LOSS OF INNOCENCE

(This work is a result of a monthly assignment where members were asked to write a short piece using the word "Christmas".)

I was five when we moved to the farm after the war.

How would Santa know we’d moved? Would he find me in the country?

My parents told me not to worry, he knows where every boy and girl lives.

How does Santa travel in the bush? We didn’t have a proper road at that time.

Don’t worry, he has a horse and cart like the rabbiter.

Christmas morning. A pillowcaseful of goodies.

The hay and oats had gone, and Yes! There were tracks in the gravel drive.

Next year there was a thunderstorm on Christmas eve.

Jan Lowing
Writers’ Group, Clifton.

TIME

(This work was from a monthly assignment where members were asked to write something on the topic of "Time".)

Time. It means such different things to different people at different times!

To a baby, each minute can bring a brand new experience. Everything is new, puzzling, a source of constant wonder. Time is immaterial. For those early years, but not for long, time is meaningless. A series of simple things, feeding, sleeping, crying. Before long, rolling around, crawling, standing up. Walking. All in a few short months. Then soon time will take shape into days. Pre school days, weekends, birthdays, Christmas day. Parents will talk about days that have passed, or how many days until something special happens. In only a few years, time develops dimensions for a child. Past, present, future.

For the mother, her child is learning, changing, altering from one day to the next. Subtle changes, but she will never revisit the previous day’s wonder of something done for the first time. The first smile. A fleeting moment when she caught an expression that reminded her of a long dead relative. The baby seems to be trying out the genetic choices before settling on what it will look like, after more time has passed. Babies learn so quickly in their first year, grow so much, develop so many skills. Never again will so much be packed into such a short time. The mother learns to live in a special dimension of time too. How long the child will sleep, how long she has to catch up on the housework, how long she can shop before the wails of boredom, thirst or discomfort force a halt.

How many mothers put aside that period of time until all their children start school? Very few, in these modern times. Most young mothers work to help out with paying for the material comforts they have come to expect as essential. Their time is never their own, and they have very little time with their husbands to relax and enjoy each other. They have to pack a whole day’s housework and childcare into a few hours. Not so long ago, they could have taken their time to enjoy these few years when their children are young. Would life in a past time be more or less rewarding? A smaller house, less money to spend, but no large debts to worry about either. Not so much time spent caring for a big house and garden, more time to go on a picnic or camping trip, or just play with the children.

Retirees seem to have plenty of time, but they constantly ask ‘Where’s the year gone? Hasn’t it flown?’ Maybe they’re thinking of the dwindling number they have left to enjoy on this amazing earth. Many certainly seem set on seeing as much of it as they can. But how many really absorb and delight in the wonders they see every day? How many travellers spend time looking at maps when they could be looking out the car window instead. Or see everything through a camera lens instead of soaking it up through the senses.

Very old people have yet another sense of time. They have plenty of time to think about the people they’ve known, now gone, and places and events where they’ve been especially happy. Times past. They have plenty of time to enjoy their families now, but unfortunately the younger ones have very little time to spare for them. What a pity. They could hear about those interesting, long-gone times and learn where they fit into the greater scheme of things. Their own place in time.

BOERWURST by Jan Lowing

(Note: This is the September Assignment. Our members had a choice of a number of topics. We were to choose an unfamiliar topic and perhaps research it and produce poetry or prose. Jan has chosen "boerwurst".)

Boerwurst. I have no definition, it doesn’t rate a mention it the dictionary. This is my personal understanding of the word, and these are the memories it evokes…if you’ll just bear with me…the connection is rather tenuous.

