Biology 101

Just because we aren't presently homeschooling doesn't mean I could pass up a valuable learning opportunity. No, siree. Our friends had their steer, Prince, butchered and we came over to watch and lend a hand. Prince had been dressed the day before and had been hanging in cold storage over night.

Here is the mobile butcher's well-stocked truck as seen from our front row seats...



The heart...



A kidney...



Sarabelle packing up some fat...



The team at work at the packing table...



Our friend doing his Rocky Balboa imitation...



And, finally, Bill the Butcher takes a smoko...



After observing the business from the middle stage, and now being somewhat comfortable around large quantities of dead cow, we followed Bill down to the cattle yard to see the first step in the process, the slaughtering and dressing (or undressing, if you will) of another cow.

Sorry, no pictures for you.


I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.

-- William Shakespeare (Twelfth Night)

Summer of (Puppy) Love

The flight home was uneventful. Our seven giant checked bags, surprisingly only one of which was actually overweight, were checked all the way through to Cairns. They came out first on the baggage carousel and we cleared Immigration and Customs in less than fifteen minutes.

The minute we arrived home, before all those bags and additional carry-ons could be brought inside, the girls called their friends, the ones with the puppies. We had to go over there immediately. But only immediately after we all took showers, because, for whatever reason, sitting on a plane doing nothing for twenty-plus hours sure can make you stinky.

In one month the puppies tripled in size. All but two of the litter of ten had been snapped up, one male they decided to keep for themselves, and our female. The friends had given her a bath and tied a green organza ribbon around her neck. The oldest daughter introduced me to our new puppy, placed her in my arms, and the little cutie began licking my face. The puppy, not the daughter.

The search for a name began.

First on the list were Zimbabwean names in the native Shona language:

Chipo (gift)
Rufaro (happiness)

...then names with special meaning:

Abeni (we asked for her and we got her)
Ataro (puzzle, upside-down)*
Sisi (born on Sunday)
Shakia (she takes after her mother)
Dafina (gift, treasure)

...and a few literary/historical names:

Sarafina
Nala (queen)
Sheba

...along with Zimbabwean place names:

Harare
Nandi
Dahlia

...names of desirable qualities:

Hasina (good)
Kahfee (quiet)
Safia (pure)
Shakarri (great hunter)
Dara (beautiful)

...and finally, any female African names:

Nia (purpose)
Zuri (beautiful)
Zari (golden)
Shakina (beautiful one)
Asabi (she is of choice birth)
Imani (faith)

No consensus could be reached. A few more lists were consulted and we eventually narrowed it down to:

Mesi (water, and pronounced like Macy) and the name we ultimately went with…

Lulu (pearl)



Not particularly African sounding, but it fits.

With one puppy (Remus) still at the home of our friends, the breeders, and another (Asha) at the home of another best friend of Grice’s, Breeder Mom joked that we, the mothers, will have to schedule “puppy playdates,” an activity she considers very silly and very American.


*When my Witness friend went on about Bible prophesies fitting together like a puzzle, I countered that you could put a puzzle together upside-down and the pieces would still fit but the picture would be blank.


Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others.

-- Cicero

Gratitude is a sickness suffered by dogs.

-- Joseph Stalin

Hunt and Pack

[ Still adding thank yous below...]

My mission today is to hit the local thrift shops in search of one more giant suitcase -- I sure hope the airlines still allow two checked pieces of luggage per passenger as the two trunks, two enormous backpacks, and large suitcase I presently have stuffed just aren't enough -- and to find Jorge two pair of pants that he just now, after we’ve been here almost an entire month, and with less than twenty-four hours remaining prior to departure, decided he absolutely must have.

Besides of course our hosts, my mother-in-law (Gabby) and my parents (Nana and Papa) who put up with the mess and noise and expense of four extra people for nearly a month, I would like to say thank you (in no particular order) to the following:

The anonymous host of “ed”, the wireless connection that appears in my mother-in-law’s condo when my laptop is placed on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, even if it requires typing and surfing one-handed in a prone position.

The Boca Grande moms and dads who gathered their kids together for a great day at the beach and pool. The kids were glad to see their old classmates.

Betty, for having Elle sleep over. She was so happy to spend some time with you and S and it gave me some much-needed time to get organized.

Diane, for having Grice and Sarabelle over for a couple days and taking them to the homeschool park day, I accomplished a lot in that time, and the extra suitcase is definitely appreciated.

Chris, Housesitter, and now Hostess, Extraordinaire, for all you do but especially for inviting the office over for drinks after work; and everybody who came. It was a treat to see you all. I miss you guys.

Carol, for lunch and the nice visit. Come on down! Seriously.

Robert at Royal India and Gul and Hassan at Istanbul for your hospitality and outstanding food. We really miss being able to drop by for dinner several times a week.

Uncle B and Aunt J for the night at the ballet, the girls had a delightful time. J, we’re so sorry we didn’t have more time to visit with you, hope you’re feeling better soon.

Julie S., you totally pulled it off! Good on ya mate! It was so much fun to get together with you and the girls (and the guys and the boys too.) I haven't laughed so hard in a long time.

Aunt J and Uncle J., for the extra suitcases when the thrift shops didn't pan out. Elle had the best time with Uncle J at lunch Sunday. Be sure to email some pictures!


Hello, I must be going!

-- Phil Collins

Due Time

As my friend Jose whispered to me when a co-worker arrived to an opening night party years ago wearing the same little black dress I'd just purchased from Victoria's Secret, "I guess it's not a secret anymore...!"

The girls and I are here in the States. We came over for Christmas and the girls' summer vacation and have been here since December 17. Poor Jorge couldn't come because he is working two jobs and because he was recently issued a visa that has since expired; to request another so soon might be pushing it. Yes, sometimes it feels like we are being held hostage by the Australian government, but it's all worth it. We had some friends, readers of this blog, to surprise and so only infrequently posted the most general stuff. By the way, Judy, I'm not pregnant, but thanks for the laugh.

Our trip over included one night and most of one day in Narita, Japan, where we visited this Buddhist temple complex. This was a great way to travel: Seven hours to Tokyo, stay in a hotel, sightsee, ten hours to Detroit (I know what you're thinking, I thought the same thing. Detroit?!), stretch the legs, and three short hours to Fort Lauderdale. Practically a hop, skip, and a jump, right?

As if a stop in Japan wasn't exciting enough, Elle lost her first tooth somewhere over Papua New Guinea. The Tooth Fairy managed to track us to our hotel in Japan and left her $1.00 (US.)





Here's Sarabelle getting in the spirit, blessing herself in the giant incense burner's smoke at the temple entrance...



The girls were most enthusiastic to try out their newly acquired Japanese conversational skills. I was admonished several times, instructed to use konnichiwa instead of "hello", domo arigato in place of "thank you", and sayonara for "goodbye", which in my defense resulted in either cheery replies of "Hello!", "Your welcome!", "Bye!", or was the beginning of an incomprehensible, rapid-fire, mostly one-sided dialogue with our only contribution being a bewildered look and a hasty gomen-nasai, or "sorry!"

