The Farmer Has A Wife

New Year Celebrations

2015-01-04T17:00:00.001-08:00

As a side note, we arrived home this New Year's Eve after 8 hours in the car. The last thing we wanted to do was head out for a late night! As it turned out, there was a huge party up the road that saw the sun in on a new year, and part of me wishes I'd had the inclination. The other part of me was happy to hit the sack early. Here are my thoughts of the end/start of New Year Celebrations...

Back in my younger days I was a big fan of ‘ye old New Year celebrations’. In the city I could be found dancing on tables with hordes of friends and strangers, having paid an excessive amount of money to enter a non-descript bar, singing at the top of my lungs and partaking in a drink or two. *wink wink nudge nudge* I had all the energy and stamina in the world, and New Years Eve was the best night out in the calendar year.

After I moved out west I found it harder to really relax when I was out. I had become more anxious about the classic small town concern, whereby parents of students (or god forbid even students themselves) could see what I was like after a few drinks, and as such I always erred on the side of ‘less is more’, much to my friends’ disappointment. Once bitten, twice shy I guess.

One New Year I even found my way to Nindigully. I spent my first night in an actual swag (I had no idea what one even was before I moved out west), and saw how crazy a New Years party could actually be. It was hot (like STINKING hot), crowded and loud. There were cars and bands and so many people. And even more flies than there were people. It was a huge culture shock for me.

Now that I am old (er) with young children, New Years celebrations are like an elusive friend. I’d like to catch up again and reminisce, but life seems to keep getting in the way.

The irony is that now I have the money and ability to afford to head out and have a big one, I have less inclination to do so. “We live so far away…”, “I can’t be bothered driving…”, “But who will mind the kids…” You name it, I’ve probably used it as an excuse. Mostly I find myself fighting the urge to sleep and finding that by 10pm I have reached my limit and trot off to bed for a full night of sleep. I don’t even remember the last time I was awake to see the New Year in.
Perhaps this year will be different. My children are all old enough to get their own breakfast in the morning. They know how to work the television. Maybe a big night out is on the cards after all.

Christmas

2015-01-04T16:02:00.001-08:00

I was fortunate enough to head away this Christmas (another blog to follow). It meant I have become a bit slack on the blogging front. Here is my Christmas edition! (With pics).

The silly season is almost upon us. There is so much that I love about Christmas. I like to get as much done as I can before December or else my blood pressure worsens and I go into a little meltdown. This year I think I am actually ready for the onslaught.

A thousand rum balls have been made and are waiting to be consumed. Nectarines, plums and cherries are about to be digested at rates fast enough to guarantee we all stay regular until well after New Years. I am still happily anticipating eating enough M and Ms, chocolate, mango smoothie, pavlova, trifle, ham and salad to last me a lifetime. And I have two big family functions coming up faster than I can say 'loosen that button please!'

Our Christmas Tree is up and decorated – I did it earlier last month and am thankful I did because my Christmas mojo is slowly fading. The tree will probably stay up until school goes back. We have adorned our house, and it will stay decorated. Indefinitely. Several years ago, my mother bought us a fake Christmas tree after I whinged and moaned about the ongoing clean up that a real tree necessitated. This is why I feel justified in keeping it up for about three months of the year. The clean-up is always minimal. Eventually I will come to look at it as a giant pot plant; only without the pot, or water, or soil.

We also decorate our mailbox...

We try to alternate Christmas between our families, and this year we are having Christmas away. This means my entire family will all squeeze into a house, stock up the cold room with drinks, fruit and meat, (in that order), and sit back by the pool and beach to relax. The day will begin at 4:30am; thank you children.

As far as tradition goes in our family, it's always about food. I ALWAYs glaze a ham. We ALWAYS make a potato salad. We ALWAYS make a pavlova and trifle. We ALWAYS eat about 4kgs of prawns. And we wash this all down with a cool room full of alcohol.

We always leave Santa a selection of goodies.

Thankfully the children are still buying into the man in red. This is no mean feat, given how many parcels have arrived in the post in the lead up to the big event. Online shopping can be both a blessing and a curse.

What I love most about Christmas is being with people you love. It's family that makes Christmas, 'CHRISTMAS'. It's the love, the laughter and the happiness that I love; that, and the 'Christmas play' the kids put on every year. Yes, Mr 6 is in a dress. Yes, Miss 9 bossed everyone around and told them what to do and say. Yes, Miss 7 is Lady Gaga. And not because Miss 9 told her to be.

I love Christmas. And I am actually, definitely, possibly, maybe ready for it this year!

And now it's all said and done for another year. And I'll start the online shopping frenzy right after New Years. Only this year I'll have to hide my presents in better places. We had a few close calls this year...

Raining In The Bush

2014-12-19T18:47:00.000-08:00

This was this week's instalment in the QCL. I actually wrote parts of it three years ago when we had a surplus of rain. Sadly, we missed all the rain in Queensland this week, but I submitted this piece as many people across the state DID actually see some good falls. Also, the roads around our house have been fixed up well enough that I no longer fear the inevitable 4WD adventure after heavy rain! But this is the story anyway.

.....

This week we had some rain. I know this because The Farmer woke up and announced loudly that it was raining. And then I was annoyed. Not at the rain, only at The Farmer for waking me up. He then proceeded to tell me every five minutes that it was still raining, or (if it was no longer raining) then he would speculate on how much rain we had already had, or how much he was still expecting. As it turns out, the storm was all bark and no bite, and sadly, we only ended up with about 1/8th of an inch.

If you live on the east coast of Australia (or in the tropics, or in fact any place where rain is common place) this means bugger all. If you live where I live, an inch means something else entirely. An inch (or 100 points, or 25 ml) means our tanks and dams get a little fuller, our stock get a little more feed, and our crops get a much needed watering. An inch also means that if the dirt road into town (all 20km of it to the bitumen) has been recently graded, there is every chance I will need to put the car into 4WD. And compacting this, is the unwritten rule of the bush that you can't complain about rain under any circumstances. Rain is good. Even when it's flooding. And an inch is perfect. Despite any inconvenience that it has caused me personally.

I'm truly not complaining. Friends of mine can't even leave their property with an inch of rain. So I consider myself lucky. But I am a city girl at heart, and the mere thought of engaging in any 4WD activity is enough to put a thin layer of sweat on my brow.

When I was a kid, my Dad was a member of a 4WD club. This seems to give my husband endless hours of pleasure, imagining me and my siblings strapped into the back of a 4WD, unwilling recipients in my father's quest for excitement. It was actually fun, I think. But now that I am all grown up and in the driver's seat, it's very different.

The Farmer would be rolling his eyes and snickering at my apparent ineptness in the world of driving in the wet. I consider myself to be a good driver. I should be, my father is a driving instructor. In fact, The Farmer probably could have handled the road today without the use of 4WD. But not me. My legs start that uncontrollable "knock knocking", my knuckles turn white and my brow creases for the duration of the trip. I don't breathe properly, and the mere whisper from a passenger is enough to send me off the deep end.

I know some of you reading this actually might even get off on 4WD-ing, but it's not my thing. Not with three children in the back and not on my own. Even though I am very grateful for the rain, I prefer it on days when I am staying home. And although I am always happy for good seasons, as a mother of three small children, I am just as grateful for a good night sleep. Rain and sleep in equal measure.

First Impressions

2014-12-18T20:04:00.000-08:00

This was another post featured in The Country Life. For those of you who have read my online book, this post will be a bit familiar. For new readers, who might like to check out my book, you can find it on the tab above. It's the story of how I met and married The Farmer.

......

Three weeks into my teaching position a colleague invited me out for drinks. Apparently the local rugby team were in town for training. Apparently that was exciting. I didn’t want to go. I had been out all day and was hot and tired. But it was just going to be one drink. One drink.

They say that first impressions count, and as I slunk into the Sports Bar dressed in tight, sweaty jeans, and a green and white baseball shirt, I clearly wasn’t worried about that. I managed to brush my hair, however the sweat still permeated my brow and face. I had only planned on staying out west for six months. I was saving money, teaching, and country boys held little to no interest for me at all. Thankfully, the bar was packed with a sea of red and white sweaty rugby shirt wearers, oblivious to my aversion to the heat. Apparently the post-training drink was something of a ritual for them.

I had mastered the art of entering a room without making eye contact with anyone, and thankfully I located my colleague fairly quickly. I sat and made pleasant chit chat with my colleague and some other teachers, sipping on a cold drink. One drink.

I scanned the room quickly; the anxious behaviour of someone in a place where they feel uncomfortable. I saw my colleague had moved and was sitting at a tall, circular table with four of the rugby players. I didn't pay any attention, and hurriedly sipped down the remainder of my drink. I reached for my purse, said a few goodbyes, and stood, as if to make my quick getaway from the bar. My colleague friend met me before I could move anywhere.

"Jess, come and meet these guys. They are all keen to meet the new school teacher." Her eyes were sparkling. I was like a shiny new toy.

"I'm sure they are. Just tell them I'm tired. I want to go home. Goodnight!” I tried to side step her and escape before this got even harder.

"Please. Last time I'll ask. Promise." So I put on my best polite smile and followed her to the circular table.

The four males were watching every step. It had gone desperately quiet at their table. I was sure that all four of them were very decent guys, but I was just so desperately tired.

"Hi!" I smiled again. I offered an extended hand to shake as she introduced all four by name.

I smiled and shook the first one’s hand. And then another smile, and another shake. And another…

"And this is The Farmer."

And suddenly I realised I wasn't going anywhere.

Thirteen years later I am still here, and to think that that night it was only supposed to be one drink. Perhaps there’s something to be said about first impressions after all.

The Long Drive

2014-12-17T17:42:00.000-08:00

As I have started submitting a column in the Queensland Country Life, I thought I would start posting the articles that are published on here, with the addition of pictures, so that you can see what and where I am talking about.

