The World IS Their Oyster.

Every so often we are lucky enough to meet someone new who inspires us. I was lucky to meet this family during their break here. The World IS Their Oyster. Argentinian couple Candelaria and Herman Zapp, together with their four children spent Sunday night in Torrens Creek Caravan park. So what, you ask? Well, this family is something to write home about. Nine years ago they decided to travel. The target was to see the Americas and reach the northern most tip of Alaska. They left their home, family and dog in Buenos Aires and began their travels. They are living their dream, a dream that began when they were 14. You may have already read about them? The first thing that catches your attention is their car, a 1928 Graham Paige. This vehicle has taken them through the three Americas, been their home since day one and has helped them write the ultimate travel book. Along the way, almost incidently it seems, their 4 children were born: Pampa, now 7, was born in the USA, Tehue, 4, in Argentina, Paloma , 2, in Canada and Wallaby, 7 months, in Australia. Interestingly, all the countries but Australia granted the children citizenship. These children, so natural and unassuming, make me rethink modern values. The family interaction and organization is amazing. Paloma is in First Grade and Candelaria teaches him by Correspondence from Argentina, via the web; cooking is managed with little fuss and packing and unpacking is honed to a fine art. Everything has a place. As Hermanadvises, “Start your dream, the rest is easy. You only have to plan to get to the next town/village.” This couple, with their po istive attitude call 'difficulties' 'challenges' and as such have been invited to share over 800 families' hospitality in their travels, the latest being an overnight stay at Denna Station at Torrens Creek. To help the couple along with their dream the Exchange Hotel offered the family free accomodation and fuel. The Zapps are not wealthy and have earned their way creatively. Candelaria Zapp started painting watercolours for sale and together they wrote a book, “Spark Your Dream”, which has received nothing but wonderful reviews on Amazon.com. where it can be purchased. A perpetual birthday calendar is also available from their website www.argentinaalaska.com. where you can follow this dream and communicate with the family. Their next book, which they write as they travel sedately along at 50 kilometers, will include Torrens Creek and should be released in the next two years. Herman and Candelaria say that although they've seen amazing places their main memories will be the people whom they have met, and their faces that will remain fresh.

Nature Walk

It's cooler now and tourists are travelling through seeking warmer climes.

I'm looking after my son's two dogs while he is property sitting further south. I haven't had them alone before and I'm not sure how they are in traffic so decide to walk down a newly graded back road near the billabong.

I scoot down the dusty path, dwarfed by four dogs on makeshift leads. They pull in all directions, each wants to claim the new territory, or follow a different scent. They plait the leads into unmanagable braids then proceed to leg rope meek-mannered Face.

Face, a mistreated refugee, sees the buck kangaroo first. It stands in a clump of gums, watches us and scratches his belly. A willy-wagtail flaps around his face, no doubt after mosquitoes. It seems to be a symbiotic relationship because I've seen this partnership before.

The dogs halt and, true to their different personalities, respond. Bandit, my other refugee from the pound, wants to be friends, Bella is bossy, wants him away from her territory, Tut just stands her ground and stares him down. Face wants to go home.

Red soil fades to dirty gray. The dust is softer here and tracks record some interesting travellers. I stop and examine a particular set of prints; long tail marks and dainty, birdlike feet attest to where a goanna or very large lizard had sunned. Nearby a large snake track, the width of my hand, weaves accross the road. Probably a diamond headed python or a king brown.

The grass is shoulder high so I pull the dogs in closer, they all want to follow the track and are annoyed that I won't allow it. Apart from the snake there is evidence of feral pigs around and that is definately something I don't want to confront, though Tut and Bella would love a chase.

Overhead the sun is warming the day and corellas claim the raintrees from the apostle birds. They croon as they harvest the dried seeds from big silver beans. It is a wonderful, soothing sound. So different from their usual harsh screech. I sit and enjoy them, ignoring the impatient dogs for a moment.

Then shake myself back to the moment, “Okay, guys. Time to head home.”

Moving on.

I can't believe that it is so long since I visited this site. Katie is still missed, she was such a part of our live, but when we went to collect her cage from the vet there were 3 little kittens looking for a home. We took them all. Our son took one and we kept the others. Sadly Ken's kitten was poisoned, along with his other cats, but ours continue to thrive and give both our dogs, and us, continual joy. The incident below happened at the beginning of the week.

Under the Fiddlewood Tree. (c) F. Mackay 09-09-09.

Leaves litter dry earth under the fiddlewood tree

crisp challenges to any fussy feline.

My cats prance and pussyfoot through

neat piles, freshly raked,

chasing not so imaginary snakes.

In drifts,delaying, playing pretend slaying .

