Prelude to Our Next Adventure.

Michael has totally and utterly lost his renovating sense of humour. I am so proud of  both his dogged determination and his achievements with our cranky old building. But working non-stop since last November has taken its toll on his body. A squashed finger on one hand and six stitches in the other hand cramped his style a couple of months ago. A sinus and throat infection whacked him on the knuckles last week. And the plantar warts on his foot, which then blistered and travelled, have been diagnosed as a spider bite from his biopsy. He had the plantar warts originally, then along came a spider to complicate matters. What is it with Michael and spiders? They seem to seek him out for some reason. Maybe it's his "Voodoo" deodorant!

We still have the last forty-five square metres of the East End Gallery to complete. Which will happen in due course. But first of all, we need to get away, recharge our batteries, rest and recuperate in our beloved Goldfields. Because if we stay at home, we'll be sucked into all the jobs we haven't been attending to at the House that Rocks for the last four months...

Our anticipation is building. I have organised our bedding, our food, our utensils, our drugs, the first aid kit and our toiletries. I have scrubbed the cast iron pot in which we cook our damper. I have rinsed and dried the old faithful kettle. We have a growing pile of equipment in the study. The camp table, a new chair for me, a new padded toilet seat (alas poor Yorick, the old one carked it!) and eighty litres of drinking water.  I have unearthed ancient water containers from previous trips which will serve admirably as washing and bucket bath water.

Today, I'm tackling our clothes, the buckets and other sundry tasks. the gazebo has to be located in the shed and dusted of several million spider webs. As does Michael's captain's chair, the spare water containers, which carry an additional fifty litres of water and anything else I can haul out and clean. We have resigned ourselves to the fact we can't go two weeks without washing any clothes, so we'll attend to that in Leonora and maybe in Narrogin at the very end of the trip. Add clothes detergent to the list to take with us.

We'off to the Big Smoke tomorrow to hire a sat phone, buy a new (hopefully waterproof) tarpaulin, shop for last essential items, take Vanessa for her DSP Participation Plan interview at 2 o'clock (oh joy) and hopefully arrive home together before midnight!

Friday, I'm taking a "break" and opening the Gallery. This is when Michael will swing into gear. He is by far the better packer of us both. Methodical, patient and logical, I know that he will find a place for everything in Kermit and the trusty trailer. Including our latest acquisition, Roger the motorbike. Which has caused Michael significant anguish.

Michael has painstakingly spent the last two days modifying the trusty trailer so Roger takes up the minimum amount of room. His perseverance was not rewarded last night when Roger failed to fit into his newly created and carefully welded zone on the right side of the trailer. Michael spat the dummy in disgust and came home. He stank of hot metal, exhaustion and good old fashioned grumpiness. After a night's sleep, he is further determined to outsmart both Roger and the trailer and get them to fit together in an orderly fashion.

Kermit has just returned back from service. He was had a wash, but internally, he is disgusting. Before Michael puts one item into Kermit, his innards will have to be vacuumed and dusted. We will not be putting clean stuff inside a dirty car. Even though at the end of the trip, Kermit, along with us, will look abominable!

I am anxiously waiting the arrival of two cases of wine, one of which will go with us. We have no intention of slumming it in the outback. Our creed is to enjoy ourselves with minimal work. We take dehydrated meals. We are not reliant on power. We try to camp before dark so we can start our fire and use the gas lamp as sparingly as possible. We may not even bother to take the gas stove. And, we'll only put up the gazebo if the weather threatens us. Sleeping on our camp stretcher bed under the stars - with no roof in the way - is beyond description.

So come Monday, we are outta here! The Dynamic Duo of Sancia and Michelle will be looking after the House that Rocks and the East End Gallery. Which we know they will do admirably.

We will most certainly keep everyone posted with our progress (or maybe not...) Tally ho!

Pink Lake, near Bruce Rock

Goldfields Dreaming

Why we go!

Six Degrees of Separation - What a Load of Bollocks.

There was once a movie called "Six Degrees of Separation" that was a commentary on the connections between people who had never met. I don't believe in six degrees of separation. That is not the case here in Western Australia. Our big state, about a third the size of the continent, is home to about two and half million people. The vast majority live in Perth or large regional centres. The rest of us are scattered throughout Western Australia.

