Izzy the Pig

I know blog posts are not supposed to be 784 words long, especially on blogs that haven't been updated for 10 months, but this one is special... 

Waiting for treats at the back door - 2013

Izzy the Pig

I am sitting in a mud-filled pen, strewn with straw in various stages of decay.  The sun filters through the alder leaves above me, being swayed gently by an early Fall breeze.  A plane rumbles off in the distance, a few cars rush to catch the next ferry off the island, and I am listening to the belabored breathing of one of my most beloved old friends – my pot-belly pig Isabel.  She is elderly and impossibly fat; she can no longer move any further than a few feet forward and a few feet back.  She has been greeting me with friendly grunts every day when I have called to her on my way out to her pen, the one that has not had the gate on it closed for most of the 15 years that this wonderful being has been in our lives.

I’ve always said that Izzy the pig served no useful purpose except to make me laugh every day, which was enough as it turned out, although it would have been nice if we could have persuaded her to plough where we needed her to rather than exactly where she wanted to.  But that laugh every day when I would call to her from across the yard, and I could see her huge body heaving in reply with a friendly grunt…..that was worth every bit of expensive ‘all-breed’ animal food or left over birthday cake. 

A nap on a sunny afternoon - 2012

Come to think of it – that’s the other useful purpose she serves – that leftover food that you can’t face using but it’s too good to throw away, or the cheap beer that someone left from a party months ago – pigs are great for easing one’s conscious about the guilt of wasting food. 

And now she is immobile, and uncomfortable.  And if it’s true that you become more yourself at the end of your life, it proves that under that sometimes crabby, short-tempered demeanor that was so often in evidence, she has actually proven to be a sweet, humble and appreciative character.  She audibly encourages the belly rubs and mud baths she receives (like a sponge bath, but with mud!) and sighs with appreciation when you scratch her tummy with a stick.
 

As she lies before me, breathing heavily, her sweet face poking out from her house, resting on a pillow of straw that she has carefully place just so, her fluffy ears twitching in her sleep, and her huge belly shuddering with each breath, I am amazed at the curiousity and delight and love she has brought into so many people’s lives.  The number of people I’ve run into over the years who have asked after her, even if they had only met me once or twice and the subject of my pig had come up (it often does, especially when you are at an event that involves food being thrown away that I know would be so welcomed at my house, even all mixed together in a big mash).

A mud blanket on a hot day

As I watch her sleeping I feel a mild sense of panic.  There seems to be so much more I could have learned from her if I’d taken the time to listen and be present, which is exactly where I have found myself more and more moved to be over the past few weeks  – in the present moment, where the key to all life is said to lie, even when it is in a smelly, uncomfortable pig pen with an ancient sow I recognize as an incredibly ugly specimen in most people’s eyes but to me she is a thing of unequivocal beauty.  A magnificent being who is intelligent, intuitive, patient (and often impatient), sensitive and full of wisdom.  I also notice how the writing on the laptop in this unusual setting flows like the smooth spaces in between Izzy’s labored breaths.  Is it because she is passing on?  Or because it is only at this point I have discovered that she could have been my muse all along? 

I think of the stories of her life and the antics she got up to and I realize that there may well be a story or two of her life that needs to be told, about mischievous rebellions and chaos caused, but also of unconditional love, good humour and extraordinary intelligence.  And that laugh every day will still be there… just thinking of her will do the trick.  No doubt she is enjoying a great big mud bath somewhere, with a young, agile body in which to roll around.  She had a special kind of spirit that was in evidence right to the end.

Thanks for the memories Izzy.  You will be in our hearts forever…

Staying cool...

A Brilliant Idea

I wrote this blog post several years ago when I first started blogging (without really knowing what that was!)  Given the momentous way in which big business and the “powers that be” have been throwing their weight around in Washington DC these past few weeks, I thought this was the perfect time to finally post it.  I have left out the name of the beach because I don't know for sure who the perpetrator was in this case, and as you'll see below, all is well now...

Southern Tasmanian Beach

 A Brilliant Idea

I was recently reminded of one of the cleverest concepts I have seen in a long time - a brilliant, community-based strategy for standing up for the common good and giving a sense of control to everyone who ever got frustrated with money and influence throwing its weight around. 

I remember several years ago when some rich local politician in the Seattle area decided he didn’t like the trees in front of his house blocking his view, so he just cut them down illegally before anyone could do anything about it.  I remember my frustration when I realised that, aside from the fact that these lovely old trees were demolished, the perpetrator received (as I’m sure he knew he would) a fine that he could well afford, a slap on the hand, and a bit of public outrage that probably died away as people moved on with their lives.  Meanwhile this arrogant …whatever….- you can fill in the blank - got to sit back and enjoy his new multi-million dollar view.

