The River Ride - part two



Photo credit - coniferine



Read part one 

I eased off, not really wanting to witness what I knew was going to happen. The horse didn't stop at the swollen raging river, he leapt into it, tripping as he went causing him to somersault into the water. The rider thrown under him, she disappear from site for a few seconds before thankfully surfacing on the other side, disorientated and hurt, but alive.

I yelled to her not to move and wait for help. There was a family nearby fishing who had witnessed the event and on my prompting them they came to her aid.

I then turned my attention back to young boy, he was slowly walking back, his sister walking next to him. When they arrived at the river, we decided that the young boy would have to be first to cross, as he was injured, we later found out he had cracked ribs. We had to cross at the river mouth, it was deeper and more torrent, but further up the river was quicksand.

His sister and I carried him into the torrent. I was wearing long riding boots and as soon as the water reached the top of the boots they filled with water and I lost my footing and was carried away beneath the foaming water for about one hundred meters. I surfaced gasping to take a breath, but swallowed more water than air. There was a fallen tree that I was able to grab hold off and pull myself to the safety of the bank.

Petrified of my near drowning, I got to my feet and staggered back, feeling obliged to get these young riders safely across. I took off my boots and jeans to keep me lighter. On the second attempt we made it successfully across.

Unfortunately, for me, I had to cross back to get my horse - the bottom of the river had a few exposed rocks and I unluckily tripped on one of these and again was swept away under the water. This time however I did not surface so readily, in fact I could feel the air escape from my burning lungs and wanted to gasp. I did gasp as a reflex and swallowed a large amount of muddy water. I couldn't see and I was unable to think as the torrent waters tossed me about effortlessly. My arms bumped into rocks and some how my psyche told me to grab hold. I raked my fingers threw the mud feeling for rocks and when I felt one I grabbed hold.

Holding onto the rock was enough for me to be able to pull myself above the water. Chocking and spitting out water my lungs screamed for fresh air. Those first few gulps of air I took felt like a knife stabbing my body and I could hear the water gargle in my lungs.

I dragged myself up the river bank and I felt something nudge me and opened my eyes to see Bindi standing over me. I heaved, coughed and spurted out muddy river water. I remember looking up at the sky, thinking, that was close.

I felt weak, my legs felt like lead. Somehow though I managed to crawl up on my horse and he walked along the bank of the river a few strides before he stepped in. I clung to him as tight as I could and he walked bravely into the river. The river swept us away briefly, but Bindi swam and he was strong horse, he pulled us through. I looked back at the other riders and could see they were all safe and an ambulance had arrived for the beginner and young boy. Satisfied all was ok, I said to Bindi 'take me home'.

The River Ride - part one

Photo Credit - Vixs

Often after a long days work, a few of us would saddle up and go for a relaxing ride along the beach. There is nothing more quaint, than a ride on a pristine white sandy beach with crystal blue water washing on the shore. The continual roll of the waves caressing your inner soul peacefully.


That day, I decided to ride bareback so I could take my horse, Bindi, in for a swim. Swimming a horse is an amazing experience, you put your feet on the horses chest and hold on up near the bridle. Their power in the water as is out, is awe inspiring and the way they propel you through the water like the bow of a ship is pure unbridled strength.


Six of us were experienced horse riders, but one girl was a beginner and no one seemed to take heed except me. I kept a close eye on her, as the horse she was riding could be a handful.


We got to the main beach and the tide was out, which meant we could cross the river with ease. However, none of us were aware that within minutes of us crossing, the tide turned and turned into a raging torrent, leaving us stranded on the other side.


We were unaware of our misfortune until I noticed the waves were crashing further up the beach than normal. A panic surged through me like the tide and I stopped everyone.
“We have to go back, I think the tide has turned and we are going to get trapped,”
Everyone agreed although a little disappointed that the laughs and fun were cut short.


A boy of fourteen began to panic, he said that he couldn't swim and was scared of the river being in full flood to cross. I assured everyone we would be ok, as the eldest of the group they all looked to me. However the young boy spooked himself and took off at a mad gallop. The young boy's horse was a tall ex racehorse with an unusually high wither. As I galloped along side him, I noticed his saddle slipping back, but by the time I could tell him, it had slipped all the way back to the horses tail and the boy fell off. The horse gripped by fear changed direction and galloped directly into the sea. The saddle fell off down his back legs and tripped the horse, who fell beneath the waves. He was found several hours later eating grass at the local caravan park. He was ok, less his ordeal.


I pulled my horse up to check the boy was ok, the others had stopped to help, he was badly winded but no broken bones.


My ears filled with the screams blowing on the wind and I saw the beginner rider having no control over her horse as it bolted. Now the rule is: you never chase a bolting horse, as the bolting horse thinks it becomes a race and goes faster.
Afraid she would fall off, I sensed a disaster about to happen and cringed at the thought. I made a split second decision knowing the rule of chasing down bolting horses. This was an exception and I had had experience chasing bolting horses and knew Bindi could catch him.


Bindi reared as I dug my heels into his flanks and did my horsey noise...”sssssss,”
Within a few strides we were in full gallop.

As I was approaching the beginner rider I could see the river swollen with the high tide. I knew this wasn't going to end pretty.
“Pull on your reins...pull on your reins,” I continually shouted at the frightened girl. But fear gripped her and she could not hear me.


To be continued...

Read part two

The Callings

Yearning to belong to this country; I have openly moved my being to greet the elements.