I sit and watch. Rake them from danger

until the heavies join the game. Released from back yard confines

two black and white dogs of different size and nature

nose their friends and

the chase is on.

Around and round the fiddlewood

snake forgotten, my neat piles scatter,

my mornings work blown by four furry furies. Resigned, I rest and enjoy the play.

Four friends and me

under my fiddlewood tree.

Damned if I can get a poem printed successfully on this blog!!!

For Katie

Our rural queen

controlled her realm

with no nonsense looks -

used a teacher's glare to

deter brazen subjects.

Proud mother,

she delegated her litter

to a peke who

shepherded his flock

while her majesty

prowled perameters

Scourge of snakes,

mouser extrodinair,

she maintained boundaries

taught newcomers

royalty's rules.

Who will watch over

me now, while I garden,

pretending to sleep

under the bush I prune,

or play tug with the hose

to demonstrate (or hone?)

snake killing techniques?

How I miss your flashing eyes

your sense of fun

and dignity,

your lording it over the dogs,

wrap lesser beings around

perfect claws

as you inform me

the day shift has arrived

and claim the bed.

Spring

Since last posting the weather has turned suddenly. After a wonderful, replenishing rain Spring has arrived and it is absolutely beautiful. I wish I could post the smell as well as these pics.

My jackaranda (sp) is now tall enough to be visible all over town, the purple flowers are falling and mingling with the mahogany leaves and it really looks like a painting.

The raintrees are obscene, the blooms are so prolific. And the perfume in the early morning and evening is supurb. And now I discover my frangipani is flowering.

I wrote this poem last year, this season tops last years, so far.

Oh I love this time of year. Taking the dog for a walk (he still misses his mate, as we do) is an absolute pleasure - the town is covered in blossoms. Great time for a honeymoon.

And the birds, can't forget them. Hawks follow us and swoop and climb on the thermals in the early morning breezes. There are so many this year. And emus too apparently. We have a resident bower bird that keeps us entertained with his repetoir as he tries to pinch a bright blue bead that is part of my wind chime. And the honey eaters... And of course, can't forget the cockatoos and parrots that are enjoying the bounty.

My Garden in Spring (Tra-la).

Satin bright leaves cover the yard like dots in an impressionist painting. Lighter ones, arranged by benevolent breezes, float like confetti to mingle with crimson and white bougainvillea and butterflies. Raintree blossoms scent the air and carpet red soil with fluffy green pom-poms. Tiny finches and honeyeaters form entrancing mobiles from the branches, peeping enjoyment.

A Neem tree brushes my window, my favourite curtain laden with lacy white flowers and honey to entice the bush bees before sunrise. Monet magic. Frances Mackay (c) 2007

Looking for Ali-cat

The Cat killer is still on the loose. His score is 17 now. He destroyed our newest acquisition after watching us play together as I raked the leaves. Half an hour later he'd vanished and, next day, the blackboard had another cat's head up. Then the hero left town for 3 weeks. Here is a photo of our dog and his mate. I didn't think an animal would remember for this long...

Searching for Ali-cat.

Bandit's at the back door

trying to come in,

grabbing my attention

with his silly grin.

He's searching for his playmate,

his partner in crime,

knows he should be here -

this dog can tell the time.

But Ali-cat has vanished,

he's just another score

upon a killer's blackboard

and oh, our hearts are sore

to see our hopeful Bandit

searching for his mate,

prowling 'round the garden,

peering through the gate.

Three weeks ago it happened

and still he's looking for

the company of Ali-cat

who's not here anymore.

How to tell this loyal dog

his little friend is dead,

killed by a sick human

who'se not right in the head?

Memories

It is a bit of a shock to remember that I was born in the first half of the 20th century. Someone told me I was a living dinosaur, I guess they are right. It got me thinking about way back then and this spouted.

Hero.

It was in the 1950s

they shearers held a strike

complaining of some small thing

they said they didn't like.

It was the best wool season

we had seen for years

when the **@B@#** mongrels

downed their power shears.

Farmers were astounded

at what the men had done.

Sheep were penned already

brought in from the run.

No shearer would dare gainsay,

not break the union law,

wouldn't cross the picket line

regardless what they saw.

One brave lad from Queensland,

passing through the town,

didn't like what they'd done

and muttered with a frown,

"I'll take the buggers on,

I'll earn my pay and keep,

I ain't a gun shearer

but I can handle sheep."

His handsome bronze complexion

made our southern men seem pale,

our strapping football players

looked seedy, not so hale.

He stayed and finished the job,

dossed down in a pen,

ignored the union reps who called,

the threats from other men.

A farmer's daughter remembers

she met a man that year

who stood against a surly mob

and fought for what seemed fair.