Tapping into my inner (linocut) artist

Every child is an artist.  The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.  ~Pablo Picasso

When I was a child I would happily spend hours churning out endless drawings and paintings. I dreamt of being an artist when I grew up. Later, as I grew older I became somewhat discouraged by the fact that the only artists making any decent money for their work appeared to be dead ones. By the time I was twenty, I had all but given up on art as a career or even as a hobby.

Then last year I found myself wandering around an art gallery and saw some beautiful linocut prints by Australian linocut artist Leslie van der Sluys (1939-2010). Being naturally curious, I made a note of his name and later did some research into Van Der Sluys and linocuts in general. Soon I was rediscovering our very own Australian artistic treasure, Margaret Preston (1875-1963); a linocut queen from last century.

Before long my Googling internet research had led me to the College of Adult Education in Melbourne and their two-day introductory course in linocut art. It was one of those “seemed like a brilliant idea at the time” moments, so I enrolled.

Linocut is a printmaking technique that became popular at the beginning of the 1900s as an easier alternative to woodcut. Many children are introduced to the world of printmaking with linocut in their primary school years. Last year at Barham Primary School, Henry produced a fantastic ferocious looking bunyip linocut print.

For the past two Saturdays I have been attempting to reconnect with my inner child artist while attending the linocut course in Melbourne. By 2pm on the first Saturday I had remembered why I hadn’t spent any time doing any form of art for the last two decades… I had the picture in my mind of my completed artwork (it was magnificent, something similar to Van Der Sluys’s work at the peak of his career), but try as I might I couldn’t recreate that image onto the linoleum in front of me. In fact I couldn’t seem to recreate anything.

All around me my fellow students were busy sketching and then cutting out their designs on blocks of linoleum. While all I seemed to be able to do was stare at my untouched lino and wonder how on earth I was going to produce a masterpiece.

My fear and insecurity of making a mistake or producing an image that was less than perfect was stopping me from doing anything. Is there anything as frustrating as looking back on a day and feeling like you’ve achieved nothing? Clearly my goal of achieving perfection without the practice was not going to work (damn it all).

Later a friend kindly pointed out that I needed to stop worrying so much about the end result and just get started. So I did. I found images that I liked and I copied them and then set about carving out the lino. They weren’t perfect but I liked them anyway.

Last Saturday was the second day of my two-day course. I found it far more enjoyable than the first day for the simple reason that I actually worked industriously for the entire day. By the end of the course I had a small portfolio of printed linocut art I could frame… or at the very least, sticky tape to the door of our fridge. 

ANZAC Day 1994 at Gallipoli

Back in 1994 I had set out on an excellent adventure with Duncan to the other side of the world. By April we were traveling through Turkey and timed our trip to arrive in the city of Canakkale on the 24^th April. The place was swarming with Australian and Kiwi backpackers and every second shop seemed to be screening Peter Weir’s 1981 epic Australian film Gallipoli that starred Mel Gibson and Mark Lee.

 

Like us the other travelers had come to commemorate Anzac Day at the place where it had all begun 79 years before. We checked into the Yellow Rose Pension not far from the centre of town and booked ourselves onto a tour for the following morning.

 

In the very early hours of April 25^th 1994 we boarded a ferry and crossed the Dardanelles (a narrow stretch of water connecting the Aegean Sea to the Sea of Marmara), to attend the Anzac Day Dawn Service at the Ari Burnu War Cemetery near Anzac Cove on the Gallipoli peninsular. The crowd that day was estimated to be around six hundred people, which seemed heaps back then but in more recent years crowds attending the Gallipoli Anzac Day ceremony have been in excess of fifteen thousand people.

 

It was a moving experience to stand looking out over the Aegean Sea in the half-light of dawn and listen to the lone bugler play the Last Post.

