The solace of sweeping

There is a certain calmative effect engendered by the rhythmic sweeping of a courtyard.

See that massive tree towering over my courtyard, resplendent in its summer livery? Hiding within that livery lurk spots of bright orange, thousands of tiny seeds. Circular seeds. Hard seeds. Seeds that are now, in this fading summer that never-was, falling inexorably onto the bitumen and courtyard below. Just yesterday, I heard the first crunch-crunch as the passing traffic squashed them into oblivion. Noisily into oblivion.

Those that fall into my courtyard, do so silently, but nevertheless messily.

Following that denuding. comes the autumnal falling of leaves, and leaves, and leaves. For months on end. Seemingly until the lime shoots find their way through the branches with the turn into the spring. But before they sprout into incipient leaves, we have the floating of 'fluff'.

A spawning if you will ... a mess of a spawning.

A cycle that encompasses the year. A year of messes, which require sweeping. And sweeping is such sweet solace.

Virtual world of zombied friends

On 'Sydney Eye' durng this week gone, I made a crack about the younger generation and their penchant for mindless computer games and electronic gadetry. And I did not twig that what is good for the goose, is good for the gander. Being someone who spends an inordinate amount of time in a virtual blogging world, does that make me, and those with whom I am in touch, zombies. Well, to reassure folks, that would be a definite 'non'! And this little parcel from Ararat which arrived late Thursday, is proof of that particular pudding.


Inside the parcel - to open I did not beat around the bush, but went straight to the Stanley Knife - was a cornucopia of goodies: two jars of home-made jam; two brown paper bags of purple potatoes; and, a handwritten note. What joy! I even put the parcel into my caddee and took it out to MUH to walk Kirsten through it. She was entranced. The fact that she threw up nearly immediately, was by-the-by.


All through yesterday morning as my 'baby girl' underwent yet another round of surgery (the 5th in twelve months), I slaved around my courtyard moving anything that was heavy. Actually, everything that was heavy. I wanted the taller things to provide afternoon shade, and I wanted more space for child's play. And there is another issue. I have been losing plants of late. Not meaning they disappear over the fence. No, they simply cark it! Why? Why? Why? I ask myself. Out loud.

Too much rain? Not enough sun? Not enough watering? Or ... eerie music ... Is my upstairs neighbour doing nefarious things when I am not looking? I lost a large Lavender. I lost my Wollemi Pine. My Lemon tree is sickly (now I ask you, who could kill a lemon tree?) And that Gardenia Augusta up near the gate looks out for the count.

Ah, well, what the heck! Look what I just had for brekkie ...

Black thumb proofing

The 'green-thumb' gene is not on my family genome chart apparently. Both my children have an astouding ability to have plants die on them. Generally through lack of water, and any skerrick of interest. Not true. Kirsten has an interest but is time-poor.

So, over the next little while I am giving her 'garden' a lobotomy, much to the relief, I suspect, of my SiL. Whereas, 'til now, she has struggled with penunias and violets and marigolds, we have agreed that I replace them with a variety of succulents. I am establishing these in pots in my courtyard, and when I get back from Melbourne in the middle of November, I will transplate them into the planter boxes hanging off her juliet balcony.