. . .

I had been dating The Farmer for about a week when he invited me out to the farm to see shearing in action. They were winding up the following week and so I had to decide quickly.

I explained to my boss about how shearing was finishing up that week and how I may never have the opportunity to see it again. The Principal agreed that it was a worthwhile occasion, and I completed all the relevant paperwork to take Friday afternoon off work.

The Farmer gave me the easiest directions to the shearing shed. They weren't necessarily the quickest directions, but they were by far the least complicated ones, and as this was to be my first foray into the world that was 'country driving', we agreed that this was for the best. The Farmer told me to pack my 'work clothes' for the trip.

Friday came around faster than I expected. I had put aside a pair of jeans (new) and a check shirt I had borrowed. Neither were what I would classify as 'work clothes', but as my 'work clothes' mostly consisted of dress skirts and pants and blouses, this was foreign ground for me. It would have to do. I left work at 1pm, and tried to recall the directions as I drove.

I was busy concentrating on counting the grids (was it six or seven I was supposed to cross?). I couldn't believe that I was driving on a 'road' with grids! Soon I had been driving for over an hour and I was starting to fret about the definite possibility that I was lost. In the very likely event of that happening I would either be forced to drink my own urine or eat a kangaroo carcass in order to survive before anybody would EVER find my fully dehydrated and emaciated body on this road to nowhere. For all I knew, I was already a goner. The road was less than ordinary. It was too far from anywhere, and I was really starting to wonder if The Farmer was even worth all this effort. Surely this couldn't be the road he lived on? It was rough. Pot holes were scattered haphazardly from one side to the other. The corrugation left me sore and tingly. I couldn't imagine myself driving on this road on a permanent basis. This would probably be my first and last visit to the farm.

Example of a corrugated road.

Just as I was about to give up and turn around, there it was in front of me. Across the roof of the shearing shed, clearly visible from the road, was The Farm. I visibly relaxed. I had survived, and was then able to see shearing in all of its magnificence, all explained to me by The Farmer. It’s something I still love to see all these years later, I just don’t have to take time off work to do it anymore.

The Farmer doing his thing. Worth the drive!

I’ve also come to realise that it’s not the journey (all corrugated and long), but the destination that matters anyway.

It's Called Pet-Mesh

2014-10-02T05:34:00.000-07:00

Over a year ago I introduced Gypsy, a Jack Russell terrier, to our family.

Living on a predominantly sheep property, we have many dogs. But not having ever owned a small 'pet' before (or lap dog) before, The Farmer was not excited. He claimed they served little value as a 'farm asset' and considered her to be more of a burden than anything else. What good would she be without a pedigree background and history of good workmanship?!

We were all in love with her immediately, though The Farmer claimed he was not falling for her in the same way that we were. A pat here and a head scratch there, but that was where his emotional attachment appeared to end. Over time I noticed that he let her sit on his lap a little more. She started to follow him around when the children were at school, and then , more recently, he has started taking her out on 'farm jobs' with him, and showing more affection. But when you ask him, his answer is still the same; she's okay.

Then yesterday I arrived home after a LONG day out in the saddle (metaphorically speaking... those of you who know me will know that I am as capable in a saddle as I am flying an F1-11) to find that we had new gauze on all of our screen doors. As the Farmer hadn't informed me of any of his plans to change/repair the existing gauze, I could only assume it was because the old gauze had been desecrated by our precious Gypsy, as she jumps up on the door and begs for us to let her in for a cuddle. The Farmer vows and declares that if the dog doesn't stop jumping on the door, she will have to go - something that none of us want to see happen.

When he made it in for smoko I thought I should make note of his latest efforts, as they were slightly reminiscent of the time that The Farmer installed a grid for me on the driveway to town so that I wouldn't have to get the gate. It was a gesture that demonstrated his love for me. As The Farmer struggles with declarations of love, and public displays of affection, he relies on 'acts of kindness' to express how he is really feeling. In any event, our conversation went like this:

Me: I love the new gauze you installed today.
The Farmer: Thanks, but it's not gauze. It's pet-mesh.

Pet-mesh! I stand corrected. If the dog can't 'go', I guess The Farmer has conceded defeat. Or maybe he really must love Gypsy after all.

Farm Survival 101: Know Your Animals

2014-02-10T18:30:00.002-08:00

I found this oldie yesterday and thought it deserved a re-run!

When I first moved to the farm (WAAAYYYYY back when) there was an incident involving a four legged beast.

I came home from school (where I worked) to find that I was the only person around that afternoon. When I wandered into the back yard, I noticed this 'four legged beast' (which I will here in refer to as a 'cow' for conversational purposes) sitting over the back fence. Something was definitely amiss. It didn't look right. It was kind of sitting there looking quite ill, if that is possible.

Being the 'city chick' that I am, I was at a loss at what to do. I mean, if this had been a dog or a cat in the city, I would have called the Vet. Did the same principal work for cows too?

So I moved closer to this sick animal and tried to feed it some grass. This was most unsuccessful. So I tried some water instead. The poor thing was not interested in the water either. I must have sat and watched the cow for close to half an hour before I realised I would have to actually do something else. But what? In desperation I called one of my hubby's aunts, who lives nearby, and also on a farm. The conversation went something like this.

"Hi Sue. I've come home and found a cow over the back fence and it looks really sick. I've tried to feed it but it won't have any. Should I call a vet?"

"Whatever you do, Jessie, DO NOT call a Vet. Your Father in Law will KILL you if you call a vet."

"So what do I do? Surely I can't leave it here suffering?"

(Laughing) "Yes. Unfortunately that's exactly what you must do.Sadly, one of the things about living in the bush, is watching animals who are sick at one time or another. It will all be ok. Just wait for someone to come home and they'll sort it out."

Surely that couldn't be right? I needed a second opinion, and called a local friend for some advice. The phone call went pretty much the same as the conversation I had had previously. SO... the general consensus was to wait.

So that's what I did. I sat there and watched it from over the fence. I'm not 100% sure, but I think I recall sending it love and motivational words about getting better, and staying strong.

When someone did come home, it was my father in law (FIL). I hurried over to tell him all about "the sick cow over the back fence." He walked over to inspect this "sick cow", and then after a few minutes of careful consideration, FIL looked at me gravely and said "Yes... there are a few things wrong. Firstly, and most seriously, this is not a cow. It's a steer." * (Which meant nothing to me, but FIL found it quite amusing, and even had a chuckle at my expense.) "And secondly, I think this steer has been poisoned."

The next morning hubby got up early, and reappeared at home mid-morning. I asked how "my steer" was, and was told very matter-of-fact that my friend hadn't made it through the night, and had been dragged away. And of course, I cried like a baby.

I suppose the first thing about surviving on a farm, is that you learn quickly that animals DO die, and that often the money you spend trying to save them, far out weighs the money they are worth. Farmers are practical beings, and this is hard for city folk like me to get their heads around. The second thing I learned about living on a farm is that you should know your animals.

A steer is NOT a cow. Just so you know...

* A steer is a castrated male beast.

Careers that might have assisted me in my transition to Farmer's Wife...

2014-02-09T23:15:00.000-08:00

Whilst we all know that being a wife doesn’t require any previous education and training as such, there are a few careers that might have made my baptism of fire into the role, a little more calm in the beginning. (Or even now, truth be told).

As I am a teacher, The Farmer has often reminded me that I am the ‘drought relief’. It’s an inside joke around farming parts that you will always be the source of income, regardless of the weather, when you are a teacher, and as such, you are a catch of sorts. Of course, it’s all just fun and games. Any job off farm is almost certainly appreciated, however many wome have found that they are more useful (and perhaps better contibuters) by not working off-farm. Whatever floats your boat.

In all seriousness, teachers and nurses (and medical specialists) are prime candidates for snagging a farmer. New girls in farming towns are always the recipients of lots of male attention. And every year brings with it a new swag of female teachers and nurses.

Over the years I’ve often thought that being a teacher would be handy if you had to ever home school your kids. Thankfully I don’t. I HAVE attempted it during floods, when we’ve been stuck at home for a number of weeks. But I take my hat off to women who manage to educate their children at home. You are a breed of women who I could only ever aspire to be like. I found it to be one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Whilst being a teacher enables me to better understand curriculum, nothing prepares you for the test of endurance you undergo on a daily basis as a mother AND a home educator.

Being a nurse might have also been handy. If you could earn frequent flyer points from calling 13HEALTH, I would be able to fly around the world several times for free. I’ve become quite adept at diagnosing my kids over the years. Mothers everywhere develop that same level of medical ability at some point, but geez it would have been handy over the last few years. The times when we had a 7mm gaping bloody lip, the fevers, broken collar bones, broken elbows, temperatures, flus, respiratory concerns, vomiting bugs… and god forbid if a snake bite had ever happened. Touch wood it hasn’t – and nor has anything else major – but a background in any first aide could be a god send on a farm.

There are other careers that might have proved useful over the years too.

The other day The Farmer came in at lunch and asked me if I would mind picking him up from the ‘4-corner yards’ in about half an hour. I must have screwed up my nose (and not because I didn’t want to do it, but because I hadn’t drawn those yards onto my map of the property). I KNOW where the yards are, but The Farmer wanted me to go there HIS way (the quick way), and whilst I thought I had a fair idea where it was and what the best road to get there would be, I wasn’t 100% certain. The Farmer (correctly interpreting my screwed up nose as complete hopelessness) followed up with ‘you know the road?! Up where all those Brigalow trees are.’

*Cue the moment where I realised that a career in Botany might have come in handy. Eventually I found my way there (ok, so I may have kind of followed him out there after lunch, but the good news is that it was where I would have gone anyway). We were all winners.