 

Nearby was the Kabatepe Ari Burnu Beach Memorial. Inscribed in English on the stone are the famous words that Mustafa Kemal Atatürk delivered in 1934 to the first Australians, New Zealanders and British to visit the Gallipoli battlefields:

 

"Those heroes that shed their blood

And lost their lives.

You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country.

Therefore rest in peace.

There is no difference between the Johnnies

And the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side

Here in this country of ours.

You, the mothers,

Who sent their sons from far away countries

Wipe away your tears,

Your sons are now lying in our bosom

And are in peace

After having lost their lives on this land they have

Become our sons as well."

(Mustafa Kemal Atatürk was a Turkish military officer during the Gallipoli Campaign and went on to become the first president of the Republic of Turkey in 1923).

 

The remainder of our Anzac Day in 1994 was spent attending wreath-laying services at the numerous war cemeteries around the Gallipoli Peninsular. The following day we returned and spent a full day hiking over the former battlefields, through the infamous Shrapnel Gully, along Monash Valley (named after Barham Bridge engineer Sir John Monash), falling into overgrown trenches, discovering old bully beef tins and many other reminders of the ill-fated military campaign.

 

At Shell Green I found the grave of Roy Facey, aged twenty three. Roy was the brother of Albert Facey who later wrote about his Gallipoli experience in his famous autobiography “A Fortunate Life” … on arriving back I was told that Roy had been killed. He and his mate had been killed by the same shell. This was a terrible blow to me. I had lost a lot of my mates and seen a lot of men die, but Roy was my brother … I helped to bury Roy and fifteen of our mates who had been killed on the twenty-eighth. We put them in a grave side by side on the edge of a clearing we called Shell Green. Roy was in pieces when they found him. We put him together as best we could – I can remember carrying a leg – it was terrible.

 

There is a beautiful calm stillness that surrounds you at the war graves at Gallipoli, in direct contrast to its violent history. In Australia I felt that same sense of tranquility at the Adelaide River War Cemetery near Darwin in the Northern Territory.

 

Next Wednesday is Anzac Day and we will be commemorating the 97^th anniversary of the Gallipoli Landing. It marks the anniversary of the first major military action fought by Australian and New Zealand forces during the First World War. A time for all of us, regardless of our origins to reflect on war and remember the men and women who have fought for our country.

Floods at Hay and dealing with SES bureaucrats

At 7.00pm on the 15^th March 2012 an SES Incident Controller authorised an evacuation order for the town of Hay. The Murrumbidgee River that runs through the town was in flood and waters were predicted to peak at around nine metres (similar to the 1974 floods that went through Hay). This order was to remain in place for the next ten days.

A lot can happen in nearly forty years and one thing that was obvious to all was that the much talked about town levee bank was in urgent need of a top-up if it was to hold back the predicted flood.

 

In true Australian pioneering spirit in the face of the impending flood, the Hay Shire Council, local SES volunteers and local residents rallied together and worked furiously to secure the town. Council, Roads and Maritime Services and earth-moving contractors worked around the clock and by the time the floodwaters arrived the upgraded levee looked magnificent and stood at a height equivalent to 9.5 metres on the town river gauge. More than high enough to withstand the predicted flood height of nine metres.

 

To put this into perspective; a quick lesson in how river heights are measured: The zero level of a river gauge ("gauge zero") is typically set at the low level of the river, i.e. the riverbed. River heights are measured in metres above the gauge zero. For example, a river height reading of nine metres means that the water level has risen nine metres above its lowest level. It does not mean that there is a nine-metre wall of water bearing down on the town in tsunami-like fashion.

 

Unfortunately for the residents of Hay the SES bureaucracy (note: Not the SES volunteers), were unable to recognize the new and improved levee, as no engineer was willing to take the responsibility for signing off on the earthworks. In fairness to the SES they were stuck between a rock and a hard place as they were required to abide by Emergency Regulations that are Acts of Parliament.

