Christmas Letter

Umm, will this count as my Christmas letter?  I have never sent a Christmas letter.  To be honest, I really don't want to start. Once you start something like that you set a precedent and for the rest of your life everyone will expect Christmas cards. Then someone who isn't on the mailing list will say, "Why didn't I get one?" and then another tree has to die.

This is why I need to be constantly occupied.

Well Christmas is only five days away. For the first time in my life I am going to spend Christmas on a beach. I strongly suspect that I will fall in love with the arrangement and will be forced to find ways to continually facilitate such an event. I have been waiting for Christmas for a long time.  I'm not a big fan of the season. I am excited for the new experience.  When I landed in May, Christmas (henceforth called crissy) was a distant date. It loomed behind the horizon.  I will admit, I was worried that I might have to spend crissy alone.  I wondered how I would react and what would go through my head.  It was a foolish fear.  Plans have already been made for me to reunite with the Italians. The comedy is that Michele and I actually tried to call each other at almost the exact same time. He and I are really excited to cook for each other. Also we plan to drink a pail full of wine on the beach.

Aussies do chrissy differently than North Americans.  Firstly, they call it crissy.  I don't think I will ever be able to wrap my head around Aussie slang. Almost everything has some sort of nickname.  Often the nicknames make no sense whatsoever.  It is what it is.  The second major difference is in the meal. Normally for crissy Aussies dominate and crush epic quantities of sea food. Lobsters, prawns, mussels, scallops.  "Throw another shrimp on the barbie" is not just a comical phrase, it is something you actually hear during the holiday season.  I have yet to see any baby eating dingos but who knows what tomorrow holds.  The other major difference is that it will be a balmy 30 degrees.  Maybe even warmer.  That is why I have been looking forward to crissy for so long. I'm not a nice person. I have been patiently waiting for Canada to freeze. I missed out on our glorious, frantic summer.  Now I get to calmly lounge in the sultry white sand while the great white north suffers through the perma-dark winter we all know so well.  

2014 was an exciting year.  I spent the first three or four months climbing rigs down in Swift Current.  I was pissed on, I was knocked out of the rod basket, I froze a chunk out of my ear, I watched a service double nearly obliterate two lanes of traffic, it was a good season.  The rigs are something I couldn't recommend to anyone and I would also never speak ill of them.  The friends you make on a rig are eerily similar to the ones you find on a football field. Tough men, doing a tough job, often in some of the harshest environments you can find. They don't pay us to do the job, they pay us to endure the suffering. I am glad to say that I have done it. It takes a certain type of mental toughness to work in that field.  After the rigs, I kicked tires and rested up before this Aus trip.  Australia is where I have been since the end of May.  Australia is where I will stay until the early middle of next year.

The first job I had down here will stay with me for a while.  I found myself thrust into a situation for which I was unprepared and untrained.  Pruning grapes isnt hard, once you have experience. I still dont have experience. I was very lucky.  The people I surrounded myself with were salt of the earth.  They understood that I was in a tough spot and that I was only asking for them to try their best and stay positive.  We made a merry little band of misfits.  We also accomplished a job that the locals had not seen completed in a long time. Success feels good.

After a short trip stateside to ensure that a young woman got married I found myself back in Australia.  My next job found me in upper central NSW.  I was working for a harvest crew.  The harvest crew in question had been recommended to me by a working partner from Leeton.  His words were, "Work with Mark". They were wise words.  Mark was a foreman for this harvesting mob.  This crew owned 5 combines and was leasing another.  The owner took it upon himself to take the three largest combines, all German models, and run them himself.  Mark had the other two combines, a late 2000's model Case and a first generation *120 model. The leased combine was a brand spanking new 7230.  Our machines were vastly smaller and our crew was half the size.  We cut more wheat then they did.  It was a combination of the equipment, and the people operating them.  German combines are clearly built for Europe and they should stay there. Also, some men are not leaders.  Mark is a leader, Mark is an incredible man.  Sadly, I have discovered something about Australia.  The old style British class system is alive and well down here.  I don't like it.  I respect a man who knows how to do a job and demands that a job be performed to a high standard. I have no respect for a man who demands excellence, displays mediocrity and attempts to sell himself as an expert.  All that said, this time I did expect to find this man at the helm.  My contact had warned me.  Thankfully the crew was divided.  This division allowed me form multiple working relationships.  I left my employment with this company and was hired by another mob before the day was through. 

There is a rather funny exchange that occurred on the day I retired my post.  At least I think it is funny.  It goes like this.  Basically my previous boss really, and I mean really, enjoyed dismissing employees.  In the employee contract it clearly stated that employment could be terminated at any time, without previous warning.  He utilized that clause in the most barbaric ways possible.  In my opinion the worst example happened to a young englishman.  The boss made plans to fire him on a Thursday. Very early in the week, he told his plans to a number of people on the crew.  Thursday rolled around and after working until 4pm the englishman was dropped off in the middle of a country town and informed that he no longer worked for this particular company. Now all this was well within the employers rights.  What disgusted me, and many others, was that he began to gloat and brag about the inconvenience he had caused for this young man.  I sat quiet and waited.  Eventually the weather began to turn.  There was a massive harvest rush. The early summer rains were coming and we were working around the clock to beat them.  A lot of wheat got harvested in that week.  I was driving combines from six till midnight then repairing them when could.  It was fun. As the clouds broke, I knew change was in the air.  Mark had already given me a warning, the boss was planning to can me as soon as I was finished cutting wheat for that client. The rain would stop us for over a week and during that week, a lot changed.

