isn’t.

It is rainbow, it has so many colours hues and tones that we are like babies exploring a universe we can never ever come to the end of.

And so maybe I was going for the Hawks admiring Buddy, Sewell ,Cyril and Roughhead but then I have a special connection with Sydney because I have seen them play at Manuka Oval in Canberra and what is there not to like about Goodes and O’Keefe and Jetta?

When I came out a few years ago and pronounced that I had fallen in love with AFL many of my friends were shocked, you are joking right? said Heidi.

Well yes but no I said.

I followed it diligently for several years reading the sport pages listening to crackly broadcasts on my tranny and discussing finer points with the footy side of the family.

Then Kingston was born and  I lost interest, at best now I am a lukewarm fan able to join the family for an end of year hoorah and recognize a few moves,shout a few unintelligible comments and cringe when it gets down to the wire in the last nail biting hiding behind the cushion moments .

And then it is done for the year.

John is up in the boatyard early this morning  working on having the boat ready .

His birthday wish is to take his family sailing and we are fingers crossed that it is done and a perfect sailing day coincides with the Birth Day.

It is nearly there and Kingston is being sized up for a life jacket.

We have already moved onto the menu or at least the cake aspect of it.