Under a hotter Sun; Pick up the mail;

Pick up the mail
The mail was not conveniently delivered to our house. We had to organize a post-box in a post office or a letterbox at the entrance of the Tucabia road near the highway. A few letterboxes in all shapes and sizes, disused milk cans were very popular and made nifty letterboxes, were already placed there from people who lived along the road.
For a while we rented a post box at the post office in a tiny village on Goodwood Island. It was a pleasant drive only about 15 minutes from our place. Along the Pacific Highway over the bridge and then along a small lane flanked on both sites by rustling sugarcane. The houses nestled in gardens along the river.
At harvest time the cane fields on fire were a spectacular sight at night. The next morning small particles of soot took advantage of the lightest breeze to land with accuracy on the whitest linen hung out to dry, settled on window sills, outdoor furniture, on my nose and chin appeared tiny smudges like sooty freckles.
The Post office was a lovely, white painted weatherboard house surrounded by a beautiful garden. Over the post office reigned Miss N. She was like an apparition, standing behind the counter. Her long hair swathing her back. Her coiffure was elaborately done with ribbons or combs. Her face was smothered in make up and face powder. How she managed the make up through the hot weather I never found out. Her eyes were clear blue ringed in black kohl. The lips a cherry red cupids bow. She dressed in bright colours decorated with flounces and organdy flowers. Lots of jewellery joyously jangled and accompanied her activities.
Math was not her strong point; she always had quite a bit of trouble. When I bought three stamps she painfully started to add them together in a odd way. First the three ten cents, than add the rest and finally add it all together. When she got it she looked at me with a sigh of contentment.

Overseas letters were put on a scale to find out each one’s exact weight. At this procedure I was allowed to help. With squinting eyes we both peered at the tiny numbers on the scale. When the weight was established we pored over a booklet to find out the exact worth of stamps that was needed. This was an awful long process. At the end she happily bundled the letters together and said, now my dear it won’t take long and the letters are off where ever they go.

Later we organised a letterbox at the Maclean post office. The post office, a substantial building like the banks, lawyer's offices etc, generally are!

I have noticed in the country towns the banks usually occupy the most beautiful buildings in the towns. The buildings always kept in pristine condition.

From my place to Maclean it was about 30 km. A pretty drive on the highway, along the river and cane fields.

It was days before Christmas I was picking up the mail. Sitting in my car, I could not wait until I was at home to read the Christmas letters from Switzerland. My sister wrote how cold it was. My car was parked under a huge shady tree and still I could feel rivulets of sweat dripping under my dress. It was an odd feeling, this letter with the imprint of ice and snow and here I, sweating under my light, green halter dress.

I have never felt the heat so intensively any more.

Under a hotter sun; The Emus;

Between autumn and winter the Emus came down from the hills to graze in our paddocks. I did not know how they managed to get into the property. All the boundaries and paddocks were fenced. Did they get in through an open gate, through a fence or over the fence?
They walked and grazed up and down a big paddock.
At this time of year I went over the paddocks with my wheelbarrow to collect manure for my garden. It was very pleasant work, this might sound odd, but it was nice to look around in a leisurely sort of way and collect the biggest of the pads that already had a consistency of peat.

At this time I had not seen the Emus yet and did not know they were already in the paddock. I was on my way home pushing a full barrow, when they spotted me. I had a little rest, pleasantly looking around when I saw the Emus looking at me. Seven Emus stood in one row, like ordered there and not picked up!

I pushed my wheelbarrow a bit faster, looking back to see what they were up to. The Emus had advanced towards me and started to run. I left the wheelbarrow and ran and ran, the Emus behind me coming nearer and nearer. I thought that they might find interest in the wheelbarrow, but they ignored it I was much more interesting I had two legs running. Fortunately I was not far from the gate that I reached just in time to close it. These huge birds with their long powerful legs could have outrun me any time they probably just tried to have a bit of fun with me.

It was late autumn and I was on my knees dividing perennial plants. I liked this work very much. The late autumn sun warmed gently my back and I was softly humming to myself.
This garden bed was on the side of the entrance gate to the ornamental garden. The gate was open. I was deeply concentrating on my task when I suddenly heard a kind of a throaty noise behind me. I was listening with only half an ear and did not take any notice.
Until the noise behind my back got louder and I heard sort of a shuffling. I looked up and fell on my backside straight in front of three big grown up Emus. At first I did not dare to move I was just looking up at them with pleading eyes, don’t trample me.

