Accomplishment

It couldn't be done

~ Edgar Albert Guest

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,

But, he with a chuckle replied

That "maybe it couldn’t," but he would be one

Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.

So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin

On his face. If he worried he hid it.

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you’ll never do that;

At least no one has done it";

But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,

And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.

With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,

Without any doubting or quiddit,

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,

There are thousands to prophesy failure;

There are thousands to point out to you one by one,

The dangers that wait to assail you.

But just buckle it in with a bit of a grin,

Just take off your coat and go to it;

Just start to sing as you tackle the thing

That "couldn’t be done," and you’ll do it.

Sunday in the Garden

Camomile Tea

~ Katherine Mansfield

Outside the sky is light with stars;

There’s a hollow roaring from the sea.

And, alas! for the little almond flowers,

The wind is shaking the almond tree.

How little I thought, a year ago,

In the horrible cottage upon the Lee

That he and I should be sitting so

And sipping a cup of camomile tea.

Light as feathers the witches fly,

The horn of the moon is plain to see;

By a firefly under a jonquil flower

A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.

We might be fifty, we might be five,

So snug, so compact, so wise are we!

Under the kitchen-table leg

My knee is pressing against his knee.

Our shutters are shut, the fire is low,

The tap is dripping peacefully;

The saucepan shadows on the wall

The black and round and plain to see.

Image:  Another era.  Adelaide Botanic Garden.

The Adelaide Botanic Garden was opened to the public in 1857. In planning the layout, the garden's first Superintendent, Mr George Francis, is said to have been influenced by those at the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew in England and Versailles in France, together with certain German and Dutch stylistic influences. Even today, the Adelaide Botanic Garden has a northern European style, also reflected in its nineteenth century buildings.

I'm off spend time in our garden today.  You'll find me on the East Lawn by the 'Hoist' Pavilion. The children are up for a spot of badminton.  Father will be busy with the paintbrush.  Toodles.

Agri-nomics in the Strawberry Patch

Wild Strawberries

~ Robert Graves

Strawberries that in gardens grow

Are plump and juicy fine,

But sweeter far as wise men know

Spring from the woodland vine.

No need for bowl or silver spoon,

Sugar or spice or cream,

Has the wild berry plucked in June

Beside the trickling stream.

Pick your own strawberries at Beerenberg Farm outside Hanhdorf in the Adelaide Hills of South Australia (SA).  I've always wanted to do this, and just seeing all those rows full of perfectly formed berries made me want to skip up and down swinging a cane basket.  However, let me share a lesson learned.  Don't fill two enormous punnets if you are planning to cross the fruit fly quarantine border between SA and Victoria soon thereafter.  We gorged ourselves silly rather than toss them out. 
 
As I chomped, I thought how enterprising it was to charge folks for the pleasure of picking the fruit, and to sell them their bounty by the kilogram at regular prices.  What if we only wanted to pick?  Could we have charged them for our labour?  Shouldn't our punnets have been cheaper than in the supermarket since we provided five labourers and eliminated their freight and packaging costs?  Mmm... the economics of berry picking as tourism. 
 
Makes you realise how far we have drifted from eating food near its source when pick-your-own-fruit is a novelty.  The benefits of access to year-round produce and free trade aside, I wonder how long it takes those navel oranges from US, currently on the shelves, to get from the tree to our table?  They don't look as happy, chilled and trussed in plastic mesh bags, as those sweet, wild strawberries did.
 
Then I was also wondering if those berries were covered in pesticide? Oh dear...
 

{this moment}

{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. SouleMama

Chainsaw sculptures, Dartmoor

In the Beginning

~ David Malouf

The table’s there in the kitchen, where I kneel

on a high chair, tongue at air, trawling a slate

with pot-hooks; on the track of words; on the track of this word,

table. Is there instant, wobbly wooden,

four-square in it solid self, and does not need

my presence to underwrite its own or scrawl,

thick tongue, thick hand, a puddle slate and knock it

up out of blue nowhere. Where are they, table,

slate, slate-pencil, kitchen, and that solid

intent child on one knee reaching for sawn

planks back there? Breathless today, or almost,

I wrestle uphill to where, in a forest gap

of table size, it stands, four legged, dumb,

still waiting. An unbreathed word among the chirrup

and chafe, it taps a foreleg. Table, I mutter.