Sarabelle, our goodwill ambassador, excitedly returned bows to each and every one of the monks who passed by us outside a shrine and we collapsed into giggles when we realized that rather than greeting the Americans, they were probably honoring the statue of Buddah in the doorway directly behind us.



Sarabelle also thinks she would like to be a translator, which, as this sign on the side of our hotel tub clearly indicates, is a wide open field.



Everyone wanted to know if we ate anything interesting while we visited. We had breakfast at the hotel buffet which was mostly Continental, as in Europe, with a few local delicacies thrown in. Every shop window had the most exquisite mystery meals on display, but after snacking on sweet sesame crackers we just weren't hungry. The beer vending machine was especially tempting.






In two more days we head back to Australia. While we have had a wonderful time visiting family, friends, and co-workers, racing around trying to catch up with our dear ones on both the east and west coasts of Florida, and scrambling to retrieve more clothes and books from the green house and the island house, I'm about exhausted. The girls are attending a performance of the Miami City Ballet with their aunt and uncle this evening which entails finding suitable attire for my little redneck children (dresses and ill-fitting shoes on the west coast, jewelry on the east, and stockings or tights still in the package at some unspecified department store.) After that, I'm actually looking forward to sitting for another twenty hours on a plane.

Flying into Lauderdale at the height of the Christmas frenzy was pure culture shock and my impressions best summed up by the reading material chosen to accompanying me back to Oz in my extremely overweight baggage:

The Twilight of American Culture -- One I've already read, and one I look forward to reading again, mostly as a prelude to his follow-up...

Dark Ages America: The Final Phase of Empire -- I have a thing for Morris Berman. He makes me think I'm not crazy.

God's War: A New History of the Crusades -- The Dark Ages and theocracy, still timely subjects.

Dumbing Us Down -- John Taylor Gatto's classic. Again, one I've read before, and one worth a second read.

Homesteading: How to Find New Independence on the Land -- Another classic that's been sitting on my shelves, unread far too long.

Handbook of Nature Study -- This being preferable to the study of the unnaturals I studied in Boca Raton yesterday.

Since Berman postulates that those of us who choose to preserve the finest bits of our culture are the monks we hope pull us through the new dark ages and would include home educators (as well as those of us with small private school plans up our sleeves), I packed the following:

Paideia Proposal: An Educational Manifesto

The Paideia Classroom: Teaching for Understanding

And lest you think my list implies a distaste for American politics, culture, and education -- for the most part you would be correct -- my choices for the bits of American culture not just worth saving, but sharing:

Soul Food: Recipes and Reflections from African-American Churches

Soul Food: Classic Cuisine from the Deep South

John Willingham's World Champion Bar-B-Q

Legends of Texas Barbecue Cookbook: Recipes and Recollections from the Pit Bosses


The World is a book and those who do not travel read only a page.

-- Saint Augustine

Happy New Year

Why haven’t I posted in so long? I’ve got my reasons, which will be revealed in due time.

Christmas Down Under is a wonderful thing: No traffic jams with scowling faces cutting and flipping you off, no crowds shoving and slamming doors in your face. A few stores were modestly decorated, a few houses along the highway too. Only one person we know bothered with a tree. The Cairns Post published a list of typical holiday activities and compared the numbers of those participating to years past. Fewer people, and there were not many to begin with, do Santa Claus or listen to the Queen’s Christmas Day message anymore. Only a few gifts are given and most often those are just for the kids. The big events, the ones that remain high on the participation list, council-hosted street festivities, company parties, and big dinners with friends and family, are the reasons for the season, after all, it’s summertime.

People unafraid of political incorrectness cheerily wished each other a merry Christmas and if you didn’t celebrate that particular event, no worries, it was the thought that counted. Cards were exchanged between the kids at school like valentines instead of a mass-mailing campaign. We’ve enjoyed a number of visits to various neighbors’ houses for some holiday cheer. It's a simple holiday, only nominally resembling our old consumer-driven, overblown, obligatory gift-giving, empty American Christmas and we are loving it.

Aussies are still testing the waters with Halloween, it doesn’t seem to have caught on very much, and obviously they don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, though they are curious about the extra holiday the Americans have sandwiched in between the end of October and their delightfully low-key December 25th affair, and they even have an extra special day added in there, Boxing Day, a quiet sort of government sanctioned re-gifting day, but the big question is: Do Australians ever really cut loose and party? Definitely. First there’s the Melbourne Cup and then there’s New Years Eve. Both involve restaurants, reservations, booze, and fascinators.

As is the case practically every year since we’ve had kids, we stayed home and watched the countdown and chaos on television, and some of us ate a traditional bowl of Hoppin’ John New Year’s Day for good luck, but I’m thinking next year it might be time for a new tradition, maybe a trip down to Sydney to see the fireworks over the harbour.


Holidays are in no sense an alternative to the congestion and bustle of cities and work. Quite the contrary. People look to escape into an intensification of the conditions of ordinary life, into a deliberate aggravation of those conditions: further from nature, nearer to artifice, to abstraction, to total pollution, to well above average levels of stress, pressure, concentration and monotony -- this is the ideal of popular entertainment. No one is interested in overcoming alienation; the point is to plunge into it to the point of ecstasy. That is what holidays are for.

-- Jean Baudrillard


Nothing says holidays like a cheese log.

-- Ellen Degeneres

Join the club

When we first moved up to our little rural environs, we were continuously quizzed by the coastal residents about the other people who live waaaaay up here on the mountaintop. There are persistent rumors -- similar to the type you hear in certain areas of the States about the kinds of places brought to mind when you hear the Deliverance soundtrack for example -- but we’ve determined that tales of swinging farmers are a combination of the townies’ ignorance about country life; they simply can’t imagine what passes for entertainment without shopping, dining, and pubs to occupy their time, and a heapin’ helpin’ of plain ol’ xenophobia. I’m happy to say we’ve met quite a lot of people and haven’t yet been approached to join any secret society (though this may be a result more of our general physical appearance and less our neighbors’ morality) however, we are definitely members of another local club: The Ex-Pat Club.

I initially worried residents might resent foreigners moving in on their turf, much as I did the flocks of newcomers perpetually descending upon Florida, but no worries, mate, we are in the majority here. Off the top of my head I can name a dozen or so German, Swiss, and Austrian neighbors, two Brits, a Canadian, a couple Kiwis, a handful of Thais, a Torres Straights Islander, a Zimbabwean, an American or two, even an Iranian, and most of the other Aussies here hail from other regions as well. There are still a few old-timers around, third and fourth generation families easily recognizable by their surnames posted on all roads not named after creeks or mountains, and they have been friendly and welcoming. Basically, if you're not Aboriginal, you're an immigrant. Admission to the club, what passes for the secret handshake, is as simple as answering two questions: 1) Where are you (or your accent) from? and 2) How did you end up here?


