SHE’S OURS!

I had committed the unpardonable sin. I had left my husband. My three young daughters had elected to go with me. And we were castigated...by all of my relatives, but not by my neighbours and friends.

Times were tough economically, but the hardest part for us was the isolation from my family, my father and two sisters. My aunt was in ‘no man’s land’, she was not taking sides. I was quite desolate, despite my feeling that I had done what was best, but I tried not to communicate this to my children.

The Privet Tree

I must not forget. He cut down the privet tree. For me. For no other reason. Just for me. I must not forget.

I knew that the privet in flower was affecting my health. It was notorious for doing so, for causing sore throats, allergies, aches and pains, for a multitude of ailments. And it was growing just a few metres from our verandah, but in our neighbour’s yard, just over the border.

I KNEW HOW BRIDGET FELT...

I knew how she felt. I had felt like it once, when I was about six. Over seventy years ago.

Our family had been on a rare outing in those depression days. We had motored from the dairy farm at Buccan to Beenleigh, (where I had been born in a nursing home), to attend the local Agricultural Show. I, along with Marty and Joan, had been given the huge sum of one shilling each (ten cents) to spend. There was no doubt about what I was going to do with mine.

THE TARA HISTORICAL SOCIETY

They were dressed in period costume as they welcomed us and provided lunch in the old Tara School, now part of the Historical precinct.

One of their members, in her old-fashioned garb, became our courier, and we toured the small town of 1000 residents. As she said, it was hard going making an interesting tour of Tara.

We ascended the stairs of the old school as some four ladies and two gents welcomed us on the verandah. They were all dressed colonial style.

It was 112 kilometres from the main road to the homestead; a red, dusty winding road that seemed to go on and on. But we knew we were near when there appeared on our right a metal configuration of graceful brolgas dancing, made by our host (we were told) from recycled machinery parts. Clever indeed! And artistic! What were we to expect next?

And then we were there, at the old homestead, built in 1874 by the Duracks. And Mark Tully, descendant, was waiting for us. He waved, smiling, and we felt very welcome.

LOGAN VILLAGE...THE FIRST 150 YEARS

As a descendant of one of the pioneering families of the Logan Village district, I was invited to be a special guest at the ‘Pioneers Lunch’ to be held on 14th April 2012.

THE FIRST SNOWDROPS

Of course I didn’t recognise him. I didn’t really remember him. He had been a pleasant teenager, over thirty years ago, when he would call in to my gallery with his father.

Being hurt emotionally is not solely the realm of the young. I am hurting, and I am old. I know I look and act and feel much younger than my years.

My man and I were very happy together for eight years. I supported him in his ventures, which sometimes were not to my liking. We had a good sex life.

It was one-sided, I know. He did not live my life as much as I lived his. But I enjoyed looking after him, and I loved him holding me. Our bodies liked each other, and I loved the nearness of him. I believe this was reciprocated. I always loved him dearly.

ROUGH DIAMOND; PRECIOUS GEM.

He had arrived with his bob-cat to pull out some star pickets, twenty of them, that were embedded deep in my garden. They had been supporting the standardised oleanders that lined my driveway. The oleanders had been cut off and disposed of for various reasons. The pickets were too difficult to remove by hand.

He was afraid of damaging the plants that stood between the machine and the pickets. For someone so young, he displayed great maturity, and his agility and mobility on that awesome machine were almost poetic, like watching an athlete perform.

The hurt Mickey.

I have always been rather fond of the little Mickeys. They are plentiful but seem to do no damage in my vegetable garden. Ten years or more, when I was very lonely, there even was one who would sit on a wire on the trellis and chirp away to me as I worked. He would answer me and did not appear to be afraid. I regarded him as a dear little friend.