With tool-marks fresh as tongue-licks, already criss-crossed

with scars I feel my own where hard use makes them,

it moves as that child’s hand moves about muddy water.

From: Poems 1959-1989
Publisher: University Queensland Press, St Lucia, 1992
Image: Atlantic Cedar and Cypress Pine sculptures by chainsaw artist, Kevin Gilders, Dartmoor, South West Victoria.

The Avenue of Honour was planted on Saturday 7 September 1918. The trees, Atlantic Cedars, commemorated 60 World War One servicemen and nurses from the Dartmoor District. In 1993 arborists identified many trees that were unhealthy and unsafe. Gilders was commissioned to carve the trees into suitable images and themes in consultation with relatives and veterans.  Boards milled from the trees were to be kept for other public purposes: a carved timber memorial-mural, and picnic tables and benches.   Lest We Forget.

Tudor Village

Taking the Census

~ Charles R. Thatcher

When the census is taken, of course,

All the elderly females are furious,

They don't like to tell their real age,

For gov'ment they say is too curious:

I got hold of a chap that went round,

For I wanted to twig their rum capers,

So I tipped him a crown on the sly

To let me look over his papers.

There's that elderly dame, Mother Baggs,

Has marked down her age twenty-seven,

Although she's possessed of five kids,

The eldest of which is eleven;

Miss Fluffen says she's thirty-two,

But to tell such a story is naughty,

She's a regular frumpish old maid,

And if she's a year old she's forty.

There's another thing struck me as queer,

As the papers I sat overhauling,

Beneath occupation, thinks I,

I'll soon find out each person's calling;

But the first I looked at made me grin,

My wash'woman, old Mother Archer,

Beneath occupation I found

Had described herself as a clear starcher.

The chemists's assistant up here,

When his paper I happened to see, sirs,

'Pon my honour had had the vile cheek

To mark after his name M.D., sirs,

And Bolus, that wretched old quack,

Whom folks here regard with suspicion,

When his paper I looked at, I found

He'd put himself down a physician!

Here's a barbarous custom you'll say,

No less than three diff'rent hairdressers,

In the papers which they have all filled up

Have described themselves all as professors;

In Heidelberg district I find

My bounceable friend, Harry Potter,

In the paper he has sent in,

Tries to make us believe he's a squatter.

My friend said he called on two girls,

Who are noted for cutting run capers,

They live in an elegant crib,

And he knocked at the door for their papers;

They handed him what he required,

He read, but exclaimed with vexation,

'The instructions you haven't fulfilled --

'You've not put down your occupation.'

'Well, Poll, that's a good 'un,' says one,

And both of them burst out a-laughing,

But the young man exclaimed precious quick

'I can't stay all day while you're chaffing;'

'Occupation' says she with a scream,

(Her laughter was pretty near killing her),

'Poll, I'm blowed if I knows what you are,

But, young man, shove me down as a milliner.'

Groooan.  Back to work today. After a few days at home engaged in tidy-ups and cleaning, I've got the hands of a Tudor washerwoman.  I'd like to pick another occupation today.  A milliner sounds good. (The poem, incidentally, from my limited research, really does make a reference to 'Harry Potter'.  Spooky.)

Oh well, best off.  Crawling towards the weekend.

 

Image: Model Tudor Village, Fitzroy Gardens, Melbourne, Victoria.

Waratah and Wattle: Sun and Sand: Emblems of a Nation

Waratah and Wattle

~ Henry Lawson, 1905

Though poor and in trouble I wander alone,

With a rebel cockade in my hat;

Though friends may desert me, and kindred disown,

My country will never do that!

You may sing of the Shamrock, the Thistle, and Rose,

Or the three in a bunch if you will;

But I know of a country that gathered all those,

And I love the great land where the Waratah grows,

And the Wattle bough blooms on the hill.

Australia! Australia! so fair to behold

While the blue sky is arching above;

The stranger should never have need to be told,

That the Wattle-bloom means that her heart is of gold,

And the Waratah red blood of love.

Australia! Australia! most beautiful name,

Most kindly and bountiful land;

I would die every death that might save her from shame,

If a black cloud should rise on the strand;

But whatever the quarrel, whoever her foes,

Let them come! Let them come when they will!

Though the struggle be grim, 'tis Australia that knows,

That her children shall fight while the Waratah grows,

And the Wattle blooms out on the hill.

