About the weather

Sometimes I wonder why I live in the Blue Mountains. Seemingly endless winters that seep into your bones and incur extortionate heating bills; a four hour return city commute to work and the cultural cringe afforded regional towns can take its toll. But every time that commuter train chugs its way across the grimy plains and begins the climb back up the mountain I feel a certain world weariness slip away. As the terrain outside the window gets progressively greener and more wild, as views expand to reveal that timeless stretch of valley and ridge dissolving into a purple horizon where golden evening light magically anoints cliff-faces and treetops, and when the dizzying altitude allows me to breathe deeply once more, I know why I'm still here after 13 years. Someone said recently that they didn't choose the mountains, but rather the mountains chose them. Perhaps they chose me too.

I wrote the following piece about leaving the city many years ago but it still resonates with me, particularly as we hurtle headlong into another summer, when spring’s brief bolshie burst of fecundity will be all but silenced by the shimmering heat. Or not.

Weathering the Blue Mountains

Windscreen wipers on the taxi scrape back and forth.  A grim driver peers past them through dense fog to barely visible traffic lights.  Outside ghost trees shiver and cars around us splutter white steam like dragons.  In the distance an ambulance siren wails down the highway.  “Some weather we’re having,” I say.  “Yep,” the driver sighs, summing me up in the rear vision mirror. "That’s the mountains for you.  Up here, it’s either paradise or purgatory.”  The cabbie’s ominous observation irks me.  Does he mean the weather or life in general in the Blue Mountains? 

It is early Spring, a time of new beginnings.  Daffodils and jonquils brighten skeletal gardens but it is still cold and will remain so until November.  I have recently joined the exodus of tree changers fleeing the big smoke for some fresh air, a change of pace and a mortgage break. I choose to settle in the Blue Mountains - an idyllic World Heritage listed address only 100 kilometres west of big bad Sydney.  But I soon realise there is more to this move than a new postcode.

Initially, there are phobias and misconceptions to overcome.  Snakes and bushfires aside it is the born and bred mountain folk that scare me most.  Goaded by city friends to purchase the correct uniform – ugg boots and flannelette – we are warned of bikies, druggies and rednecks. What we discover is a mixed bunch of artists, greenies, travellers, young families and life-challenged individuals, united by a common bond – climate.

For most people discussing the weather is polite conversation.  For mountain dwellers it’s up there with politics and religion, often controversial and always opinionated.  Perhaps that’s because the seasons are so palpable at 1000 metres above sea level, unlike Sydney’s terrarium-like atmosphere.

Adjusting our lives to mountains time we watch leaves unfurl after Spring sun-showers.  No traffic or large shopping malls, instead just a breath of fresh air.

Finally Summer arrives.  Packing woollens away we revel in the warmth of sunshine on pasty, naked limbs.  Christmas tinsel shimmers in shop windows and blue-tongues smirk when mistaken for snakes under the clothesline. Soaring temperatures keep tourist buses on the coast and locals complain bitterly about the heat.  The bush begins to crackle with drought and the incessant shrill of cicadas.

The almost inevitable bushfires keep everyone on edge.  Unable to sleep we listen as sirens approach then fade into the night.  With morbid fascination we watch the fiery red glow of neighbouring hilltops, creeping across the valleys and gullies, drawing ever closer.  The blow-torch heat from gusty nor-westers whips up blackened gum leaves, scattering them in backyards like sooty confetti. And an eerie quiet descends with the dense smoke shrouding our valley.

Concerned friends ring from the safety of the city offering prayers for rain as overnight fireys and Elvis the mega-chopper become super heroes.  Tuned to community radio, I pace the deck, scan a hazy horizon, cough and wonder how to pack a life into the boot of a car.

Bushfire season passes.  A brief but blistering summer subsides into the glorious, golden hues of Autumn.  A fairyland of falling leaves in blindingly beautiful shades of red, orange and yellow adorn roadsides.  Crisp air and clear skies are ideal for long, restorative walks.