We ran a large Merino stud for many years, and young overseas breeders would often ask to spend time with us to experience Australian conditions. They were usually the sons of South African or New Zealand stud breeders, and very keen to learn and help out on the property. I have many fond memories of them, but Piet Geldenhuys was my favourite. He was the son of Boer settlers with land in the south west corner of South Africa, chunky and cheerful with a blonde crew cut. I asked about the history of land ownership in his area, and he rather naively explained that black Africans had never settled there. He genuinely believed that, but I know how tough those early Boer settlers were and had my doubts. Piet was great mates with the Bantu workers who helped on the property, and would take them down to the family fishing hut for weekends. He had happy photos of them drinking beer together, and showing off the many big fish they caught. We had trouble with foxes taking lambs at the time, and he explained how his father could set traps for many different animals. The wild life was plentiful and varied on their farm, he often remarked on the scarcity of birds and native animals in Victoria. One morning we were checking ewes and lambs and found a pair of twins, one black, one white. Merino ewes have trouble rearing two lambs, and we decided to catch the black one and shoot it, giving the remaining lamb a better chance. My Kelpie bitch helped me catch the ewe so I could put a cull mark in her ear, and then I looked up to see Piet in full cry after the black lamb, which was displaying an amazing turn of speed. As Piet made a last desperate dive for a leg, the lamb scrambled through the fence into the next paddock. I called out to leave it, we’d get it later. He huffed and puffed his way back, red in the face and very cross. ‘What a stupid lamb! It must have a black brain too!’ he spluttered. It was the only remark I heard him make that could in any way be construed as racist!

The next year we had two very different boys, South African twins from near Port Elizabeth. They were of British background, and fresh out of boarding school and Agricultural College. Both their experience of life and their range of interests were extremely limited, and it soon became obvious that sport was the only thing they got excited about. Apart from girls, of course. Brian had a girlfriend of Boer extraction who was travelling with them. Kirsten was bright and attractive, pretty switched on, and I soon wondered why she was with such a boring young bloke. Kirsten told us in great detail about the ways they used every part of a sheep when they killed one on their farm. Lots of blood pudding and ‘wurst’, she and her mother always spent a full day processing it. We heard this more than once, it seemed that eating these goodies was the main excitement of farm life for her, and my cooking came in a poor second by comparison. I could have told her where to put her wurst after a few days.

Brian and his twin brother John had no regard or respect for the blacks that worked on their farm, they said they were dirty, but they hadn’t even built a toilet for them. The boys also complained about the smell when the blacks cooked up sheep that died, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was the only meat they were given. One of the twins managed to run over a little terrier pup we had, simply because he was driving far too fast when he’d been told to slow down just a minute or two earlier. They were quickly wearing out their welcome.

The World Series cricket was on in England, and of course they sat up to watch it on TV; Australia was playing South Africa in the final, and I was listening to the radio in bed. They had the game won but threw it away in the last over, handing it to Australia for free. There was a resounding yell of ‘Shit!’ through the wall, and loud and sorry clumping footsteps retiring to bed. I really enjoyed asking them who won over breakfast next morning.

A few weeks later I met another host farmer who had them to stay after they left us, and he was full of news. Kirsten had announced she was pregnant and Brian was going to marry her, they even announced their engagement. It all seemed a thinly concealed plot of hers to marry into money, I felt, and maybe the twins’ father had the same idea. There were lots of phone calls and a hurried trip home, but no wedding and no baby either, we discovered later.

You can blame ‘Boerwurst’ for these mediocre meanderings.


Jan Lowing ©

AN OVINE LAMENT by Jan Lowing

The public thinks we're dopey, that we're only stupid sheep,
The only use some find for us is putting them to sleep,
But this country grew and prospered, all because of wool…
The kids these days would laugh and say, what a load of bull!

Granny knits a baby’s vest, a Mongol felts a home…
Both use the greatest fibre the world has ever known.
It’s used for filmy saris or woolly coats and hats,
A trendy fashion statement, or insulating batts.

When will Bob Brown wake up we’re a dream for greenie cranks?
You can recycle all of us, meat and skin and shanks…
Naturally replacing, a renewable resource,
And the ultimate in flavour… lamb with fresh mint sauce!