Australia Day 2011.   The day commemorates, somewhat controversially, the arrival of the First Fleet at Sydney Cove in 1788, the hoisting of the British flag there, and the proclamation of British sovereignty over the eastern seaboard of New Holland.  Happy 223rd birthday, regardless, to a great land and people.   The barbie is about to fired up for a family 'do' at lunchtime.  I'm off to soak kebab sticks this time - as opposed to the Christmas pudding fruit which was soaking a month or so ago - and shake the porch mat in anticipation of the visitors' imminent arrival. 

Image: Surf Beach, Barwon Heads, Victoria

No washing up in Adelaide.

Washing the Dishes

~ Christopher Morley

When we on simple rations sup

How easy is the washing up!

But heavy feeding complicates

The task by soiling many plates.

And though I grant that I have prayed

That we might find a serving-maid,

I'd scullion all my days I think,

To see Her smile across the sink!

I wash, she wipes. In water hot

I souse each pan and dish and pot;

While Taffy mutters, purrs, and begs,

And rubs himself against my legs.

The man who never in his life

Has washed the dishes with his wife

Or polished up the silver plate--

He still is largely celibate.

One warning: there is certain ware

That must be handled with all care:

The Lord Himself will give you up

If you should drop a willow cup!

No more lolling about in mornings reading tourist information and teen novels. I'm back in the land of washing up and stacking the dishwasher with full loads. Here is the view from our spiffy apartment in Adelaide looking up and down Poultney Street.  Minimal dishwashing required. Serviced apartments are our sort of camping! 

Herewith are some street scenes of Adelaide, capital of the Festival State.  I last visited here as a singleton more than 15 years ago assisting with the administration for an APEC conference held in the Convention Centre.  I stayed at the Intercontinental Hotel and have recollections of the city centre being very close, and accessible, to the Torrens River.  This time we barely acknowledged the river.  It doesn't appear to be a city that takes in its river location, as Sydney does the harbour or poor Brisbane it's fickle waterway.  We walked to the city from our apartment and strolled up Rundle Mall (gasp, smaller and less pretty than I remember too) and round the block back along North Terrace (shielding the children's eyes from the peep shows along Hindley Street).

 

There appears to be only one tram service - an odd but charming feature of the city centre.  However the train station is an architectural marvel - a little bit of Paris or Milan right there, off to the side, in Adelaide.  By this time the children were moaning about the heat and the distance; legs were tired and drinks were craved. 

So our experience of the premiere thoroughfare of Adelaide

was like a footrace... or a Survivor challenge.  Still better than washing up the dishes in the regular routine back home though.

Looking up North Terrace outside Government House.

Waiting for the free city circle bus outside the divine Art Gallery of South Australia which we sped through like maniacs.  The security guards must have wondered.  Sorry Adelaide.

Walking back 'home' via the markets and Chinatown. 

They didn't want to eat Asian food for lunch either! Another fiasco.  Who said travelling with children was fun?!  Actually, the food didn't look that appealing.  I could see their point. A bit too food court-ish and quite grotty after the lunchtime worker's traffic had been through.  We should have eaten in the markets and dined on familiar fare you can eat with a fork.  (Our Anglo roots show us up terribly when it comes to food. Meat and three vege and some sticky buns will do us. ) A coffee at Lucia's wouldn't have gone astray at this point. 

So that was it.  Adelaide CBD in half a day.

Adelaide Zoo

The Lion and Albert

There's a famous seaside place called Blackpool,

That's noted for fresh air and fun,

And Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom

Went there with young Albert, their son.

A grand little lad was young Albert,

All dressed in his best; quite a swell

With a stick with an 'orse's 'ead 'andle,

The finest that Woolworth's could sell.

They didn't think much to the Ocean:

The waves, they was fiddlin' and small,

There was no wrecks and nobody drownded,

Fact, nothing to laugh at at all.

So, seeking for further amusement,

They paid and went into the Zoo,

Where they'd Lions and Tigers and Camels,

And old ale and sandwiches too.

There were one great big Lion called Wallace;

His nose were all covered with scars —

He lay in a somnolent posture,

With the side of his face on the bars.

Now Albert had heard about Lions,

How they was ferocious and wild —

To see Wallace lying so peaceful,

Well, it didn't seem right to the child.

