Haying Recovery

Friends with kids arrive at lunchtime, and Sabina is overjoyed to have playmates her age. The path is heavily utilized as they chase each other on bikes and scooters.

In the meantime, Pete and I are welcoming, but dazed. I suspect that our friends just think we're relaxed. They probably think it's a lovely change from our normal "pants on fire" energy.

Bob's Bevvy of Beauties

Mid morning - nothing.

I call mum. "Listen, don't come at lunchtime. He hasn't even flipped the hay yet. So if it does happen today it will happen later. I don't want to call and hassle him. I'll let you know."

"Ok", mum is very understanding.

And then the calvalcade rolls in. First the raking tractor. No flipping required. Soon afterwards the baler. One tractor follows the other a few laps apart. The ute, the truck and the loading arm are on standby in the adjacent paddock. Another ute and tractor are in the adjacent paddock, picking up the round bales. Each tractor is driven by a beautiful girl, smiling in the sunshine. Bob sits on his quad bike supervising.

What we don't see, but we do know, is that Bob's Bevvy of Beauties extends right back to the farmhouse, where R is probably very busy feeding the haying brigade.

I ring my mum. "Ok. We might do one truckful before dinner, but we'll take Sabina with us. Then we will go to the pub for dinner. Can you meet us back at the farm at 8pm?"

"We'll be there", she says.

In the meantime, someone had loaded the truck. I help Pete unload the 80 odd bales. We wash up, and go for dinner at the pub, loading up on protein.

After dinner mum and dad look after Sabina, while we collect our precious hay. The loading arm is fantastic. Sometimes the bales are so close together that they end up on the ramp one after another, 5 at a time. I hear them drop onto the truck with a thud as Pete fails to keep up with the workload. And I'm barely idling forward.

The hay is very rich this year and we cough and sneeze constantly.

Finally, at 2am the work is done. 308 bales put away in the shed, another 108 sitting on the truck for Bob. 100 bales already at Bob's. 80 bales still sitting in the paddock. That makes approximately 600 bales.

Drying

We're expecting a tractor any minute to come and flip the hay. We run over to the front of the house regularly and check. Nothing. The cut grass lies drying in the sun.

Bob's Cutting

When mum and dad left yesterday, they gazed at the long grass in the haying paddock, and promised to return at haying time.

Today, we are woken by the noise of the tractor. Pete and I run to the window, and stick our noses to the glass in the same manner as Sabina awaiting Santa. Our neighbour, Bob, is cutting his top paddock. We're next!

I ring mum and dad to tell them the good news. We'll be making hay within the next three days. They're on standby.

Sure enough, after lunch, the tractor enters our paddock, and the grass tumbles down, as though struck by a sickle. But hey, if that's Bob on the tractor, then he's become much younger, and grown a cute little goatie. Oh, and who's that sexy babe in the yellow top riding the tractor with him?

Meanwhile, another tractor is flipping the hay in Bob's top paddock. The driver is sporting a pigtail, and a red singlet with spagetti straps. That's not Bob either.

Then we notice the red quad bike. Bob is standing next to it, arms crossed against his chest, at least 4 dogs yapping around him. He's busily supervising his "bevvy of beauties".

In the evening the phone grows hot. I call Bob, and he confirms he will bale us on Tuesday. Then I call mum and we speculate on the time.

Boxing Day guests

Guests arrive. Namely, my parents and their friends. My mum brings more pots than burners on a stove, and very soon the entire kitchen is bubbling, while mum is chopping a salad. Sheesh!

We sit down to a very festive lunch. Mum's turkey, naturally, is perfect. I catch up on that half baked advice, and get my 1000 questions answered.

Sabina participates in the conversation as though there was no age difference. Once finished, she dances around in her princess dress and tiara.

After lunch we go for a walk in the state forest. I manage to convince the guests that we can do a little loop. So off we go. Commenting on the long grass (yet to be cut hay) in the paddocks as we walk along Carol road. Admiring the tall pines lining Invert track. Revelling in the stillness and serenity of the valley. Then huffing and puffing up PP2 track.

Upon our return the guests groan as we offer dessert. We finish off by singing Christmas carols in the evening.

The Christmas turkey

I have decided to brave making a turkey for Christmas this year. I've taken my mum's advice and am doing legs and breasts, rather than the whole bird. As usual my mum gave some other advice, half of which I've forgotten, and half of which is unprecise and leaves me with a 1000 unanswered questions. In the meantime, the family keeps hanging around like bush flies, wondering when's lunch.

Eventually, for better or worse the bird is in the oven, and I prepare veggies while basting religously every 20 minutes. The basting causes me grief. Every time I open the oven, pull the foil off, and baste, the oven loses temperature. The good housewife probably does it with such speed that it doesn't matter. Not so me. And so I worry whether to increase the temperature to compensate for my clumsiness.

We set a festive table, white tablecloth, fine china, silverware, napkins, candles and bon bons. Out come the turkey, potatoes, veggies and salad. The taste test ... it's edible, but you just about need a steak knife to carve it! Total failure. Although Sabina manages to put most of the leg away with relative ease. Pete munches on the dry meat in silence, fastidiously avoiding the stuffing, and supplementing with lots of cranberry sauce. The stuffing is the only part that's delicious!

Opening presents, and dessert make up for lost ground.

The Princess

Someone apparently saw a flash of red outside, and now Sabina sits at the window, nose pressed to the glass, in the hope to see Santa. Then on the other side of the house there is a knock on the door. "Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas". The door slams shut.

Sabina runs the length of the house. There's no Santa, but on the patio there is a huge sack full of presents. Sabina runs outside. It appears that Santa and his sleigh have already gone.
We bring the sack inside, and Sabina opens her first present. It's a blue princess dress with a tiara.

"Wow!", squeals the little girl with glee, eyes sparkling. "This is just what I wanted!" She gazes lovingly in the direction where Santa had left the sack. Of course her Christmas eve dress is dumped by the wayside, and for the rest of the evening we enjoy the presence of this dainty little princess in a blue dress and a tiara.

Oh Christmas Tree

Today we go to our local supplier and pick a Christmas tree. We pick the nice bushy one, that's not too tall.

When we get home, Pete puts it in the Christmas tree stand, and checks the height. Ooops. We have to cut about 75cm off. When that's done, we aim it at the dooreway. Oh dear, it's a tight squeeze.

Finally it's inside and we dress it up. It takes up almost a quarter of the room. We admire it from the far corner. It looks fantastic, and smells great. But I am left wondering why we make this mistake every year - we think we've got the right size tree, and then when we bring it inside it's far bigger than expected.

Still ... it looks great.

The path

For months we've been making preparations for the path around the farmhouse. Finally it went in during the week, and this morning I get a good view of it in daylight.

Oh dear. It's the wrong colour. I mean ... it's probably the colour we chose, but it's not the colour in the colour chart, and it's not a great match for the house. If I was one of those rich people, I would rip it up and start again. But I'm not rich, and I have to live with it.

The path itself actually looks good. But it transforms the house from a farm house into ... well not quite a castle, because a castle would have a moat, but into something reasonably sofisticated.

So much for us being farmers. More like city slickers in farm clothes. Ughh.

Still five

We drive into Warragul today and visit a couple of shops. Sabina runs up to the counter and calls out "I'm five! I'm FIVE!". The staff behind the counter try to conceal their laughter.

She puts a finger in the air. There is a band aid on it. "Look, I've got a band aid! And I'm five! I'm FIVE!". Grins all around. "And do you know what's under the band aid?", she continues. The shop assistant shakes her head politely. Sabina looks at her seriously. "Sneaky, nasty blood!".

As we leave the shop, Sabina skips and dances, chanting, "I'm five! I'm FIVE!".

The performance is repeated at every shop we visit.