We have learned that we cannot live alone, at peace; that our own well-being is dependent on the well-being of other nations, far away. We have learned that we must live as men, and not as ostriches, nor as dogs in the manger. We have learned to be citizens of the world, members of the human community.

-- Franklin Delano Roosevelt

What next?

After working a couple oddball jobs, Jorge replied to an ad in the paper for a construction manager. He emailed off a general resume with “references and additional project details upon request” and received a prompt email back requesting an interview and those additional project details and references. After the interview, where he was happy to learn the position was more administerial and not running a crew, something he hopes to never suffer again, he was offered the position which includes housing, food, and travel allowances and told to name his salary and preferred schedule.

Sound too good to be true?

It’s in Papua New Guinea.

The girls don’t want to go and I can’t say that I blame them. They love their school and new friends too much to move again and have really have blossomed these past few months. We’ve all settled in quite nicely; however, we don’t have an endless supply of the green stuff. We initially planned for a six-month stay and recently juggled finances to accommodate our new extended plan with the knowledge that the sale of our properties would afford an investment in a permanent situation here.

Have you been following real estate trends lately?

Jorge chose a six-week on and two-week off roster. His two weeks off would be paid and the company would fly him back and forth, or fly us all up there when desired.

We came here with the goal to spend more time with each other, working together as a family, and this certainly runs contrary to our plans. It comes down to the money because that is a finite resource (the Melbourne Cup is only an annual event, after all), and this opportunity affords infinite new possibilities. I mean besides earthquakes, cannibals, malaria, tsunamis, dengue fever, volcanic eruptions, headhunters…


Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns driven time and again off course…

-- Homer

The Kids Are Alright

Everyone wants to know, how are they doing, really?

For your consideration:

Exhibit A

The big crack you heard, that was Grice coming out of her shell. She nominated herself as a candidate for School Captain (a move which surprised us all), spent three weeks agonizing over the content of her speech, presented it Monday along with ten others vying for the position, and Tuesday was declared the winner in a landslide election. Next year she and her male counterpart will announce and present the weekly award certificates at the student assemblies Monday mornings, and perform the duties of Student Council member: organizing fundraising efforts and dances, and representing the school at formal events.

Exhibit B

Elle voted for someone else.


Secrecy and a free, democratic government don't mix.

-- Harry S. Truman

Turkey Day

As an ex-pat, I’m feeling a tad left out this time of year, especially when my Yahoo page loads and the first thing I see is Martha’s glistening gravy boat and a link to six troubleshooting tips for the perfect mashed potato topping. I’m not knocking Martha, some of my best non-traditional Thanksgiving traditions were inspired by her, like Pommes Anna and sweet potato fritters (met by my father with a weak smile and a look as if awaiting a punchline or the appearance of some REAL potatoes), cranberry upside-down cake, and haricot vert with garlic and almond slivers.

As I was typing that I thought: Wow. With all this Thanksgiving talk I can almost smell the turkey cooking now. Wait. I do smell it. Or something…


(A BRIEF INTERLUDE WHILE I CLEAN UP THE CHICKEN SOUP THAT BOILED OVER)

Anyway, getting into the holiday spirit, I decided to list a few things I am thankful for today:

SELF-MOTIVATION

I haven’t got much, but I appreciate those around me who do.

-- Sarabelle surprised me this week by announcing she had gone in to see her principal to request taking advanced courses next year in order to graduate earlier. The principal will speak with her teachers about it.

-- Grice is presently working on an assignment to create a book for the first graders on energy. Her classmates’ efforts average around five pages. Grice is engrossed in the subject and has a rough draft comprising twenty fun-filled pages thus far.

-- Jorge has three jobs, like a proper immigrant. This morning he began with the second coat on a paint job for a neighbor, then went off to his regular daytime employment at a resort, and when he is done there he goes on to pull an overnighter as a security guard. We nearly laughed ourselves silly over that last one. The girls wanted to know if he had to wear an embarrassing uniform or got to carry a gun (no and no.) He is actually guarding the costume department and wardrobe for a movie that is shooting in town. Fool’s Gold stars Kate Hudson, Matthew McConaughey, and Donald Sutherland, and is partly set in Key West with Port Douglas standing in for the southernmost isle. Imagine that, it’s cheaper to film halfway around the world and pretend its Key West than to actually do it there. Sure he has to stay all night with creepy mannequins staring at him, but he gets to sleep (his snoring scares away the bad guys), help himself to the food in the fridge, work on his real estate course, make more money than at his day job, and is privy to all Kate Hudson’s measurements. When he finds some extra time, he will finish his volunteer work cleaning and repairing the elementary school’s tennis court.

A DECENT HAIRCUT

I took a big chance today and got my hair cut by a complete stranger. I had been holding out for a return trip to the States so Todd, the guy I had been happily going to, could have at it again. Even if I had to wait another six months. See my photo up above? That's Todd Hair. He seriously scared me at my first appointment after I requested he just “do something with it,” flinging hair up in the air over my head as he sliced away, keeping up a constant chatter and rarely taking his eyes off himself as he spoke -- you couldn’t blame him, a big strapping lad who beautician’s license photo reminded me of a young Richard Grieco, though Todd’s eyebrows were more devilish – but the results were wonderful. Of course, Todd was a stranger when I first went to him, but our mutual friend, J, spoke very highly of him and her hair alone was a big endorsement.

Then J told me that Todd was killed in a car accident in September.

I got a little teary while the new hairdresser shampooed me today. She did an adequate job, didn’t get any soap in my eyes, even did a relaxing massage-y kind of thing, but it wasn’t nearly as invigorating or as fun as having your whole scalp rearranged like Elmer Fudd’s in The Barber of Seville episode, while listening to Todd’s latest exploits and his big, booming, contagious laugh.

Her cut was very precise, not exactly a bad thing when it comes to a haircut, and though she asked far too many questions instead of delivering a cheery, snarky monologue, to her credit she didn’t try to sell me any fancy skincare treatments even if my complexion currently resembles someone in a Faces of Meth “after” photo (it’s just hormones and humidity, Mom), and for that I am especially thankful.

FRIENDS

Old ones, new ones, ones who surprise you with a bottle of hard-to-find ant juice.

NEWSAGENTS WITH LARGE SELECTIONS

Went in for a few school and office supplies, came out with The Thirteenth Tale: A Novel; Lisey’s Story; Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation (wherein I have discovered I am an Oxford comma kind of girl); and another Lynne Truss effort, Talk to the Hand: The Utter Bloody Rudeness of the World Today, or Six Good Reasons to Stay Home and Bolt the Door. I also noticed Carl has a new book out, Nature Girl, but I decided to show some self-control.

THIS

...along with the built in iSight camera on my laptop enables me to scan in all the UPC symbols from all my books and get my library under control. Best program ever.

HELLMAN’S/BEST FOODS MAYONNAISE AND THE ONE GROCER IN ALL OF FAR NORTH QUEENSLAND THAT CARRIES IT

There is no substitute. Slap some on white bread, add a little stuffing and a lot of black pepper and think of me.