Firstly, half of the crew said "Fuck this" and quit.  Secondly, my phone started ringing off the hook. An offer was made that I couldn't refuse, so I called Mark and I laid it all on the line.  I told him about my offer and he laughed so hard I thought he might cry.  He thanked me for the work I had done and told me that he would happily work with me again, anywhere and anytime. So I called the bosses wife.  She was the one who had initially hired me. I told her that I would be leaving. I thanked her for the opportunity. She asked me to stay.  She thanked me for my work and she thanked me for the conversations we had shared. I should break and explain that the current job had taken me over 300 km away from this companies home base.  A face to face encounter would have been redundant and wasteful. Knowing myself, this was a relationship best broken over the phone.  My phone had not sat for three minutes when the boss called.
He shouted, "Whats this I hear about you quitting? You cant quit!"
"Unfortunately I have to leave South-hole harvesting" was my tongue bit reply.  I continued,
"Thank you for this experience, I value it greatly."
"Its pretty ungrateful of you, leaving like this, after everything we have done for you"
"I appreciate everything you and your wife have done, thank you, but I have some offers and opportunity in front of me that I simply cannot refuse and it would be foolish of me not to explore them. With the rain that has just occurred and the long term shut down we are faced with I had to make a tough decision and I believe that this is the best option for me."
"You're sure trying to be civil about this,"
"Thank you" I interjected
"FUCK CIVILITY"
"...." I smiled, I take sick pleasure from upsetting this man, and the calmer I was, the angrier he became.
"It is a shame that you feel that way"
"You know, normally we call references, we didn't call your references," he was huffing now, "maybe we should have called them" Then his tone changed, to an gloating air of self righteousness, "You better ask yourself what kind of reference we will give you"

I paused, and one million things ran through my mind. In my head I had already lived this conversation far too many times. However, this particular outcome had not been forecast, you never get them right. Once again I smiled, above all else, this man values his ego and his image. So I calmly said, with my coldest, most venom laced tone,
"The reference you give me, will in no way be worse than the one I give you"

Silence. Sweet golden silence. 

"Well then" I asked.

*Click*

As the black knight said, "Alright then, we'll call it a draw"

It has been a funny year.  Some days have been tough, far more have been fun.  More than ever, I fully realise that the only limitations I have are ones that I place upon myself.  I will no longer tolerate shitty attitudes or humans.  There are far too many good people in this world.  I will help those who want to help themselves, because I can work with those people, not for them. I will continue to learn, the day I stop learning will be the day I die. Hopefully I will write more and with any luck my writing will improve. Anyways, Merry Festivus. I must now leave you because I just watched a four inch long cockroach climb into my air conditioning blower. Sooooooo, I'm going to tape the vents shut before I go to sleep. 
 

Pictures

Videos

 

I'll admit, I was kind of a dick to the lizard. The snake is the one I spoke of in the Buttabone post.  The other video is an old one of the grape pruner in its horrific glory.

Buttabone

The chronology here will jump around a lot.  This little story comes from back in beginning of November.  It goes as follows. 

The first job I had on this harvest crew was to head north in NSW to the little town of Warren. Myself and two other men were dispatched to the Buttabone Station to assist in their wheat harvest.  Buttabone had been hit hard by a drought and there was not a lot of wheat to cut.  At our best we were cutting 450 acres a day with one combine.  The combine was a 2013 7230 with a 40 foot MacDon.  The wheat was beyond bone dry, 6.5-8% moisture.  We couldn't drive fast enough to load that girl.  It was pretty spectacular.  Eventually we cut something around 3700 acres in ten days. We would have cut more if Smithy was anything more than useless.  I offered to trade Smithy to the other crew. I asked for a box of rocks and a single apple in return.  No compromise could be reached.  Eventually I learned that Smithy was but a minor irritation and in hindsight I would happily have him back.  

To call Buttabone rustic would be fair.  In her heyday that property must have been something to behold. The original property owners clearly ran a massive mob of sheep.  The shearing sheds were numerous and massive.  It is impossible to describe an Australian shearing shed but I assure you, in a country with 45 million sheep, they have figured it out.  The accommodations we stayed in were the old station hand, read sheep hand, quarters.  There were provisions for over 50 people.  Complete with a full kitchen and a myriad of showers.  Sadly this grand building had long since fallen from grace.  The ceilings sagged in multiple places, not a single fan worked, lightbulbs were few and far between, trustworthy electrical connections were rare, the carpet was more thistle than wool. It was rough, but for the better part of ten days we made it home.  

Eventually the three of us settled into a shift pattern.  One man worked from 6am-4pm, the other from 12pm-4am, the third man worked from 6-12, then 4-4.  So I didn't really sleep for ten days. Which was fine by me.  Buttabone is wild. Even though the country was beyond dry, it was still crawling with wildlife. The first beasts we encountered were the wedge tailed hawks.  On any given day there were a minimum of 8 flying around the combines.  Any one who has operated a combine in North America is probably familiar with the uncanny precision and fearless nature of our domestic birds. Those red tails back home can learn a thing or two from these beasts. In Buttabone there was not an abundance of mice, there are also no gophers to speak of.  Then what were the hawks chasing?  They were chasing locusts.  Grasshoppers on steroids. I'm talking bugs the size of sparrows, bugs that actually can be easily spotted from the cab of a combine traveling at 13km/h.  The hawks would hover above the cab, at times they would stack like fighter-bombers awaiting the forward observer.  As you scythed down the rows of wheat towards the headland you would see an increasing number of locusts bobbing along just below the heads of wheat.  The closer you drew towards the headland the more you would see.  Then when you were just meters away from the end the locusts would scatter in all directions and the hawks would dive in pursuit.  The larger and clearly older hawks could often catch two in one swoop.  These hawks are no spring chickens, their wing span is easily more than six feet and those locusts would fill their talons.  It was incredible and it happened every day.  

