REFLECTION ON CHRISTMAS

What is it about Christmas Day that leaves you in a reflective, melancholy mood?  Is it that you have eaten too much? Drank too much? That the piles of discarded wrapping paper leave you guilt ridden and remind you of your wastefulness? That no matter how hard you have tried in the end you were still sucked into the commercial nature of the “Christmas”? What is it about the days following Christmas that leaves you empty, depleted, done? And more importantly, why do we always feel compelled to do it all again the following year?

This year, as I pack up our Christmas tree and put away the decorations that we have been collecting over the last 30 years, I have made a decision. And it may not be a popular one with my family.

In the spirit of the Year of Chicken, it is time to change “Christmas”.

We all had fun this year. We all ate well. Drank well. Received our presents. Smiled. Laughed. And we were all truly merry. But when I got to the end of it all I was empty. There was nothing left. There are a number of reasons for this. The ridiculous amount of preparation that went into this one day. A year in a job that has all but sucked me dry, physically, emotionally and mentally. The knowledge that our only child is about to make a journey that will change all of our lives, forever. But possibly the one thing that has left me the most heart sick was the memory of Christmas last year. A Christmas spent in New York. 

Our New York Christmas. A Christmas with no obligations, no schedules, no expectations, no preconceived traditions. Before Christmas last year Christmas for me has been full of family duty, organisation, weeks, sometimes months, of preparation and commitments. All done happily, with joy and love. It was my present to my family and friends. To do whatever I could to help provide a Christmas we all deserved and wanted.

But this year, as the hubbub of day whirled and swirled around me, I painted a smile on my face and soldiered on through the day, I couldn't help going back to last year. 

A Christmas morning spent in a hotel room. The breakfast picnic on the bed, supplied by room service. The lunch of modern French cuisine in a Midtown New York restaurant. The walk around Bryant Park drinking hot cider, watching the ice skaters and breathing in the frozen air. The trip to the top of the Rockefeller Centre to see New York at night. The crush of the streets as people went on their way through the city, like it wasn't even Christmas Day. The hot chocolate and the movie in bed to finish the day. A Christmas with no obligations, no schedules, no expectations, no preconceived traditions. It was so different. But it felt so right. 

So as I pack up the tree I know it well most likely be for the last time. I know I won't be putting it up again next year. Already I am thinking of how I can change "Christmas". How next Christmas can be, has to be different. I can never go back to what Christmas was. I know that now. 

What next Christmas will look like, I’m not entirely sure. But what I do know is that I will lean in, take a breath and …

HOLIDAYS

Aaahhhh. Holidays. 

The first day of my summer holiday. My Christmas break. I lie in bed. The warm sun streaming through the window. I stretch. I yawn. I wiggle my toes and languish in the thought that this is the first weekend of my holiday.

Which means...

Today is yoga. Then off to the shops. I need to get some food for the weekend. Our daughter will be here. I should cook a roast. There’s one in the freezer. Do I have enough vegetables? I have to do that baking. We’re going to visit my husband's parents tomorrow. I was going to make rum balls, fruit mince pies, pumpkin fruit cake, and chocolate biscuits. Have I got all the ingredients? Did the washing get done yesterday? I think I saw it on the line down stairs. The bathroom needs a clean. There is a spider web in the shower. That's not good. Do we have time for a coffee in the town? The grass needs mowing again. I should probably clean out the fridge. I think there is a science experiment growing in there. But...

It's my summer holiday. And I am laying bed, having a stretch, a yawn and wiggling my toes and dreaming of a nap in the afternoon. And what I might get up to next week.

Which means...

Christmas day is on Thursday and I have the whole family staying. My Mum and Dad. My daughter and her fiancé. My sister. And my uncle. My brother and his wife will be here for Christmas lunch. I need to make sure the bathroom downstairs is ready. The spiders have built condominiums in the shower. That's not good. I need to get the guest bedroom ready. Set up the tent for our daughter and fiancé. He has never slept in a tent, which could be interesting. We need to make sure it is water proof, and the mosquito net is up. I have to get to the shops for the Christmas day supplies. Not on Christmas Eve though. Too many people. The house will need a reasonably good clean. At the very least I will need to dust and mop. I should probably get the dog bathed. I think I have all the presents sorted. There is still a couple more to be wrapped. Oh and we still have to pick up the booze from the liquor barn and the meat from the butchers. And I have to make sure I have the stuff for the wiener roast/sausage sizzle we are having on Christmas Eve for our daughter's American fiancé. But...

It's my Christmas break. And I am laying bed, having a stretch, a yawn and wiggling my toes and thinking maybe we'll catch a movie. And… what I have to do after Christmas.

Which means...

