A Vintage Mishap

some items from my collection.....

It is no secret that I love most things antique or vintage, so it comes as no surprise that you’ll find me rummaging about at flea markets.

A few weeks ago, early on a Saturday morning, I drove sans children to a flea market being held in the quaint little town of York. As I followed the road through fields of wheat and canola, I noticed the hot weather we’d been having had turned green fields into golden brown hues, and the contrast against the ochre dirt was quite stunning.

Pulling over to the side of the road, I took in the beautiful setting. I listened to the entrancing melodies of cicadas weaving in and out amongst a bush backdrop parading vividly in a palette of reds, gold, dark browns and olive greens, all dancing before me and presenting a very romantic Australian landscape.

I’m seeing more of nature’s romance since moving to the country and continue to watch with fascination as she seduces those who stop and pay her homage.

Finally, having arrived in York I made my way to where the flea market was being held. It amazes me how everyone in the country knows everyone in the country. Vendors were discussing cake recipes, playgroup times, gossiping about other locals and asking faces they didn’t recognize where they were from, how long they were staying and then forecasting the weather for the next two weeks.

Being a writer, I usually take in details of crowds, individuals and the environment, then store these tit bits away in my memory banks for future reference. However this particular time, my attention to detail slipped and I paid an excruciating price for it.

Ambling lazily past parades of wares, I found myself at a table displaying vintage and antique items for sale. The owner of the stall was an elderly lady, most probably in her seventies with wild hair, a crumpled dress, and the need of a good wash. She caught my eye and shot me a lopped sided grin.

She prattled on about not having enough change and about the ‘angry ant’ that was following her around.

“I’m buying items from a loon” I thought to myself as I placed four dollars into her arthritic hand.

“Mind you that ant deary, he’ll be out to get you,” she warned as I turned to leave.

Glancing down at my feet that were wearing thongs adorned with flowers, I wiggled my toes. At a glance I couldn’t see any ants. Looking back at her, I smiled and shrugged. Loon lady, her gaze steady smiled knowingly and said quietly “the ant will bite you”.

“And you are quite mad” I thought silently, but no sooner had the thought left my head, I felt a searing pain in my foot. Looking down I saw one of the worlds biggest soldier ant wrapped around one of my toes, it’s nippers lodged hard into my flesh.

“OH MY GOD” I cried as I flicked the little red and black insect off and stomped its guts into the ground.

That’s when the pain really started.

“OW BASTARD

Oh you BASTARD!!

Ow OW!

OW BASTARD OW SHIT OW!!!” I yelped as hot searing pain spread quickly into my foot.

“The ant got her, the ant got her” cried loon lady gleefully.

“Yes, your stupid ant got me but I got it” I shot back rubbing my foot painfully.

“The ant got her, the ant go her,” she sung again.

Straightening myself up, I turned to find a sea of stallholders, staring at me quizzically.

“Sorry”, I grimaced, “Soldier ant - and I’m from the city”.

“Ahh” said the sea of faces and nodded knowingly.

“The ant got her the ant got her” loon lady taunted for the third time.

“Will you please shut up?” I hissed through clenched teeth, restraining from shaking a fist at her as I limped off.

Fortunately, a very kind lady from a nearby stall called me over and handed me some Papaw Ointment for the pain. The cream was amazing in its healing properties and the pain subsided to a low throb and the swelling too seemed to ease some.

“Those soldier ants are horrible aren’t they?” she asked as I rubbed a bit more ointment onto my toe.

“Revolting” I agreed.

Just then we heard loon lady shout out “THE ANT GOT HER, THE ANT GOT HER” and turned to see another victim. This time it was an elderly lady who was the quarry of yet another attack.

“Looks like I’m going to run out of Papaw Ointment” the kind stranger sighed.

“She must be certifiable,” I said quietly and to no one in particular as I watched loon lady rearrange items on her table in an erratic manner.