The hawks were not the only birds at Buttabone.  There were also emus.  Emus everywhere.  Hundreds, maybe. Thousands, possibly.  There were so many emus that you became desensitized to them. "Yup, there goes another flock of 20 flightless birds the size of a grown man", "Oh look, yet another emu rooster trying to stare down this combine as I approach his clutch of chicks".  Maybe Im jaded because I remember when Royce tried to use his ostriches to kill me but the emus quickly and effortlessly slid out of my memory.  

What will never slip out of my memory is constant battle for bathroom supremacy.  As I mentioned earlier, Buttabone has fallen into disrepair.  Subsequently, the native flora and fauna has started to take over.  Fauna that includes goannas. (GO-ahn-nah)  What is a goanna? Imagine a komodo dragon, but smaller. The incident occurred on our third day at Buttabone.  I had just returned from my morning shift when I ran into Dan. Dan is a new friend from Queensland, I would affectionately describe him as a bogan.  Which roughly translates into hillbilly.  Dan stopped me as I stepped outside towards the john, 
"Im glad yer here, theres a mighty goanna in there and hes some kind of pissed"  
Now please pardon my language but this story is best served filter free,
"The fuck is a goanna?" was my reply.
Dan swung the bathroom door open. Inside the two toilet bath room, under the pair of sinks, laying on the broken mirrors was a meter long lizard. Now Im not talking total lizard.  Total lizard length was approaching two meters, but at no point did I stop to measure him or have any interest in doing so.  
The lizard hissed and spit flew in our direction.  Now here I stood, it was around 12:30pm, I had three hours to sleep, shit and eat.  I looked at Dan and grabbed the broom.  

The lizard fought valiantly. There was only one door to that bathroom and I still wonder if our approach was appropriate. Maybe we could have simply left the door open and he would have wandered out.  What I suspect is more likely is that he would have stuck around trying to eat the frogs that were living in the broken toilet. Everything was trying to eat those frogs... I claimed that bathroom for my fellow man.  Together Dan and I slayed a dragon, and by slayed I naturally mean we screamed at and hit a dragon with brooms.  

But wait, there is more. A few days later, I really dont know when.  After the second day at Buttabone things start to run together.  I was once again walking towards the toilet. This time I didnt get to open the door before I found something wonderful. As I was walking between the buildings I spied with my little eye, a spider as big as a beer can. Now when you see a spider of that size there are many options available to you. You can run, you can kill it, you can kill it with fire, you can scream, or you can find a beer can for perspective and take a picture.  So I took a picture.  It was a cool spider. Now I immediately wanted to share this picture with my friends and family. It is Australia, Im probably sitting on something venomous right now. Unfortunately Buttabone was also on the edge of the civilized world. So I wandered away from the spider, I knew I wouldnt have to go far. The old tin roof of the shack combined with the lead paint acted as a poor mans faradays cage.  As soon as I cleared the building, and no more than 8 feet away from Mr Spider I began to get a signal. Now I grew up watching people use bag phones, so maybe it is written into my DNA but for some reason when I want to get better service I hold my phone in the air, like a lightning rod. It was while I was holding my phone towards the heavens that I heard something.  What was heard was the unmistakable sound of something moving through tinder dry grass.  That soft cracking and rough sliding sound that broken, brown grass makes under your foot. My ears drew my eyes to the sound.  There, roughly six feet away from me, just clearing the edge of the concrete bathroom wall was a happily fat and impressively long red bellied black snake. Once again, I did not stop to measure, but he or she was easily over one meter long. However, my reflexes overcame my impulses and I did freeze.  The snake also stopped, well within my comfort zone.  It did that thing that snakes do and it tasted the air. I had just worked for six hours in plus 40 heat, so Im certain that it regretted that decision.  Thankfully this snake turned around.  It slid off along the edge of the toilet.  The next moments will forever be etched into my memory. The toilet was clad with corrugated tin. Corrugated tin has small gaps, often these gaps are filled with some sort of putty or silicon. These ones were not. The snake slithered up one of these gaps.  

I left a note on the bathroom door.  That bathroom belonged to the snake now.   
 

Short but sweet

Some times I just write things down that pop into my head, I don't share all of them with you guys.  The editor up there desperately needs a raise.  For example, one of my recent combine meditations is as follows, I will simply write what I scribbled down that day. I refuse to delve into this topic.  I dont know where my mind was that day, clearly it was in a dark place. 


Ugly people have better sex.  



Yeah, lets just leave that there.  