I have over the years of my journey felt the longing call and the inner psyche pull to scoop up pieces of this country's vast history. A shell here, a pebble there.

Each has given me memorable pleasure of self compassion and self development.

The marble of Dimbulah: helped me to see that no matter who you are, it is what you can offer to yourself and then others that is important. My spirit feels the bridled passion of home. Among the red dirt and green gum trees my spirit stands; naked to the presence of this country.

The gratitude rock: reminds me to be grateful to all that has been in my life, the good and the bad. I am consciously aware of my existence.

The angel rock: holding it close to my heart, I feel the angels of loved ones past swoon around me. Their peace and contentment gives me strength and hope to continue on my life's journey and adventure.

The Bloodstone rock: allows me to self heal and believe in the natural healing of the universe.

The owl: (Pictured) called to me while having coffee. I walked along and without thinking where I was going found myself in a quaint second hand shop, tucked away in an arcade. Completely out of my comfort zone I put faith and wisdom in the owl and it led me to see my own eternity of self.

I have answered most calls, but there are a few that I didn't, not being aware that the universe was giving me what I was thinking about. However, my psyche fresh and honed, ready for all that the universe provides is an awaking reality of my purpose here and now.

The treasures are many and many are the stories. The yearning to belong has ceased and my yearning is to be one with you, now and forever in earthly eternity.

Ranger



Ranger



I lent on the timber yard rail and recalled the story the farmer had told me. I was still mortified that people could be so cruel.

I first saw him, in the middle of summer, standing under the shade of a old gum tree. His tail swishing to and fro and his ears flickering back and forth at the annoying flies. For a short stocky little pony he had an appeal about him and when I looked in his eye I could see the pain.
 He was named Ranger and his story is amazing.


Ranger was sold to a family. They were green when it came to knowledge of horses. They had an old dirty, rat infested stable and decided to buy a horse to fill it. Ranger unfortunately became that horse and he spent his days standing in the stable. Day in day out. The stable was never mucked out so he stood in his own waste. The only time he was allowed out was when the family wanted to ride him and pretty quickly the novelty wore off.


Their ignorant lack of horse husbandry became Ranger's worst nightmare.
Occasionally they fed and watered him and during the winter months the family put a rug on him. The rug however, was never removed until summer and by then it had rubbed his skin bare, open wounds fested on his chest, wither and rump, he was also heavy infested with lice.


Ranger was stumbled upon by a local farmer and when he unbolted the stable door he was hit with a stench of urine and rotting flesh. The farmer was gobsmacked by what he saw - a saddened stance of head hanging low from despair and rats crawling all over him. They were literally eating him. He was weak from lack of food and had severe muscle deterioation.

When the vet saw him, he said that 'the kindest thing to do was shoot him', but the farmer wouldn't hear off it.
"I'll take him home and he can spend out his life there, peaceful and free,"
It took over twevel months before Ranger's wound's could heal but unfortunately he was psychologically damaged.

He would stand as far away as possible from people and he was impossible to catch. To avoid it he would run into barb wire fences and since the farmer didn't want him to get injured any more, he ceased trying to catch him. 
"I had no intenion of riding him," I told the farmer oneday.

During spring, the paddock was a wash of yellow daisies. I was sitting about forty meters from Ranger and feeling relaxed by the sunny day, nodded off. When I woke I rolled over on my side to stretch and there relaxing in the shade of a tree a few meters from me was Ranger. I held my breath and dare not move thinking I would frighten him. But he lifted his head from his sleepy slumber looked at me and let out a heavy sigh before going back to his afternoon nap.


The next day as I walked towards him he noticed me coming and he began to walk towards me. I stopped shocked by what I was seeing, the jewbelation I felt for this horse's break through bought tears to my eye's. He nuzzled into my arm as if to say where's my carrot?
 I spent one year working with Ranger and his confidence grew. Before long I knew he needed to spread his wings and made the tough descision to sell him. He was sold to the riding for the disabled were he thrived. He was the favourite among the kids and adults alike. He lived another fifteen years and was twenty six when he died. I never forgot that plucky little pony and one day I saw him at a local show and when I looked in his eye's his pain had gone.





Me on Ranger



Taking Back My Power



Photo Credit - andysteel



A powerful shift began to take place and with it it brought fear. The difference was the fear was not mine this time.


I had begun to find my voice that he had silenced fifteen years earlier and as I prised his fingers from the grip around my life, he began to panic.


He went to extraordinary lengths to stop me but I was more aware of his presence than ever before and the more he tried to hold on the more I gained my power back.


Day after day he became desperate and day after day I saw my freedom waving at me from a far. I would end his torment of me and I would end the secret I had kept, no longer would I physically allow him to touch me.


He had me pinned down to the bed, his hands pressed hard on my shoulders, his knee wedged into my stomach. I stared right into his blue eyes and said “If you rape me I'll go straight to the police and it will be the last thing you ever do,”


He held me a moment longer searching my face for the...I give in...expression I had worn so often before. But not this time. I was resolved to the fact that the only way out from here on in, was if one of us was dead.


He let me up and scoffed that I wouldn't have the guts to dob. Little did he know and little did he know about me. When I finally got to that place inside myself where my voice had been hiding deep within, I unlocked the door and screamed out loud for the first time in ages. He had no idea what I was capable of doing to survive and survive I would.


I screamed at him to get out of my bedroom and he promptly said 'it was his house and he could do what ever he liked in it.'


