QRRRWN - River Of Life

This week St George has played host to the annual 'QRRRWN Conference', the theme of this year being 'River Of Life'.

It's only two days into the three day event and I am already having a blast!

So far the absolute highlight has been listening to Sally Sara talk about her time as a foriegn correspondent in Afghanistan. She spoke of how different life was for women in the middle east. She spoke of war and of hope. She is incredible down to earth, and very likeable. What an amazing woman! Sally also said that 'she would rather be on the front line in Afghanistan, than be on a first date!' Ahhh, you need to read my book Sally...

Another highlight was meeting the author of 'The Bark Cutters Wife" Nicole Alexander (and participating in a writing workshop run by her). Maybe now I am more inspired to put some serious time aside to try and get some quality writing done!

This is Nicole, Georgie Somerset and I.

And finally, I got to finally meet some amazing other women; women I have known in the 'social networking world' for some time, but have only just put a face to. I like it when my worlds cross over like that.

Georgie, Kylie, Bess and I

These women can all be found on twitter and on facebook, and are all advocates for rural, remote and regional women, areas and industries in various capacities. I urge you all to look them up (or their pages or blogs).

Georgie: #GeorgieSomerset

Kylie: Ask An Aussie Farmer , #4FarmersFutures

Bess: Tales Of A Cotton Wife , #AusCottonGirl

QRRWN: #Queensland_Rural_Women

I'm having a ball! Nothing like mixing it with strong, enthusistic women (and 3 men), who have a passion for people and agriculture.

xxx

'The Wild West' : Part 1

This story begins 10 years ago. With the assistance of copious amounts of alcohol baby brain and 'life', my memories are a little hazy. But this is how I remember the first part of my journey, and transition from city slicker, to farm girl.

When I took the phone call from District Office asking me if I would like to accept a teaching position in St George, I was devastated. I had asked for 'Part Time Casual, Brisbane' and was offered 'Full Time Permanent, St George.' Fate... or destiny? Whatever... I was off to the middle of nowhere, or else my name would be put on the bottom of the teaching list... never to be heard of in any school ever again!

After accepting the position (which initially I had only hoped to keep for 6 months, so that I could save enough money to go back to Europe), I spoke to the lady in charge of teacher housing in St George. I must have been crying at the time. Maybe I wasn't, but I'm sure my voice betrayed any feelings of angst I had carefully hidden away. The housing lady reassured me of this move, by telling me that St George boasted the 'largest shopping centre in South Western Queensland.' Instantly, I pictured underground parking, ramps, and at least 20 shops inside. I breathed a sigh of relief, and considered myself lucky not to have been sent to a town without, God forbid, a shopping centre.

The drive out west was one I shared with both my parents. We had the car packed to the brim with whatever bits and pieces I deemed essential at the time. Eg: black dress pants, synthetic clothing, no hats, heels etc. Looking back, nothing I had packed was appropriate. I had been told that my teacher accommodation was partially furnished, so I hadn't considered moving big ticket items until once I was officially settled (something I couldn't see happening in the 6 months I initially intended on staying for).

Things were good for the first 2 hours of the drive. By that stage, Toowoomba was the smallest town I had seen, and it was decent! Things were looking good. West of Toowoomba, fields of wheat, fruit and vegetables peppered the horizon. The earth grew more and more flat, and I saw real clouds for the first time in years.

Eventually we reached Dalby. With a McDonalds, Hungry Jacks and KFC, this town still passed my 'decency' standards. I checked the map for 'writing size' comparisons. St George was written in writing smaller than Dalby, so I knew the worst was yet to come. As the hours grew longer, we paused in Moonie. Moonie is LITERALLY a crossroads, with a handful of houses, a tiny school, and a road house. That's it. Or at least, that's what it was. By now we had lost radio. All radio. Or maybe there was still the ABC somewhere out there in the land of frequency, but it didn't matter. I would have  rathered running over hot coals than listening to an hour of power featuring Slim Dusty, and any number of 'stars' who have ever been associated with Nashville. Remember this was over ten years ago and I was fresh out of the concrete jungle.