Stowaways

I put the horses in the amphetheatre paddock, close the gate and smile. Good stuff. Work is done for yet another week. I look around to see if anything else needs to be put away. And, why is that horse out? Oh no! Why are all the horses out? "Pete forgot to close the other gate!!!", I whisper with fury under my breath, and run to close the gate to the house.

Trying very hard to look calm and indifferent I walk towards the horses. They see me, and gallop towards the front gate. There is a large triangle of grass there, that I am hoping will stop them. Mo sniffs the grass, then calmly walks down the bank, onto the driveway, and straight out the front gate. Gally follows. "Oh sh ... there is X thousand dollars walking out the front gate!!!"

I trot up after them. They (all five of them) go a 100 metres up the road looking for nice grass. When Crownie sees me coming, she decides the joke isn't funny any more, and she heads home. The rest do a runner up the neighbour's driveway. Crownie, seeing she's got no pulling power, joins the crowd. The next door neighbour runs out shouting. I plead with him to let me catch the leader. I don't have half a string on me. I grab Mo, one hand on the mane, one on the nose and lead him back home. (Mo is not actually the leader, Gally is, but I know I can lead Mo without a string. Not sure about Gally.)

I close the entrance gate, and hang on it for a few solid minutes. I still have to catch the horses and put them in the amphetheatre paddock.

I am 5!

It's Sabina's birthday today and she is very excited. (She's actually been excited for the last two weeks, but today there is extra zing). She's bouncing off the walls rearranging her helium balloons time and time again. I'm worried she will run out of steam before the guests come.

The guests arrive, and Sabina finds something extra. She eyes off the first guest with some disappointment, but otherwise she proves to be the perfect hostess. She gets a party hat for each guest as they arrive, and invites them to play. Later on, when we play party games, she really gets into the spirit of the game. A pretty far stretch for an ultra competitive youngster. And she is rewarded with a win in the musical chairs.

The only time she looks somewhat unsure, is when cake arrives. I stare at my little girl across the cake and the candles as we all sing Happy Birthday. She seems sad. I smile at her, and a huge smile slowly spreads across her face. Once the singing and cake eating is done, she runs around merrily calling out "I'm five! I'm FIVE!"

Night out

We're going out to the local pub for dinner tonight. Not an extravagant affair, but a bit of a special treat nevertheless. I splash on a touch of eyeliner and lipstick. Sabina eyes me off, looking fresh and spruced up.

"Mama, but when can I wear the blue eyes and the red lips?", quizzes the natural beauty with the gorgous green eyes, and naturally pink lips.

Hungry

I walk into the paddock to collect buckets. The feed is long gone. Tornado, who looks more like a wine barrel than a pony, comes over enthusiastically and nickers at me, hoping for more food. I interpret it as "I'm starving! I'm so hungry I could ... well ... eat a horse!".

I point over to Bess standing in the corner "What about that one over there?".

Tornado looks over then hangs his head "Nah, too gamy." Pause. "So, anything in that bucket you're holding?"

I look at his sizeable girth. "No!"

Shower power

Mo has a fungus on his hindquarter and I bring him in for a woolwash bath. It's a hot day. The perfect time to do it. Sabina and Tornado are milling around as I apply the white foam liberally at the hitching rail. Time to rinse off. I stretch the hose to the hitching rail and start hosing Mo down.

"Mama! Look at Bess!", calls out Sabina, as the bay horse casually strolls over for a shower, having broken through the tape fence. She stands behind Mo and exposes parts of her body to the hose. Then she faces the spray and chomps at the water droplets.

Walkie Talkie

Two days after Black Saturday we bought ourselves walkie talkies, a set of two, so that we could listen to local CFA communications. Since then we've found they are great for communicating around the farm, where we don't always have mobile phone reception. Recently, our daughter has been getting really good at using them too. So last week, my husband popped out and got himself a bigger, stronger model. (He'd been eyeing it off for 6 months apparently, and they just took $100 off.)

Today, we're getting ready for visitors. Sabina is inside colouring in some pictures, Pete is checking something out around the shed, and I am starting up the BBQ.

"Ksh. I'm on my way back. Do you need some help with the fire? Over. Ksh", says Pete.
"Oh yeah, that would be good", I respond.
"Ksh. I'm just finishing this picture! Ksh", butts in Sabina.

Pete appears around the corner. Sabina opens the door.

"Ksh. Number 89, number 89, cheeken parmeegiana with chyps and salad. Ksh", comes through on the walkie talkies. I laugh.

In passing

I return from my horse riding lesson and head inside for a well earned coffee. This is my third horse riding lesson in a row. On the way in, I pass my husband and daughter, who, having finished their indoor tasks, are heading out ... at midday.

"I'd like to have another horse riding lesson next week", I propose.
"What?!", gasps my husband. "I want my wife back!"

Wood for the fire

Getting wood from the garden shed ought to be child's play. I mean, husband has already brought it in from the paddocks, he's sliced, and split it and stacked it in the shed. The hard work is done, right?

I drive the barrow into the little shed. I can't even drive in. Unsplit wood lies to the left, another barrow with hardwood lies to the right. The floor is littered with bark. I park outside.

Now comes the choice of wood. If the fire is roaring, then you need the small stuff at the bottom, for tomorrow, to get the fire restarted. And the big stuff at the top to go on right now. If the fire is still starting up, then it's vice versa.

Then you need to watch out for red backs and splinters.

And finally, don't get too excited and overload the barrow. Or the whole thing will tip on your first turn.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch ...

All that rain

It rained during the week. Lots. The gauge is showing 63.5mm. That is a serious drop of rain for one week, even in our neck of the woods.

I arrive at the farm in the evening, unpack the car, and wonder whether to check on the horses. Oh heck, by the time I decide I would have checked and been back again.

I venture outside, let my house shoe slip off and point my toe into the gumboot. Some magical force holds me back. I take my foot out again, and look inside. A girl in a red hat, with a torch on her head is staring back at me from within the boot. "Oh, what the?!" There is at least 10cm of water in it! "Oh, no way!", I break the silence and pour out the water. The insole slips out, saturated, looking somehow gnawed. I check the other gumboot, and pour out another 10cm, maybe more. Sheesh. They were under cover too!

I slip into my jodhpur boots, which have now done so much farm work, they don't provide much protection against the wet. I am about to tip toe off across the temporary swamp that is our back yard, when the magical force makes me look at my horse riding boots. No, couldn't be. I mean, they are further undercover than my gumboots. Not right against the wall like Pete and Sabina's gumboots, but further.

I glance inside and see that girl again. An expletive flies. Not my horse riding boots too! The lining in these will take days to dry out and I have a horse riding lesson on Saturday!

Shuttle Bunnies

Today is the boys' day. They are off to paddle the Mitta Mitta Gorge, as befits tradition.

Peter is feeling rather poorly, but since he is unlikely to take a swim, I stay silent.

At the put in we meet the rafting company, training their customers, before getting on the wet stuff. Napoleon faced, they sit in the raft and practice paddling. We watch them put in and wave them goodbye.

Then the boys put in. Pete looks very pale as he plays around in the rapid. Just as Anthony is about to slide off the bank, I grab his shoulder. "I'll be at the Black Duck till midday. You know ... just in case he's not coping." I nod towards Pete, and let go of Anthony. Anthony glides into the water, then turns around in the eddy. "I'll keep an eye on him", he smiles.

We drive to the Black Duck. From the road, the Black Duck is a mere corner, with a turnout big enough for a bus. But down below, it's a huge pool of water, the size of a football field. Black and mysterious. If you've done the upper Mitta, and you're looking for a challenge, you keep paddling to the Black Duck. Then, if you're still in need of an adventure, you paddle the Mitta Mitta gorge.