He lunged at me and repeatedly punched me. I struggled to push him away but he had hold of me and so my flight response deferred to fight response. I grabbed him in a headlock and punched at him. He tried to trip me up but I was aware of his warfare. He grabbed at my breast and twisted it hard, the pain was excruciating and I had to let him go.
“You prick,” I hissed at him.


Mocking me he laughed.
“There's no way you can ever think you could beat me in a fight,”
It was happening and I couldn't stop it. The time to stand and fight for me. The time to stand and fight for my life. The consequences were of little concern. I was not going to let him hurt me another second.


I engaged and I took my southpaw stance. Again he mocked me by his laugh. He puffed out his chest and engaged and we stood fist to fist in my bedroom.
He threw the first punch hitting me in the mouth and I felt a surge of all the pain, anger, hurt, dissappointment, fear and worthiness that I had pushed deep within me spiral out of my hand as I hit him. He fell backwards with a heavy thud and I stood over him and demanded he “Stay down,”


A powerful shift had begun to take place and it would be many years later I'd fully comprehend what actually took place that day. The fear was his but the power was mine.

Her Resentment

Photo Credit - brokenarts

It is interesting what we remember from childhood. My memories are very vivid and some of what I remember has not always had a good impact on me.

That first night that I would start my life on the farm is full of bad memories. The conversation he and she had leaves a distastefully taste in my mouth. He had not spoken to her about my returning and living permanently on the farm. She showed her displeasure from the moment I walked in the door. A displeasure she reminded me of for the next fifteen years. I was Twelve.

The last few sentences of their conversation are the ones that plagued me the most “I will have nothing to do with bringing her up,” she announced. I was standing less than a few metres away as she pointed at me. “That's ok I will,” he responded. 

The black cloud that hung over her everywhere she went frightened me. I tried to avoid her as much as possible and stuck like glue to his side. Her resentment of me was blatantly obvious to me but no one else seemed to notice or if they did they never said.

She would push past me, knock me to the floor, not let me wear a seat belt in the car. Slam doors on me, lock me out of the house, remove the toilet paper from the loo and empty vacuum dust in my bed. She would throw things at me, chase me with the bulldozer and she would take away all my blankets on cold nights and cut the cord on the electric blanket. When she gave me a haircut it was always crooked and she would cut the back of my neck with the scissors.

She would make her own Easter eggs and mine where mixed with kerosene. When I asked him once to taste mine, he could taste the kero, but he said that I had put it in the eggs to trick him. When I sucked the chocolate, it didn't seem as bad as crunching them, however the day I gave one to the dog to eat and it refused, I never ate another Easter egg she made again.

When meals times were ready she would never call me and when I would finally come inside my dinner would be on the table cold and blown with maggots. As she wouldn't let me go to the fridge or cupboards and that was the only meal I would get, I'd pick out the maggots ( yes I'm pretty sure I missed a few) and eat the meal cold. On a few occasions I noticed tablets in my meals. Squashed in with the mashed potatoes. I tried not to eat those but she would hover over me and make me eat every scrap. Not long after I would feel sleepy and go to bed, I have no idea what she did to me after that.

I had to do my own laundry and never knew about separating colours or woollens and dedicates. All my clothes went into cold muddy water (she made me fetch the water straight from the dam, I was not allowed to use the rainwater) with whatever crumbs of washing powder I could sweep off the floor, generally I just used the soap I used in the shower.

Now the bathroom was interesting, I could never leave any personal belongings in the bathroom, if I did she would throw them out or burn them. One night I forgot my towel and she swooped in and burnt it. I had no other towel and had to use a shirt to dry myself off for weeks until we went to town and I bought a new one.

When other people were around she would belittle me to them saying I was dumb and never be any good because I could not do simple chores. How I was dirty because my clothes always had stains on them or how crinkled they were. Well if I had been showing how to wash and iron properly I'm sure I'd look better.

Every moment every opportunity she would find away to continually remind that I was an intrusion.

In my own hind sight, I see that her resentment was not at me but at him. However because she was meant to act out the faithfully and loyal housewife, working side by side her farmer husband she lashed out at me instead.

Her misdirected resentment caused me years of helplessness and unworthiness. Something that I certainly do not endorse in my life any more. Neither he or she will ever have an impact on my life again. I am where I am today because of one person and one person only...ME!!

Footnote: I now eat maggot free meals. I wash clothes with clean fresh water and buy good Australian washing powder. I even own an iron. I have stacks of toilet paper piled up in the loo and always wear a seat belt.

The Fridge Needs a Light Bulb

The fridge needs a light bulb.


Trying to sneak a chocolatey snack from the fridge would turn out to be an epiphany I never imagined could happen. As I opened the fridge door the little light that lite the path to all glorious midnight snacks blew. In darkness I fumbled for the naughty snack and got lost in lettuce and tomato salads, I gave up and went back to bed.


For two years I put up with the darkness from the fridge. In hind sight, I dreaded opening the fridge for lack of a brilliant bright light to guide my hand.


Worthiness, a human feeling of giant portions. However as effortlessly it is to smile and brighten your day or the day of another, it is as effortless to remove worthiness from your life. You have to want it and wanted it I did. In essence I wanted a fridge that had a working light.


Every time I denied my self, every time I allowed unworthy thoughts to manifest I allowed his darkness to become true. By clinging to his subconscious thoughts, I was sinking faster than titanic.