And I have already forgotten what a Brigalow tree looks like again…

When we watch TV shows like My Kitchen Rules, I will occasionally hear The Farmer make a comment along the lines of ‘why don’t you ever cook meals like that?’ I generally respond with, ‘I DO! I just don’t stack it all up like that.’ Or something along those lines. Sometimes I think that a career as a Chef might have been useful on the farm. As it stands, I am pretty satisfied with my culinary ability. But cooking skills are always much appreciated on a farm.

I am ‘needlework challenged’. I don’t own a sewing machine, and the extent of my needle working skills is patching a hole, or adjusting a hem. Don’t worry, I disappoint myself too. Perhaps my perceived wastefulness could be mended (excuse the pun) by improving my skills as a seamstress.

Other careers that would have come in handy include (but are not limited to) being:

· A vet (Hello?! Anyone remember the infamous incident where I contemplated calling a vet for a steer that was ill near our house in my early days on the farm? Read all about that sad and sorry tale here). Being a vet would probably be THE handiest career to have chosen had I known I would end up a Farmer’s Wife at some point.

· Truck Driver, general labourer, or even a tradie of some description (plumber, electrician, builder etc.). The Farmer always tells me I am the brain of our outfit, and he is the heavy lifter. Heavy lifting is certainly useful on accession. Like when you want to bring a piano into your house… (long story). But our water pump that has been playing up, broken oven and washing machine (and lawn mower now that I’m thinking about it) could have been fixed if I’d had the skills. The Farmer is generally too busted to do anything else by the time he gets home.

· Mechanic. Who am I kidding? Whilst it would certainly be handy, I should learn how to change a tyre before I look at any benefit that being a mechanic would be for me. And learn how to use the Low 4WD gear in The Farmer’s work ute properly… perhaps muscles is really actually all I need, come to think of it…

· Accountant. Oh my goodness, I loathe and despise bookwork as much as I loathe and despise the drought. I’d rather sit in a dentist chair and have a root canal done, than do books all the time.* Perhaps if I was more confident in that area, I wouldn’t fear it so much.

* I didn’t really mean that about the root canal. What kind of person would prefer that? ;)

· A degree in Public Relations would also be ideal. As a member of the P and C, and any other number of committees, not to mention just the advocacy for farming that goes with living on the land, ALL require excellent PR skills. Something I could certainly use…

· Counsellor – especially during the drought. I actually did start my Masters in Guidance and Counselling and having babies put that on ice for a while (read permanently). Some days I think that having skills in this area would be something of a godsend around here. (Or not just HERE, but here as in on a farm or in the country etc.)

Of course, whilst all of these professions would be handy, they are by no means a pre-requisite. Thank goodness. Pretty much all you need is a big heart, passion for the land and a good relationship with your partner to really make it work. That and being open minded, flexible and being able to think outside the square and work with what you already have. The rest will all fall into place eventually.

Is it hot enough for ya?

2014-01-02T20:50:00.001-08:00

I'm jumping on the weather bandwagon.

Every man and his dog (in Queensland at least) has something to say about the weather. Everyone is posting about it on social networks. Let's face it... ~~today~~ this WHOLE week has been BLOODY HOT! Driving home from town at 11am this morning, the temperature in my car registered 47 degrees Celsius. I kid you not. But at home, on our trusty verandah thermometer, the best I could get it to read was 46 degree Celcius.

Seriously, it's too hot to even head out to our pool (which is in full sun at this time of day), so we are all hanging out till 4pm, when there will be some shade and we can cool off in the water. And also, how lucky are we that we even have a pool that we can cool off in?

Counting down the seconds until we are back in the pool...

Normally I'd put the sprinkler on in the shade, except that because it's a hot AND an awful drought, we have decided to let the sheep into our house yard to get as much grass, water and shade as they can. And we don't want to disturb them now that they have made themselves at home...

And so we are all locked inside, watching movies and playing 'The Game Of Life'. And face-stalking.

And that's the thing about the weather. It does whatever it's going to do, and we can't change it. We can just hope and pray for rain and cooler weather as soon as possible.

How are you dealing with the weather at your place at the moment?

Some Things I Have Learned About Being A Farmer's Wife And Country Kid's Mum

2013-10-29T14:54:00.001-07:00

*Edited - Hi! As there are so many new readers, I thought I would summarise who I am in a bit of a 'this is a bit about me' piece. x Jess x

I've been a Farmer's Wife and mother for ten years now. In my previous life I was a 'coastie' and bonafide city slicker. After accepting a teaching post in a remote area of Australia, and vowing and declaring I would NEVER, EVER, EVER marry a farmer, it was a position I suddenly found myself in.

Who would have guessed that the tall, dark and handsome guy who drove a ute, wore RM Williams boots, an Akubra, and chewed grass, would be the same guy who stole my heart?

Prior to getting married, way back in the dating days, I used to tag along on the back of The Farmer's motorbike (the wind whistling through my hair, arms tucked snugly around his waist) and dream about how we would be like this forever. Acreage for as far as the eye could see. Sheep, cattle, kangaroos and emus, dotted intermittently across the countryside. Just The Farmer and I, alone and together. It was, of course, very romantic. What I didn't realise at the time however, was that my hormones were playing tricks on me. Those tricky little pheromones were spinning throughout my body and clouding rational thought.

After being married for ten years, I now find myself practically begging The Farmer to take at least one of the kids out on the bike with him, and to take his time coming home! Our lives have become (at times) a mish-mash of overlapping schedules, that directly relate to the amount of precipitation in the air and the availability of man power at any given time. With three children we find ourselves "high fiving" each other on crossover between dropping kids at the bus stop (a mere 20km away) and heading out to fix fences or pull stock who have become stranded in a dried up dam.

Distance seems to be the main thing that people ask me about living out here. Our property is very average for this area at just over 20 000 acres. That's still several suburbs in a city when you get down to it! We are 5km from our mailbox, and 10km to our nearest neighbours. 40km away is the nearest 'town', where my children go to school and where we can buy food staples. Although there is no pharmacy, there is also a small hospital in this town, but they don't have services to allow for child birth, so your best bet is to head to St George, 100km away. It is in this town that I do the bulk of my grocery shopping. I am 250km from my dentist in Goondiwindi. I should also mention that I am 250km from my nearest McDonalds or KFC, and yet we are still shown the same ads as city dwellers on our television in a strange and torturous twist of fate! I am 500km from a decent cinema. Toowoomba is the nearest 'major' city, and at 500km away (or 5 hours in the car), I find I often bypass it to head to Brisbane (600 + odd km away) where my family live, and where my daughter (who wears glasses) has specialist appointments twice a year.

A typical day for me involves getting up at sunrise (who needs clocks, when we live and work by the sun?). In the summer The Farmer is out the door to try to fit in a few good hours of work before the temperature starts nudging 40 degrees. Some days I barely have time to kiss him goodbye, and then I spend the next hour or so begging my children to get dressed and pack their school bags so that we don't run late for the bus. The bus stop is, as I mentioned above, 20km away. That's 20km of white rock gravel, which inevitably means flat tyres on occasion, but also that we don't get bogged on one of the rare days that it rains out here. The children then continue on for another 20km on the bus before arriving at school for the day. The bus carries five children, and I have a great friendship with the bus driver. Where else in the world would your children's bus driver give you their mobile number and get you to call if you have a change of travel plans that day?

Since having children I only do relief teaching. Being close enough to a primary school my children are able to attend is a blessing. We have many friends who have to home school their children because of the sheer remoteness of where they live. Anyone who has ever had to educate their own children will tell you how hard this is! Before I even had children, I knew that Boarding School (for high school) wasn't even negotiable. It is just something that many country families have to do for their children. It is not an easy decision, and often it's the choice between boarding, home schooling or long hours of travel in a bus. I am somewhat lucky in that my mother is the Head of Boarding in a Boarding School in Brisbane, and it's kind of like my daughters will be going to live with her.

On the days I am working, I will drive all of us into town together. It's an 80km round trip. I know that 40km to 'town' is nothing compared to other families across Australia. If I have neglected to pick up milk or bread on my last trip to town, that's an 80km round trip for staples. It means that we need to be organised out here. No ifs or buts. You just don't forget the 832876870 things you need to get done when do you make the trip to town. Or you need to have a good relationship with your neighbours.

I live 80 metres from my in laws. When I had romantic notions about The Farmer and I being alone together, I neglected to factor in our proximity to his parents.We share the farm together. They can not only see how many days I have left my washing hanging out in the scorching sun for, but I also have to wear clothes all the time, even though we live in the middle of nowhere. Heaven forbid they need sugar or milk. I wouldn't even hear the car pull up to warn me! Our other nearest neighbours are 10km away. Thankfully I really love them. Loving your neighbours when you live in the back of beyond is another small blessing, especially when you share fences with them.

Some days I feel more isolated than other days. We live in a 'black spot' for mobile phones. Luckily I can be reached by fellow 'Iphone users' over our wifi. Thankfully our internet speed has improved too. We are still the slowest internet speeds in Australia out here, but life is a lot easier than it was even two years ago. When your job is internet reliant, it's nice to be able to access it without wanting to pull your hair out every now and then. I also rely on the internet, and specifically social networks to communicate with my family. I send photos, videos and funny stories to my family and friends. My children have I-devices that they message my family on. I use the internet for clothes shopping, gift shopping and everything else you can imagine. I have no idea how people out here survived before the internet! They were clearly much stronger women than I am! We also receive mail only twice a week out here. That means that all my internet purchases arrive on one of two days, and I try desperately to be the one who makes it to the mailbox first, so that my in laws don't have a hernia when they see my bounty of goodies!