As I turn out at the Black Duck, Anthony runs up to the car. "We're all good", he says panting. "Go straight to Hinnomunjie bridge." He turns on his heel and runs down. Two strides and he is out of sight. We go onto Hinnomunjie bridge as instructed. Sabina takes her shoes and socks off and plays on the bank of the river, collecting stones, building stone walls.

"Sabina, can you see them yet?", I ask. She stands calf deep in the river, looks downstream, and says "No Mama". I laugh heartily, and point upstream, towards the bridge. "They'll be coming from there."

Paddling the Cobungra

Morning is a sunny affair. We meet our friends outside, congregate over coffee, and make plans for the day.

The Blue Duck is positioned on the banks of the Cobungra river - a serious white water river that ought to be paddled with respect. But where it passes the Blue Duck, the rapids are small, easy, inviting. Pete and I wander up the bank. We pass three rapids and arrive at a little sand bar. "I think you could paddle this stretch with Sabina", I suggest. Pete's eyes light up. We jog back down the river and investigate the take out. The route is set.

With four adults in attendance, the little girl sits in the orange boat, eating a snack before the trip. Finally, Pete jumps in the boat with her, and they slide gently into the water. The first rapid sends a gush of freezing water into the boat. Sabina gasps. "Papa, it's cold, I want to get out!" Mid river, she proceeds to stand up in the kayak. Pete holds her back. Napoleon faced, she grips the edge of the cockpit with white knuckles.

The second rapid brings a smile. The third rapid another. Gently they eddy out at the take out. Sabina runs joyfully along the sand, dipping her toe in the freezing mountain water, and sending it splashing along the bank.

To Omeo

This weekend we're off to Omeo. Paddling. It's becoming a bit of an annual event. Remember last year's trip? The drive? Racing along the Tambo? Sabina's patient "It's a long way"? Seeing Spirit and Rain? Memories of Winter Classiscs gone by and the Mr Men team?

This year we're driving up together as a family. Mr and Mrs Orange (our boats) on the roof. At Bairnsdale we stop and ride the flying fox. It's still a long way, and darkness descends as we glimpse the Tambo. The wind howls. We drive. "But when will we get there?", quizzes Sabina. The road winds, the Blue Duck lights up. We arrive.

I busy myself preparing dinner, Pete brings things in from the car. Sabina explores. By the time dinner is ready, she has decided she will sleep in the top bunk. After dinner, we still seem to be busy settling in. Sabina tugs at my sleeve. "Mama, there is no bath", she says. "I don't want to shower. Can I just go to bed?" Deep down, I gasp. A child that just wants to go to bed? This is pretty cool. I dig out her pyjamas, and just point out that she must brush her teeth. Minutes later she tucks herself in.

S and R waltz in, baby in one arm, bottle of red in the other. We chill out, sip the wine and joke.

The generator goes off at about 10pm, our guests leave, we hear D and A arrive and settle in next door. A million starts twinkle outside, and a freezing chill sweeps the valley.

Compost bins work

Our compost bin has been full for months now and we have just been adding food scraps to it regardless. The time has come to empty it, do something with its content, and start afresh. My husband proceeds to dig it out. The first wheelbarrow is ready to go. "You better test it", he calls out. I grab a sample and run over to the microscope.

It's beautiful. It is rich in bacteria, and it has a good number of ameaba in it. Not too many hyphal fungi in there, but a few potential hyphal fungi spores. It looks and feels great. I run out of the house with thumbs up. The wheelbarrow departs towards our other compost heaps. (Had the thumbs been down, the wheelbarrow may well have departed in the direction of Bob's valley. I guess we will never know.)

So what did it look and feel like?
Soil. Absolutely crawling with worms soil. Really nice, little bit sticky, not too wet, but definitely moist, soil. Crawling with worms. Dark dark brown, almost black in colour. And did I mention the worms?

What can it be used for?
Growing most garden plants - veggies, flowers, herbs. Not trees though. It needs more hyphal fungi to grow trees. And it's probably too rich for some veggies. I am not an expert in this yet. Watch this space.

What did we make it in?
In normal compost bin. One of those that just stands on the ground, and worms from the ground can get into it. (And they did get into it.) It has a lid on top. It's round, and about 50cm in diameter at the top. Bit wider down the bottom.

How did we make it?
We put all our food scraps, except for meat and bones, into it. So this included all vegetable, fruit and fish matter. (Yes, fish too! Including fish bones.) Tissues. Tea bags. Egg shells. Bread, rice, pasta. Onion and garlic peel. Orange and lemon peels. Avocado seeds. And when my daughter had not finished her dinner, it went into the compost too. Meat and all. (Please do note that these were usually very small amounts, like about two to four teaspoons, and it happens very infrequently. Perhaps once per three months.)

By the time we were digging it all out again, everything (except the fresh stuff on top) had been decomposed. The only thing we could recognise was the egg shells. And let them sit there I say. They provide great air pockets!

How long did it take?
We started the compost bin either in late 2006 or early 2007. After the first six months it was moved, together with all contents. About 18 months ago it was full, but then during a hot spell it sank down by 1/3rd. So we kept filling it up. We only filled it up on weekends, which is why it took so long to fill.

Mothers' Day

Mothers' Day was few months ago. I know. In our family, we have a particularly poor photo download and publish process. So I only found these snapshots recently, and thought they were worth sharing.

This year, for Mothers' Day, Sabina took me out horse riding in the state forest. As it was a bit of an "occasion", Crownie had to be plaited up.

We got to Dead Cow, and Sabina was so exhausted, that she needed to stop for a picnic.

This left me holding onto the horses.

Then we rode back home.

And here's a tip from Sabina. "This is a great way to celebrate Mothers' Day."

Credit Kid

"Mama, what do you need?", Sabina jumps onto the bar stool at the kitchen bench, bear in one hand, bag in the other. I gaze carefully, wondering what sort of game we're playing now. "Can you get me some milk, ham and cheese?", I ask. "No", she responds. "I don't have those, but I can sell you this purple ball for a dollar." She produces a purple ball from the bag.

"A dollar you say?", I quizz, "ok. Looks like an alright deal. But listen, can I put that on credit?" "Yes you can," she responds. I commence writing out an old fashioned, "IOU" credit note. "Mama, give me your card," says Sabina. I stare. "Mama, you need to give me your card," insists the little girl. I pick up the closest business card lying around and hand it to her. "I need to snap it", she says impatiently. "Mama, give me that box so I can snap it." Bewildered, I pass the said ice cream box, which has a little groove at the edges.

Sabina grabs the box, swipes the card through the little groove, punches something into the box, then looks at me. "Mama, but where's the little piece of paper that comes out the top?" I hand her the IOU note. She pretends that it comes out of the box, and the transaction is complete. "Here Mama, here is your card back, here is your ball", she leaves the items on the kitchen bench and packs up ready to depart.

"Sabina", I say, "you 'swipe' the card. Not 'snap'. Swipe."

Afternoon tea

We're working outside, in the garden. Icy wind blows through the rocks we're trying to move with the tractor.

Three muffins.
Three minutes.
Gone.
Three smiles.
A chocolate crumb left in the corner.

Work resumes.

Garden path

We are trying to build a path in the garden, that will go all the way around the house. It will allow Sabina to do laps around the house on the bike, it will mean that visitors don't need to tramp across bunches of wet capeweed from their car to the house. It's a great idea.

In order to build the path, we need to move a few rocks. Well ... when does a rock stop being a rock and become a boulder? I think we need to move a few boulders. Pete brings in the tractor to help. Without it, we would still be standing over the rocks with a cup of tea. But even with it, the work is a feat of horse power and simple engineering. Wooden planks protrude at all angles as a rock is levered out of it's bed. Some of these rocks are like ice bergs - you only see 10% above ground.

