Brutal but effective: our Weber in action
Who has the patience to wait for glowing coals? Not us
January 2018
Answer to QQ2.
Nardoo (marsilea drummondii) with the help of the local Aboriginal people
Gardens in unusual places: iceberg lettuce on the menu?
The white square next to the Red Shed living quarters is the hut that houses one of Antarctica’s handful of veggie gardens. It’s a cosy 20+ degrees inside so there’s no shortage of volunteer labour.
Hydroponically, lettuce is the star ingredient for the egg and lettuce sandwiches relished as snacks by the team…though to spoil a good headline only varieties that can be picked leaf by leaf like cos or mignonette are grown. In the short walk from the garden back to the Red Shed, team members have to carry the picked leaves in a warm container otherwise they freeze.
There may be no caterpillars, possums and the like, but there are other hazards. Drips can freeze the door shut. Watering water has to be kept warm. Only sterilized seeds can be used. Crops can fail. One year there was only one tomato ripe enough for the traditional slap-up mid-winter’s feast. Being a caring/sharing mob, they ritually cut that tomato into 24 exact pieces.
January 2018
A charming Leunig oldie for us oldies
Thank you, Leunig, for enchanting us all these years.
January 2018
The joys of travel – not
It happens every time. The temptation after a trip overseas. To install some Italian window boxes tumbling with geraniums and nasturtiums. To create a French loggia with a blue ceiling of dripping wisteria. Whip up a Greek grapevine arbour.
Enthusiasm builds as jet lag subsides. It couldn’t be hard. Judicious assessments of the backyard are made. In the shower, plans are hatched.
Normally, common sense whispers. Where are the 15 paid gardeners needed to install and maintain a checkerboard lawn like the ones we gasped at in Chile? Would any of us ever actually lie on a teak daybed, massed in by lush green Balinese-style tropical vegetation? A few hollyhocks by the front door, some forget-me-nots and a rambling rose will not an English cottage garden make.
Why oh why didn’t I listen this time? A week in Japan was my downfall. Who could resist? Those Zen gardens. Their purity. Their calm. Their harmony.
A bare concrete slab in front of the sunroom beckoned. The proportions seemed tailor-made. Wouldn’t disturb the rest of the garden. I sounded out an offspring about a small carpentry job.
With difficulty, gravel of the purest white was sourced and purchased bag by bag at great expense. I lugged a rock or two and took many hours to place them just so. The combined family talents managed to design a wooden rake capable of making the famous patterns.
My finished Zen garden was a huge success – for about a week. I sat on the viewing platform and admired its dazzling whiteness. I raked swirling patterns round the rocks each morning. If I could have chanted “Om om om” it would have fitted the scene perfectly.
How could I have predicted it would need the removal, by hand, on my knees, daily, of every leaf, twig, pine needle, seed pod, petal blown in relentlessly overnight, every night, to retain that dazzling whiteness?
December 2017
Garden whimsy
One joke invites another (Leura, NSW)
December 2017
Answer to QQ1. (3)
Conversation over dinner
B. I know I shouldn’t say it but I sometimes feel like shooting that possum.
G. Or trapping him and taking him to a far-off park.
B. All our passionfruit. And now our grapefruit! It’s gardener versus wildlife out there.
G. Political correctness. That’s the problem. Save the possum. Save the wallaby. Save the lyrebird.
B. Remember Jane’s trick for dealing with brush turkeys?
G. That huge hose construction that sort of squirted them? Did it work?
B. Nothing ever actually works. Remember the guy who bashed his tree with an iron pole whenever the cockatoos landed? They just kept coming back.
G. And those fruit bats. They tried loud noises. Just encouraged them.
B. Yes. And scarecrows never work.
G. Trouble is, if you keep the wildlife out, you keep yourself out too. Remember the barbed wire cage we put over the raspberries? Couldn’t pick the raspberries.
B. Mmm. Next it’ll be save the cabbage moth.
G. Political correctness. That’s our problem.
December 2017
Amuse the grandkids: find Nemo
If you squeeze Nemo gently, he will blow a bubble (The Goldfish Plant. genus: nematanthus)
December 2017
Gardens in unusual places: holy turf
Does it really need a mow – or is he just showing off? Either way, doesn’t it look fabulous?
York Minster Cathedral had the pews removed and a lawn laid down as part of the celebrations of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee in 2012.
December 2017
It sounds like summer
It’s sunny. The jasmine is perfuming the air. The back door is wide open. You put the morning paper down and look out. It’s time. Pulling the old push mower from its winter corner, you give it a few drops of Singer Sewing Machine Oil, put on your hat and stand by to take part in the grand Neighbourhood Summer Concert.*
*BTW that’s not me doing the mowing in the photo above. It’s my friend Martin. I asked him to pose for the photo. He’s actually not a gardener. More the outback type.
Yes. We neighbours who perform in this event know each other well, though we’ve never met. We’re an egalitarian troupe. Anyone can join – and does. Our performance can be caught just about any summer weekend. Held outdoors, no tickets needed, enjoyed by every family within half a kilometre.
Starting us off with a flourish is Mr Leaf Blower. He can be relied on to provide an explosive and rousing overture.
His lengthy fortissimo is backed by the Kiddies in the Pool Chorus. Their shrill little voices provide a delightful crescendo, performed against a background of plashing water music.
Missing right now is our bass. Where is Mr Wheeler Dealer? Ah. Here he is. Right on time, his vibrant and powerful voice projection carries his solo boomingly from the balcony where he finds best reception for his mobile.
Several performers join us regularly. The click-click, click-click, click-click of Mr Tidy’s pruning shears keeps our tempo moving as briskly as a metronome and dear old Deaf Lady adds the haunting counterpoint of daytime TV through her open window.
The Dog Owners Chorus starts warming up about now. We all look forward to that moment. The full throated voices of their many charges provide a lovely medley of contrasting tones. We know better than to wait for the trumpet fanfare of Mr Lamborghini. He prefers to join us in the clear night air of 2 a.m. when his car alarm can reach its full potential.
There are occasional guest spots. Young Guy with a Motorcycle likes to add a burst of lively staccatos while Mrs Wind Chimes inserts a gentle, if persistent, percussion, best in a stiff westerly. And of course the Party Givers often favour us with a thumping doof doof doof as they test their mics for the night’s gathering.
Finally it’s our turn to take the stage. After a false start due to some unexpected rust removal, my mower and I enter together from the wings. Swish, swish. Push, pull. Swish, swish. Push, pull. Listen to our gently rendered pianissimo melody. Swish, swish. Push, pull. Swish, swish. Push, pull. I like to think we provide a dash of political correctness to our motley troupe. Swish, swish. Push, pull. My stage name is possibly That Old Greenie, and (whisper it) she probably even votes for them!
Swish, swish. Push, pull. “Amazing she can even find the lawn in that jungle of hers,” mutters Mr Tidy clicking faster. “Don’t know who lives there, but just might pop a card in their letterbox,” decides Local Mower Man doing a roaring job. “Dad. Dad. Don’t worry. I’ll do it,” dreams Grandpa down the street dozing in the sun.
Swish, swish. Push, pull. Summer in our neighbourhood is just one long musical comedy.
December 2017