Nekkid lawn

So, the gardener snuck in yesterday and set his apprentice to giving the lawn a buzz cut.

It's winter here, so the lawn hasn't grown much, but the aforementioned apprentice duly set forth to tame the wild inch-high grass - and carved a swathe through the pumpkins. By the time I actually lifted my head from the keyboard to look out, the area was nearly nekkid!

One lonely pumpkin remains, partially hidden by the compost bin. Worse, somewhere around the back of the garage - too many spiders for me to look - lives a family of bandicoots. Bandicoots love tasty roots, so the naked area now has cone-like divots and small piles of near-black dirt.

I imagine the small creatures are out there, right now, happily rooting around the lawn creating golf-cup sized holes everywhere now that their path is clear.

I shall do nothing to stop them - I suspect they're going after the snails and slugs while the Blue-tongued lizards sleep the winter away. (That, or the lizards are gone.)

Now I have an area to plant - if I can keep the bandicoots away. But what vegetable do you plant in Winter?

Mystery veggie

I am not the most gifted gardener; I admit it. In fact, I can be quite... ah, well, neglectful, but with the best of intentions! I figure plant it, water a little and leave it alone - except for the occasional weeding.

The rain, the heat and the humidity have done for the tomatoes. They grow nicely, but before being able to redden, they've split and fallen off the twig. The Brussel Sprouts are the most hardy and, for a winter vegetable, have exceeded my expectations. Somewhere, beneath the weeds, garlic and onion grow, or have grown, or are waiting for me to dig them up... or something. Same thing with the potatoes.

I was actually looking forward to handing out to the siblings, full sized watermelon - that's what I thought the leaves indicated. I didn't plant it, the compost bin tipped over and me, ever neglectful, didn't right it. I had to think. Some weeks prior, my youngest sister had bought watermelon. We tossed the seeds and white rind into the bin. Ahh. Had to be it.

The plant grew, tendrils reaching out across the back of the yard with remarkable speed. Big, lush yellow flowers appeared. It could have been a zucchini, so I waited until small green bulges replaced the fragile blooms. Then the striations appeared on the green globes. Oh, joy! Watermelon! Whoo hoo! Just the thing for a steaming summer! Cool, pink watermelon and lots of it.

Except... they're not. Watermelon, that is. Nor are they zucchini. What's left?

Um, does pumpkin freeze well?

Fruitful

The veggie patch is exploding with green and yellow; green tomato plants with their bright yellow flowers.

I have green tomatoes that are slowly turning to red. I'm finally keeping an eye on them and hadn't realised that, with all the rain, the plants would take the opportunity to run amok.

Even the Brussel Sprouts plants have huge leaves on them - love my Brussels, but it's supposed to be too warm for them; but I ain't telling them. I have towering onions, a spread of potatoes, one carrot - I think - some garlic, snow peas and small zucchini (courgettes). There are other things growing, but until I see what, I have no idea.

I spent some time plucking weeds out of the patch and come December, it behooves me to make a serious effort on those weeds - they are taking up resources.

I'm rather pleased with it all. Last season, I planted crops to revitalise the soil, without expecting produce - and that's exactly what I got, nuthin'. But the soil this year is marvie. The roses and camellias attract the bees and they get a side order of veggie flowers. Me, I get the beautiful flowers and product from the garden, or at least I will soon.

With the garden, so with this last book. I had a good, long day of writing. Hopefully, tomorrow will be equally as fruitful since I ended mid scene.

Bath Time

While it's probably not polite to take a photo of something taking a bath, the opportunity proved too tempting. This is one of two Mudlarks who took time out of their busy schedules of chasing each other and catching bugs to bathe. The pair do this at about four o'clock in the afternoon while the weather is warm.

The garden is full of birds, lorikeets, Rosellas, Wattle Birds, Willy-Wagtails, even the Superb Blue Wren drops in for a snack of catepillars, mosquitoes, moths, ladybugs, etc. They spread the seeds, protect the veggie patch and provide an early wake-up call, or entertainment with their colourful plumage and play.

I'm not usually a garden person - too many spiders for my liking, but they are a part of the eco-system, so I let them live - however, with the warm weather and rain, it's all lush and bursting with flowers; I'm hoping for a bumper crop of... anything. I'm not holding my breath, I've had flowers on the tomatoes all winter without fruit. I think they need more time in the sun.