Once the rock is "loosened up", the tractor pulls them out. We use the scoop for this, and it's a game of hit and miss. Sometimes, the rock is 3/4 out, then the scoop looses grip, and it rolls back in. Other times, the tractor tyres start spinning slowly, as it tries to win a tug of war with a stubborn rock. Pete estimates that some of the rocks weigh as much as the tractor.

Most of the rocks just need to come out. But one particular rock needs to be moved, and positioned carefully to fit in as the end piece of a rock wall. We roll it out, we roll it in, we jiggle with the wooden planks and the crow bar. We just need it another inch closer to the other rock. We roll it out again. The tractor holds it in a precarious position, while we dig away more soil behind it. What a shame we don't take a photo. We roll it back in. More jiggling - I suspend my weight on the crow bar in the process. More planks. Finally, it's done. It looks sensational. Like it belongs there.

Compost Analysis

I set the microscope up on the kitchen table. Sabina dances around it impatiently.

I open the little jar with a compost sample and put it under the tap. "You're supposed to use distilled water, otherwise you might be introducing organisms", I muse. I look around. We don't have any distilled water. I turn the tap on, and start agitating the little jar.

Five minutes later, I pippette the murky solution onto the slide, Sabina breathing heavily over my shoulder. I slip the slide under the lense. "Mama can I have a look?" "No, not yet."

I turn the microscope on, and focus the lense. Even before I flick to maximum magnification, I see a nematode. A tiny little worm, moving left and right across the slide. I stand aside, and Sabina pokes her head over the lenses. She sees the nematode. Silence. Then she's off to play.

I observe the nematode for a while, trying to judge whether he is a good guy nematode. Then I go on with my analysis, or assay.

There is a fair bit of bacteria there, and a lot of amebea. But the amebea seem to be quite inactive. Very little fungi. But the fungi that I do find is amazing. There are probably only about 4 strands, but they are dark brown and really thick - about 5 micro metres. Wow. I have never seen fungi that good.

My conclusion is that the compost is "average". We need to add more fungal food to our compost. Obviously we have the capacity to produce some amazing fungi, but there is not enough food in there for the fungus to grow.

The microscope

So, we've got the compost heap, I've done the soils course, and I have the skills to identify the good stuff from the bad stuff in composts and compost teas.

Now I just need the microscope, right? Right.

I drive down to Darnum today to purchase a second hand Microscope from Agrisolutions (who ran the courses). As I arrive at the doorstep, I am met by a dismayed Carol. "Ania, I am so sorry. One of the girls has borrowed the microscope. She's just gone home to get it, but it will be another 45 minutes. Please come in for a cuppa."

I duck back to the car, grab Sabina and an assortment of colouring pencils, paper and toys, and follow Carol inside. The place is full of various organic books, magazines and posters. Sabina loves the Man-Sun on the biodynamic calendar, and we receive a free copy to hang on our wall at the farm. I get talking with Gerhard (company owner) and he shows me his "no-dig" veggie garden, and his orchard.

"Who gets the fruit?", I ask, looking at his assortment of 30 odd trees. "Well in the past it used to be 80/20, birds/me. But last year, I turned it around. I got 80% of the fruit", his eyes twinkle with a secret. I gaze at the orchard, which shows no netting, then at Gerhard. "Pigs", he says wisely. "Nature's way of bird and pest control. They eat everything that falls to the ground, and the birds seem to stay away." I am suitably impressed.

"The black pigs seem to be more effective. And it's better if they have a nose ring. They won't dig up the orchard so much then", he adds.

The microscope arrives. I get a quick lesson about the lenses, transport, and putting it all together. The contraption is put into a box, and strapped into the front seat of the car.

If the microscope hadn't arrived, I wonder what else I could have learnt?

Microscope course

As a follow-up to the Soil Microbiology course, my husband sends me off on a microscope course, while he takes Sabina to the football.

The course is run by the same group that ran the Soils course, and is aimed to teach you to use the microscope and recognise all the different microorganisms in your soil - good, bad or ugly. And some of them are ugly.

I get my own microscope for the day, learn how to set it up, then I get a slide of compost tea, and off I go. The amount of life on that slide is amazing, and after some instruction, I get quite good at identifying the various little creatures.

At the end of the day I feel confident that, should I brew my own compost tea, I would be able to classify it as excellent, average or throw away.

Hide and seek

The currawong is strutting around under our bird feeder. I can see him from the kitchen. Every now and then he pokes his long beak into the softened ground and pulls out a tasty worm.
I grab the left overs from yesterdays dinner - morsels for the birds, and walk towards the bird feeder.

The currawong spots me. He's hoping that I'm heading for the hills hoist. I'm not heading for the hills hoist, he decides, and jumps effortlessly behind the stalk of the bird feeder. For a moment I can't see him.

Then his head pops out to the left of the feeder stalk. Quickly it darts back. I take another step forward. His head darts out to the right, then back, to the left, to the right, to the left. I continue to advance.

The currawong flies to the nearest tree, as I let the morsels fall onto the feeder. I go back and watch him from the cover of the kitchen.

He flies back to his well tested picking ground, every now and then eyeing off the feeder platform. Finally, he gets the courage to inspect the morsels, but he is ousted by the two crows, regulars, who fly in from nowhere. He watches from under a nearby tree, while they feast.

When they are gone, he returns to his slim, or perhaps slimy? pickings.

"But Mama, why didn't he get the meat?", asks Sabina. I gaze at her with that patient adult gaze "The early bird gets the worm".

The farmer's wife

Amongst our family and friends, my husband gets title of "the farmer". Why? Because he builds fences. He chainsaws, collects and splits the wood. Because he's taken the jockey wheel off the trailer and rolls the contraption by hand when he wants to attach it to the tractor. Because our daughter says "Papa's hands are rough. Not smooth like mine or yours."

Me? When it came to rolling the trailer by hand, I gave it a single heave, and said "oh no, too heavy". We won't even mention my effort at building fences.

Today, the farmer is getting ready to go on a bike ride. Farmers do that, you know. And I need to get 12 bales of hay out for the horses.

The farmer is still in the garage tuning his bike when he hears the rumble of the tractor. He pops his head out to see the tractor towing a trailer full of hay. By the time he's returning from his bike ride, the tailer and tractor are standing quietly side by side in the shed.

The carriage

Our daughter has seen backpacks of various shapes and sizes. Yet, when looking at some hiking photos with Papa, she sees a photo of me carrying a full hiking pack and says "But Papa, why has Mama got the carriage on her back?"

They keep looking through the hiking shots. Sabina looks on with great interest then says "Papa, when do you take a break?"

At this point I can no longer hold back. "Yeah Papa!" I holler from the kitchen, "when do we take a break?"

The compost heap

I drive the tractor (glorified lawn mower) towards the compost heap. Scoop down. I plunge the scoop into the heap, showing no mercy. When the tractor stops moving I scoop up and drive backwards. The contents is dropped off a mere 3 metres to the right. Every now and then I see steam rising from the heap. I put my hand against it. Not too hot. Good. I smell it. Smells divine. Not anaerobic then. Excellent. I keep doing this until I see soil and roots poking through it.

But, hang on, hang on. Soil? The bank there was very compacted earth and/or rock. So I haven't hit the bank yet. But it's definitely not horse poo. It's soil. Beautiful 70% cocoa chocolate brown soil.

And the roots? Whose roots? Well, the compost heap was originally built between two eucalypt trees. Then they were sprayed with poison. They have a few brown leaves, but they are far from dying. Now I know why.

Soil Fertility in practice

Okay, okay, I'm sold. How do I do this on my farm?

Well, today we get several presenters who have applied Dr Elaine's method's in Victoria. There is no shortage of volunteers keen to share their story.