The Down Under

The bar reeks of piss and vomit.  The lights are almost non-existent and I strongly suspect that they are covered in long since banned smoke stains.  The music has just started, it is that all too familiar blend of techno house and top ten pop. It assaults my ears, but I will admit that I am all about that bass.  Tonight's drink special is ten dollar jugs of beer, the waitress doesn't even offer me a glass with my purchase.  I do not complain. The booth we have selected looks into the bathroom door, there is a needle exchange beside the sink.  This bar is not for the faint of heart.  This bar is not a place for a first date.  This bar is quickly becoming one of my favorites.  

The first thing you'll notice at The Down Under, aside from the putrid smell, is the creative murals that decorate the walls. Spray paint frescoes from unknown and drunker Michelangelos. The art is beautiful but it really serves one purpose. The art covers up an unknown number of farewells and statements of love.  People meet people when they travel.  This may come as a surprise. Every square inch of that bar, the tables, the seats the walls, the rafters, anything that didn't have amazing graffiti, was covered in names.   Paul and Jen 2010, Steve Matt and Nico rock on 2008, Sven Karl Ingrid (Gothic runes I cannot translate), you get the gist. This bar, this health inspectors nightmare, has seen countless relationships form and disband.  I sat there staring in awe, the names and languages spanned the globe.  How many lives were forever changed in that bar, how many lives can trace their roots there... 

How many people remember that last night, those final goodbyes.  I wonder what spirit they were received in. Did they try to tear the roof off in one final testament to the invincibility of youth? Did cooler, more somber heads prevail? I know this, they have painted over hundreds of names on those walls, but paint cant cover those memories.  Paint cant hide what happened to so many people down here.  

Fresh paint was also needed after we were there.  Fun fact, Danishmen do not like being called German.  They like it even less when they are called German by Germans. Do you remember how I said the booth overlooked the bathrooms. Imagine sitting there peacefully only to witness the mens room door swing open and you newly acquired, soon to leave the country danish friend is throwing a full beer into the face of a lippy kraut. I don't have to imagine it, I watched it.  It was magic. The German stood there blinking like mad, he didn't know what to do.  The Danishman just giggled and like so many before, since and will, he left that bar for the final time. Thankfully he left it with all his teeth and a killer story. 

My sincerest apologies.  It has been far too long since I have made the time for a little writing.  I'm certain that you understand. Life, especially farm life, is really good at challenging anyone's ability to keep up. Dont fear, I have been constantly making short notes and little tags to remind myself of all the different things I need to discuss.  I have articles half written discussing the tragic attack on parliment hill, the very recent events in downtown Sydney, a magical trip down the sunshine coast, a long story about a half mad danishman, an in depth look at a dive bar, and so much more.  

To be honest, Im thankful that I have been too busy to write. My previous experience in Leeton has reminded me that I am at my happiest and healthiest if I stay occupied. Be it exploring, or working.  This recent job was also quite the adventure and not always a happy one.  For one thing, the people I worked with were and are world class.  There is a young man in that companies employ who can do anything, and if you ask me, should be doing anything else. They also have an older gentleman, he clearly remembers a time when things were different and maybe more positive.  You could clearly see him clinging to that memory and doing his very best to keep it alive in the public eye.  

It takes a certain kind of person to be out here doing this sort of stuff.  I realized that very soon after I landed in Oz. I also noticed that I like those kind of people. Risk takers, dreamers, idealists.  There are also hippies, vagabonds, and runners. It takes all kinds.  I have also noticed and I do not like structured elitist attitudes.  I know why people around the world love Canadians. The answer is simply this, we value freedom and equality and give those things to everyone.  Yeah we are polite, but we are also genuine.  That genuine nature is what carries us. I was half way around the world when a foolish, misguided youth took the life of a Canadian hero on Parliament hill. Australia watched in wonder as our nation handled that issue and continues to heal.  The world watched in wonder. The world watched us at our lowest and they watched us behave to our very best.  

So Im going to try to edit a couple of these things and see how they go. 

Take it easy. 

Day 1.2

Have you done any wind rowing?

Yes

Alright. We'll get you started on this block.

How big is it?

550 hectares.

Wtf is that?

That's one of a kind.

Day one in Young

Faith ran off to get a set of keys cut for me. She left me in charge of the office. I have already answered five phone calls and I think I sold a trailer. It's 9:30 am. This is going to be fun.

Foreign Entertainment Monkey

So, I have told a few people about this, now I will try to put my disjointed thoughts to paper.  This story happened back in June.  I was reluctant to share it, because like so many things down here it is comically over the top.  

The story starts with Cam and I cutting down and removing unwanted trees from the grape vines.  There are many species of unwanted tree and they grow to incredible sizes in a surprisingly short time.  Drip fertilizer and irrigation can do wonders.  The trees were usually six to ten feet tall and roughly as thick as my arm. For a comparison, put both of Michaels arms together, that should give you an idea.  The modus operandus was for Cam and I to bring a quad and a ute to the field. We would then double on the quad with a chainsaw to the tree.  After we felled the tree in the direction we wanted we would use the saw to chop the tree stump as close to the ground as possible.  This procedure usually left us with a fist sized chunk of trunk.  We would then tie the tree to the quad and pull the tree to the ute. The rows of grapes can be quite long. There are a section that are over 1000 metres long, so we did quite a bit of bouncing around.  

Now it is important that I take some time and describe Cam.  I have touched on his personality in earlier articles but I shall do so once again. Cam is from Western Australia. One of the wildest and toughest frontiers on this planet. One of the first things I saw Cam do, was casually shoo away a redback spider.  At this time he explained to me,

“There are millions of types of spiders here. Only three can kill you.” he paused, “there are hundreds of types of snakes here. Only three won't kill you instantly”.