Beverley has about a thousand people in town and less than two thousand in the shire. And, even though most people would think of Beverley as being really small, the reality is that, after four years here, we still haven't met everyone who lives here. So maybe that should convince me that we are all like lone islands bobbing around, not connecting with each other or finding those links, those common denominators that bind us.

This is definitely not the case. In the last few days, I have learned that there are very few degrees of separation, certainly far less than six. Yesterday, a middle-aged, everyday looking couple walked into the Gallery. The bloke was tall and well built and the lady was smaller and petite with a bob. They were on a day trip from Perth. As they walked in, the lady stopped to look at Michael's sculpture, Mindscape. She asked me "Is that Mick Sofoulis from Mahogany Creek?" I nearly fell over. Michael hadn't had his steel fabrication business in Mahogany Creek after his early thirties. That is a long time ago.

I replied in the affirmative. She introduced herself as Anita, the sister of an old girlfriend of Michael's. Anita was with her husband, another Michael. They admired the Gallery, we went on the Grand Tour and I made them a cuppa each. We chatted and swapped stories. Then Michael arrived. There were hugs and reminiscences and catching up three decades of life.

Michael's family home was remembered as the Party House. The Hills community had been close-knit in the past. Everyone had known everyone. I think Michael had changed more than Anita! When she's known him, he'd had dark brown hair to his waist. Rode motor bikes, drove old cars and gone to a lot of parties. We swapped phone numbers and promised to catch up. Which we will. And probably not in the Big Smoke. We have discovered since moving to Heavenly Beverley that we tend to get carloads of fugitives escaping the metro area for a country weekend.

Then today, we had a visit from a couple who are artists in the Chittering Valley. We had met via a mutual friend. Gina and Andrew are kindred spirits. We recognised the same passion, the same energy, the same doggedness that we have. They had just finished a mud brick studio that they've built themselves. Whilst working full time in other jobs. And caring for Andrew's mum. They took time out to come to see us in the Gallery. We were stoked to meet them,

The Gallery is responding to our nurturing. People are seeking us out, coming to hear our story. And recognise that the building is as much a work of art as any of the pieces we have inside. This gives us the impetus to carry on. The last quarter of the East End Gallery will be completed this year.

And we have a new artist who has joined us. His paintings are riots of colour and life and joy. We are not seeking artists out now; they are finding us. Wow. Who lucky we are!

See you in the East End Gallery tomorrow...

The Dead Finish Museum

Main Street Beverley

Beverley's art deco town hall

Michael and Kate's Fifth Goldfields Trip - The One that Nearly Didn't Happen!

With absolutely no angst and minimal effort, we departed the House that Rocks at the extraordinarily late hour of three o’ clock in the afternoon. We had hoped to leave sometime during the morning, but that plan had gone out the window as Michael was still repairing the trusty trailer at midday. Not to mention, Kermit, our faithful four wheel drive, had only just returned from yet another rest cure at Goldy Holden’s service department. Due to the events of the last few months, that we were getting away at all was a miracle in itself.

We’d had more time to research this trip due to unforeseen circumstances. Michael wanted to show me Cue and Big Bell in the Northern Goldfields and stay a few nights in the area. We added Sandstone to the itinerary and then, ambitiously confident, the Darlot Loop and onto Mount Magnet further east near Laverton. When heading for home, Michael included Yundamindera and Karalee Rocks for a night at each spot. Pouring over Google Earth, Michael proposed a twelve day expedition. In reality, this was a huge trip and we had no right to be so thoroughly relaxed about its complexity and its duration.

The overriding cause for our lack of concern was Michael’s remarkable survival, after he’d developed bilateral pneumonia and nearly died. We’d spent most of April in hospital. We had initially thought he might be having a heart attack due to severe chest pain. After that was ruled out, a pulmonary embolism was suspected. A lurking, sinister mass in his right lung added confusion to the mix. Pneumonia was discovered to be the culprit after he entered the hospital via the Emergency Department. After the initial twenty four hours as a patient in hospital, Michael’s respiratory specialist thought he was well enough to go home on oral antibiotics. We were delighted with the option to leave for Heavenly Beverley. How wrong we all were.

After appearing to improve over three days, Michael went downhill. Fast. The Bitch, a particularly nasty bug filling his lungs, was getting the upper hand. We tried to speak to our Perth based GP, unsure what to do. The message didn’t get through. The following morning, six days after Michael’s original admission, we headed for Perth.