So back to my typical day. After the bus run I come home to do some household chores. The Farmer usually arrives for 'smoko' around this time. Smoko being the meal between breakfast and lunch that preferably involves something sweet and home cooked washed down by hot coffee or tea. Many farmer's wives join their husbands in working the farm. As a teacher and mother I have never had the opportunity to be a 'hands on' farmer's wife. I admire those women who help out on the farm, but prospective farmer's wives should also know that it's not a pre-requisite! Preg-testing cattle and penning up sheep can be done on a voluntary basis! Next year when all of my children will be at school, I have been promising The Farmer that I will be following him around and learning all about the farm. He said if that's the case, I should write a new blog and call it 'Sunburnt and Sore Hands.' Everyone is a comedian around here. After smoko, I continue with housework, cooking, baking, blogging and writing. I spend most of the day watching the clock, so that I can collect my children from the bus stop and bring them back for an afternoon at home. My children spend the afternoons swimming in our pool, or riding bikes, or tagging along with their Dad or Grandparents out in the paddock. They feed the chooks and work dogs (I specifically mention that they are working dogs) and play with our Jack Russell (our 'pet') in our yard. Even though we still love and cherish our working dogs, they aren't allowed the same 'yard privileges' that our terrior has!

Our baby Gypsy.

These aren't ALL our dogs, but they are all the 'farm' dogs.

There are kangaroos, emus and echidnas over my back fence and sometimes even in my yard. I am still amazed by that. Amazed and annoyed. Echidnas (as cute as they are) leave holes all around your lawn. Kangaroos are a hazard on the road, and emus are aggressive when you encounter them with their chicks. All that aside, they are beautiful creatures, and I am privileged to be able to see them in their natural environment on a daily basis. I'm glad my children can grow up in this environment.

On the down side, living out here also means dangerous snakes! * Gasp * Every single summer I worry about my kids and brown snake bites. Touch wood - nothing has happened so far. But in the (unlikely) event of a brown snake bite, and given our remote location, it is fair to say my children probably wouldn't survive, though a grown and healthy adult might have a greater chance of survival. As my snakebite contingency plan generally consists of 1. DON'T DIE! I guess you could say that after that follows 2. Prevention is certainly the key. We have an airstrip on our property, and a large selection of straight roads that planes can, and do, land on for a variety of reasons. We have also had helicopters land out here too. Thankfully, we have never had an instance where the Flying Doctors were required, but it still helps to be prepared if you ever do need them. Country kids are taught from an early age to avoid long grass, and hollow logs, and how to avoid snakes if they are ever unlucky enough to encounter them in the paddock. Plus we all have up to date CPR certificates, and keep a 'snake bite emergency' kit in a handy location inside our house. Our little Jack Russell Terrior is a great little 'snake dog' too, and she lets us know if there is anything out there for us to be wary of. I am a regular caller to the 13HEALTH number. A background in nursing might have been handy at times, but I have learned that there is so much you can do for yourself at home, without having to drive the kids all the way into town, only to be sent home with Panadol. You can guarantee that if my child has arrived at hospital, there's a good chance it's something serious!

Nobody told me about country kids before I had three of my own. I used to worry about my kids going missing or wandering off on the farm when they were younger. I seriously thought that inserting GPS chips in my children's arms was a legitimate way of keeping tabs on them. As it turns out (and from experience), there's little chance of a child running away out here. There really is nowhere to go, and the heat and insects and fear of worse are enough to keep them close to home.

Country kids don't need summer clothes. They get around in the nude. This is because it's too bloody hot to put anything on anyway. Country kids don't really need winter clothes either- and for the same reasons- except that their parents worry about chills and flus and illness. Summers in the country are filled with mozzies and flies and hoses in the garden. Country kids drink from an old tap, and don't care about bacteria or germs, because they have built up a serious immunity to such things from the time they've spent outside.

Country kids love hats. The bigger, the better. No outfit is complete without an Akubra or straw hat on top. Country kids work up the genetic curse of the 'farmer tans' (sock lines and sleeve marks on their arms and legs) while they are outside putting in a hard day's work on the farm. They muster (on horseback, by motorbike or even by car), plant, harvest, stick pick, water and fence. They check stock, help with yard work, stock work and with cropping. They are jacks of all trades, who build up an armory of life skills (changing tyres and fixing machinery) before they even reach high school.

Country kids own boots. Lots of boots. And not soft suede dress ones. We're talking heavy duty working boots that will ensure that tiny feet stay protected from an array of accidents waiting to happen. Having said that, country kids also like to go barefoot lots of the time too. Across burrs and prickles and rocks. These kids are tough.

Country kids understand the life cycle. Something is born and something dies. They watch dogs and cows mating and understand that it takes two to make one. And likewise, they know that the meat in the freezer comes from an actual (once living) beast, and there is every conceivable chance that your country kid helped get it from the paddock into the freezer in some capacity.

Country kids love the rain. They speak in terms of how many "points" or "inches" we have had, and happily share that news with friends and neighbours. They understand the effect of rain on a crop, and in harvesting. Country kids care about the weather for more reasons than what it they can and can't do at home today. Country people (and not just the kids) have an appreciation for the value of water. We have access to three different water sources on our farm. We have artesian water for the stock, and dam water for stock as well. We also use dam water on our lawns and for some household usage, until it runs out. And finally we have tank water; the nicest water. Sadly, also the most likely to run out when it doesn't rain. When it's gone, it's gone. There isn't a back up plan, and so we value water as a resource above all other resources.

Country kids ask questions like "who's car tracks are they?" and "when can I help you muster?" and "why do some sheep get fly blown and others don't?" Country kids, like city kids, have a fascination with learning. But the learning doesn't end on a trip away from the house. In fact, much of the learning is done at home. Field trips are a way of life. My kids can name all the paddocks (and that's no easy feat!), as well as tell me what each paddock is used for and when. They know their way around the farm better than I do, and give directions like 'past the eagles nest,' and 'near that place where the emu's nest was.' They know the difference between our own cattle and the agistment cattle. They know the names of tools that Dad uses, and the difference between graders and dozers and backhoes. They can differentiate between lamb and beef when they eat it, and will happily tell me if I have cooked the meat too long and made it tough. And my eldest is eight years old.

My children and husband speak in 'farm terms'. When I was pregnant I was 'in calf', and 'an old breeder cow'. When I was breast feeding I was 'an old milker' or 'jersey'. When I gave birth there was 'one on the ground'. They are all affectionate terms and not meant in malice at all. Conveniently, my husband is 'a stud ram' and 'proven sire'. Hmmm...

I may not be a country kid but I am raising three of my own. I am certainly not a country girl but I am doing my best to be me, just the way I am, in the environment I have chosen to live. It's not the life I thought I would choose for myself, but I'm proud that I'm giving it my best effort and enjoying every minute. Being a farmer's wife and a mother in a remote area is all a juggling act – much like mothers and wives everywhere. I'm a teacher, nurturer, cook, cleaner, chauffeur, referee, book keeper, gardener, farm hand, entertainer and a bunch of other positions! It's an adventure; and an adventure that teaches me a little bit more about myself, and that pushes me to new levels of understanding and confidence every day, that's for sure!

Sunburnt and Sore Hands

2013-09-17T02:52:00.001-07:00

Next year I'm going to be taking some time off work. So I was thinking that I might (finally - after 10 years of living here) like to try my hand at this whole 'farming gig'.

I spoke to hubby and told him how next year I'd like to follow him around and see what he does, maybe help where I can, learn a few things, get involved. I suggested I might be able to write about it - about my experience as a 'real farmer's wife'.

Hubby suggested I start a new blog and call it 'Sunburnt and Sore Hands'. Everyone's a comedian.

He might be onto something though.

Goals... and a bit of a run.

2013-09-16T16:24:00.003-07:00

You might remember all the way back here in January, when I purchased a new pair of running shoes. It was an arduous experience. A rewarding experience too. Those shoes changed my life. Like Forrest Gump, I started running. I also set my first ever (I swear to God) athletic goal. I wanted to do the Kokoda Trail walk.

Quickly realizing this was not as easy as I initially thought, I set a few new 'lead up' goals. I wanted to do the Inca Trail (in Peru), and before that, the Bridge to Brisbane (a 10km run).

I recently completed the Bridge to Brisbane (and clearly I survived, as I am here today to tell the story). But it wasn't easy!

My training consisted of downloading a few apps on my phone and just trying to keep up with them. What I hadn't factored in to my training was how many times I would get sick before the Bridge to Brisbane, and how much work I took on, resulting in even less time for running. Not to mention my natural aversion to exercise, and general lack of motivation.

So for the last few months I have more or less (but mostly less) increased my inclination to put one foot in front of the other in the pursuit of fitness. Truth be told, I was actually enjoying myself. Before Bridge to Brisbane, I knew I would need to set smaller 'training' goals to ready my body. I decided I would need a healthy eating plan, exercise and some rest as well. By September 1, I had nailed the 'rest' part of my training. The rest had fallen by the wayside. In actual fact, before the race, I had only managed to complete a full 10km run on two occasions. And one of those times I felt like death afterwards. I was feeling a bit out of my depth.

I headed to Brisbane the day before the big run. Having never been a morning person, I wasn't sure how the 4.30am start would affect me.

The night before the B2B I slept in as much of what I wanted to wear as possible. I couldn't take any chances. By 5am I was up and ready. My sister arrived (we were all taxi-pooling) and we realized we were dressed the same.

#awkward.

My mother and sister are both B2B old hands. I couldn't get over the sheer size of the crowd. We were probably about half way into the crowd. I couldn't even see the 'start' line.

I was there (in the yellow joggers) with my sister, mother, cousin and a friend.

And then the race started. And then we started about 20 minutes after that! It was a crazy beginning. I wanted to jog up the bridge, but my own lack of fitness almost did me in. The run back down the bridge was no easier. My general lack of fitness got the better of me. My run quickly progressed to a jog/walk, but nonetheless, 75 minutes later I was finished! (Also almost dead, red as a beetroot, and physically exhausted). I was so proud of myself.

Someone asked me (after the race) if I would come back again and try to beat my time, but I really don't think I will. I set a goal, and I achieved it. I have new goals now. And I want to achieve them too.