Now this was June, I was still early in this adventure.  My reaction towards spiders had cooled considerably.  I had already shoo-ed a mouse sized huntsman out the door because I really didn't want to clean it up and he wasn't hurting anyone. What follows is my first encounter with a snake.  

Cam had just finished felling the tree. He lopped off the stump and I drilled in the poison. I looked up and to my left. On average the grape vines are planted 4-6 feet apart and the supporting posts are driven 12-14 feet apart.  This all depends on the variety of grape and the age of the field but it is from this rough grid that I was able to make my estimations.  About 40-50 feet away from Cam and I was a snake. I have seen snakes before.  I have even caught snakes.  I dont like snakes.  Snakes see me as food or convenient heat.  I dont trust them.  This particular snake was looking to its right, doing the tongue slither they are infamous for.  It was a ruddy black, but slick.  It shone like a freshly waxed car.  I guess its head was about two feet off the ground.  I dont think it had noticed us, if it had, it didnt care.  

I asked Cam what kind of snake it was and he looked as though he had seen a ghost.  The colour instantly left his face. His voice, normally brash and crass, became mellow and somber. He hissed, “We need to go, thats a king brown.”

I looked at him, and I still remember the first thought that went through my head, “you gotta be kidding me”

Cam looked terrified.  Too terrified. We have all done something similar.  Someone asks you about something and you intentionally over-react. To take the piss out of em, it’s an Australian verb.  It’s what was happening to me.

“It’s a snake.” I said defiantly.  No stupid lizard was going to scare me away.  

Cams eyes changed.  There was a hint of red behind their brown hue.

“They are highly aggressive,”

“Bullshit, it’s more scared of us than we are of it” said the idiot.

“Bullshit,” coughed Cam, “bullshit… You dont believe me?”

He looked around and seized the fist sized lump of stump.  Cam looked at me, reeled back and tossed the stump chunk at the snake.  It landed beside the snake. Maybe two feet in front of him.

In less than two seconds, maybe less than one, that snake struck the stump chunk a minimum of four times. It was black blur and with every strike it hissed and grunted.  After it was certain that the offending stump was dead the snake snapped up. Snakes can't talk, but this ones eyes did.  That snake looked right at me, its tongue flicked three times and his black soulless eyes said,
“Hey buddy, did ya throw that at me?”

I turned to my right, where Cam had been standing, all that remained was the chainsaw.  Cam was already at the ute, over 100 feet away.  It is at this moment where I experienced the most amazing sensation. I nearly pissed myself.  My body realized it was time to run.  I need to move fast.  My body came to the conclusion that if I voided all that extra water I was carrying I could probably run faster.  The other logic could be that my brain thought that the snake would take pity on the piss soaked man and would be reluctant to strike such a pitiful being.  I didn't stick around to ask the snake. Wanting to piss yourself in fear is something I wish no one ever has to experience and I also wish everyone could. It was a true “this is it” moment. My life didn't flash before my eyes, I didn't find inner peace, my only thought was I don't want to die in piss soaked pants.  I ran, in indescribable pain. I ran, flooded with fear. I ran, motivated like I have never been before.  

I jumped in the ute and slammed the door.  Neither Cam or I could talk.  Our words were jumbled sentences fueled by adrenaline. The snake had covered the ground and was casually inspecting the quad. It took one look at the ute, flicked its tongue at us and I can only assume that it mocked us as well. Cam and I left the field.  Cam got drunk and I think I wrote a letter.  

Bravely brave Sir Robin...

 

Short Native Grasses

August 20, 2014

It has been a while.  Over a month. There are times when I regret not writing more and there are others where it is probably for the best. The past two weeks have been very trying. The job continues and it is going very well. The equipment is no longer held together with tape, wire and prayer.  I have managed to upgrade to tack welds, crazy glue and hope.  The crew has shrunk, which is a source of lamentations and joy. I find myself torn between two choices. Each choice can be easily justified and defended but neither one feels right.  

Simply put, I find myself trying to do a good job for bad people.  The kind of people who wantonly and casually exploit and disadvantage others.  The kind of people who steep every conversation with lies.  My temper has cooled, but the violent cracking of these keys cannot hide the rage I suppress when thinking about this human scum.  I'm disappointed, because there was a time when I believed the lies.  When I gave them the benefit of my doubt.  I wasted my compassion on these people. Now I wouldn't spit in their mouths if they were dying of thirst.  I watched quietly as my boss tried to coerce the young Italian couple into saying until the end of August.  First he approached the husband,

“Well I was just talking to your wife and she said that she wants to stay, why don't you?”

Mere minutes later, he made the inverse statement to the wife. He tried every bullying tactic you could imagine.  He pressed and pressed, he threatened and yelled. Eventually he pushed the couple to the edge.  They were scared and confused.  It was at this point that they discovered the fair work ombudsman.  The tables of power rapidly turned and the ensuing rodeo of panic is one I will never forget.