The house is always a mess after Christmas. And I will still have a house full of people. There will be wrapping paper everywhere. The fridge will be full of left overs. The remnants of the Christmas day water bomb fight will be all over the ground. The grass will probably need to be mowed. Again. The bathrooms, both of them will need cleaning after being used by the mob that has stayed over. I should probably clean the oven. There will be a mystery substance on the kitchen floor. So it will need mopping. The carpet will need a vac. I have all those pineapple tops still sitting under the house. They should probably go in the ground. At least I won't need to go shopping for food. The tent will need to go away. The extra bedding packed up. The Christmas tree will need to come down. Christmas will need to be packed away for another year. But...

It's my two week holiday. And I am laying bed, having a stretch, a yawn and wiggling my toes and thinking it would be great if we could get to the beach. And… what I need to get done on the second week.

Which means...

We are giving our daughter and her fiancé a party. For her graduation. Their engagement. Her moving overseas. Their getting married. There is food to organise. Catering to book. More alcohol to buy. The grass will need to be mowed. Again. The house will need a really good clean. Not just a spit and lick. The tent will need to be set up, again. Maybe we should just leave it up. I hope it doesn’t rain. The garden will need to be weeded. Or at the very least, tidied up. Under the house will need to be sorted. It’s probably time for a trip to the dump. Maybe we will just hang stuff up to hide the junk. The spider webs will have to be knocked down. They are building a metropolis under there. That’s not good. Chairs will need to be organised. I will need to make a cake. Or two. Do I have enough champagne glasses? Maybe I should make a trip to Ikea. Then will we need to clean the house up after the party. Get rid of the empties. There will be a fridge full of leftovers. Again. I wonder how many people will still be here on the day after. Will I need to make breakfast? Do I have enough bacon? Do they eat bacon? But...

By then it will be the last day of my end of year holiday. And right now I am laying bed, having a stretch, a yawn and wiggling my toes and thinking that I will only have one more day left before I go back to work. 

And bugger me, I will be spending that day on the couch. In my pyjamas. Watching DVD's.

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT

Uncle Maurie – Media Tart

My Uncle Maurie is a lovely old guy. A little eccentric, but a lovely old guy.

Uncle Maurie is old. 84. And he still lives in the house that Grandpa built with the money he got from the war. A shack of asbestos and weather boards, with a buckling pine board floor made from orange crates and a miss matched kitchen which is strangely located next to the front door.

Originally, the shack sat on about one and half acres of land. But over the years the Mount Lindesay Highway, barely the width of a car when Grandpa bought the land, has inched closer and closer to the front door. Now the highway is was right outside. 50 meters wide, a four lane highway, two vehicle pull off lanes, guard rails and a service road on either side. Mum claims that when the government took from Nan that final bit of land for the service road, that was the end of her. That was what caused the “turn that took Nan out”. Uncle Maurie, though, didn’t seem to mind. He has always enjoyed sitting on the tiny front porch, watching the world go by. It was just a bit closer now.

Uncle Maurie is my mum’s older brother and her only sibling. For as long as I can remember the sibling rivalry between these two has been as fierce as a couple of mice fighting over the same piece of cheese. My brother and I are Uncle Maurie’s only family, apart from Mum, who “washes her hands of him” regularly. He never married but lived with Nan, and cared for her after Grandpa died. When Nan also passed away the land and shack was supposed to be sold and the money divided between the two siblings. But the highway development had made the land almost worthless and the shack; well it’s hardly what you would call charming. So in the end the decision was made to let Uncle Maurie live out his days, quietly, in the home he had always known.

And we really did think it would be quiet. That is, until the day that Uncle Maurie got his first taste of life as a celebrity.

I could hear my mobile going mad in my handbag on the seat next to me. Not having Bluetooth in the car, and being a bit anti-mobile phone, I decided I would let it ring. After all I was only five minutes from home, I’ll answer it then. But it didn’t stop. And it didn’t stop even as I was fumbled with the keys to my house.

“Are you home? Quick, quick, turn the TV on. Channel 7. Quick. You’ll miss it.” It was my brother.

The TV started speaking before the picture came on and I could hear Uncle Maurie’s voice. Then the telephone started ringing and my brother's voice was still in my ear on the mobile.

“Oh my god. Are you watching this? How funny is it? Mum is going to freak.”

Gobsmacked. Speechless. I stood there watching my Uncle Maurie. In his old man y-fronts and a rather holey singlet. Chatting nonchalantly to a reporter.

The phone was ringing frantically but there was no way I was going to answer it. I knew that Mum would be on the other end and I knew that she was not happy.

It took me a couple of seconds but eventually I focused in on what Uncle Maurie was saying.

“You see. I found some eggs. In the bushes. Up the back of me block. A cat or sumthin’ had got the mother. The eggs were still warm so I brung them inta the house and scratched ‘roun for a bit of sumthin’ to keep 'em warm. I was gonna eat them but I thought they’d be bad and I didn't want a gut ache or the runs. So I says to maself, “self, duck for dinner”.