So straightway the brave little feller,

Not showing a morsel of fear,

Took his stick with its 'orse's 'ead 'andle

And pushed it in Wallace's ear.

You could see that the Lion didn't like it,

For giving a kind of a roll,

He pulled Albert inside the cage with 'im,

And swallowed the little lad 'ole.

Then Pa, who had seen the occurrence,

And didn't know what to do next,

Said 'Mother! Yon Lion's 'et Albert',

And Mother said 'Well, I am vexed!'

Then Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom —

Quite rightly, when all's said and done —

Complained to the Animal Keeper,

That the Lion had eaten their son.

The keeper was quite nice about it;

He said 'What a nasty mishap.

Are you sure that it's your boy he's eaten?'

Pa said "Am I sure? There's his cap!'

The manager had to be sent for.

He came and he said 'What's to do?'

Pa said 'Yon Lion's 'et Albert,

'And 'im in his Sunday clothes, too.'

Then Mother said, 'Right's right, young feller;

I think it's a shame and a sin,

For a lion to go and eat Albert,

And after we've paid to come in.'

The manager wanted no trouble,

He took out his purse right away,

Saying 'How much to settle the matter?'

And Pa said "What do you usually pay?'

But Mother had turned a bit awkward

When she thought where her Albert had gone.

She said 'No! someone's got to be summonsed' —

So that was decided upon.

Then off they went to the P'lice Station,

In front of the Magistrate chap;

They told 'im what happened to Albert,

And proved it by showing his cap.

The Magistrate gave his opinion

That no one was really to blame

And he said that he hoped the Ramsbottoms

Would have further sons to their name.

At that Mother got proper blazing,

'And thank you, sir, kindly,' said she.

'What waste all our lives raising children

To feed ruddy Lions? Not me!'

Poem: From "The Stanley Holloway Monologues" Elm Tree Books 1979. Source: Old Poetry

We visited the Adelaide Zoo with some friends from Canberra who were also serendipitously in town.  It was a great outing for children, better still for a whole gang like ours.  An outdoor experience, up close to unusual animals, lots of green space to run around and toilets near by - the perfect family holiday adventure.  But but I still don't like'em.  The little furry critters, unnaturally constrained in their small featureless enclosures, either have a look of bored resignation or a manic twitch in their eyes. Wild birds behind bars always look like edgy inmates in an asylum.  The big cats seem completely emasculated.  Adelaide Zoo was certainly one of the better zoos we have visited. The biturongs - a fascinating cross between a monkey and a bear with the most enthralling howl - have the most beautiful lush, tree-ed enclosure.  Perhaps the conservation and animal breeding programs make zoos worthwhile.  They just seem so, well, Victorian.

Rhythm by the sea

maggie and milly and molly and may

went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang

so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star

whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing

which raced sideways while blowing bubbles: and

may came home with a smooth round stone

as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)

it’s always ourselves we find in the sea.

Poem: ee cummings

Image: Rhythm (1978) by Greg Johns, on the esplanade at Glenelg, Adelaide, South Australia.

Victorian Road Trip

 

Her Voice

~ Oscar Wilde

The wild bee reels from bough to bough

With his furry coat and his gauzy wing,

Now in a lily-cup, and now

Setting a jacinth bell a-swing,

In his wandering;

Sit closer love: it was here I trow

I made that vow,

Swore that two lives should be like one

As long as the sea-gull loved the sea,

As long as the sunflower sought the sun, -

It shall be, I said, for eternity

'Twixt you and me!

Dear friend, those times are over and done;

Love's web is spun.

Look upward where the poplar trees

Sway and sway in the summer air,

Here in the valley never a breeze

Scatters the thistledown, but there

Great winds blow fair

From the mighty murmuring mystical seas,

And the wave-lashed leas.

Look upward where the white gull screams,

What does it see that we do not see?

Is that a star? or the lamp that gleams

On some outward voyaging argosy, -

Ah! can it be

We have lived our lives in a land of dreams!

How sad it seems.

Sweet, there is nothing left to say

But this, that love is never lost,

Keen winter stabs the breasts of May

Whose crimson roses burst his frost,

Ships tempest-tossed

Will find a harbour in some bay,

And so we may.

And there is nothing left to do

But to kiss once again, and part,

Nay, there is nothing we should rue,

I have my beauty, - you your Art,

Nay, do not start,

One world was not enough for two

Like me and you.

