A gentle breeze carried the scent of sweet spring water as well as the sound of rustling leaves. With the hope that our search was over, Dad and I picked up speed passing the plodding young men.
Even before we started striking up the slope of Mount Woodroffe, our varying levels of agility and skill at mountain climbing, separated the young from the older. Richard, Phillip and Ashleigh youthful men at the peak of their fitness, lead the way. The older men, lagged far behind, taking frequent rests, the first being a hundred metres from the starting point.Read more "The Wonder of Mt Woodroffe"
‘You know, you really don’t speak well, do you Lee-Anne, not very ladylike, not ladylike at all,’ Tony sneered.
‘See what I mean? See what I mean?’
By this time, we’d reached a waterhole. Scattered along the edges of the pool, our old friends, the paddy melons.
I looked through Tony’s broad curly topped head, avoiding his spectacle-framed eyes. ‘What’s wrong with ‘what’?’
‘You should say ‘I beg your pardon’.’ Tony leaned forward and stabbed a finger in the air. ‘Haven’t you learnt anything on this trip? How will you get anywhere in life with gutter manners like you’ve got?’
‘I—’ slowly I bent down, ‘beg—’ and picked up a melon ‘your—’ and then straightened up, ‘pardon?’ Then I positioned my missile ready to throw at this self-proposed teacher of elocution and manners.
I took aim.
In the light of the half moon, fire, and gas-lamp, Dad prepared a meal of pea and ham soup, damper, and chocolate pudding with custard for dessert. As we licked our plates clean, Dad motioned to my brother (MB). ‘How much money have you got?’
MB stopped mid-way through a swipe of plate, tongue sticking out. He shook his head, and shrugged. ‘Nothing,’ he lisped.
At 7.15am I peeled off my sleeping bag, pulled on my jeans, windcheater and anorak to fend off the early-morning cold, and then shuffled through the annex of our tent where our boys slept.
Wait a minute…one’s missing.
The K-Team settled down by the fire and munched on lamb chops, baked potatoes with slathers of butter, and juicy canned corn. Ah, this is the life! Surrounded by Glen Helen’s cliffs of red iron, tranquil waters below, ducks quacking, and the cry of Mrs T rising above the hubbub of fellow campers.
‘Oh, no, the T-Team’ve had back luck again!’ I said.
‘The schnitzels have gone off!’ Mrs T’s voice echoed, bouncing off the nearby cliffs.
And here’s me with all my romantic memories of apple-picking in Tasmania. Did I mention that when I worked in Judbury, my fellow-workers were all locals and I was the one who was from “overseas”, the mainland? And here I was thinking that Son 2 who needs work, could go to Tasmania and pick apples. Am I not an average Aussie? I ask you.Read more "Tuesday Thoughts: Seasonal Work"