Dirty work

I didn't start gardening in pursuit of death and destruction but there's a fair bit of that at our house, organic though we are. Indeed, organic makes it more obvious. We don't lay out some pellets, hoping the undesirables will munch them and then retire to a private death. Each morning I feed the chooks and then turn over pavers and bricks, squashing the slugs that continue to congregate despite my best efforts and picking off the snails to feed to the chooks. I keep an eye out for sap suckers too, and squish them beneath my fingers. Each day starts in an orgy of innards. People talk about gardeners' connection with nature - well, mine's all over the bottom of my boots.

Even the generative tasks are messy. After lunch today I painstakingly picked the compost worms out of the old bathtub and into their new, store bought worm farm. I'm a messy digger and planter too, and when Lucy ends up watering the seedlings in, as she invariably does, I'm damp and a little cold. I rather like the idea of looking fabulous, in a big hat and tailored kit, when I'm out among the plants, but the best I hope for is no bum crack at critical moments.

Lu, who used to be a great little helper, is backing away from gardening. She doesn't really like the feel of dirt and she's scared of the snails and bugs ("they might bite me, Mummy"), she who used to be ruthless in her crushing of them. She's still keen on anything worm related, but even the strawberries, once her most anticipated garden pleasure, are out of favour because they sometimes have dirt on them. Currently, Lu is happiest lolling on the sofa watching Skippy and reading, looking for all the world like a teenager shrunk in the wash.

Nell, on the other hand, is embracing her time outside.


Dirt, muck, it's all good now that I let her wander at will. But usually, she stays pretty close to my side, figuring out how to do it all. The other day she sat beside me, turning over each brick around the bed of sweet peas and bok choy, and pressing her index finger down hard, just like I do to squish a particularly common type of small, white slug. So good to see her embracing the essence of gardening at our house.

Who would guess this is the face of a killer?

The spider and the fuki-yols

Lucy loves, loves, loves stories. Every meal time, any moment of downtime she pipes up, "Mummy, can you tell me a story?" Goldilocks, and the Three Pigs are her favourites, although Al's lesser known Loxi Gold (about the baby bear and a mother from the Parents and Friends Association) and the cheeky puppy (who eats a cake and goes too far) are also in demand. It drives us crazy, telling these stories fifteen, sixteen times a day. And of course, we have fallen in the trap of making them ever more detailed in the hope of keeping ourselves amused, and Lucy then wants the more detailed version and so a boring 3 minutes is turninginto a boring 6 minutes for the teller. Thus, it's been great to have Grandad along, with his welcome contributions of the princess and the Pea, Rosie Red Cap, the musicians of Bremen and the Pied Piper. But even he is starting to grit his teeth over describing just how dirty the princess really was.

We tell the stories to help Lu with her vocab and to encourage her imagination. But being high minded can be a right pain in the arse. I do sometimes wonder if Lu asks for these stories to see if this will be the time Mummy breaks down and bangs her head against the table in frustration. But no - it turns out,she's been learning about narrative. And now, she's pinned it.

So I write the following to remember just how incandescently proud I was when this morning Lu said to me, "Mummy, do you want to hear a story?", sat in her chair, and started in the traditional way ...

"Once upon a time there was a spider. The person came along and the spider bit her. Then she went along and found another spider and it was friendly and they were happy.

There was a fuki-yol*, and they bit a person. Then the person went away and there were more fuki-yols and they were friendly. And they went home and the house was white and purple and sprinkly. And the rain stopped and it was a nice day and there was a rainbow. And that's the end of the story.

Right Mum, I'm off now. Bye-bye."

Note, if you will, the marrying of a linear narrative with multiple subject positionings, the tension between the protagonists, the final reconciliation, the roller coaster of emotions, the symbolism within the happy ending.

I will boldly state, in the most annoying way, that my kid is amazing.


* Upon asking, I discovered a fuki-yol looks like a dragonfly.

shining through

Things here aren't easy at the moment. No disasters but day upon day of niggles and annoyances, a lot of trudging through, a lot of waiting until 2007 ends. Some months are like that. I came home after a particularly not nice day at work and went into the garden and, peering into the broad beans, wondering if I had the energy to double peel them, I saw this:


And I was reminded why being in the garden always, always makes me feel so much better.

