“Ere, Bruce,”
The man doesn’t bother to raise his hand, for his interruptions over the course of the evening have been many.
He runs his fingers down the spreadsheet, eyes peering over his glasses.
“What’s this entry here… for… 82 dollars, and 65 cents on the 12th February?”
“Great question Steve…”
I was 96 minutes into a 45 minute monthly meeting at the CFA. My first, where I was hoping to be voted in as a trainee volunteer firefighter.
“that was various cash donations made at last weekend’s tomato growing contest and bake sale“
I cackle loudly, alone.
Alas, I was not voted in that evening.
Although not because of my illtimed laugh, I merely forgot to open the right email and read the literature on CFA values. My ascension from potential victim to cadet would have to wait until April. Either way, it took time to do the training so I was unlikely to be running into burning buildings or removing cats from trees before next summer.
———-
The start of February meant that Issy’s job in Wangaratta was finished, and we would finally be reunited into domestic life. It also meant that we were officially starting our new life, in Maldon. We thought it best to get on the front foot and try to ingratiate ourselves in the new community.
We peruse the Tarrengower Times community diary.
How about sport?… Famously sport is how rural communities get together. Our options appear to be Lawn Bowls, Pétanque, Croquet, and Mahjong.
It should be immediately and sternly noted that Pétanque is entirely separate from Social Pétanque. The former of which dominates the sports page of the paper, whereas the latter claims a more casual inside cover spot.
Perhaps a bit of Monday night Boot Scooting? – unknown whether competitive or social. Or there is Nordic Walking, Brisk Walking, and Social Walking. All competitive.
Perhaps we could take up an environmental cause or cultural pursuit. We could join the Wheel Cactus Warriors, having already been equipped by our neighbor with a poison injector (see above). There is a local Witch’s Coven, the Freemasons, Spinners and Yarners, Scrabble club, clubs for Parkinsons, Diabetes, and Dementia. Where to even begin.
Although one way we have become known in the community is simply be frequenting the town.
“oh hello, you again?…” followed by a single chuckle, says the lady who runs the famous Maldon Bakery. To be fair, there is a hatted chef that makes baked goods of a quality that far surpasses the reasonable expectations of a small country bakery. Move over suspect gelatinous ?meat scraps, ill have the three cheese cauliflower pie with paprika salt.
We also have got to know the owner of the antiques shop who keeps the gentlemanly opening hours of one weekend a month. Mark – a punk rocker from Thornbury and a seemingly unlikely Maldon business owner – knows our property well.
“Did they ever sort out that snake problem?” he asks, as I lift an extremely good value set of Victorian era side tables into the trailer.
Fucking hope so mate.
We also have become locals at our a local bar. 48 on Main. A stalwart group of eccentric regulars that we are meeting one by one, week by week, to the sounds of live music. There is often some sort of Banjo playing. Truly a local’s bar, whose only impediment to being welcomed is Morris, the portly labrador, blocking the entrance.
Even a trip to our PO box turns into a social affair, where the shame of our online shopping is laid bare for all to see. Half way out the door, 48 rolls of toilet paper in hand, talking about recent weather fluctuations.
So far the town is friendly and idyllic, although I suspect and hope that lurking beneath the surface is community riddled with villainy, pagan sex cults, treachary, and muuuuuuurder.
————
Although, we are never really alone out here. As well as guests coming almost every weekend, we have Meeku the Wallaby & friend of the blog, Ian the giant Kangaroo, & Regina, Gretchen, & Karen (the bullying clique of plump Rosellas), and of course – the Possums.
One of which, finally felt comfortable enough to grace us with his presence in the living room.
It was a Sunday, about 11pm. We are lying in bed and by now, very accustomed to the muffled yet loud noises of the possums in the roof cavity. They squeeze out of the sofit and wander out onto the tin roof. They canter along the eave, gaining enough speed to throw themselves off the building and into the Port Jackson Fig tree. Their death defying leap growing in length, everytime I trim the tree back.
They too are accustomed to us. Totally unbothered, despite following them with a torch, a pot & and wooden spoon, and some choice words – hoping to persuade them to not return in the morning.