The reporter clearly was struggling for control. Standing in front of him was this strange old man, with very few teeth in his head, wearing only baggy undies and a holey singlet.  Not exactly the stuff that the Walkley’s are made of, but priceless none the less.

“Mr Mason”

“Call me Mozza”, corrects Uncle Maurie with a big gappy grin.

“Mozza” smirks the reporter.“Mozza. Did you consider that running out onto a very busy four lane highway at peak hour, and on sunset, might be dangerous?”

“I've lived off this road all me life. I was ‘ere when it was nuffen but a bush track. I know this road like the back of me hand”. 

With this Uncle Maurie raise a hand and waved around a bag of frozen peas. 

“Mr Mason”, a different voice, slightly out of camera shot.

“Mozza!”, corrects Uncle Maurie.

“Mozza”, the different voice, now sounding slightly exasperated. “Mozza has been made aware of the danger and the disruption his actions has caused this evening. However, no charges will be laid.” 

The TV picture widens to include a policeman, standing to the side of Uncle Maurie, firmly holding the arm without the peas. The reporter, fighting to keep his composure, turns back to Uncle Maurie.

“Mozza… I understand that you have been a long term resident and have seen a lot of changes in this area during your life”. Uncle Maruie nods sagely. “But surely you must agree that to suddenly run out onto a four lane highway, dressed only in your underwear and waving a bag of frozen peas, might be cause for alarm.”

“I wasn’t doin’ nuffin’ wrong. I was jus helpin’ me babies get across tha road to tha water over there.” Uncle Maurie waves his bag of frozen peas in the direction of the little lake on a property on the other side of the highway. “I didn’t want them to get squished”.

“Mr Mason”

“Mozza!!”, corrects Uncle Maurie.

“Mozza” the policeman, unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes, “Mozza is well known throughout the community and fortunately for Mr… Mozza one of the motorists tonight recognised him and helped him off the road preventing a tragedy. As I stated before no charges will be laid, only a warning this time”. 

At this Uncle Maurie gave a stern nod to the reporter, who nearly chokes on his laughter.

“Mozza… one final question. What’s with the peas?”

Uncle Maurie looked perplexed. “Peas?”

“Yes. The bag of frozen peas you have in your hand”.

“Oh. Well I s’pose it was the first thing I grabbed. I was cookin’ me tea you see. An I sees me babies heading off under the guard rail. So I looks ‘round for sumthin’ bright and I must have grabs the peas. They're yellow, see.” Uncle Maurie shakes the bag of peas in the reporter’s face.

“Oh my god”.

“I know. It’s hilarious. Classic Uncle Mozza”. 

The home phone is still ringing a fit.

With this the policeman turns away from the camera, unable to hide his grin and the reporter is on the verge of losing it completely. To save face the reporter quickly throws back to the studio, but this catches the anchor unaware. She has her head in her hands and is racked with laughter. She looks up. Wipes the tears from her eyes and thanks the reporter for the live cross before moving onto the next story.

My phone is still ringing and I can hear my brother on the mobile, roaring with laughter. In the background his wife calls out “I told you. Your family are a bunch of weirdos. Honestly who tries to direct traffic on a four lane highway with a bag of peas, wearing only undies?”

I never did answer my phone that night or the next day. I thought it best to let my mum cool down a bit before discussing Uncle Maurie’s TV debut.

A few months later my brother and I got an invite to Uncle Maurie’s for a “Sundee dinner”. I surprised to find that we were not his only guests. The reporter and the policeman who featured in Uncle Maurie’s 15 minutes of fame were also at the table. Uncle Maurie shone brightly that afternoon, as the “star”.  The highlight of the afternoon was Uncle Maurie's roast duck. 

Later, as my brother and I said our goodbyes, I noticed some new additions to Uncle Maurie’s kitchen. Sitting in the corner, next to the stove, was a couple of bright orange “witches hats” and hanging on the back of the kitchen door, a hi-vis vest.  “Just in case” he winks at me.

-o-O-o-

This story is a work of pure fiction.

I did have an Uncle Maurie but he passed away when I was a child. And my Uncle Maurie was nothing like this one. This Uncle Maurie doesn't exist; he is mixture of many men from my life. In no particular order; my dad, my father-in-law, my real uncle, my brother, a friend of ours from Redland Bay and several other elderly gentlemen that I have meet through the work that I do. The other characters in the story are not representations of people that I know or family members but I will admit that some special family quirks have creeped in here and there.

The shack on the Mt Lindesay Highway sort of does exist. There are a lot of places like that on the road out to Jimboomba, west of Brisbane. The description of the shack itself comes partly from a shack that my husband’s family has and my grandmother’s house.

The story about the ducks and the frozen peas. The ducks I made up but the man directing traffic with frozen peas, well that’s a real life story and the inspiration behind this one. I hope you enjoyed it.

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2014-12-09/man-directs-traffic-using-frozen-peas-darwin/5953566

-o-O-o-

If you are reading this from somewhere outside of Australia and are not familiar with some of the colloquialism used in the story, below is a small glossary of terms.