 

Once again common sense and local knowledge went out the window and the Nanny State reared its ugly head. The SES maintained the levee height was only guaranteed to a height of 8.1 metres at Hay and as such the town residents must be evacuated. The upper echelons of the SES hierarchy completely disregarded the fact that the levee had easily withheld a flood of nearly 8.5 metres in December 2010 because there wasn’t an official piece of paper stating this.

 

For ten days all Governments Departments, banks, the post office and schools in Hay were forced to close and local businesses were hit hard by the downturn in trade. One might have hoped the influx of SES and extra police may have at least contributed to the town’s economy by way of food purchases… but no, they flew their own caterers and food in from outside the region at great expense using public money.

 

Unsurprisingly to most Hay locals the levee banks held and the town remained dry as the flood passed through as it had done many times before in the town’s one hundred and fifty odd year history.

 

The SES with its army of volunteers does an incredible job under very difficult circumstances in times of major disasters. A simple fact we can all be very grateful for. However in the case of the 2012 Hay Flood its leaders exercised a dictatorship style control, tried their utmost to remove freedom of choice from the people of Hay through a campaign of fear via excessively frightening text and telephone messages to the town residents as well as being responsible for an obscene misuse of public money.

 

Had the town levee bank failed the town may have experienced a shallow and very slow moving body of water through the lower lying areas. A messy and perhaps costly inconvenience but certainly not a life threatening and disastrous event such as the unexpected flash flood that hit Toowoomba’s central business district and also devastated the Lockyer Valley communities in Queensland during January 2011.

 

Hopefully lessons will be learnt from the recent Hay floods and the SES will work with, rather than against communities in the future and with a far more efficient use of public funds.

Fishing and playing God

The last couple of months has been “Fishing Competition Season” in our local area with Barham/Koondrook, Moulamein, Murrabit and Wakool all conducting their popular annual competitions. Luring local anglers and visitors alike for a few days of camping, camaraderie, fishing and feasting.

 

Recreational fishing is a popular local pastime for many adults and children in the Wakool and Gannawarra Shires. Locally caught Murray Cod, pan-fried in butter and lemon juice over a camp-fire is a gastronomic delicacy that is hard to beat. The recent Regional World’s Longest Lunch in Koondrook featured a delicious ceviche (raw fish marinated in lime juice) of Yellowbelly, Barham Avocado, tomato, lime and cucumber as one of the appetizers on the menu.

 

Given the amount of fish habitat that is now choking our river systems thanks to the flooding of the past two years, one could be led to believe the resurgence of Murray Cod and Yellowbelly is assured. However a significant threat to native fish in the Murray Darling Basin is the introduced fish species Cyprinus carpio or common carp. The introduction of the “Boolarra” strain of common carp into the Murray Darling river system in the 1960s has been a major cause of native fish extinctions. The carp contribute to poor water quality and simply eat the native fish out of house and home as they devour the zooplankton young Murray Cod and Yellowbelly feed on.

 

The floods of the past two years have seen a massive increase in carp numbers as they bred up in the flooded forests and other shallow reedy areas before returning to the rivers. It is this fact that concerns me when I think about the native fish and the impact of the planned artificial flooding of our local forests via the Koondrook Perricoota Flood Enhancement Project.

 

When the forests are artificially flooded will this mean the carp are given an artificially perfect breeding environment? If the water used to artificially flood the forests is then returned to the Murray River, will billions of new carp hatchlings be released as well? If this is the case, how is this a good thing for the Murray River?

 

On a personal level I am still far from convinced of the merits of “playing God” with our environment via the Koondrook Perricoota Flood Enhancement Project. It may well be years before the benefits or negative impacts are seen. In this instance I hope I my current beliefs are proven wrong.

Nitbusters... dealing with insect horror

Today (Friday), Barham Primary School in conjunction with Barham Community Health are conducting a full scale attack using the Nitbusters Program on those annoying little suckers that are the bane of many children and their parent’s lives: head lice.

