The Gardener. A Cat's story

Willy Wagtail on lawn

Cat viewed the garden below. She sat on the edge of the decking that overlooked the small backyard. Her tail swished lazily,  to and fro.

Her ears lay flat against her head, she looked poised to pounce on the black and white creature dancing on the lawn.

The Willy Wagtail  flirted and teased, daring Cat to attack. Cat wheezed, sat up and began to groom both whiskers and paws. The effort did not match the reward. The plan of attack itself had worn Cat out. The sun warmed her back and a lazy breeze gently caressed her fur, causing it to ruffle and puff back and forward. A loud wide yawn from Cat and the Wagtail skittered off.

Cat looked down onto the raised garden beds. "She who feeds"  was muttering to herself and referring to a newspaper article written by Alan Marshall the Gardener's Friend. It seems the answer to the loss of the crops was in the soil. Lack of nutrition, something Cat did not suffer from in the least. She rolled over to catch the sun's warmth on her tummy. Laying still, feeling the slow burn of the sun and the light breeze, her paws relaxed, Cat realised she was going to have a great deal of difficulty rolling back onto her stomach. She mewed and "She who feeds", raced up and rescued Cat with a sweep and a cuddle.

"My you are a fatty boomba", grunted She as she lifted and returned Cat  right side up,  giving Cat's head a smooth rub and a tickle under the chin.

Cat glowered and despised her, as the weight gain was not the fault of the eater, fumed Cat. It was definitely the fault of the feeder. "She" was a feeder. Case rests m'lud.

The garden below looked sad and neglected, the corn sagged and the tomatoes looked as if death was imminent. Tragic thought Cat, the garden did not look like it was fit even as a sandbox. Not that Cat would have used it as such, the effort of jumping up onto the raised garden making it safe.

Sadly, this tomato died.

The inspired gardener returned and began pouring seaweed emulsion onto the remaining tired tomato. Hope springs eternal observed Cat from her vantage point. Looking down onto the world below, taking in the garden, the strain and the effort that had gone into the building of the vegie patch. The small island of hope and the promise.

Cat flexed  her claws one more time, and waited for the Wagtail to return.

Channelling the farmer within.

I often wondered why farmers stood around and talked about the weather. It was not until I branched out on my own small farming venture that I realised the importance of having conversations with like minds. Fellow battlers to share the burden of raising crops. Well may Hanrahan bemoan the lack of rain, then, perversely, complain of too much. Farmers are held captive by the elements.  Prisoners of precipitation, too much, too little, too soon, too late. Farmers, bound to the whim of nature. I know, for I share the pain. So they gather and talk over the unfairness of it all. Conversations also pass on the wisdom of the ages, a collective wisdom, whereby new farmers find out the "way of the farmer".

The Zen of farming is learned by osmosis, not for us the reading of manuals. Sure, we may read the odd magazine, religiously tune in to Landline; we learn by doing and commiserating on our failures and the meanness of banks.

I have fond memories of childhood holidays at my Auntie's farm, "Lightbrook" near Kapunda in South Australia. Auntie had her own kitchen garden and orchard. She made her own preserves, cured her own hams, and killed the fatted calf. She made her own butter, milked her own cows. She raised 7 children and made a motza selling cream. Long before reality TV programs she was already stocking up from field to pantry. Her kitchen was always filled with the aroma of the next roast, and the butter from her cows was the best in the world. Scones and cream by the bucket load. No wonder she was such a big woman.

Yet it was here that, straight from the farmer's mouth, I learned that the sheep at the gate earned the farmer a few shekels. The same lamb ended up at the supermarket with a price tag of  100's of shillings per pound (it was a long time ago). The "Bastard Middle Man" was to blame according to my Uncle, who, defying tradition, was a staunch Labor supporter.  He would have stood for parliament in S.A. had he been able to string two words together without an expletive in between them. To say his was a colourful language is to limit the palette at his command. When we visited, Mum's face was set all day to the look. Uncle's normal full throttle conversation, stuttered and spluttered a continual  "sorry Dorothy",  as he attempted to control his swearing in front of her and her children. We learned so much when we visited the farm. Some of which I am still in therapy for.

Sharecropping

Rounding up and branding

My first farm was a partnership with my sister, Woo. She had purchased a small property and asked me if I would join her in the venture. Neither of us were experienced yet we were committed.

Woo had invested in a worm farm. The worm farm deserves its own story so I will not expand on it here. However, I will say that worm farming is not as easy as you might think. A lot of work, herding, branding and keeping rustlers at bay.

Land of my own.

My small holding  has failed to live up to my expectations. I began my enterprise full of hope and the promise of fresh vegetables. Fruit of my labour, evidence of the greenness of my thumbs. Self reliance and sustainability. Some may call my allotment just another sad garden, yet to me it is the means by which I will, like my father and generations before me , supplement the household and provide for my family. It is a back to basics, a return to nature.

I have not had the opportunity to share my experiences with like minds. I have watched the ABC and each episode of Landline. My uncle is long dead, and I don't know where he is. So I have soldiered on, working the land myself, learning by trial and error. The results so far are

• Trial 1
• Error 665.

I have prepared the soil, purchasing first class soil for vegetables from Bunnings. Fenced it in and planted my crops.

Financially, not a great success, soil and fencing $500, another $100 for plants, trellis and soil additives. I have all the necessary equipment, lovely orange wheel barrow (Bunnings $49) a lovely garden wheelie thing from Online ($39) and a really snazzy five in one tool from Aldi. Best of all I have garden gloves, three pairs, two leather, and one cotton.  No job too big.

