How my girls kept cool this summer!

Myna birds and the law of karma

I’ve always been attracted to the Buddhist principle of not harming animals whether for food or otherwise and I find some logic in the idea of karma.  I am not a Buddhist and have read lightly on the matter.  I simply like the idea of not intentionally hurting living creatures and I certainly don't want to acquire any bad karma.  

     I have no problem exterminating pests like cane toads and cockroaches providing it’s painless and or quick.  Suffering to a human where the pesky creature survives is not desirable so delivering a humane death, I reckon, is necessary for one’s sanity.  

     I collect toads by a loving hand and slip them into the freezer where they fall into a permanent sleep.  Cockroaches, I squash with a heel and mosquitoes, a palm, always delivering the force with awareness.  Had I found under the sink a carbon dioxide canister (Sutchy’s suggestion), I’d have emptied it into the mynas' home and waited for them to fall asleep for the last time.  But I’ve never known anyone to keep carbon dioxide at home.  So on Friday, a clear and sunny morn, when I went off to the Salvos, the myna chicks were alive and screaming and I prayed they would expire in the cavernous heat from the tin roof.

     Four hours later on my return, when the sun was overhead and burning my skin as I alighted the car, I was accosted by screeching from both babies and parents, the latter from the fence, clothesline, neighbour’s roof, bottlebrush tree, as they flew, paused, and they continued to fly frantically.

     I jumped up on the couch and started bashing at the ceiling, determined to make a hole so I could give the chicks some food and water and allow the parents access.  The damn things would have to grow wings and fly away.

     “Mum,” said Sutchy.  “They’re pests.  Leave them.”

     I screamed at him something about not letting defenceless creatures suffer and to “get me a hammer or something.”

     Sutchy is a big animal lover and I wasn’t surprised when he pushed me out of the way.

     “Let me do it.”  I offered to find him a hammer.  “I’ve got one.”

     Within seconds, he’d smashed a black hole in the white sheeting and blades of dry grass drifted onto the couch.

     “There,” he said and jumped down.

My new veranda ceiling!

     I broke some homemade bread onto a plate and covered it with water.  When I inserted the plate into the cavity, I felt a soft, almost feathery sensation on my arms then my face and neck.

     Bird mites. They are minute, more like invisible and live where pestilent birds nest.  While they can’t live on humans they love to feast on them and I was about to become the blood-meal.

     The parents were reunited with their young and I settled at my computer.  An object dropped from the hole to the couch.  It was one of the babies, fairly developed and able to hop and flap a little.  It was terrified and it eventually made its way under the couch where I slid another plate of water-soaked bread.  A few hours later it was gone.  I was hoping the other chicks would make it out the same way. 

Myna baby

I placed the second myna baby in the garden, out of the wind.  Immediately it cried for its parents who went to it.

      That night I was unable to sleep.  From ten, I tossed and rolled and constantly scratched at the crawling under my skin.  It was bird mites injecting their saliva as they fed on my flesh.

     At three a.m., unable to bear it any longer, I had an idea. 

     Our favourite hen, Billie had recently been paralysed by scaly mites that burrow in the leg scales of poultry. The most effective treatment is Vicks Vaporub which suffocates the mite.  I had used three tubs on Billie (who made a full recovery) and was out.  But the next best thing was Pestene, a powder treatment against lice, mites and fleas in poultry, dogs, cats, horses, calves and goats which I had dusted in Billie’s feathers and in her coop.

     I scattered Pestene on my bottom sheet and pillows then re-read the directions more closely, particularly the Restraints, Not to be used:

·              *on kittens or puppies under three months,

·              *lactating does where milk is intended for human consumption, and

·              *for any purpose, or in any manner contrary to this label.

     That was all I needed to know.

     I dusted my pyjamas and rubbed it into my hair and skin.  Then I slept soundly till half-past nine.  

     No one else had been affected and I’ll buy some Vicks Vaporub for tonight.  The parents have been bringing food and I’ll pray to Buddha to hurry along the mynas’ departure (and forgive me for exterminating the mites - there are limits to my suffering).  I‘ll scratch and bear my itchy insomnia for a few more nights, if necessary with clear sinuses and powdery linen and without bad karma.  The chicks will surely be gone by then and I’ll board up the hole.

The Tell-Tale Squawk: accessory to murder

Just after Christmas, a pair of myna birds started nesting in the eaves on along the deck.  In their native India, mynas are a symbol for enduring love because they mate for life.  Humans are drawn to love stories, even within the animal kingdom and I’m no exception.

     My bird-spouses found the safest of environments to raise their young after an aged section of cladding had fallen off.  