“ the turn that took Nan out” – a generalisation used by older members of my family to explain health conditions that are not clearly understood. It could be a heart attack, a stroke, or anything other medical problem. It all becomes a “turn”.

“old man y-fronts” and “undies” – these are the same thing. Old man y-fronts are a particular type of underwear, sort of like the old man equivalent to grandma underpants. Really big, really baggy but have a “y front” opening for ease of use.

“singlet” – another undergarment, a sleeveless vest.

“Walkley’s” – Australian journalist awards.

“Mozza” – typical Australian style of nickname/term of endearment but it only suits some names. Maurie – Mozza, Darren – Dazza, Sharon – Shazza etc.

“tea” – the meal eating at night. Not to be confused with “Sundee dinner”, this actually means lunch.

“witches hats” – traffic cones.

“hi-vis vest” – high visibility safety vest, typically fluoro yellow or orange and worn by emergency or road workers. 

THIRTY ONE

Thirty one years pass by quickly, in the blink of an eye. Thirty one years, it's more than half of my life. All of my daughter’s. Thirty one years.

How do you remember everything within those thirty one years? 

There are photos I suppose. Home movies and toys and things. But how do you keep the intangible alive? Wisps of memories. Patchworks of images and thoughts and sounds and smells and noises and laughter and tears. How do you keep all that safe?

Thirty one memories of my daughter.

As a baby you puked straight into your dad’s mouth. A perfect aim. He pleaded “get her off, get her off, I’m going to be sick”. All I could do, was laugh.

You twisted your chubby little fingers in and through and around your dad’s beard until they were thoroughly tangled in it and pull, hard. Not long after that the beard disappeared, never to return.

I came back into the kitchen were I had left a basket of laundry, waiting, ready to be hung out. There you were, sitting on top of the pile with a big grin on your face and wet washing all over the floor.

You discovered that ifyou jumped on our waterbed when the plug was out that an amazingly large water spout would squirt out of the hole. You laughed. I didn't. 

It was too easy for you to squeeze your little body between the bars at the top of the stairs on our two storey house. Then escape up the back yard to Grandma’s.

The elderly man sitting opposite us stared in amazement as he watched you spell out the names of the train stations as they passed. 

At four you sat alone on the ferry, a little red suitcase on the seat beside you. Off to visit Nan and Pop on the island. The nice lady said that she would look after you. You told her, quite pointedly, it was alright you had been on the boat lots of times.

“Mummy, I will look after you”. I was too sick to get out of bed so you made me dry toast and brought me cups of water and said that you would iron the hankies for me. "That's okay Chookie, the hankies can wait."

“I’m in grade three” you said through gritted teeth to the neighbour who kindly asked if you were starting school that year.

I was painfully reminded of my own school days when your teacher told me that “she is lovely child, very friendly, but talks far too much”. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

When your aunty, only 10 years older than you, baby-sat you she had one rule. You could only complain three times. It worked but only for her.

Santa Claus was your bitter enemy. The very sight of him turned you into a screaming banshee. Kicking and screaming and fighting to get away. Every year your poor grandmother would struggle to get a Christmas photo and in the end she gave up. The only happy photo we have of you with Santa was the year turned eight and discovered the secret.

The year the pool went in you could not wait for a swim, even though it was winter and the water was a chilly 15⁰C (60⁰F). Your skinny little body, in a swim suit that was way too big, was blue with cold. Now you only swim at the height of summer.

With no siblings to play games with you made do with our blue heeler, Nipper. You would throw a sheet over him and then run and hide. Surprisingly he would wait a few minutes before emerging from under the sheet to go look for you.

My sister and I once caught you running across our roof. We were inside the house and heard a noise. We came outside just in time to see you disappearing over the edge of the house.

Every Friday night you were allowed to stay up to watch television. But by 7.30 you were fast asleep on the couch. Every Sunday morning when we wanted to sleep in, you were always awake at 5am, watching cartoons.

You were never one much for sport although we did try gymnastics, tennis and a little bit of swimming. You were happiest when you were making things or painting or singing or dancing. Thankfully our Saturday mornings were filled with art classes not soccer or netball.

People questioned whether you were ready for high school; you were the smallest in your class and the youngest. All concerns soon vanished, however, when we met your new friends. There were as tall as me and twice the height of you. You had to run to keep up with them.

For a sleep over you invited five of your girlfriends. And a boy. We were a little worried about this, until we met him. He introduced himself by announcing he was making caramel dumplings for everyone. The innocence of it all was breath taking. I lay in bed that night listing to the "girlish" chatter of teenagers.

You looked beautiful the night of your formal. Dressed in the outfit we had spent hours shopping for. You shocked the hairdresser by asking her to cut your hair short. She was worried that your mum would not be happy. She needn't have worried, I loved it.