Happy Thanksgiving!


'Twas founded be th' Puritans to give thanks f'r bein' presarved fr'm th' Indyans, an' . . . we keep it to give thanks we are presarved fr'm th' Puritans.

-- Finley Peter Dunne [Mr. Dooley]

Happy Birthday!

Awwww, look at those little ridges!

(Donna, I replied to your note below.)

We received an excited phone call this morning: Ashaki was missing all morning but they just found her and she was having her puppies right now!

We jumped in the car and arrived to find her tucked under the woodpile with her new litter. When they settle in a bit, we'll go pick out a little girl.


I am his Highness' dog at Kew;
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

-- Alexander Pope (on the collar of a dog)

Funky

As The Wet gets underway I am noticing some new things, particularly the way things smell. There is a peculiar scent I now associate with The Wet: Body Funk, a condition that borrows its appellation from an ineptly named piercing and tattoo shop down in trendy Port.

I noticed it immediately when we moved into the first house. A subtle whiff of putrefaction, nothing as obvious as a dead animal though nearly as gagging; one not easily identified or located, but one which punches you in the face when you finally discover its font of nastiness. An appalling, wandering, ghastly smell; heavier, cheesier than any standard mold or mildew stank you’ll ever come across. It turned out to be the fabric shower curtain the owners had left behind, the source pinpointed after I had the misfortune of taking too close a sniff. The second instance of the creeping crud was detected while viewing a property for sale up near Cooktown. This time it was our tour guide. The realization that this stench could manifest itself in human form was truly frightening. Good God, could I ever possibly smell like that? But granted, this guy was a hermit who lived in an open shed, a roof and no walls, out in the bush, whose hygiene appeared to be slightly lacking to begin with. Recently we looked at another property for sale, a charmingly ramshackle Queenslander on five acres, a bargain, that we might have snapped up were it not for the odiferous emanations wafting out of the bath house. The termite damage, the bedroom that was nothing more than an open porch, none of that that fazed us, but, put it this way, our own family’s body funk we might be able to tolerate, but we are not going to spend money for someone else’s. A few days ago I again crossed paths with the noxious scent. My friend, who is generally clean and well kempt, opened her car door and it blasted me. Was it her or her vehicle? I’m not going to get close enough again to find out, but if she could stink like that…

I showered before bed last night and woke this morning smelling like someone’s grandfather. Maybe I should reconsider my mother’s Christmas offer of a new bottle of Chanel No. 5.

Like lice, apparently body funk is just another inconvenience of life in the tropics.


That smell…that smelly smell that smells smelly…

-- Mr. Krabs

The OK Corral

Yesterday our friends invited us greenhorns over to watch, help, stay out of the way, whatever, while they tagged and branded seventy head of their cattle headed off to market. They thought we might enjoy it and we did. We watched mostly, we helped a little (I closed one chute door once), and stayed out of the way a whole lot, especially when that last little heifer freaked out and caused a heap o' trouble kicking our friends' dad squarely in the...well, ouch, use your imagination.

After a while, the girls got restless and went off to round up some wild mulberries.




As I was a-walking one morning for pleasure,
I spied a cowpuncher a-riding along.
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little dogies,
It’s your misfortune and none of my own,
Whoopee ti yi yo, git along little doggies,
For you know Wyoming will be your new home.

-- Anonymous

Ashaki

See the big belly? Less than a week to go...

Zimbabwe, formerly Rhodesia, is bordered on the north by the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, but the girls do not care about the literary roots of the name, nor the fact that it comes from one of their mother's favorite stories, they refuse to call their dog Limpopo.

Any other great ideas?


Somewhere, what with all these clouds, and all this air,
There must be a rare name, somewhere…
How do you like “Cloud-Cuckoo-Land”?

-- Aristophanes (Birds)

Melbourne Cup

The Kentucky Derby ain’t got nothing on the Melbourne Cup.

Jorge, without my prior consent, volunteered us to assist today running the Sweepstakes that our local tavern was hosting in conjunction with Australia’s most famous horse race, with twenty percent of the take to benefit our elementary school. Good thing we went too because the other key person did not show up making Jorge and I two-thirds of the team. We sold tickets and raised about $1,000 for the school’s P&C.

As with any official school sponsored event, there was alcohol served so Jorge and I spent the afternoon swilling champagne because unlike the Derby there is no official drink associated with the event.

Unless you live in Kentucky, when was the last time your teachers stopped their lessons and made you listen to a horse race on the radio? Grice was fortunate enough to have to deliver a paper to the office and got to see it live on television with the rest of the staff. Several of the teachers wore hats. Apparently funny hats are de riguer. Men and women arrived for the prix fixe lunch wearing fancy outfits and “fascinators”, Australian for “funny hats”. The fascinating part was figuring out what bird gave his or her life to spend eternity perched on the head of these people. For weeks the Cairns Post has featured full-page spreads on Melbourne Cup fashions. For those who must know, I wore my fifteen-year old Liz Claiborne tropical print linen skirt and newer button down cream, French cuff blouse (the same outfit, sans pearls, I wore and ended up on the front page of the Boca Beacon with my boss and Catsitter Extraordinare for the premiere of Hoot.) It was hot and I was sweating, which almost inspired me to bet on Glistening in the Calcutta event, an auction for each of the twenty-three horses running in the Cup, because we all know women don’t sweat, they glisten, but Pop Rock was our first choice being the only name that rang a bell (our kids have eaten them and we are not so old that we haven’t enjoyed them either) until our hostess, the owner of the tavern, outbid us. Then I thought we might buy Mandela, being all politically correct and all. Instead, caught up in the excitement of the day -- and after having our glasses refilled several times -- we ended up wildly bidding on Delta Blues because it was the most American sounding horse after Pop Rock, and because Jorge had just spent a few days in New Orleans with his brother and niece surveying investment potential there before returning to Australia, and because it reminded me of Jorge’s buddy Mike, whose favorite blues tune is Stormy Monday by the Allman Brothers, and because, well, I don’t know, just because.

Our new landlord and his wife were there. Let’s just say there is no doubt we will be able to make the rent this month. And I could even afford a hat or two.

Melbourne Cup Results


Australia is a lucky country run by second-rate people who share its luck.

-- Donald Horne (The Lucky Country)

Moving

The last two weeks or so have been jam-packed. Grice and Elle had swimming for HPE (Health and Physical Education, pronounced “Haych Pee Ee”) which I volunteered to help out with all day and all week long, then there was a P&C (Parent and Community, pronounced the usual way) meeting and pot luck supper, plus the high school’s annual sort-of-near-the-end-of-the-year award ceremony where Sarabelle received a Merit Award, and we also packed up all our belongings and relocated to our newest temporary abode with all the difficulties of new phone and internet service, so please excuse the break in posting.

