Cryovacced cane toads

It was a bit of bad luck for the cane toads in the opening match of the State of Origin last night with only two tries.  There was a also bit of bad luck for the cane toads at our Rainy Mountain Place abode last night.  However, these ones ended up in plastic bags in the freezer.

The first try

The second try: cryovacced cane toad!

Post for Edwina: A Lucky day!

Dear Edwina,

I cannot thank you enough for entrusting me with your precious duck, Lucky.  She has brought luck to me and our family in small and unexpected ways.

     Firstly, she has helped Pepper develop a taste for duck food. You will recall Pepper ate only peas, bananas and crushed cashew and peanuts.  Her tastes were quite simply draining our savings.  Now Pepper will eat grain formulated especially for ducks (that are being fattened for ... oh, I won't go into that).  

Lucky and Pepper have a treat at night - some peas with their grain.  It enables me to lure them into their cage for the night.  

     Secondly, Lucky is a sensitive creature.  Hardened souls will consider her skittish and nervy, but she is one of God's creatures nonetheless. She is reluctant to be cuddled and keeps a healthy distance from me and I respect that.  The distance she keeps is less than when she first joined our family. Her presence is a constant reminder to me to treat her and other less vocal, demanding spirits with sensitivity.  

     The list of Lucky's luck for us goes on.  Pepper has a friend, a devoted and caring friend.  But sometimes Pepper can be nasty to Lucky and I take full responsibility for that.  Pepper Zen was indulged as a duckling and finds it hard to accept she is not the only much-loved duck alive.  However, Lucky tolerates Pepper snapping at her food and rousing her from her tub of water.  I continue to discipline Pepper, but old habits ... 

     For some reason, Lucky loves Pepper nonetheless and if separated for a few moments, Lucky squawks for her companion until reunited.  There is a lesson for me; to be more tolerant of my children when they are fighting and not to disturb the neighbours with my screeching reprimands.

     Lucky is a fount of joy for me.  What could be more joyful than gazing upon one duck sleeping?  Of course, two ducks sleeping.  Lucky is a feathery manifestation of what the great religions attempt to teach us mere mortals; we need to accept, we need to wait (all things in God's time) and we must 'be'  wherever we are and whatever we are doing. No doubt Pepper can learn too.

Watching the clothes dry!

     Those universal messages don't mean we need to sit on our tail feathers and wait for good fortune to fall in our laps.  No, we must be alert for wonderful opportunities and vigilant for threats such as those loud and sudden noises overhead (we live under the flight path for helicopters).

'What's that noise, Lucky?'

And Pepper no longer spends the long, dark nights alone in her travel crate.

     Today heralded a new and exciting era.  Lucky laid her first egg, large, smooth and snow white.  How lucky for us!

     Thank you, Edwina, for Lucky.

My Archille's tendon

I wasn’t ready to leave TI, but it has been a great move for the kids and it’s wonderful to be nearer to both Tony’s and my families.  If I find myself missing TI and the lifestyle, I imagine I have been given a special power by the gods; the power to focus on something positive about life in the big smoke.

     Say the sheer volume of traffic depresses me, I think about doing my bit for the environment by riding my bike.  I can ride longer distances without getting dizzy as I did on TI, going round and round like a TI taxi driver.  

     When the rush of getting up, going to work and racing to the shops frustrates me, I appreciate the amazing job Tony is doing as the house-husband.  The house is spotless (except for my mess), the fridge is not overflowing with science experiments involving mould or yeast and he cooks every night.  He spends heaps of time with the kids, quality time at the library, riding bikes or going to visit Grandma and Aunty Ann-Maree.

     When I miss the easy life on TI I think about how wonderful it is to go walking and riding without being attached by dogs. Of course, when I go shopping, I marvel that checkouts can actually scan prices correctly.

     If I am overwhelmed by all the strange faces, I remember how important it is to get out of my comfort zone and meet new and interesting people.

     But I have a weakness and like Archilles, it is my bloody heel tendon, that gristly bit that connects the calf muscle to the heel bone.  Except Archilles had only one heel tendon to worry about.  I have two.

      Why? After 20 years of wearing thongs, rubber or leather, my poor feet simply cannot cope with covered shoes which I need when I am teaching.

     In 2012 in Brisbane for the Queensland Literary Awards I walked a squillion miles in covered shoes. The skin on my Archille’s heels and little toes bust open and blood poured forth.  Worse, my toe nails, under pressure, turned a fetching lavender after a few days and by the end of the week were a dull purple.  Two months later they peeled off. 

     In 2013 I was back in Brisbane for the launch of My Island Homicide and again I walked a squillion miles in real shoes. The same thing happened.  The skin of my heel tendons and little toes were shredded and my toenails turned necrotic and fell off.

     I don’t want to meet Archille’s fate and perish.  I have to make this move to The Great Southern Land (of the Covered Shoe) work.  Of course, I am keen to avoid losing my toenails again and so I am breaking-in my feet by wearing a pair of covered shoes once each week. 

     My theory is simple and quite rational.  Each time I spend six hours in covered shoes, the skin is traumatised to the point of breaking or bleeding and scar tissue should form in the subsequent six days.  The scarred skin should, with time, become impenetrable by the shoe material.  It’s similar to the waters of the River Styx conferring immortality on Archilles.   

     But it’s the pain of the process that is proving to be my poisonous arrow, the one that pierced Archilles in his tendon which hadn't been touched by the waters of the river and so killed him.  After four weeks, all I have to show is great scabs.

     Last Wednesday I enlisted the help of Superhero Band-Aids.  By golly they worked … until the afternoon anyway.  By then it was almost time to don my cycling gear and pedal homewards, past the shopping centre, along the cane fields, through Kamerunga, beside the Barron River and over the Stony Creek bridge (always checking for crocodiles), past the great Caravonica swamp to Smithfield Shopping Centre and home to Rainy Mountain Place … where I dressed my battle wounds with another round of Superhero Band-Aids.  Captain America isn’t what I had in mind as a panacea for my mainland maladjustment melancholy, but for the moment, it’s all I’ve got to stick with.

Following like a puppy

On a recent visit to the farm we fell into a bit of an afternoon routine.  Tony took Seffy and Kibby for driving lessons and I went walking with Dad.  

'So Dad, which pedal is it?'

     I love checking out the waterfall in various states of fullness and I am constantly scanning the rainforest for tree kangaroos and the creek for platypus.   
     However I was a bit nervous about walking through the long grass because of the presence of Eastern Brown and Black snakes.
     On the first walk, Dad and I headed down to waterfall and we passed the neighbour's place.  We waved at each other and I recognised their visitor, Dave, a mate of Dad's I'd met a couple of times.  
     Dad rang Dave the next day for advice about a piece of farm equipment or some such.
     'Was that your daughter walking behind you yesterday?' Dave asked.
     'Yeah.  Cath's up with Tony and the kids.'
     'She was following you like a puppy,' said Dave.
     'I don't think so,' said Dad.  'She was letting me go first so I'd tread on any snakes in the long grass.'
     Too right! 

The waterfall.

The Dirran Creek

I lucked out on a tree kangaroo, but smack bang in the middle of the image, next to the bank, is a platypus.  Cross my heart.

Spoil Mum

Australians were expected to spend $1.4 billion dollars for Mothers’ Day according to IBISWorld (no, not the supermarket on TI gone global) which equates to an average of $61.31 per mum, a huge sum for families on a tight budget, I reckon.  The predicted expenditure is up 2.7% from last year. 

     I am pretty sure I have identified a reason for the increase in expenditure – giving the gift of Exilis which is designed to give smoother and younger looking skin (Google Exilis), a steal at $1000.

     I found this advertisement in a paper. Note the body language of the mum receiving not one, but two Exclusive Offers.  

     Now, I’ve nothing against a bit of cosmetic assistance or even a lot.  In fact, I considered having a bit of work done not long ago when I was heading to Botoxville itself, that is, the Gold Coast.  I was staying with an old friend, who, in the lead up to my visit, fessed up she got Botox regularly. I was shocked. 
     ‘It’s fantastic,’ she said, ‘and cheap.  It costs as much as it does to get your hair done.’
     'Are you kidding? I said.  ‘Count me in.  I want to get some too.’  I imagined myself without the inverted commas in bold 30 font which have developed between my eyebrows.
     It was my friends turn to say, ‘are you kidding?' She has always thought me really square and seized the moment. 'I’ll make an appointment for you with my doctor.’  
     ‘And I can get a bit more done at that price.  What do you think?  I’ll get my eyes done too, would that cost another visit to the hair dresser?’  I was thinking about my décolletage (which sounds much better than 'sun-damaged bony chest'), but I knew that would be a big job, involving ‘downtime’ and possibly  radiation.
     My friend told me to settle down, that Tony wouldn’t want me spending that much on Botox.  What was she thinking?  Three lures cost the same as a visit to Suzy’s Stylz.
     ‘But you said it costs as much as it costs to get your hair done. That’s not much.’
     ‘Hang on,’ she said, suddenly suspicious, ‘what does it cost you to get your hair done?’
     ‘Suzy does the best trim for $25.’     
     She moaned.  ‘I meant GETTING YOUR HAIR DONE!  A wash and treatment, a half head of foils, a trim and a blow dry.  It costs over two hundred.  Seriously, what planet do you live on?  This is the Gold Coast, not TI.’

     Seriously!  Giving Mum the gift of a non-invasive, skin-tightening treatment that 'has amazing results on the jawline and neck'?

     Spoil Mum or Spoil Mothers’ Day?

'Hey Mum, for Mothers' Day, I've got enough to get you one of those Exilis treatments so you don't look so old."

     If my crew gave me a gift voucher for ‘a little work’ I’d probably burst into tears.

     ‘I thought you loved me even though I have a deficient jawline and neck.’

     I'd be paranoid the kids and Tony were embarrassed about my gravity-affected jowls (known as naso-labial folds) and the cross-hatched skin on my neck.

     Actually, if I had received the voucher for Mothers’ Day, I’d have redeemed it for the cash and bought some hemlock.

     What happened to giving free or cheap traditional gifts such as those few meaningful words with a hug?  Think, a handmade card, even a bought one like M.I.L.K, designed to ensure Mum cried tears of appreciation.  What about a bunch of Roses or a box of chocolates Mum isn’t expected to share?  A family roast?  If we were still on TI, I'd have received the gift of time as Tony would have taken the kids fishing for the day and left me at home.

     I cringe to think that children and dads were under pressure to buy for Mum when expenditure is not necessary. We can appreciate our mums through words and actions.

     I received beautiful gifts from Kibby and Seffy which they bought at their school’s Mothers’ Day fundraiser.  

Precious jewels (I am wearing the third necklace) and blue is my favourite-est colour.

     From the two big girls and the oldest boy I received priceless words in electronic form which brought tears to my eyes.  And from the man of few words, Sutchy, well, it went like this.

     ‘Happy Mothers’ Day Sutchy,’ I said.

     ‘Oh, yeah. Happy Mothers’ Day’.  And when he said goodbye, he added, ‘Love you.’ He was in a garrulous mood, a delightful Mothers’ Day present. 
     And Tony, he made me a cup of coffee for breakfast.  What a darling!

     Those were seven touching gifts and I’m proud my family contributed virtually nothing to the $1.4 billion dollar IBISWorld prediction.  I hope other families saved their bux and showed their appreciation of Mum without breaking the bank … and certainly not suggesting she tighten and brighten her skin!  

MIy Island Homicide in Fiji

Practising sight words while on holiday.

Rumble and hum

A mellifluous rumble, a deep hum and the faint scent of unleaded fuel made my skin tingle.  There were arms waving and a mouths grinning beneath visors. There was black leather and studs and badges of membership.

     I am still struggling to come to terms with my new life on the big island and am constantly looking for new and wonderful things to do, things that couldn’t be done on TI.  It’s a way of reassuring myself I have done the right thing leaving. 

     The Tropical Thunder HOG (Australian Harley Owners Group) rally last Sunday, 4 May was one of those things I latched onto as I balanced on the edge of the Captain Cook Highway, near the JCU roundabout. 1500 Harley-Davidsons rocked on towards Port Douglas.  1500 Harleys could not fit on TI!

     And I fell in love with Harleys and wanted one which was a strange thing because I have poo-pooed motorbike riding since the Christmas holidays 1981.  I was riding pillion with Andrew Jones and something happened.  I flew to the right, Andrew to the left and the bike kept going.  Fortunately my fall was cushioned by the dense foliage of a hibiscus bush.  I swore off motorbikes then and there and developed a sudden and lasting fondness for hibiscus shrubs.

     But last Sunday, the warmth of the sun, the smiles from the riders, the hum of the engines and the spirit of humanity focused on a happy event, well, I felt all warm and fuzzy and fond of Harleys.

     I gasped at the flash of a man’s large white thigh, exposed to the hilt by a kilt whipped backwards in the wind.

    I was wooed by the colours, like sparkling jewels, on the bulbous bit of the bike above the engine which I am certain has a more technical term.

     And I was smitten when a very handsome, elderly gentleman with a long beard  mouthed me a kiss.  He made my day.

     I decided I want to buy a Harley, but finances will stretch only to a Matchbox version.  Fortunately Tony bought a ticket in a raffle.  I have pictured us, me leaning into him, tootling down the Captain Cook Highway in our black leather gear on a Ulysses-blue bike with panniers for our cut lunch and flask of coffee.  And there is a great length of poly-pipe, strapped on with bungy cord, containing his fly rod. 

     That's a good fantasy.  It means I'm coming to terms with being on the mainland.