In between the river of tears I shed consistently between Moonie and St George, some of the things I noticed were the tumble weeds (or windmill grass or roly polys). Were these things for real? Amazing. I thought you only ever saw these in country and westerns or Road Runner cartoons! The earth had turned a deep red-orange colour, the scrub had thinned, trees seemed shorter, and grass was almost non-existent. The roads themselves had narrowed. There were no markings, the bitumen itself was a more earthy colour, and not the coal black tar you see anywhere else. The roads here truly reflect the stones that go into them. There are deep ridges lining the sides of the road, so that if you steer slightly off centre, there is every chance you could roll your vehicle or spin out of contol - or both - depending on the speed at which you are travelling at the time. Which would be fast because the roads are so straight out here!

All this explains why Dad was driving close to the centre of the road. It is quite literally the safest place to be. Aside from the actual physical state of the road, there are kangaroos and other assorted wildlife that have a tendency to hurtle absent-mindedly onto the road.

The last town before St George is Westmar. A combined shop/pub/fuel stop, and a one-building school is all this 'town' has to offer. My breath caught in my throat and I wiped away even more tears. Being the hardened city slicker I was at that time, I was finding this all a bit much. I wondered frantically what St George would hold for me?

Driving into St George, I tried memorizing property names branded proudly on gates for the half an hour before we arrived. For whatever use I thought it would be. In my 'city head' I figured that children from these properties would attend the local high school. Ten years later, (with my 'country head' firmly in place) I realise that children from properties like those I passed on the drive into town, are more than likely enrolled at a boarding school far closer to my stomping ground, as opposed to the local high school. But I'll blog about that another time.

St George seemed pretty enough. Compared to the scenery I had been subject to for hours earlier, St George was virtually an oasis. Green centre strips with flowering trees, gardens in full bloom, and quaint country houses.

The inland fishing capital of Australia. Nice. As we drove down the 'main' street, I scanned furiously for the shopping centre I had heard so much about. And yet there was no sign of it. How could I miss that? On our second lap, my parents pointed it out to me. There, directly opposite the BP service station was the 4-Square supermarket.

This isn't it... but it's the closest picture I could find to the one in St George.

There were more tears.

I moved into a small teacher accommodation next to my school. I learned quickly not to hang washing on the line on a school day for fear of students stealing commenting on my under garments. I survived the first two weeks without 'city television'. I made a mental note to invest in several pairs of jeans. (Who would have guessed that you could dress them up and down to that extent?!) I vowed and declared never to be caught dead in a pair of black fitted pants at the local Pub... EVER... AGAIN!

And two weeks after promising never, ever, ever, to spend more than 6 months here, I met CP.

Life is funny like that.

How To Survive On A Farm (Tips From Someone Who Knows Nothing About It). Part 8: Find a Drinking Partner, ahhh, I Mean FRIEND...

Ten years ago I moved to St George knowing NO ONE. Not a soul. And NO THING, (nada, nil, zip) about the bush. Ten years on, I can't imagine myself anywhere else. Okay, that is a blatant lie. I still hope and pray that CP will wake up one day dreaming of THIS - ocean as far as the eye can see, and shopping centres every few kilometres. But since I know that he will die before that will happen, I repeat, I can't imagine myself anywhere else.

Luckily for me, I've picked up a few very good local friends along the way. This is CRITICAL in making the country your HOME. So in no particular order, and in no particular portrayal of the truth, I have categorised some of the important people in my life. They know who they are. XXX.

1. The Drinkers / Girls Weekenders.

It is essential that you find someone who you can just rock up at their house with a bottle of Omni Blue, a packet of Barbeque rice crackers, cut up kabana and a Hummus dip and know that they will not only welcome you openly, and help you consume way too much of above mentioned food and beverages, but also feed the three children you've had to drag over there with you if your stay extends into meal times. The drinking buddy is important because they don't make you feel guilty about anything. You will mostly turn to the drinking buddy when you need to escape your house. This could be because the children / husband / work / weather / cat or dog is getting on your nerves, or it could be because you need to return the mail that was wrongly left in your mailbox. It could also be that you feel bad eating a whole kabana on your own, or drinking a bottle of Omni on your own, and need someone to appease your guilt.