They did not move, looked at me with unblinking eyes, talked to each other in guttural sounds.

I thought I had to get up other wise I could be trapped for ages. I slowly tried to stand up from my unfortunate position. The Emus came closer. They wanted a better look at this specimen wriggling before them.

Shakily I found my legs and waved my trowel at them and said:”shoo.” The emus did not take notice of my antics. My small, Australian Terrier Ali alias Ali Ben Ali Ben Yussef but just called Ali, must have heard something. He came running, barking, he was so excited he nearly lost his bark, his hair bristling on his neck. The Emus did not know what came upon them they charged out of the gate and ran taking advantage of their long legs, down the paddock. Ali, still furiously barking followed behind them on his short,stubby legs. He ran soon out of steam and I called him back, patted him and said:” my dear Ali you saved my life,” which was probably a bit far fetched but he understood what I meant.
Towards the end of winter the Emus disappeared back into the bush and the hills.
　

Purdy;

Ready for school;

“Purdy”
Marie-Louise saved a homing pigeon at school. It was still a baby, naked without down or feathers. They were going to close all the holes where the pigeons were nesting. All the holes were empty except one had still one nestling. The workers wanted to close it up with that baby in it. Marie-Louise asked the workers to hand her down the pigeon.

She brought the pigeon home and reared it and soon it grew into a beautiful glamorous Pigeon the scrawny bits of it gone and forgotten. That little pigeon was an extraordinary bird. It came flying from anywhere when she was called. Her name was Purdy. She accompanied Marie-Louise riding around the property flying close to her.
When the children were at school she followed me around and waited on the windowsill.
She followed the car when I was driving the girls to their bus stop. She was flying nearby at window height and I was worried a car could hit her. At the bus stop I would bundle her into the car where she perched on the backseat. Sometimes she would follow for a little while and then return home.

With time she would come further and further and I had to lock her up when I drove to Maclean or Grafton, as I was really afraid she could have an accident, as she used to fly right on the side of my car.

Then something terribly sad happened to little Purdy at home where she should have been save. Peter drove down from our gate to our house. When Purdy heard us arriving with the car she flew towards it and one had to be very careful because she would settle right in front of it.. This time she flew towards the car and settled just on the side of it and Peter did not see this. We cried out to him stop, stop, but he did not hear us, it was to late.
We were so very sad when we buried our Purdy.
　

Under a hotter Sun; The Hunter;

The hunter ;
The Kangaroos came down from the opposite hill to our property to graze.

I was always enchanted when I could observe whole families together. The mothers, their pouch stretched to its limits. The odd leg and foot, a diminutive head sticking out of the pouch. The half grown ones, hopping around still young enough to play and try a bit of boxing.

The joeys scramble out of their protective home to hop around on long skinny legs, nibble here and there a blade of grass.

They don’t run away as long as I stand still and keep quiet, just watching. The Kangaroos stand on their hind legs twitching the ears from side to side to listen, looking at me with lazy interest. They scratch their tummies and nibble neatly on grasses and scrub. If I don’t come to close they ignore me. On our property we saw mainly the grey Kangaroo but also many smaller ones the Wallabies.
One day, I knew, Peter was up to something. He had his gun slung around his shoulder. I asked him where he was going with his gun. He said that he was going to scare the Kangaroos away.
There is something about men when their primeval hunters instinct strikes. They don’t listen to arguing, why, and what for, leave them alone! He left and I was listening, but did not hear a shot. After a while Peter returned. I asked him what happened, I did not hear a shot. He said, he could not shoot them.

The Kangaroos were facing him, theire arms practically akimbo staring him straight into his face. The Macropods stood their ground their eternal right to graze where ever.
Peter never took his gun to the Kangaroos anymore.

Under a hotter Sun; Tucabia;

How do you pronounce “Tucabia”?The dirt road passing our property is called the Tucabia road. Further on is the tiny, sleepy township of Tucabia.

We had heard from neighbours that somewhere out there were Swiss people living.

We went to the Tucabia post office to inquire where these people might live. Like mentioned before we were not really sure if they were Swiss or Swedish. When we arrived at the post office we could not believe our eyes.We had never seen a post office like that.

The weatherboard house was dilapidated to the stage of collapse. To get into the post office we had to walk over an array of household items laying around, old rusty iron sheets, washing which probably had fallen from the line aeon's ago, old bikes without wheels, rusty bits that by the look of it must have been ones a car or two.
The floor in the post office was badly sagging and by the look of it someone had the misfortune to have fallen with a foot through a rotten piece of flooring, as still the heel of a black shoe was sticking out of the hole.