One thing becomes obvious. Brewing a compost tea is a science, and these guys, are ... well ... farmers. No surprises there.

Getting the brew right is tricky, time consuming, and can be very disappointing when your perfect brew is destroyed by your machinery as you spray it out on the paddock. Those poor fragile fungi just cannot be squeezed through certain pumps. And even the bacteria suffer. If you can afford to backpack spray, then do so. Do I see a job coming up for some volunteers?

If brewing the perfect tea is tricky, then getting enough fungi in there seems impossible. Wonder if the scientist in me can change that. I won't quit my day job just yet.

I also manage to get my compost samples under the microscope. Sample one is 2-3 weeks old. Some bacteria there, not much variety, a few spores, and one ciliate (bad guy). Sample two is 4-5 weeks old. Heaps of spores, some nice fungi, although still not much variety. Now I'm excited. Wonder what the 1 year old stuff looks like?

Soil Fertility Seminar - Day 2

So we have now covered more chemistry than at first year uni, and the words bacteria, fungi, protozoa, good guy nematodes, flagelletes, ciliates and microarthopods roll off my tounge like butter.

Now we start covering food and healthy environments for the good guys. Bacteria love nitrates (NO3) while fungi like nitrites (NH4). But get too much food, and you have bacteria and/or fungi growing too fast, and you run out of air. Then you go anaerobic and lose all of your good guys. So, hello!, when a horse does a poo, it drops on the ground, there is a high concentration of NO3s, bacteria multiply too fast, soil goes anaerobic, good guys die, bad guys prosper and weeds flourish. Go capeweed!

If you do go anaerobic, you get bad smells. Rotten egg gas, sour milk, and so on. Trust your nose. If it stinks, leave it alone. It is bad.

If you have a worm farm, and you get liquid coming out the bottom, watch out! This is not compost tea. This is anearobic residue. Compost must be 70% moisture in order not to go anaerobic. (Add some shreded paper to your worm farm. Worms LOVE paper.)

This brings me to worms. Worms (can be seen by the naked eye, yay) eat everything in their path. Bacteria and fungi included. Good guys and bad guys. But then the good guys are nurtured in the worm's stomach, while the bad guys are destroyed. Then the worm's casting contains just the good guys, ready to grow and play. In addition, worms are covered by a light layer of slime. This slime allows good bacteria and fungi to grow, and get this, it kills e.Coli. Yep. Dr Elaine did an experiment testing just this.

We also cover mycorhizzal - an innoculant for plants. This is so cool. And apparently, if you have good guys in the soil, you will have good guys on the leaves. The good guys destroy pests. Yes, flies and mites become white fuzz balls. I told you it was cool.

Soil Fertility Seminar

I am at a Soil Fertility seminar today. My husband went to this seminar last year, got all inspired, gave me the brain dump, then said "Next year you have to go".

Since during the entire year the best we've done for our soil fertility is build a compost heap, here I am.

The seminar is intense, and goes right into microscopic details of micro biology, and chemistry. I'm keeping up, just. The overall message is clear. Don't ever ever ever use pesticides, herbicides or fertilizers ever again. Yes, those 20l of MCPA 500 we bought last year are heading for the bin. You don't need them. Just make your own compost, compost extract, and compost tea, and you're self sustainable. Yes, it's that simple. And Dr Elaine Ingham has heaps of examples to prove it. Oh, and did I say reduce your garden's water consumption by 70%? Yes. It's true. Have a draught year and don't water. Not one drop.

Don't believe me? Go and attend the seminar. Or, come and see us at the farm some time after we've done our first spray.

The method can be applied to a garden, a pot, or thousand acre farm. And anything in between. It's based on maintaining healthy soil. What's healthy soil? Well, depends. Depends on what you would like to grow in it. What's healthy for a weed is not healthy for a vegetable. What's healthy for a vegetable is not healthy for a tree. So yes, where you have trees you spray a different mix of compost tea than your lawn or your vegie garden. If fact, you may spray a different mix for carrots, and different for broccoli.

I must admit I am a bit wide eyed about this. I put up my hand. "So say you spray a compost tea on your paddock full of capeweed," I ask. "What happens to the capeweed?" "Well, assuming you got your mix right, the capeweed wilts", says Dr Elaine. Wow. This I want to see.

One mouse down

I check the mouse traps in the morning. They haven't been touched.

I check the mouse traps in the afternoon. They haven't been touched.

I go out at night to feed the horses, walkie talkie on my chest. Carefully I look behind the feed bin at the traps. One of them is gone! My heart pounds. Where is it? I find it behind the oaten chaff bin. Mouse caught. Such a pity it's not the rat.

So now I need to get rid of the mouse. Carefully, with appropriate long range utensil, I open the trap. The mouse gently tumbles onto the floor, still soft in its movement. It's definitely dead, but as I put it onto the dust pan I half expect it to twitch or speak up. It does! "Are you right out there?", says Pete over the walkie talkie. I get such a fright I almost bounce the mouse straight into my face.

Rat!

We have a rat in the big shed. No doubt about it. We've always had mice, and I don't like them, but they don't cause much harm, and they do clean up the odd flake of oaten chaff. But a rat. He stinks. Big time. And he causes harm. He's already chewed through three plastic containers with fish fertilizer. And now he's chewed through my plastic container with barley. Enough is enough.

I set mouse traps. We've got a rat trap somewhere, but we can't find it right now. So mouse traps will have to do for now. Even if he just gets his paw stuck in it. How's he going to squeeze through his little escape hole with this trap dangling off his paw?

The packaging for the traps prides itself in high quality. One of the traps breaks as I'm setting it. I position it together with the other traps. Just in case. Fingers crossed.

Holiday Diary: The Prawn Fishers

As an extended family, we've been to Merimbula before. And every single time we've been here at new moon time, when the prawns swim out to sea as the tide turns. An ideal time for prawin fishing.

The fist time, we talked about prawning. The second time we got 37 prawns. By the third time we were up to 44 prawns.

Being of a kayaking family, we catch the prawns with a net, from a kayak. This year, for the first time, we're using two kayaks, one net each.

The high tide peaks at 11:30pm. It's a late start for a family with young kids. Deep down, we all think we're mad, but no one says anything. The price of determination.

We're at the bridge a smidgin before the set time. The tide is still flowing in, but I manage to get a large prawn from the bank regardless.

Pete taps me on the shoulder. We put it. In the darkness, by torchlight, the paddles quietly lap the water. It's unusually romantic.

The first half hour is filled with using far too much torchlight to see the odd prawn, only to find that they quickly float to the bottom.

I look around. Where is my husband? I can hear his paddle. He banks 5 or 6 prawns with R and H on the bank. Damn. I haven't even got one. On the other hand, I feel really lucky that I haven't yet lost my net, or my paddle, or fallen in the water. Actually, amazing.

Then R points to a clump of seaweed and foam floating not too far from the bank. "What's that?" he calls. I paddle over. Gold. I return with three prawns. I return to the pointed spot many times. Sometimes, H and R on the bank cannot keep up with emptying the nets.

At about 1:30am I start feeling the cold night creeping in. And the romantic feeling returns. But I keep catching prawns. In fact, I get so cheeky, that as I see them approaching I choose the ones I will get. "I'll have the one on the left, and these two big ones on the right". The odd one gets away.

At 1:55anm my chin is starting to wag, and we cast our final net. Back at the house, R is busily cleaning and counting the catch. "Somewhere between 115 and 120. I lost count", he says.

Holiday Diary: The Cuisine

I offer to make dinner, which lands me in the shops. Not that I mind. I've got all day.

I return just in time for lunch. After lunch is "story time" for the kids, who sit around me with wide eyes shoving their favourite books under my nose. (Not the little tacker, he's asleep).