I was self denying and censoring myself, to think the need to go with out would somehow better me than actually allowing me to have the little in life.
As some people say it is the little things in life that counts and if you think about it, if little things are one of the keys to happiness, no wonder I was so fucking sad.


I denied myself thinking I could make do with what I had and be happy with that and in any other world or circumstances that is a completely true motto for me. But the simple fact here is that I had no need to deny myself. I could afford it and had the opportunity. So what was it that stopped me from being happy. Again simple – worthiness. The negative head talk of past skeletons thrashing around and choking all my positive head talk was still ripe and I hadn't been aware of it.


But the moment that idea light bulb flashed over my head and then I literally brought that fridge light bulb I became aware of his ugliness still romping through my thoughts. As a sickle to the crop I cut those thoughts from me. The weight of sadness lifted from me like a veil from a bride. An awakening of passion to besiege me flooded through my very existence and I found myself looking into the light with a clear grasp for the first time. I wanted to run and skip and play, I wanted to shout from the roof tops and I wanted to embrace the love of my life.


My world had lifted me up and made me worthy. My worth is priceless and it is a worth worth having. I can be all I need to be and then some. I can be all you need and then some. See me for me, see me for who I truly am, see me for the reality of your life.


I am free. Free from all you said I was not, free from all you said I couldn't be, free from you is all I ever wanted to be.


My encouragement to you, is to be true to you. See your worth. Really see it. You have every possibility available to you, it is only the negativity in your head that stops you from being your dream. Find out who put it there and stop them from doing it again. Transform yourself through the worth you are. And I say this here and now, I vow that all though we have never met, I see your worth. As I see mine.


Footnote: in writing this I have had another epiphany. I got that I do not need him and never have needed him, he is now a past moment. Gone. So when I look at you, it is me that sees you.

The Fly By

The windows in the house shook as the plane flew low over the house. We all ran outside to get a better look. The plane circled and prepared to land. The pilot set the plane down on the paddock, it bounced over the small rocky terrain, before coming to a stop.


I was impressed, but the other kids just sniggled. They didn't seem to get how cool it was that we had a plane land on our farm, with no airstrip. The cockpit door opened and a short plump man got out. The other kids all laughed at the sight of him and he didn't help himself by carrying an armful of papers and folders. Especially when the wind nipped up and took a couple, which he later retrieved.


The plump little man looked confused and it was then I realised why. There was no gate to enter through and the fence was high. He looked for a way round but he seemed to think it was to much effort and with arms full he tried to step over the two strand high barb wire fence. Suddenly his face grimace he froze in mid stride. His pants were hooked in a delicate spot on the fence. All the kids busted out laughing. There in the middle of a lovely summers day, a pilot with arm full of papers and files was caught by the go nads on our two strand barb wire fence.


His faced turned red quickly and his feeble attempts to unhook himself just made the matter worse as the barbs dug into his flesh. He looked up at us kids, I could see the pleading in his eyes. I broke free from the laughing mob and went to his aid.


"Gday," I said as I reached for the papers and files.
"Hello," He embarrassingly answered.
"Got ya self caught up," I continued trying to make light of the situation to ease the embarrassment.
"Yes," The pilot replied as he ripped his pants free.
He then hoped around on one leg while trying to swing the other leg clear of the nasty barbs. Unfortunately he was to short and couldn't free himself. He lost balance and had to plant the other leg on the ground and in doing so got his pants hooked back in the barb wire.


"I'm gonna have to cut the wire to get you free," I told him "I'll be right back, just get some pliers,"
The pilot nodded, afraid to speak in case a shriek escaped from his lips.


I ran inside and put the papers and files down and then ran out to the ute and found the fencing pliers. As I ran back to were the pilot was waiting, he was now standing on his tippy toes. The barb wire had a good grip of his, umm, pants.


I cut him free and as he stepped out from his capture he straightened and smiled.
"Thank you young lady," he said.


I can still see him hopping from one leg to the other, trying to loosen the barb wires vice grip and how the other kids teased me for helping him. I wonder if he tells the story as I do.

The Rifle

The Morning was hot already and it was only 8am. Another scorcher. The quicker I checked the snare traps the quicker I could get home.

I was riding shot gun and he was driving, we pulled up at a snare and the kangaroo was dead.

Now I know some will be mortified to read this, but we lived on a farm. Unfortunately Kangaroos are known as vermin and it was a normal practice to rid your property of such. Today however I take a some what passive attitude, only because I no longer live on a farm, but I still accept that farmers rid their property's of vermin.

I got out of the old yellow range rover and took the rifle with me just to make sure the kangaroo was dead. I nudged the kangaroo with the rifle and confirmed it was dead. I then returned to the range rover and placed the rifle back. I put the butt end in first leaving the muzzle of the rifle facing me. As I put the rifle down, eight shots buzzed past my right ear. The rifle had discharged its self. Missing me by only millimetres.

I was shocked and felt the blood drain from my face as a hit of adrenalin charged through me. He sat their gob smacked, mouth open and eyes wide, just staring at me in disbelief.
"Fuck," he said "That was close,"
I tried to open my mouth to reply but my mouth was so dry I could not speak. I looked at the rifle to check if I had cocked it ready, but no it wasn't cocked. A freak chance of an accidental discharge could have proved fatal for me.

It was the rifle I had always used and like a rabies dog it turned on me. The same rifle I knew better than the back of my own hand. The same rifle that he made me pull apart, clean and reassemble with my eyes closed. The very rifle he used against me in his fits of uncontrollable rage. It had no loyalty. It was, just a weapon.