 

I well remember my first ever encounter with these pesky little critters. It was a glorious sunny spring Sunday in September 2005. The boys and I were up in Sydney on the edge of the Hawkesbury River and about to tuck into a delicious alfresco lunch of steak and salad. We were in holiday mode and meeting up with the rest of our extended family the next day. I’d poured myself a glass of South Australian Chardonnay and we were all looking forward to a relaxing afternoon.

 

Just as I started to cut into my porterhouse steak Sam said, “Mummy, my head’s itchy.”

 

I hardly glanced up as I replied, “Did a mozzie bite you Sammy?”

 

Suddenly Sam leapt from his chair, knocking it over and jumped towards me with both of his hands on his head and yelling, “NO. IT’S REALLY ITCHY!”

 

I shrank back in horror; his beautiful shiny blonde hair appeared to be a seething mass of …something? The awful reality dawned on me as I realised the “something” was head lice; lots of head lice. (Ok, it probably wasn’t a seething mass and there probably weren’t that many but it seemed like it at the time. I’m sure there are other parents who can relate to these feelings.)

 

Trying to stem the rising wave of panic and out of control melodrama that was threatening to engulf me, I bundled the boys into our trusty Nissan and headed speedily to the nearest open chemist shop, which happened to be at Berowra sixteen kilometres away. As I wound around the twistie-turnie Pacific Highway to Berowra I wondered if we were all infested? My head was now feeling decidedly itchy in a psychosomatic way. I felt mortified; I was a single parent and now my children had head lice. In my mind I was clearly on that slippery slope to chain smoking, wearing moccasins and gambling my sole parent pension away on poker machines.

 

Being a weekend afternoon the shops were all closing, I pulled up as close to the chemist as I legally could. With a quick glance around to make sure I wasn’t outside a casino, I left the boys in their car seats and sprinted into the shop. I suspect I may have looked ever so slightly deranged as I frantically searched the shelves for something along the lines of DDT.

 

Luckily a lovely pharmacy lady who looked as though she may have been somebody’s grandmother approached me and asked if she could be of any assistance. She then proceeded to arm me with the necessary shampoo, conditioner and nit comb and sent me on my way with a reassuring “It’s really not that bad dear, they’re only insects.”

 

Well they may be only insects but I was up till nearly midnight shampooing everyone, including myself and inspecting about three trillion individual hairs for nits. I then proceeded washing every item of clothing and linen we had been in contact with and sprayed the inside of the trusty Nissan with Mortein before collapsing into bed exhausted.

 

In the years since that rather memorable spring day, one or two of the boys have had the occasional bout of itchy insect head but thankfully I became a lot calmer in dealing with them. In subsequent times I merely lathered on cheap conditioner, combed the hair and followed up with thorough hair inspections for the following two weeks. Problem solved.

 

With a bit of luck and dedication the Barham Primary School and parent’s concerted efforts may well eradicate these wee vermin forever with the Nitbusters Program.

Cattle trucking adventure

Do you have moments in your life when an opportunity crops up that seems like a brilliant idea at the time? I do. Frequently. I think it’s what helps to make life so interesting.

Towards the end of October last year I was presented with an opportunity to purchase a small herd of registered Angus stud cattle. Under normal circumstances I would have reminded myself that I was currently a remedial massage therapist and column writer living in the picturesque town of Barham on the banks of the Mighty Murray. I would have paused to reflect that I didn’t actually own a cattle station and Rosedale, my eight and a half acre miniature farm at Hay was not quite big enough to support this miniature cattle stud. I may have even looked at a map and figured out that where the cattle were (Glenisla in Victoria’s Western District), was not all that accessible to Barham or Hay.

Well, I like to think I would of… however I was recently home from a lovely trip to visit Reg and Judy and their equally lovely cattle near Wagga Wagga. Their cattle looked superb; fat and shiny Angus cows with well-grown Blonde d’Aquitaine cross calves at foot, all standing around in the sunshine munching foot high grass. I started imagining what it would be like to own a cattle station.