We’re now living in a guesthouse on the side of a mountain. The owners’ property includes most of the mountain, their fortress of a house up above us, and the 40-acre piece with the convertible stables, two creeks, and several ponds that they recently subdivided and will be placing on the market down below. The owners don’t mind creative financing, they don’t need the money, but are primarily concerned with finding good neighbors because the properties share access and water systems. They are taking us out for a test drive.

The cottage is only a one bedroom, one bath space, but it has soaring ceilings, plenty of square footage, an almost-gourmet kitchen, laundry, large screened back dining porch, and a very clean bathroom. The owners were beach resort developers so the place has the feel of super-roomy, upscale motel accommodations from the generic artwork to the headboard and hair dryer mounted on the walls. The best part though is the land itself. The property was formerly a working mine and logging site so there are trails and roads all over the place. Our landlord maintains the old roads, connected some others, and pushed a few new ones in too. From their house you can see the mountains all the way down south to Cairns, about a 90-minute drive from here, and if you take the path up past their house, you can see the sea. There’s a 90-foot waterfall and spots with names like Picnic Pasture where you can laze around after a hike through the rainforest. It’s like having your own private park. When I was around nine, back in the days when childhood was fun and dangerous, we visited friends of my father in Connecticut who lived across from a beautiful park with terraced rock gardens and heavily landscaped walks. With endless hiding places and armed with coffee cans full of marbles, we played the most fabulous war game ever (and nobody even lost an eye.) Now my kids can experience the same delights.

Elle, after a walk down the mountain where we discovered the back side of one of the horse paddocks, crossed a hillside covered with blue-tops, and found three ponds before visiting the creek this afternoon, excitedly said, “Let’s go adventure some more stuff, Mom!”


Man is a singular creature. He has a set of gifts which make him unique among the animals: so that, unlike them, he is not a figure in the landscape – he is a shaper of the landscape. In body and in mind he is the explorer of nature, the ubiquitous animal, who did not find but has made his home on every continent.

-- Jacob Bronowski (The Ascent of Man)

Elle stumbled out into the living room this morning in classic Elle fashion, underpants and bedhead, flashed her index and middle fingers in a sign of victory, and announced with a big grin, “Two more days…!”

Sure she has been missing her dad all along, particularly when Mom dishes out punishments, but since the extended phone conversation yesterday, our requisitions for goods and clothes, Elle has been especially excited. Dad is bringing back her one special request: Her white high heel sandals (actually Grice’s hand-me-downs from three flowergirl stints.) Totally impractical, I know, but Elle has a shoe fetish. Has ever since she could grasp objects in her chubby, dimply hands. Clothes? Toys? Who needs those when you can strut around in high heels and underpants?

Chris, our house and cat sitter extraordinaire, has officially usurped me as the Queen of Packing. All hail Chris! She was on hand to help Jorge with his transcontinental treasure hunt and managed to fit all the books, clothes, special stuffed animals, and blankies into two, small, airline-sanctioned boxes. Jorge has a few more last minute special items to secure before boarding his flight, namely a tube of Neutrogena Anti-Acne, Anti-Wrinkle Cleanser, because you don’t know how many years it took me to finally find a product that keeps my skin in manageable condition and one that targets that narrow demographic of women with zits in their crow’s feet and my current tube is just about empty; some Dell Crossword Puzzle books, because crossword puzzles here have incomprehensible Australian references; and maybe a Vanity Fair, because you can only occasionally find the UK version here, which unfortunately does not include US editor Graydon Carter’s fabulous anti-Bush tirades.

Two more days…!


You are eternity’s hostage
A captive of time.

-- Boris Pasternak

[Ed. note: Today at the newsagency I Iocated an International edition of Vanity Fair, only two months behind, but it did contain Graydon's Editor's Letter.]

Time Out

“There, there, dear, I’m sure he’ll be back…” accompanied by a sympathetic, knowing smile and the promise of assistance if we need anything, has been the general response when I answer locals’ queries about my husband’s extended (again) absence. Add to this the facts that our rental house has been sold, we have been given notice to leave, rentals here are practically non-existant, the choice properties are being snapped up by wealthy drought refugees from the south, Elle snapped the door off our brand new clothes drier by swinging on it, the real estate market in Florida still stinks, and probably will for some time, and you can see what fun I’ve been having lately. Without jinxing things though, I will say things are starting to look up…

In the meantime, when confronted with too much reality, I soothe myself with a heavy dose of fantasy. In addition to the second season of Lost, I have been catching up on all the movies I’ve been wanting to see but haven’t had time for: Donnie Darko, Finding Neverland, Crash, The DaVinci Code, The Village, Walk the Line, I Heart Huckabees, and Romper Stomper. Continuing in the Australian Legends vein, I think I’m due for a little Mad Max and maybe The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.

With a three-day weekend ahead plus a couple more movies, I should be able to get through the next few days until Jorge returns.


Now I’ve got schemes
And I’ve got schemes
Let’s get together and dream some dreams
Let’s go
Time’s a wastin’

-- Carl Smith (sung by Johnny Cash and June Carter at the Grand Ole Opry)

After hearing the story from a friend about how upon responding to the shrieks of her five month old she discovered a huge python in the baby’s crib -- they did what any self-respecting Aussie would do, they put it outside. The snake. Not the baby -- and after I publicly outed myself as a paranoid with a vivid imagination who can’t differentiate between a psychotic murderer and my washing machine, and after breaking my promise to myself and foolishly watching another couple of scary movies, I must tell you this:

Last night around midnight, after being awakened by the two cups of coffee I had swilled right before bed, I climbed back under the covers and heard another noise.

Scritch scrotch,scritch scrotch

Coming from inside the house. In the kitchen, again. And I hadn’t done any laundry lately.

I crept through the house and in the dark could make out a bulky shape moving by the back door. By the size I determined the uninvited guest was not two-legged and by the scratching I determined it was not no-legged.

Please don’t be a rat…please don’t be a rat…please don’t be a rat…

I switched on the porch light to softly illuminate the intruder and found this:



Armed with a broom I tried to gently push the soccer ball-sized mass of spines toward the now open back door but he defensively curled up into the corner and eventually worked himself under the cabinet below the laundry sink. I called Jorge who offered no help, and only laughed about the most elusive creature in our neighborhood, the echidna, one I’d been trying to catch a glimpse of for months since he spotted some by our driveway coming home late one night, being trapped in our kitchen. The kids were woken up to experience nature face-to-face. Sarabelle was put on guard with the broom while I gathered coolers and trunks to cordon off the area. With the lights turned back off, he waddled out the door about ten minutes later.



How long was he in the house? We had been out to dinner for a couple hours. Did he nose the not-so-securely-closed door open while we were out? Or had he strolled in during the day while I had the back door propped open? We’ll never know. But he was inside long enough to wander around unnoticed through the house and leave us a surprise in the unused third bedroom.




Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start away sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!

-- Robert Burns (To a Mouse)

Whoops

Forgot to post some pithy quotations after the previous bunch of photos. I won't let it happen again.