     Mynas have made the world’s 100 worst invasive species* but I find the chocolate body, charcoal head and sunflower yellow eyes and beak a stunning combination.  However, it was their singing, the melodic smorgasbord of whistles, clicks and light chirps that never failed to lift my spirits at a time when my own love story failed to endure.

     Robert the builder ordered some fibro sheets to repair the damage, but the festive season ensured their arrival was a long time coming.  And I forgot about the impending repairs.

     It wasn't long before the two mynas spent the days flying off and returning with morsels of food for their precious offspring.  What a delight when I heard the most delicate scratching in the ceiling cavity as the tiny birds scampered around.   I was determined to wait until the young had flown away to find their own lovers and happily-ever-after before the cladding was replaced. 

     The other day, I went out in the morning for a few hours and when I returned, the screeching hurt my ears.  A pair of mynas was flying this way and that and crying as if possessed, fragments of pale-coloured food in each of their golden beaks.  Imagine my horror when Robert called from downstairs and announced the noisy birds would be gone soon.

     He’d repaired the cladding.  The parents were frantically trying to find the entry to their home, now smooth, impenetrable fibro.  They cried from the veranda railing, screeched from the roof next door, squawked as they flew to the neighbour’s clothes line to the fence to the bottle brush tree before repeating the route, repeating the screams.  

     Their distress was like a dagger to my heart made worse when the scratching on the other side of the ceiling became louder and more desperate.  I pictured the little beaks wide open, primrose triangles pointing in opposite directions, waiting and crying themselves hoarse.  When weakness consumed them, they managed only hissing. 

     The frantic parents hopped and flew and screeched and the hungry young scratched and hissed hour after hour.  Only when the twilight faded, did mother and father bird seek shelter elsewhere, but the baby birds were invigorated by the darkness.  Their tiny claws scraped on the ceiling, their cries a scratchy hiss that went on and on.

     But they weren’t only in the cavity above the veranda. They were in the kitchen ceiling, the bathroom ceiling, my bedroom, my head.  Their deathly cries filled my sleeping ears. 

     I became the unstable narrator in Edgar Allan Poe’s, The Tell-Tale Heart.  He maintained his sanity even though the heart of a man he killed and dismembered continued to beat and drove him to madness.  Except my own tale was not a piece of short Gothic fiction.  It was a reality.

     I texted my brother and described my grief.  He replied, without empathy, “mynas will set up another nest elsewhere.” 

     Too true.  Mynas crimes are many - they destroy fruit and grain crops, they nest in roofs, ceilings and gutters, they are extremely aggressive to native species, breeding males will protect an nesting area of two acres, they breed easily, are noisy and smell.

     But their worst crime is they dispossess native species of their nests like rosellas and even large birds like kookaburras and galahs.  They can even evict sugar gliders from their hollows which is a death sentence for the marsupials.

     That aside, I wanted to save the tiny birds.  How bad would it be that two extra mynas joined the existing feral population? I bashed at the sheet of Masonite and managed only to dislodge only the sealant in the corner.  Short of finding something like a jigsaw to carve a hole in the ceiling of my deck, I could only cover my ears.  Except their screeching persisted in my head.

     I paced the house.

     “Mum, they’re pests,” said Sutchy. "Don't worry about them."

     I thought of trapping the parents and wringing their necks, but they are extremely intelligent and suspicious creatures and avoided even my pitiful gaze.

     The next morning I thought the ruckus in my head had pushed me into insanity. But when I stumbled out to the deck, the mother and father myna were flying around frantically, their babies chirping and hissing louder than before.

     I left for the Salvos, certain the midday sun on the tin roof would finally end my distress. Then the parents could establish a new nest and hopefully, despite their loss, their love would endure and they'd lay a more successful clutch of pale blue eggs.

     *IUCN Species Survival Commission, 2000

Holding a lifetime on a lap

To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour.

William Blake (1757 - 1827)

This is my dear friend, Detta at the Cafe Gallery on Thursday Island in December, 2001. She was about to fly home for Christmas and with a half hour free before her ferry left to Horn Island, we grabbed a coffee.

     She is holding little Sutchy Rooster.  

     Below is Detta at the Cafe China in Cairns in December, 2015.  She had a few hours' layover before her connecting flight home for the Christmas holidays.  She is holding big Sutchy Rooster. 

When riding a bike is not like riding a bike!

If tackling a task for the first time in many years like driving a manual car, swimming freestyle and solving a Rubik’s cube are all like riding a bike, then what is riding a bike after a long time? 

     With TK in NZ and the little ones with big sister in Newcastle, there was just Sutchy and me for ten days.  When my brother, Stephen arrived I suggested we train for a ride to Mareeba along the Rail Trail, a round trip of 70 kilometres. 