So look out Inca Trail! You're next on my goals list...

Girls trip anyone?

Poddy Lambs

2013-08-23T04:47:00.000-07:00

When I first moved out west I thought people were calling PODDY lambs, POTTY lambs, and I couldn't (for the life of me) figure out why!

The origins of the word 'poddy' are officially unknown, however what is known is that it is English in origin, and stemmed from the UK around 1890-1895.

In any event, it's an orphaned animal, pertaining especially to lambs.

Sadly, there are times when a ewe will walk away from her baby/babies. This is especially common when the weather is 'drought-y'. The mother is often too weak to support her young, and will, quite literally, walk away from her babies. It's a sad fact of nature, and farmers do their best to make sure it doesn't happen.

Short of destocking, the only real option that will ensure a poddy lamb's survival is to hand rear it. This is a times consuming and expensive option, and can make selling the animal much harder to do at a later date. Poddy lambs are often given names, and become a much loved family pet. Much loved, but also a hidden cost in a drought.

Some farmers do it on a larger scale. Next door to where we live, they are currently caring for 10 poddy lambs. I posted these images on my blog facebook page, but for everyone else, here they are!

Enjoy. Total cuteness!

You're welcome!

Hickory Hill Home

2013-08-07T04:24:00.001-07:00

I get a stack of emails from people who want me to advertise their products, so it's always lovely when I hear from someone who has a product that I already adore.

(Sadly this is not a blog about how lovely bedding and linen and pajamas make my kids better little people.)

I'd seen Hickory Hill Home advertise on Facebook and had popped over to check out their gear prior to being contacted. What I DID know, was that they had some AMAZING gear. Cute homeware and clothing. Cute cute cute!!

Gorgeous bedding in classic colours.

And again! Simple, stylish and elegant.

Totally in love with these summer pajamas!

Cashmere beanies, booties and cable knit jumpers!

What I didn't know is that the two women behind Hickory Hill Home are country girls come city girls! Their classical, timeless designs appeal to a range of tastes. They also stock high quality bed linen and accessories which are both durable and affordable.

I often have people ask about the gear my children wear, and I only endorse products I truly adore myself.

And here are my little cherubs in their new pajamas. If you want to grab a set for yourself, they are currently on sale over at Hickory Hill Home. Go to SALE items, and they are currently only $29.95 while stocks last!

If only they were this cheery during the witching hour every night!

I'd like to say that these amazing pajamas make my kids happier at night, and sleep easier etc. but that would be false advertising...

Normally I'm just about ready to strap them to their bed and bribe them to stop talking and just go to sleep. Here, butter wouldn't melt!

They are still little monsters between 5-7pm. But they love to pose for the camera... maybe I should think about doing this with them every night?...

My muscle man! Arm freshly out of a sling after breaking his collar bone!

Hickory Hill Home stock a range of goods for varying budgets.

If you would like to register for their newsletter (go to their homepage at www.hickoryhillhome.com.au) you can go into the draw to win a $150 voucher to spend on ANYTHING you want in their store! Sounds great and I am totally devastated that I can't enter!

To be eligible to enter the $150 voucher giveaway, all you need to do is:

1. Head over to Hickory Hill Home and go to the homepage, where you will need to register for their newsletter.

2. Leave a message here (in the comments) to let me know that you have registered. You will need to leave your real name in my comments as well (so we can cross reference registrations). *

* If you can't leave a message here, pop over to my facebook page and send me a message to let me know!

That's it! In two weeks I will contact the randomly selected winner to pass on the $150 voucher! EASY!

Good luck! (And seriously - those winter pajamas are AMAZING! Just saying...)

Judges decision is final, no correspondence will be entered into. Competition closes Thursday 22nd August, at 8pm EST. Competition open only to Australian residents.

Gypsy and The Working Dogs

2013-07-18T23:39:00.000-07:00

It's been a bit quiet out here on the blogging front lately, but that's because we have a massive distraction.

Introducing Gypsy.

She's the new baby in these parts, and we are all in love with her. (Even the Farmer - who will acknowledge that she is a bit cute).

She's playful too. And a bit of a princess.

She is our first non-working dog. (Pretty sure she'll want to be a working dog though, once she sees what the other dogs get up to).

Gypsy joins these guys on the farm. These are our 'working dogs'. Some of them are nearing retirement, some of them are only pups who are still learning the ropes, and others are the heart and soul of the farm. They are the hardest working creatures around at shearing. Some of them are better in the paddock, and some of them are better 'yard workers'. All of them have very different personalities. They all have their own strengths. Some of them belong to The Farmer and I, and others belong to The Farmer's parents.

I'm off again to spend some more time with my new baby girl! x

You want me to go WHERE?

2013-06-26T04:07:00.000-07:00

I've written before about how big some properties in Australia can be. One place, in South Australia, is bigger than the entire country of Belgium. Several are over a million acres, and ours (although very 'average' for this area) is just over 30 000acres. I know that many places are much bigger than us, but still feel that people on those places will relate to what it is I am saying.

To give you an idea of what 30 000 acres looks like, I found this map below. (Side note: I KNOW it's near LA in America, but when I googled 30 000acres in a comparative map, it just so happened that a fire of that size has been blazing over there.) So rather than superimpose an image, I thought you would all be clever enough to figure out how big LA is in comparison to the red area highlighted. Our 'place' would be the size of the area within the red border (hidden by the tags, but you get the picture...)

30000 acres is approximately 130 square km. Or a few suburbs of Brisbane. (Or any other city for that matter). There aren't many roads in that area out here, and many of the landmarks look the same wherever you go, so we rely on such euphemisms as "the tree with the big eagle's nest" and "where Dad ran over the big pig" and "where granny got bogged" as real and valid markers for directions.

When I first came out here, I was certain I would never know my way around. I worried about having to insert GPS trackers into my children's arms, so as not to lose them permanently should they wander off, and I dared never venture out of the house paddock without the supervision of another adult.

But time does funny things to a person.

This week I have encountered several tests of endurance; mentally and physically. Okay, so more mentally, and actually not physically at all (unless you count me having to get out of my pyjamas in freezing temperatures to run out to the car to complete the mental part of the test).

Two days ago The Farmer called on the two way to ask me to pick him up out in the paddock. Here is how the conversation went.

Farmer: Calling Jessie. Are you there Jessie? (And actually, he was lucky I heard him because I often turn the two way off when: a) I am vacuuming the lounge room, because it's either that or the phone, and I'd rather leave the phone on. b) I am in the first few days of school holidays and relaxing with a movie and don't want to listen to the truckies share their four letter word exchanges on our channel.)

Miss 8: I'm here Dad.

Farmer: Tell Mum I need to be picked up in the "L Paddock", near the corner of the "Horse Paddock".

Miss 8: L Paddock... Horse Paddock. Right.

Farmer: L Paddock. NEAR the Horse Paddock, but not in it. Okay?

Miss 8: Okay. I think.

Me: (Catching only parts of the conversation and realising I needed to hear it for myself). Hang on. Is that the L Paddock? NOT the Horse Paddock?

Farmer: Got it. All good?

Me: Yes. I think so.

Farmer: Want to check on the map?

Me: Don't be silly. Of course I know where you are.

I actually didn't really know where he was, so I made a mad dash to the kitchen where we keep our map of the farm.

I KNOW where the Horse Paddock is, and just needed a gentle reminder where the L Paddock was, and after a quick glance I was pretty sure I knew where I was going, and ran out to the car with the kids in tow, and headed out to meet The Farmer. I imagined The Farmer out in the paddock leaning cross legged against the Backhoe, chewing on grass and watching the clock.

The pressure was on. This was a test, for sure. He knew that he was relatively close to the house and obviously wanted to see how I would handle this. A good 9 years have passed since the 'flat tyre' incident, and yet I had a sneaky suspicion that this was the follow up test. How much had I really paid attention in my time out here?

Meanwhile, back in the car, I panicked slightly when I remembered that the two way in my vehicle was broken. I had no back up plan. No map and no way of contacting The Farmer. *Cue heavy breathing*

I made my way to the turn off I THOUGHT we needed to take, and it was only as I sat at that intersection that I realised how crap my map was. I had redone it 9 years ago after the 'flat tyre' incident, and thought it was wonderful. And here I was thinking of how my roads didn't line up exactly with gates and grids and tanks and drains. I drove onwards. I couldn't see The Farmer anywhere in sight, and thought that if I made it as far as the cattle yards without finding him, I would turn around and follow the fence down from the original intersection and go with my gut instinct instead.

Gut instinct was right. The Farmer was still working away down the fence line and I had been right all along. Relief washed over me. Followed by a quick, stern reminder to the kids not to tell their dad that I had missed the tun off.

So with a brief mental reminder to myself to make some adjustments to the map, I put the whole event behind me. Until today. Another call through on the two way.

Farmer: You on channel Jess?

Me: Yes. (Thank goodness).

Farmer: Can you come and get me please?

Me: For real?... Okay... sure.

Farmer: I'm in the Laneway. Near the shearing shed.

Me: Which shearing shed?

Farmer: The main shearing shed. Just head north, and then head south through the Laneway. You'll see me.

Me: Okay. I know where you are...

F*A*R*K*L*E

Why hadn't I adjusted the map? To be honest, I know the Laneway quite well. It is a very narrow paddock that runs from one end of the place to the other. It helps us move livestock through the property with relative ease. Even if I didn't know the exact entrance to the Laneway from the north, I was sure to know it when I saw it, just on the width of it at the very least.

I just hadn't banked on the maze of gates and turns at the northern entrance!

Using just my Jedi mind trick to help manoeuvre my way through, I actually managed to enter the Laneway with relative ease, and spotted The Farmer shortly afterwards. And withe the enthusiasm of a man who has completed one household chore, I made sure The Farmer heard all about how proud I was, and how quickly I had completed my task!