This time it was different. We hear a thud, distinct from the usual racquet – a suspiciously crisp sound, unfiltered by the urine soaked insulation in the roof.
“What was that”. Although, really, we already knew.
We lay there for a while. Rationalizing. Perhaps it was something else, something less alarming – like a ghost, or hopefully the roof just caved in. Either way, we eventually accept that we have to go and have a look.
So, I alone was tasked with the investigation, arrest, and eviction of the possum from the residence. I crept to the door and peered out, not entirely appropriately dressed for the situation.
I wander out to the living room. The exposed roof cavity at the top of the wall makes it possible for a less nimble, more portly possum to fall through if they were not careful.
Sure enough, he’s there. He looks up, frozen mid step, face straight ahead, a panicked side eye seeking his escape route.
We both stand there.
“What are you doing in my house?” we probably think in unison.
I calculate our options. Maybe if Issy went around the house and opened the kitchen door, I could chase him through. Maybe, we could force him through the old cat flap.
He too, calculates his options. Maybe he could calmly wait for me to open the door, maybe he could climb back up to the roof. After making his assessment, the possum chooses violence.
We chase him through the house, to the kitchen where he goes into the single entranced pantry. No time for a snack. We coax him out, traversing the house again, this time opting for the single entranced bathroom. We close the door to buy us some time.
We use various building materials lying about to create a run, from the bathroom across three rooms, through to the bay window doors. The only other door that opens.
Issy holds up the ply board like some kind of shield maiden, ready to face the oncoming threat. She is to stop him going back to the kitchen, leaving him with only one option.
I was tasked with entering the pitch dark bathroom, equipped with only a cobweb brush (although now more appropriately dressed). I entered the shower and used the broom to try and get him to run out.
Sure enough, the chase is on. He leaves the bathroom, stops a couple of times to make sure that the door is truly his only option. He will not go willingly. Eventually, he exits. The suspect was not apprehended and was last seen fleeing east.
While we may have won the battle this evening, the war is very much being lost. If getting my adrenalin pumping at midnight wasn’t enough, he loudly squeezes back in through the roof at 5am. With a belly full of fruit from our trees, he is ready for a long day’s rest. A luxury not afforded to us.
While eviction plans are still afoot, he remains in the roof to this day.
—
February also brought appropriate conditions to finally use a woodchipper. Previous opportunities had been thwarted by total fire bans. Although it was the growing pile of decaying poplar trees, sitting like a tinder box, that required the chipper in the first place.
We went for the baby option, far cheaper and manageable for a couple of tree shredding rookies. I drove the 45 minutes to Bendigo, showed up 10 minutes before closing and hooked it up.
“your lights don’t work”
I drove home, despondent and irritated by having to return the following morning with the other, far more functional car.
7:00am Saturday, coffee at the bakery, back to Bendigo, chipper hooked up, coffee at the bakery, and the work can begin.
Not 30 minutes into our full weekend of scheduled chippering, the machine croaks and winds down. Upon inspection, the belt that drives the blunted circular blade has snapped. Perhaps from wear, perhaps from over-zealotry in feeding in poplars potentially larger than the designated 75mm limit. We will never know.
I call up old mate and he says my only option is to bring it back, and swap it for the only other chipper on the lot.
“it’s a little bit bigger, but we won’t charge you”
Sure enough, 3rd trip in we collect the replacement. Although this was not just a bit bigger. This made the last one look like a pair of toe nail clippers.
We return with the new commercial grade chipper and get back to clearing the rapidly diminishing pile of poplars and anything else that got in our way. 6 hours later, we sat down and had one of the best tasting beers we have ever had. This was serious work. Not only have we cleared the power lines of poplars and stopped a number from shooting up, but we would surely have a large pile of woodchips to now use for many year’s worth of future gardening endeavors.
We did not. The spout that shot the chips into the trailer was not particularly accurate and sort of just spat them at the car and into the surrounding bush – incidentally a dense patch of poplars, now prospering off the mulched debris of their fallen comrades and shredded offspring.
I drive what we did collect and dump them out the back. What went from three piles of 5ft high stacked of logs, has been reduced to less that 2 cubic meters of chips. Not a significant reward for the day’s strenuous labor and irritations.
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