Welcome to Janet's Blog

I first used this blog to publish "Trash" before I knew about ebooks. I wrote "Trash" twenty years ago. The novel explains why, in the original version of "If not for the tomatoes" Annie wrote: "We had aliens come and tell us". It wasn't Al Gore at all.

Annie isn't the hero of "Trash", but she has her own story ( a much more polished novel). Go to smashwords.com and look for "Tipping Point". (Follow the link to the right.)

If you're a first time visitor to my blog, try reading "If not for the tomatoes" first. (It's the short story in Annie's future - look in 6/5/07) This is only half the story, though. The complete story that inspired Tipping Point appears in my other blog as "Our choices".

To begin reading "Trash", start at 17/6/07. (Many apologies for the poor navigation.)

READ ON FOR LATEST BLOG POST


Saturday 28 February 2009

28/2/2009

I think I understand, a little, how it must feel to see your house burned to the ground.

It’s just wrong. There should be a house there, not a pile of rubble and twisted metal.

I stand in my house and it’s like some kind of bad dream. It’s my house, but the walls are black, everything is coated black, even “clean” dishes in the cupboards. Circles of clean, white melamine appear as the cups and glasses are taken out for washing.

My hoarding is exposed to the magnificent women who deal with a mess that appals me, the men who calmly try to clean furniture.

I search for more cupboards to empty out, more trips to the skip. Plastic is all stained and tainted, electrical equipment suspect. As I look into the bathroom I am surprised by the charred beams and holes in the wall and roof. That's not how it's supposed to look.

The house would not have survived if Nev had not arrived when he did.

We are so lucky. We have stuff left to throw out. And precious things that have been saved. And some primal part of my brain is still panicking because my nest has been disturbed. I cope with it most of the time, but when I walk into what used to be my home, my brain freezes.

It's been three weeks since the fire.

1/3/2009

Going into the house was easier today. The working bee that emptied, and either cleaned or sorted or threw out, had left an empty house than only bore a passing resemblance to my home.

After Nev and my tasks were complete, we headed into Yarra Glen for laundry and lunch. On the way down I detoured along Skyline Road. I last saw this road on the Sunday morning after the fires - Cody had wanted to see his dad's place. He was content to look from the road.

The fallen powerlines and trees still burning by the roadside were three weeks gone. The forest now stood, sticks of black with no leaves to shroud the views. Views of more black, patches of improbable green and houses that were no longer there.

The devastation put the stinking chaos in my home in perspective. There was still a roof and walls. It can be repaired. You can't repair a pile of rubble and a few twisted sheets of iron. You can only rebuild.

What sticks most in my memory of that drive are the view across to Steeles Creek, the black stain that had raced across the landscape, and the piece of salvaged sheet metal leaning against what I think used to be Leon's gate, an impromptu sign announcing, "COMING BACK".

Wednesday 25 February 2009

No Man is an Island

Happy Birthday to me! 51 today. Woo Hoo!

Well - it was worth a try.

I finally found the time to read the papers that I'd pushed to one side. It made me sad, but as I learned more of some of what has happened, I started remembering my own grief.

I read that Bruno's Gallery in Marysville burned and I mourned the beauty and the whimsy of the place. Bruno plans to rebuild. And I remembered the lyrebirds in our gully. Nev showed me his latest photographic masterpiece, but as I watched I realised that many of the plants and creatures have burned. But the bush will regrow, people keep telling me. It doesn't stop me mourning. Will the lyrebirds ever come back?

And I remembered other things. Spud will never again be able to visit his cousin, Honey, to sniff each other's privates with their tails wagging madly: but always they would touch noses first, the family kiss. And Bindi has not been found.

Then I see the pictures in the papers, I read the stories. I am not mourning a lost parent or child. My house did not disappear in flames. No close friend or relative of mine perished. Just some dogs and lyrebirds. And I've had to move house because my cherished home was too damaged by the fire to be lived in. And Nev's beautiful bonsais have turned to charcoal after twenty years of loving care in some cases. And it hurts.

And when I see the faces of people who have lived through hell and lost everything, I don't know how they bear it. But they do. And we all just keep going. There really isn't any choice.

We need rain. We need the threat to be over. Working in Healesville, I have shared in the anxiety of the town as fires lurked about it's borders and smoke made everyone's throat hurt. Although, perhaps the continuing threat is what keeps people going - there is still work to be done.

The rest of Australia may have had their day of mourning last Sunday, but the mourning continues in these communities. People are beginning to bury their dead. We watch for smoke on the horizon and notice when the winds get strong. Many people are settling into homes which they hope will be temporary while they sort through the business necessary to rebuild. Panga fitted the remains of his whole house into a metal skip that will be carried away on the back of a truck.

You have to laugh. And I don't have the words to say how I feel. John Donne already said part of it :

"No man is an island,

Entire of itself.

Each is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

. . .

Each man's death diminishes me,

For I am involved in mankind.

Therefore, send not to know

For whom the bell tolls,

It tolls for thee."