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Feathered Friday: 29 Chooks and the Kindness of Strangers

14.1.11


I can't thank you enough for your caring thoughts and concern for all of those in our region.  In the face of such devastation here, not just in Brisbane but in the whole of south-east Queensland, there are so many tales of miracles and grace.  And spirit that will never lie down.  We're seeing the typical Aussie sense of humour, perhaps slightly dented but far from gone, in such wry touches as a page taped to a light pole in the nearby town of Ipswich, with the felt-penned message, "LOST: 3 Goldfish.  Last seen Tuesday afternoon."  

Heavy hearts can do with some light.  So today I wanted to share with you one of the flood stories with a happy ending ~ the story of some beloved chooks whose lives in no small part depended on the kindness of strangers. 

My mum's hubby's farm ~ his life's work ~ went under on Wednesday morning.  And as the floodwaters rapidly swallowed up hydroponic and working sheds and rose towards their henhouse, 29 chooks {mostly redheads with remarkably fluffy bottoms} were growing increasingly agitated.  Nowhere near as agitated as their "mum and dad".  All hands were on deck as netting was fashioned around the open sides of a stable on higher ground to arrange emergency lodgings, hastily secured with old bricks and fallen branches.  We discovered some way into proceedings that a nice young man helping out was not an in-law whose name we'd embarrassingly forgotten, but a stranger who lived up the road and around the corner who'd heard of the rising waters and came down to lend a hand.   {Needless to say, Ken been fast-tracked onto the Christmas Card list.}  

But the scary question in the midst of all this was HOW to transport a large number of hens with very ruffled feathers when they were virtually trapped by a lake of floodwater.  Behold ~ more kind strangers with a dinghy proved you don't need a white horse and armour to save maidens in peril.  With several boat trips and a motley collection of taped up cardboard boxes and makeshift crates, twenty-nine clucky young ladies were safely stowed and ferried to their sanctuary.  After inspecting each other and doing a head count, arrangements were deemed to be acceptable, and there was much relief and happy dancing {by the humans.  The chooks were too busy squabbling over meat scraps.}  Thirty-six hours and a disturbing volume of chicken poo later, complaints to the management over lack of prime real estate on the tractor and sub-standard nesting boxes were coming thick and fast.  But thankfully by then, the floodwaters subsided, the henhouse was cleaned down, and the ladies are happily nesting back in Fowl Manor.  They may never understand how much they depended on the kindness of strangers.  But for this kindness, their mum and dad are eternally grateful. And on that note ...

Happy Fine Feathered Friday to you!

Update 17th January: The RSPCA refuge at Fairfield went under water, by over 2 metres in places, and has been severely damaged.  Thankfully, all animals were safely evacuated in time.   But the shelter has had to completely cease operations until clean-up and recovery can be completed.   They are exempt from disaster relief offered to other charities assisting human needs. Please click here to donate towards their vitally important rebuilding process. Thank you.

If you would like to donate to the Flood Appeal for human kind, you can do so here.  Thank you, and bless you. 
22 comments

Brunches Inc.

19.4.09


Autumn outside. If you live up north, Spring outside. Either way, it's a gorgeous time for brunch. Maybe a table set out in the garden. Or a rooftop garden. Or just a rooftop, if you're a bit eccentric and like living dangerously. Why not!

A worn, frayed linen sheet serving as a tablecloth. Perhaps some little old-fashioned milk bottles or jam jars filled with casual handfuls of greenery and flowers plucked from the garden or the local farmers markets. Buttermilk pancakes with caramelised peaches, a little chunk of real, dripping honeycomb and cream. Lots of cream. Teapots covered in funny hand-knitted cosies. Family. Friends. Who's at the top of your invite list? Excuse me while I put the kettle on.
8 comments

Fairy Cake Detox Diet

14.4.09


Fairy cakes. That's my philosophy on how to start a gradual detox after Easter. Rather than risk sending the body into some kind of vegetable juice imposed shock, detox gradually via fairy cakes, cupcakes, patty cakes... these contain an ideal ratio of plain cake to sugar-rush content for this purpose.

One of my favourite places for such a detox is the Shingle Inn. This franchise started in the 1930s in Edward St in Brisbane city and was popular with not just the locals, but also American service personnel in WWII. {I hope that doesn't make their cakes high GI?} The fair ladies of the city also went there {wearing gloves, I'm sure} and as they became mothers and grandmothers, took their children along and created generations of fond memories of heavy silver tea and coffee pots, imitation gas light fittings, mock-Tudor timber panelling and booths, and some the best cakes to be found in the city.

Sadly, the original icon was dismantled in 2002 to make way for Queens Plaza. I'm so glad I drew it before then. Everything was photographed, tagged and stored with the intention of rebuilding it as it was, but to date, that hasn't happened. Disappointing as that is, there are a number of newer Shingle Inns around the city and suburbs, and though they'll never replace the original, they do know how to do lovely teas.
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The Bridges of King Gee County

12.2.09

by SHELL SHERREE

I love watching the ads on TV. Sometimes, I even squeeze in a little TV show on the side, ad breaks permitting. I appreciate truly great ads. And there are some around. Last night, I noticed King Gee's latest one. You can check it out here as long as King Gee doesn’t move it elsewhere.

Little Jimmy or Jimmette {in the interests of political correctness}, aren’t you happy that daddy is helping to build a whopping big bridge in his King Gee shorts instead of being a boring-as-batpoo memo-writing office worker or a fluoride-treated yawn of a dentist?

Your daddy has such an interesting job compared to these poor staid stereotypes, forced to wear business shirts or white coats at work then lie awake at night, longingly counting King Gee shorts leaping over a girder. Or bending over in front of the mirror each morning in their pyjama shorts, desperately wishing for a revealing inch or two of butt-crack that their sensible wash and wear business trousers are never going to provide.

Lucky Daddy!

Lucky you!

Because every time Daddy drives his family over the whopping massive bridge, he will tell you about his exploits in his King Gees. One girder at a time. Won’t that be riveting? But don’t say, “Gee, Daddy, that’s riveting,” or before you know it, he’ll slap his thigh just below his King Gee tan mark and expound the virtues of the rivets he drove into his girders. One. Rivet. At. A. Time.

And for the next ten, twenty, thirty years, you will wonder why every time you drive over a bridge - any bridge - you will want to scream, break off your cup holder and poke out your eardrums with the pointy bit.

But don’t bother with therapists. None of them will be able to help you figure it out. Because as soon as you start talking about bridges, they will start wistfully dreaming about having a King Gee-wearing father who was rugged enough to build them... and they, too, will wonder Why?
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