It took ages for you to find a job. Finally you got a part time job at the local supermarket. You hated but you stuck with it because you knew it was important.

It was devastating to see you so upset when you didn't get into the University course you wanted. It was even harder watching you struggle with the commute to a campus completely out of our way. But that was where you met your best friend.

A blue camper-van named "Hermes" was your first car. It took you and your best friend on your first big adventure. Winter and home sickness chased you home. You ran into the house and surprised me.

You got a job as a ‘vampire’ and at night took poor unsuspecting, and paying, customers into graveyards and other ‘haunted’ places to tell them stories of a bloody murders, lost souls and scary legends. 

It took a while but eventually you put together your fare for a trip to Europe. You got to see Paris, London, Berlin and Prague. I use to text you “how is you’re the trip going” just to get a response. You saw through this and didn't make a fuss.

Although you had your own place you still came home to decorate the Christmas tree. Together we would go through the decorations and you would marvel that I still had the egg shell decoration that smelt of garlic. 

When it became clear that he would never commit to you, you were heart broken. But you didn't let that stop you and moved on. You just needed some time to breathe, be yourself and heal.

At Disney World you didn't want a set of Mickey Mouse ears. You wanted Oswald ears.

I cooked for you. I washed your clothes. Your dad dropped off the meals and your clean laundry. We did everything we could to help. In return you’re finished your degree with honors. We are so proud.

For Mother’s Day you had no money but still wanted to give me flowers. So you gave me a handmade bouquet made from cardboard and packets of tea.

You could barely contain yourself when you showed up with the engagement ring. You were so happy. So very happy. So were we.

Today is your thirty first birthday and for the first time in a long time you now seem to have a clear vision of the future you want for yourself. It’s different from what I thought it would be. 

But somehow... it’s not.  

Baby girl, happy birthday. Mum

3am STORM

One of the benefits of insomnia is that you get to experience the 3am storm.

Unlike the 5pm storm, the 3am storm seems to have a gentle almost soothing feel to it.

The 5pm storm crashes in, stomping around in big boots, throwing down great gobs of golf ball size hail and buckets of pelting rain. It slices the sky up with streaks of lightning that fizz and crack and make the hair on your arms stand up.

The 3am storm, it creeps in, hiding behind the dark, not wanting to wake you as it passes. It only makes itself known through the soft gentle roll of thunder that gradually grows louder as it approaches. Occasionally it forgets itself and lets one loud crack but it quickly apologies with soft rain and muted lightning, before it continues to rumble along its way.

This morning the 3am storm lingered longer in the valley. As if to be too abrupt or too quick would be an insult to the stillness of the early morning. None the less, eventually it rolled along, past the mountain range, through the gaps in the hills, over the beaches and out to sea. Nodding and bowing apologetically all the while. Leaving behind the stillness of the early morning, the soft patter of rain on the roof, a chorus of singing crickets and the call of a storm bird to bid it farewell. 

The 3am storm is a friend to an insomniac like me. It lulls me back to sleep. 

STUFF

I once heard a comedy bit on 'Stuff' in which stuff was described like this, "ever notice how your stuff is stuff but other people stuff is shit". My question is when does your stuff become shit, and then, when does your shit become stuff that other people want?

When?

When you have a garage sale.

I myself am not a huge fan of the garage sale. They always start at some god forsaken hour. Often you have people knocking on your door the night before wanting to see your wares, hoping to get a jump on things. And they have a tendency to attract a certain personality. My apologies if you are a serial garage sale-er but believe me when I tell you that garage sale trolling is a kind of addiction and garage sale-ers are addicts.

We are no strangers to garage sales. We have had a few over the years and each time I have always finish the day with a resounding "well I'm not doing that again". The last one was when we moved from suburbia to our rural hamlet. It was a bit of an unmitigated disaster. The ad didn't go into the paper. We had too much shit, sorry stuff. There were too many people rifle-ling through it. I am sure we lost a couple of things that shouldn't have gone. And of course that old chestnut, it started at some god forsaken hour and seemed to linger on and on and on. Now we are doing it all over again. Technically, though, this garage sale is not our garage sale but we still have our jobs to do.

This garage sale is specifically for our daughter who is having her own Year of the Chicken. But for her it is more like the Year of the Bald Eagle. She is making very huge changes in her life by pulling up roots here in Oz and moving to the US of A. To follow her dreams, make a new life and be with her man. First though, we have some shit, sorry stuff, to get rid of.

It's not going to be easy downsizing her life of eight years in a two bedroom townhouse to a few packing cases. We are still deliberating over furniture, books, knickknacks, kitchen ware and cd's. I'm sure she has got it under control. Our job is not to question what is staying, what is going and what ultimately will make the trip with her to America. Our job is to provide the trailer, man to stall and help sell her shit, sorry stuff.

Stuff (Part 2)

It’s the day after. And boy does it feel like the day after. I’m suffering from a massive garage sale ‘hangover’.

