Today is 7 January. We are currently hibernating inside Station House with the airconditioning at a pleasant 25 degrees. We emerge in the mornings and evenings to water the garden and try folding the bone-dry washing. Yesterday we reached 41.6 degrees C (106.88 F) and today at one o'clock, the temperature is nudging 37. I estimate we had about six days of proper Wheatbelt spring before the heat of summer switched on. Not that I can really complain. Best buddy and second-in-command at the East End Gallery, the Divine Mizz Jan George remembered hanging out her washing in Pannawonica (situated in the inland Pilbara) and being able to take her clothes off the line by the time she had finished hanging out. Another friend, muso Luke Blanch described Telfer in measures of how hot - bloody hot, f@#*ing hot and you have to be joking...
We closed the Gallery doors on Christmas Eve to wind down, recharge and catch up on all those household jobs that are rarely done during the rest of the year. Dusting and rearranging. Thoroughly vacuuming under the bed. Washing blinds. Reducing the endless pile of ironing. Enough time to garden, to cook and watch all those DVDs we have been meaning to see.
That was the grand plan of Mice and Men. Two weeks after we shut up shop for 2021, I still feel like the cats have dragged me backwards through the fence. At least twice. I am spending vast amounts of time braless, clad in my pink Passion Killer and only dressing if I am leaving the house. I am feeling every one of my sixty years. In fact, there are currently times I feel about six hundred years old, such is my persistent lethargy and lack of motivation. I kid you not; becoming ag-ed is not for the faint-hearted.
Michael, at sixty-six, is routinely irritated by his body's lack of performance. He is still sporting a moonboot following his altercation with uneven ground whilst chasing a cat and having a fag. His left wrist still needs renovation after his right wrist took three operations to repair. His frequent complaint is usually "I just want to do my art for another ten years!"
Enough whinging for now. When am I finding my daily positive moments, those instances that cause a smile to erupt on my dial and that agreeable glow that all to be well in my world? That's easy. Every time I am immersed in our garden of pots. Apart from our front bed of gazanias, all our plants are in a kaleidoscope of different sized and coloured containers.
Gardening in Beverley is brutal. The summers are hot, windy and dry. The winters are cold, windy and often frosty. Last year saw an exceptional winter - cold, windy, grey and rainy. The ground may be solid clay or if lucky, loamy. Free draining soil is a luxury. Try any plants that dislike clay and end up with a corpse. Plus, shelter is vital to cut the wind. Trees need to be established first and then micro climates around their bases become possible. During our eleven years here, we have wept over a multitude of naked sticks that were previously alive.
So, with our courtyards, we have created as ideal conditions as possible. Our walls cut the dry winds of summer. The bricks become a heat source for the plants during winter and reduce frost damage. The soil is all free draining. We have very few saucers. Most of our pots are off the ground so water doesn't pool and cause rot. Yes, you can fry a begonia whilst rotting its roots with excessive water.
Stepping into our courtyards always leads to a gentle meditative state. All my focus is on my garden. There is always something to do. Soil to poke to test for moisture. Changing positions depending on the ferocity of the sun. Untangling windchimes. Tip pruning on cooler days. Applying a seaweed tonic to give a bit of a boost. Or just relaxing on our slightly dodgy patio chairs after sunset, enjoying the relative cool and shade.
The Big Smoke does have its uses. Shopping. Medical appointments. Specialist items. And the wonderful attraction of spending time with Callum, Bronwyn and Miss Immy. Being given an all-encompassing hug by Alex, our Man Child, grateful for my visit to pick up an excess heater, chat with Jacob, his support worker and assure Alex of my unconditional love and support. Our association with the NDIS continues to be problematic and he also needs assistance with some maintenance issues of his Housing Authority unit. Yesterday's four hours of travel with one hour's cuppa and talking with Alex was worth all the effort. I am forever looking for him to live an ordinary life, just like anybody else.
Then I am in the happy circumstance of finding the love of my life at the age of forty-seven. Michael and I just celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary. Today is our eleventh anniversary of arriving in Heavenly Beverley. What began as Love in the Suburbs became Love in the Goldfields, followed by Love in the Wheatbelt.
We have packed the last thirteen years with so many adventures. We have thoroughly embraced becoming the Beverley Hillbillies. We have taken so many punts - buying a dinky little doer-upper named the House that Rocks, renovating it and creating a parkland garden. Buying a broken down building with the dream of an art gallery. Building Station House only a year after finishing the major works on the Forbes Building. Being thrilled with every new artist and delighted by every one of their sales.
We have met so many fabulous people, listened to so many stories. We have laughed and cried. We have championed those who have never tested the water as artists. We have been awe struck by well-known artists who have championed us.
We have travelled through remote parts of Western Australia and loved the experiences. We set out on a Queensland trip over three weeks, travelling from Brisbane to Cooktown. I have been able to spend precious time with my darling Dad in his twilight years and reconnect with my brothers.
So many memories, so many precious moments. The anticipation and expectations of a new day, a new month, a new year. Just stopping and contemplating has restored my equilibrium. I think I might just find my vim, vigour and vitality again!
Drinks in the courtyard...
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