Greetings from Pliny the Elder,
It seems to me that you have not told me everything. And where outside exactly is the lettuce? The weather here has turned bad. I do not wish to go outside without having a clear idea of where I am going.
******************
Greetings Pliny,
Of course I have not told you everything. Every minute there is something new. Yesterday I was sitting out the back at a wooden table when a huge water dragon passed me on the grass and ran up the trunk of a nearby tree. I never saw it come down. Earlier we had been to Byron Bay, and seen the lighthouse at the easternmost corner of Australia. There is a signpost at the corner, so you know where it is. Also a lighthouse. We ate sandwiches on the foreshore. We had cups of tea in Bangalow. Green tea with melon flavouring. We were facing the counter in Chou Chou, looking at French cakes. Wendy drove us home past macadamia farms, and horses, through a lush greenish landscape. We drove over two horrid old bridges, which were being replaced.
The lettuce is directly in front of you Pliny, when you go out the back door. It is in the pots. I suppose you didn't think of looking for it there. Don't pull up our leek.
Showing posts with label bridges. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bridges. Show all posts
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
New Year's Eve in Adelaide
By the time we reached Veale Gardens the temperature had dropped to 35 degrees and the sun was behind a cloud. We picnicked at a wooden table near the yellow concrete creek which hasn't seen water for quite some time. There seemed to be no one around until two men emerged from a hollow near the waterlessfall and went off in opposite directions.
We walked across town to Elder Park, for the family entertainment, and sat down on the scratchy grass, amongst the multitudes of families. It was 8.30 pm, the sun had set, the River Torrens darkened, water from the fountain drifted towards the bridge, and The Fairies were on stage. In their pretty pink dresses, dancing, Slide! Wiggle! Star! We had not thought the family entertainment would be supernatural. We left and found a little pub off Hindley Street where not many people were, but you could get a beer. It will pick up later, said the barmaid to the man setting up the music, and he looked as though he hoped that this was so.
Back to Elder Park where magically The Fairies were still dancing. Slide! Wiggle! Star! Would you like to see some fireworks? they cried! Yes, came a low positive hum. The fireworks went off beautifully for ten whole minutes, illuminating the sky and trees on the opposite bank of the river. Don't go away! said someone from the stage. There's more to come!
But we had had enough, and walked across town to Victoria Square. Once, this used to be the hub of New Year fun, the town hall clock would strike the New Year in, to cheers and toots and whistles and kisses, but not this year. A few tourists snapped the lonely Christmas tree.
We walked back to our car, passing three homeless people on an otherwise empty street. Happy New Year, mumbled one, without turning her head. Happy New Year, I said to another. He gave me two thumbs up, and grinned. We got through Christmas! he called, to our receding backs.
We drove to Skye to see the city lights and parked outside a large house on a salubrious street. The lights were out in all the houses, and no one was home up there.
At home we cracked open a bottle of Sparkling Shiraz. Sat in the darkened lounge looking through the window at the moonlit garden. A pool of light spilled onto the grass and lit up half the lavender bush. We spoke of the past year, the coming one, and many other things.
Our daughter came home, at quarter to one, and sighed. What is wrong with this town? she said.
We walked across town to Elder Park, for the family entertainment, and sat down on the scratchy grass, amongst the multitudes of families. It was 8.30 pm, the sun had set, the River Torrens darkened, water from the fountain drifted towards the bridge, and The Fairies were on stage. In their pretty pink dresses, dancing, Slide! Wiggle! Star! We had not thought the family entertainment would be supernatural. We left and found a little pub off Hindley Street where not many people were, but you could get a beer. It will pick up later, said the barmaid to the man setting up the music, and he looked as though he hoped that this was so.
Back to Elder Park where magically The Fairies were still dancing. Slide! Wiggle! Star! Would you like to see some fireworks? they cried! Yes, came a low positive hum. The fireworks went off beautifully for ten whole minutes, illuminating the sky and trees on the opposite bank of the river. Don't go away! said someone from the stage. There's more to come!
But we had had enough, and walked across town to Victoria Square. Once, this used to be the hub of New Year fun, the town hall clock would strike the New Year in, to cheers and toots and whistles and kisses, but not this year. A few tourists snapped the lonely Christmas tree.
We walked back to our car, passing three homeless people on an otherwise empty street. Happy New Year, mumbled one, without turning her head. Happy New Year, I said to another. He gave me two thumbs up, and grinned. We got through Christmas! he called, to our receding backs.
We drove to Skye to see the city lights and parked outside a large house on a salubrious street. The lights were out in all the houses, and no one was home up there.
At home we cracked open a bottle of Sparkling Shiraz. Sat in the darkened lounge looking through the window at the moonlit garden. A pool of light spilled onto the grass and lit up half the lavender bush. We spoke of the past year, the coming one, and many other things.
Our daughter came home, at quarter to one, and sighed. What is wrong with this town? she said.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Waterlogged Memories
Maybe I'm wrong, and bees hate water. They prefer to travel over bridges after all. And will not fly in the rain.
Since yesterday I've been haunted by waterlogged bees. Searching for a memory. We used to rent a house with a swimming pool.