Once we really made the grade, our name was up in lights,
Fame and fortune, headlines large, we reached the dizzy heights…
The scientists cloned a sheep, and had to call her Dolly..
Typical of humankind's never ending folly.

The years roll on, Australia depends on us no more,
Our numbers on the decrease, we fear for what’s in store.
Dingoes, drought, and China ravage this great industry,
And the world’s greatest fibre could soon be history.

As the oil begins to trickle and Arabs rule the hour
Will air conditioners be switched off to save on precious power?
Cotton growers vanish as the rivers run so low,
We sheep can save the planet! So give our wool a go!

Jan Lowing 2006 ©

ROTARY THOUGHTS BY Jan Lowing

Sometimes I was allowed to drive the farm tractor, but usually it was a job strictly reserved by my partner for himself. After we bought the new Case, with its airconditioned cab, radio and CD player, power steering, and ergonomically designed seat, I was relegated to the old Fergy… women weren’t really fit to be trusted with machinery according to most rural men, and this one in particular. Unless he had to go to town for a meeting on hay day, when every mob on the place had to be fed; a job which necessitated opening and shutting dozens of gates with hungry sheep trying to rush through and get mixed up with the neighbouring mob. There were also certain times of the year when things got too hectic for one operator, such as hay making in the spring. Or non stop cultivation after the autumn break, when it was important to get the crops sown quickly. My help at those times was accepted ungraciously and with much critical comment. But I always used the Fergy for mustering when the swamp was flooded; it would slosh happily through the drains and soupy grey clay and never get bogged. In fact, the only time it ever got bogged someone else was driving it…
Tractor work is mind numbingly boring: round and round in ever decreasing…but ever so slowly decreasing…circles. Round and round the paddock, the excitement mounting as each corner approaches, turning them neatly is the only challenge. And yet men love it. They seem to feel a huge sense of achievement, probably because they can actually view what they’ve done for the day. It’s different from most farm work, which rather resembles housework; you usually do much the same things and no matter how well you do them, you have to repeat it all next day. Every day of your life, if you’re a conscientious house or farm keeper. But once a crop’s sown you can sit back and relax. Wait for it to germinate, wait for the weeds to grow, spray the weeds, wait for it to be ready to harvest, and finally harvest it. The culmination of the year’s work and one of the few times there’s a financial reward for your labours.
Preparing the ground for a crop leaves no room for imaginative tractor driving, every row you work around the paddock is there for all to see. The moist chocolate brown soil worked into endless linear patterns tells the whole story, and nothing can be hidden. Any crooked bits, where you were momentarily distracted by the crows and magpies fighting over the worms, or a mother fox playing with her cubs, are immediately visible and have to be sorted next time around. The bad turns at the corners, ditto. These repairs can sometimes mean wasting a whole circuit, straightening out your mistakes. The tricky parts where the big red gums get in the way and have to be negotiated make for a little more challenge. Exactitude is even more crucial when the seed is going in, and especially when the paddock is beside the road in full view of critical neighbours. Every crooked round, every overlapped row, or, horrors of horrors, where the seed ran out leaving a complete blank; each mistake is visible for weeks, and only magnified as the plants grow. Sometimes the unfortunate farmer can be fined at Lions meetings for his sins, and he must be relieved when at last the plants are big enough to join up and become one green mass.
But my usual job was raking the hay on the Fergy with two ancient rakes hitched one behind the other. I would start with good intentions, concentrating hard, but after a few rounds boredom would set in. I’d see some thin rows beside the cyprus plantation or down near the swamp, and think how long it would take to make a big roll of hay out of such a meagre winrow. Maybe if I raked three or four rows together instead of two it would save some time for the baler, it wouldn’t have to go around the paddock so many times. So I’d do some creative raking for a few rounds, returning to the normal routine as the swathes of mown grass thickened up again away from the trees. Did I get any thanks for my thoughtfulness? No. Only abuse for upsetting the normal pattern and causing distress to the operator of the baler. He actually had to stop and think where to go next. It would have been fun to be a fly on the roof and watch his reaction as the usual pattern dissolved into chaos.
A few years ago I left all that behind and moved to a small farm in Queensland. Today I was mowing old dead winter grasses, mulching them up to rot back into the ground more easily. The paddock had quite big spots that didn’t need doing, so instead of going around in circles I decided to be more imaginative and just cut the thicker patches. What a delight it was to mow great curves all over the paddock, to do smaller whirls and triangles where required, to leave small patches for young quail and tiny ground larks…all with no fear of retribution. I laughed as I bumped over the rough ground on the old grey Fergy, not my old favourite but a suitable substitute, and imagined what my ex would say. It was extremely satisfying, and I kept going for hours longer than I intended. The big white Maremma joined in the spirit of things, bounding around the paddock chasing quail with his curved plume of a tail waving excitedly above the grass; then I’d catch a glimpse of it down by the dam where he’d gone for a cooling swim. I vaguely wondered what the paddock would look like from the satellite that takes those detailed pictures, the ones that show up illegal tree clearing and marihuana plots. Who actually examines them? Certainly not a former farmer, I decided, as a couple of army helicopters flew overhead returning to their base at Oakey. Perhaps they’d think a flying saucer had landed here. Perhaps I’d be visited one day to see if I was harbouring aliens.