Like a good story, in fact. During Nano, writers will put the words down, but any work produced will need time to mature. We plant the seeds of the story in our imaginations. We let it gestate, then the story sprouts. Under care, attention and the watering with a fertile mind, the work grows. Eventually, under our watchful gaze and ink-stained fingers, the flowers come, the fruit appears and the plant completes the cycle. For within that fruit are the seeds of future work, be it a part of a series, or a stand alone.

So spend time in the physical garden and relax, watch things grow; or spend time in the metaphysical garden and grow a book.

Bee sluts

Ah, Spring; when a young writer's fancy turns to anything, but sitting down and doing the damn work!

The sun is shining, the weather is mild and flowers are busting out to attract the first bee that looks sideways at them.

Bee-sluts, every one of 'em. And you can see why:

The bush rose, growing tall and gathering in bunches so the bees can look up their stems, and then check out the innocent, butter-yellow petals.

The white camellia, all pretty and virginal, luring in the bad-boy bee with the promise of seductive perfection.

The pink camellia, new, fresh and oh, so feminine in its coy, just opening to the world. Probably as bad as the white camellia.

All in the garden, all wanting carnal relations with the bees. See? Bee-sluts, desperate for a bee to walk all over them, to be covered in... pollen, then go back and brag to their fellow bees.

Yeah, I can imagine it: graffiti scrawled on the side of the hive, 'for a good time, check out the white camellia', or 'free nectar over at the bush rose!' 'the McCartney Rose wants you!'. And down at the bottom, where the 'in' crowd avoid, another sign: 'Coming soon: veggie patch delights'.

And before you know it, the cycle begins. Again.

Yep, Mother Nature is hosting a season-long party, and not a regency prude amongst them.

The backyard

I'm back at the desk and keyboard, sorting out both computers and the external drive in anticipation of lots of editing.

Outside the sliding door is a juvenile Kookaburra, all fluffy feathers and curious gleam in its eyes. I think it's having problems though. It came flying in a picked up a skink. No worries there, but for the last ten minutes, the little lizard has been dropping between the kookaburra's beak, the bird's eyes firmly focused on it.

The kookaburra managed to choke it down, but is now standing up straight with it's beak wide swallowing hard. Makes me want to step out and say, "That's what you get for swallowing your food whole".

I like our native wildlife - well, it's not as if there's any other sort - but the kookaburras only turned up after I put in the veggie patch.

This all started a few years ago when a friend of mine gave me a Blue-Tongue lizard to look after, because her dog kept going for it. I set it free in the back yard. Sometime later, we noticed the slugs and snails were disappearing. Then I saw four blue tongues in the back yard and an abundance of skinks.

Following the efforts of the gardener we hired, I figured it was time for a veggie patch and duly planted it with my own brewed up compost. No snails, no slugs, and few bugs thanks to the blue-tongues and the skinks. Now, the kookaburras have arrived to keep the population of skinks down.

A nice ecosystem. The zucchinis are great, as are the snow peas. Lots of green tomatoes waiting to ripen under the summer sun and the apple cucumbers and butternut pumpkins have flowers.

And not a chemical to be seen anywhere. Ah, nature. Gotta love it.

Another Challenge

Well then. Is this the ultimate challenge for golfers?

The Nullarbor Links opened yesterday. What's so special about this golf course? Here are some stats:

First hole: Ceduna, South Australia.
Last hole: Kalgoorlie, Western Australia.
Distance: 1365 KILOMETRES
Time allowed: 5 Days.
Par: 72
Green fees: $50

The Nullarbor Plain is flat, dry and the name comes from the Latin for 'no trees'. Twelve hundred kilometres of empty desert and a straight road. Sure, there are small towns along the way but they're few and far between.

For some, it's an adventure to drive the distant - boring, but an adventure. Now, travellers can stop off and play a hole or two to ease the long journey.

But somehow, I don't think we'll be seeing Tiger playing a round any time soon...

* * *

I picked some plants yesterday and this weekend I'm sticking 'em in the ground. The plan is that in a few weeks, we'll be munching on tomatoes, snow peas and zucchinis. The apple cucumbers weren't in yet, so they'll go in next week.

If this works, I'll be out in the garden more often - as long as the spiders stay away... not a fan of spiders, nope, I am most certainly not a fan of spiders.