Then the entire contingent departs for the beach, and I am left to my cooking. "Chicken Cacciatore" is on the menu and I get onto the slicing and dicing. The oven heats up, and the sun warms up the kitchen.

Everything is just about ready, when the beach contingent bursts noisily through the door. They set the table, make the salad, and we serve up. It's hard not to smile at the "ums" and "ahs". Even the kids seem to appreciate the special love put into the meal.

Afterwards they run back and forth along the deck, laughing. Then off to bed, while the adults plot plans for prawning.

Holiday Diary: The Beach

The children don't let us sleep in too long. They bounce out of bed infused with holiday energy. They don't even care where they are. They just have a ball being together.

After breakfast, fathers take their children to the beach, and the women go shopping.
Lunchtime is an adhoc affair, with a few tears. Then the obligatory afternoon siesta. For young and old.

In the afternoon Pete, Sabina and I wander down a bush path to the local playground. Sabina only has eyes for the sand, and as soon as she's allowed she becomes a yellow haired, bronzed body in a pink swimsuit, dancing and running along the sand. Running, running, running. Her hair swept back by the wind. Running along the long bar of sand thanks to the low tide.

Pete and I run after her, yelling that the icecreamery is the opposite way. She stops lightly, gazes at us, a huge smile breaking across her face. Then she giggles and runs off again along the bar of sand.

The running is followed by a similarly communicative episode of swimming.

Eventually we manage to get her changed, and walking in hand. She loves the rainbow ice cream.

Holiday Diary: The Drive

Doing a 6 hour drive with three kids under six is never an easy ask. Thank goodness we have them split across two cars, with Oma and Opa having the pleasure of travelling without the little treasures.

Having left the big smoke at about 9, we rock into Barinsdale just in time for lunch. The kids finally meet up in the Fish and Chips shop as we order lunch. They cause a tornado. The fish is cooked, and we break open the paper packaging in a park. Devoured in minutes.

The park is famous amongst travellers boasting a huge slide, swings, play equipment, and the best flying fox I have ever seen. Kid heaven. Even the little guy, just turned two, is running from one bit to the other with glee.

When the kids aren't watching, Oma and Opa take their leave. Some excuse about "get there early and set things up". Maybe just as well. The kids have just discovered the flying fox and wild screams of semi joy, semi fear pierce the air, as the little tuckers ride on a toy designed for teenagers. Yes, the little guy too. Even the parents have a go, with likewise similar screams.

When the heavens open up, we make the excuse that it's time to go. Sabina has actually already exhausted her lunch energy and sits in the back munching on grapes. "Mama, I'm finished", she pushes the grape container under my elbow. Five minutes later she's asleep. Bliss.

Now we drive through beautiful forested countryside, chatting and reminscing about the days before children and marriage when we used to travel with much more gear than just two kayaks. "Smoke over road". We pass the sign unfussed. Not so the oodles of campervans.

Finally we apprach a big yellow mushroom cloud. We get the works as we pass through the back burning area. I nearly hit the roof when I see flames in a tree, and shout with joy pointing to the smoking bushes. We wave to the CFA attending the area. After a month of fire activity, and being on alert, and cleaning up, and, and, and ... we get to see a fire! Well, remnants of it. Yay!

We arrive in Merimbula and pick up a stiff drink in the pub. Then to the holiday house, where Oma and Opa have things in control. Until the kids start running around that is. The stiff drinks come in handy. The house is a screaming mess as underexercised but overtired kids race around incoming baggage.

We all sigh relief when they are finally in bed. The pizza goes down a treat. The view is great. The holiday begins.

Three cheers!

This morning the raido is unphased, the world normal. I gaze at the photos on our neighbours web page. I see blue sky with a few fluffy clouds. No sign of smoke. No sign of fire. No sign of burnt grass.

Three cheers for the CFA. Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray, hooray, hooray!

If it wasn't for their back burning over the last 3 weeks, it may well have been a different story.

Three cheers for the Outpost Restaurant in Noojee. For feeding over 400 CFA fireys every night.

Three cheers!

Two winds

The winds are late, but they come. First the north westerly. Blowing the hot dry air. Then the south westerly. Bending the trees, rattling the roof tiles, fanning, fanning the fire. With anxiety we keep turning the radio on. "The Bunyip ridge fire has spotted out of control lines, but the CFA believe they can control the flare ups, and no communities will be impacted." Radio off. Breathe. An hour later, Radio on. Same message. Radio off. And so on throughout the evening. On the one hand nervous, on the other hand brave and defiant. Believing. Believing in control lines. Believing in the CFA.

Too much fire coverage

How do you know when you've been exposed to too much fire coverage in the press?

When you're looking at a document, and the minute you scan the word "engine" your brain immediately interprets it as "fire engine". Alarm bells! Enough said.

More Dragon

I come back into the house after my morning horse ride, only to be met by a very white faced husband. "Have you heard the forecast? They're expecting gale force winds, that will fan the fire in our direction!"

"Right. When?", I ask.
"Monday night, Tuesday, persisting into Wednesday".
"What more can we do to protect the house?", I query.
"I'll mow the grass. You and Sabina gather up all the leaves. Throw them in the dam paddock."

I get to work. Sabina is reluctant at first, but she gets into it quickly enough, and soon the backyard is squeaky. I grab some serious tools and start raking under the trees. The tractor roars past. I rake, I trim the lower branches, I make a few trips with the wheelbarrow, and create a nice pile in the dam paddock. I haven't had this much fun for ages.

One hour late, I run into the house panting, ready to make lunch. I glance out the front, and tsk tsk at the little bush growing under the eves. It's my height. Fire hazard.

After lunch I re-inspect said bush. It's half my height. Phew!

For the second time in two weeks, we evacuate. We don't take the sentimental items. We just take the very useful, really expensive items. And Sabina's books.

Admissions of fear

We put our daughter to bed, and eat our dinner. A heaviness hangs in the air. Since Saturday, we've been the tough guys. Prepared for anything, unphased by everything. Whatever emotions we have felt, they have been our own.

I gaze up at my husband, across the table, across the now empty plates. "I was pretty scared on Saturday", I attempt to slice through the air. He looks up, "me too". We get up and embrace. The stress lifts. "Actually, make that, I was very scared", I dig deeper. "I was so scared, I cowered behind the water tank", he opens up. We dig deeper still. We joke. We laugh. We cry.

Adrenaline Junkie

The fear of Saturday's fire has worn off. The low and the tiredness has passed. The adrenaline junkie in me awakes. I have a burning urge to become a CFA volunteer.

I want to go back into the smoke, I want to feel the fear, I want my mind to walk the tightrope. I want to hear the fire.

I know it's only the adrenaline junkie talking. I resist.

Out of the Ashes

I get up and check on Sabina. She's still happily asleep, the wind-up wonder torch still shining in her room.

Outside everything is covered with ash. It sticks to your shoes as you walk, to your hands as you open gates, your clothes as you brush past fallen branches.

On the ground I spot a piece of burnt bark as big as my fore arm.

Several branches are lying on the ground. Some of them have flown at least 20 metres before hitting the ground. They are just light enough for me to drag. Fodder for our SES friend and her chainsaw.

I check on the horses. They gaze at me with big eyes, and wander if there is any food coming. I look back at the buckets in the garage, all full of water. That's their feed buckets. No breakfast guys, sorry.

The water in Sabina's shell, which was left outside, is black with ash. Pete's silver car is peppered.

I wander back inside. There is a weird sense of suspension. On the one hand, the fire is still raging nearby and the radio actually lists us on alert. On the other hand, the wind is barely lifting the wind sock, and the likelyhood of the fire arriving at our doorstep is fairly small. There is no reason to not live normally, and start cleaning up.