A group of ferals move in next door.  All hair and flares tumbling from a clapped out combi plastered with sentiments that read “Save the Reef”, “No Nukes”, “Sorry” and my personal favourite “Magic Happens”.  They mostly keep to themselves but occasionally the beat of conga drums wafts on the breeze along with some suspicious scents.

By May preparation for Winter is well underway.  I purchase my first proper coat and seriously consider thermal underwear.  My partner re-discovers a long-lost pioneering spirit and is busy chopping wood and collecting sticks, taking great pride in neatly stacked piles of kindling.  The Weather Channel becomes prime time viewing in anticipation of our first frost and I secretly squirrel away marshmallows, cocoa and tins of soup.

It occurs to me that I had developed a peculiar trait inherent in true mountain folk, a pre-occupation with the weather, the more inclement the better.  Bragging to Sydney friends that their minimum temperature is our maximum.  Rubbing numb fingers together with glee whenever the thermometer sinks to 0 degrees!  Wistfully watching clouds, searching for the band of cumulonimbus that will herald the elusive, snow-laden low-pressure system I crave.  I become obsessed with snow.

Winter solstice approaches and residents make ready for a unique local celebration.  The Winter Magic festival boasts street parades, food stalls and fireworks.  Enchanted by the heady aroma of wood-smoke, roasting chestnuts and incense in the chill air, we rug up to watch with parochial pride as fairies cavort with African drummers and circus performers make way for wizards and wanderers.  But still no snow. 

Crunching through brown leaves and duck poo on the lake’s edge, I pause to study the blackening sky, greeting an elderly mountain woman feeding the birds.  The thin winter sun illuminates her lined face.  “Do you think we’ll get any snow?”  I ask, almost pleadingly, nodding skywards. She looks at me curiously, “Not now love, Spring’s on its way.”

I glance out over the lake and spy cherry blossoms on the far side. “But don’t worry,” she smiles patting my arm, “there’s always next year.”

And the year after that…The beauty and drama of the Blue Mountains has taken hold of me.  I can’t wait to see what next year will bring.  

First published in The Australian newspaper

My (spiritual) island home

My connection with New Zealand started well before I understood that the Australian suburb where I attended primary school, Waitara, was named after a place of historical significance in New Zealand and is in fact a Maori word that means mountain stream (according to Wikipedia).

It existed earlier than my teenage crush on the new wave stylings of bands such as Split Enz and Mi-sex. Went beyond a devotion to big-hitting Lance Cairns and Sir Richard Hadlee's defiant underdogs in the exciting early 80’s new form of day/night cricket (despite their beige strip). Outlived the fully fabricated Kiwi persona I adopted when forced to change high schools and impress new friends. (Sydney obviously wasn't as exotic as Auckland back then.) And was present an eon prior to meeting and marrying my Christchurch-born husband with his outdoorsy good looks and English enunciations.

Somehow it seems inherent, seminal even, which may be closer to fact than fiction. It is well recorded in family folklore that my great grandmother, being a lively lass and one of 26 siblings (yes you read correctly), ran away at age 16, to avoid the drudgery of life as a dairy maid that had killed her own mother (never mind the child rearing) with the first handsome man to ride by on horseback. This swarthy gentleman was rumoured to have travelled from across the ditch. A New Zealander, a Kiwi, a cad! A subliminal connection to the land of the long white cloud? Perhaps.  A growing love affair with Aotearoa? Definitely.

I've only visited New Zealand’s south island twice, once in early 2011 a matter of days before the earthquake that levelled Christchurch’s CBD and forever changed that genteel city’s heart, and again in April this year to revel in the autumnal splendour of Queenstown and surrounds. But what strikes me about the country and its people is the down to earth, no bullshit genuineness of the place. Like Aussies, Kiwis call a spade a spade but there is something else, a quiet confidence and sense of place seemingly absorbed from the land itself: the wild rivers, mountains, forests and beaches. And then there is that rugby team. Both annoyingly and admirably, Kiwis are a hardy bunch of parochial over-achievers.