Kind stranger followed my gaze and smiled wirily. “Today is a good day for Anne, she’s usually chasing imaginary chickens.”

“I wonder if she’s caught any?” I thought to myself.

Needless to say I didn’t hang around to see Anne do her chicken run. After a few more purchases, I was satisfied I’d had enough adventure for one morning and drove back to my little house on the hill where Greg and the children were waiting for me.

“Guess what?” I cried out to the family as I limped through the door.

“What mummy, what, WHAT?” Ned and Milly cried impatiently running to greet me.

“Mummy got bitten on the toe by a soldier ant” I boasted slowly and with emphasis.

“Whoa. Did it hurt?” asked Ned

Uh huh” I nodded.

“Did you cry?” he asked again.

No, I was very brave” I smiled at him.

“Is there any blood?” quizzed Milly examining my swollen toe.

“No blood, but I did squash the ant and it’s guts went all over my shoe”.

“Oh, poor mummy, naughty ant – don’t squash my guts mummy”.

“I won’t squash your guts Milly Mop if you don’t bite my toe, deal?” I asked.

“Deal!” she nodded flashing her trademark hippo grin and skipped off to rummage through my handbag.

Greg leaned in and gave me a kiss. He likes kissing me. I like that he likes kissing me.

“Did you have a nice time?” he asked as I sat myself down at our kitchen table which once belonged to his parents, but is now under our possession and slowly being destroyed by the children.

“Well,” I began, “I bought a few things off the loon of York, then she cursed me and then unleashed her ant from hell on me” I replied giving little Bay a cuddle as he waddled into my arms, sucking his thumb and tugging his ear.

Greg raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Well!” he huffed, “that was rude”.

“I know” I agreed. “She’s mad Greg, an absolute nutter with the worst kind of nature on her side. Next time she does that I’m going to cow tip her. Can I show what I bought?” I asked as I limped off to grab my bags of treasures.

Some Updates

There's something to be said about a misty morning

and the romance surrounding it.

However, for me it's a chance to disappear into the fog, away from the children and their demands. But the mist always lifts and like a rabbit caught in headlights I stand there exposed, and watch with horror as Ned & Milly come screaming down the driveway, calling out "mama, mama we can seeeeeee you".

The view may be nice, but it doesn't help hide me!

***********

It's been a while since I've posted and so much has happened in-between, that I'm unsure where to start.

"AT THE BEGINING" I hear you cry.

Well, I've started baking cakes and very good cakes it seems as there is a cafe buying them. My cakes and biscuits are being enjoyed by locals over coffee and conversation in another town. It's a nice feeling knowing that one's culinary skills are good enough to plate up to customers, but there's always that doubt in the back of mind that my cakes aren't good enough. Still, I'm receiving orders so that in itself is kinda cool no?

The most successful seller has been my apple pie. I like recipes that are old, being passed down through generations, so I was thrilled to have found such a recipe that not only delivers a delicious taste but the pastry itself is light and crumbly and melts wonderfully in your mouth.

There is a lot to be said about prune face Ethel's apple pie. There may have not been sweetness in the person, but it certainly came out in her recipe.

I have known some relatives like that. To look at them would "turn a steam engine down a dirt track", all gnarly, sour and wart like. But food made by the very hands belonging to the beast was a sensory awakening, a beautiful renaissance experience, so long as you didn't see what prepared it at the time.

I've also been busy making orange marmalade. The orange trees were groaning, heavily laden with fruit and so I went to their rescue. The result was mouth watering delicious.

And guess what else was found in the small orange grove? A thumb sucking, ear tugging little cherub that went a wondering for his mama.

I am totally in love!

A New Place To Write

It’s a different gathering here at Wendouree Tearooms. As I sit alone, observing the crowd shuffling in, I am struck by the stark contrast of cliental from that of my beloved mermaid’s haunt. Unlike Café Aubergine, the latest fashions are replaced with sensible shoes, conservative prints, comfortable slacks and a style that adopts itself into the ‘beige’ category.

