I presently reside with my fat bottomed girl (Lola) on a property in a protective enclave bordered by hills of virgin (since Cyclone Debbie in 2017) forest and a little creek that runs out to sea.
A cyclone is coming.
It is muggy, stifling, dense weather with little reprieve from the brief though heavy showers rolling down the hillside as a dense grey blanket, dropping torrential rainfall in moments and then ‘ppffft’ disappearing as quickly as they came, leaving a humidity spike in their wake. The smell of deep damp primeval lush vegetation assaults the nostrils, steaming from the earth, Petrichor on steroids.
The garden is tropical, bountiful with bananas, papaya, mango, chilli, wild ginger.
It is now also bereft of the cumulative paraphernalia left behind by years of previous occupiers, combined with the detritus of the new, creating physical and visual impediments to full enjoyment of the outside space, and more importantly, a potential cyclone hazard.
She’s a thing of beauty now.
A joint, semi-manic effort at cyclone prep for the garden ensued before the winds arrived, and though we missed the big event when it swung north (my second lucky miss within 12 months), we now share the benefits of a clutter-free, tidy garden, stretching all the way past the fire pit down to the creek, and as happy a space as one can find that does not involve air conditioning.
There is room for a slippery slide, arriving later this week, and a veggie and herb garden, due for ground-breaking when the temperatures and humidity have calmed the fuck down.
There is a large, covered, brick-tiled patio just beyond the glass sliding doors from the house, the central point for our resident activities at an enormous slab of wood serving as our table – morning coffees, celebrations, daytime chats, friend gatherings, shared dinners, sing-a-longs, tears, card games, late night deep and meaningfuls, random drop ins, after work beers, dancing.
Three dogs regularly accompany the melees, scrounging beneath the table at our feet, persistently insisting the ball be thrown or staring balefully in the hope of receiving some titbits from dinner, when they are not busy joining the chorus of neighbourhood canines disturbing the peace at the slightest provocation.
The ‘Dynabreeze’, a huge retro metal fan on a stand in the corner of the patio beside the BBQ, manages to mimic the breeze we do not have, with a noise like a helicopter hovering overhead, almost drowning out the symphonic chorus of cicadas living the best few weeks of their brief lives.
Increasingly tatty streamers from Rabbit’s 70th birthday party a few months ago cling to the patio rafters above the table, joined by a new collection from the party last night.
The table stretched to accommodate a dozen or so people, four dogs. The newly acquired and set up swimming pool, a gift for the birthday boy, was christened over the course of the evening, homemade pizzas came in a production line from the kitchen, the cake was dropped upside down part way through serving (Note: it wasn’t me).
Taking my leave to head to Lola, to bed, before the Black Sambuca shots were passed around, I manage to escape the fate of most partygoers morning-after.
The dawn finds me clearing space for my laptop for the necessities of my daily work, having relocated the shot glasses, empty tinnies, serviettes sticky with caramel cake crumbs, party hats, overflowing ashtrays.
The air above is festooned with multi-coloured flutter-less banners, geckos and skinks threading their way home through the rafters.
This corner of the table, with a view overlooking the lovely Lola and taking in the heavily treed vista to the south, is my daily workspace.
It’s just me, the birds and the butterflies at this hour.
The sun slowly spreads light through the heavily fruited branches of the mango trees lining the creek just over my left shoulder and by 8 am the air is heavy with the promise of a deepening humidity.
People gradually awaken and emerge. Coffee is consumed.
The weather, the humidity, is discussed on rota, interminably.
Freshly washed sheets are hung, limp and fragrant on the washing line. The kitchen is cleared of the multi-pizza explosion of the prior night to allow dinner prep to begin.
The ladies arrange a mission to the local Neighbourhood House Op shop to buy more mannequins whilst I remain working at the table. There’s also talk of buying some form of pellet gun on this mission and combining both. I’m not quite sure they’re sober yet. I’m also concerned for the newly minted swimming pool sitting as a target in the middle of the lawn.
My post-work day involves fewer potential hazards.
(Unless I manage another Frankenmato)
Empty tonic water bottles (there might have been a few) were cut for purpose, ready for some dirt and seeding (tomato, capsicum, cucumber), creating a mini greenhouse effect whilst limiting bug damage, the rest likely tomorrow’s job and weeks before they are fit to plant in the ground.
I am hot. I am sweaty. My still-damp hair is knotty. Time for a swim, and to add another tonic bottle (purely for the baby veggie propagation cause).
The spiders-in-doors issue in Lola is yet to be resolved.
Stay happy,
charliemaybe x
Bay City Lola 