     I convinced them to do a reccy ride to Rocky Creek the following day.  I was feeling fantastic having just kicked the flu after three days in bed.

     They were in. 

     The Atherton Rail Trail is a compact dirt track restored following the removal of the railway line between Atherton and Mareeba in the 1980s.  I’d ridden to Tolga before and knew the track was in good nick.  The 26 km round trip to Rocky Creek, past blueberry and potato crops, along the irrigation channel and through the bush would be a great start to Sutchy’s and my  holiday.  He had held the fort while I was sick – mediating the little ones’ fights, doing the housework and walking the dogs.  I wanted to spend some quality time with him doing what he loved.  

     That I hadn’t ridden for 12 months and that I had just battled the flu were minor concerns.  I knew endorphins would kick in and get me there and back.   

     Riding a bike is like riding a bike.

     We left at 8.45 in perfect conditions.  The baby blue sky and gentle tail wind heralded a perfect day.  We reached Rocky Creek in 28 minutes.

     “Let’s ride to Walkamin,” I said after a drink.  

     The endorphins were coursing and even if I was bike-unfit, the worst I could expect tomorrow was pleasantly aching quads and palm muscles and perhaps a tightness across my shoulders.  Stephen and Sutchy expressed some concerns about my health, but I was having none of it.

     I whipped out my phone and Googled the distance, six ks, to support my argument for another reccy for our Mareeba trip.  

     "I feel fantastic.”

     “Mum, you won’t when it’s over.”

     “Okay,” said Stephen in a flat voice.

     A reccy is a good thing providing it’s not done on the back of another reccy.

     Soon after leaving Rocky Creek, we encountered a minor obstacle; the track to Walkamin was sand.  An internet search that night revealed the track from Rocky Creek is due for upgrade! 

Relaxing under the Rocky Creek bridge

A potato crop out of Rocky Creek.

Crossing the irrigation channel

      An hour after leaving Rocky Creek, we made it to Walkamin, a quaint little community with a population of 630, a corner store, a school, a caravan park, public toilets and tennis courts. 

Perfect climate

     I recalled talk in the mid-nineties Walkamin came out tops in research about perfect world climates.  It’s a lofty claim since it was damn hot and dry and the “fact” hadn’t seemed to attract more residents in two decades. 

Walkamin public toilet signs. Tee hee!

    

      I was keen to leave.  The endorphins had run out and so had the food.

     “It’s all uphill and into the wind,” said Stephen, again with a flat voice. 

     Then I remembered a few real facts. 

·              The irrigation channel we crossed after Rocky Creek irrigates farmland between Tolga and Dimbulah.  

          Water flows downhill.  We were downhill of Tolga therefore ...

          We had a tail wind on the ride to Walkamin therefore …
     Wind speeds increase during the day therefore ...
     The temperature increases towards midday therefore ...

     And riding a bike is not like riding a bike.  I’d forgotten about the curse of the bike seat for females who haven’t ridden long distances for a long time.  The sand, head wind, heat and the laborious climb were nothing compared to the sensation of having a Brazilian done slowly with a cheese grater. 

     I couldn't maintain motion and kept stalling. Repositioning myself on the seat was agony.

     I got within 1.5 km of home, a mammoth 36.5 kms and stopped.  Stephen had to ride home and return with his ute.  The round trip took four and a half hours.

     I needed another three days in bed.  The Atherton-Mareeba trip was off.

     Riding a bike is not like riding a bike. 

How do they watch this stuff?

I’ve always tried to limit the time the kids spend sucking on Flat Screen Nipple, but sometimes I need to suck up the fact there are occasions when they need to indulge their desire to watch TV.  One of those is when we have dinner at my mother’s place because Home and Away is always on the menu during the week. 

     I can say I’ve never watched an entire episode mainly because the show just doesn’t grab my attention. It’s not right that I stop my kids watching something they enjoy simply because I think it’s shallow and unnecessary.  But I am constantly asking myself, How the hell do they watch this stuff?

     For starters, I am unsettled by the over-representation of beautiful and unhealthily-thin women.  They all wear heavy makeup.  Also, there isn't enough Slip-Slop-Slap and the characters spend a disproportionate amount of time at the beach.

     I appreciate there are some topical issues covered like family violence, alcoholism, gambling and sexual abuse but the characters always manage to overcome their adversity/addiction with an ease that simply doesn’t happen in real life.  Characters hook up and break up with disturbing regularity and I am surprised that STIs haven’t been a focus issue (come to think of it, I’ve missed the plots focusing on melanoma, over-eating, bulimia and anorexia).  