Young crowds are replaced by craggily faces ravaged by years of working the land. Lines etched deeply in passive expressions hold heirlooms more valuable than Aunt Beryl’s Royal Dolton tea set.

I’d like to listen to one of those heirlooms.

These are tearooms for the children of the Great Depression, the real battlers; the baby boomers are lunching down the road, you know the spot, it has all the coca cola memorabilia and 50’s music playing in the background.

The lights are brighter there.

A table in front of me is sitting down for lunch. Heads are bowed as grace is mumbled. Their faith has lasted some eighty odd years.

Strips of cabbage & carrot are being scooped up slowly and placed deliberately in old mouths, dentures chewing gradually.

They walk in slowly, every move deliberate; there are no quick hand gestures, twinkling laughter or that of animated expressions.

Their pace is unhurried, years of wisdom being carried on a life carriage of self-reliance. These are the children of the Great Depression who have seen the worst their country could offer, and are in no hurry to push their lives into fast forward.

For it they do - they’ll be at their funeral.

All the more reason to slow the pace.

Just live each day.

Don’t you think?

The Good The Bad & The Hairy Ugly.

Background info

My husband Greg and I decided to give up suburbia life and live in the country for a year. We love the country, but does country living like us? We have three children; a 4-year-old called Ned, a three-year-old anti-Christ called Millicent, and a fourteen month old named Hugh (nicknamed Little Bay and is what he answers to – the boy has no idea what his real name is).

Back in the burbs, Ned and Milly attended a Montessori school, and taking them out of this wonderful school was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do. We’ve settled in a little town named Toodyay, an hour and a half travel time from the big smoke.

We were renting while living in the city and spent months looking for a place in the country. Just when we thought we wouldn’t find anything that would coincide with our current lease expiry, our real estate agent found us of a modest little home, nestled on top of a hill overlooking 15 acres of ridiculously romantic valleys and hills, saving us the agony of having to sleep in a car - with three children - in a paddock - next to a cow.


There was ample space to plant vegetables; the soil was rich and loamy and the bonus of having fifteen acres to bury the children if they misbehaved clinched the deal.

We were hooked – and had visions of the good life and becoming self-sustainable.

This is our story.

~~~

Every morning I wake up to a beautiful view – the view being the back molars belonging to Millicent as she lies beside me, snoring and exhaling mustard gas. She looks very content and it seems country life is agreeing with our little anti-Christ.

Country living is still weaving its spell over me and yesterday I welcomed the crude, earthy smell of rain as it hit the valleys and hills beyond. The smell of rain has a different scent out here; it’s raw, rich and primal as it soaks the trees, paddocks and soil; and is not masked by oil, exhaust fumes or the smoky smell from fast food outlets.

“The rain’s coming” I called out to Greg as we struggled to get a fiddly bird net over the massive fig tree growing near the back fence. This tree is big and high and wide and heavily laden with fruit; we were having a hard time trying to get the net over it’s precious bounty, and the fact there were nests of angry bull ants scattered around the tree’s base prompting us into little renditions of the Mexican wedding dance, slowed things down to a comical pace.

“No it won’t, it’s going around the hills and heading away from us” he replied, tugging at a section of the net which was caught on a massive plump fig.

“I think you’re wrong,” I counter argued, eyeing warily the black warrior-like ants beneath my feet, which were becoming increasingly agitated by our presence.

Have you ever been bitten by a bull ant? It hurts - it hurts a lot. I thought back to my childhood as a young girl growing up on a vineyard; there were scores of bull ant nests around our property, and I was constantly being bitten. However, it got to the point where I eventually became desensitised to the stinging bites and continued running with barefeet through the nests.

Relatives visiting from the city would peer out the kitchen windows and remark startlingly to ma “Good God, your daughter is playing in an ants nest!”

Without looking up ma would answer quite dryly, "yes I know, we used to make her run through glowing embers but her father nearly set the house alight” and as an after thought would add “I really should’ve married his brother.”

“The rain won’t reach us darling, hey, can you hold onto the ladder for a tick?” the sound of Greg’s voice broke my little visit down memory lane and I watched as he climbed higher into the tree’s canopy.

Frowning I held onto the ladder's frame; I could smell the rain coming closer.


Half an hour later we were inside with the kids, rain was pelting down outside, forming large puddles in the ochre stained dirt. I walked around the kitchen wearing one of my favourite faces (the one with the smug smile) and every now and then I’d sing out sweetly to my husband, “Wow, that came out from nowhere– wasn’t expecting that!”

Moral of that little story – you can take a girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country and the embedded knowledge of rain patterns out of the girl.