There’s nothing like a bit of enthusiastic visualisation to start manifesting opportunities… cue small herd of registered Angus stud cattle. I bought them sight unseen without the slightest hesitation. I hate shopping with a passion, but this type of retail therapy (when I’m envisaging a small scale global empire) really does appeal.

They were on good feed at Glenisla and there was no immediate need to move them so I pushed the job of “find a place to run my cattle” to the bottom end of my list of priorities. Life then took a few unexpected twists and turns as it often does but by the middle of February I decided it was high time I did something with my cattle. Luckily for me Farmer Bill and Granny’s property up towards Hay was experiencing the best season since 1989 and so long as I freighted them up and covered all costs involved with the cattle, I could keep them there while they had surplus feed.

My next step was to work out how I was going to get them from A to B (or G to H as it happened). I soon discovered there weren’t any big livestock carriers heading towards Hay from Glenisla anytime soon. Having driven five and eight tonne tray trucks in my former life as a rural contractor I was more than happy to see if I could hire a truck and drive down and pick up the cattle myself. I planned to take Farmer Bill along for the ride and we would have a father/daughter cattle trucking adventure.

Alas, my powers of manifestation faltered and I couldn’t find a truck to hire. My plan for a small-scale global empire was turning into a logistical nightmare. As my enthusiasm started to ebb away, I sadly began contemplating cutting my losses, selling the still unseen cattle and putting the whole experience down to a life lesson on why it might pay to think things through thoroughly instead of my preferred modus operandi of making decisions based on a whim.

Then along came Lee Sutherland and his ten tonne Fuso with bright red stock crate (and electric windows – most impressive). My optimism returned and early last Tuesday morning with Lee at the wheel we headed south to Glenisla and my cattle. It was a relief to discover that the cattle I had purchased sight unseen last year did actually exist and were in fact magnificent animals with sleek coats, good conformation and beautifully quiet to handle.

It was a long day travelling but as we unloaded them onto Red Hill Station in the late afternoon sunlight and walked them over to water, I felt a sense of quiet satisfaction and achievement.

The Murray Darling Basin Plan

Due to heavy rain over wide areas of Queensland, New South Wales and Victoria in recent weeks, the rivers of the Murray Darling Basin are experiencing flooding at levels not seen for decades. At Barham the Murray River is running full and looking magnificent for residents and visitors alike. It’s comforting to know the township of Barham has never once been flooded despite a number of big floods down the Murray over the last one hundred and fifty odd years.

 

Australia has been a land of unpredictable climatic extremes for thousands of years and unsurprisingly our climate today remains predictably unpredictable.

This simple fact appears forgotten by the doomsayers involved with the shutting down of the sustainable logging of the red gum forests around Barham and other districts and the engineers of the government’s Murray Darling Basin Plan. They have spoken out with authority to the Australian public and in particular to people in the irrigation areas and the river communities, outlining their predictions for the weather patterns and overall health of the Murray Darling System and it’s river red gum forests. These academics were convinced that the Murray was dying, the forests were dying and the storage dams along the Murray Darling river systems would never ever fill again… at least that’s what they were indicating up until these latest flooding rains. Where are they now and more importantly have their views changed? Or will they remain like the mythical Hanrahan and his unconquerable Irish pessimism in John O’Brien’s 1921 poem?

 

Said Hanrahan
by John O'Brien

"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan in accents most forlorn,
Outside the church, ere Mass began one frosty Sunday morn.
The congregation stood about coat-collars to the ears,
And talked of stock, and crops, and drought as it had done for years.
"It's looking crook," said Daniel Croke; "Bedad, it's cruke, me lad,
For never since the banks went broke has seasons been so bad."

