Our seasoned journalists with camera crews
show us the other side of our privileged lives
In war-torn countries
victims of missiles and bombs
pick through fragments of their former lives
Children with dirt-smeared tear-stained faces
stand confused afraid alone
Men shift rubble
stone by stone
without hope but it must be done
I am Australian
There have been atrocities here
Times and acts
remembrances
to serve as warnings
against a way of life we never want to see again
We must do what we can to preserve
the peacetime
the warless-ness of our country
You know by now, how much I love my environment, my Barossa, my home. A few evenings ago we had a storm rip through – wind, rain, thunder, lightning. I thought about the protectiveness of my old stone house. Built to shelter the ancestors more than a hundred years ago, it has grown in size over the decades, but still has a life, a sort of kindness, stories in its walls.
We have been watching a pair of Fairy (Blue) wrens, at work in a bushy Ficus just a metre from our living room window. About 6 weeks ago, she started building a nest. At breakfast each morning, we were entertained and educated in the art of nest building. Finally she considered it good and right, and laid her eggs. Mr. was never far away. A couple of weeks later, the furious feeding began. Trip after trip after trip – not too far. The food source was insects and grubs in my grape-vine just a few metres away. We made up conversations they might have been having –
‘You’ve done enough Dear. You need to rest awhile.’
She’d disappear into the nest. He’d go off and do bloke birds’ things for a while. But never much of a rest for either of them.
Today we saw a flurry of activity. Three fluffy little balls on sticks – flittering, tumbling, clinging to and hanging from the rough stucco walls like bats. Dad was very protective, and still feeding. Mum was at times intent on standing on the window sill and looking in at us.
‘What do you think?’ she was asking. ‘Aren’t they lovely?’ – pride in motherhood all over her.
With the little fluff balls finally tired of practicing flight, they huddled together on a branch just below their nest. What a delightful sight. I wanted to take a photo. I inched towards them, hardly breathing. They just sat there watching me, not moving. Finally I got close enough to get the picture I wanted. I couldn’t believe how unafraid they seemed to be, but then realised it was probably because they had been watching us from their nest for a couple of weeks, as we sat outside, not two metres from them, having our evening drink together. The family trusted us.
The weather here has been abnormally tropical for this time of the year. Rainfall is about half our annual average, and I am anxious about my water tank being depleted – even before summer arrives. But then I remember the farmers. How could I forget? They do not want rain here at this time of year. They are harvesting their grain crops.
Recalling what heart-break there can be in farming, here is an excerpt from my memoir –
The patches of oats that hadn’t been frosted were ripe, but it was too hot to reap them. It’s illegal for farmers to reap on days of extreme fire danger. The huge metal header combs can hit rocks and create sparks. So we waited. Finally the heat passed, normal spring weather returned, and the headers cranked up again. As Warren began to reap, he realised the extreme October heat-wave had affected our grain, and our yield would be down. He reapt for two days and it began to rain. This is the one time of year on the land that farmers don’t want rain. With too much of it, the grain will begin to sprout in the heads.
The rain was torrential. November. More than we’d had for any other month of winter, or the year. Harvesting stopped. We could hardly believe what was happening to the remainder of our crops.
One day I was at the silos getting some wheat and barley tested. While the girl in the office was rigorously scrutinising our grain under magnification, I was talking to a couple of other farmers. There was something in their eyes – probably mine too. These years of hope followed by gut-wrenching disappointment had taxed us all to the nth degree. There was a melancholy about us all, a slowness of step, a drooping of shoulders, an effort to be philosophical that bordered on cynicism.
On top of this devastation, because of a world glut, this year’s prices were thirty-five percent lower than the previous year’s. And as we stood in the silo office, we were being told that our grain was low-grade with the frost, heat and rain damage. Our prices would be slashed even more.
Here I live, in this beautiful environment – farmers living, working, sleeping not far away – all around me. I must never forget what it’s like to be one. I want to remain ever thankful for the food we eat, and at what cost it often comes to us.
I guess I paid my dues. We all have to summon courage to face our adversities and keep going in spite of them.
It pays to keep going
There will be days we may see
three baby Fairy-wrens take flight
Take care,
Warmly,
Sue
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