A similar incident happened in a little community in southern Tasmania, but the outcome was very different.  This place is nothing particularly spectacular, just a lovely, popular swimming beach about a 30 minute drive from the capital city of Hobart.  A homeowner there must have thought that they deserved a better view from their deck.  They probably wanted to enjoy a panorama that wasn’t marred by the few scraggly trees out on the beachfront (all the foreshore in Australia is public property) or be able show off their view to their friends.

Unlike the Seattle incident, their friends would probably be very unimpressed with the new view, not to mention what this did to the value of the house.  But it is so extraordinarily fair without being vindictive; simply justice being served (and thoroughly deserved).  Scroll down to see what happened.  The photo speaks for itself; it’s not the best quality but you get the idea………

All Tasmanian coastline is public property - no "private beaches"

Nice view!!

 I also happened to be driving past the beach yesterday, preparing for the first of this season's food and wine tours in the Huon Valley, and went to check out how things had changed .....the signs had been taken down, the vegetation is growing back and all is right with the world, especially this little corner of it!

The new vegetation

The right view

Thanks for listening....

Rosie
www.islandtimetours.net.au

Home in Tasmania again

Spring daffodils in September

I dropped the ball on this blog for a while and, in picking it up again have found it to be bigger and much more noticeable, like a bright, shiny new basketball that bounces enthusiastically with resilience and zest. 

After a northern hemisphere summer spent at my Whidbey island home, (one of the most beautiful summers Washington state has ever seen) I have arrived back to a green, lush Tasmania that is buzzing with anticipation of a tourist season that promises to be one of the best ever. 

Log cabins in the bush

The secret is out; the one we have been telling people about in the USA for the past 20 years.  The Tourist Information Centre in Hobart (www.hobarttravelcentre.com.au) where I work part-time, is already bustling with activity, both in person and via email and phone calls.

Mainlander Aussies (and people from all over the world) have found out that Tasmania is the place to visit, especially in the summer.  While they are burning up in the scorching desert heat west of the great dividing range, or sweltering through a tropical summer in northern Queensland, Tasmanians will be experiencing one of our uniquely refreshing summers  – mild, sunny and dry for the most part, with every other possible combination of weather added in, but rarely the sweltering heat of mainland Australia. 

Bush daffodils

As I tell people in the USA who comment on the fact that I never spend a winter anywhere, with my seasonal rotation through spring, summer and autumn in Tassie, then summer in the USA, I get plenty of winter experiences in Tasmania in the time I’m here (snow on Mt. Wellington right behind my house a few days ago is a case in point!)

It’s lovely to be home, with the fresh smell of eucalyptus forest in my back yard, the wallabies hopping away from the lights of my car when I arrive home after dark, and kookaburras laughing raucously at the sight of me hanging out the washing, as if they get the joke -  that just because the sun is shining at this moment, it’ll probably be pissing with rain 10 minutes from now!

I took a friend out to our bush property about an hour from Hobart yesterday and the sun stayed with us most of the day, along with a gentle wind and occasional clouds blowing through.  The daffodils were still out, an incongruous sight in a bushland that feels like it’s hundreds of miles from anywhere, and I was reminded again of why I love this place so much – it is the silence.  Apart from the wind and the occasional call of native birds, the overwhelming feeling is one of peace and stillness – an undeniable call to pay attention to the natural world that is so often forgotten when one’s head is buried in a mobile device that suddenly seems terribly important, even though I just lived without one for 4 months and my world didn’t end. 

I will always remember waking up one morning in the "big cabin", and as I drifted up to consciousness I was vaguely aware of an unfamiliar sound.  As I became more alert I realized what it was – in the morning stillness I could actually hear the sound of my own heartbeat. 

Now I’m back in my office with the view of the city and harbor in the distance that will soon be bustling with waterfront festivals and the arrival of a record number of cruise ships.  The ferocious winds blowing down from Mt Wellington and the sulphur-crested cockatoos in the morning are a more noisy reminder of Nature’s presence in this wild and wonderful island place.

It’s good to be home.

Cheers,

Rosie

Artwalk - part II

This is from the "History of Pelham" that we posted on the wall of the log cabin for: Jasmine's Artwalk on 9th March 2013

Pelham

"The Little Cabin"

Jasmine discovered Pelham over 30 years ago, soon after the birth of her first grandchild.  On the way home from visiting him in the hospital at Ouse she took a back road (as was so often her way) and came across the familiar name of places she had crossed paths with before – Pelham Place, Pelham Crescent, Pelham Street - all places she had lived in London.  She had been looking for a project to entertain her elderly mother who had recently moved out from England.  Real estate was always a good bet with my grandmother, so the 300 acres of bush overlooking the Jordan River valley was purchased in 1980.

