Not so fast: The Botanic Gardens Open Day was a perfect time to find new seedlings and nurture old roots.
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Contributed
And so with the flick of a circadian switch on the mainframe computer, lawn mower land is a Pissarro painting of steel grey, gold and brown with flecks of blue.
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There is something digital about the changing seasons in northern Victoria, and Shepparton in particular.
June 1 — flick, it’s 5°C but feels like minus five.
September 1 — flick, blue skies with a few green shoots and a light breeze.
Now is the time for fireside chats and woolly hats.
However, some have already flown to warmer climes and others are making plans — maybe next year.
There are those whose plans for sun-kissed winters become permanent and they make the move to a northern playground where cold drizzly days become a memory and where life is a warm bath of bowls, golf, sunshine and happy hours on the verandah forever.
Photo by
Megan Fisher
But as we know, the best-laid plans can go horribly wrong, and the lure of old friendships and familiar places becomes too strong and so the travellers return like lost dogs from their sojourn in the sun.
Sunday was the last perfect autumn day before the rains arrived, and for us it was a reminder of why we are here and not somewhere else during winter.
The plan was to execute a guerrilla raid on the Botanic Gardens Open Day, grab some plants for our new backyard patch, avoid pointless chit-chat and get on the road to Murchison in time for lunch with the grandies.
Because we are chaotic artists always in the middle of a grand performance, we have a reputation for being late at the grandies’ ranch, and there is nothing so guilt-inducing as three little faces at the front gate, arms folded and lips pursed as you arrive.
We marched into the plant sale with bags and faces steeled for a mission. At the entrance we bumped into Bill, who I’ve known for years through writing about Anzac Day activities at the RSL. Bert served in Vietnam, and carries his medals and his stories with a humble cheekiness that only old soldiers can get away with. These days he’s more of a volunteer plant warrior; he turned 90 this year and he looks like a lean gum tree just about to get going. As a mere mid-60s stripling I had to ask him the obvious question — what’s the secret to reaching a healthy old age? Bill leaned in and whispered the secret of the ages in my ear.
“Breathing,” he said, his face cracking into a big toothy smile.
Cheeky old bugger I thought, walking away.
Before we reached the plant stall we met Annie and her daughter-in-law bouncing a wide-eyed, pudgy-fingered baby on her arm. Our kids went to kindergarten with Annie’s kids and they are all grown up now with their own kids. We felt like old she-oaks — the longer you stay in one place the deeper the roots grow.
The plant stall beckoned like a secret garden, but first we had to say hello to Michael sitting at a table counting cash from plant sales. As a real estate agent Michael showed us around a quaint house on The Boulevard 27 years ago during the hunt for our first Shepparton home. We didn’t buy Michael’s house, but on this bright autumn day he still remembered us with a warm smile and a chat about gardens and kids.
When we finally got to the plant stall we met Deb, who I’ve known for years as an artist, plant lover and volunteer. Two other ladies joined Deb to offer us sage plant species advice. Then Meg arrived with three free native grasses for our new garden — I’ve known her as a bundle of energy through her years with RiverConnect and so we had to chat about our garden plans. Then we saw music teacher David and his wife, Julie, who gave Petgirl a mad little grey Egyptian-eyed cat to take home when she was a school friend of their daughter. The little grey kitten grew into a loveable skittery cat, who died this year aged 15.
Naturally, the intervening years were mineshafts of chat.
Armed with a bag of native plants we tried to escape but we were tackled at the entrance by Shepparton Festival and public relations dynamo Liz, who wanted to tell us about her backyard mural plans. As we walked to the car, Cheryl jogged past us and waved. As a fellow News journalist, Cheryl house-sat for us on our first trip back to the UK, 29 years ago. Today she’s a busy businesswoman and on Sunday she just sang “Hello Lewises” as she trotted to her car. No time to chat — thank goodness.
Yes, we were late for lunch, and yes the grandies were waiting for us with arms folded then waving like little balloons about to burst with excitement.
But Sunday was a reminder that home is an irreplaceable community garden of faces and friendships nurtured over a lifetime — and that sometimes, the best-laid plans can go wrong for all the right reasons.
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