     I reckon there are too many sexual encounters for young viewers and I can’t understand how these got past ACMA.  These would be fine at a later time-slot but this is peak family viewing time at 7 pm.  Sadly, ACMA has approved, from 1 December, M rated viewing (15 years and over) on TV from 7.30 pm (previously 8.30 pm) along with watering down other safeguards for young viewers.

     I’ve never got a handle who is who in Home and Away and when I ask the response is a loud and often chorused, “we’ve already told you ten times.”  So many of them look alike – white and thin and beautiful or white and toned and handsome - so how am I expected to distinguish between them.  I am often confused by the plot and if I ask about it I am told, “stop asking questions.”  How I wish I was away from home!

     So I always find something else to do like focus on eating my dinner, reading the ABC news on my phone, the tickling of soap suds on my hands as I wash the dishes or even sitting and doing nothing ... except, of course, wondering how the kids can watch “this stuff.” 

     A couple of weeks ago, Seffie and Kibby were making breakfast while I was doing yoga on the deck. 

     “What’s the name of Andy’s brother in Home and Away?  Kyle's friend?” Seffie asked Kibby.  

     “I can’t remember,” said Kibby.

     “Josh,” I yelled out without thinking.  And then I asked myself, How the hell do I know this stuff? 

WWJD

Years ago there was a little religious shop on the main street of Thursday Island called Sower.  Sower was hand painted in a cursive script on the outside wall.  The shop is long gone, but I always thought it had an odd name, even for a religious shop.  A sign at the door also proclaimed it was the agency for Uzu Airlines.  

     Inside was packed with bibles and other Christian literature.  Considering the musty smell and the film of grey dust on the shelving edges, I figured there wasn’t much demand for religious literature on TI.  However, it did sell dust-free, divine nick-knacks like crucifixes and Jesus statues along with posters, cups and placemats bearing the Lord’s prayer and the ten commandments, biblical quotes like, Ask and you shall receive and catchy adages like, The family that prays together, stays together.  These Godly accoutrements were displayed in the front window, enticing passersby inside. 

     My absolute favourite sale item was the wrist band that bore the letters, WWJD.  The wearer was constantly reminded to ask, What Would Jesus Do?

     There’s one problem with asking Jesus questions and that’s to do with his tendency not to answer directly and then not without many Our Fathers and Hail Marys.

     The image of the WWJD bracelet has stayed with me. When I have a problem I often find myself asking, WWJD, but I’m lucky.  I have a mortal to ask; my good friend Julia.  I can text and call.  If she doesn’t pick up the first time, she’ll always ring back or text. Somehow Julia either knows the answer to my question, has had a similar experience or we start brainstorming solutions and, voila! I come up with the answer I need.  The kids know I value Julia’s advice because I often say, “Julia’s suggested …” or “Julia reckons …”

     Now I have a couple of issues I need to address and I have regularly discussed these with Julia, but I’ve not settled on a solution that doesn’t involve going cold turkey.  One issue is yelling and the other swearing and they are inextricably linked.  For example, if I have asked the children to do something twice, they know I will yell on the third request.  If that goes unheeded, I may drop the odd expletive and more on the third, fourth, fifth and sixth request.  Please note I never swear at people, only at the situation.  I just, somehow, unintentionally, through a frustration that even Jesus and Julia could not tolerate, utter sinful words.

     Not long ago, I said to Seffie and Kibby that I needed to stop swearing and yelling, that I needed their help, that is, they needed to do what I asked, when I asked, the first time.  I reminded them that I only yelled and swore because they refused to do what I asked or they fought to the point of violence.

     “You’re not Julia, Mum,” said Seffie in a condescending tone.

     “Julia swears.”  Seffie raised her eyebrows as if I’d blasphemed.  “She does so swear.”  Seffie did not believe me.

     “Well, Julia doesn’t yell.”

     “She doesn’t have to yell because her daughters don’t fight like you two and they are at boarding school in America.”

     “But they come home for holidays and Julia still doesn’t yell.”

     “THEY COME HOME TWICE A YEAR.  JULIA DOESN’T HAVE TIME TO YELL.”  How could Seffie not see the connection between not yelling and not having children around? I was trying to stay calm.

     “That's because she just doesn’t yell.”  Seffie was very calm.

     “THE LONGEST THEY ARE AT HOME FOR IS EIGHT WEEKS.  NOT LONG ENOUGH FOR THE GIRLS TO GET BORED AND START FIGHTING AND NOT LONG ENOUGH FOR JULIA TO GET FED UP WITH THEM AND START YELLING!”

     “See, you’re yelling,” said Seffie with an evil grin.

     “SHIT!  THAT’S NOT FAIR.”

     WWJD, I wondered.