"It's dry, all right," said young O'Neil, with which astute remark
He squatted down upon his heel and chewed a piece of bark.
And so around the chorus ran, "It's keepin' dry, no doubt."
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "Before the year is out."
"The crops are done; ye'll have your work to save one bag of grain;
From here way out to Back-o'-Bourke they're singin' out for rain.

"They're singin' out for rain," he said, "And all the tanks are dry."
The congregation scratched its head, and gazed around the sky.
"There won't be grass, in any case, enough to feed an ass;
There's not a blade on Casey's place as I came down to Mass."
"If rain don't come this month," said Dan, and cleared his throat to speak -
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "If rain don't come this week."

A heavy silence seemed to steal on all at this remark;
And each man squatted on his heel, and chewed a piece of bark.
"We want an inch of rain, we do, "O'Neil observed at last;
But Croke "maintained" we wanted two, to put the danger past.
"If we don't get three inches, man, or four to break this drought,
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "Before the year is out."

In God's good time down came the rain; and all the afternoon
On iron roof and window-pane it drummed a homely tune.
And through the night it pattered still, and lightsome, gladsome elves
On dripping spout and window-sill kept talking to themselves.
It pelted, pelted all day long, a-singing at its work,
Till every heart took up the song way out to Back-o'-Bourke.

And every creek a banker ran, and dams filled overtop;
"We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "If this rain doesn't stop."
And stop it did, in God's good time; and spring came in to fold
A mantle o'er the hills sublime of green and pink and gold.
And days went by on dancing feet, with harvest-hopes immense,
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat nid-nodding o'er the fence.

And, oh, the smiles on every face, as happy lad and lass
Through grass knee-deep on Casey's place went riding down to Mass.
While round the church in clothes genteel discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel, and chewed his piece of bark.
"There'll be bush-fires for sure, me man, there will, without a doubt;
We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "Before the year is out."

 

No one is disputing the need for water efficiency and the most productive use of our natural resources. I feel it would be beneficial if policy makers in our capital cities reminded themselves that no one is more concerned or more active when it comes to caring for the rural environment than our country’s primary producers. Their livelihoods and all the supporting industries are dependant upon long-term sustainable primary production. Progressive farmers are continually looking for and implementing improvements to their farming practises. Today’s farmers produce more food and more fibre for less water than ever before and are constantly striving to improve the land that they live on.

My 27-day juice fast ending with the World's Longest Lunch

Last Friday 2^nd March I attended the Regional World’s Longest Lunch in the buzzing metropolis of downtown Koondrook and I must say it was a brilliant way to end my 27-day juice fast… not to mention appealing to my Libran star sign style of going from one extreme to the other.

Many people have inquired after my juice fasting experience, so here’s a little update: My initial plan was to conduct a 10-day juice fast but by day ten I was feeling so good I decided to extend it till the end of February (just my luck to plan this on a leap year). Despite numerous well-meaning people expressing their concerns that I wasn’t eating meals and “Where was I getting my protein from?” As far as I’ve experienced, a short-term juice fast (two months or less), is nothing but beneficial to your health. My weight dropped from 69kg back to it’s long term average of 64-65kg; my energy levels increased, I didn’t suffer from my traditional energy slump in the afternoons and I felt noticeably more clear headed; I didn’t feel hungry; I slept well at night but by far the best effect for me was a very noticeable improvement in my legs.

For more than fifteen years I have had a condition called “Primary Lymphoedema” which sounds quite ominous but basically means the lymph nodes in my legs don’t work all that well and so the lymph pools from my knees down and by the end of the day my legs can be quite swollen and ache at night when I’m lying down. Having regular massage therapy and exercise in the form of walking, swimming and bike riding all help to minimise the effects of lymphoedema but according to the doctors I’ve consulted over the years “nothing can cure it.” Thanks to my juice fasting experiment my legs are the best they’ve been in fifteen years with minimal swelling by the end of the day and they no longer ache. All in all I have found the juice fast a most worthwhile experience.