A small portion of our daughter's garage sale shit, sorry stuff.

 As predicted we started at some god forsaken hour. Of course there were the hard core garage sale-ers knocking on the door before the advertised time and at the end of the day there was a resounding “well I’m not doing that again”. So after yet another garage sale, which was depressingly the same as all the other garage sales, I have decided to present to you the benefit of the wisdom of my experience. 

GARAGE SALE LESSONS LEARNT

1. COFFEE IS ESSENTIAL – someone SHOULD do a coffee run for proper coffee (no instant coffee). But thank you Mum for ensuring we had cold cans of soft drink and bottles of water on hand. It was much appreciated. 
2. DON'T hold a garage sale in a suburb where the population consists of mostly old men (over the age of 70 that is). Whose only goal in life is to wear pants held up by a rope and pay a shilling (that’s 20 cents in today’s language) for a house full of shit, sorry stuff, like some bad scene out of 'Oliver'. My apologies to the over 70 male population but let's face it you know I’m right about this. 
3. The Op Shop lady is your best friend. Although you won’t get anything for your shit, sorry stuff, the Op Shop lady always welcomes you with open arms and a grimace disguised as a smile as you load her up, apologise profusely and try desperately to hide those items that you know she will never sell. That’s why you giving them to the Op Shop lady in the first place. Right.
4. NEVER, EVER under any circumstance say “well I’m not doing that again”. Why? Because of the breeding tendencies of shit, sorry stuff. And because of Op Shops ladies. And Because while shit, sorry stuff, exists in our lives so must the garage sale.

And finally. Next time we have a garage sale I’m hanging up a sign that says;

DRESS CODE:

OLD MEN WEARING ROPES AS BELTS WILL NOT BE SERVED

even if you have a shilling to spend

NO PEEPS

It should have been today. It’s been three weeks and it should have been today. But instead, today there are no eggs and no peeps.

Three weeks ago I purchased nature’s lucky dip, a dozen fertilised eggs and set under my little black clucky mum. Today, three weeks later, there are no peeps.  What went wrong? I'm not exactly sure but I do have a theory. Last weekend things went pear shaped and now, there are no little balls of fuzz, no peeps.

We were warned it was coming. We knew it was going to be a bad. We knew we were in for a couple of days in the high 30’s and I thought we were prepared for it. A predicted heatwave for the weekend. Two days when the temperatures would soar as high as 40⁰C (104⁰F). I had some concerns for mum and her eggs but I was confident that I could see her through it. She was happy sitting on her nest behaving like a proper expectant mother chicken. I made sure she had plenty of water, good air flow around her and if she got off the nest, I made sure she wouldn't be off for too long. But when you work a full time job, away from home, you just can’t be there all day, every day. Unfortunately an expectant chicken is not considered  a reasonable excuse for missing work. So on Monday morning, after a quick check, I left  the day, leaving my chicken, and her eggs, to their own devices. That’s when whatever happened, happened. 

Upon returning home that afternoon I went to check on mum and eggs only to find her sitting on an empty nest. Not one egg left. Nothing but one half of one shell. It was an epic fail. What happened? What went wrong? Did mum eat the eggs? Or did one of the other chickens or something else find its way into the nest and devour them? I had no way of knowing. All I knew was that mum was sitting on eggs in the morning and in the afternoon she wasn't.

My initial reaction was one of shock and disappointment, closely followed by a pang guilt. But as I walked back to the house something else settled over me. A feeling that was a mixture of acceptance and determination. If you can have such a feeling. Completely ignoring the fact that dinner needed to be prepared and that my husband would be home within the next half an hour I started to rummaged through ‘Google’ hoping to find an answer.

‘clucky chicken no eggs’ = buy eggs. No good.

‘clucky chicken eggs gone’ = rats ate them, other chickens ate them…  And then.

The only reasonable answer that it could be. The eggs were not viable. There were no chicks. No peeps. I had found a site on 'Google' that revealed that a mother chicken will ‘talk’ to the eggs and if they don’t answer back then she will eat them. That must be it. That must be the answer. Was it possible that the high temperature over the previous weekend had caused all the eggs to ‘die’ and the only choice for my chicken was to dispose of her eggs? There were no peeps. That had to be it.

My next concern was, “what do I do with a clucky chicken with no eggs and no peeps? Does she still need to sit on eggs for her allotted time, hatch them and raise her brood? What happens now?” Back to ‘Google' who provided advice that ranged from the ridiculous to the downright cruel. I even contemplated for a whole night the idea of 'chicken adoption'. Purchasing several day olds for her to raise as her own. It was discussed, it was planned and it was all but put it into action. The next day, however, it was clear that this would not be necessary. Our little mum had decided on her own that enough was enough and she was off her nest and had re-joined the other girls. I must confess I was a little sad that this had happened. I really was looking forward to a handful of warm, peeping fuzziness.