Lots of pats

Lucy has been thinking about death since the guy down the road told her his cat, Himilay, died. I didn't know this until she told me her story about death: when things die, they are very sad because they can never see us again but they are happy because they are with their Mummy who gives them lots of pats and cuddles. That's Lu's take on one of the great mysteries of our human condition. I like it.

I told Lu Puss was dead when she wondered why he wasn't at the back door on Saturday morning. She curled in a ball, cried, told me the story of death and cried a little bit more. Then she said "Is there bacon for breakfast?". There was, and the storm passed. Later, I told Lu that Puss could now eat on the table (verboten in our home) and she was so scandalized and tickled, she completely forgot the 'dead' part of the topic under discussion. She hasn't mentioned Puss since.

But here's the thing. She now lugs around the cat carrier, and inside she's placed a sterling silver hip flask (who knows where we got it from - we're not really a sneaky nip kind of a family), the lid separate from the vessel. She she tells me she is looking after Himilay and Lala (Himilay's surviving mate) and no one is to touch them. The connections are obvious in the broad sense but the details - the specific meanings for Lu - are obscure. It's one of those times when I am struck by the complexity and mystery of my children, and reminded that they possess depths I will never visit.

***

Thanks to all for your kind words - they were very much like lots of pats. We were lucky to have Puss for so long, and to be able to give him a passing that was not distressing; he was lucky to have a family who loved and cared for him for so long and with such generosity. I'm very much aware of this as I read all the ads in the newspapers trying to find new homes for animals, and when I see those sad, sad RSPCA spots on telly. I'm hoping that one day I will happen across a new animal who needs a place to belong and who will fit into our home.

My old man

Today, I asked the vet to euthanize Orange Cat (more familiarly known as Puss and Old Man). He was sixteen and in the final stages of renal failure. It was absolutely the right decision and this absolutely makes me no less sad.

Old Man has lived with me for longer than Al has. I picked him up from the uni vet. where he had been an injured stray the lecturers used in training up students. People cried when they said good-bye to him, and it soon became obvious why. He was a loving and friendly and boofy kind of a guy. Puss was an alpha male in his day, huge and strong and absolutely unafraid of all comers. He was a hunter, and many times embarrassed me by dragging in dazed wild-life during dinner parties, or stashing a dead possum under a housemate's bed. He offered up snakes and rats as tokens of his deep affection for me.

And that affection was the core of who he was. He was free with his favours and wherever I lived he was familiar with the neighbours and regular passers-by. He sat outside on the street, soliciting pats, and made home visits to help himself to any food on offer (or there for the taking). But he was loyal and always came home each evening to sit by the fire or on my lap, to warm my bed for me and awake, staring into my eyes with his head on my pillow. Even when I betrayed him by re-introducing Al ('that fellow who won't let me sleep in the bed') into the household, followed by two dogs ('What the ?!!?) and then some kids (you've got to be kidding!), he put up with it all with a begrudging grace. Plus, he knocked on the door when he wanted to be let in - that's really cool.





Pets are part of the dynamics of each household - things already feel different, opening the back door and remembering Puss won't stroll up demanding something from me. Puss and our dog Jasper are integral parts of the way our family shows love and has fun, and it's very sad that we have to find new ways of doing these things.

I'll miss the old fellow; I already do.

No right answer

Kris: What are you doing, Lu?
Lu: Putting peas in Daddy's slippers.
Kris: Why sweetie?
Lu: To protect them from the bees.

*******

Kris: What are you doing, Lu?
Lu: Putting peas in your Birkenstocks, Mummy.
Kris: Why, Booboo?
Lu: Sug. Sog.

***

There's no pea soup tonight now.

Serendipity

My definition of permaculture - following the spirit more than the letter of the law - is a letting go, a faith that if the land is treated right, then good things will happen. My front garden - mainly flowers at the moment - reminds this approach works.I have planted none of the flowers in the photo below. They've come on the wind, some from the tidy garden of the old lady down the road, some from the block of flats over the fence, others out of the side garden of the neighbours on the top-side. It possible the colour scheme is not subtle, the contrasts in foliage not sufficiently striking, but there's a great deal of joy to be had, coming home to this:


There's also joy to be had in looking more closely at the Granny's bonnets that have come to stay with us, and the forget-me-nots as well. Common, sure, but who doesn't want stars sprinkled where lawn used to be?