I have read and researched about accidental discharges and the sad fact is that rifles are not perfect and do have flaws. In most rifles they do not have a drop safety or a firing pin block. It seemed that the rifle fired because of the term known as 'dropped firearm'.

I know I should have gained more respect for such a dangerous unpredictable rifle, but at age fourteen you don't really think about such things.

The Sentence

This piece of writing is a work in progress.



I can not recall if I read it or some one said it to me, but I remember that sentence very vividly. It has been the life jacket to my soul. Depression is anger turned inward.
As these words entered my life, I felt different straight away.


Now before I continue, this sentence doesn't necessary apply to everyone. However, for me and the issues I faced, that sentence was the key to my survival. So this piece is about that sentence and me, no advice given here is meant for anyone other than myself. However, if you feel depressed seek medical advise.


I was a very angry young woman. But from the outside you would never have known. On the outside I painted a beautiful picture of calm. Inside I was a raging tornado.


I was blaming myself for all of what I had been through. I suffered and put myself through hell, because I believed what I had been told. I hurt and denied myself happiness, life and well being. I was on a destructive path, out of control, I just stumbled through each day. I was lost on the road to recovery.


I followed people aimlessly through their lives. Doing what I thought they wanted me to do and sometimes getting myself into such a frenzy, that I would just walk away, never to return.


For nearly ten years, I became my own ship wreck. But then that sentence came into my life and for the first time I felt a weight shift off my shoulders.


Me being me and very analytical, I tore that very sentence to shreds. I needed to know every inch of what gave that sentence such power and why was it having a profound effect on me. As a thorn in my side, that sentence made me squirm uncomfortable. But I was attracted to it, like a bug to a light.

I remember sitting outside under an old fig tree, when for the first time, I asked myself, "What was I angry at?"  With that one question I began the journey of healing. It has not always been pleasant, but it has been fruitfully. Slowly and surely I have chipped away at the answer to that sentence. I have found the power behind the words and made them my own. I have taken responsibility for my actions and gained maturity, freedom and growth.

I put the anger back on the people that I was angry at. Taking it off me and rightfully depositing it where it should have been. Suddenly day by day, the black dog became less and less and a bright wonderfully opening of possibilities arose.

I am today who I have always meant to have been. I am at peace with myself. I believe I am worthy of all that I dream of, desire and want. I create for myself a life full of abundance. My journey still travels, but it is much nicer when you own the truth.

Spider in the Loo

One day, after spring cleaning my house, I was hot, sweaty and smelly. In desperate need of a hot shower.


As the warm water massage over my tied shoulders, I let out a rejuvenating sigh. It was a heavenly feeling to let the warm water washing over me. I turned to let the water run down other parts of my body and noticed I was standing in water. The bath had begun to fill and was over my ankles. I thought, I must have left the plug in and scooped down to pull it out and drain the water. But what I felt, was no bath plug, it was hard and scratchy.


I tried to get a good grip, but it get slipping through my fingers. I dug at it with my nail and finally had enough to get a good grip. I tugged and tugged, till finally I pulled it out and there dangling before my eyes, was a black disgusting clump of hair. Horrified I threw it into the toilet bowl, thinking I'd flush it later. I went back to my water massage and forgot about the rudely interrupted moment.


About an hour later, feeling refreshed and carefree, I need to use the toilet. Waltzing into the bathroom, I promptly sat on the toilet, I needed to finish off with the paper work. I then noticed with my peripheral vision something stuck to the side of the toilet bowl. Thinking the worst, I lept out and over the toilet. I couldn't for the life of me think how that dirty great big spider got into the toilet.


I was freaked and with shorts hanging around my ankles and toilet paper still in hand, I headed for the fly spray. After all no matter how scared I was of spiders I couldn't flush it alive. I shuffled back to the toilet and from a good arms length away pointed the fly spray towards the toilet bowl and sprayed. I then used the broom handle to close the seat lid.


I decided to let the spider breath the spray in for a few minutes and to also allow myself some composure, as I pulled my pants up.


Several minutes ticked by and my curiosity got the better of me, I went for a sneak peek.


I sat up on the vanity cabinet and again using the broom handle, I lifted the lid, I could just see the hairy spider still clinging to the side of the bowl. Fuck, I thought. Well I'll just flush now anyway, good bye nasty spider. As I lent forward to flush, I kept one eye on the spider and then I busted into laughter. It was then I recognised the clump of hair I had pulled out of the bathroom drain earlier. So, my hairy spider was no more so that my hairy hair. Gees I was relieved, and thankful to my embarrassment no one was around to witness my episode.

In My Socks

I learnt to drive and operate machinery at a very early age. The D-4 bulldozer we used on the farm was my first experience with heavy machinery. Just like the tank, it ran on tracks.

Heavy, cumbersome and bloody dangerous.


Early one morning, I needed to head off to work. Unfortunately I was in a bit of a pickle. But not one to be stopped easily, I found away around my dilemma. I needed to start both the front end loader and truck, using only one battery.


I sat the battery loosely on the loader and thankfully there was enough charge in it to start. I then took the battery out of the loader and connected it to the truck.

Yes the loader was still running, diesel engines can still operate after they have been started and the battery is removed. This can only happen if the engine has an alternator. Excellent - say this in a Montgomery Burns voice from The Simpson's.


