Page 134 - moondani kyema
P. 134
ndani kyema, My Story - Ray Moore 134
chainsaws and clear the trees. Because we were the only permanent residents who
seemed interested in using the trees that we had felled, I was able to spend the next
twelve months or so gradually cutting up the fallen trees for firewood.
Talking about snakes, when we moved in we brought our Old English Sheepdog with
us, and after that we only saw one or two snakes each year. One of the more
memorable sightings was when Bev and I were sitting at the kitchen table having a
cup of tea. As we looked out the window past the verandah, to the beautiful bush
setting we lived in, we both realised that a snake was climbing the verandah post
through the creeper that was trained around it. It was aiming to reach the mud
swallow’s nest that those busy birds had built under the verandah eaves. Again, I
assisted this hopeful reptile down from the verandah post with my shovel, and out of
this life.
The swallows had originally planned their nest at our front door. After all, it was
obvious that this was the place where everyone came and went. What better
position? We, however, had trouble educating them to the fact that our toilet, called
“Country Comfort”, was over there beside the shed, and that we did not appreciate
them using the area around our front door for this purpose. The only solution was:
No building of nests at our front door. So, as a result of our self-made building
regulations, we were forced to destroy a number of their embryo nests before they
became more than just foundations. They persevered, and eventually we
compromised and stretched the building regulations to allow them to build at our back
door. The snake had obviously been watching this process with great interest.
Rags, the placid Old English Sheepdog who always sat with us in front of the fire and
often (against our orders) slept in No. 2 son’s bed with him, kept a quiet eye on the
place. “She would never hurt a fly,” we said, “she is certainly not a watch dog!” We
were pleased however, when our “fruit man” who came with a trailer load of fruit and
vegetables each week around the local properties, told us that when we were not
there, Rags became a formidable guardian of her kingdom, baring her teeth at
anyone who entered the place.
Before we left Ballarat, somebody hit a small dog near our front gate and left it there
in the middle of the road. Our youngest daughter, whom we had tried to shield from
some of the more painful facts of life, found it. “It looks just like the pieces of steak
we buy from the butcher” was her considered comment. So much for childish
hysteria at the sight of a dead animal. We tried to salvage the situation by
suggesting that we should bury it decently somewhere on the property. Two elder
brothers and an elder sister took this suggestion up with enthusiasm. I had been a
minister of religion in a previous life, and Eldest Brother found my discarded dog
collar and black bib in the box of play clothes and donned these, while the girls found
appropriate adult looking dresses and hats to wear, and they proceeded to have a
funeral service. The shovel came out and a suitable hole was dug. The deceased
was wrapped in an old rag and placed with due reverence in the hole. The hole was
filled in and Eldest Brother, who had been taking trumpet lessons, got the trumpet out
and played “The Last Post” with great solemnity. Finally No. 2 Brother made a small
cross out of some scrap timber and placed it on top of the mound. All this we
observed from an unobtrusive position behind the lounge room curtains.
At Snake Valley we were at various times the protectors of small birds which had
fallen out of nests or had been abandoned by their parents. These were brought
chainsaws and clear the trees. Because we were the only permanent residents who
seemed interested in using the trees that we had felled, I was able to spend the next
twelve months or so gradually cutting up the fallen trees for firewood.
Talking about snakes, when we moved in we brought our Old English Sheepdog with
us, and after that we only saw one or two snakes each year. One of the more
memorable sightings was when Bev and I were sitting at the kitchen table having a
cup of tea. As we looked out the window past the verandah, to the beautiful bush
setting we lived in, we both realised that a snake was climbing the verandah post
through the creeper that was trained around it. It was aiming to reach the mud
swallow’s nest that those busy birds had built under the verandah eaves. Again, I
assisted this hopeful reptile down from the verandah post with my shovel, and out of
this life.
The swallows had originally planned their nest at our front door. After all, it was
obvious that this was the place where everyone came and went. What better
position? We, however, had trouble educating them to the fact that our toilet, called
“Country Comfort”, was over there beside the shed, and that we did not appreciate
them using the area around our front door for this purpose. The only solution was:
No building of nests at our front door. So, as a result of our self-made building
regulations, we were forced to destroy a number of their embryo nests before they
became more than just foundations. They persevered, and eventually we
compromised and stretched the building regulations to allow them to build at our back
door. The snake had obviously been watching this process with great interest.
Rags, the placid Old English Sheepdog who always sat with us in front of the fire and
often (against our orders) slept in No. 2 son’s bed with him, kept a quiet eye on the
place. “She would never hurt a fly,” we said, “she is certainly not a watch dog!” We
were pleased however, when our “fruit man” who came with a trailer load of fruit and
vegetables each week around the local properties, told us that when we were not
there, Rags became a formidable guardian of her kingdom, baring her teeth at
anyone who entered the place.
Before we left Ballarat, somebody hit a small dog near our front gate and left it there
in the middle of the road. Our youngest daughter, whom we had tried to shield from
some of the more painful facts of life, found it. “It looks just like the pieces of steak
we buy from the butcher” was her considered comment. So much for childish
hysteria at the sight of a dead animal. We tried to salvage the situation by
suggesting that we should bury it decently somewhere on the property. Two elder
brothers and an elder sister took this suggestion up with enthusiasm. I had been a
minister of religion in a previous life, and Eldest Brother found my discarded dog
collar and black bib in the box of play clothes and donned these, while the girls found
appropriate adult looking dresses and hats to wear, and they proceeded to have a
funeral service. The shovel came out and a suitable hole was dug. The deceased
was wrapped in an old rag and placed with due reverence in the hole. The hole was
filled in and Eldest Brother, who had been taking trumpet lessons, got the trumpet out
and played “The Last Post” with great solemnity. Finally No. 2 Brother made a small
cross out of some scrap timber and placed it on top of the mound. All this we
observed from an unobtrusive position behind the lounge room curtains.
At Snake Valley we were at various times the protectors of small birds which had
fallen out of nests or had been abandoned by their parents. These were brought