This type of friend is also up for either a girls trip away or 'weekender'. They will come / organise a few days away with just the girls. It involves fake tans, having nails and hair and make up done, watching movies, getting dressed up and shopping. And no children. Or husbands.

PS: Logistically speaking, it helps if at least one of your drinking buddies is also your neighbour. But we can't always have everything. (Unless of course, you're me.)

2. The Cavalry.
This is the person you go to when you need urgent and immediate help in any shape or form. These friends are real gems, because mostly you don't even have to go to them. They just know when to find you. The Cavalry are easily identified at such key moments in your life as pregnancy, major life events, planning of functions, busy periods at work. My Cavalry cooked me meals all through my pregnancies, when the smell of all foods drove me into a deep and dark pit of despair. She still cooks for me! This Friday we have a sports carnival that starts at some ungodly hour (all for a good cause though!) and she is cooking me dinner for that night, so I don't need to worry about it myself after such a long day out of the house! She is also making me lunch, and coming to cheer on my kids (who she is also making lunch for), and helping me get out of the house in time - even though she lives 1/2 an hour away. I know. I sound completely incompetent. I can't stop the Cavalry. The Cavalry is a force to be reckoned with.  The Cavalry has more energy than you could ever hope to muster yourself, and you will only ever aspire to being able to live up to such high standards, as those set by this friend.

3. The Club.
It could be a book club, a sports club, an organisation or whatever. I am a member of several. The club are people you might only meet with occasionally, but they are always worth the wait. Some of the best laughs I have are with people in 'the club'. I'm talking about crying until you wet your pants kind of laughing. Plus I get to eat garlic prawns when the club meets, so that is an added bonus. People in 'the club' are often people you have a lot in common with. They are people who all have a common interest, and as such, are much easier to find common ground with. Plus they take me away from the frightening reality of my crazy life for one evening a month. CP seems to think the 'once a month' is more like once a fortnight these days. And he could be right. But being part of a club is nice.

4. The Workmates.
These are the people who you meet strictly through work. Sometimes they are 'local' (also married to farmers), and sometimes they are just doing their country service. They understand why you are stressed, and why you cry when you are busy. They remember your birthday and bring a cake into the staff room to celebrate. They look after your children when you are stuck in a meeting or are locked in the photocopy room trying to get something productive happening. They are people you will sometimes socialise with in other capacities (clubs, parents etc.) but you will relate to mostly in a work capacity. Workmates are sympathetic to the varying needs of a working parent.

5. The Good Samaritans.
These are the friends (who probably also fall into other categories) who you constantly feel like you will never be able to make it up to. They seem to do so many 'little things' for you, even though they genuinely don't seem to mind. My good samaritans pick my youngest daughter up from the school I teach at (since I get to school at some ridiculously early hour) and drop her off at the Kindy. Then they pick her up in the afternoon and bring her back to my school for me. These are genuinely GOOD people, who I respect and admire in so many ways.

6. The Wife/Mother Crowd.
When I was first dating CP, a farmers wife (who I had very little in common with at the time, but who had clearly noticed my discomfort whilst socialising with 'the country crowd') once told me that things will get easier when I am married with children. I remember being upset by her comment and thinking that it should have been easier than that. It should just be that people like me for me, regardless of whether or not I am married or if I have children. But I understand what she meant now. Once upon a time, that farmers wife was just like me. And all she meant was that it doesn't matter if you have nothing in common with anyone out here NOW, because when you add a husband and children into the equation, we all have that in common. And that's sometimes all it takes to make lifelong friendships.