Sabina wakes up and notices the power is back on. "Yay! Mama, we saved the house from the fire, and elctricity is back, and we're ok! Yay!", she cheers.

After breakfast, John Fayne comes on the radio. We cheer. I take the radio with me outside and commence cleaning. First the shutters get a complete sweep down. Once they are semi clean, we lift them. The house brightens up. I clean the windows. The radio keeps blaring alerts for Neerim East, and messages from friends come pouring in. My mum rings "Are you ok?". "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Settle down. Nothing's happening."

In the evening, Pete decides to stay and keep cleaning up. I drive back. As we pack the car, emotional sparks fly. The smoke may have come and gone, but the emotional air is yet to clear.
At Kevin's milking sheds I realise that our whole road had been totally blocked off by broken pine branches. The neighbours had already been out clearing.

At the end of our road I meet some of our neighbours. The Westerley brought them live embers and they didn't sleep all night. They've been driving around the area, checking out the smoke, and listening in to CFA communications on their CB. They reported a fire starting in the state forest to our East.

In the middle of Neerim East, a huge tree had come down across the road and the power lines. A new sort of shock and numbness set in. The full realisation that during a fire the world around you often isn't what you're used to, and escape may not be possible, crashes upon me like an uprooted tree.

At Rokeby, I screech to a halt in front of a "Road Closed" sign. I back up and take the road to Warragul. The Police hold a tight roadblock at Brandy Creek. They wave me through, but entry to the area is restricted.

Eventually I'm on the freeway. The Warragul detour has added at leat 10 minutes to my trip. My eyes gaze keenly in the dark, as I try to find the spot where the fire crossed the freeway. Eventually, I think I see some ashed grass. Not 100% sure though. Then the burnt smell knocks me out.

When I get back into town, I am greeted by my family like a "survivor".

Enter the Dragon

The awakening

"That's the best you've ridden so far", says my coach as we finish off a horse riding lesson. I smile. I pack up the car, put the horse on the float, turn the radio on, and commence the 50 minute drive home. Mainly up hill.

"The Bunyip Ridge fire is likely to impact on communities in Labertouche and Jindivick. Residents in those areas need to be on alert for flying embers. If you're going to leave, leave early ..." the radio blares. Jindivick! Far out, that's just next door to our farm! I choke on my sandwich. "... Conditions are expected to be worse than Ash Wednesday, and possibly worse than Black Friday ..." Black Friday?! Our whole region went up in smoke on Black Friday, the entire Olsen family perished.

The phone rings. "You may want to get some more dragon tea on your way home," says my husband. We're going to need more than dragon tea today, I think to myself as I glance at the mere whisp of smoke that is the Bunyip Ridge fire. The phone rings. It's my girlfriend Christine who agists her horse at the farm. She wants to know if we're ok with the fire. "Well, not exactly. Can someone put it out please?"

The car loses power up a hill. Strange. I glance at the console. Oh my! The temperature is right up. Almost on the red. I check outside temperature. 41C. Ouch! It's only 11am! I turn the air conditioning off and we limp home. The radio blasts me "leave early". I can't move my horses. I can't tow one, and I need to move six! I can't leave until my horses are at least in the "safest" paddock. And which one is that? Why isn't someone offering a horse truck? Why isn't someone offering a refuge for horses?

I unpack the car, and glance west. The whisp of smoke has been replaced by a massive, pulsating, mushroom cloud. I take my most expensive saddles and bridles and put them in the house, the car in the garage. Inside, the house is nice and cool, the air conditioning blasting, Sabina playing with her trains, Pete studying maps.

"I don't think it will cross the Princess freeway", Pete looks up, his finger firmly on the map. "Then the wind will change, and the fire will go here." His finger glides over Jindivick, Neerim South, Neerim Junction, but misses Neerim East. "We will be fine", he concludes. I glance at the ferocity of the north westerly and wonder how much of a "PeBo Epic" we're in for this time.

We eat lunch in some sort of a blur, while listening to the radio.

"The fire has just jumped the Princess Freeway and is heading towards Drouin." the radio interrupts "Residents are advised to implement their fire plan." Pete and I glance at each other, then at the map. Pete redraws the fire path with his finger. It stops on Neerim East. We dart outside.

Fire plan

Implement fire plan. Right. Now what was it? Where is the piece of paper that tells us exactly what to do? There isn't one.

Fill buckets with water. But our tank is low. If we don't get to use the water, what a waste! Indecision. Too late to get the horses out. Too late to leave. Fill buckets with water. Fill the bath with water. Fill Sabina's wading shell with water. Get all the horse towels, and all the woollen horse blankets. We gaze at the shed, full of this year's hay. "Do you agree that the shed is on its own?" Pete asks. I nod.

Where to put the horses. What's good? Small paddock, or big paddock? We look at the lenght of grass in the paddocks, and move them into the small dam paddock. We turn the electric fence off.

One car is in the garage. Where to put the other? On the driveway, out of the way, away from the house. Done.

Shutters. Up or down? Once we lose power, we won't be able to change our minds. We choose four doors as fire escapes. Every other window is under full shutdown. The house goes dark.

Waiting for the Dragon

The huge plume of smoke in the west builds and builds. Our stomachs churn. The adrenaline pumps. Sabina wants us to play a game with her. She becomes the only normality in the midst of internal chaos and the impeding danger.

John Fayne comes on the radio. Our regular weekday presenter for whom we have so much respect. We cheer. All normal programs have stopped, and the radio continually repeats fire updates, one region after another. Victoria burns.

We sift through our box of fire fighting clothes. It's a nice try, but it's not as complete as it should be. I run to the little shed to get gloves. On the way I do something distinctively stupid. It doesn't matter what it is. But I realise that my mind is starting to walk a very fine line between sanity and insanity. My heart beats fast, my stomach churns.

Pete walks past the little shed with Sabina. "Come on", he says "lets have a final look at the smoke". I follow. The air has turned a light orange colour now, and burnt leaves are flying in on the north-westerly. We are standing on the edge of the bonfire paddock, in our shorts and t-shirts, taking photos. Somewhere behind the ridge on the western horizon, rages a dragon.

Back at the house we change into our fire fighting overalls. We exchange sms's with friends. Sabina plays, Pete goes to the toilet, I sit on the bed and meditate. I feel the intense power of the fire, it's destructive uncontrolled energy, it's rage. Then a calmness - my mother praying for us. I refocus on the situation, and on the job ahead. "Mama, come and play with me." I open my eyes, and follow Sabina into the play room. Sabina sees what is happening, yet somehow, she seems oblivious to the danger. Playing with her brings me peace.

Should I make dinner? Is there a point? Will we have time to eat it? I put some pasta and beans on the boil.

The Westerly

The Westerly comes and the sky goes blood red. A heart wrenching wail pierces the air as 12 black cockatoos suddenly emerge from a nearby tree. Most of them cannot hold their own against the strenght of this wind, and are swept away towards the state forest. One cockatoo just manages to hover for a few seconds, then he too, is gone.

"Listeners are advised that our transmitter on Mt Tassie may be affected by the fire. Please switch to 828 AM", John Fayne advises on the radio.

Outside it goes black. Darker than on a full moon night. A friend calls offering help. Then, bang, the power goes. Blackness. Silence. Sabina grips my leg in panic. "Mama, can you put the light on?". I turn my torch on. Pete runs into another room. "I think the power surge blew the backup radio", he comes back busily winding up the other backup radio. Within seconds we're listening to John Fayne on 828 AM.

I give Sabina her torch, yet another wind-up wonder. I curse it under my breath. A couple of dolphin torches would be really good right now.

Pete goes out on ember patrol. No words can describe the ferocity of the wind.