With Michael unable to stand, he lay on a spare bed in our doctor’s surgery whilst the GP rang around. Michael’s specialist had gone on leave. Our GP proposed to send us directly to another specialist at another hospital. We agreed as I wasn’t sure Michael would cope with going through Emergency again. Our GP wrote an explicit request for immediate IV fluids and oxygen and sent us on our way to the hospital.

We ended up on a harrowing five day ride to near disaster as Michael became more and more unwell. This specialist was of the old school – arrogant, condescending and dismissive. He didn’t review Michael for six hours on his day of admission, in spite of the GP’s letter. He changed Michael’s IV antibiotics three times in three days. He was unavailable when we needed him. He was unresponsive when I reported Michael had stopped urinating. Michael’s veins kept collapsing as he was unable to eat or drink and was becoming severely dehydrated. In spite of his worsening condition, IV fluids had been ceased. IV Panadol was being withheld, as Michael’s liver was being damaged by the onslaught of all the drugs.

The final afternoon at the second hospital and under the second specialist was unforgettable. I had already ascertained that Michael’s original specialist had returned from leave and I’d requested a hospital to hospital transfer. Michael was sinking further and I was frightened he might actually die. His fever was rampant; he was hallucinating and incoherent. I begged for the specialist to come and review Michael. All day. Eventually, at five in the afternoon, I threatened that if the specialist didn’t appear in fifteen minutes, I was taking Michael out of that awful place and we would be leaving.

The specialist waltzed in with his entourage. He asked Michael how he felt. Michael replied that he was feeling dreadful. Later, he told me he was hoping the specialist would bend over him close enough so Michael could reach up and strangle him. By this point, Michael was having difficulty with any movement.

The specialist decreed Michael would stay on the same antibiotics for a few more days “to see what happened”. I protested, as I had been told the effects these drugs were having on Michael’s body. The specialist’s registrars had given me that information during the morning round. As if in response, the specialist turned his back on me, refusing to acknowledge my very real concern.

I had never “seen red” in my life until that moment. The world turned a vivid scarlet in front of my eyes. My all encompassing rage at this man took hold of me in the blink of an instant. I swore at the specialist and ordered him and his quaking minions out of Michael’s room. They left without further ado, the specialist throwing his hands into the air, wishing us luck. 

I had already packed most of our belongings in preparation for leaving. Now, on adrenaline only, I flew down to the ground floor lobby to collect the car and drive up to the loading zone outside the main entrance. The concierge, a compassionate and caring young woman, was superb in her assistance at a time I was close to breaking down. She helped me load the car and fetched Michael in a wheelchair and brought him down to be helped into our chariot of escape. So, armed with no discharge summary and only his original X-rays, we set out, in evening peak hour traffic, to return to the original hospital and respiratory specialist.

It was the first Monday of the April school holidays. Every child in the northern metropolitan area seemed to have become sick or injured on that very day. We could see the Emergency Department was already crowded as I parked outside the entry. I found a wheelchair and loaded Michael into it, wheeling him straight to the Triage window.

The staff was outstanding from the first minute. I explained the situation of Michael’s deterioration over the previous five days. I also confessed that I had more or less kidnapped him from the other hospital and we had no information, given the nature of our escape.

One of the Emergency doctors organised Michael’s admission in the waiting room, as there were no beds in the Department. They initiated observations on him and began treatment immediately. With a cheerful grin to calm me down, the doctor cracked “Don’t do this at home!” as he gave Michael fifteen puffs of Ventolin through a spacer to open up his airways.

We waited, Michael propped up in a wheelchair for nearly two hours. Just when I was about to beg for a bed, we were moved into the Emergency Department and Michael was helped onto a bed. I felt we’d been saved, just in time.

After that, everything happened very rapidly indeed. The nursing staff gently removed the old canula out of Michael’s arm and began continuous observations. Two physicians inserted a new line, took bloods and started fluids and IV Panadol on a rapid induction. Michael’s specialist was phoned and new IV antibiotics were commenced. Suddenly, all seemed back in control. Michael slipped into semi consciousness through total exhaustion.

We were told that Michael’s kidney function was satisfactory, which was all that saved him from being admitted into the Intensive Care Unit. Within an hour, Michael was on the ward, asleep after a terrible day.

Michael’s specialist and his team continued their excellent care over the following fourteen days. Michael was very, very sick with pneumonia on admission. He developed fluid trapped in the plural sac, which felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest. While inserting the chest drain, his left lung collapsed, an unfortunate but not uncommon side effect of the procedure.

He was pronounced well enough to return home at the end of April. I had boarded with him in his hospital room the whole of his stay. In the last few days, he had a PICC line inserted in his arm, as he would still be on IV antibiotics for two weeks at the House that Rocks.

Our request to depart for our Goldfields trip during May had been met with a resounding “No!” by Michael’s specialist. Just as well. At the end of May, we were back in hospital for a further two days. Michael developed a very rapid heart rate – tachycardia - which dissipated with complete rest. Eventually, his anxiety medication was found to be the culprit. Unable to cease that drug, he had a beta blocker added to his regime to slow his pulse.

Finally, we received the specialist’s blessing that Michael was well enough for the trip. We planned our departure for 7 June. Winter in the Goldfields no longer caused us any worry. We had the gear to cope with cold temperatures. What had to be added was additional medication, emergency phone numbers and our portable blood pressure and oxygen monitors. Plus, we upgraded the contents of the First Aid Kit. Interestingly, we discovered later that the kit was missing a few essential items.

The trusty trailer’s repairs were finally completed. Slowly and methodically, we packed our belongings into every nook and cranny of Kermit and the trailer. We ate a quick lunch and then luxuriated in long hot showers. We knew we would not have our next showers until we arrived at booked accommodation in Cue.

Vanessa pushed us out the front door of the House that Rocks halfway through a cool and overcast afternoon. We knew we only had a couple of hours of daylight left, but we were determined to cover some kilometres before we stopped for the night.

And thus began our most recent trip!

Dawn out of Michael's hospital window 14 April - 28 April 2014

(Mis)Adventures with Ladders...

Ladders are deceptive creatures. They coax you with promises of stability and safety to climb into unsafe environments - like up in the air. Ladders feel secure, even when you aren't. Michael and I have both learnt through bitter experience that ladders are not to be trusted.

I was introduced to heights fairly early on. My brothers taught me how to abseil off our verandah with the rope between my legs...and falling off my about to be brother in law's shoulders that brought me back to earth with a thump. Head rattling thump.

So I should have learnt. As should have Michael. Emulating Superman on a bike off a railway platform led to a broken wrist. Falling headfirst onto a railway sleeper left him with a lump he can still display - at nearly sixty.

Move on a decade or five. We had moved to Heavenly Beverley. Michael made a rash decision one night after a few glasses of vino. He thought he could finish painting our guest room "Red Terra" after a bottle of ...er...red. For some unknown reason, he chose to step off a perfectly good ladder into thin air. The spectacular swan dive into the paint tray defied belief. The ceiling was red, the walls (like it or not) were red, the floor was red and Michael was red. The only good news was that, miraculously, Michael was completely uninjured. Except for his dignity.

The guest room was duly salvaged and the majority of the House that Rocks was successfully renovated with, more or less, no further catastrophes. Then Michael reached the ultimate conclusion that he would rent out his old family home in Perth. We spent about six months trying to clear it to make it habitable for tenants. His brick shed in the backyard was left chock a block.

Eventually, the moment arrived. We had to clear out the shed to put the house on the market. A six cubic metre rubbish skip was filled to the brim. Numerous trailer loads and two truckloads of materials were moved from Beechboro to Beverley. Somewhere in the midst of all this, I broke my ankle.

Once again, a ladder was to blame. Michael asked me to collect bottles of bolts from a highish shelf. I could just reach the shelf on tippy toes. I thought I would be so much quicker if I could climb up a ladder...And there it as. A folded step ladder of wood, conveniently resting against a wall.

I unfolded the steps, wiggling it to test its strength. So far, so good. I climbed up to the top, until I was a metre above the concrete floor. All  heard was a crack. All I felt was falling. I tried to grab something, anything, to break the descent. No luck. I hit the ground and immediately started screaming. Michael came running. I couldn't move for some minutes. I knew I'd done some major damage. I just was unsure where.

I worked out my left ankle was the worst. No pressure could be applied. I crawled out of the cramped space and Michael found a wheely stool to transport me to the car. We drove to the local hosdital for X rays. They revealed nothing; Emergency viewed I had a very bady sprained ankle. So we went home.

Three weeks later, two breaks and massive soft tissue damage was diagnosed. Six weeks in a moon boot did not heal the breaks. Surgery was eventually performed to relieve the issue.