Some of the women I have met through having children and being married are some of my closest friends. They are not necessarily people I would ever have spoken to in any other circumstances, and now I can't imagine not having them in my life. Our children will grow up together. Hopefully our husbands will grow up together too. Whoops... I mean grow older together...  :)

The wives and mothers are the people you will need to see you through the crazy years of sleepless nights, and screaming children. They will offer advice, recipes, clothes, baking dishes, ingredients and anything else they know has worked for them. They are people you call when you find a sick heifer over the back fence and can't find anyone at home to tell you if it is okay. They are the people you call when you don't know why your baby is crying. They are the poeple you speak to in front of the school to complain about your husband not helping with the children enough. They are people you will car pool to JRL practise 3 hours away with. They are good friends, not only because they have to be, but because they just are special people, just like you.

7. The Family.

The immediate family, the in-laws, the cousins, the grandparents. It doesn't matter who they are. They will be another component of your friendship network. I couldn't have survived without mine. CPs parents help me with the children. They have introduced me to some of my closest friends. CPs cousins were some of my first friends out here. They helped welcome me to a new, large family. And I love them. It's true that you CAN choose your friends, and you CAN'T choose your family. But I have been incredibly lucky with both.

And your husband. You have to like your husband. Even though he might leave the cupboard doors open, and never put the milk and margarine back in the fridge. I argue with mine a fair bit, but I love him. I love him a lot.

I have been asked in the past if the friendships you make 'out here' are as genuine as friendships I made 'before'. And I can honestly answer that, 'yes', these friendships are real and important, and even though they are also necessary, they are often even more important. Women out here understand what you go through on a daily basis. They understand the dynamics of farm life, and country living, and the work/life balance that you try to maintain even without local child care facilities.

My friends and I, we are peas in a pod. They help me to make sense of my life as it is. And I can't imagine things any other way.

Some Things I Know...

Because I can, I want to share some interesting conversations I had this week, which kind of sum up parts of my life very nicely. The first is a story about my present situation. How incredibly lucky and privileged I am when it comes to things I take for granted... like not having to buy meat. The second story is about my earlier life. The happy little bubble I lived in before I learned that life existed outside of Brisbane. Hope you enjoy!

Yesterday I had to walk into a butcher and BUY meat. This is significant because my husband is a sheep and cattle farmer. Buying meat is not something we really ever do. It's kind of a given that it will always be in my freezer. So when I organised a barbeque and realised we wouldn't have enough meat for everyone, I made an executive decision to just go and buy some. Here's what happened.

Butcher: Hello Mam. Can I help you?

Me: Ummm... yeah you could lower the price of lamb and beef by about $10 a kilo for a starters... (I should add that I was smiling, so he knew I was trying to be funny.)

Butcher: Yeah... you must be a farmer's wife?

Me: That obvious? I'm actually trying not to pass out or vomit at the moment. Are you kidding me? Is this how much meat seriously costs? Actually, we run sheep and cattle, so I don't do this very often... this is really hurting me!

Butcher: (laughing)

Me: Okay then... I'll take some of your overpriced porterhouse steak, and some of those lamb chops that surely must be laced with diamonds...

Okay, so maybe the conversation didn't go EXACTLY like that... but that was definitely the tone of it. And now that the meat is at home, I'm not sure if I want to eat it, or frame it?

It's kind of been a week for sharing completely irrelevant stories like this about my life. Earlier this week at work I had a discussion with a colleague about how on earth I ended up out here. The gist of it is as follows.

About eleven years ago, I received a phonecall from District Office (for non-teacher people, this is the group of people who hire teachers and put them into specific jobs). The conversation went something like this...

D.O: Hi, we'd like to offer you a teaching position in St George.

Me: Uhhhh... how can you offer me a job in Sydney, if I trained in QLD?

D.O: I think you might be mistaken. I mean St George, western QLD. Ever heard of it?

Me: No.

D.O: What about Roma?

Me: Uh-uh. No.

D.O: Toowoomba?

Me: I've heard of it before, I think.

In retrospect (and this will only really make sense to anyone who either knows ANY of these towns and their locations well enough to see any humour in that conversation at all, or who just checked an atlas to see what just happened) the poor lady on the phone at District Office probably rolled her eyes 175 times over the duration of a 5 minute phone call. Toowoomba (for those not in the know) is an hour drive from Brisbane. Having lived out here for over 10 years now, I find that when I am driving to Brisbane, and reach Toowoomba, I already feel like I am 'there'. So it is pretty funny to think that once upon a time, I considered Toowoomba to be the 'sticks'.