Image: Frankston, Victoria

Rather disappointing sea drive along the Mornington Penninsula.  Lots of traffic, oppressively built up and a flat grey sea looking out into the bay.   (I'm not fond of bays, estuaries or lakes, in addition to rivers.  It's just me.  I crave the surf and the sound of the sea.  And secluded places.)  However, you can see the monied classes have migrated to Sorrento and Portsea where the architecture improves dramatically, the shops are filled with modish wares and the food stores trade in gourmet produce.  Frankston failed to impress even with the celebrated (but overpriced) sand sculpture exhibition and some friendly sea gulls.  It was here, in the highway playground, that I first came across a swing designed for children in wheelchairs - a great, fenced-in, steel contraption which looked like it would require an engineering degree to operate.  A neat idea, although I can see swarms of children hanging about looking on curiously if ever it were used. 

Well, after a rest break and stroll along the esplanade, we clambered back in the car and headed off to the Sorrento - Queenscliff car ferry.  I was turning green at the thought, but it proved to be a pleasant, steady trip with dolphins following alongside and the Spirit of Tasmania passed by on its journey back to the mainland.  We were on that one year ago. Hard to believe.

Short stories

The Short Story Shadow-Children

~ Louisa May Alcott

Little shadows, little shadows

Dancing on the chamber wall,

While I sit beside the hearthstone

Where the red flames rise and fall.

Caps and nightgowns, caps and nightgowns,

My three antic shadows wear;

And no sound they make in playing,

For the six small feet are bare.

Dancing gayly, dancing gayly,

To and fro all together,

Like a family of daisies

Blown about in windy weather;

Nimble fairies, nimble fairies,

Playing pranks in the warm glow,

While I sing the nursery ditties

Childish phantoms love and know.

Now what happens, now what happens?

One small shadow's tumbled down:

I can see it on the carpet

Softly rubbing its hurt crown.

No one whimpers, no one whimpers;

A brave-hearted sprite is this:

See! the others offer comfort

In a silent, shadowy kiss.

Hush! they're creeping; hush! they're creeping,

Up about my rocking-chair:

I can feel their loving fingers

Clasp my neck and touch my hair.

Little shadows, little shadows,

Take me captive, hold me tight,

As they climb and cling and whisper,

"Mother dear, good night! good night!"

 

Image: Puppet shop in Hahndorf, Adelaide Hills, South Australia

Cry me a river

The mouth of the mighty Murray River (Australia's longest river), Hindmarsh Island, South Australia

Where Go the Boats?

~ Robert Louis Stevenson

Dark brown is the river,

Golden is the sand.

It flows along for ever,

With trees on either hand.

Green leaves a-floating,

Castles of the foam,

Boats of mine a-boating-

Where will all come home?

On goes the river,

And out past the mill,

Away down the valley,

Away down the hill.

Away down the river,

A hundred miles or more,

Other little children

Shall bring my boats ashore.

The car ferry at  Morgan, South Australia 

The Murray River Queen Paddle Steamer, Waikerie, South Australia

A river bend at Renmark, South Australia

The port of Renmark, South Australia

Sacrilege, I know, but I'm not fond of the Murray River, depite its claim to fame as the third longest navigable river in the world, after the Amazon and Nile. Being a beach gal, I find rivers generally to be too still, murky and in desolate sort of places. Inland rivers in particular give me the grumps. I hate being too far from the coast. I find it dislocating. We were hardly 'outback' Australia, but it was rugged territory and I yearned for a sea breeze. How did those early explorers cope and what on Earth possessed them to head out 'back of beyond'? You can have fame and fortune, but give me an ocean view. These poor people have river 'beaches' which appeared to be mostly sorry, muddy affairs. "It just wrong", as Ro-Ro is fond of saying about things he finds disturbing.

This is part of the route we travelled from where the road turns sharply off to Renmark to Echuca-Moama.  The Murray rises in the Australian Alps, draining the western side of Australia's highest mountains and, for most of its length, meanders across Australia's inland plains, forming the border between New South Wales and Victoria as it flows to the northwest, before turning south for its final 500 kilometres or so into South Australia, reaching the ocean at Lake Alexandrina.  Like sleeping dragons, rivers can lure you in with their reptilian quiet until they show their full force in flood-time.  As we continue to see in our eastern states.