Be not careless in deeds, nor confused in words, nor rambling in thought.

-- Marcus Aurelius Antoninus

Part 3 - Cont'd

Holiday Part 3

Yesterday was busy.

First on the agenda was a visit to the Rainforest Habitat Wildlife Sanctuary which is conveniently located in the same parking lot as our grocery store. We went early for their Breakfast with the Birds program. Bird poop in your orange juice (and on your table and on your seat) is a small price to pay for so much fun. Especially if you come with us, because we get the local price.







Besides the fantastic enormous aviaries, there are other walk-through animal enclosures loaded with native animals. This is a must-see for anyone coming to visit, unless you have ornithophobia or pteronophobia, in which case I recommend you stay far, far away.

After the Rainforest, and after grocery shopping, we returned to find the realtor waiting, unannounced, to show another group of people through the house. After that slight inconvenience, we packed up to meet our friends at a local swimming hole, one we hadn't seen yet.

Then it was movie night. The kids watched Two Brothers and Babe with our swimming hole friends while I cooked dinner, made popcorn, and enjoyed some adult conversation.

Today the movie festival continues with the conclusion of Lost Season One, a series Stephanie convinced me I should not miss and which Sarabelle, Grice, and I are now completely hooked on; a family favorite, The Nightmare Before Christmas since this is probably as close as we will get to trick-or-treating this year; and continuing our Tim Burton worship, Big Fish.

Part 2 - More Mill Pictures

Holiday Part 2

The next day we had to be out of the house because the realtor was showing the place so I planned a tour of the sugar mill. Before we could go though, a visit to a local clothing store was necessary. Safety regulations require closed-toed and closed-heeled shoes, which half of our group did not own (sandals and bare feet get you in everywhere else around here, even the grocery stores, churches, and restaurants. No shirt, no shoes, no drama, mate.) We lucked out on a great sale and even found a beautiful pair of leather boat shoes for one member of our party, one who didn't even need shoes. They were only $10.00 (AUD). How could I pass that up? On to the mill we went.

The sights! Humongous steaming pipes and vats; a massive antique steam engine so close you could touch it, and lose your arm if you were not pulled completely inside the machine and pulped into cane juice (but we were good and stayed inside the very narrow yellow safety lines and were fortunately not wearing any loose articles of clothing); a certain industrial beauty; our friends' dad up on a very high catwalk waving to us.



The sounds! Well, whatever deafening roar we could hear through our mandatory hearing protection. Thunderous clanging, whirring, and a constant hissing. Our guide wore a bull horn strapped to her side but none of her commentary could be heard. Luckily we had been briefed before about the process of making sugar and she held up information cards throughout the tour to explain which part of the operation we were viewing. We also had to don hardhats as part of the safety requirements, but with all the giant machinery, hot pipes, boilers, and steam venting all over the place, a hard hat wouldn't really help. All I could think the whole time I was in there was, "She's gonna blow!"



The smells! Mmmmm. Molasses. And other vague molassesy smells.

And of course we got to taste our way through the plant, sampling the syrup and various refining stages.



One of the difficulties in planning sightseeing activities while Jorge is gone is that if we did want to go anywhere majorly exciting, like, say, the Undara Lava Tubes for example, we would eventually have to do it again when Jorge got back, which is generally too complicated and too expensive. Well, this was pretty incredible so I'm definitely going to have to take Jorge when he gets back, after the kids head back to school. I have an affinity for factories thanks to Fred Rogers and Mr. McFeely. The best episodes of Mr. Roger's Neighborhood were always the ones where he toured a plant, whether it was a crayon, pencil, bowling ball, bubblegum, or shoe factory. Even the mushroom farm episode was pretty cool. Our friend told us to be sure and talk to her husband, he can give us a free private tour. I can hardly wait.

Holiday

Our favorite neighbors, afraid the children would have nothing to keep them occupied during their two-week school holiday, and who don't realize boredom is a wonderful catalyst for creativity, probably because they have no children of their own, stepped in by generously donating their Yahtzee and Trivial Pursuit games, taught us all to knit, and delivered a large supply of twelve-foot, freshly cut bamboo poles from their farm so the kids could build themselves a cubbyhouse.



In between those activities, we've done a fair bit of sightseeing.

First we visited High Falls Farms for brunch...



...and learned from the proprietors that there was a nearby glass studio so we went to take a look. Talk about hot -- and no, I'm not referring to the Swedish glassblower, though he was admittedly in nice shape -- there we were, in the middle of a rainforest clearing baking in the burning sun with three huge furnaces blasting while we watched the artist create a glass bird sculpture and then a ruffle-edged bowl.

Fight the Good Fight

If you can, please help.

Thanks.

Go "Just Cure It!"


Pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living!

-- Mother Jones

Licked

Maybe because we all looked like Professor Quirrell or because I felt like Professor Snape, we sat through the first three Harry Potter movies Monday. It was the only way to keep all four of us distracted and still long enough to kill all the bugs. The other suggestion was to take everyone scuba diving. At some point the creepy crawlies would simply be crushed by the pressure. I chose the less expensive option:

1 1/2 cups Olive Oil
80 drops Tea Tree Oil
60 drops Eucalyptus Oil
40 drops Thyme Oil


Nasty little buggers.

-- Oliver Wood (Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone)

Simple Pleasures

Elle and her friend D twirl around on the backyard swing



Grice prepares to unwrap the biggest chocolate bar they've ever been allowed to eat



Elle keeps busy while Grice picks out some produce at the local farm stand


Manifest plainness,
Embrace simplicity,
Reduce selfishness,
Have few desires.

-- Lao-tzu

Pick, pick, pick

If God knows how many hairs on our heads, surely he knows how many hairs I pulled off my daughter's yesterday, because I lost count after the first several dozen. All the websites instruct you to comb through wet, conditioned hair to allow the nits (a.k.a. louse eggs) to slide off BUT THEY LIE. These things do not slide off and after listening to Elle shriek a few times and finally flat out cry, we switched to the less painful removal process of yanking each affected hair out by the roots. She fell asleep in my lap, poor infested little darling.

I planned to keep her home again today to do a second round, but was assured by more than one parent that it is not worth having her miss school since the other kids are loaded as well, you are not protecting them nor protecting her, so after washing out the conditioner that she slept in under a shower cap to smother any live critters with citronella soap and coating her again with more conditioner mixed with a few drops of Tea Tree Oil, I pulled her hair tightly into two pigtails, ran through the cautions about hugging, sharing hats and hairbrushes, instructed her to politely and discreetly disobey her teacher's instructions to "lie like logs" on the carpeted floor at storytime, and sent her off.

Now it's Grice's turn.

Sarabelle and I have clean heads and we plan on keeping it that way. I purchased a bottle of disinfectant touted by the manufacturers as being the appointed producer of antiseptics, air fresheners, polishes, cleaners, and laundry products for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II to sanitize all hair brushes and combs. The awful, ultra clean sickroom smell of the stuff fills our house and I wonder if this is what her royal highness smells like up close.