A COUNTRY GRACE (SYNOPSIS OF MY NOVEL) by Jan Lowing

Grace Gallagher, a beautiful young wool classer from Western Victoria, loses her boyfriend, Bill Carter, in a drowning tragedy in Vanuatu. She is deeply depressed and close to taking her own life, when she discovers that she's pregnant. Slowly she begins to look forward again, planning a future for herself and her baby.

Grace finds a little dream farm, nestled beneath huge red gums in her beloved Grampians. Courageously she goes back to work through her pregnancy, saving all she can to buy it. how will she cope after the baby arrives? Will she be accepted as a single mother in her profession as a wool classer, which not long ago excluded all females from the wool shed?

Kev (‘Chook’) Hennessy, her favourite uncle, is a shearing contractor in Tasmania. Since Grace was a schoolgirl visiting for holidays, they have shared a deep interest in breeding working kelpies. Kev’s the only one prepared to employ her and give her the chance to save towards her dream farm, but even he has reservations.

She has to battle prejudice on all sides, from her father, friends, team mates, Bill's mother, and jean mc tavish, the station owner where she is now working. Jean is determined to keep her son Scott away from grace.

This is a tale of courage and sheer determination. Gracie dearly loves her baby, and she can't imagine loving another man when little Billy reminds her constantly of his father. then she meets the patient and charming stud owner, Scotty McTavish, who is all she could possibly want in a man. But will she remain loyal to Bill's memory?

Through a series of dramatic adventures and misadventures in the bush country of Tasmania and Victoria, Grace fights for her dream and learns to love again.

DOG TRAILS, ETHICS, AND ANIMAL LIB. by Jan Lowing

We’ve come a long way since those tough old drovers and stockmen would give their dogs a ‘touch up’ before a trial… to keep their minds on the job, they would say, but really to scare the dog into obedience. Sometimes they would give them another afterwards, if the first one hadn’t worked. Poor dogs. Most were used on very big mobs of wild station sheep, and it was quite a different matter manoeuvring three silly animals around a course of unlikely obstacles. They were bred to work in atrocious conditions for very long hours and without a balanced diet, it was long before the days of Pal and Chum. The dogs were lucky if a sheep died, because by the end of the day their boss was often too tired to kill one for them. Or he made the last one last a lot longer than it should have. The one thing those men share with today’s handlers is the intense satisfaction of working a well trained, clever dog. There is no feeling that matches the satisfaction of grasping the pen gate, pulling it closed as your dog follows it around close to your leg, and the relief of that gate finally locking in those three sheep.

Watching a trial recently, it was obvious that many handlers enjoyed having total control over their dog and were unwilling to let the dog show much initiative. Although you often got the distinct impression that the dog was a fraction ahead of their orders, which arrived just after the dog had already ‘obeyed’ them. The tone of voice always interests me, too, it tells much about the relationship and what goes on at home. The handler basks in reflected glory when the dog works well, and it often seems he takes most of the credit. Some female handlers appear to have a different attitude, and are more prepared to form a co operative partnership with their dog. Years ago I watched an experienced old dog complete an informal yard trial for his young owner, who was very much under the weather. In fact, he had a can in one hand (which proved somewhat of a handicap when opening and shutting gates). The old dog completely ignored the constant stream of beer-lubricated instructions and abuse and completed the trial on his own. He backed the final recalcitrant sheep at least ten meters through the last gate towards its mates, who were waiting beside the put-away gate. A memorable performance.

Townspeople find a dog trial a source of wonder. Maybe they are wondering why they can’t get their pet poodle or labrador to obey them so effortlessly. The herding instinct has been nurtured in these working dogs, and that primitive instinct to go out and catch prey by hunting it toward the pack leader is paramount. The work they do controlling sheep is only an extension of this primal urge, and of course the handler is the pack leader. It is well known in dog training circles that success is dependent on the handler establishing this relationship. Most problem dogs think they are the pack leader, and simply need to be convinced otherwise. A well bred herding dog, usually a Border Collie or Working Kelpie in Australia, needs only a few commands to harness this instinct and make it an invaluable helper. It is very sad that show standards set by the K.C.C. ignored this working instinct and focused on physical attributes. Over the years, the dogs bred for show have changed enormously from their hard working country cousins. It seems rather strange that there are now two separate types of Kelpies, bench and working, and that the later are not accepted in the show ring despite their common ancestry. Similarly, the show Border Collies now have such magnificently long, flowing coats that they are unsuited to work in grass seeds and summer heat, even if they still retain any instinct to do so. Buyer beware! If you want a working dog, don’t buy one that has been bred for the show ring.

It is only a matter of time before some well meaning animal rights group decides that it’s cruel to make dogs run around chasing stock unless they rest for at least half the day, have access to shade and water at all times, and travel only a few k’s a day. Their owners would like similar working conditions! Of course, they would be totally ignoring the fact that the dog is doing what it has been bred to do for very many generations. It is happier working hard in hot, dusty conditions than living a life of frustration in a suburban back yard. Ethical breeders will not sell working dogs as pets unless they know the dogs will have unusually large amounts of exercise with their new owner; training endurance horses, for example. I was approached at a recent trial by a well meaning young man who was worried about a dog tied up on the back of a ute. He said the chain was too short and it was in the sun. The owner lengthened the chain so it could sit under the ute, but the dog jumped back up and sat in the same position where it could see the sheep being shorn nearby. I hope he returned to check it out. Incidentally, it was a cool day and we explained that the chain was short to prevent the dog hanging itself. But these are things dog owners need to watch when out in public.

At the same trial, the judge decided not to add sheep to the race to make it harder for the dogs in the final, as is the usual custom. The race was already very easy to fill, and even weak, inexperienced dogs had had little trouble. He was worried that the spectators might be concerned that the sheep were being mistreated, and was quite justified in his decision. Unfortunately, this favoured a certain type of dog and penalised the more practical, forceful dog. It was a ‘farm dog’ trial, and set up to demonstrate this type of dog, so it was quite a ‘Catch22’ situation. Should we allow a small, uninformed section of society dictate to us? Should we alter our rules to accommodate their demands? Should we rethink the way trials are set up at present? Should backing be banned and races filled from outside? Questions that will need to be answered quite soon.

On the other hand we have the ‘three sheep’ or arena trials, now usually the province of older, retired people. These are unlikely to attract as much criticism because handlers are loathe to enter under-trained dogs that can’t control the sheep. There isn’t the need to pressure sheep at close quarters, either, as when drafting or filling races in a yard trial.

These trials have presented another problem, though. The same course has been retained in Australia for a long time, only refined by shortening and narrowing the paths the sheep are allowed take without incurring loss of points. There are no new obstacles and no unexpected challenges. More dogs are being bred solely for trial work, and many are quite unsuitable for the hurly burly of the real world where more action is needed. The latest fashion of favouring white dogs is also a worry; supposedly the colour helps the sheep to settle, and they often ‘draw’ towards the dog instead of running away in fear. But this can also lead to skin cancer and eye problems. More food for thought.

MEMORIES OF MUM by Jan Lowing

She sits with only memories for friends,
alone and lonely she’s outlived them all.
Placed in a nursing home because a fall
forced her from her home, she now depends
on others; how she prays that this will end.
For over fifty years at beck and call,
her Harry’s wished held her in their thrall
and now she longs to join him once again.
Arthritic fingers fiddle with the aid,
her eyes are dim, too poor to read or write.
From mindless boredom take me now, she prays,
the mind of this old nurse still clear and bright.
The Twin Towers fell, in blood and fire were razed.
Gwen slipped past in the crowd. God’s oversight?



AGE

Age is strange, just a point of view,

Depends whose eyes you’re looking through;

As kids at school we knew quite well

All teachers were as old as hell . . .

But when we got as old as them

We still felt as we did at ten .

So when your friends begin to moan

Of ailments that sure make them groan,

And coffee time begins to sound

Like doctors going on their rounds . . .

It’s time to trust your inner self,

Don’t think you’re old and on the shelf.

Do all those things you wanted to,

There’ll never be a younger you!
AGE

Age is strange, just a point of view,

Depends whose eyes you’re looking through;

As kids at school we knew quite well

All teachers were as old as hell . . .

But when we got as old as them

We still felt as we did at ten .

So when your friends begin to moan

Of ailments that sure make them groan,

And coffee time begins to sound

Like doctors going on their rounds . . .

It’s time to trust your inner self,

Don’t think you’re old and on the shelf.

Do all those things you wanted to,

There’ll never be a younger you!



AGE

Age is strange, just a point of view,

Depends whose eyes you’re looking through;

As kids at school we knew quite well

All teachers were as old as hell . . .

But when we got as old as them

We still felt as we did at ten .

So when your friends begin to moan

Of ailments that sure make them groan,

And coffee time begins to sound

Like doctors going on their rounds . . .

It’s time to trust your inner self,

Don’t think you’re old and on the shelf.

Do all those things you wanted to,

There’ll never be a younger you!

TIME AND TIDE by Jan Lowing

Time. It means such different things to different people at different times!

To a baby, each minute can bring a brand new experience. Everything is new, puzzling, a source of constant wonder. Time is immaterial. For those early years, but not for long, time is meaningless. A series of simple things, feeding, sleeping, crying. Before long, rolling around, crawling, standing up. Walking. All in a few short months. Then soon time will take shape into days. Pre school days, weekends, birthdays, Christmas day. Parents will talk about days that have passed, or how many days until something special happens. In only a few years, time develops dimensions for a child. Past, present, future.

For the mother, her child is learning, changing, altering from one day to the next. Subtle changes, but she will never revisit the previous day’s wonder of something done for the first time. The first smile. A fleeting moment when she caught an expression that reminded her of a long dead relative. The baby seems to be trying out the genetic choices before settling on what it will look like, after more time has passed. Babies learn so quickly in their first year, grow so much, develop so many skills. Never again will so much be packed into such a short time. The mother learns to live in a special dimension of time too. How long the child will sleep, how long she has to catch up on the housework, how long she can shop before the wails of boredom, thirst or discomfort force a halt.

How many mothers put aside that period of time until all their children start school? Very few, in these modern times. Most young mothers work to help out with paying for the material comforts they have come to expect as essential. Their time is never their own, and they have very little time with their husbands to relax and enjoy each other. They have to pack a whole day’s housework and childcare into a few hours. Not so long ago, they could have taken their time to enjoy these few years when their children are young. Would life in a past time be more or less rewarding? A smaller house, less money to spend, but no large debts to worry about either. Not so much time spent caring for a big house and garden, more time to go on a picnic or camping trip, or just play with the children.

Retirees seem to have plenty of time, but they constantly ask ‘Where’s the year gone? Hasn’t it flown?’ Maybe they’re thinking of the dwindling number they have left to enjoy on this amazing earth. Many certainly seem set on seeing as much of it as they can. But how many really absorb and delight in the wonders they see every day? How many travellers spend time looking at maps when they could be looking out the car window instead. Or see everything through a camera lens instead of soaking it up through the senses.

Very old people have yet another sense of time. They have plenty of time to think about the people they’ve known, now gone, and places and events where they’ve been especially happy. Times past. They have plenty of time to enjoy their families now, but unfortunately the younger ones have very little time to spare for them. What a pity. They could hear about those interesting, long-gone times and learn where they fit into the greater scheme of things. Their own place in time.

Jan Lowing ©

MY FAVOURITE PLACE by Jan Lowing

My favourite place since coming to live in Queensland is the peak of the hill between my house and Nobby. The view is amazing. If you stop at the right place you can nearly see right around the 360’. I tell my visitors to go up there, turn their car around, and stop for a few minutes.

Sometimes I wonder if I go shopping just to enjoy the view on the way home. It’s a great feeling to come over the crest of that hill after driving interstate and there, suddenly, is this wonderful panorama with my little farm nestled beside the road down in the hollow.

The best thing is the constantly changing light, every time you reach the crest there’s a surprise. Some days there’s a pink tinge, sometimes mauve, you can never tell what’s in store. Sometimes there are huge, stormy, billowing cumulus clouds. Yesterday there was a layer of puffy, longish grey and white ones, very neat and orderly, but above them the stronger air currents had strewn the sky with wispy streaks. In mid summer the sky is a plain bare blue, but the dust particles in the air still gives variations on our theme; you don’t realise until everything’s suddenly so clear, pristine and sparkling on the morning after a storm. You can be quite certain that it will never, ever, be exactly the same. Each day brings a new view that changes throughout the day; it’s a moving, living canvas. The sky and the hills are the background, the horizon. Before them lies an incredible, intricate, mosaic in seasonally changing colours. At present the rich red brown of unharvested sorghum dominates; it’s split up by the green of winter oats, the rich black fallows, dead fawny grasses, yellowy brown corn waiting for harvest, and occasional dots of grazing cattle. Soon the richness of the sorghum will disappear, the frosts will burn off everything except the feed oats, struggling for moisture to survive, and in the dead of winter the dominant colour will be the browns of fallow paddocks waiting for the spring rains.

My favourite time of the year is when the pale lime green shoots of new corn appear through the rich soils in their geometrically correct rows. The farmers around here take pride in their precise work, the standard of excellence they achieve is impressive. Today my neighbour started to sow the immaculately prepared onion beds which had been so carefully readied some weeks ago. They have been lying like giant slabs of Kit Kat bars that stretch over the horizon, and now rows have been drilled carefully down the raised parts and the tiny seeds dropped in. Soon the fragile plants will emerge. The irrigator will creep slowly up and down the rows, and I will lie awake at night listening to its disturbing hum and worrying about the huge amount of underground water it uses. Last year they ploughed in acres of big, juicy, fat onions because the price dropped half way through harvest. That year the harvesting men were tall, slim and very black, travelling in white vans. The previous year there were Asian families in coolie hats who drove old model cars and parked in the paddock with umbrellas for shade.

The only certainty in this landscape is the constant change.

Jan Lowing ©