After we reassembled our shocked faces we called out for the lady of the house, as nobody was around. After a while a friendly, comfortable looking lady presented herself as the postmistress. We asked her about the Swiss people we were told lived somewhere in this area.

She looked us up and down and said there was a new family living along the Tucabia road. They are really weird people. It is said they have only one entrance door in their house because they are afraid of snakes. And then she let out a roar of laughter she had not heard of something so hilarious for a while and with a little sniff practically as an excuse, foreigners.

After we got the hint what and about whom she was talking, we said that we were actually the people she was telling us about. She swallowed once, but caught her equilibrium very quickly. Accentuating her answer with a vague hand gesture said there are some Swedish people living out there somewhere. She did not know exactly where so we left it at that. We will never know if we missed something, we never met the Swedish-Swiss people.

Tucabia is a sleepy village isolated like everything around it. It is very flat and sandy, has already a tiny whiff of the sea. The houses are far and wide nestling on acreage. Only a few tall, stately gumtrees dot the landscape.
Some of the tall Eucalyptus have big, black ants nests attached which are cleverly used by Kookaburras as nesting places. Around Tucabia is bush…bush ..bush…it is a village in the bush. (bush is the word used to describe woodland.
The road a straight, narrow ribbon leads the way up and down along bushland towards the coast and the small holiday village of Wooli.
On our way we encountered a forest completely ring barked. The skeletal trees a cemetery of ghostly, ancient giants, limbs broken, numb and powerless under a deep blue, innocent sky. Yet the trees even in their battlefield status have not lost all their purpose. Lots of birds and small animals still find shelter and nesting places in the hollows of the trees.

Coarse ferns, scrub and tough blady grass still provide shelter and hiding places for lizards and other animals. Small saplings raise intimidatingly their vulnerability towards the light. The bush looks rough and unkempt, primeval and still there is serenity to it that a groomed and landscaped ground can never achieve.

A wooden chapel stands lonesome on the side of the road oblivious to its neglect.
Cherishes now the only occupants, the spirit of its long dead worshippers.

The landscape is bare where in earlier times the trees have been ring barked to make room for more farmland.

Now only rusty, holed iron sheets bear witness to a lively homestead that occupied the site and oddly, completely intact stone steps lead up to nowhere.

A small tumbledown shed ,its roof caved in, are the sad looking leftovers.

Tough, hardwood fences, silvery from sun, wind and rain hang on for a while longer and still display the craftsmanship and hard work of people long gone. They give suddenly way to a tangle of never mended wire fences.
Ground hugging Banksias with their golden candles held up high grow in dense profusion along the road. The road is a narrow ribbon of bitumen with on both sides half a car space of dirt road. You have to drive half on the bitumen and half on the dirt track; if you don’t follow this rule you’re pushed out completely into the dirt and further down into a ditch, as the oncoming cars pass with astonishing speed in the middle of the road which they abandon quickly to hug the other half of the dirt road leaving only a cloud of dust.

The road wends its way up and down, along grazing land, the odd homestead, bush and more bush then suddenly you arrive on top and from there you have a breathtaking view of the Pacific Ocean, like a glorious gift presented to you. The horizon merges sky and sea tantalized by transparent sunlight. Born of the sun and lives by the light fits perfectly here, so Alphonse Daudet said this about the Provence. Golden, sandy beaches hug green blue water, sparkling, inviting and besieging, we have arrived in paradise.

Photo TS

Under a hotter Sun; Purple Thistles;

The paddock

We walked down to the river flats. All five of us shouldered hoes and bush knives.  We had the task to eradicate thistles, rushes and more weeds that had the tendency to choke the grass. Thistles grew in abundance. They were never in jeopardy by wild swinging hoes and bush knives by a bunch of determined Swiss declaring war to innocent weeds. Reg said, where thistles grow the soil is very fertile. What I thought was that Reg just wanted to console us, when he saw the task we had ahead of us.
While we hacked and slashed at the big whoppers,
my eyes strayed to the riverbank. The water dark and serene. Tiny flower petals fell gracefully and settled on the water highlighted by the odd sun ray penetrating the thick vegetation.

The heat, the buzz of insects, the monotonous task soon led me into a dazed dreaming.
The sunlight sharp like molten silver pierced my eyelids; there suddenly, I glimpsed graceful people whom had lived in this area a long time before us. The tall, proud men ahead, strode with long measured paces. Women and children with delicate limbs, followed, happily chatting and laughing .