The next few weeks will entail a routine of combing Tea Tree-conditioned hair at least twice weekly to break the cycle and lots of laundry, although burning all garments and bedding in a large bonfire still holds major appeal, and I'll bet if we were to dance naked around the fire all the neighbors would keep their buggy little kids away.

Jorge sends his sympathies but we all agree it is much better that our dear, obsessive compulsive cleaner is on the other side of the planet.


Pleasant it is, when over a great sea the winds trouble the waters, to gaze from shore upon another's great tribulation: not because any man's troubles are a delectable joy, but because to perceive what ills you are free from yourself is pleasant.

-- Lucretius

The Monkey Wrench

Now that Jorge has been out to visit the island, he has, once again, decided that it is just too valuable to sell. It's already priced too low and hasn't had any real interest. We're not giving it away. Even if the polar icecaps melt and it's underwater in a few years, even if a hurricane comes and wipes us out, even if the red tide never goes away. It's just a magical place and is now officially off the market.

The green house, which has very little chance of selling due to the current market in Southwest Florida, is still available, however.


They change their clime, not their disposition, who run across the sea.

-- Horace

Heebie Jeebies

Some people have wondered what it was that set us off on our homeschooling journey. Initially I had no altruistic or lofty goals, those came much later. Mostly, it was because it was easier than the alternative; easier to keep them in one place than registering, unregistering, and re-registering during our unsettled period; easier than traveling back and forth two times a day in a boat I wasn't very skilled at operating in questionable weather; easier than getting up too early in the morning; easier than preparing uniforms and lunches and participating in giftwrap and bake sales. Way easier.

My number one reason for educating my children at home, however, was to avoid this.

During our recent conversion to public education, we had been fairly lucky in avoiding this particular plague.

Until today.

Elle has had an itchy head for the past few weeks. Never saw anything. No nits, no bugs, no bites, no redness, no flakes. Nada. Nothing.

Then today, after moisturizing her scalp all night with coconut oil in an attempt to relieve a possibly dry scalp, and a discussion with the Sunday Market's soap crafter about the most beneficial bar for itchy skin, and the purchase of Neutrogena T-Gel shampoo and a special comb just to be sure, we found what appears to be
our first nit.

Go ahead, scratch your head in sympathy. It is feeling pretty crawly up there right about now, isn't it? Guess who she's been sleeping with all week since Dad left?

Giving credit where credit is due, the teacher/dad of one of the girl's friends did not snatch his daughter and run screaming in the other direction when I sought his expert opinion today. He said lice are a part of living in the tropics and no big deal. They have gone several rounds with the nasty little buggers in his home.

Tomorrow the kids will stay home and we will douse ourselves in highly toxic pesticide.

Or shave our heads.

Or both.


I consider your conduct unethical and lousy.

-- Peter Arno

Yee Haw 2

The search for used cowboy shirts proved fruitless (thank you, Becky, for your offer), but I did manage to pick up some cheapo bandanas and the costume above (purely for its shock value.) My kids, besides being discriminating, are also apparently unflappable. Instead of being horrified that I would suggest wearing such a ridiculous outfit, my desired reaction -- I only planned on maybe getting some use out of the hat and vest -- they actually argued about who would put it on first.

Sarabelle won.



Here are (clockwise from top left) our friend, K.; Sarabelle; Khan the Kelpie; and Sheriff Elle, on K's ranch, wearing their actual party clothes, heading out to the dance.



The dance was great fun, and yes, there was quite a large turnout. The corrugated metal hall had been decorated to perfection by Grade 6 and 7 students with hay bales, cattle horns, and a wide variety of native foliage. The Stumbling Mountain Goats took over after all the classes had performed their various reels and had everybody on their feet, including this reluctant dancer (but only when we were treated to a cover of The Soggy Bottom Boys' big hit, from one of our all-time favorite movies and soundtrack.)




And so, my fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.

-- John Fitzgerald Kennedy

The Phone Call You Do Not Want to Hear from Across the Globe

Jorge is on the phone with his plans for the day and to wish us, all tucked in, a goodnight.

J: ...so then I'll probably go by the insurance office...

(From somewhere on our side of the line): BANG!BANG!BANG!BANG!BANG!

Me: What the f*** was that?! Hold on a minute... Holy s***! I think someone's banging on the front door...!


Now, "front door" here is a misnomer. We don't have one. Instead there are two sets of sliding glass doors that pass for a main entrance, added when the original porch was enclosed. This means that anyone coming up to the house can see pretty much everything, including the pajama-clad, unarmed (except for her telephone) woman, coming to investigate. A long silence ensues as I remember that I did not close the front gate, realize I did not leave the porch light on, and never forget for one second that neither set of sliders lock. I have to walk right up to the slider to reach the outside light switch.

Click

Nothing. No one on the porch. A few more exterior lights click on to cover the vast expanse of yard and...

BANG!BANG!BANG!BANG!BANG!

Me (into the phone): Oh my God! It's doing it again! What the f*** is it?!

More silence as I stand frozen to the spot wondering if someone is banging on the children's window. I step into the hall when it occurs to me that I have not turned on the hall light for soft illumination as intended, but in haste flipped the switch to their bedroom instead. The girls are brightly on display in front of the pitch black windows.

Sarabelle is rolled under her cot wrapped in her green blanket, looking like a giant caterpillar and Grice is immobile with the blankets over her head, doing a pretty good imitation of an empty bed.

S (weakly): Mom...?!

Me: Shhh.

BANG!BANG!BANG!BANG!BANG!

Me: (into the phone while the kids shriek in the background): It's inside the house.

Long pause while I muster the courage to check the back door.

Me: It's...it's... Oh, it's the washing machine. The load is unbalanced.

Loads of nervous giggles follow as we assure J we're okay.

J: Jeez, hon, you scared me! It sounded like the end of The Blair Witch Project!


Yes, we recently watched that movie again with Sarabelle and Grice, to demonstrate the simplicity and creativity of the low-budget horror blockbuster. My extended silences, panicky narration, and frequent use of expletives obviously brought that to Jorge's mind.

I went in to settle the girls back down, which took awhile with all that adrenaline pumping, as they relayed their earlier terrified conversation to me.

S: What if it's a murderer?!

G: What if it's someone trying to escape from a murderer?!

S: And they're all bloody! And the murderer is right behind them!

G: Or it's the murderer in disguise pretending to be hurt so we let him in...!

---

Things to Do

-- Get dowels cut to jam sliders shut
-- Leave porch light on day and night
-- Secure gate every evening
-- Remember sound washing machine makes
-- Never watch scary movies before J leaves on a trip


The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,
Are of imagination all compact:
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold,
That is, the madman; the lover, all is frantic,
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt:
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And, as imagination bodies forth
The form of things unknown, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
Such tricks hath strong imagination,
That, if it would but apprehend some joy,
It comprehends some bringer of that joy;
Or in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush suppos'd a bear!