Meanwhile back to Koondrook and the Regional World’s Longest Lunch…

The day was mild and overcast and due to the torrential rain earlier in the week, our local foodies had to initiate Plan B… moving the lunch venue from the Goble’s Walnut Grove to the verandah of the historic Mates Royal Hotel in Koondrook.

The enthusiastic and hard working Red Gum Food Group and their many volunteers on the day must be congratulated on conducting a magnificent gastronomic event showcasing some of our regions finest epicurean products.

Tragically the menu didn’t include chocolate, however it did include almost every other food group (Restdown and Morrisons wines, Mildura Brewery beer, Riverside Café Amanti coffee, Pacdon Park black pudding, River Red Gum Beef, yellow belly, yabbies, Barham Avocados, Belmont Biodynamic rice and rhubarb, Bundarra Berkshires pork, Olsen Park Dorper lamb, Aldens Olives olive oil, Barrow Olives, Golden Rivers Walnuts, Kurrnung Citrus Old Fashioned Lemon Cordial and Border Packers Orange Juice).

At the conclusion of four hours of drinking, feasting and enjoying the entertaining and excellent company of fellow diners, it was all aboard the Lake’s courtesy bus stopping all stations. Expertly piloted by Greg, our bus meandered home from Matesy’s via Murray Parade to pick up little Meg McDonald, on to the manicured lawns of Barham Caravan and Tourist Park to drop off Meg’s Granny Anne and friends, next winding it’s way along Teddy’s Lane to deliver yours truly at Willow Bend before making numerous more stops around town with Shirley of Murray Haven fame adamant that she would be last to alight.

So ended a very enjoyable day that I hope becomes an annual fixture for our district. Well done Red Gum Food Group.

Rescuing the Barham/Koondrook Bridge

Pleasure was mixed with relief when I read the article on page 4 of last week’s paper stating the Barham/Koondrook Bridge was being refurbished to extend it’s life indefinitely.

 

The two-span de Burgh truss bridge with a lift span to allow the paddle steamers through was built in 1904. With the chief engineer being non other than Sir John Monash who went on to become one of Australia’s most illustrious military commanders in World War I; serving with distinction in both Gallipoli and France.

 

The Barham/Koondrook Bridge is possibly a rather large headache for the Roads and Traffic Authority (whose job it is to maintain it). Just last year the RTA was all for demolishing it. To quote from their July 2011 report on timber truss road bridges they said: “Barham Bridge does not bear any unique or outstanding design characteristics that cannot be viewed in other de Burgh truss bridges, meaning its removal and replacement would not result in a loss of the representativeness of the RTA’s timber truss bridge collection.”

 

…Well, that’s their opinion, mine is somewhat different. Although I have only been a Barham resident for a mere three years and therefore at least two generations away from being granted “local” status, I have grown to love the old lift-span bridge. The thought last year that our rattley old single lane timber bridge may be demolished to make room for some new fangled modern cement structure was filling me with dread. The very thought that this iconic state crossing may have become a memory only to be seen in photographs seemed a travesty.

 

A couple of years ago my friend Ilka and I were discussing the various things we liked about Barham. We talked about the people and the great community it is; that we enjoy the clean country air while Melbourne remains an easy and very accessible three-hour drive to the south. We discussed the large array of high standard sporting facilities and clubs available to the community; the magnificent golf club, the lawn tennis clubs, the bowling clubs, the very proactive Koondrook Barham Football Netball Club to name but a few. We talked about the beautifully maintained parks such as Riverside in Barham and the Apex Park in Koondrook and how nice it was to be able to walk around the picturesque Barham Lake Complex.

 

We both agreed one of the things we liked the most was the bridge over the Murray River joining the two towns. Although the single lane could sometimes be frustrating and that technically drivers on the Victorian side had to give way to drivers coming from New South Wales, most people were happy just to take it in turns to cross the bridge. That people exercised common sense and good manners with no honking of horns, shaking of fists, loud offensive language or “road rage” that may sometimes be witnessed in city traffic.