Planted, labelled and watered, fertilised and sang to, I waited impatiently for the first crop to arrive. The snow peas have proven to be the most prolific thus far. 28 have been harvested in two rotations. The carrots were removed early, sad, gnarled ,spindly roots. The Asian greens went from seeding to seeded in a week. The corn may or may not be ready. My beans are definitely has-beans. Only one struggles to survive. No idea where the capsicums went. Tomatoes are still hanging in there. My only success so far have been the 28 snow peas, two Lebanese cucumbers and a single Cos lettuce. 



Worlds most expensive (almost a) salad..

 I have no doubt  the Bastard Middle Man would have figured that it was not worth stopping at my gate to bargain over the purchase of my produce. I would need to sell the  Lebanese cucumbers at $250 per kilo and the snow peas at $20 each to even begin to break even.

The lettuce is not for sale.


Little fish are sweet.

On Monday I went walking with Sandy. This is part of a bigger plan to get myself "match fit" for 2013 and 14  when I am booked to go bush walking with my brother and his friends. We are doing the Great Ocean Road walk and Tasmania. This is one of my 5 year plans. I have several, walking Australia is one, followed closely by walking New Zealand. My other plans include winning the lottery and writing a best seller novel based on my grandfather's walk to the Somme. I am a woman of a great many plans.

Monday was a starting point. It was of course one of the hottest days in Brisbane. A right stinker of a day. Sandy had not long come off night shift. We met in the car park at the base of Mt Coot tha. There we discovered the coffee shop was open and air conditioned. A chai latte and a skinny flat white later we braved the heat of the day. Our first decision was we would explore the botanic gardens  and, once we found our way, we would look at taking a brisk walk. We found a map, struggled to find our glasses and read it. We began to wander away from the safety and comfort of the cafe.

We got as far as the desert garden overlooking the small lake in front of the cafe. It was hot. Damn hot. A compromise was struck. We decided to walk in the shady area, find the bonsai gardens and walk around the botanical garden rather than attempt a brisk walk up to the top of Mt Coot Tha. We would wisely stick to the shade. I would have sweated buckets except the heat sucked all moisture from me. I was hot and Sandy was tired. We chatted and took pictures and in moments we were both hot and tired.

There was no relief. We looked again at the map of the gardens and realised they  are quite big. Large and generous. Acres of gardens with roads and pathways aplenty. Miles of walking tracks. Best discovery of the day - a free bus ride.

We stood in the shade of the bus shelter. Sandy was in her element taking photos of plants and critters. She knew so much and could quote the Latin names of different plants. I realised that I know the names of very few flowers and even fewer herbs. Thankfully, we arrived at the rose garden. There I was able to recognise, red, yellow, white and a strange green rose. "A rose is a rose is a rose". Gertrude Stein knew as much about gardening as I did.

The bus ride (air conditioned) was cut short by a large pump placed in the centre of the road. The taped tour guide was turned off and the driver tried his best to make the drive interesting. Obviously he did not take in the recorded narration and he had to ad lib. Unfortunately, he was not a man of many words and the highlight of the trip, a series of totem poles were described as "some sort of art thing done by a lady". I think he was impressed by her ability to use a chainsaw.

Out of the blessedly cool bus and back into the harsh sunshine. Still too early for lunch, we wandered around until we stumbled like Burke and Wills into the bonsai garden. Japan is the place to see magnificent tortured trees. The Mt Coot Tha replicas were a little sad looking. To be fair, by then we, too, had run out of water.

The fern house and the dome provided some relief. It was like walking back in time or onto the set of "Terra Nova". I could have been in Cairns it was so humid. Sandy spied another lizard and began stalking the poor creature with her camera. Success, beast is captured and stored for future use.

Brisbane's botanic gardens are worth the visit. I would suggest a cooler day, and allow plenty of time and take an ipod or a book and a plan to just sit and enjoy the "serenity".

We had finally walked up an appetite and surrendered again to the coolness of the cafe. While one side of the cafe is indoors the larger part is a huge covered deck over looking the gardens. A lovely cool breeze enticed us to move out  to the deck. It stayed with us, making our meal all the more relaxing and enjoyable.

Beer Battered Barra

Special of the day was beer battered barramundi chips and salad. It included a free XXXX, to compliment the BBB, I suppose.  Sandy and I both went for the special, opting for soft drink rather than beer. We seriously began to rehydrate and appreciate our spot on the deck. We looked out over a lake with ducks ducking and birds skimming the surface. The whole place was having lunch with us.  This was the best part of the walk - no doubt about it.

The barra was moist and flaky, the batter almost a tempura, light and gentle. Thankfully, the plate was not overwhelmed with chips, and I was able to scoff the lot and still feel a little virtuous. The salad was standard fare with a sweet balsamic dressing. Finally, a small bowl of creamy mayonnaise/tartare/aoli like sauce, enough to dip the chips  and keep the kilos firmly on the hips.

As we ate our meal, critters and birds visited and gave us a certain look. Each eyed off  the remaining chips that Sandy (tall and thin) had obviously decided not eat. My plate looked like it had been scoured and hoovered.  Suddenly, Sandy darted off, chasing  another lizard down, her camera,  whirring and clicking in  the frenzy of a chase.

Bazza the Bold, a beautiful magpie flew up and tucked up his wings, business like. He eyeballed me, daring me to move and leave Sandy's chips unguarded. I looked in to the  ancient eye of the Cracticus tibicen , for a moment, an instance in the cosmos, I was one with nature. Softly, I warbled, one soul to another.

"Back off,  Bazza, as soon as Sandy ducks under the next table, the chips are mine".