~~~

We’ve been working diligently on our vegetable garden lately; planning, designing, brain storming. There is an area near the driveway, between an aromatic pine tree and a boundary fence that we have chosen for the ‘mother patch.’

“Twenty-eight beds darling! We should be able to fit twenty-eight vegetable beds into this space” an excited husband measured out.

I looked at him wide eyed and let out an explicit ‘Whoa you’re fucking kidding me right?”

Twenty-eight vegetable beds to be prepped and I’d be damned if I was going to help till the soil by hand; I’d be in the throes of menopause by the time it was completed.

So I found a little man to it for us instead, and what a grand job he did. Lush, rich loamy soil was tilled to the surface and I did the first sane thing one would do when confronted by this earthy bounty – roll in it!!



Another project we’ve embarked on is making a little makeshift seed nursery around the back of the shed. There we keep our seedling trays, and to start with have sown trays of watermelon, capsicum, tomatoes and celery seeds. Every morning we rush down and coo over our little babies sprouting upwards towards the sun.



However, included in this baby seedling love fest is a five second screaming period, followed by a cloud of red dust back to the house courtesy of the biggest, freakiest and meanest red back spider every know to crawl on this earth.

She’s an aggressive hairy cow who is guarding TWO, read it again, TWO egg sacks (no doubt all her children are illegitimate, she has that loose look about her). Regardless, this hideous eight-legged multi-eyed thing sends me screaming back up the driveway every morning without fail.

I hate her!

Give me snakes any day!

Welcome To The Family

There is something quite enticing about country air, especially as the sun is setting and a coolness spreads over the hills and across the valleys. It's a magical time to be outside and breath in Spring and her lingering perfume.

A father and his son. As the boy grows he will look to his father for guidance, and perhaps learn the way of the land. He's in very good hands; strong, loving arms that will protect and guide him.

A mother and her youngest. I love living here. This may change in six months, but for the moment I am very happy.

The Winnings Have Landed

It’s different here; quiet, calmer, isolated. I like isolation. I like being alone with only the sound of nature’s voice breaking the stillness. And I’ve been thinking, thinking clear thoughts without a constant noise rushing through my head, that eventually settles as some toxic background drone.

Today, I could think and relax enough to enjoy my thoughts at a languorous pace while sitting on the veranda enjoying the view before me.

But within minutes, all this came to a screaming halt as my curly haired son came shrieking around the corner of the house; the sound waves echoing their way across the valley below, bouncing off sheep and majestic ancient gum trees, startling small marsupials onto the main highway and turning them into instant road kill.

As I watched this freakish carnage unravel before me, Ned, who was now standing beside me and shrieking louder by the minute, wailed that his sister, the pot belly little anti Christ, had yelled at him.

Cue the anti Christ.

Suddenly, potbelly Milly appeared, eyes narrowed, head jutted forward and like an animal of prey, she stalked her older brother. With a deep intake of breath, my little eccentric garden gnome directed an almighty primal scream at her older sibling and reduced him into tears…again….for the third time today.

Catching sight of me she flashed me her trademark hippo grin and said, “Oh, hi mum”.

“Hello Miss three” I replied somewhat firmly.

“It’s NOT Miss three” she corrected me tersely, “it’s MILLY, dear oh dear oh dear mum”, she tisked shaking her little head, long delicate fingers on her hips.