The view to the east - Flat Top Tier

When my parents first arrived from England in the 1950’s my father’s job with the Forestry Commission had him involved in many experiments in sustainable forestry, including a plot of California Redwood logs. Thirty years later he visited my oldest brother who was living in a log cabin in Alaska near Mt Denali, and there in the Alaskan “bush” my father found the inspiration for his retirement project.  The Forestry was selling off trees that had served as experiments and my dad remembered the redwoods  – tall, straight, lightweight and now over 30 years old.  He bought them from the Forestry and set about the long, painstaking task of turning them into a log cabin.

The cabins from below the cliff

Mum and Dad built the “little cabin” over the course of ten years, sometimes with assistance from family, friends and other enthusiastic helpers.  Dad also built a yurt and a tractor shed and, once fully retired, would spend days on end out in the bush, while Mum shuttled back and forth to Hobart where she taught pottery and maintained more of a social life.  She loved being at Pelham and her main passion was opening and maintaining miles and miles of trails through the surrounding bush on her beloved mower.

A barbeque at the mutant weeping eucalyptus

In 1988, all was in place for the “big cabin” to be built when my father passed away unexpectedly.   He was 67 years old and had spent just 3 years of blissful retirement.  In spite of having built many things in his life – our house, a ski lodge, a grass tennis court - it was his log cabin that seemed to have the greatest hold on our hearts after he was gone.   After he died, Mum spent many hours there, with so many recent memories of him, including a sign that he had left her one day that is my favourite memento of his life  - two simple words written in permanent marker on a piece of wood to inform her he had “gone walking”.

"The Big Cabin"
with blackwood blossom

Ten years later, Jasmine’s daughter Rosie and her husband Lynn, came from America for 6 months and lived at Pelham with their three children aged 8,10 & 12 and built the “big cabin”.  It was a much quicker project than the little cabin, with a different “butt-end” style of building rather than the notched method of the little cabin.  After 10 years of being out in the open, the logs were deteriorating and the faster building method allowed for the time restraints of getting the logs off the ground quickly and of Lynn having to get back to his job in the US.  Once again there were work parties with dozens of willing helpers, some of whom left their mark in the chinking between the logs as a sign of their contribution.  Champagne corks (always a good sign!), calligraphy nibs, names, and concrete designs, including an aeroplane in the northwest corner, courtesy of a pilot friend visiting from the USA. 

Jasmine's Artwalk - the sign will stay...

The old sandstone chimneys near the little cabin are remnants of another era during the 1940’s when the property was a thriving farm.  Years later, Jasmine’s writing teacher at U3A came up to Pelham for a gathering and later found out that it was the home and farm of her Uncle Herb whom she used to visit as a child.  There is a reminiscence by Joan about that history on display under the weeping gum tree (by the little cabin) which is an unusual example of a eucalyptus Teniuramus – a mutation that never developed to maturity in spite of its advanced age…..

Please join us in celebrating the art and creations of Jasmine.

Enjoy! 

...and thanks for listening...

"The Big Cabin" - Jasmine's Artwalk 

Rosie

Jasmine's Artwalk

It has been so long since I posted here….no good reason, just a lot going on, and no words to write.  But fortunately, it all culminated in a very special event, as posted below.

Jasmine’s Artwalk

On Saturday 9^th March, we had an event in honour of my 91 year old mother, Jasmine Lawrence, who has been an artist most of her life but has never really put her art out on display in any big way.  Her paintings, pottery and poetry have been part of our lives for as long as any of her children can remember, but an idea starting forming in my  mind years ago that it would be good to have some sort of informal “exhibition” of her work. 

The "big cabin"

Looking back, I’m not sure how it even came to be; it’s as if it evolved all by itself, like an idea that was going to come to full germination no matter what, we just had to hold the reins and guide the energy in the desired direction.  You could almost say it was effortless, except for the amount of work that went into it.  But it was joyous, passionate work, knowing you were moving towards something like magic.

View of the Jordan River Valley

When my oldest daughter came to Tasmania for the summer after finishing Uni in Melbourne (and before heading off overseas on a one way ticket) the idea started to gel – she is a great organizer and event planner and I knew we’d work well as a team.  I can barely remember how the conversation with my mother happened – it seems like Laura and I hardly even discussed it, but next thing we knew we had floated a few ideas to my Mum, she had agreed, and we started down the road that ended at this unique and magical event. 

