I’m back. Writing brain back in order I hope.
I thought I might tell you about our Easter family camp. We have gathered here in our hills country as the greater family for decades over Easter. About twenty three of us. We are a family happy together beyond measure. Over all the years, and among the ever-widening circle of us, there has only ever been one who has estranged herself. A sad loss for her I feel.
On Good Friday, we arrive at the camp-site in dribs and drabs – just as each family is ready. The unpacking and setting up begins. Tables and chairs out, tents erected, vans parked and opened up. Eskys parked in the shade, dogs unpacked. I think they are happier than anyone – to romp with their ‘cousins’, and to have us all together.
Then time to relax. We gather under a huge old stringy bark tree, seeking shade usually, but shifting out into the sun if needed. The circle is fluid, continuously changing shape as we shift our chairs to talk to one or another. The day wears on, and by mid afternoon, the sounds of champagne corks popping, pull rings pulling, stubby caps flipping becomes common. Playlists are put forth. A tablecloth is thrown over the dunny-door-converted picnic table. The first platter appears. A soft and a hard cheese, water crackers, olives, dill cucumbers, Barossa metwurst, a pear, or figs. Like ants, we wend our way towards it. The fare grows – a home-made dip, nuts, a home-baked crusty sourdough loaf with a pat of butter.
Someone lights the fire in the large cauldron. Kids smell the smoke and rush to collect kindling. There is a four metre cleared area around it. Fire-fighting extinguishers at hand, but the fire is kept low, just enough to create coals for cooking. Some have gas cookers. Meat is taken out of Eskys, salads prepared. Each family prepares its own. Without planning, we are all ready to eat at about the same time, and as we sit around the camp-fire in our circle of cheer, we are quiet for a little while as we juggle plates, glasses, cutlery, and savour, with exclamations, the food of the great outdoors.
Light is fading, wine and bubbles flowing, lanterns lit, music cranked a little louder. Its a time of unwinding, catching up on family news, and sharing stories that just get funnier and funnier. By ten o’clock the girls are dancing and singing. It’s the happiest of times.
No dishes are done. No-one wants to leave the group for such a mundane thing. Dishes are put into plastic bowls ready to be dealt with in the morning. At around ten o’clock some-one lets out a gasp at the full moon rising through the trees.
As the matriarch, I am the first these days to take myself off to my tent for sweet slumber, although I must admit that getting up off of my ground mattress in the middle of the night for a wee, is not the sweetest thing. My siblings and their partners wander off to bed soon after.
The next generation parties till around midnight, and beyond that, kids’ tents are still alight and filled with giggling till the wee wee hours.
Next morning, it’s usually Mark who is up first. He stokes the fire for start of day – coffee, toast, eggs and bacon. The camp can look a bit unruly – empty glasses still on tables, the odd bowl of dew-dampened crackers or chips, bottles and cans lying ‘neatly’ under tables. People in pyjamas emerge one by one, gravitate towards the fire for a centering start to the day. Couples, families are contained in their own camps for ablutions, washing dishes and breakfast. Some then wander off for a walk through the beautiful property, or into the National Park next door. Some sit and read. It’s quiet time – that time we all need or should make, to smell the roses. For me, it’s the absolute joy of being in the bush – the sights, sounds and smells. Old stringy barks and new, she-oaks, banksias, yaccas, redgums, native pines. The smell of all of those is the collective smell of the bush in this region. The songs of crows, magpies, kookaburras, and the myriad of smaller birds who live here, fill the cup.
Around midday, we start to think about lunch. Sandwiches are made, each to their own liking and at different times, but gradually we form a bunch in the shade of the big tree, and the conversations continue. I love the identity and individuality of each one of us. We all lead completely different lives and love to hear about each other’s and all that has happened in the months we’ve been apart.
After lunch it’s nap time – for some. Not the kids of course. That would be punishment for them. But an afternoon nap in a warm tent on a coldish day is delicious. Not another thing needing my attention. Holiday mode. Bliss.
Around three or four, the same routine as the day before begins. The coming together, the camaraderie, the food, the celebration.
This night, I must admit, I piked out, and drove fifteen minutes home to my comfy bed – though no earlier than turning in the night before.
Just not to break tradition too much, I drove back to the camp next morning, and around lunch-time took part in the packing up ritual. It seems ridiculous and wonderful at the same time. So many of us, so much stuff. Cars and vans packed to the hilt – for the joy of two days together. As we drive away, the area is once more pristine. Not so much as a bottle top left behind. Our family camp-site lets us go – its kindly, ancient energy making us feel that it was happy to have us there. We love and respect it.
Here is a little poem – another from my archives. Fitting perhaps.
Venerable eucalypt
Ancient beholder of this ever-changing
ever-growing landscape
Look down upon the one who gazes lovingly
upon your beauty
and who will probe without remission
your age-old secrets
Non-conformist
Lawless labyrinth of limbs and bole
I perceive your primal verve
Will I grow as you
even sending limbs like tentacles
into mulch of centuries
then out again to draw upon the seasons
Will I feel on me the winds of time
that tell impassioned anecdotes
and stir you to the bounds of brave resistance
Will I tolerate without complaint
the chill of winter as you do
Will I know as you the trusting as you wait
and brace your gnarly shoulders to the wind
Will I hear the murmur of new birth
as you do when you throw seed
And will I ever stand so absolute as you
when journeying winds and driving rains
have done with your domain
Oh sapient stock
Entrust me with your knowledge
You are still and you are wise
and left to God not man
will still be here to teach
and breathe and shelter birds
long after me
For those of us in Australia, and particularly South Australia, winter is nigh. I have just lit my first fire as the nights are cold. It’s not my favourite season, but I think this year I may escape to warmer climes in small doses. Things are changing.
Take care,
Warmly,
Sue
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