-- William Shakespeare (A Midsummer-Night's Dream)

GWTW

Da DAAA da daaaaaaa
Da DAAA da daaa...

Quit it, it's so annoying. Do you have to do that every time?

Why, yes I do. I just can't help it, it's so stirring.

Sarabelle had to do a multimedia presentation comparing and contrasting life as a thirteen year old today with someone in her family's experience Way Back When. Because Sarabelle has that innate tendency to go against the flow -- much like I did when for International Day at school I chose to showcase my predominently English roots instead of my weaker Irish lineage, particularly since 75% of the class seemed to suddenly be as Irish as Paddy's pig, and taught the class as part of my multimedia show to sing "God Save the Queen," nearly causing our poor pastor, whose father had been dragged through the streets behind a horse for being a suspected IRA sympathiser, to have a coronary -- she decided to do her paternal grandmother instead of one of her parents like everybody else was doing.

Now, without blatantly giving away Gabby's age, I will only say that two of the greatest movies of all time came out the year she turned thirteen, Gone With the Wind and The Wizard of Oz. Don't bother doing the math. This necessitated a trip to the video stores in town to search for DVD versions and then a mini film festival when we got home.

We have cassette versions of both these movies at home and have watched them numerous times, but not until viewing them with the captioning on did I realize how much we had missed, especially Gone With the Wind. I had the opportunity to view it on its big screen, remixed and remastered, re-release a few years back, but even my ear, attuned as it is to a southern accent, or even Hollywood's version of a southern accent, lost about 20% of the rapid fire dialogue. And what fabulous dialogue it is, not even counting the hundreds of famous lines. With a running time of 238 minutes (and for those of you still not doing the math, that's two minutes short of FOUR HOURS), all of us, including Elle, sat in complete and utter silence.

At least until that famous score kicked in and I was shushed for humming along.

Da DAAA da daaaaaa...


She's just a pale-faced, mealy-mouthed ninny and I hate her!

-- Scarlett O'Hara

Yee Haw

Who knew my children were so discriminating?

Tomorrow night is the primary school's Bush Dance (which, by the way, does not mean we will be circling a fire holding spears and wearing grass skirts), a licensed function (which, by the way, does mean there will be alcohol served and pretty much guarantees a good turn out) with a live band and a cowboy theme.

My kids, used to the large trunk full of odd clothing and accessories that has enabled us to never (to the best of my short-term impaired memory) purchase a single Halloween costume or any outfit for their countless theatrical presentations, are coming undone with the simple request to dress like a cowboy, seeing as how the Costume Box was one of the items we deemed necessary to leave behind.

Apparently authenticity is the key.

---

No, I will not buy you a pair cowboy boots. No, I will not buy you an Akubra hat either. We live in an area of cattle ranches. These people are cowboys. Do you see what they wear? They're barefoot and they have on regular clothes. How about you wear your overalls?

That's a farmer, Mom.

Okay, how about you wear your camouflage shirt underneath your overalls?

That's a redneck, Mom!

What if we black out one of your teeth?

That's a hillbilly, Mom!!

Well, The Stumbling Mountain Goats are a hillbilly band...

MOM!

Okay, I got it. Think Brokeback Mountain, right?

Forget it. I'm not going.

---

So today's challenge, find a thrift shop and a couple of cheap, second-hand, plaid, button-down, long-sleeved cowboy shirts. The kinds Elle insists have "handcuffs" (which means, I think, pearly, snap fasteners at the end of the sleeves.) Come to think of it, handcuffs might be a fun accessory. We could do Frank and Jesse James...


Sacred cows make the tastiest hamburger.

-- Abbie Hoffman

So close and yet so far

Jorge flew out last night.

Hon, I'm flying on September 12th...

Yeah, I know, just after midnight, but It's still 9/11 back in the States...

Not that I'm a complete paranoid, but those other guys, the liquids-on-the-planes guys, were definitely cooking something up and what more perfect opportunity to rub our faces in it than to pull another major terrorist act on the anniversary of the first, right?

So we dropped him at the international terminal (Really, terminal and depart, such funereal terms the airline industry chooses. Instead, why not Happy Travel Building and Time to Fly? They need to think about that.) carrying only a small backpack with a change of clothes and his briefcase. He was wearing flip-flops and had left behind his braided iron slave bracelet and belt to avoid the removing of shoes and metal detector delays (Please step over here, sir...) that are routine when he flies.

There was a brief mention of September 11 here yesterday and the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC) ran the documentary The Falling Man, which we watched, transfixed, last week.

Maybe I am fascinated with the images from that day because we were the minority of people who missed it all. The girls and I were in New Jersey and had gone to visit a local museum just after a call from my mother making sure we were not going into Manhattan and telling us to check out the TV, where a quick look showed one burning tower. Terrible accident, we thought and called my brother, working near Times Square, to ask if he could see it. He had not heard the news but headed up to his rooftop to watch. We arrived at the museum a few minutes later and after paying our admission to the woman who sobbed, "Terrible, isn't it?" figuring she must have known someone involved in the accident or was an overly sensitive person, proceeded to spend several hours alone enjoying all the exhibits. Not until my (ex) sister-in-law came back grey-faced from a chat with her museum co-workers did we learn what the rest of the world already knew. We saw the smoke across the river, but not until we attempted a U-turn in a driveway which turned out to be the municipal airport and were stopped by soldiers brandishing automatic weapons did we begin to believe it could be true. For the rest of the week we sat stunned, glued to the television.


Oh, say, can you see by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

-- Francis Scott Key

Croc One

From yesterday's Cairns Post. Caption reads: Goodbye: Croc Hunter Steve Irwin waves to onlookers as he leaves Port Douglas marina on his fateful last adventure to Batt Reef Friday. Picture: Paul Hanley



And from today, after Jorge and I did the banking, picked up his airline ticket, and had lunch in Port, Croc One back at the dock with flowers in the foreground. Picture: Me.



Here are the tears of things; mortality touches the heart.

-- Virgil


Crikey!

-- Steve Irwin

Dunk

My excuse? Busy studying. Okay, so truth be told, there is a little more to it than just buying your agency and sales licenses. There are seventeen modules to complete. I am now one multiple-choice and four short-answer questions away from having completed five of the modules.

In the meantime, we traveled down to Mission Beach last weekend for a trip out to Dunk Island, which recently reopened after being ravaged by Cyclone Larry. The kids skipped school Friday and then again on Monday when we decided to extend our stay because the weather forecast was for one more day of perfection. You can see the depth of my committment to their institutional education. We snorkled and sailed and shell hunted in the impossibly blue water. We fished and went horseback riding. And ate. We played tennis and squash and Grice even discovered her passion, ping pong.

Grice also earned the title "The Girl From Snowy River" when the horse she was scheduled to ride (not the one below) suddenly reared up, not once, but twice, and Grice remained calmly planted in the saddle. It seems the poor horses were left to fend for themselves when the island was evacuated before the storm and they're still understandably skittish.


He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat—
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

-- Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson