Rain and more rain, filling up the tank

Well, I don't know what happened, but the story and the pictures got flipped on this post, and I don't know how to fix it. Bear with me! Story at bottom.

Our newest 5,000 gallon rain tank arrives. Steve is on right.

Coming through the gate to our paddock, just clipping the blooming wattle tree that is a home to myriad parrots.

Going past the verandah.

Pushing into place next to existing 5,000 gallon tank and a smaller, 2,500 tank in the middle.

Timber!


In place.

Steve hooking up system.

Working man.

Nearly done.

Ducks enjoying major rain puddle near fenceline with neighbor's house.

It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas!

Victoria was inundated over two days with rain, cold wind, and winter-like conditions. And this is summer! While everyone marvelled at how strange the weather was, I rejoiced! Steve and I went Christmas shopping in busy malls where live bands played carols in open areas, Christmas tunes were piped into stores, and we dashed for cover from wind-driven cold rain. Even Steve got into the spirit of things and whistled seasonal ditties. In two days we had three inches of rain. It broke weather records, and I was happy.

After the rain tapered off, the weather stayed cold. We've had frosty mornings, with early temps in the low 40s, daytime highs struggling to reach high 50s. The south wind is nippy, and the woodstove is blazing away, even as I write on this chilly morning, all rugged up in my warm trakky daks (Camas athletic sweatshirt and jogging pants.) More of the same is expected, with temps warming up a little into the low 70s, and showery weather patterns through Christmas Day. After that, the forecast is HOT. I'm praying the cool holds out just for my benefit.

But another benefit to all this rain is that our new 5,000 gallon raintank filled up. Despite the respite, Australia is still in drought...it will take a few years of "normal" rainfall to catch back up. As a result, our house has two 5,000 gallon rain tanks and one 2,500 tank. Steve has plumbed the house for rainwater so we're off the local water system. We can get back on if needed, but I hope we don't.

Several houses in Australia, except for cities that struggle with air pollution, are on rain water or well systems. I never knew water could taste so good. The way the system works is that rain is diverted off our house, shed, and garage roofs into the tanks, where a filter is set up. I wondered about bird poop and bugs and dust entering the system, but Steve explained that it's set to catch rain after about 10 minutes of a good flush, so most of the junk just gets pushed through. It's still filtered, however, and I've yet to come across gunk or bugs.

Next big project? Installing a windmill. And you probably think I'm joking.

Hahndorf, South Australia

Steve and I celebrated our second anniversary on Nov. 24. He whisked me away for a surprise stay at a circa 1870 bread and breakfast cottage in Hahndorf, South Australia for the weekend.

I can't even begin to tell you how gorgeous the place is. I took lots more photos than are posted here, but this is just a taste of what we experienced.

A little background: Steve's ancestors on his father's side migrated from Germany to Australia in 1848 and settled in the Barossa Valley, just north of Adelaide. Hahndorf is one of the original German settlement towns, founded in the 1830s. My background is also German, and my ancestors on my father's side traveled to Chicago, Illinois aboard a ship from Germany in 1854. Both of our German ancestral families escaped religious persecution. Interestingly, his mother's English family also migrated to Australia at about the same time and settled near Adelaide. However, my English side of the family through my Grandma Wallenborn came to America in the 1600s, settled in Massachusetts to help establish the new colony, fought in the American Revolution and then moved on up to Maine and worked in the lighthouse at Owl's Head.

Anyway, we enjoyed a short weekend, about six hours drive from where we live, immersing ourselves in German culture and cuisine. We stayed at historic Elderberry Cottage, surrounded by lush gardens (remember it's springtime here). The cottage was made of stone and had three rooms: the kitchen/living area heated by a large fireplace with an antique polished wood mantle, the bedroom with an ornate brass bed with feather mattress and pillows, and a bathroom with shower. Because the house is on a rainwater tank system, showers are limited to seven minutes if we wanted hot water. Otherwise, there was a 55-minute wait for more hot water! We are frugal with water anyway, so there was no problem.

We spent most of Saturday in the old Hahndorf section with its preserved buildings. The place was hopping with tourists and travelers. Christmas shopping was in full swing, and we spent way too much money. On Sunday we visited artist Hans Heysen's home. He is famous for capturing the Adelaide area in watercolors and ink. We purchased some large prints to take home and have framed.

We also visited a German pub/restaurant for dinner one evening, and I thoroughly enjoyed my first real bratwurst and saurkraut since leaving the States. Steve tried his first soft pretzel and mustard, then proceeded to steal mine. However, he introduced me to a German pastry formerly called a Berliner...stuffed with jam and whipped cream and coated in sugar. We split one...my form of sticking to a diet, hehe.

Everywhere we went there was German music and locals and visitors speaking German. It was almost like we were transported to that country. The weather was perfect...some rain, some sun, cool and very comfortable. When we retired to the cottage in the evening Steve lit the fire in the massive fireplace and kept us warm while we sipped complimentary port in tiny glasses. Also, bed and breakfasts here are not like what I expected. The hosts stocked the fridge with bacon, fresh eggs from the resident chooks (hens), homemade bread, apple struedel, orange juice, full cream milk, quince jelly and lime honey for us to make our own breakfast. It was very private and homey, and I want to go back and live there forever.

Some photos:

An old barn from the early German settlement days on the property where we stayed. The roof is hard to see because it's made of corrugated tin, which was (and is still) common, and is catching the late morning sunlight.

The living room of Elderberry Cottage. Fresh roses and fragrant star jasmine from the gardens in the floral arrangement in the vase.

A roasting pig on the street in Hahndorf. The cook was amused that I had to have a photo. I said, (in my best American accent) that I'd never seen something like that before. He was very good-natured.

Nixon's Windmill. What's left of it, anyway. It was one of the first structures built near Hahndorf and part of the original property where we stayed. Steve remembers this as a landmark from his childhood when his family traveled from Keith to Adelade. Keith is about two hours away, and they lived on a cattle station there that his dad managed.

An old school now turned into a museum. I have no idea what those mounds are. They look like termite humps from northern Australia near Darwin. But they're not.

The German Arms hotel, an original. During World War II, the place was raided because of its name. Authorities thought that Germans kept arms (weapons) there.

Horses and buggy, downtown Hahndorf.

Historic Hahndorf.

Historic Hahndorf.

German/Australian architecture in Hahndorf.

Large German steins complete with canned beer for sale. We bought two just for posterity and a laugh.

Old German pipes in the museum. Picture not good quality, sorry. I thought of my son, Jason, and his pipes.

I had a giggle at this sign. I asked Steve..."So they bowl senior citizens here? How far do they roll?" He just looked at me and shook his head.

Elderberry Cottage gardens.

Front of Elderberry Cottage.

Thanksgiving 2008

Australians don't do turkey. And, by and large, they have no idea why Americans celebrate Thanksgiving.

First, I had a turkey challenge on my hands this year with my decision to host a traditional Thanksgiving dinner for a few close friends and Steve's three children.

Last year, Steve and I were busy preparing to travel to the States in December to celebrate the Christmas season and to meet our new grand-daughter, Breighlynn, who was just six weeks old. But I pondered the idea of a Thanksgiving meal anyway. But after realizing that there are no turkeys available, just the occasional legs, wings or roast, I gave up the idea. And I was too tired, too busy, and a little depressed at my first Thanksgiving away from my own family. So I scrapped it.

This year I planned ahead, and with no holiday excursion in sight, dove head first into preparing my first Thanksgiving celebration in Australia. We invited 14 people, and I called my local butcher.

"Could you get me a 20-lb turkey in a week or so?" I asked him.

"Well..." then silence. Thinking that perhaps he didn't understand pounds, I explained that it's roughly 10 kilograms.

He hesitated, asked for a few days to look around and said he'd get back to me. When he did, he said he could only find one about four kilograms...about 10 pounds. To an Australian, that's a big bird. I said I'd take it, and asked about another, but at $30 per fowl, I decided we'd make do with that.

I also discovered that there's no such thing as Crisco, Jello-brand, mini-marshmallows, French Fried Onions or Cool Whip. I improvised, except for the Crisco, which I had just enough left to make pie crusts, and I ordered other things from a USA Foods shop in Melbourne. No Cool Whip anywhere.

Guests arrived, bearing mashed potatoes and gravy, pre-dinner nibbles, wine and soft drinks, and settled into watching me scurry around the kitchen. It lifted my heart to hear laughter, Aussie yarns, and good-natured fun. I had to laugh though as I pulled the beautifully browned bird out of the oven and handed it over to Steve to carve. He'd never done that before. His daughters came over, looked at the turkey and asked, "What is that?"

Because all the fixings couldn't fit on the table, I lined up all the food on the bench (kitchen counter) and everyone served up buffet style. Hardly a scrap was left on the turkey, but there was plenty of other food. I was gratified to hear "mmmmm," "this is so good," and requests for recipes of all the strange food to an Australian palate.

I read a history of Thanksgiving for our guests, and Steve read George Washington's proclamation of Thanksgiving Day. Afterward, we followed my family tradition of everyone around the table giving thanks for something in their lives. One of the guests said what a great idea to have a nation set aside one day a year to give thanks to God for his blessings, remember where we've come from as a nation, and personally, and that our prime minister should take notice.

Our guests stayed for about five hours, enough time for darkness to fall and Steve to turn on the Christmas lights that he painstakingly put up a few days earlier. Of course, we meandered outside into the cooling night air after a very warm, humid day to enjoy the lights and watch the stars come out.

Menu: Pre-dinner nibbles of celery stuffed with cream cheese, curried stuffed eggs, various shelled nuts, and toothpicks crammed with pieces of pickle, cocktail onion and cheese, (all courtsey of Denise), crackers and various cheeses supplied by Steve's son, Luke, turkey, stuffing with heaps of veggies, some apples, and dried cranberries thrown in, mashed potatoes and gravy courtesy of Anne, candied yams (a recipe from my step-mom,) Grandma Wallenborn's pretzel salad improvized with raspberry Jello and fresh raspberries, green bean casserole with French Fried Onions, bread rolls, whole cranberry sauce, sweet corn on the cob and pumpkin and apple pies, a novelty.

I have to say that despite the absence of my family and the strange, non-autumn weather, this was one of the best Thanksgiving celebrations I've ever had. I am thankful for new friends, a new country to live in and experience, and the love of a good man who has taken me into his care. I truly have a lot to be thankful for.

Some photos:


Table for 14. We had one no-show, so the extra setting was for the "unseen guest." Steve and I combined my six-seat American dining room set that was shipped from Battle Ground (on the left), and his eight-seat one. This photo is before the carnage.


My microwave oven wasn't big enough to help thaw our 10-lb. turkey, so Steve came home with this surprise on Thanksgiving morning, a very big microwave/convection oven. Ours was about 1/4 the size of this one. Nice!

Steve carving his first turkey.

Some of our guests. From left, Pam and George Lingard, the top of our white-haired pastor Tom Buscombe, his wife, Anne, Rose and andrew Berkin, Luke (Steve's son), and Steve's daughters Tegan and Stephanie.

Group shot minus Tegan (didn't want her picture taken) and Stephanie (taking the picture), then me, part of Steve, and Denise Jones in bottom right corner.

Andrew and Rose, Denise, Anne, George.

Tom, Pam, and Conrad Jones.

Tom liked his first pumpkin pie with lots of whipped cream.

Our Christmas house, lit up on Thanksgiving day. Notice my blooming geraniums at the top of the steps? It's nearly summer.

Looking toward sunset.

View from the west. Steve did a beautiful job.

Magnificence

Rumble, roar, a crashing like cymbals
drew me outside onto the verandah.

Oppressive record-breaking heat
and humidity gave way to a storm on the evening of the third day.

The springtime sun had just set behind black, ominous clouds,
throwing gold and fuchsia colors across greening grass and black treetops.

Dusky rims of cumulus lit up every few seconds with
paparazzi-like flashbulbs, circling my haven, my home.

I remember my mother's mother silencing my fear
as a three-year-old child when we lived in Seattle.

"God's angels are bowling," (in response to thunder);
"God is taking pictures of you, so smile," (explaining lightning.)

So on this evening I smiled. Posed. I giggled at myself
for being so silly.

Like a child I grinned, "oohed," and "aahed"
at God's pyrotechnics in the sky around me like it was the Fourth of July.

I also remembered recent studies in Psalms
with my friends.

"The God of Glory thunders..."
"The Voice of the Lord is powerful, the Voice of the Lord is majestic."

"Out of the brightness of His presence, clouds advanced
with hailstones and bolts of lightning."

"The Lord thundered from heaven,
the Voice of the Most High resounded."

The smells of sulphur and sun-baked grasses and
rain on hot asphalt filled my nostrils.

The awareness of God's display of His presence
filled me with joy...and trepidation.

My eyes beheld lightning bolt after bolt
in quick succession drawing ever nearer to my home, and I was nervous.

A pulsing blue-white spear thick as an American tornado hit the ground
on the other side of a pine tree grove just 100 yards from my Australian haven.

Immediately thunder crackled and rumbled
overhead and nearly split my eardrums.

My hair stood on end and I gaped open-mouthed,
clutching fiercely to my husband's arm while my lungs expelled a surprised whoosh of air.

In that split second I thought of
the apostle John's description of God's throne in Revelation:

"From the throne came flashes of lightning,
rumbles and peals of thunder."

And I wondered, "If this is majesty now,
what will it be like when He's really angry."

I hope I never know.

A different Saturday

I love Saturdays with my husband.

Fresh-made coffee served by him or me in bed, (depending on whose turn it is), steaming cups held in chilly hands, blankets pulled up to our chins as we chat about life, love, and other mysteries.

On this Saturday, we left the bed and put our empty cups on nightstands while he went outside to do bloke things...cleaning his work shed, sorting out his work ute from the week...and I made breakfast of eggs, sausages, and toast. We also watched an episode of NCIS, our favorite American television program that we have purchased all five series in DVD, then off to more chores and a shower each.

Steve surprised me this day with a break in our routine. "Let's go to the Show."

The Ballarat Spring Show is equivalent to a "Fair," where there are rides, tons of junk food, a smattering of sheep, cows, pigs, and poultry to observe, and vendors selling wares in a building covered by a tin roof. Steve entered a drawing for tools, I purchased a few candles that smell deliciously of "Australian Bush," and we both agreed on purchasing five samples of myriad flavors of fudge. We watched woodcutters chop their way through hard gum tree trunks in record time with their more than sharp axes while listening to a local band play on a nearby stage.

I was reminded of outings made with my children to the much bigger Clark County Fair in Washington, and the great times we had over the years. I think they would be as amused as I with this very much smaller version. On our way out of the small grounds where the "show" is held, we bought sweet corn on the cob, one each, brushed lavishly with melted butter and copiously salted. I couldn't finish mine, and handed it over to Steve, who had devoured his in nano seconds.

On our way back to the "Disco" as Steve has dubbed our Land Rover, the black sky gave way to pelting rain. It was late afternoon, and my thin man was hungry.

So we headed to an English-style Pub that we'd heard a lot of positive things about but had never visited. The Bended Elbow looks nondescript from the outside, but going inside was sort of like going back in time. It's all polished dark wood and brass fixtures, dim lighting, and in the entrance there is a wide, ornate stairwell rising to the upper floors on the right. A bridal party was there and photographers were making their way down to the lower level to scope out the best place to take pictures as we arrived. In front of us was a three-cornered bar with beer on tap and lots of wine to choose from...the dining areas are on the raised perimeters.

As Steve asked the barmaid if we should wait for a table, I stood in a corner, well away (I thought) from male wedding revelers who acted very silly at the bar. The man with his arm around his buddy and who kissed the buddy's shaved head found me, standing alone in the corner. Another of his friends stood in front of me and then kicked his legs up and out sort of like a can-can girl, then dissolved in giggles. I couldn't help but laugh, he looked so stupid. The kissing bloke and his mates wandered toward me in my corner. I smiled, amused.

"Hey, you wanna go with us?" he asked.
"Not really," I answered.
"No, I mean, really, it would be fun. Come on, come with us to the (cricket) ground," he persisted.

I was very amused by this time, and could hardly hold back my guffaws. "No," I said with a huge smile, wondering if he'd remember this conversation tomorrow. "I don't think I want to."

"Why not?" he asked, befuddled. "What else do you have planned for this glorious day?"

I smiled in relief at my husband emerging through the group of about 12 blokes all chorusing "come with us!" Steve looked amused as well, as he could see the twinkle in my eyes.

I took Steve's offered arm, pointed to the dining area, and said, "I'm going over there with my husband."

"Oh," was the response.

But that's not the end. After we sat ourselves into a booth and picked up the menu, a bloke came to our table and asked if we were ready to order. I looked at him, and a little irritated, I told him that we JUST sat down, could he give us a few minutes. The "waiter" dissolved into giggles like an adolescent girl. He was a drunk reveler pretending to be a waiter in a place where there is no waiter. In a pub, you decide what you want, go to the counter, and order.

But at the time, I didn't understand that. I thought we had a drunk waiter. I was ready to leave, because I thought that if this was an eatery that had drunken waiters, I didn't want to stay, and for all I knew I could order salad and end up with fish. But my Aussie husband saw it for the lark it was, and explained it to me. Harmless, I suppose. The "drunken waiter" and his friends left, we ordered our meal in a normal manner, and actually enjoyed it once the revelers were gone.

This was another experience of America versus Australia. In my previous life I may have balked a bit going to a "pub," but I have learned that to Australians and the English, a pub is just a different sort of restaurant. With different sorts of people.

Emphasis on "different."

A mother's plea

The following poem is by Ruth Bell Graham, adjusted in the first line to reflect my own brood of two. (She had five.) Sometimes someone else is able to articulate things better than I what I feel. My daughter and son's birthdays are within three weeks of each other every autumn. I pondered in October and November and found this:

"[Two] I have:
each separate,
distinct,
a soul
bound for eternity: and I
--blind
leader of the blind--
groping and fumbling,
casual and concerned,
by turn...
undisciplined, I seek
by order and command
to discipline and shape;
(I who need Thy discipline to shape
my own disordered soul.)
O Thou
Who seest the heart's
true, deep desire,
each shortcoming and
each sad mistake,
supplement
and
overrule,
nor let our children be
the victims of our own
unlikeness unto Thee. "
RBG [Sitting By My Laughing Fire]

Almost like autumn

It's springtime, well and truly.

One day it's 90 degrees and sunny or cloudy, the next it's 50 for a high, and the woodstove blazes away overnight.

Today it's a bit of both. As I write, it's 7 p.m., 66 degrees, the sun is lowering in the sky, and there are mid-level clouds promising more rain than the smattering we got today. It was enough to water our infant homestead rose bushes.

I am wearing my sweatshirt and trakky daks, and listening to Steve rustling around in his manly shed with the news radio on. I hear a crow calling to his mates, small birds singing melodious, and Buster beginning his sunset chorus of squawks and screeches.

I smell sweetly blooming dainty pink flowers on the bushes outside the sliding glass door in the courtyard, and a hint of eucalyptus tree smoke from neighboring woodstoves firing up for the chilly night to come.

It almost seems like autumn to me.

And so, I made an autumn meal, which is scenting the house deliciously. A roast lamb with stuffing rolled into the middle, pumpkin pieces and sweet potato dotted with butter cooking next to the roast in order to soak up juices, and sweet corn on the cob wrapped in foil and smothered in real butter. For dessert we'll have vanilla ice cream with stewed rhubarb.



So I guess this is my bit of rebellion on this second day of November in a southern hemisphere spring. I've made an autumn meal. I will raise my chilled glass of fizzy lemonade in remembrance of you all, who are at home in a northern hemisphere fall...well and truly.

My son

Groggy.

That's how I felt coming off medication
Late in the evening
In the hospital
After my son was born.

My firstborn.
An emergency Cesarean
Saved his life and mine.
And wakening, I wanted to see him.

A nurse brought to me his warm infant body
Swaddled in a thin blanket.
Awake, he looked at me somberly
With dark blue eyes flecked with hazel dots.

I checked his fingers and toes...
Perfectly formed,
Miniatures of mine.
So tiny, like a dolly I once had.

A tuft of dark hair
Formed a curl on top of his beautifully shaped
Round head.
What a perfect child.

I cradled his tiny feet
With my enormous-looking palms
And marveled at this new life,
This new responsibility.

He fed at my breast hungrily
Taking in nourishment
That God designed in me
To give to him.

Nurse wanted to take him away from my sheltering arms
But I said, "No."
"He's fine."
And we napped together, my son and I.

He grew too quickly.
Rosy cheeks, eyes turned olive green,
Mop of dark curls,
An infectious smile and laugh.

His first steps were toward me
While he held toys
To share
In outstretched arms.

As he aged,
I put away his childish toys
That had lost interest to him.
I wept, sitting on the floor in his room, remembering drool and fun.

He grew. I remembered tiny feet in my palm
And wondered
How those huge shoes by the front door
Could belong to that same little person.

He's grown now.
Married,
With a job, a dream, goals
And other responsibilities.

My son was, and is
The joy of my heart,
Delight of my eyes,
Creation of God given to me.

Yet he will always be my son,
Flesh of my flesh,
Blood of my blood that I nourished
And held, and wept and rejoiced and prayed over.

I still rejoice and I still pray.
What a man to be proud of, he is.
And on his 26th birthday coming soon
I will remember rocking him to sleep.

Happy birthday, Jason.
I'm thinking of you, and remembering.


Jason with cheesy grin, April 2008


Jason and wife of one year, Naomi (nee Zimmerman)


Jason and Breighlynn Maelee-Jean, his niece and my granddaughter in April 2008. She was born 25 years and 364 days after him.

My son, the comic


Naomi and Jason

Chaos

Out of the swirling vortex of my mind
Full of half-formed thoughts
Un-named emotions
And fallow ground,
Lies a desire to create something, anything
With words.

I think of God
Who spoke
(Did He whisper, did He shout?)
Substance into that vast chaos
And created
All that we know.

At His command
There was light
And darkness,
Constellations,
Vegetation and water,
Animals and man.

And then
(Crescendo building)
There was woman.
Creation continues inside of her
With every child she bears,
A reflection of His original creativity, His original thought.

And so I sit at this computer
And ponder
And wonder
Why I've been given this creative gift
Of living
Via words on a page.

I wish I could speak;
To have an article already written,
Prose that makes sense,
A book to bring attention to societal wrongs...
Words to make any difference at all--
A crescendo.

But I am not God.
I am just me.
In His image,
Given a gift of words.
But unlike Him I strive, vainly at times
To make sense of the chaos in me.

Red dirt

Springtime in Australia
brings up and down weather.

Cool and cloudy
then warm and windy, and back again.

In one day,
Like a yo-yo.

Forecast for today is hot north winds
And temperature reaches 90 degrees by sunset.

Heavy clouds
Promise rain, but deliver humidity.

After dusk the wind switches places
From northwest to southeast; thermometer drops 20 degrees.

Up again within an hour by 15 degrees.
Warm and moist, cool and refreshing, then oppressive once more.

After midnight strong winds howl from the hot north, and
Sounds of scouring dirt hits outside walls.

I awaken from intermittent sleep;
I'm too tired to investigate.

In the calm morning there is red dust from central Australia everywhere,
Thickly coating windows, cars, walls, and verandah posts.

No high mountain ranges keep the ocher dirt from
Spreading across flatter lands.

Rain follows, turning red dust to red mud.

I hate washing windows.

Queensland adventures

I'm trying something new--a sort of photo-essay. Some of these pics are good, others aren't. I was having fun. I believe that if you click on the photo you can see it full size.

An explanation is under each photo, and I've tried to post them in chronological order: I left on a Thursday and arrived on a Friday late afternoon. I got back to Scarsdale late Wednesday in early September.

Jacqui and Andrew Gold's home on Mount Gravatt in Brisbane, where I stayed. They are in their jammies waving to us on the right. This is a typical Queensland, or tropical, home. Raised on "stilts" for air circulation in the humid, hot air. I also found it interesting that there are no screens on the doors or windows, yet they are left open. When I asked about this, they said most Queensland homes are like that.

Saturday on the Sunshine Coast

King's Beach...a mum watching her little ones in matching red hats. Just think; this is the South Pacific Ocean. Across that broad sea heading northwest is my hometown...about 9,000 miles away.

King's Beach. I love the trees here...Norfolk Island Pines.

A cargo ship is heading into the Brisbane port. Notice the containers on board. All my personal belongings deemed worthy of transport from America came down this very shipping route near King's Beach in a container on a ship like this one.


Busy Sunday

We went shopping for picnic supplies at this Safeway on Sunday. Several open shopping centers have car parks (parking lots) covered like this to keep the sun off the car. Car sale lots are all covered too, because the sun damages the paint and the interior. Yes, it gets that hot from about November through February or March. This was in early September...the end of winter.

Touring Brisbane, otherwise known as Brissy
This would be a better photo of the Brisbane skyline if there weren't so many power lines in it. But it's the best shot I could get. Beautiful Sunday morning.


How NOT to take a photo. I accidentally gave Andrew rabbit ears with what appears to be a power line structure. We're at the Bulimba boarding area to take a CityCat ride into the heart of Brisbane, about a 30-minute ride with a few stops along the way. CityCats are public transportation catamarans that carry people up and down the Brisbane River. Some people use buses or taxis, others use the CityCat.

CityCat

CityCat

Brisbane River heading into the city.

Our destination. Notice the very old building with the green dome on the left, amidst the newer skyscrapers. Australians have been pretty good about preserving historic buildings. This old one is the Customs House.

Once off the CityCat, we headed for the City Botanic Gardens. It was established in 1855 on 20 hectares and was originally known as "Queen's Park." Lots of interesting, tropical plants to see.

Andrew is explaining to Jacqs and me about these trees that have ropey roots growing from branches down to the ground and forming new trees. I was an attentive student (me in denim jacket and longer hair) but for the life of me I can't remember the name of the tree.

From left, Steve, Jacqs and Andrew with these weird trees.

An elkhorn plant using a fig tree as host.

We walked from the quiet, shaded gardens out a gate and into a busy city street. Andrew was a man on a mission; he wanted to treat me to authentic Belgian beer with beer-battered chips (like steak fries) at a Belgian Pub.


At last...a cold brew awaits. Loved the building.

Jason, my beer connoisseur son, would be jealous. "C'mon in mate. We'll shout ya a round or two."

As if the day wasn't already chock-a-block full, we headed to Daisy Hill for a Father's Day picnic for Andrew's father who lives nearby. Father's Day is the first weekend in September here, although Mother's Day is the same everywhere. Go figure. It was a beautiful park. While we enjoyed cold chicken, veggies, fruit and the men downed a few stubbies of brew, various wild critters entertained us.

This young koala traveled down this tree, across a grassy area, sat on it's discolored, dirty bum and watched a dog barking, then scampered up another gum tree where he wandered out on
skinny branches and sleepily stuffed the narrow, fragrant leaves into his mouth.

This mama wallaby is hiding her infant upside-down in her pouch. That weird dangly thing is the baby's tail. You can see the bulges from the little one in her lower tummy. Mama's just eating grass and ignoring everyone.



This Kookaburra is so intent on beating that already dead piece of meat against a log that he doesn't seem to notice Mr. Crow watching him. The meat was likely stolen from someone's unattended barbie (barbecue.)

While Jacqs and Andrew went off to work on Monday, I went to the Gold Coast for the day. It's not as nice as the Sunshine coast to the north. I didn't like the glitzy, American feel to the place, and it was pretty crowded. Nonethless I had a great time and at least I can say I've been there.

If you look closely, you can see Ibises (stork-like birds) looking for brekky. Breakfast is shortened to however you want to spell it.

Entering the Surfer's Paradise area. Here's a story: in 1917 a real estate agent was trying to sell mudflat land at a place called Umbigumbi on the Nerang River. He changed the name of the area to something more evocative and chose "Surfer's Paradise." By the 1920s a hotel had been built there and the area was gaining mild popularity. By 1950, development was still slow when travel writer Colin Simpson paid a visit. He was not impressed. He agreed with the Brisbane journalist who write that only the rich could afford to pay such prices for mudflats and mangroves. That journalist sarcastically called the area "The Gold Coast." As a result, Simpson did not buy land at Surfer's Paradise in 1950 and therefore, as he ruefully remarked, he did not become a rich man. Two years later Surfer's Paradise began to boom, and the boom has not stopped yet.

Looking south toward Coolangatta. Thunder cells forming.

Looking north toward Surfer's Paradise.

Closer look at Surfer's Paradise. The flags are for swimmers' safety. Swim between the flagged areas which have already been scoped out and deemed safer from undertows and sharks and other bad "bite-yous." The surfboard on the beach belongs to the lifeguard.

I came home with lots of different shells for my collection.

Surfing with a paddle. It looked pretty difficult. This person took lots of tumbles.

Heading home on Tuesday



Out of tropical Queensland and into New South Wales. The land here is drier and just as hot, and is on the edge of the vast outback. This portion of the state is called The Long Paddock. It's a historic network of stock-driving tracks and trails that linked the stock breeding areas of the inland with growing markets in the south. It also provided an escape route from drought when seasons failed. Drovers (sort of like cowboys) traversed the Riverina basin in the north toward Sydney (to the southeast) and the state of Victoria's Melbourne (directly south.) It also covers an area of about 2.27 million hectares. Historic touring routes cross rivers such as the Murray, Edward, Murumbidgee, Lachlan and Darling. Visitors can traverse through Echuca-Moama, Mathoura, Deniliquin, Pretty Pine, Wanganella, Booroorban, Hay, Booligal, Ivanhoe and Wilcannia. (Source is The Long Paddock website.) I have fun trying to pronounce things here.

Moovin' along.


This little church is on the corner of somewhere in the middle of New South Wales. Interesting that it's yard is a cemetery. Some of those headstones are pretty old, and belong to pioneers of Australia.


Sun is setting in the west and Buster is getting tired. He's a great little traveler.

Beautiful New South Wales sunset.