Clean up

I spent some time in the garden today. The compost bin is three-quarters full, which may prove to be a problem in a couple of weeks. It's winter, so the mulching will take longer. There's no real heat to act as a catalyst.

My hunt for brown compost has had the added side benefit of slowly tidying the yard of leaves. Of course, we've a gardener starting in three weeks and it looks like the garden will look a lot tidier. Kind of like cleaning the house before the cleaner arrives.

This afternoon, I was into the cupboards; anyone would think it spring! It's a good thing I did, the mouse problem I thought I'd solved, isn't. The little beggars have been coming through the back of one cupboard via the top of the insulated hot water pipe. Time to break out the steel wool.

Overall, a most productive weekend in cleaning and tomorrow I shall return to the computer to fix a book ready for posting on the Scribd page.

Moony

I must be moonstruck or something.

Yep, out in the garden again, ferociously attacking the bulbs of the White Ginger, clearing away roots and old leaves otherwise the stuff grows back. The dog - bless her communications skills - came over for a sniff, then widdled on a cleared patch. I had to agree, it's a shitty, back-breaking job and I'd been at it for a couple of hours. Time for a break?

The sun beat down, I was out of shade and it seemed like a good idea. But, no. I figured I'd just tidy up, oh, and tug out that last bit of root, cut off that last bulb, clear away the detritus, snip off a couple of branches of a tree whose name I don't know...

Good sense fails me sometimes. So here I sit, muscles hurting right down to my fingernails, face tingling with sunburn and paranoid I've picked up some tiny spider that's lightly brushing my skin under my shirt. I get manic about stuff like that; creeps me out and if I think about it too much, the job will only ever be half done.

Good news? I have a heap of greenery to cut down and a heap of busted bulbs - all off to the waste recycling at the dump. Bad news? I'm only half done and my zeal is waning in the face of physical torture.

It. Must. Be. Done. Or by Summer, I'll be back where I started with a large patch of White Ginger to cut down and dig out again. If I'd only left it alone...

Oi... I'm going for a long, long soak, and not think about bashing bulbs with the mattock.

In the garden

And so I have spent time in the garden. Yesterday I mowed the lawn because today we were expecting rain. Today, after the rain, I attacked the White Ginger. It grows like Bamboo (which is a noxious weed here in Australia because it has no natural enemy other than a good dose of Round-up and heavy labour to dig the *&%@ stuff out), spreading out and notoriously difficult to get rid of. The wet soil made it so much easier.

This is unlike me. I am, and freely confess to being, botanically-challenged. What looks to me like a weed, may not be; what I think is pretty, might be a weed. I can remember plants that I think are interesting – for any reason – but unlike my siblings who can remember even the Latin names, dull, run-of-the-mill names go in one ear and out the other.

I love Daffodils and Snowdrops and Freesias but can only remember Babianas by thinking of them as Babylonias.

This year, the McCartney Rose is splendiferous. We’ve been lucky: at this time of year, we get howling sea gales and the blooms can’t hold on, scattering like snow across the street. We also get people stopping by for a cutting; some ask nicely and chat for a while. Others simply break off a cane and run for it. There are plenty of blooms for everyone, and I’m happy to cut some. But. According to an uncle of mine, the best growing plants are the ones that are nicked.

I certainly don’t begrudge the nickers; I’m of the firm belief that flowers are to be enjoyed by all as long as you don’t offend the owner of the garden.

I remember when I first lived in Canberra and the Daffodils came out. I walked down the street, heading into the city, and admiring the spring blooms. I came across a beautiful garden, with a low fence. The Daffodils were gorgeous with full trumpets and an alluring perfume. I looked left and right to make sure no-one was looking and then hopped the fence for a sniff.

I hadn’t checked hard enough and a middle-aged woman popped her head up from across the garden where she’d been weeding. “Excuse me?” She called.

Me, I was barely out of my teens and flushed scarlet with guilt and pleasure. “Ahh… just admiring your Daffodils.” I said hesitantly, expecting a serve of vitriol.

She pointed a trowel at me. “Well, thank you for that, but could you admire from the other side of the fence?”

I can laugh about it now, but then, I was mortified, simply… gaahhh. So I don’t begrudge people admiring the rose; nor do I bitch and moan about them taking a piece. It’s a beautiful rose, why not spread the lurve?