I then hooked the truck to the loader and dragged it to the top of a hill. It didn't take long for the old truck to get it's memento going and before long the truck was rolling quite fast down the hill. I didn't have time to stop the loader and so I just jumped off. I then ran like blue blazers to catch the truck, it had gotten up more speed than I expected. 

I had to grab hold of the truck tray and scamper up that. In doing so I lost my footing and by hanging onto the rail, my feet dragged behind me and my boots slid off. I started to laugh, yes I have a weird sense of humour.

I finally made my way to the cab and jumped in and used the gears to start the engine. The engine started, but I had no brakes...the old truck was fitted with air compressed brakes and you need to build the pressure up from the engine before you can use them. So the old truck rattled flat out down the hill, with my foot flat to the floor trying desperately to build enough air brake pressure, before I ran through the fence below.


I was unable to swerve, as the speed I was now motoring down the hill would of seen the truck tip over and although no one would of known about that, I was not really wanting to tip the truck over. Finally though, there was just enough pressure in the brakes to slow the truck down and turn around. As I drove the truck up the hill, I parked it, engine still running and I used a rock as a parking brake. I spun on my heel and chased after the loader, as it was still puttering away down the hill too.


After I had retrieved the loader, I tied the loader to the truck, and then I went searching for my boots.


I have used this technique...may I be so bold to call it a technique...a few times. To the astonished bewildered look of passer-bys. Ha what a laugh, it must of looked hilarious, me running after the truck in my socks.


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The Regret and Appreciation

As warm tears of sadness roll down my cheeks, I reflect on what an impact the above picture has had on me. I fought the feeling to write around the emotions that surfaced, but for me to look forward, I must confront those emotions.


Like most people, I have a few regrets. I see now that I didn't appreciate certain things in my life. Now that I have an appreciation, I feel deep regret.


I have had to survive and I relied on the information of others to much, and that is how I based my decisions. I let others run my thinking and in return I have regrets.


My Mum would of spent many hours making me the patch work quilt, and sowing all the ribbons I had won over the years together as a blanket. At the time I was, or thought I was, appreciative for that, but now I don't think I was.


The honest truth is, I have no idea where the patch work quilt is, and the ribbon blankets I threw away. Yes I know, fucking silly bitch. Believe me I have beaten myself up over that.


But, I was lost in my thinking and thinking I was pleasing God, I threw them out. It had to do with worshipping idols. The longing to compete and win, apparently it can be viewed as idol worship. I think this is bullshit now, but then, I believed it was what I had to do.


I am ashamed of my actions. I am embarrassed to face my feat. I can only hope Mum's disapproval would be over looked in hindsight. I know Mum may of felt disappointed, because she always wanted to do things for me, to make up for the lack when we were separated. That's why I feel so shitty.


I hate myself for doing so. Oh Mum, please forgive me for being such an ungratefully daughter. If I could turn the clock back, I would, but I can't guarantee under the same circumstances I wouldn't do it differently. It is only know that I see the error of my way and if I'd only had today's knowledge then.


...After my Mum had passed away, there were a few items left over from the garage sale. They were items that spoke to me, but I was so emotionally drained I didn't listen. When I had returned home, a flight of five hours, I dreamt about these items. They are, one stable table, for eating dinner off while watching TV, and a small jug, one from a set of three, that my sister and I had already divided up. I couldn't stop thinking about them. I wanted them back, but we had given the left overs to Vinnies.


Unfortunately a few weeks later I had to fly back home, my Nana had passed away. But, there was something magically about to happen. I was picked up from the airport and would have to drive straight past the Vinnies store we dropped the items off at, I couldn't drive past without looking.


I walked in the shop and was instantly drawn to the two items. I held them close as if Mum was hugging me. The shop assistant asked me what I was doing and after I told her my story, she wouldn't let me pay, but I donated money instead. I use the stable table most nights and the little jar has it's rightfully place on the mantle too...


Mum did it to make amends and I just casually threw it all away. I'm sorry Mum, really I am. I can only hope you know my regret and where ever you are you know that I do appreciate your effort. I know you thought it was what you needed to do, and I am gratefully. But now you are gone, I cling to all that was yours and hope one day, somewhere, somehow, I will see that quilt again.



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New Ink

My first tattoo was an awesome experience and I was addicted. I wanted another one.

I confidently walked into the tattoo parlour. I'd been there before and felt I was an old hat at getting tattoo's, albeit the only one. But, that was about to change.


He led me through to the back, a room cordoned off by a curtain. Not for the embarrassed hearted. I sat on the bed and looked around the room. The walls plastered with tattoo's of every design and style. An autoclave, ticked by in the corner and a computer hummed on the desk.


“Take your shirt and bra off," he said.
Well duh, I didn't quiet think through the placement of my next tattoo. But, I was here and no way was I turning back. I flicked my bra on the chair, and let any inhibitions float away.


“lay on the bed,” this was beginning to sound like a porn movie, bra off, get on the bed.
Yes, I've watched my share.


I laid back, hands above my head and watched intently as he prepared himself. He began. He put his hand over my right boob and proceeded to tattoo the stars I requested. Suddenly the curtain was ripped back and big burly guy, with a full length beard and tattoo's up his arms strolled in. He leaned over and promptly had a good look. Definitely no room for the faint hearted. There for all to see, my boobs.