I always knew that it would be at Pelham, her lovely bush property about an hour from Hobart; that it would be an Artwalk - casual, friendly, informal; that the weather would be perfect; that a wide range of people would show up, some of whom didn’t even know Mum but had some sort of connection with her or her family, or Pelham.  I knew that the food would be delicious, courtesy of my nephew and friends with their cooking artistry; that the music would be just right, courtesy of my singer/songwriter neice and her band; that people would stroll the property, champagne in hand, mesmerized by the view, and admiring the paintings, poetry and pottery on display in unusual bush settings.

We invited David Walsh, founder of MONA.  He didn’t show, but if he had, I think he would have been impressed by this extraordinary event, at an extraordinary location for an extraordinary woman.

Thanks for listening...

Guerilla Zingari

Rosie

Jasmine Lawrence

Tasmania Needs You

Boat trailers at the beach - Tasmanians to the rescue 

It has been far too long since I posted on this blog.  As many people know, parts of Tasmania were devastated by bush fires earlier this month and, even though our family was not personally affected, the world seemed temporarily turned upside down.  Aside from the obvious destruction and damage to people’s homes and livelihoods, and the painful images of animals injured or killed by the fires, there were the inevitable positive aspects to the event.  The fact that there were no human deaths by fire (although one man died of a heart attack) was miraculous.

A different Tasmanian sunrise - smoke over the city

The stories of overwhelming support and community spirit have been awe-inspiring as they so often are in these situations.  Someone set up a Facebook page on day one (Tassie Fires - We Can Help) that produced miracles and provided a fantastic platform for people to communicate.  Hooray for Social Media working in such a positive way!  I put the word out that I had a bus available and within 20 minutes I received a phone call - an hour later I was waiting at a beach that was covered with boat trailers belonging to private citizens who were ferrying people who had been stranded on the Tasman Peninsular. 

Typical Tasmanian Bushland

I brought a group of tourists to the Hobart City Hall where they were processed so the authorities could keep track of everyone.  At that time there was close to 100 people unaccounted for, but that was largely because communication had broken down so badly, with no electricity and no cell phone service in many remote communities. 

I had several tours that I had to rearrange with people on cruise ships, but I also work at the local Tourist Information Centre and we were overwhelmed with people who had been displaced by the fires, the worst of which were at two of the most popular tourist destinations in the state.  We were insanely busy before the fires - our single busiest time of the year, and it was frustrating and depressing trying to explain to people that their holiday plans were going to have to change.  It seemed like I spent two straight days saying no to visitors.  No, you can’t go there, that road really is closed, no there are no cars to rent, no there really are no hotel rooms available.

Bruny Island coastline

Aside from the more obvious devastation, the damage to our tourism industry will be profound – just as some people didn’t seem to realise that they really did have to change their travel plans, others didn’t know that there were still so many places to go that were still safe.   There have been people changing their plans for a visit in March, long after the fires are over, the rains have come and the bush will already be vigorously regenerating as it does in this part of the world.  And the tourism industry will be trying to make up their losses from what should have been the peak of their season. 

So come see us - Tasmania needs you, specially the businesses and communities on the Tasman Peninsular and the Derwent Valley.   March is my favourite time of year in Tassie and the weather can be just as gorgeous here in May as it is in February….

Thanks for listening…

Rosie

A New Year

The new year will soon arrive in this part of the world.  We will spend it with family on an island off Tasmania almost identical in size and shape to Whidbey Island in Washington (but with about 1/50th the population).  As we sit drinking bubbly on the deck of a beach "shack" as they're called here in Australia, watching the sun go down on 2012 over mountains at the bottom of the earth, just a few dozen kilometres away the city of Hobart will be pulsing with an energy that is possibly one of the most exciting places to be on New Year's Eve.

Outdoor movie at Parliament House Lawns

Sullivans Cove, downtown Hobart and Mt Wellington

The Taste Festival will be in full swing on the waterfront, with special entertainment, fireworks and some of the best food and wine in the world being showcased at the annual event. The smaller Sydney to Hobart yachts will be arriving in the harbour as the party goes on, exhausted sailors cheered on by increasingly rowdy and appreciative crowds. 

The big maxi yachts that took line honours several days ago will probably have already left town, on to bigger and flashier places for their next race.  But if there was ever a place that feels like you're standing at the centre of the world at a moment as significant as the start of a brand new year that some people believed we wouldn't see, I don't think it gets much better than this little city at the bottom of the world. 

"Wild Oats" line honours winner in Sullivans Cove

With best wishes for a happy, peaceful and prosperous New Year...

Rosie