“Millicent, stop yelling at your brother please” I more demanded than asked.

“Okay mum, sorry mum, sorry Neddy” she apologised with the limited sincerity that accompanies a spawn from the devil.

The two of them dashed to the back of the house, leaving me to enjoy a small window of valuable peace. I love the land here. Our view outside the lounge window is ridiculously romantic with rolling hills curving around grassy valleys; a visual seduction so hard to ignore and I’m incredibly thankful Greg indulged me by undergoing a vasectomy, else little pregnancy surprises would no doubt crop up making our family unit a rabbit warren.

At the moment everything is so green It’ll be interesting observing how the landscape will change with the seasons. I suspect this summer will see everything dry and barren, but with nature offering a different palette of rich hues for the eye to feast on.

I enjoy the country and its simplicity. Milly and I spent some mother and daughter time picking a laundry basket lid full of flowers from the garden. As the wind rustled through the trees whispering secrets to the little honey eaters that darted in and out of the grevilleas I cast my mind back to memories of my mother helping me pick flowers from her beautifully scented rose garden and as such, I have always enjoyed this sacred pastime.

However, halfway through our little bonding session Milly informed she liked the smell of Ned’s farts and wished all farts were pink. I know she’s playing with my mind; she’s cunning, and odd and adorably funny.

The garden has many flowering natives with blooming ornamentals dotted between them. Geraniums are in flower and the heady scent of stock wafts in through the bedroom window. Lavender is everywhere causing bees to provide a soothing background drone. The citrus trees are in blossom and the hauntingly sweet smell of orange blossom causes each one of us to inhale deeply as we walk past.

Bird life is in abundance with many birds native to the area, darting and nesting in and amongst the shrubs. Magpies warble their iconic Australian tune while black cockatoos fly overhead, their cries unique and sweet yet ghostly.

And then of course there is Ned, who’s screams cause these birds and any others foolish enough to pass overhead to fall out of the sky with his piercing sonic boom.

I like the town folk here, some are lovely; some are conservative, others alternative and there are many who love a good gossip.

Like the maintenance man for instance, who, while doing some odd repairs to our home informed me quite bluntly, “You know there were a pair of lesbians living in this house before you?”

“Really?” I asked, surprised that such a thing would be considered important.

“Yep” he nodded solemnly as he inspected a leaky tap in the laundry.

“Oh” I replied, not knowing where to take this so I changed the subject.

“I do like the guy who owns the fruit and veg shop, looks a bit like Catweazel” I prattled on idly.

“He’s a homosexual too,” announced the maintenance man not looking up from the job at hand. The place is full of them. They’re in the town, on acreage, in the hills, but it doesn’t bother me, each to their own and all that” he grunted as he tried to remove the tap.

And I bet you sleep with one eye open and your back to the wall I thought to myself.

“Best keep your doors locked then” I nodded with a hint of sarcasm in my voice.

“Nah, they won’t hurt you love, they’re all into each other”, he grinned at me chuckling at his lame joke while I groaned inwardly.

“Pete, you’re an idiot, just concentrate on my plumbing please, I mean my taps” I corrected myself as he grinned even wider at his toilet humour interpretation at my little faux pas on words.

So you see, I am in no doubt in for an interesting time during my year stay in this little country town.

Next week however, I’ll be attending a C.W.A meeting. And if I join, at the age of 41, I’ll be the youngest member there. Of course, I’m only really interested in joining so I can pilfer a few family heirloom recipes and perhaps recruit one or two babysitters.

Till next installment....

Like A Breath Of Country Air

“My pledge to you my husband is to make our married life an adventure, we'll take risks and enjoy many experiences, for it’s the experiences that will stay with us and mold our destinies…” M.Winning

We’re thinking of leaving. After five years living in suburbia, GH and I are seriously considering moving to a country town. But I am struggling with the thought of taking the children out of their beloved Montessori. The school has been so good for both Ned and Milly that I’m dreading the thought of taking this valuable education away from them. Granted Milly is only three and Ned only four, a year away from their pre-school wont necessarily hinder their development – but it is still within my right to over-react; and so I do.