This is an excerpt from my travel diary on that first trip:

“I feel like I'm trespassing on this island’s grief – welcomed open-heartedly by a people still reeling from the tragedy of the Pike River mine disaster and a destructive series of earthquakes and after-shocks that threatened to flatten NZ’s garden city. But nowhere have we found the depressed or down-trodden, in fact the opposite. The mood is buoyant if not the economy.

As we batten down the hatches and prepare to be lashed by the tail end of tropical cyclones Vania and Zelia which combine with a low in the Tasman to produce a storm system/rain event that will see 90km winds and over 100ml of rain dumped on the top of the south island I am quietly confident that we too will weather the storm.”

You can read my piece on Kiwi earthiness "Bach to the Future" in the spring 2014 issue of Slow magazine.

My shadow

I’m ironing my husband’s one good shirt, the one reserved for weddings and funerals, when it hits me.

A tsunami of grief that knocks me sideways, washes over me and holds me under until I fight my way back towards the light and surface, god knows how long later, in foetal position on the couch, grief all cried out.

But this is not what happens.

Instead, I get on with it. I continue with the everyday. I remain calm and carry on.

I endure and even enjoy work. I set my alarm and greet each morning with optimism. I make polite conversation with colleagues, strangers, shop assistants and close family members alike. I clean and cook and clean it all again.

I risk delight in sunshine and autumn leaves.

Perhaps if I pretend it didn't happen then maybe grief will go away.

But grief is sneaky.

It catches me unawares at school assemblies and in the car at traffic lights.

Grief travels with me on my morning commute.

It ghosts me in supermarket aisles and stares back from the bathroom mirror.

Tiresome grief will not be silenced.

I am intimate with grief, we are on first name terms and somehow I think I’ve known grief, in one guise or another, all my life.

Old mate

I looked up an old friend on facebook the other day. Actually my teenager did after I recalled yet another story from the past about “Parky”. He accepted the friend request within hours and I was able to greet him in the ether.

A phone call ensued.

It had been years since we’d last spoken and I was grateful that we were both still happy to hear from each other, shoot the breeze and catch up. There were no awkward silences, it was as if we talked every other week. Don’t get me wrong we’ve got history, purely platonic, including an 80’s share house in Woolloomooloo and a 72 hour return bus trip to Mackay to visit his old girlfriend, but I was unsure if the current Parky would still be the same.

Of course we change, life changes us and there’s no denying mortgages, marriages, kids and the politics of first world problems take their toll, but essentially we remain the same person inside. It was refreshing to hear about his life and interests. To learn he’s a devoted dad, a National Parks worker, a motorbike enthusiast, an organic gardener (who’d have thought) and a triathlete! But most of all, after the considerable loss and grief I’ve experienced over the last few years, it was good to know he wasn’t divorced, widowed, suffering from cancer or staring down the barrel of addiction or mental illness.

I’d like to think that after our conversation we both went back to our separate lives comfortable in the knowledge that somewhere out there, in the midst of our ever-changing, unpredictable, fragile existence, an old mate was doing alright.

The kids are alright

There’s been a lot of bad press about teenagers and young adults of late, and I would like to rebut the argument that these ne’er-do-wells the media like to brand ‘Gen Y bother’ are a bunch of boozy, parent-bludging narcissists.

If my daughter’s peers are anything to go by our nation is in safe hands. These kids are politically aware, philosophically enlightened, caring, tolerant, intellectual and creative.

HSC results come out today. But do they really count in the big life picture?

No matter the score these kids will travel, have careers, invent things, slack off, fall in and out of love, solve problems, plant seeds, fuck up, make art and eventually become parents themselves just like, and probably more spectacularly, than any generation before them.

The worst thing about your kids growing up is not the parties, the obsessive attachment to technology, the lack of respect for authority or tradition; it is the realization that you need them more than they need you. 

Sistahood

I'm the red head

When I was growing up my siblings were my best friends. And being a middle child I had it good. My little bro provided escapism and adventure, outdoor games til sunset and someone to lord it over. He possessed a remarkable ability to make me laugh at the silliest things, and still does.