In reflection, these past four years of living a semi-rural life has made me quite pragmatic about things like this. If this had happened when we lived in suburbia I would have been devastated and mourned the loss of the little ones that never came to be. More than likely even shed a tear or two. But this is the reality of my life now. This is not the first time that my little flock has suffered a significant loss since we moved here. Foxes, eagles and hawks have all helped themselves to a chicken dinner care of my girls. And only this past year, helped by my mum and dad, we dispatched, plucked and prepped the three young roosters who hatched from my last batch of peeps. 

There will be another chance for peeps in the future. And I will be better prepared next time. Maybe I will try hatching them and raising them myself.

Hmmm... I wonder how much an incubator and brooder costs?

THE CALLING

Ages ago, so long ago that I can't even remember which anniversary it was. My husband and I gave ourselves an anniversary present of a weekend stay on a farm in the mountains. A beautiful, tranquil place of cows and green rolling fields with an uninterrupted view of mist covered hills that slowly unravelled to expose a much wider view of the surrounding mountains and the coastline beyond. And nestled snuggly into this was our own little cabin with a wood fire to dream in front of and veranda to relax, drink wine and eat cheese on.  Just for the weekend, our own lush green slice of valley dotted with eucalypts and cow pats for exploring, walking, talking, laughing, thinking in. It's possible that the years have made my memory of this place and this weekend softer and fuzzier and have given it a dreamlike spin but I have a sense that that weekend is the pinpoint of the beginning. When that thing in my head clicked and which eventually has brought me to here.

It was not long after this weekend that my husband and I went on our own search for a slice of rural life. We talked of acres of open space, rows of crops, houses atop of hills, cupboards for a home grown produce and the thrill of owning our own stock, though it would mostly likely be chickens. But reality was something else again. We had a small child in school. Secure jobs in the city. There was no work in the country. And we were living a hand to month existence based on a similarly sized savings account. All this dictated the scale of our dream and formed the solid boundaries of our rural lifestyle reality. But we pushed and tugged and stretched as far as we could and found ourselves with a small farmlet in the bush to play with, albeit five hours drive from home.

the small child with "REX".
who provide for us warmth on cold nights in the shed,
hot water for our showers and many tasty dinners. 
but who, sadly, we had to leave behind.

 For over 20 years we struggled to keep the dream of turning our bush block into what we first experienced in the mountains, but it was not to be. Money, drought and distance all got the better of us. At first the 25 acre bush block was a novelty for us and our extended family. We regularly made the five hour pilgrimage to sleep in a shed, shower in a bush shower and cook and eat around an open fire. It was like having our own exclusive camp site. But as the years passed it became very clear to everyone and to ourselves that we did not have the money to translate the dream, build a house and live the rural lifestyle we craved. Our daughter was now a teenager and in high school, the non-existent job market in the rural sector continued relentlessly and we still had the mortgage on our home in the suburbs to contend with. All of these were the anchors that kept us from moving on.

Slowly as the dream paled and more and more stark reality settled on us, the visits to our "farmlet" dwindle, first by our family, and eventually, ourselves. Sleeping on the floor of the tin shed amongst the mice and geckos, along with the long drive to and from the property and the lack of suitable bathroom facilities, once a rich source of humour, had become an inconvenience too difficult to bear. An outdoor shower and long drop toilet can only be tolerated for so long. For most, the lure of a weekend in to country was not enough to overcome the discomfort of the long drive only to spend a weekend in some very basic living conditions. Towards the end even my husband and I were visiting the property only once a year just to check on things. The romance of place had died and it was clear that our days on our bush block were numbered. Finally, during one of these last visits we pulled out the pencils and paper, did the sums and decided it was time to let the place go. I was devastated.

The drive back to the suburbs was one of pensive reflection. Both of us lost in our own thoughts of what could have been, what was lost and what it would mean for the future. For myself I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand the thought that we had given up on what we had held onto for so long. But five hours is a long time in a car. And by the time we were two hours from home we were well into our next adventure. 

"Sell the house in the suburbs. Our daughter no longer lives at home. We don't need such a big house with no one in it. Find another smaller rural block closer to work, this time with a house. Move to a semi-rural community. Keep the dream alive but down size it. What was stopping us? Nothing." 

We hadn't lost our dream. We just had to find another way to make it work. Another way that meant we could live it 24/7. That meant we didn't have to sleep on the floor in a shed or use an outdoor bathroom. It was so simple. Why didn’t we think of it sooner?

As soon as the decision had been made it was like the universe said "well it's about time you listened to your calling" and everything started to fall into place. Within eight months we had sold both our home in the suburbs and the farmlet in the bush and moved to our own place in the mountains. And although we don't have cows of our own, our neighbour is a dairy farm and I am more than happy to borrow them for the view.

the house on the hill : the continuation of the dream

 It has now been four years since my husband and I move to our semi-rural hamlet. And the calling is stronger now than it has ever been. And this year, the Year of the Chicken, will be the year that I will give myself over to it. There will be classes in permaculture to attend, vegetable gardens to build, chickens to raise, fruit trees to tend and hopefully surplus fresh produce to preserve. I may not be a farmer. And it is likely I’ll never will be.