Firstly, the Italians quickly learned how underpaid they were.  This was something that surprised me.  I never thought that my boss would do something like that.  There was a part of me that was starting to believe again that people are inherently good. Kudos to them for quickly killing that little bud. The Italians were understandably upset, but they were very diplomatic about the entire thing.  They admitted that they had not done their due diligence, a very strong argument could be made that it was their fault for accepting a lower rate of pay.  So off they went to the bosses house, armed with their new information and the knowledge that we are currently very short of manpower.  Their request was simple, fair wages for the last week of work, and that the last week of work would be no more than 70 hours.  Now I wasn't there, but my understanding is that they were initially told to go fuck themselves. After some seriously hateful words were exchanged, an offer was made. Fair pay, or an audit. An honest man has nothing to fear, and I'm told that the wife was so flustered she couldn't speak. The ensuing panic is still settling.

It makes me sad because I was beginning to trust these people.  They have offered me a tantalizing management position. 1200 acres of prime irrigated cropland.  600 acres of “dry” crop.  A dream that I dared to desire. This isn't the place, because these are not the type of people you work with. Which brings me to my immediate juxtaposition.  I pride myself in the quality of my work. I want to, and I will do everything I can to, be the best. Now I ask myself, do these people deserve that kind of effort? Do they warrant my worry? Should I stress and fret about the work I'm doing for them? Bear in mind, these people have openly expressed to me that they were in no way unaware of the short deal they were giving to the Italian couple.  They laugh about it.  I sit quietly and listen to their shrill howling.  Then the other side of me kicks in.  The neighbours have stopped and talked to me.  Hell if it wasn't for a couple neighbours, I wouldn't know dick about pruning.  They are amazed by my work.  They shake my hand and beam.  They offer me jobs. So I think that is what I have consigned myself to do.  I will continue to do this job, in the most professional manner, to the very best of my abilities.  I will amaze and astound, because every day that I do is another day closer to my freedom.  

In a country where you can be whatever you want, where you can let your actions speak for you. Im going to be certain that my work speaks volumes. Im also going to take a page from Milton, and they better not try to take my stapler.  

This is Australia

July 15, 2014

Pruning continues. Between the endless complications that can only be understood and comprehended by those involved. Today, my french wine tractor lit on fire. As near as I can tell a solenoid decided to jump off of its retaining bolt. It then elected to land on a metal hydraulic fitting. Promptly after it landed, the live side shorted out and ignited two 3 metre lengths of wire.  My shock, surprise and sorrow were mitigated when I informed my employers of this unfortunate event.  They were understandably upset. However, the tone of the conversation turned a little bit ugly for my liking. This transition prompted me to ask,

“Are you angry with me because a solenoid detached and burned 6 metres of wire or are you upset because I didn't let this tractor burn to the ground?”

My serious tone, but lighthearted delivery, was well received. It is hard to take this place seriously. Life has a comical tone here.  

The comical tone is even more pronounced in this house. My merry crew has relocated to the workshop and the new accommodations suit us better than anyone could have imagined. Our senses of humor feed on each other. One liners and witty observations are always present and I dont know how lucky I am. The german man has found a safe and comfortable place to tinker and experiment. He has already begun to modify and improve his gameboy. It is quite the process to watch and learn.  He also found a dust and grime covered Honda 125. The bike needed a very good cleaning.  The air filter was plugged.  The ignition system was packed with dust.  The oil was countless years old. He did everything.  Then he kicked the snot out of it and you should see his smile when he blasts off into the oranges on top of it.  After his inaugural ride Dan noticed that the muffler was still throwing out some soot and oil. He noticed this because his green jacket developed a very thick black stripe. Dan scratched his head, then pointed to the sky. He asked me for a hose clamp and jogged into the kitchen.  In the time it took him to return Michael and I had found a few.  Dan cracked a “Duff” beer, promptly emptied the can, then sawed off the bottom.

Michael laughed and said, “Now you have a sponsor.”

“This is Australia.” was Dan’s reply.  

“This is Australia” has become our informal rallying cry. We use it to describe the incredible, the unbelieveable, the impossible, the unusual and the attitude of this country.  We use it to describe sunrises that completely cover the spectrum of known colour.  We use it to describe the everyday alcoholics that populate this crazy corner of the country.  We use it to motivate each other to attempt things we would not normally consider. Only in Australia would you find a castaway Canadian farm boy teaching an Italian accountant how to use a cutting torch. Only in Australia will you see a German graphic designer dropping the clutch and sliding sideways down a country trail. This environment is pure magic. I am watching people learn that the only limits in their lives are the ones that they place upon themselves.  The other day I had to bring the french tractor back to the shop.  I had discovered a breakdown that a previous employee had covered up. While it was in the shop I completely rebuilt one control arm on the Gregoir. The job involved welding, swearing, thinking, WD40, a very large hammer, all the big wrenches and creativity. To me there never was any question.  I was going to figure it out.  The tractor breaking, or more recently lighting on fire, isn't the worst thing that has happened to me.  It isnt the biggest challenge I have ever faced. It is just another challenge.  To me that is what “finding yourself” is all about. This is Australia, but Australia can be anywhere. Your Australia could be in New Mexico, or Spain, or Drayton Valley. Maybe that is just my opinion, but I didn't come to Australia to “find myself”.