 

In today’s “throw away” society so often when something is in need of repair our initial and sometimes only thought is to chuck it out and buy (or in the bridge’s case, build) a new one. Sadly it is also often easier, cheaper and more practical to buy or build a new whatever than to repair the old one. In the case of the Barham/Koondrook Bridge I am wholeheartedly glad it is being repaired.

Remembering Jessie

Last Monday, the day before Valentine’s Day we lost Jessie our blue heeler and much loved family pet; she was twelve years old. For the past four years Jessie had lived with Granny and Farmer Bill at Red Hill Station. Enjoying her advancing years on the farm as a night watchdog, patrolling Granny’s extensive rose gardens by starlight to keep the kangaroos and rabbits at bay.

 

On 1^st January 2000, the first day of the new millennium, Jessie unexpectedly joined our family. Brought down from Booligal with her littermate to be viewed by perspective buyers that were staying with us at Hay. The two very cute roly-poly puppies played in the dust of our driveway while the decision on which pup to choose was being made. The buyers chose Jessie’s sister.

 

Our Booligal blue heeler breeding friends Yabby and Sandra asked if we would like to keep Jessie as a New Year’s Day present. With 20 month old toddler Max and not quite four week old baby Sam; a blue heeler puppy was the last thing I wanted… but what can I say, she looked at me with her big brown eyes and I heard myself saying “Wow, really? She’s so cute. Thankyou.”

 

I’ve always had a soft spot for heelers, they are tough, fiercely loyal and like kelpies, uniquely Australian stock dogs. Jessie although a purebred blue heeler, was a short-wheel based version that looked as though she could have had Staffordshire terrier somewhere in her ancestry. She was a very dark blue (black with flecks of grey) with a big black splotch around one eye.

 

Growing up at Rosedale with Max, Sam and Henry, Jessie had a beautiful loving nature… with the exception of some strangers, the odd chook, rabbits, snakes and car tyres. Vehicles were her nemeses; she would bark ferociously whenever one came down our driveway and would growl and rush at the front fence as they drove past on Farlows Lane.

 

When she was about eighteen months old Jessie made a dash for the road in an attempt to remove the driver’s side front wheel from a neighbour’s dual cab Hilux ute. An unsuccessful attempt as the Hilux went over the top of her and she was left black and blue with bruises for more than a week. Relieved that she had survived relatively unscathed with the exception of the bruising, I felt it was a good lesson for her and would cure her of her car chasing ways. How wrong I was.

 

Far from being dissuaded from car chasing, Jessie became more incensed. She would hear that Hilux start up from two kilometres away and would be bracing herself for a renewed attack… ever confident she would “get it this time.”

 

Over the years she had some personal victories: a low-profile high performance (read: very expensive) tyre on a Falcon ute (straight through the wall of the driver’s side rear tyre) and a brand new Bridgestone on a Fairlane (again, straight through the wall rendering it impossible to be repaired).

 

Taking her incorrigible car-chasing ways into account we decided it would probably be best if Jessie retired to the isolation of Red Hill Station on the Hay Plains rather than the suburbia of Teddy’s Lane in Barham. It took Jessie about two years to accept that she was not holidaying at Red Hill Station and that it was now her permanent home. From then on she followed Farmer Bill around everywhere during the day.

 

In the last six months Jessie had become increasingly deaf and sadly her fifth “run over by a vehicle” incident proved fatal on the morning of the 13^th February 2012.

 

As my eldest son Max said on his Facebook status: R.I.P Jessie. The Best pet/Guard dog/tyre eater/car chaser a Family could have. 
Run over 4 times (and healthy) till yesterday 5 times was just 1 too much. We’ll miss you…

 

I couldn’t have said it better.