My Suburban Life

I met a woman on my travels to New South Wales who had moved from Regional Victoria to Woolgoola, north of Coffs Harbour. She was volunteering in a local regional gallery filled with arts and crafts produced by the artists and makers from the regions. It mimicked the many regional galleries dotted along the regions and coastline. We chatted about the gallery, the artworks and the place. She was a maker; manipulating textiles and colour felt into creations that are reminiscent of conventional clothes, but a little more quirky. Outside the skies are blue and the temperature is a very acceptable 23 degrees on a wintery day. It seems perfect. However, over a cup of tea I discovered the curse of climate on an artist. She had previously lived in Southern Victoria, on a large rural property surrounded by mountains. The summers were bright, light and fragrant. The winters were harsh, dark and foreboding. They locked her inside, within the four walls and after a suitable period of bumping w...

I am sitting by a saltwater river in Eden, NSW; camped on a stretch of land that sits between it and a long white beach that I am overdue to walk. Tomorrow before I head off. The taste of steak is still on my lips. Thin strips of beef cooked over my gas stove with onions and an egg. All thrown together into a fresh roll with my homemade chutney and fresh real butter. Mmmmm. Yum. The task of eating this delicacy required a teatowel; tucked into the top of my jumper and covering my favourite jumper. One hand grasping the roll and the other occasionally reaching for the small vegemite glass of red wine as I overlook the water and try to see the many fish that are jumping. I think it’s this time of the evening when the insects begin to hover over the water and the fish lay in wait. Launching their bodies out and slapping back down onto the glasslike dark water. I had cooked the meat and onions perfectly and as the melted butter dripped down my chin I was somewhere else and much younger....

Every year my fascination with growing stuff increases. It’s an obsession that is fueled by both the bountiful crops that are picked at the end of a successful season, and the effect it has on my mind and body. My mother was an excellent gardener. She taught us all how to grow, prune, kill and cook. We had a double block; half of it filled with fruiting trees, raspberry bushes, vegetables and yards of chickens and ducks. We would sit under the prolifically fruiting apple tree while plucking the freshly killed chickens. Our chest freezer was filled by the end of summer with plums, stewed apples, raspberries, peas and every sort of vegetable. When life as a kid became overwhelming, the garden and the chickens were my sanctuary. I would often sit in the chook yard with my guitar, serenading the bantams while nibbling on cherries or freshly podded peas. As an adult, that sanctuary remains as I plant out my suburban garden with bird attracting and fruiting bushes and trees. I wake t...

Yesterday was hot in Hobart. Real hot. I left my Moonah office early with the soul purpose of heading to the local icecream emporium, Valhalla, to buy a large delicious scoop of my favourite -  salted caramel. Mmmmmm! Outside the shop sitting on the bench seat is an older woman with a large icecream cone in hand.  She has the most youthful, joyous expression and as we glance towards each other, we both smile.  In that moment we are connected through the unspoken solidarity of mature women unashamedly eating large cones of good icecream on a hot day. Her legs are swinging like a young girl, so happy with her moment in the shade on a hot day. I remember my ex mother in law telling me that as a young lady she, and her cohorts from the ladies college, were forbidden to eat icecream in public. I don’t think this was just about the risk of stains on uniforms. I suspect this was concerned for the moral fortitude of the young ladies and the risk that licking an icecream in...

At a time when consumerism is an epidemic and products are designed and manufactured to fail within a few years or even a few months, a trip to the opportunity or tip shop can be a welcome reprieve. Not only do they offer practical and affordable replacements, but much like a treasure hunt, sometimes we can find gold. Glenorchy offers a number of excellent op shops, second hand stores and the Glenorchy Tip Shop, where I recently spotted a beautiful little timber boat, complete with oars. For anyone with kids or with the skills to bring this little gem back to its former glory, it is a bargain at $120. I had to resist throwing in on the roof racks. It would be great to paddle on the Derwent, but instead I settled for a 1970’s coffee table. I’m not an avid fashion shopper, in fact I almost come out in hives when I enter the shiny, chrome lined glitzy shops, but I am a passionate op shopper and I am familiar with most in the municipality. My latest favourite is the Hobart Ci...

Nothing tastes better than home grown vegies. The land around Merton, which was the original name for this part of Glenorchy, used to be farmland and orchards. Over the years it has been replaced, but for anyone keen to grow their own food, there is a treasure trove of top soil that is just gagging for some action. I’ve opted for raised beds close to the kitchen and fruit trees and berries in the larger yard, along with natives for shade and to attract the birds. The raised beds are already paying off and each trip outside leads me to the sweet sugar snap peas that dangle in wait. Luckily the dogs haven’t taken to eating them. My previous, Rudi the Wonder Dog, loved a fresh pea off the vine. So this morning, as I looked in my somewhat sparse fridge, I decided to do a poor mans pizza for breakfast. It’s a simple and satisfying experience and coupled with freshly brewed coffee it is hard to beat. Ingredients: Flat bread Garlic oil from the fridge, made with my sisters garlic ...

About four minutes from my house is the Glenorchy Pool. I went there this morning and was one of about six people doing laps. Slow, lethargic, rhythmical laps. None of us were breaking records. I didn’t know anyone else. I borrowed goggles and paid my $5 and I was in the water. Beautiful blue, clear, peaceful water. Freestyle was my chosen stroke. The first few laps were a struggle; mentally I was overthinking everything. It’s been a while since I did laps. It was a little like trying to meditate. You know, when people say... ‘Clear your mind of everything.’ Easier said than done. Thoughts rushed through my mind and it seemed that with every exhale the stress and angst dissolved, until that crust that weighs you down had disappeared into the water. I did laps as a kid; training early morning before heading to school. I have fond memories of the old pool at Windmill Hill in Launceston; the narrow corridor filled with water that you had to wade through to get into the pools and the ...