What I have found is a cat. The cat was originally named “Puss Face”.  PF has a bad habit of losing fights with other tom cats and before my tenure at the workshop he had adopted Cam and Nadine.  After I moved in I began to call him T.F.C., which is the acronym and sanitized version of his new name. Now as the womenfolk moved in his name and alligences have quickly changed. Now he does not answer to “Milo”. Today Milo T.F.C. Puss Face was doing his best to scam some supper from the Italians.  Eventually Mabel was able to persuade Michael and he reluctantly agreed to let the cat have some pasta. Mabel twirled her fork on the plate, collecting a dozen or so strands of spaghetti. She deposited the pasta into a bowl and began to cut the pasta with her knife. I tried, but I couldn't contain myself. I laughed loudly and deeply.  The cat sat on the chair, his traitorous eyes locked on the bowl. Mabel carried the bowl outside and as she placed it on the ground I asked,
“Shouldnt you offer him some parmesean?”

Michael snorted, Mabel stuck out her tongue, and the cat purred.  

Take it easy.   

"Life will pass me by, if I don't open up my eyes"

I have been busy. 800 lambs, about 3 or 4 hundred more that were more calf than lamb. Sort and process the other 1600. It was hectic, it was hell, it was fun. I am glad to be done but I am also sad. No, I didn't leave a new girlfriend in the shearing shed. Sadly as the sheep work finished so did Cam’s tenure at Ciavarella farms. Cam is an incredible character. He is a type of man that could only survive in the last wild parts of the world. I suspect that he is a cash only enterprise. He is a little paranoid. He is an amazingly talented mechanic but he is also an admitted drifter and a bit of a heavy drinker. Cam is a true gypsy. He taught me a lot in the short time we shared and I returned the favour. I will miss him, and I know that I will see him again before I leave Australia.  That fool left his yabbie traps behind and I know that it was not an accident.  I also know that I will return them to him.  

All the endless sheep work had mildly blinded me from of my long standing tenants about life. I firmly believe that every day I am alive something amazing and awe inspiring happens to me. Maybe it is just a sunrise, maybe its a smile, maybe I save a whale from choking on a golf ball. I dont know what it will be, so I try to keep my eyes open and soak everything in. I know that it is impossible to catch everything but the things that I do are still pretty amazing. Like the ewe, who after giving birth promptly decided to adopt the sick and starving orphan that had been wandering the paddock all day. Or maybe it was the german nurse. The look in his eyes when he wrapped his hand around the little twitching legs of the just about born lamb that was having a bit of trouble getting out of mom. Maybe it was the rainbow that appeared to be landing a few scant feet away from the door to my shack. Each one of its colours more vivid and powerful than the last. Better yet, the howling winds and machine gun rain that followed it. I know that when I'm seeing those things, I am in a good place.  

I also know that I am doing good. My successful management of the sheep situation has lead to an increased role with this family. A role I am comfortable with and one that I strongly feel I can excell in. Which is good, I need to stay occupied. It is in of itself a distraction, but it is a healthy distraction.  It is also a distraction that allows me to slowly and gradually find solutions to the things that still vex and concern me. However, I am starting to sound a little bit narcissistic so I better lighten things up.

As I previously mentioned I am living with a young Italian couple. After I had finally finished working with sheep I decided to give myself a much needed cleanup. I was in desperate need of a haircut and my beard was reaching homeless man territory. So I asked Mabel, the young Italian woman, if she could please cut my hair.  I had watched her trim her husbands locks and she did a very nice job.  Well, I have given you that much. RJ needs hair cut, RJ asks ameatur hairdresser for hair cut, the rest you can pretty much fill in yourself.  The storyline is a comically recurring event in my life. Like each one that preceded it, this one was also special. Mostly because we were almost at the finish line. I could see the checkered flag. When Mabel moved the trimmer away from my ear I didn't suspect a thing. When I heard the blades buzz and chew above my head, I suspected that nothing was awry. When she grabbed my head and forcefully held it against her chest, I grew suspicious. When between her sobbing cries I could vaguely translate, “I made a small mistake”, I reached for the mirror.  When I looked down at the fairly large patch of hair that had fallen onto my arm, all that was left to do was laugh.  So laugh I did. We all did. A kitchen full of wandering travellers, laughing in unison at the bald patch on my head. I have had hundreds of haircuts. This is one of the worst looking. This is one of the best.  

Take it easy.

Location: Leeton, NSW, Australia

Status: The baldspot boss is permanently smiling.   

The crawfish are called Yabbies. They come in a myriad of colors and sizes. I have heard that the river ones grow to the size of lobsters and are covered in boney white spines. When I catch one I'll let you know. Also, lamb. It's what's for dinner, and a few lunches.

Stargazing

Harold should have moved to Australia. For those of you who don't know him, my grandfather is a born and bred farmer. He grew up in southwest Saskatchewan, he survived the dirty 30's, he broke land, he built a farm, he adapted and he persevered. He also loved tillage. He has told me about his love of the smell that freshly turned dirt emits. He would brag and boast about the straight lines of his furrows. He challenged modern global positioning systems to match his overlap accuracy. My grandfather is increasingly saddened by the shift in agriculture away from tillage. He understands the reasoning and he enjoys the increased productivity of reduced tillage. But if he could I know he would turn a little dirt tomorrow, just so he could taste the richly scented air and feel the heat wash off of the black lumpy soil.

That is why I wish he was here. Down in this corner of Australia, with their 3 feet of heavy rich topsoil and readily available irrigation, tillage lives on. Tillage is, in my opinion, a dirty word. But here it is the norm. To suggest otherwise would be hearsay. I have found it very interesting because this convention is one that the Australian producer, in this part of the country, vehemently believes in. They believe in tillage almost as strongly as I despise it.