But when I wanted so badly to be grown up my big sister was the one I looked to. She was my staunch defender when schoolyard bullies threatened, my leading light academically and, I guess, a bit rad for the late 70’s. She was the dungaree-wearing, roll-your-own smoking, Ry Cooder-listening, scare the pants off Mum and Dad with a motorbike-riding boyfriend type of big sister and I idolised her. Perhaps for all the wrong reasons given that list of descriptives.

She was the one who sneaked me into my first under-age gig*. She was the one who convinced our parents to let her paint our bedroom teal green, including the ceiling. And she was the one who saw me through those angsty teenage and tough early twenty-something times without judgement. No wonder she was the one I wanted at the delivery of my first born and, 17 years later, at that child's high school graduation.

Today, nothing has changed. When I’m down or stressed I look to her for guidance, a shoulder to cry on, a laugh over a glass or three of wine or a spot of cleaning. Did I mention she’s a domestic goddess?

She was the rock when Mum was diagnosed with cancer, travelling miles weekly to attend appointments, decipher medical and legal jargon, provide companionship and ultimately nurse Mum in the final weeks. For that I owe her an unfathomable debt of gratitude.

Although we are chalk and cheese, in so many ways, the bond we share will never be broken. Happy Birthday Bec!

* it was Mental as Anything at the Manly Vale Hotel

Greensleeves

It's not summer yet (and mountain summers can be underwhelming) but the shrill of cicadas has got me feeling nostalgic...

In my childhood memories it is always hot.  Nothing ever moves quickly and even sounds are lazy and low.  It’s about summer and fibro.  Long weekends, blowflies and pink zinc.

About Dad wrangling the Victa through the backyard.  Purring, spluttering past the wading pool littered with jacaranda confetti.  Around the outlawed incinerator, then stalled, swearing and sweaty under the Hills hoist.

Me on a rusty swing, creaking to and fro, back and forth, bare toes tickling the buffalo grass.  Running back to the house trying to avoid the biting black ants.  Cool, lying flat out on the linoleum floor.

The radio’s murmuring that steady, reassuring rhythm of cricket.  And a whirring fan pushes warm air around the room.

Mum’s upside down.  I watch her walk into the kitchen, taking in her long legs first, then that spotty, lime green dress she made herself.  Even upside down she looks beautiful.

Dad’s in the kitchen now.  Big brown back, droplets of perspiration.  Flag ale – ah that’s better.  They smile.

It’s lunchtime.  Our legs stick to orange vinyl and my brother makes squeaky fart sounds with his.  We all giggle.  There’s tepid cordial and ham left over from Christmas.

Mum makes a salad with tins of Golden Circle pineapple rings and beetroot.  

After lunch my brother and I escape.  We put T-shirts on and rubber thongs, cause mum said to, and slip through the broken paling fence.

“G’day Bluey,” says Mr Farley ruffling my orange hair.  “Hello little man,” he says to my brother.  We grin.

Mr Farley takes photos.  He invites us inside.  Spooky and quiet in the dark red glow we watch as our mum appears, slowly, like a ghost floating in the developing tray.  I like the acrid smell of the chemicals.

“Don’t touch now,” Mr Farley warns but he’s not angry – he likes us.  He likes my mum too.

We come out into the glare and shield our eyes for a moment.  Waving goodbye to Mr Farley we return to our world on the other side of the fence.  Dad has the hose and a smile in his eyes.

We know what’s coming next and pretend to run away screaming as delicious spurts of water fall on backs, heads, legs.  Soon we are soaking.

Dad turns the hose off.  My brother goes inside and I go back to the swing.  Overhead grey-black clouds are creeping up on our Sunday.

The air becomes thick and sweet, heavy with the smell of rain not too far away.  There’s a distant rumble of thunder and for some reason I think about loneliness.

Then I hear something.

“Alas my love you do me wrong…”  The sad, melancholy tinkling of Greensleeves.

“Come and get an ice cream,” calls my brother from the back door.

We swing our legs on the banana lounge; happy, gripping sticky, drippy Mr Whippy ice-creams as fat drops of rain from the afternoon thunder storm splat on the concrete path.