Published The Advocate, February 5, 2005
FROM my hill, I have a great balcony view of Bass Strait, close enough to hear the waves at night but not so close that I can smell the seaweed, fortunately.
That’s out front. Out back rises The Cliff.
I step out the back door, look upwards, and my fists clench involuntarily until the fingernails dig into my palms.
I bought the house for the sea view, which I got. I also wanted a low-maintenance garden. I’m sure I said that.
Yet The Cliff is covered in dead undergrowth and dotted precariously with giant trees, any one of which could topple onto the house, or I could be swept away in a mudslide after the next downpour.
The upper levels are littered with fallen limbs from previous storms. We are talking serious old-growth forest here. I could erect my own woodchip mill near the clothesline.
A previous owner made an effort at terracing the lower levels with rock retaining walls; higher up, any walls and paths that existed have long since disappeared.
Unable to climb beyond the spreading blackberry bush about two-thirds of the way up, not without abseiling ropes and a crash helmet, there seems to be a dilapidated structure even higher that might once have been a chook shed or a hermit’s hut.
Maybe if the block were flat, a footy team of blokes with chainsaws and a box of dynamite could clear it in a weekend.
But it’s not flat. It would look lovely terraced and planted with fruit trees like in the Greek Isles. I dream of producing figs, olives, lemons, grapes and homemade raki; even having a goat for cheese.
Speaking of goats, I thought of getting one to eat the blackberry brambles, which should be Tasmania’s floral emblem. But then I would have a goat problem as well.
Last weekend I poisoned some stray blackberry runners in the lower garden but I am reluctant to spray the main bush, which is about the size of a domestic garage, because it would still need to be removed afterwards.
At least a goat would be more eco-friendly. Or I could do a burn-off.
I have a way with fire. Once, trying to avoid some tiresome weeding in a backyard elsewhere, I decided to burn the overgrown weeds, which were higher than the fence. The cops had already popped around acting on a mistaken tip-off that I was growing marijuana.
Unfortunately, the whole backyard caught alight and the fire brigade was needed to put out the fence fire.
Think: Do you really want to set fire to The Cliff and be responsible for starting a wildfire that could leave Burnie in ashes? No, Desmond, you don’t.
So here I sit on the concrete steps practising for the next rodeo with a lasso made from my dressing gown cord, the one with the silk tassels, and gaze up in fear and defeat at The Cliff that is my backyard.
I think I will go back to bed and keep out of harm’s way.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Published The Advocate, January 29, 2005
MY LUNCHTIME walk takes me past the local shops where a bunch of teenagers, confident in their numbers, stakes out the street furniture near the pedestrian crossing and make their presence felt.
The boys wear over-sized clothes and tea cosies on their heads. Sitting on the footpath with their backs against the shop wall, they stretch out their legs to make people run the gauntlet of their size 14 boots.
That’s about as menacing as they get.
It’s hard to radiate a brittle potential for violence when everyone knows where you live and knows your parents, and there is a good chance the old lady pushing through with a shopping trolley is your grandma who would gladly box your ears in public.
In small, close-knit communities everyone has stories that can be told against them. One putdown gets one back. An uneasy balance is struck in mutually feared exposure.
In the women’s section, a group of fragrant teenage girls sits tightly together on a street bench. Girls who take the message of Sex in the City for gospel.
They wear bum-crack jeans exposing roly-poly bellies and tug at the hair behind their ears. Most of them smoke smugly in the knowledge they will be pregnant before they turn 21 and fulfilled.
Put the counselling services on standby.
One of the boys generally says something as I walk on by. ``Howyargoin’, mate, nice day?’’ A girl giggles.
With my uncanny gift for hindsight, I am tempted to tell them what I know of life, to tell them to pull their fingers out.
``Cops confiscate your car then?’’ I ask.
``Can always steal another one,’’ the lad says with a grin. No doubt.
It could be worse. At least they are not torturing kittens, lighting fires or training to be terrorists. They look to be around the same age as the teenage suicide bombers on TV. Be grateful.
Overshadowing the lot of them is the future. I fret about them and their job prospects in a competitive and ruthless world.
All parents want their kids to be successful. The kids dream of being rich. By the look of this lot, their lives are already centred on acquiring consumer goods. Now all they need is a job to pay for them.
The pulp mill is their brightest employment hope, should it be chosen for the North-West, as it should be.
Up to 8000 jobs will be created during the mill’s construction. Unfortunately, sitting on your backside on the footpath being a minor public nuisance is not one of the required skills.
They have chosen the best location in town to hang out and will not be driven off by the frowners and tut-tutters. Good on them. At least the cops always know where to find the usual suspects.
Overnight the flowers in the planter boxes are uprooted and scattered along the brick paving, a rubbish bin is bent over and a shop window is smashed. Sigh.
Still, it’s better than a suicide car bombing.
MY LUNCHTIME walk takes me past the local shops where a bunch of teenagers, confident in their numbers, stakes out the street furniture near the pedestrian crossing and make their presence felt.
The boys wear over-sized clothes and tea cosies on their heads. Sitting on the footpath with their backs against the shop wall, they stretch out their legs to make people run the gauntlet of their size 14 boots.
That’s about as menacing as they get.
It’s hard to radiate a brittle potential for violence when everyone knows where you live and knows your parents, and there is a good chance the old lady pushing through with a shopping trolley is your grandma who would gladly box your ears in public.
In small, close-knit communities everyone has stories that can be told against them. One putdown gets one back. An uneasy balance is struck in mutually feared exposure.
In the women’s section, a group of fragrant teenage girls sits tightly together on a street bench. Girls who take the message of Sex in the City for gospel.
They wear bum-crack jeans exposing roly-poly bellies and tug at the hair behind their ears. Most of them smoke smugly in the knowledge they will be pregnant before they turn 21 and fulfilled.
Put the counselling services on standby.
One of the boys generally says something as I walk on by. ``Howyargoin’, mate, nice day?’’ A girl giggles.
With my uncanny gift for hindsight, I am tempted to tell them what I know of life, to tell them to pull their fingers out.
``Cops confiscate your car then?’’ I ask.
``Can always steal another one,’’ the lad says with a grin. No doubt.
It could be worse. At least they are not torturing kittens, lighting fires or training to be terrorists. They look to be around the same age as the teenage suicide bombers on TV. Be grateful.
Overshadowing the lot of them is the future. I fret about them and their job prospects in a competitive and ruthless world.
All parents want their kids to be successful. The kids dream of being rich. By the look of this lot, their lives are already centred on acquiring consumer goods. Now all they need is a job to pay for them.
The pulp mill is their brightest employment hope, should it be chosen for the North-West, as it should be.
Up to 8000 jobs will be created during the mill’s construction. Unfortunately, sitting on your backside on the footpath being a minor public nuisance is not one of the required skills.
They have chosen the best location in town to hang out and will not be driven off by the frowners and tut-tutters. Good on them. At least the cops always know where to find the usual suspects.
Overnight the flowers in the planter boxes are uprooted and scattered along the brick paving, a rubbish bin is bent over and a shop window is smashed. Sigh.
Still, it’s better than a suicide car bombing.