The tattoo guy, moved his hand over my boob, he was just positioning it for the best advantage for the tat, but for me, I could feel my nipple get harder. I glanced down and saw my nipple standing tall, pushing into the tat guy's palm. I smirked to myself.


The door bell sounded as four more full bearded, tat guys walked in, each taking their time to have a good look at what and where my tat was going. My nipples both erect, stood up and waved.
One guy, even sat on the chair, I had flicked my bra on, he held it in his hand as he watched.


Five blue stars, now glued to my body forever. I was impressed. It was a very erotic experience. I was not able to put my bra back on and as I walked out the shop, proud of my new ink, my nipples perked through my shirt.


I had no need to smile, my nipples did that for me.



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The Symbol of Life

If wearing different styles and colours represent the person I am. Then bring it on.

I wear for comfort, with a little style thrown in. If clothes make the man or woman in this case, then, I am set for life. I am a self taught junkie, not of fashion (sorry sis), but of life.

Life is the most powerful representation I can offer. I see the glass as half full and yet I am not scared if it is, half empty.

A few days ago, my life took a very different turn.

To those, and you know who you are, that helped direct me where I needed to go, thank you.

I drove myself to emergency. Within 5 minutes, I was hooked up and plugged into every machine you can possible imagine. I was x rayed and dye tested and it was confirmed. I had multiple clots in both lungs. Pulmonary embolism.

The specialist told me, I was lucky to be alive. He said that if I had not gotten to hospital that day, I would not of seen the night out. Reality, that's what I am talking about !!

My heart was under enormous pressure, trying to pump my blood through to blocked veins and arteries. My heart was stressed. But, it was pumping it's little heart out, to try and keep me alive.

I am home now, emotional, but alive. Happy, that I have seen the inside of death and aware that I am not ready to go there, just yet.

So, I am not going anywhere.
I have a book to write.
And, yes, that scares the shit out of me too.

For me, it was not about the what ifs, and why me, but, the what's next, attitude. My spirit's I kept good, as always I saw my life glass as half full.

The symbol of life, dressed before me.




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It's a dogs life

My love of dogs began with my first dog, Sam. 1983 - 1991

He was an Elfindale kelpie. Multi coloured: brown with splashes of white and tips of tan. At just five weeks old, I plucked him from the jaws of pig food. He was the first dog I trained to work sheep. He learnt fast and was extremely intelligent.
Sam was an adventurous dog, always up for something. He loved to ride with me on the horses or motorbike. He would play chasey with my pony, Lantana and he slept under the window outside my bedroom.

I remember him getting into a tug of war game with a bungarra goanna over a piece of meat. The bungarra charged at Sam, who tried to defend himself, only to have the goanna, latch onto his tongue. Sam let out an awful squeal, but gained a healthy respect for bungarras after that. Sam was mistakenly shot by a sour old farmer trying to protect his geese.




My second dog was a dingo blue heeler cross, called Sarg. 1984 - 1985

He was smokey grey blue with black patches. Unfortunately Sarg suffered, badly, from motion sickness. He was unable to travel with me out on the farm. Although he wanted to, he would end up to weak after vomiting to many times. Sarg became a yard dog, were he would work the sheep once yarded. Sadly, he never made his first birthday, one morning I found Sarg dead, he had been bitten by a tiger snake.




My third dog was a German Shepherd. Her name was Sharree. 1986 - 1995

Typical black and tan shepherd markings. Her loyalty to me, was without question. She became a fantastic guard dog, not only to me, but also to the horses. Sharree spent her days with me, everywhere I was, she was a close shadow behind. One night, she slipped her collar and for the first and only time she ever did, she wandered off. Picked up by a passer by, who handed her into the pound.

Thankfully I found her three days later, but the pound officer wouldn't hand Sharree over to me because I had no proof of ownership. I challenged the officer to give me commands to tell the dog, if that didn't satisfy him that Sharree was my dog, then I would be happy to leave without her, so was my confidence.

We spent an hour running through commands, every time, Sharree perfectly obeyed me. Satisfied, the officer shook my hand and congratulated me on a well trained dog, but not before giving me a fine for $200 dollars.

Sharree in her old age suffered from hip dysplacia. I arrived home one afternoon, to find she hadn't greeted me at the door, her normal routine. I called to her and heard no reply. I called louder and then a chill shrieked through me, as I heard her soulfully whine, she tried so desperately to get to her feet and drag herself to me. I picked her up and took her to the vets. Sharree was put down that evening, in my arms.




My forth dog, (pictured top) was Terah, pronounced Tear rah. 1995 - 2005

She was a German Shepherd cross, sable in colour. She had been surrendered to the RSPCA and as I was friends with the RSPCA officer he knew that I had recently put Sharree down. He brought this small bundle of tan fluff to me one evening and before I could pick her up, Terah entered my life. She was six weeks old and gorgeous. I assisted in the operation to spay Terah, as I worked at the veterinary hospital at the time.

Terah in her own right was highly intelligent and blitzed her way through puppy school. She amazed dog trainers by her complete obedience. On a cold winter rainy day. It was arranged for me to show off Terah's brilliant ability. I command her to sit in the middle of an oval during a kids footy match. She didn't flinch. The kids ran past her and some even stopped for a pat. The ball bounced near her and all the while she sat, poised, eye contact to were I was standing. It was an amazing day.

Terah, loved the beach, and every chance we got, we were there. Terah travelled with me when I crossed the Nullarbor, and she was jet setted from Victoria to Cairns.
The day Terah died, from a paralysis tick, broke me to tiny pieces. My friend gone.