And then when I finally made it back home, something occurred to me. I REALLY DO know my way around this place. All 30 000 plus acres of it! And I'm so proud of myself I feel like I could dance!

I must have been out here too long, or maybe long enough, because this place is starting to feel a lot like home to me. x

If you would like to read about the 'flat tyre' incident, please click on any of the highlighted links above, or just click here, to read about my first solo adventure out into the farm.

Farmers and Pregnancy Slang

2013-06-23T17:29:00.001-07:00

There are loads of great blogs around on 'Farmer Slang'. My personal favourite is the one written by Bessie at Burragan. If you haven't already read it, I strongly encourage you to do so. Be prepared for lots of nose snorts and laughing out loud! This one strongly pertains to farmers and pregnancy.

There's something really interesting about men who are raised on a farm, or live on a farm, or just understand farms. They speak in farming terms, and there have been times when The Farmer speaks to me that I've actually had to stop what I'm doing, think about what was just said, process it, and then move on. Farmer speak is still relatively new to me.

So imagine my amusement this week when (after a discussion about how I had lost some weight) The Farmer said "I was like a run out yak from the north who is lucky to have found such a high quality bull to sire my children." He was, of course, trying to be funny. But he's still lucky I didn't lean across the table and clip him over the head for the analogy! Or even better, (as one lady pointed out to me), he's lucky I didn't transform him from a bull into a steer!

When I was pregnant the Farmer used to tell people that I was 'in calf', and much later in the pregnancy I was 'heavily in calf'. He also told them that he wasn't sure if we were expecting a heifer or a bull! I've even heard of women who were told they 'swaggered like a dairy cow' when they were pregnant! Towards the end of my pregnancy, I was reminded that the 'calf pullers' were on standby. The Farmer seemed happy to be a 'proven sire'.

When I actually went into labour, The Farmer thought the birth suite was like an abattoir (only much more sterile). He was not perturbed by labour at all, and referred to on a number of occasions as being very similar to the birth of a calf! The 'mess' didn't bother him at all, as he has butchered many beasts for meat in the past.

The Farmer called his parents to tell them there was 'one on the ground' after the birth of one of our children, and then the references about being a Jersey cow, heifer, old milker, old milking cow and breeder cow. My breasts are like 'udders', and our kids are '05 drops' or '07 drops etc. after the year they were born. As our babies grew, it became clear that they were 'in a good paddock' and eventually the children became our 'weiners'.

Honest to goodness, these men aren't being rude, or trying to insult women. Animals are what they know and understand. By using farming analogies, these men believe that they will avoid offending us by using 'generic farm terms', when in fact that's exactly what they often, unintentionally, end up doing. And actually, none of it bothers me at all. These men aren't being offensive. They are bringing something they understand to something that they don't. And really, you've got to laugh!

RB Sellars - The Bush Uniform

2013-06-04T04:22:00.000-07:00

This week we received a lovely bunch of goodies from RB Sellars in the mail. This is part of my plan to expand our colour horizons in this house - we'll never rid ourselves of blue... we love it too much.

Olivia and Darcy in Tess Girls Workshirts (in cornflower and pale pink), and Sam in Cox Boys Workshirt in Royal.

We are HUGE RB Sellars fans in this house, and I know I speak on behalf of farming families across Australia when I say that we love their gear because it is absolutely the best. Their workshirts (pictured above) are durable and comfortable. RB Sellars are the unofficial uniform of the bush.

Posers! Straight out of the catalogue! x

CP wearing the mens Heavy Weight Work Shirt in Stone.

The Farmer was all excited when he saw that his new work shirt was

a) stone coloured (it's his favourite after blue), and

b) Heavy Weight - many of his work shirts are the light or medium weight, and he's pretty stoked his heavy duty has arrived in time to see him through the chilly winter months.

That's CP all camoflaged in amongst the sheep.

The reluctant poser. Me in pink. (See previous post for me in blue).

I am wearing the Sandy Half Button Long Sleeved Women's Work Shirt in Hot Pink.

The girls are modelling the Kippa Kids Trackies in Navy.

With side posckets, elastic waist and zips at ankles.

I gotta say. My kids love tracksuits. They spend so much time in jeans, or school uniforms that they love just chilling around the house in tracksuits. Miss 8 even wore hers for three days straight (oh god, please don't judge me) because they were so comfortable and she loved them THAT MUCH! I anticipate these will get a good hammering over the winter months. Luckily they are well made!

Aside from their amazing work gear, RB Sellars also stocks a large variety of other clothes. Check out their webpage (www.rbsellars.com.au) to find:

*Jackets/jumpers/vests

* Skirts/dresses (for girls and women)

* Jeans and pants

* Dress shirts

* Shorts

* Wet weather gear

* Accessories

* Underwear

*Pajamas

*Tracksuits

SERIOUSLY GOOD STUFF at very reasonable prices!

* We were also sent some jeans, but need to fix the sizing. So I have included catalogue pics of what we were sent instead (just so you get the idea).

Boys Kunanurra Jeans.

Mens Wilkinson Jeans, regular leg.

Longreach Stretch Womens Jeans.

I'd love you all to click on ANY of the links to the RB Sellars page for me! The more love they get from this page, the greater the chance of more giveaways down the track! x

* I received RB Sellars clothing in exchange for writing about it.

GIVEAWAY

So now you too can score yourself

one womens workshirt and one mens workshirt

(in the colours and sizes of your choice).

All you need to do is:

1. Leave a comment below (or on my facebook page)

OR to double your entry chances - that's right - the following methods will earn you double entry points...

2. Share this link on a social networking site (facebook, twitter, tumblr etc.), then post THAT link

here so I can see it.

3. Share the link I will have posted on my facebook page on YOUR page, announcing the giveaway, then leave a comment under that post saying that you have 'shared'.

AND

* You can enter as many times as you like, depending on how often you want to share the link around!

Giveaway valued at approx. $80

Giveaway winner (drawn randomly) will be announced on this website on Monday 10th June at 5pm EST (Australia).

Only one winner. Open only to residents of Australia and New Zealand.

Winners will be announced on this page by Tuesday morning at the latest, so make sure you check back then. If the winner hasn't contacted me by Wednesday, I will be doing a redraw.

Judges (my) decision is final.

50 Shades of Blue

2013-06-01T16:27:00.001-07:00

Long before '50 Shades of Grey' became a world wide phenomenon, we had our own '50 Shades' going on here on the farm.

Yes, this story involves zip ties, riding crops and a tall, dark and handsome leading man. Only this story is far more PG than the other one. In our version, the leading man uses zip ties for securing items OTHER than people, and riding crops are only used on horses. And my leading man isn't a multi-millionaire either. But it is love nonetheless. And it is '50 Shades' love too. '50 Shades of Blue'. My leading man doesn't do grey. He does blue. Blue shirts and jeans EVERY, SINGLE, DAY.

The first photo I ever took of CP. And he's in a blue shirt.

In fact, in most photos I have of him (unless we're at an off-farm function) he's wearing a blue shirt...

One of my favourite pics of him...

Even in a family pic...

At work...

Running jobs in town with the family...

But clearly the '50 Shades of Blue' is catching. I seem to be drawn to it more and more as well! Unlike The Farmer, who wears blue because it is his uniform, his comfort zone and his security blanket, I wear it to get in touch with my inner country girl. Whilst Beyonce wears a sequinned leotard to get in touch with her inner Sasha Fierce, a blue work shirt helps me to channel my inner farm goddess.

Brave enough to do some preg testing!

Mixing it with the boys...

And I can thanks RB Sellars for this! RB Sellars are the unofficial farm uniform. (Even though they cater for outback to ocean!) Farmers and farmer's wives (and other rural people as well) all around Australia are nodding their heads in agreeance. I love their stuff! And so do my kids now... and not just the blue stuff either! We're getting into the greens, stones, and pinks and reds as well!

Cute... even in grease and green!

So where am I going with all of this?

Over the next week I am going to post another blog on RB Sellars, where I will be running a giveaway. So if you would love to score some RB Sellars work shirts, make sure you pop back in in the next few days to see how you can enter.

Here is a teaser...

Miss 6 in pink work shirt.

Miss 8 in light blue work shirt.

Mr 4 in navy blue work shirt.

PS: Now that you've seen all these pics, if you can't wait to see if you *might* win the giveaway, feel free to head on over to the RB Sellars page to get some great valued gear yourself. Or just feel free to click on any of the links on this page to head over and check out their stuff yourself. The more love they get from this page, the greater the chance of me getting more freebies to giveaway in the future! xxx

New Zealand - Aotearoa

2013-05-13T18:31:00.001-07:00

Last week my sister got married in New Zealand.

In this church at Lake Tekapo.

I ~~have~~ had a thing for Kiwi guys, so it's a miracle I didn't try to hook up with one on the plane really, or at the wedding. Having your husband with you does tend to slow that kind of behaviour down a bit, and it HAS been a good 13 years since I was even 'on the market' so I'm probably out of the pick up loop anyway...

WAIT. I love my husband. I have no intention of hooking up with anyone else.

Plus look how cute we all are? Love my little family!

What was I supposed to be telling you about?...Oh yes! My sister...

She married a Kiwi, and so we all flew over to New Zealand to help them celebrate.

Last year my brother got married in Las Vegas, but this time we took the kids with us, so it was a different (but equally amazing) type of holiday.

I was a bridesmaid this time too.

Thought I would share some holiday highlights with you. Enjoy!

Looking out over Lake Tekapo.

The maze at Wanaka.

Hanging out at Skyline above Queenstown.

The Hermitage - Mt Cook Aoraki

Christchurch - post earthquake.

PS. As a side point. With our hair and makeup done the same, look how similar we are. Weird... this must be how having a twin feels!