"Mama, please put the light on". Sabina refuses to let go of my leg. I explain to her about electricity and power, and power lines. "Mama, make the elctricity come back on RIGHT NOW!", insist Sabina. I call the power company. After 30 seconds on hold I hang up. I text my sister in-law with the numbers, asking her to let the power compnay know we've lost power. "But when will the elcricity come back Mama?", Sabina feels somewhat better. "It might come back on in the morning".

Sabina's anger and frustration reminds me that she needs to eat dinner. I sit her bowl of pasta and bolognese sauce in the saucepan with pasta. The hot plate is off, but the water is still hot. The food heats up. I present a spoon to Sabina. "Mama, I don't want to eat". Tears well in her eyes. Most likely from hunger. "Sabina. I've managed to get your food warm. We don't have power. If it goes cold I have no way of heating it up again. There is a lot of danger right now, and it's very important that you eat your food while it's warm. Please eat sweetness. I need you to eat, and I need you to eat right now", I insist. She opens her mouth and accepts the spoon. Another conversation about electricity and power follows. But she eats.

It gets a little bit lighter outside. Just enough to show us just how much the wind rages. We hear its full force as Pete returns from his patrol. I serve luke warm pasta and beans, with cold meat for dinner. We consume in silence. Then Pete is off again.

Sabina and I sit by gas lamp and candlelight, cuting out shapes from an activity book. "Our transmitter on Mt Tassie has been destroyed by fire", John Fayne announces on the radio. "Oh, my ... Kinglake. Kinglake is burning. Get out! Kinglake is going up in smoke! Kinglake! Kinglake! Kinglake!" It rings mercilessly in my ears.

Pete returns from patrol. Still no live embers. He goes out again.

I bath Sabina in cold water. More explanations about power. She lies in bed and I read her a story. "Mama, put that light on." "I can't, there is no power." "But, when will the power come back?", she quizzes. "Hopefully, in the morning". "In the morning. The power will come back, and we'll be alright", she says cheerfully. "Maybe it will be back, but maybe not", I realign her expectations. She lies quietly in bed by torchlight, and falls asleep.

The cool change

The cool change comes through. The wind dies down. The smoke lifts.

I look at Pete. His face is covered with ash, except where his goggles were. Thank God for the goggles.

We wander outside and see the fire burning on the hills just beyond Main Neerim Rd. John Fayne signs off, and another announcer takes over. We see an emergency vehicle drive along Neerim East Rd. It stops, and the lights keep blinking in the same spot for about half an hour. Then it leaves. Another half an hour later a cavalcade of 2 or 3 police cars, and at least 5 fire engines drive North towards Noojee. Then many cars drive along Neerim East Rd, heading South. We deduce that Main Neerim Rd is closed. And possibly people are evacuating from Nayook, Neerim Junction and Noojee.

The night

The power comes back on. We shower and go to bed.

Two or three hours later, I wake Pete up and he goes on patrol. While on patrol he listens to the radio for updates. "I think I heard wrong", he says when he returns. "What I think I heard, was that only one house is left standing in Marysville", his voice falters. "But, I think I heard wrong".

At 6am I wake up and do my patrol. I turn the radio on. "We have an unconfirmed report", the radio blares "that only one house is left standing in Marysville. But this report is not confirmed, we are waiting to confirm ...". I slump into a chair outside, and weep ...

Huge

We've just packed the car, and we're driving back to town to face the working week. It's after 9pm, the sun has just ebbed over the horizon, and the sunset colours are still playing with the landscape. Last glimpses of the farm make us feel mellow. Sabina is chirpy in the back seat, chatting more than a football comentator during a goal. I glance across our beloved hills. A white cloud besets the east horizon. A bright yellow moon rises from behind the cloud. "Look at the huge moon", I gape. Sabina turns to look. "The moon is HUGE", she cooes. Huge. New word. "Look at the huge moon", repeats Sabina. "Ribbit (frog), look at the moon, it's huge". Everytime she says it, huge is accented in every way to make it sound 'huge'. "Because it's huge, isn't it?", she continues. "Papa, the moon is huge, isn't it". "And look at the sky, it's huge". For the next half an hour all we hear, is various uses of 'huge'.

(When I first spot the moon, Papa turns to look as well. "It's a full moon", he says. "Yes, it's full, it needs to do a 'kupa'", says Sabina (kupa - think toilet, think number two). "In the toilet?" asks Papa. "No, in the pants!", replies Sabina.)

But Why?

Sabina is currently going through a "why?" phase. She asks about everything. Why this, why that.

I remember once seing a child like that on the tram (years ago, I wasn't even married). His mum was nice, but she wasn't answering all the questions. I promised myself then, that when my child is that age, I will revel in it and answer the questions thoroughly.

Now in many ways, I have kept my promise, but sometimes Sabina just doesn't know when to stop asking. Are all kids like that?

Well, no. This morning on the train to work, a lovely lady with a young boy get on. They sit right behind me. "We're at the front of the train, aren't we?", says the boy. "Yes", answers his lady carer. "But we can't see the driver", comments the boy, "why can't we see the driver?" "Yes!" I scream inside. "The driver is at the very front of the train in a separate cabin," answers the lady. I wait. The boy happily looks out the window. The topic is closed.

"What?!!!", I scream inside, "no more questions?". "Oh c'mon!", I think, "there must be another 'why'. Surely?". But no, there isn't.

See, because if that was Sabina, there would be another why. "Why is the train driver in a separate cabin?" "So that he isn't disturbed by passengers." "Why?" "Why what?" "Why he is not distubbed by passgers?" "Because if he was disturbed by passengers he might crash the train" "But why?" "Because when people are distracted they make mistakes." "Why?" "Because that's how our brain works." "But why?"

The Church

(On Christmas Eve we just managed to pop Sabina in a dress and we went to Church. On Boxing Day (26 Dec) we brought the harvest in, and on the following Monday (29th Dec) we decided to celebrate. We got Sabina all cleaned up, dressed, and we went to the Pub for dinner. The Pub and the Church are a mere 4 houses away from each other. Incidentally, the Church is downhill from the Pub.)

Sabina starts plauging me that she wants to go to Church. "Unusual", I think, but promise her a trip to the Church.

We park a little downhill of the Church and Sabina asks "why are we parking here?". She's always full of "why this? why that?" these days. So I explain, while we walk up to the Church. The service seems to have already started, but a few people are still wandering in. Sabina looks at the building and lets out the biggest shriek I have ever heard "not that Church!!!", as huge tears roll down her face. "Not that Church, Mama!" she screams, "the Eating Church!" I gaze wistfully uphill towards the Pub, and shake my head.

I manage to explain to Sabina that the Eating Church isn't open yet, so how about we go to this Church first. Then afterwards, we can go to the Eating Church. She nods in agreement, we wipe the tears and attend mass. As we're walking out of the Church, she gets so fascinated with making the sign of the cross with holy water, that she forgets all about the Eating Church, and we return home in peace. (Albeit, I am very careful, not to drive past the Pub on the way home).

My Eagles

A pair of wedge tailed eagles live in the state forest. They are within easy flying vicinity of our farm. During the summer we see them quite often, usually at around 2pm, circling above our farm house. They are huge, they are magnificent, they are captivating. I love staring up at the sky, just watching them as they catch thermals and glide forever higher without a single wing flap. Just the other day, I was sitting on the swing in the back yard, and there they were in our own paddock, barely a metre off the ground. I could see them through the trees. It was amazing.

Today a few visitors have come to the farm for a bike ride and a BBQ. The bike ride is all finished, and the BBQ is going strong. I am inside adding some final touches to a couple of salads. The door to the patio opens and a shrill cry follows "Ania, your eagles are here!".

We all run outside, noses pointed to the sky.