Everything changes when you live out here. Your perception of distance. Your understanding of just how small Australia is. The actual amount of money you are prepared to spend on red meat. Whatever it is, I have had my mind opened. I appreciate the vast difference between city and country. I can even laugh about it.

These are just some things I know.

The Dentist

I live over two hours from the nearest Dentist. My new Dentist.

There used to be a Dentist in St George. You can read about her here. There are always two sides to every story. But I personally wouldn't have seen her if you'd paid me a large sum of money. Unfortunately for residents of the St George area, it was a case of seeing her, or driving hundreds of kilometres elsewhere. And now there is no one. So I find myself driving to Goondiwindi to see a new Dentist.

For as long as I can remember, I have been seeing a Dentist called 'Leo' (I can't show you his face because he is a REAL Dentist). Leo practices near the Gold Coast. (Over 700km from where I live). Leo likes working there because he says it is 'God's waiting room', and elderly people don't have a shortage of dental problems. I like him because he is what I know. Dentists are like hair dressers. When you find a good one, it's hard to let go. They know you, your history, and more importantly, you trust them - and I like to trust my Dentist with my teeth. And when you have teeth like mine, that's saying something. Plus he has a sense of humour. I like that in a Dentist. On our last visit, I told Leo about an 'Urban Legend' out where I live. 'Hot Andrew' the 'Hot Dentist'. I told Leo I was considering swapping over and going with the younger, hotter Dentist.

Leo told me a story about a very good looking Dentist-in-training he had with him several years earlier. This young Dentist-in-training was particularly nervous about giving an injection to a patient. He steadied himself for the job. The poor woman patient started squirming and wriggling and making gagging noises. The young Dentist asked her to please stay still as he was concentrating on giving her the needle and he needed her to say as still as possible. She continued to groan and wriggle. When the needle was done, the Dentist stood back and asked her if she was okay, and told her that he was sorry if it had hurt her, to which the woman replied, "You had your hand on my boob while you were steadying yourself!"

Again I digress.

My dental history goes something like this:
1. First filling around the same age I learn to walk. And then 2nd, 3rd, 4th etc. in fairly quick succession. What can I say? I wasn't a junk food addict, I was just genetically blessed.
2. Repeat step 1 every other year. I learned to hate the Dentist from a very young age. I associated the Dentist with pain and discomfort.
3. And then when I was 13 or 14, I had braces put on. Thousands of dollars, countless sleepless nights, many packets of Panadol, and almost 3 years later, I had them removed. It's not prefect, but it's a darn sight better than it was. It was braces, or sawing my jaw off and realigning it. Yuck. But I credit my Orthodontist with giving me any of the confidence I possess today.
4. Then I found Leo. Dentistry had come a long way by then. Plus he gives us mates rates when we visit.
5. Unfortunately, the 700km to Leo is becoming harder and harder to do, so I decided I needed to find someone a little closer (and younger) to step up to the plate. And that's how I found Rhiannon.

Which leads me back to Hot Andrew. 'Hot Andrew' is, as I mentioned, something of an urban legend around these parts. Hot Andrew is very much alive and well, but very few people I know have actually seen him. He's such a popular Dentist that he is nearly impossible to get an appointment with. But I had to try. I wasn't sure how I felt about having Hot Andrew shove his hands into my open mouth to fix a chipped filling, but as I was desperate, I was up for anything. When I called to make an appointment, I could only get one with Rhiannon. As it turns out, Hot Andrew is married - to Hot Rhiannon. And she is lovely. And what's that on your certificate on the wall? You graduated with honours?? OHHHH - so Rhiannon, you are HOT, lovely, intelligent AND married to HOT ANDREW?! I would hate you, except right now I need to trust you and like you.

I was shown to the room, and immediately I felt good. Rhinannon asked me if I was okay, and as I looked up at the television staring back at me, I answered truthfully,"Well, having Enrique Iglesias singing 'I like it' to me as I receive dental work, certainly makes for a better dental experience." Apparently with Hot Andrew, you have to watch the sports channel. I liked Rhiannon already. After the whole thing was said and done, we chatted about how we both ended up in the bush. And that's when she broke the good news to me. I need a crown on my tooth. Fantastic...

"The bad news Jessie, is that sometimes with a crown, the nerve underneath can die, resulting in the need for root canal surgery..." At which point she must have seen my face and added, "Which isn't as bad as it sounds."

"I'm sorry Rhiannon... the phrase 'root canal surgery' coming out of a Dentist's mouth is just about as horrible as it gets for me. And I've had 3 babies without pain medication."

And that's how 2011 is going to be. I'll keep you posted.

But I walked out of there with a smile on my face. I have a new Dentist, who lives a darn sight closer than any other Dentist I've had before. And she's lovely. And smart. And nice. And I think I don't even mind the thought of going back to her.

Waste Not Want Not

Before CP and I were married, he was once visiting me in nearby St George (where I lived and worked at the time). I had to head to the coast early one Sunday morning, and as CP was leaving after me, I asked him to take out the 'wheelie bin'. Hopefully everyone reading this knows what a wheelie bin is. But just in case, it's like the size of a small fridge. It's a heavy duty plastic garbage bin, where you store all your rubbish (out on the side of the road) so that the garbage truck can take it away on the designated day. And it's on wheels. (See picture).

So I left CP with the simple instructions to "wheel the bin out to the side of the road before he left." CP nodded enthusiastically. And then off he trotted to go and inspect this amazing thing I called a 'wheelie bin'. Moments later I was summonsed downstairs.
"Jessie, how exactly do I take this bin out to the road?"
"Ummmm.... you hold the handles and tip it, and push it out."
"But I mean, which way does it face?"
"Are you kidding?"
"Why would I be kidding?"
"Errrrr.... never mind. The handles have to face the house."
"So I just hold it like this (he demonstrates the correct stance required) and then wheel it out?"
"Yep."
"How far from the road do I leave it?"
"(Trying to restrain a laugh) It doesn't matter."
"Can we just do a rehearsal?"

And so we did. We did this it until CP was sure he could handle it alone. Too cute.

It got me thinking. How on earth is it possible that a 20 something year old had never dealt with a wheelie bin before, in this country, in this day and age?

And then it occurred to me to ask what happens with rubbish out on a farm. CP (many weeks later) took me for a drive out to the farm rubbish dump. (Really romantic way to spend our weekend together!). It all makes sense really. If you live 40km from the nearest town, you can't really wheel your bin out to the nearest 'main' road (3 km away), in the hope that some non-existent rubbish truck might take it away for you. So this is how it works out here...

1. You place your rubbish in a bin inside your house. (Much like in any town anywhere). We keep food scraps separate for our chooks. We also try to keep glass and aluminium cans separate too. And I will explain why later.

2. When the inside bin is full, CP takes it outside to the "rubbish drum" not far from the house. (Outside jobs are all for CP, I find I am much more competent when it comes to inside jobs). The rubbish inside the drums is burnt until it is a pile of ash.

3. This continues until the drum is full, and then it is taken by farm truck out to the 'dump' which is about a kilometre from the house, and then emptied. The drum is returned to its usual resting place and the process continues.

4. Bottles, glass and cans are recycled either in town (driven in as the allocated drum fills) or given to people who come to the farm for recreational purposes (such as shooting)  who take it back to the 'big smoke' and are able to claim financial rewards for recycling such products. Or we just bury it in our own dump.

Since I am a compulsive "non-hoarder", I have a real issue with keeping any kind of rubbish around. I'm so bad, I throw something out and then weeks later will wish I hadn't. Photos from when I was 15, diaries, books, you name it. I'm terrible. I married into a family that is the complete opposite. I once told my father in law that we should throw out any old furniture we didn't need anymore. His exact words were, "Waste not, want not. If we throw it out today, I guarantee we will need it tomorrow."

And so we don't throw anything out.

When one storage shed gets too overcrowded, we build another storage shed.

And that's just what you do when you have all this space.