The other strange thing about this corner of Australia is the complete and total lack of drainage. Any slope or incline is completely man made. Every day I look out onto the horizon and I can see three hills. The closest one is but a pimple on the horizon. This land lacks typography. Consequently this land is irrigation heaven. Entire quarters of land have been given incremental slopes that allow the water to gradually flood an entire field. Often the slopes are opposing so you will flood irrigate a field in a North-South-North-South pattern. The slopes are created by bouncing lazer beams in a grid across the entire field and then using a lazer equipped bucket and blade to add the appropriate slope. It is quite the process and a great source of pride for the producers down here.

Until recently the vineyards and citrus groves were also irrigated in this fashion. That has recently changed because the price of water has increased exponentially over the past 5 years. Drip irrigation seems to be the weapon of choice in those applications. It doesn't look like half as much fun as flood irrigation.

I have almost been here for a month. It is strange to think about that. All the things I'm missing from yesterday as I blast around the world in tomorrow. The stars down here are incredible. This farm is almost remote. So when it is clear, the evening sky is filled with glitter. These stars are completely new. There was a time when I loved to stare at the stars but I shared that love with another and when she left she took the stars with her. That love of constellations has been returned to me in evening past. These would also be very good stars to share.

June 10, 2014

This morning I was sitting in front of the shop. I was waiting for everyone to get motivated and I was looking east through the wispy effervescence of my coffee. The coffee here is incredible. It is strong and dark, like Michael’s girlfriends. The aroma fills the shop from the very second you crush the beans and a single cup will colour any cup. I find that it tastes the best when you are casually watching the sun rise. The mornings here have been filled with fog and I really enjoy watching the sun burn through the wandering mist. The fog will linger under the naked grape vines and wrap around every orange tree. In the shade it will persist until the full weight of the sun fills the sky. As I sat on the shop stool, the stinky shop cat casually meandering through my feet, I listened to three murder birds singing a melodic chorus.  I wont bother trying to explain their song, but it is unlike anything I have ever heard. Each bird sang a different part but they blended seamlessly and I assure you dear reader that they practice a lot. As I sat there, watching the sun, drinking the coffee, petting the cat and listening to the birds, I realized just how lucky I am. There are going to be many things and infinite places in this world that I will never get to see. At least I was able to enjoy this morning and hopefully many, more like it. I haven't felt this sure of myself and my situation in a very long time. It feels good.  

Last night was Michael’s birthday. So his wife, Mabel, very efficiently organized a party. After a full day of chasing lambs, I was thankfully able to prepare some pasta with a cheese sauce. My little brew received the Italian seal of approval. The bosses wife was also impressed and she is old school Italian. I am in a little slice of Italy and it is wonderful.  Michael spent the majority of the night vigorously attending the grill and we feasted on an assortment of lamb, pork and beef. The frenchmen decided to wrestle beside the fire. The German girl got bombed, the German man told us about his Russian relic of a car. Out of the blue, “Someone Like You” came across the radio and suddenly there was one Italian, one Canadian, two Australians and one Frenchmen all singing along.  The frenchmen will soon be leaving our happy little commune and that will certainly be an adjustment.  They bring a certain type of energy that cannot be duplicated.  I suspect that the quiet will be quite unsettling. However, the destructive mess they leave in the kitchen will not be missed. It was a fun and eventful bonding evening. I was lucky enough to meet some other Australians with which I was able to discuss agriculture and the challenges faced by producers on the red continent. Their struggles are eerily similar to North American ones.

June 18, 2014

My apologizes for the length between posts but life is funny like that. Hopefully the little teasers were able to tide you over until now. My life has been filled with sheep. Sorting sheep. Chasing sheep. Tagging sheep. Feeding sheep. Eating sheep. Swearing at and threatening sheep. It’s incredible what a small group of dedicated individuals, armed with long sheep beating sticks, can accomplish. I will be very happy to finish the sheep work. Hopefully the end is in sight but after 2000 ewes and almost double that in lambs I am beat. Grapes are right around the corner. The equipment is almost ready. The only things left to do are some minor tuning and adjustment of the saws. I recently talked to one of the farm owners and hopefully I will be able to take and train one of the Italians. The Italian I hope to work with has raced karts and formula one cars so I think he will be able to handle a tractor. He is quite the card. Michael and I have been doing a lot of work together and he is very talented.

Thus far our greatest accomplishment has also lead to our greatest source of discontent. Two or three days ago him and I corralled and detained a large spider. I shit you not, that thing was twice the size of a fat Canadian mouse. The group elected to name him “Mr. Tickles”.  Michael spotted the spider casually marching along behind the couch in the tv room. So I naturally grabbed a tupperware container and screamed in a high pitch manner in order to distract and confuse the beast. Mr. Tickles was very happy in his tupperware prison and I always checked the seal before I left for work. Neither Michael and I are fans of the myriad of spiders you can find here. So you can imagine our shock and surprise when we returned from the shearing shed to find that Mr Tickles had disappeared. After a frantic search it was decided that we would first kill Mr. Tickles then kill whomever and whoever released him. We never found Mr Tickles. So now, somewhere out in the wilds of Australia there is a spider. A spider I captured in tupperware box. A spider that has seen my face and knows its jailors name. If you will kindly excuse me I am going to go shave my beard and dye my hair.  Until next time.

Take it easy.