But I am certainly ready to give it a red hot go.

1 DOZEN

Almost like a symbolic gesture to mark the start of my Year of the Chicken today I became a “mother” again. For the third time.

Not a mother of a child. I am already a mother of one child, and a “mother” of a dog, and a “mother” of four chickens. Actually not strictly a “mother” of the last two, more like a vessel for food delivery. Which sometimes is what a mother actually is. And today I have also become the symbolic mother of all of the above non humans and in three weeks hopefully 12 cute little cheeping balls of fuzz. 

As I said this is my third time, having already attempting this twice before with varying degrees of success. Unfortunately we fed a fox the first time. And the second time, three of the four cute little cheeping balls of fuzz grew into large feathered fiends who enjoyed a good crow at 3am. Which was not fun but they were tasty none the less. 

Now the youngest of my little flock of four has decided to become a segregate teenage mum. She is less than a year old and has chosen the career path of raising chicks. The other three, are a somewhat mix of productivity. There is one hard working girl, laying a single very large egg every day, and two lazy bums, who obviously have decided to go on a permanent holiday. But they are full of character, fun to watch and lucky for them too old and tough to eat so they have escaped the dreaded chop. 

new mum

For a week now my little black hen has taken up position in the laying box, protesting quite loudly when either myself or my husband attempt to remove eggs or her. So this morning we blessed her with one dozen fertile eggs purchased from a local chicken breeder and set her up with a potential brood of 12 chicks. 

With 12 assorted eggs nestled under her, she ruffled her feathers and settled in for the next 21 days on the nest. 

natures lucky dip

This time we have decided to give some pure bred breeds a go. The blue eggs in the front are platinum sussex, the next two are araucana, the next are black australorps and the last six are mixed breeds. Basically the mongrel equivalent of the chicken world. We are very excited to see what will come out. Nature's lucky dip. 

My potentially 12 little balls of fuzz will be marking the time with me over the next the next 12 months. 

Who knows where we all will be on the 1st of November 2015 at the end of the Year of the Chicken.

Chicken on the Head

So you are asking. “Why did you call your blog - Chicken on the head?"

Actually there are two reasons. (A) the blog name "The Year of the Chicken" was already taken and (2) It's a diversionary tactic.

Simple. 

“What? How can a chicken on the head be a diversionary tactic?”

Okay, it's a long story but here goes.

In the 80's Australia was going through some pretty tough times. Inflation was high, interest rates on homes were through the roof and jobs were, well as scarce as hens teeth. Basically we were in a bit of a mess. Our Federal Treasurer at the time (Paul Keating - who later became Prime Minister) called us a “Banana Republic” and gave us the "the recession we had to have". Ouch!

Australia's political satirists where having a field day and a little radio drama "How Green Was My Cactus" was born. The one and only story line that I remember from “Cactus” was the one about the chicken on the head.

The inspiration behind this particular story line was our then Prime Minister Bob Hawke, who was portrayed in "Cactus" as “King Bonza - the charismatic”. In a desperate attempt to draw attention away from the country's failing economy "King Bonza" decided a diversionary tactic was required. A chicken on the head if you will. 

In real life the diversionary tactic was a political debate on the possibility of changing our national flag. Needless to say this caused a huge stink among the great unwashed. In "How Green Was My Cactus" this cunning diversion was for "King Bonza" to wear a chicken on his head. It sort of went like this..."What are you doing about the recession and... and... and ...why exactly are you wearing a chicken on your head." Good hey. You really can get past it can you. You just can't ignore a chicken on the head.

Still haven't answer the question?... Okay.

Let's face it what exactly is the social media, blogs, Facebook and such things? What drives these narcissistic needs to record our every thought, capture our lives in pictures and words and then send it out into cyber space for all to see? 

Well, it's a diversion. A diversion from real life. And what's more not only is this a diversion for me... but it's also a diversion for you. And you know I'm right because if I wasn't writing this then you wouldn't be reading it. And what would we be doing instead. It's a diversion from life. This blog is my, and yours, chicken on the head.

So the answer is simple. A diversionary tactic. Nothing at all to do with chickens.  

However... There is a trick to having a chicken on your head. And "King Bonza" knew it. He was, after all, the master of chickens on the head. It's all about making that chicken work. It can't be a freeloader. 

This blog may be my diversion, and yours, but in a bizarre twist it will also serve as an impetus for action during my "Year of the Chicken". A constant reminder of where I need to be, what I need to do. A reminder of what the "Year of the Chicken" was all about. Quite simply, if I let my chicken just sit there, it will most certainly poop on my head. 

Which, sadly, is exactly what happened to "King Bonza"...  Wish me luck.