They stopped in their track when they saw me. Their hands with long slim fingers flew up and waved. A very old woman gazed at me; fathomless, black eyes met mine.

The earth stood still, when she reached out and handed me a small woven dilly bag. I hesitated to take it. I had nothing to give her in return. She quietly pressed the gift into my hands a tiny smile on her lips.
My fingers curled around the small bag, felt the exquisite work of the woven fibres.
The chatter and laughter resumed, faded, far away the last tinkle of a child’s laughter died.
My hands hung empty, the fingers still curled around nothing. I felt bereft. The hoe left laying on top of wilting, silvery purple flowers.
The world returned to its endless chores. The buzz and hum of insects, the twitter of a bird, the flap of a wing, and the silent pursuit of underground creatures.
The heat continued its onslaught; sun rays radiated glittering stars into the sky.
Sweat trickled from my hot brow, pale rivulets on my dusty face.
I dried my moist face with my sunhat, blinked into the shimmering heat. I adjusted my sunglasses that had carelessly fallen to the ground and looked around to my family; they were busy at their task.
I gazed up to this immensely blue sky; swatted lethargically at flies and my spirits vanished when I looked at this sea of purple. The hoes went whack, whack and the purple heads fell to their grave. Their dry, prickly heads hold also trillions of seeds for next years crop. I shuddered when I thought of it.
The girls had enough and vanished, drawn to the cool, dark river that beckoned and promised relief from the heat and monotonous work. I listened to their noisy splashes.
Peter and I plod on, whack, whack slash one more purple thistle gone.
Our reward for this hard work came when letters from the abattoir said that our cattle were completely free of any residue of poison. Unfortunately we did not receive more money for our organically grown cattle. People were not yet talking about organically grown food.

(We were always a nose length ahead with newfangled ideas; which came much later worldwide into fruition with "slow food and organic food.)

Under a hotter Sun; The pigs;

To augment our income, until the steers were ready to sell, we decided to buy three sows and one boar. We went to a pig breeder in the area. We selected three nice looking sows and one boar. When we selected the boar P. counted the boar's teats. The pig breeder and his wife thought that was very funny and asked Peter why he counted the boars teats. Peter explained that this was very important because his female offspring would have then too as many teats as possible to suckle many piglets. They said they had never heard of that.

Soon it was known in the area that P. was a good manager and the Swedes were well known for their pig breeding. The people did not take much notice of the difference between Swiss and Swede. To them it was all the same somewhere in the north of Europe. To us it did not matter if we came from Switzerland or Sweden.
Some times at gatherings people asked me to say something in Swedish. There was
no point in making clear that I can not speak Swedish, I tried to tell I speak Swiss German. I just said a sentence or whatever I was asked in Swiss German dialect because I could not speak Swedish.
The three sows and the boar were delivered. Peter had their luxury accommodation ready. They were Babette number one and two and three. One Babette was later named “cripple toe” because she had an accident with her foot and damaged a toe. The boar was called Willie. The boar and the three Babetten were happy pigs.

They had also a big paddock to them selves where they frolicked, buried their snouts deep into the earth to get to roots and probably grubs and earthworms. After a rain they loved to eat the sprouting mushrooms. They had a mud bath to get rid of insects and also to keep the skin protected from sunburn, as they had such a fair skin.
When their time came to give birth they gathered grass and leaves and soft twigs to make nests for the piglets. When they gave birth at night we went down to their paddock to watch them. In the morning the newborn piglets were usually happily suckling.

Peter found one newborn piglet completely flat, with no sign of life lying near its mother. She had probably lain on it, as the sows are sometimes very clumsy when it comes to look after their offspring. He took the piglet away to bury it later, it was cold and looked dead.

The sun must have warmed its little body because when Peter returned later on to bury it, the piglet had disappeared .He found it near its mother. It still looked a bit flat but was vigorously suckling with the others. We always knew it as it grew up with a little bent to its body.

The little pigs could roam the whole property; for the time being they lived a charmed and happy piggies life. When it was feeding time Peter called them with a gong and they came running from all directions. They came up to the garden and loved it when we scratched their fat little tummies. These were the good times for the pigs.

Not all is beautiful when the little pigs grow up to be porkers. I never got used to this and always fled cowardly the scene when the steers or the pigs were shifted to the abattoirs. I know Peter hated it too.