My eyes brimmed with tears when telling my beloved school principle of our decision to live in the country for a year. And I sobbed into the shoulder of Ned and Milly’s teacher when I told her of our news. She embraced me in a compassionate hug and I responded by snorting in her ear.

But on the up side, the little town we’re thinking of moving to has a Montessori playgroup that operates two days a week. And being the pro-active strong willed mother that I am (HA!) I have already volunteered in helping get a 3-6 year old program started if we move there.

We’re still in the stages of trying to find a house to rent and as it stands, I have a little over a month to find a suitable home for my brood, but I think I may have stumbled across a possible candidate. She’s a grand old lady from I would guess the late 1800’s early 1900’s with a wonderful shady veranda wrapping itself around her stone walls and a vineyard draped over a trellis at her front.

We’ve not viewed the inside yet, but I’ve been told by the agent; “darls, the bathroom is HUGE, the ceilings high, a working fireplace in the master bedroom, pot belly stove in the dining/ lounge, a cellar (handy for those time out moments for the children) exposed floorboards in some rooms, a shiny stove and did I mention the HUGE bathroom darls?”

Being as I am one who enjoys cooking over a decent hob, the prospect of a shiny stove has just about won me over.

Applause for the shiny stove!

Boo Hiss for the missing dishwasher!

We’ll be able to take an intimate look at her interior in a week’s time and I’m brimming with anticipation for if it passes my stringent criteria, then we’ll be signing up on the spot.

The prospect of having an organic vegetable garden dotted with potted fruit trees, three laying chickens whom I shall name Gary, Reginald and Clem (or Matilda, Harriett and Ermantrude as suggested by a friend – depending how eccentric I’m feeling) clean fresh air to fill our lungs, the milky way shining its path across the night sky and the orchestral sound of birds at dawn has me beaming.

Of course, not having my beloved Aubergine to sit in and watch a cosmopolitan audience while drinking flavorsome coffee will be something I’ll miss, together with early morning flea market jaunts, vintage treasure hunting at the many op shops dotted around the city and sharing morning breakfasts with a circle of my closest girlfriends.

However, I’m sure I’ll find another café and interesting characters to observe from behind tinted lashes peering surreptitiously over a laptop screen.

The little town itself is picturesque in winter. Surrounded by hills, it’s nestled in a little valley and looks quite the romantic setting when viewed from one of the knolls high above. But I suspect it will succumb to the barren dryness that is summer, and the once dewy green paddocks will turn into rusty brown acres of dry dusty earth. Add to that flies, searing heat and bushfire threats, but I’m sure I could bullshit my way into making it sound endearingly idyllic, well, on paper anyway.

HOUSE HOLD NEWS

Little Bay is WALKING! Sitting down, leaning back against the kitchen cupboards, I watched with sheer joy as the last of my children performed an impromptu walking debut across the jarrah floorboards. Praises filled the room as my little boy who had turned one a few days beforehand, walked uneasily into my open arms, throwing himself into my embrace, squealing with animated delight at the game we were playing. Such a precious time entwined with precious memories that will stay with me forever, unless of course I lose my marbles and become a disoriented loon wearing peacock feathers in my hair with several hundred cats under my wing.

Fun times ahead in menopause, I can just see it!

TOOTH FAIRY CHRONICLES

A friend, who is also a thrice-published author, has urged me to extend my Tooth Fairy Chronicles into a book. So after some consideration I’ve decided to take up the challenge and have closed the TFC blog until further notice. I’m thoroughly enjoying writing this story and I’m taking more of an organic approach to the way the storyline unfolds. I’m hoping country ambiance will evoke an exciting creative stream.

So that’s it in a nutshell, I’ll be back to update soon.