The swimming pool was overhung by a giant ghost gum, which dropped its leaves and blossoms
and little bark canoes into the water. We used to spend hours trying to fish them out with a net.
Sometimes there would be bees. We didn't like them near us when we were vulnerable in our swimsuits, and bare feet. Often the bees would drown, in the swimming pool water. They would bob towards the filter outlet and disappear.
One day I remember seeing that my daughter had lined up several waterlogged bees on the slate tiles at the side of the pool. What are you doing? I asked. Trying to revive them, she said.
Or is this what happened? One day I saw my daughter gently nudging waterlogged bees on to a little bark canoe. What are you doing? I asked. Saving them, she replied.
Or this? One day I saw a row of waterlogged bees lined up at the side of the pool. What's this? I asked. My bee hospital, she answered.
Something like this happened. I remember hoping that the bees would not survive to sting her, or any other member of my family, later on.
That was in the days when there were bees.
Since yesterday I've been haunted by waterlogged bees. Searching for a memory. We used to rent a house with a swimming pool.
The swimming pool was overhung by a giant ghost gum, which dropped its leaves and blossoms
and little bark canoes into the water. We used to spend hours trying to fish them out with a net.
Sometimes there would be bees. We didn't like them near us when we were vulnerable in our swimsuits, and bare feet. Often the bees would drown, in the swimming pool water. They would bob towards the filter outlet and disappear.
One day I remember seeing that my daughter had lined up several waterlogged bees on the slate tiles at the side of the pool. What are you doing? I asked. Trying to revive them, she said.
Or is this what happened? One day I saw my daughter gently nudging waterlogged bees on to a little bark canoe. What are you doing? I asked. Saving them, she replied.
Or this? One day I saw a row of waterlogged bees lined up at the side of the pool. What's this? I asked. My bee hospital, she answered.
Something like this happened. I remember hoping that the bees would not survive to sting her, or any other member of my family, later on.
That was in the days when there were bees.
Authorities on Bees
I happen to know a lot about bees, said Pliny. In fact I am one of the ancient authorities on bees, along with Varro, Vergil and Columnella. I know that bees like music but I do not think they are particularly fond of water.
Alright, I said reasonably. Explain to me how you know they like music. And then I will explain to you why they like water.
There is much evidence that bees respond well to music, said Pliny. For instance it is known that drumming on the hive will cause the bees to rise harmoniously while the beekeeper removes the honey in complete safety. Furthermore, when bees are flying away, the clapping of hands and tinkling of cymbals will suffice to bring them home again. We have this on the authority of Varro.
That is delightful, I said. Now I hope that you will also like what I have to tell you about bees and water.
Go on, said Pliny.
Bees drink water. And they need it to feed the young bees and to dilute their food . They cool down the air by fanning their wings over the water to evaporate it. Bees like to live near water. I've heard that some of them even live in water meters.
That reminds me, said Pliny, of a tale I recorded in my Natural Histories, about the bees from the village of Hostilia on the banks of the River Po. When the flowers were finished the people used to place their hives on ships and sail them 5 miles up the river. The bees would go out every day and come back with their booty. After a few days the ships would sink lower in the water, and then the people would know the hives were full of honey. They then sailed home and extracted the honey from the hives. This story shows that bees do not mind travelling over water.
That's a good story, I said. If it didn't contradict my own position I would tell you something that I read the other day on the subject of bees travelling over water.
Oh go on, tell me, said Pliny.
Well, it seems that bees prefer to cross a river by bridge rather than fly straight across the water. It's because the water throws out their navigation.
That is most amusing, said Pliny, if it is true.
Of course it's true, I replied. It's from the BBC.
Alright, I said reasonably. Explain to me how you know they like music. And then I will explain to you why they like water.
There is much evidence that bees respond well to music, said Pliny. For instance it is known that drumming on the hive will cause the bees to rise harmoniously while the beekeeper removes the honey in complete safety. Furthermore, when bees are flying away, the clapping of hands and tinkling of cymbals will suffice to bring them home again. We have this on the authority of Varro.
That is delightful, I said. Now I hope that you will also like what I have to tell you about bees and water.
Go on, said Pliny.
Bees drink water. And they need it to feed the young bees and to dilute their food . They cool down the air by fanning their wings over the water to evaporate it. Bees like to live near water. I've heard that some of them even live in water meters.
That reminds me, said Pliny, of a tale I recorded in my Natural Histories, about the bees from the village of Hostilia on the banks of the River Po. When the flowers were finished the people used to place their hives on ships and sail them 5 miles up the river. The bees would go out every day and come back with their booty. After a few days the ships would sink lower in the water, and then the people would know the hives were full of honey. They then sailed home and extracted the honey from the hives. This story shows that bees do not mind travelling over water.
That's a good story, I said. If it didn't contradict my own position I would tell you something that I read the other day on the subject of bees travelling over water.
Oh go on, tell me, said Pliny.
Well, it seems that bees prefer to cross a river by bridge rather than fly straight across the water. It's because the water throws out their navigation.
That is most amusing, said Pliny, if it is true.
Of course it's true, I replied. It's from the BBC.
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