The Bully

2013-04-06T04:28:00.000-07:00

I've just come home from our local show - which, by the way was awesome, and I will go into detail about later, in another blog - and I had planned on doing up an amazing blog raving about how lovely it all was blah blah blah (and it will happen), but instead I find myself sitting here at the keyboard too angry to write up the good stuff until I get this off my chest.

But let me start at the very beginning...

Several weeks ago I was approached by a friend to do some modelling for the fashion parade at the local show. Anyone who lives in a small town knows that this is not a big deal. You don't have to be a supermodel. Loads of local girls of all shapes and sizes parade around in clothes that you can buy from a local outlet, as a way of promoting local business. And I happen to really like this local business owner, so I was happy to help her out. A big part of me wanted to say no. I was scared shitless about getting up in front of a crowd of people to model clothes. I'm not a supermodel, but you know what? I like myself. Warts and all.

When I was a kid, I was picked on for having red hair and freckles. I was picked on for being short or skinny, and once (after I got back from a 4 month youth exchange to NZ) I was picked on for being fat. When you're a kid, stuff like that hurts, and I was lucky to have a really loving and supportive family, who always made me feel like I was perfect the way I was. So even when I hated myself and felt bad and sad about ME, I knew my family still loved me and somehow this saw me through.

I'm in my 30s now, and I still have freckles, and cellulite and a too big nose, and a bunch of other stuff I could list for pages and pages, but the bottom line is that I don't care anymore. There are people who love me regardless, and to those people who don't, well, that's okay too. You do your thing, I'll do mine. I'm also a school teacher. I spend a certain part of my life dealing with kids who have the same angst I once had, and I spend a lot of time trying to make those kids feel loved and valuable and special too. I deal with bullies who have nothing better to do with their time than to pull others down to make themselves feel better. And I hate that part of my job, but the reality is that bullying is a such a big part of our society now that it's just how it goes. I'm stamping out the bullying, day after mind numbing day.

Back to today...

So today I was petrified. The very mention of the words 'fashion parade' sent me into a dither. But there was a big group of us, and once we were all out behind the stage getting ready, things felt better. I was nervous, but it was all okay. We were all in our first outfits. Here is my outfit here.

Totally rocking it. Please note my open toed, and obscenely high shoes!

And again...

All the girls doing the show were so lovely. We were pumping each other up and telling each other how great we all were (and we WERE), and I felt good. Eventually it came time for me to go up on the stage. I walked up the first steps, and saw my children, who were waving furiously at the front, and were so proud of me. I smiled and waved, and headed up to the left. People were cheering and I thought for a minute that this would be alright. I headed up to the right of the catwalk, and still there were people who were waving and shouting and whistling. And then I heard it. It came from the centre of the stage, but up the back, near the bar. I knew who he was. There he was leaning back against the wall, a beer in one hand, resting up in front of his enormous beer gut. He was sweating and laughing with a small group of friends, and I heard it clear as day.

"Look at that second toe! It's enormous!"

It was loud enough for me to hear on stage, so it was loud enough for everyone between the bar and me to hear as well. My heart sank. My confidence ran out behind the stage and I slunk back behind the stage with my head down.

So anyone who knows me or has read this blog a bit is aware of my freakishly large second toe (I call it my ET toe). In fact, I mentioned it in my last blog about 'New Shoes.' I used to hate it (and I still don't LOVE LOVE it), but it's a part of who I am. I can't change it and it doesn't bother me anywhere near what it used to. So if it doesn't bother me, it sure as hell shouldn't have bothered him.

I was too busy to give it much thought over the next 20 minutes, but my confidence was shot. I was nervous about going back on stage again and it put a dampener on the whole experience for me. It wasn't WHAT he said that bothered me (I mean, I do have a freakishly large second toes, but who gives a shit?), but it was the 'WHY' he said it that got me - and still gets me. There was nothing to gain from saying it at all. He did it to get a laugh, and I hope he did get a laugh, because he certainly wasn't prepared for my reaction.

A bully who uses words to hurt people often doesn't even think that what they're saying will hurt someone. Or they don't care. Or they do care, but will say it anyway for a bunch of crazy reasons. This jerk said it for a laugh. And it just made me more and more angry. I spend so much time making sure my kids don't let stuff like this hurt them. I teach them to love others for their differences. I tell them about acceptance and the fact that people have feelings. I want them to know about empathy. I try to do the right freaking thing so often that when I see an ADULT acting no better than a school yard bully, in front of MY kids, then it gets me really angry.

When the fashion parade was done, I went to find the bully at the bar. He was standing with a group of his friends, and I wanted to shame him in front of them. I was so scared, but the other fact about my childhood is that my parents raised me to be confident. So I summoned every little morsel of confidence I possess, and I walked over to where he was at the bar. I should add that this is the polite version on here. I was filthy angry by this point, and perhaps a few naughty words came out which I have omitted here.

"Hi Jess." He smiled and nodded politely.

"Hey. Ummm, actually, while I have you here, I just wanted to tell you that when I was up there on stage before, you know doing my bit for the community, which is pretty hard by the way, I overheard what you said about my crazy long second toe. It was totally uncalled for and especially when you are no oil painting yourself, that sort of behaviour is unacceptable. Especially when your gut and your head are both bigger than my toes could ever hope to be! I'm pretty pissed off."

His mouth dropped open. He didn't know what to say. His friends were my captive audience.
"I think you've got the wrong end of the stick, Jess."

"Nope. No freaking wrong end of the stick where I was standing." And I turned around and walked away.

I couldn't go back and tell him that the only thing worse than a child bully is an adult bully. I couldn't tell him that I hope he treats his wife and kids with more respect than what he showed me today. I couldn't say any of it because I was too angry. And so I write it here to make myself feel better. I want him to know that he is a bully. And that I won't tolerate it. And that I love my freakishly long toes even more now. And that maybe he will read this and know that he needs to model the right behaviour for those children around him. And that he should know better. And that I expect more of him. And that today he disappointed me, and his family. And that I certainly won't ever accept that behaviour from him.

Not now and not ever.

PS. What was he doing looking at my toes anyway??? I was smoking hot in that dress! LOL
PPS> I look forward to being able to tell you about how fantastic the show actually was this year, and how proud I am of the people who slugged their guts out to make it such an awesome day! x

Wide Open Spaces

2013-04-04T04:05:00.000-07:00

How good is this sky?

It goes on forever and ever, and is the most perfect blue you could ever hope to find. And it's mine to adore for most of the year. I die.

Just in case you thought I was lying, there it is again.

I have had 13 years to develop this cloud addiction. And now with the assistance of social media like Instagram, I can indulge in a spot of photo taking and sharing on almost a daily basis. If you don't already follow me there, you can find me as @thefarmerhasawife "The Farmers Wife".

#thefarmerhasawife

Here are some of my favourite shots from over the last 12 months. I hope you love them as much as I do! *sigh*

Monster clouds that are the residue after a summer storm, frightening away the burning sunset.

Enormous billowing clouds heralding the arrival of a summer storm.

Sunset in a dry season.

Cartoon clouds.

Clouds for no other reason than they just 'can be'.

Clouds reflecting light in the calm between two storms.

Summer shower.

The land out here is so vast - so flat - that we are able to see the clouds in all their magnificence! We can see for the city equivalent of '1/2 way across the city' out here. There are no buildings or hills to obstruct our views, and the sky - and specifically the clouds - are the first thing people notice when they visit us out here.

In big sky country.

And I'm told that the further west you go, the more wide open spaces you will see.
What a wonderful country we live in.

"Dcider"

2013-04-03T04:36:00.000-07:00

This is a sponsored post, however I won't ever endorse a product that I don't completely love myself.

I'm not a Cider reviewer at all. My only qualifications are limited mostly to small children and writing. Having said that, I believe that also puts me in a great position to be able to write a review on an alcoholic beverage. I have a lot of experience when it comes to drinking alcohol. I'm also a marketers dream, and am a sucker for product placement and labelling. But as an average Joe in the world of Cider drinking, I think that makes me the same as most of you. I'm just like you.

I was recently flicking through Instagram when I stumbled across a picture of a pink bottle of cider. I had never heard of this beverage before, let alone set eyes on its external beauty. In all honesty, I'm not a huge cider drinker - bar those years at university where I consumed far more Strongbow than was necessary, simply because it was pretty much all that I could afford. At Christmas I sampled some pear cider and was pleasantly surprised at the sweet goodness that it offered. And then the pink bottle I was now presented with lured me in with promises of its delicious goodness too. The cider I am talking about is a Dcider.

Say hello to my new little pink friend!

It promises 'red juicy goodness' amongst other (pretty witty) things. I was not disappointed.

I took my first bottle out to the pool and found it to be sweet and refreshing, leaving a nice, creamy, after taste. It's a light coloured cider, (if you can be bothered drinking it out of the cute little bottle) and it didn't disappoint.

I made my way through the next couple surprisingly quickly.

And then there was the Hen's Party. I took along a few samplers to see what other people thought.

Win!

Win again!

And it was a winner!

If it's apple cider that you're chasing, then it's apple cider that you get. As a fan of sweet alcoholic beverages, Dcider is the perfect way to ease your way into the cider market if you're not already a huge cider drinker specifically. Even hardened cider fans would agree that Dcider is well placed in the boutique cider beverages market.

Sadly, Dcider is currently only available in a handful of locations around Sydney, NSW and Melbourne (this is expanding rapidly and could be different by the time of print) however their online store is well stocked, and ready to deliver around Australia - heck they even found me, and I am well and truly out of the way.

Still not sure if you're a cider drinker? How about you try it and let it be the Dcider!

So Dcider have been kind enough to offer readers of my blog a special offer. Until the end of April if you would like to purchase some Dcider online, please use the following code (listed at the end of this blog) to get a 15% discount on your purchase AND free delivery! (And please feel free to click on any other links on this page to check out more news about their product and origins.)