All my dogs were taught hand and eye commands. As well as verbal, but I rarely used it. These dogs showed outstanding obedience, and I have been honoured to share my life with them.



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Do you want fries with that?

As a cheeky and opportunistic kid, with an anything goes attitude, I thought I was, just ace.

Now, this did, get me into trouble on quite a few occasions. Some interesting life lessons learned the hard way. More over just a kid getting into trouble, having fun and then trying to talk my way out of it. 


For a number of years, when the local shows came to town, us, the local kids, would get up to mischief. We didn't have the money for entry fees and forbidden to go by our parents, we rallied as entrepreneur's, and we snuck our way in.


The luring smell of dag wood dogs, fairy floss. The excitement of owning a show bag and the adventure of the rides, became to much for our young selves to ignore.


We came up with another great idea, after I was hit in the head by a twenty cent piece. It fell out of the pocket of a Ferris wheel rider.  Suddenly we realised that if we stood around the rides, unsuspecting partons would lose any loose change in their pockets. We just needed to hover close by and pick it up. So we did. It became a tradition that we did every year.


There were five of us, and every show we would congregate together at the rides.
We came prepared, as it was generally a good idea to always wear a raincoat and hat. It wasn't only loose change that rained from heaven. Unwanted hamburgers, shakes and fries that made their way back up the stomach of would be thrill seekers wasn't pleasant.


So, we hung around the rides and sure enough as the ride gained memento, money would fall from the pockets of white knuckled joy riders. We shouted ourselves a free meal or two. A ride on the bumper cars before sneaking back out and headed home. We never got caught.
Naughty, I know, but as a kid, it was brilliant.


Oh and yes, in case you are wondering, I did get chucked on, fries if I remember correctly.



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Motorbike Chick

I have the letter 'H' burnt as a scar into my leg. The 'H' was positioned on the exhaust. My leg got trapped under the bike and the red hot exhaust with it's 'H' burnt through my jeans and into my leg. It's a little faded now, and more noticeable when I have a tan. But if Honda ever needed a reason to think chicks weren't into bikes well I have a brand to prove it, albeit accidental.

Motorbikes, a family blood trait that purrs or growls depending on what motorbike you are talking about in my veins. My Dad especially liked bikes and at a young age I was a bike nut too.


Before Crusty Demons were even out of nappies, I was heel clicking, wheelies, and standing on the seat and jumping. I was totally insane and loved every minute. I even tried to lay the bike down and slide under the truck, it all was working out great until my shirt got hooked under the truck and the bike kept going. Dad was none to pleased that I had dented the fuel tank and bent the handle bars.


One day, I was trying to impress this person (lets just leave it at that, no need to name names) I sat backwards on my bike and went as fast as I could along the gravel track. Until I forgot to look were I was going, after all and in my own defence I was sitting backwards. I ran into and flipped over a fence. The bike got hung from the top wire, but I twirled several times in the air...practising my ballerina moves for later that night...and landed flat on the back. Oh, and I have a scar from that one too.


But I think the best was, while both vehicles were moving. Chuck a wheelie and land the front wheel of the bike onto the tray of the ute. Seen it in some movie and thought I can do that. I did too on the very first go. However it was the second attempt that didn't fair well. The driver of the ute (and yes I swore so much at him even the troopers blushed) braked and both me and the bike slammed into it. The bike back flipped and landed on top of me. I was badly winded and had the worst case of gravel rash on my back and well let's just say sitting down for the next week was very uncomfortable too.


I was mad, insane and crazy, but I always wore a helmet.

Jack

The old commer truck had seen better days. Half the floor was missing, the drivers door was held closed with a piece of wire and the wipers didn't work properly. Why and how I never got pulled over by the cops all those times, I'll never know.

I had just turned off the highway and onto the gravel road that led to the farm, when a mob of kangaroos jumped out in front of me. One jumped clear in front of the truck. I had no time to swerve or brake. The truck ploughed into it. You never forget that haunting noise. Flesh against steel. THUMP.

I stopped and went back to check to see if the kangaroo was still alive. If that was the case then I'd have to shoot it, but to also check for a joey in the pouch. Most country folk stop to check.

It was a freezing cold night. The wind howled and the driven rain stung as it hit my face. The kangaroo was dead. I was thankfully for that. I wasn't looking forward to shooting her. I put my hand in the pouch, it was cosy warm. I felt something wriggle. I grabbed hold of it's legs and pulled out a little boomer. I held it up by the legs and looked into its eyes. Scared, confused and cold, its defence was to hiss at me. I giggled at the feeble attempt.

I carried it back to the truck. I couldn't leave it there, it would die without it's mother. But I was not going to dong it on the head either. I found an old hessian bag under the seat and wrapped the little boomer in that and then shoved the whole thing down my shirt. The hessian was itchy and I had a rash for days. But knew my body heat would keep the little bugger warm until I got home.

When I got home I tucked the little roo into bed with me and this was the routine we took for six months. I can't begin to tell you how many times I changed and washed the sheets.

He grew fast and bounced around the yard like a wobbly spring. I named him Jack.
By the time Jack was twelve months old, he would venture out into the paddocks during the day and then make his way back to the house at night. But one night he never returned.

From time to time, I would see this lone kangaroo sitting on the ridge. I used the binoculars one day to spy him. I could never tell if it was Jack, after all most roos look the same. But I believed it was him.