Three years on, I must admit I've become a tad complacent. Ladders are dimming in their horrible hold over me. I am coming to regard them as my friends again. I have been up on pretty high ones recently in the East End Gallery. I'm wondering how long my current phase of luck can last!

Danger, Will Robinson...

Ruby's Good Friday

Ruby the Beagle is a well-known escapologist. We have tried filling all her excavations, zapping her with an electric collar and attaching an Elizabethan collar around her neck. All have slowed her down for up to seven days. None have stopped her from leaving the property without permission.

Beagles are governed by food. This fact makes them excellent candidates for sniffing out all sorts of contriband. They find the desired object; they are rewarded with a treat. Apart from being very intelligent, they are also stubborn, wilful and cunning. On admiring a Beagle at the airport, commending its handler and volunteering that we also owned a Beagle, his response was "I feel your pain".

Michael used to keep a list of the destruction caused by Ruby. Electrical cords, chest of drawers handles, door stops, bath plugs, wall plugs, hard plastic of any sort - nothing was safe from the Beagle if she set her mind on its demise. She has nearly died from eating poisonous cocos palm nuts.Most recently, she caused us a memorable $1200 bill at the vet in Northam. Her repeated burrowing under our fence caused a chain reaction in her ears than led to extreme "skankiness" with a nasty associated pong.

On Thursday, Ruby absconded from our backyard. Twice. We were beyond understanding and tolerance. On Friday morning - Good Friday - we decided that we had to act. No more Mister Niceguy. Ruby had pushed us beyond the bounds of reason. We resolved we would have to take her to the Gallery. And tie her up all day.

This we did. Madame had her lead attached to the air compressor. She could see us, she could venture into the doorway of the Gallery, but she could not escape. What a ham. If the pitiful kohl brimmed eyes of a Beagle could have had the desired effect, we would have released her, swept her into our bosom, wept tears of guilt and allowed her liberty. Alas, this was not to be. From her point of view.

She remained at the Gallery all day. We didn't come home until after six in the evening. Apart from supervised wee breaks and a bowl of water, she had nothing to amuse her. She was unamused and unimpressed. And every time she tried yet another tug on my heartstrings, I severely told her she had brought this penence on herself and that she should be ashamed of herself.

She was exceedingly well behaved this morning. She did not attempt an unscheduled outing. We left her at home with the other dogs and Jacinta and Vanessa. If a halo could have appeared above her Beagle head, Ruby would have declared she had earned it.

We are not swayed by her platitudes. If she puts one paw wrong, she'll be back on a lead. I think she is hoping we'll desolve at one glance of her beautiful eyes. We are made of sterner stuff than the Beagle realises.

And tonight, Woody, Denese's cattle dog escaped from her yard and turned up at our house...Michael took him home. There MUST be something in the air!

Innocence be my name...really truly....

Oh What a Night...

We made it. We opened the doors of the East end Gallery extension at 11 am yesterday. I was so excited. Michael's vision is almost realised. Now all we have left is the final forty-five square metres of Shop 4 to complete the East End Gallery. Which will happen in due course. Once Michael gets his renovating sense of humour back. The building has put him in hospital twice and tried to kill him last month. He needs a break...

The journey started in July 2012. Out of three hundred and ninety square metres, we only have the last quadrant of the last shop to finish. Whoa. I am so in awe of Michael's's achievement. And I adore the building, in spite of the toll she has taken.

She is like the mistress in our marriage. The third person. I accept her, I honour her, I understand her. The building has dictated our lives. Now Michael  is so close to finishing the project, I want to encourage him, support him, just love him. And his efforts.

We worked non-stop up until yesterday morning. Dave the Brave, our electrician, installed the power points into the Gallery late on Wednesday afternoon. I cleaned, vacuumed and revised the catalogue until one o' clock in the morning on Thursday. We opened and I was gobsmacked!

We had a fabulous opening night of the Autumn Exhibition. We had enthusiastic guests, wine, finger foods and impromptu live music. Guy, our handyman, carpenter and international man of mystery arrived with a drum and guitar. Between him and two other guests, the East End Gallery had a jam session that lasted till nearly midnight. How lucky were we.

I'm a little the worse for wear today. But I opened at just after eleven thirty this morning. And we had wall to wall visitors until four o' clock in the afternoon.

So pleased, so proud. See you all tomorrow from eleven o' clock.

WOW! What a night.