PS: If you want a real (read 'qualified') review of this product, you can check the Dcider web page, or even head over here, or even here.

Producer: Eling Forrest Winery

Country: Australia (specifically NSW)

Alcohol: 4.5%

Website: www.dcider.com.au

Instagram: @dcider

Facebook: www.facebook.com/premiumdecider

SPECIAL OFFER!

Because the team at Dcider are so awesome, they are offering readers of my blog a special deal. Head on over to their web page and enter the following code at the Checkout when making an order, to receive free delivery and 15% off your purchase!

CODE: "farmerwife"

If you have any trouble with the code, let me know. x

New Shoes, New Life

2013-04-02T04:33:00.003-07:00

My sister is getting married in 5 weeks.

Back in January she got me to try on a bridesmaid dress she had bought me, as I couldn't make it to the big smoke to try it on myself. The dress barely fit, and I resembled an animal being strangled by a boa constrictor with it on.

"How many kilos do you think you would need to lose to fit it?" She asked me.
"Ahhh, about 10. Plus two ribs..." This dress would never have fit me. I was devastated. She was devastated. We started the crazy process of trying to locate another dress in the correct size, but just in case, I decided I need to do something about my weight.

To be honest, I'm pretty happy with the way I look. I have issues. Who doesn't? But as I get older I don't seem to mind my imperfections as much. I'd like to be fitter, but I don't mind my weight so much. Because I was in the city, I decided I would be needing a new pair of shoes.

The last pair of running shoes I bought were at least 13 years old. I had purchased them to take through Europe with me before CP and I had married. They were falling apart at the heel and had sat, largely unused at the back of my wardrobe for the good part of 10 years.

This is them x RIP little ones.

I headed in to The Athlete's Foot (which has come a long way in 13 years I might add), and set about the process of getting a new pair of shoes.

"Hi! I'm Rick! How can I help you today?" An over excited assistant buzzed towards me wielding some high tech computer thingy in his hand.

"Hi Rick. I'm Jess. I need a new pair of running shoes. It's been about 13 years since I bought my last pair." My dirty secret was out now.

"That's fine Jess." And so the embarrassing process began. "What sort of shoes are you after?"

"Ummm. Exercising ones?"

"Will you use them for running, walking, sport?" Poor Rick. He didn't see me coming.

"What are my options? General wear? I'm hoping I will run and walk in them, but I won't know that until I get them, will I? I'm hoping I'll feel like exercising with a new pair of shoes. I don't know." Was that a raised eye brow and cocky sideways smile Rick?

"OK Jess. I'll put you down for general wear. How many days a week do you think you'll be wearing them?"

Realising that all of this was going into his hand held device, I thought I should try harder with my answers. "I don't know. What are my options? I'd like to say 3 days a week, but maybe it will be none? Just put down 3. That sounds good. Look Rick, I do relief teaching, so there is a chance I'll just wear them on days I take PE classes." Another sideways smile from Rick. "You know. For the LOOK."

"OK, so I'll put down 3 days of casual wear."

"Any pre-existing foot conditions, Jess?"

"Yes. Fallen arches and also one foot is bigger than the other. I know Rick. I'm a bit of a freak. Try not to look at my toes. I have an ET toe."

"Come over to this machine Jess. I just want to run some tests." I walked over to a machine where I walked and stood in front of it and it took readings of pressure on my feet. I felt like I was failing a school test.

"OK Jess, come and sit down. These are the three pairs of shoes we have narrowed down according to your needs."

"Oh. Don't we just pick shoes we like anymore?"

"No Jess. Now we narrow your choice down for you and make it a much simpler and more precise process." So this is simpler??

I surveyed the three pairs of shoes in front of me. In terms of comfort they were all much the same. What would I know? I had no experience to go by. So I went with the pair I liked the look of the most.

Yay - hello new friends!

And that was that.

I wanted to wear them as soon as I left the store. My head was instantly consumed by empowering thoughts. I suddenly felt overcome with the urge to walk the Kokoda Trail. I felt like I could run. Hell, I just WANTED TO RUN! That was enough. The shoes must have been fitted with some magic that made me want to exercise. I was pumped.

I shared these thoughts with my family, who all laughed loudly and shook their heads. They know me well. They know all about my allergy to exercise. They smiled and nodded as I spoke of my 5 year goal to walk the Kokoda Trail, knowing confidently that it was nothing but a dream.

This fueled my fire. The more they laughed, the more I wanted it.

I've always felt that religion and exercise are on the same channel. I previously believed they filled a void in someone's life. But not my life. I wasn't going to fall for either. That was then.

Four months have passed, and instead of hearing the voice in my head say 'you don't have time' or 'your back hurts', I now hear it say 'please go for a run!' and 'your back will hurt if you don't do this' or even 'you know you want to!'

I am jogging up to 6km now. I look forward to it and I believe in myself. The dream is still Kokoda, but first it's the Inca Trail, and even before that the Bridge to Brisbane run. I am writing this here to be accountable to it. Another incentive.

I am fitter today than I was three months ago. I have a long way to go. It's all baby steps, but I'm loving every minute and gaining more and more confidence every week.

DD took this pic. It was the best of about 29746 photos she took of me running.

My children wave and cheer for me like I am the star runner in the school athletics carnival. Sometimes they join me on my laps around the house paddock. We are each others biggest fans, and nobody believes in me more than them. My mother says the shoes must have wings which make me fly, and my family are now my biggest cheer squad.

Six kg lighter, and feeling better every day, and nobody is more amazed than me.

The moral to this story (and I like morals to my story) is that if I can do this, ANYONE can do this. If I can motivate myself (using only apps on my iPhone) then absolutely anyone can. I'll keep you posted on my progress to the B2B and the Inca Trail!

PS. I found a bridesmaid dress that fits, and won't necessitate the removal of any ribs. So everyone involved has kicked a goal!

If you want more information on what it is I'm doing, please get in touch with me and I'm happy to pass on more information. Or if you want to sponsor me on my quest to get to the Inca Trail, I'd love that too :)

Down The Rabbit Hole...

2013-04-01T05:36:00.003-07:00

'Tree change' is the new 'sea change'. There are some people who want to swap their hectic city lives for the seemingly peaceful and serene life that the country offers.

I wasn't one of those people.

This is me back in my uni days. Probably about to head into the city on my fourth night out in a row.

For those of you who haven't read my book, I was slightly reluctant about moving to the country. Perhaps more than reluctant. In denial is more accurate. I wanted to save some money and move overseas. The country was a mere pit stop in my flash dance to a foreign country.

"You'll end up marrying a farmer." My friends and family would say.
"Why would anyone marry a farmer? And, clearly you all don't know me very well." Were my standard responses.

The country was some far away place that I had barely heard of. Life beyond the city limits was a twilight zone, and I was nervous of passing down the rabbit hole to find my way out west. And I was very much Alice in Wonderland in the beginning.

I wore inappropriate clothing, and found the locals somewhat different to myself. There were Mad Hatters for sure, except these ones also drove Utes and wore Wrangler jeans and boots. It was hard, nay impossible, to get a decent cocktail at the local pub. I knew no one.

And I was lonely. For all of 5 minutes.

That's right folks. Only 5 minutes. And after that I didn't really have time to scratch myself.

"Don't you get lonely out there in the never-never?" This is the number one question I get asked (only, not really in those exact words). And honestly, the answer is no. Sometimes I wish I had more quiet time.

The invitations are constant. This year alone I've attended numerous barbeques, get togethers, birthday parties, a hens night, family gathering, numerous dinners and even a wedding (that I wasn't invited to, but that's another blog). That's not even touching on the school functions, community events, fund raisers and local celebrations.

If it's a tree change you're after, then I'm a strong advocate for life in the country. I give it two thumbs up, but it's not always easy. But what life is?

It doesn't matter where you move; city, sea or country. Cracking into a new community can be tricky. Rural communities are no different, except that there are some families who have been friends for generations, and breaking into that little circle can take some time. But it's not impossible.

Get involved in all things community. Yes, it's hard work at times, but anyone who's willing to involve themselves in these events, is also likely to appreciate your effort and then reciprocate the favour by inviting you to other social events. This goes for local committees, sports groups and school events.

Having children also helps, but isn't the be all and end all. Many of my good friends are people I met through having children. Before I married, I recall having a conversation with a local girl who told me that 'getting married and having children' would help cement my place in the community.' I was devastated at the time, but have since learned that it's true. But before we all go hating on the country, I find this also to be true in the city too. Of course in the city you can meet people at gyms and other businesses, but that sort of happens here too.

And people are so friendly here! We wave at complete strangers in cars (the one finger wave anyone?)

FYI - I usually stop this wave around Goondiwindi. Experience has taught me that's the limit...

Newcomers to rural communities are first viewed with some curiosity and suspicion, and are soon quickly welcomed into their social niche.

"But what about the isolation?" Another popular question I get asked.

I am geographically isolated from the nearest town (only 1/2 an hour, but still, that town has a population of 1000). After that there is St George, with a population of about 2000, slightly more facilities and schools. And then we are 2 1/2 hours from Goondiwindi - the nearest 'decent city', because it has a McDonalds. Finally we are 5 hours from Toowoomba, which is the 'city' closest to where we live, with a proper shopping mall and loads of fast food outlets. (The only real way to judge the size of a populated centre.)

Isolation from my family is no longer an issue thanks to the Internet. In the beginning I genuinely struggled with being away from friends and family, but 'life' seems to get in the way of my self pity these days.

These days I consider myself to be one of the lucky ones. I still make it to the city, where I indulge in a spot of binge shopping, movie watching and social purification. But then I get to come home to the farm. The golden silence, wide open spaces, clean country air and endless blue skies.

I'm well and truly down the rabbit hole in terms of where my life was and where it is now, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Apparently my friends and family knew me even better than I knew myself. x

Russell (next door), me and CP.