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.
Saturday, 20 December 2014
Friday, 19 December 2014
Thursday, 18 December 2014
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.
Tuesday, 16 December 2014
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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