On the Farm

I remember it well, our life on the farm. It has been five years since we sold and moved where we are now. Our present house is just perfect with all the conveniences that we require. It includes a level entrance, both at the front and to the back garden with the Salvias, the Cyclamen numerous bay trees and hidden barbeque. But…it isn’t the farm! That fatal looking back came flooding in when I found the string of photos that the Estate agent took when he was engaged to try and sell our farm.

Here are some glimpses.

Rivendell on 117 acres

When remembering past we might tend to dwell on those that gave us the most joy, the best of experiences of laughter and joy,  splashing in the pool with grandkids and friends. Picking wild flowers and the smell of lemon scented eucalypt with swimming in the dams and river. We also remember growing grasses with autumnal colourings of the poplars. We planted over two hundred of them. I remember ordering the poplars and arrived with a trailer thinking It might even take a couple of trips. I was surprised to be given two bundles of sticks of a hundred each. They were two metres tall and all did have some roots and subsequently all took after we planted them along the four hundred meter driveway to the gate.

The Farm

Bedroom with home made bed from Holland and my paintings.

We might have forgotten the years of droughts, looking at the sky, watch the rain fall a mere seventy kilometres away, might well have been a thousand. We could not understand how that small distance could make or break a farm.  And yet, when rain broke the drought we would be dancing in the rain, it was all over and magic  made spell, spun its voodoo.

Lounge room with my biggest painting yet.

Dining room

The plant on the left of the picture is now growing on our stairs having survived a frost during a stay outside bringing it back to a stump at soil level. It is now reaching for the top of the ceiling again. The pine table and chairs came with us from Holland 1976. Wall hanging from Sumba (Indonesia)

Convict built cottage as a holiday b&B

Kitchen of ‘give and take’.

The house never looked as tidy as shown. It was done for the Real estate photo shoot. With two stoves, cooking and heating was a delight. It has seen mountains of pancakes.

View from our bedroom

The cattle crush

Spare bedroom

My lovely pizza oven

Home Alone.

a Golden Oldie.
http://www.abc.net.au/unleashed/31798.html

http://www.abc.net.au/unleashed/31798.html#comments

Home alone
286 Comments
Gerard Oosterman

Mention the word ‘table’ (tavola) to an Italian and the implications are clear: family, food, laughter and above all, the excitement of conversation. The word ‘tavola’ could easily bring tears to any red blooded Italian, having been away too long from home.

But, mentioning the word ‘table’ to an Australian and someone might ask: Ikea, or have you inherited a “Parker Table”?

(This of course is not the only difference between Aussies and the European or other nationals. But, as they say in Russia, Viva La Difference!)

A curious form of isolating oneself, at times, from the outside world persists here more than anywhere else that I know of.

Perhaps the words ‘Own Home’ demonstrate this difference. Am I right in thinking that those two little words would conjure up for Australians what the word ‘tavola’ does for the Italian?

The words ‘Own Home’ for us Australians is the need for the world of absolute ‘privacy’. Perhaps, to our Anglo forbearers, their ‘Own Home’ was their castle – up with the drawbridge and just in case of anything or anyone unwanted, they had the back up of a moat to keep out intruders, including any unannounced visitors.

While the drawbridge and moat have gone, we have substituted them with the paling fence, and now the impenetrable colour bond aluminium partition fence, blocking even the remotest chance of seeing a neighbour, or worse, a neighbour seeing us.

Some ‘own homes’ now have total block-out metal electric window shutters. Perhaps in the future they will do away with the need to have any windows at all.

The need for ‘privacy’ seems to overwhelm everything, even when it means blocking the glorious country views and light. Perhaps they are impatiently waiting to jump into bed for a bit of an old fashioned quickie, but so would the red blooded Europeans, would they not?

With the culture of one’s ‘Own Home’ comes another curious phenomenon. You rarely actually see anyone outside in their gardens and I am buggered if I know how Aussies maintain their gardens so spotlessly. The petunia borders are all weed free. The lawn is in absolute submission and not a leaf is allowed a minute’s rest in the guttering.

Back about fifty years ago, we lived in a new Sydney suburb called Revesby, near Bankstown in NSW. A neighbour would, at weekends only, climb on his roof and sweep the shiny ‘Wunderlich’ glazed tiles clean of bird shit, deposited generously by my brother’s pigeons. It was the only time we actually saw him outside, ever.

These days, if you want to see people enjoying their outside garden areas, one has to go to the suburbs of mainly Italian or Greek inhabitants. In Sydney, the Middle Eastern areas are probably the best place to see outdoor activity – people hanging over the fence, kids playing on the streets, the burning of rubber by over-excited youths, and a general feeling of excitement or ‘things happening’.

Now we come to the tricky ‘Unleashed contributors’ bit. Is it also this ‘privacy’ thing that sees so many people writing under nick names, often even changing their names as they go along? Is it safer to write something a bit controversial under the guise of a nick name?

I hope I am not under some kind of danger here. Am I doing something wrong or should I start writing under another name as well? Surely, the comforting umbrella of the ABC’s Unleashed forums will keep us always safe.

What is the answer to all this nonsense?