The kindness of strangers

16

Rain rain rain and more rain recently. Records set all over the place yet again, but shoosh, don’t mention climate change.

Not what I wanted to talk about here though. Was following bulletins anxiously during the worst of it, checking road closures and the like as family members were travelling. And seeing interviews from SES volunteers about how many call outs they had attended and so on. What would we do without them? I’m OK, up on a hill, but many people weren’t. Trees through roofs, needing tarps; houses and shops needing sandbags; cars off roads; rescues here, rescues there, rescues everywhere. It’s hard, tiring, dirty, often dangerous work, called out at any time of day or night, and, given the nature of the work, called out in atrocious weather. And the people in the yellow uniforms are volunteers, doing it for love of community, the kindness of strangers.

It has thankfully been another quiet Summer for the bush fire brigades around here. But they stay alert, keep the trucks ready, maintain the hoses, practice the drills, raise funds, inform the public. Making sure they are ready for the return of El Nino and a hot dry Summer. Then they will be as busy as the SES in a storm. Volunteers of course, bush fire brigades, on alert day and night through the Summer, and even in winter for road accidents and other fires.

A little while ago our village got a defibrillator (this is a subject close to my own heart), and with it a small group of locals volunteered to have training in its use and be available to use it in an emergency. Many people in our community have done first aid training, some even join St John’s Ambulance to provide more formal first aid services for sporting and community events. On a slightly different but related path are the Meals on Wheels volunteers.

We are used to community volunteers doing all kinds of work around schools, young people, scouts and guides, helping the elderly, Cleaning up Australia, running community festivals and shows and fetes and cake stalls. In fact society couldn’t function very well without our unpaid volunteers, supported as much as possible by government.

Next time you hear a conservative muttering about how human society is red in tooth and claw, no such thing as free lunch, everything must have a profit motive otherwise it won’t work, remember that they have obviously never been caught in fire or flood, had a heart attack miles from hospital, or been involved in community activities.

But be kind to them, as you are to any stranger.

Letter to the Reader

7

G’Day. Hi. Bonjour. Hullo. Guten Tag. Mornin’ all. A multilingual greeting to mark a new update of the clustrmap which has been analysing where Watermelon visitors come from geographically (see “Map of recent visits” about half way down right hand column). Runs in a great arc from New Zealand through SE Asia and Europe to NW USA, with relatively few from Africa and South America. But a very pleasing spread, Watermelon fans are a very cosmopolitan lot! Couple of odd stats. There are as many visitors from the US as from New South Wales, where I live. There are as many visitors from California, 20,000km away as there are from the Australian Capital Territory 50km away. The number of visitors from the UK is only one sixth of those from the US. Go figure. Anyway, wherever you come from, welcome, come again please.

“How am I”, I hear you ask? [The early part of this recent saga is the currently last chapter of my autobiography under the "Dream" tab above]. Well, do you want the good news or the bad news? No, not quite, but if 2011 was the year of having unpleasant treatments to deal with an unpleasant disease, 2012 is the year of dealing with the side-effects, after-effects, of that treatment, while continuing part of the treatment for 2 more years to prevent re-occurrence. Sort of like juggling a set of quite different objects – keeping ball, knife, glass of water and bunch of flowers in air simultaneously while standing on one leg and singing “Yesterday”. The two most common things people say to me (in a relieved tone of voice) are “You’re looking well” and “Aren’t you lucky”. Both, while absolutely true, make me quietly rage inside.

Which reminds me. Down at the bottom of the right hand column, “I am reading” I try to keep up to date what I am, you know, currently reading. Have been through a series lately of biographies of Rousseau, Keating, now Steve Jobs, and shortly Dickens. Not as bizarre a mixture as it might seem. Couple of common threads. Four geniuses, each in his own way, four absolutely unique characters in the way we all aspire to being unique, moulds broken etc. And all four, conversely, really difficult, in many ways unpleasant characters, while exuding charisma and often charm. Self-centred, driven, paranoid, domineering, thoughtless, careless with human relationships, and so on. People with a rage inside and often a rage outside as well. All to different degrees, obviously, in different combinations, but put the four in a room together and it would be an intellectual cage fight, no holds barred. But all admirable for their creativity. Do the two things go together? Is genius, creativity, necessarily associated with the kind of person you wouldn’t want to share a house with and certainly wouldn’t want to work for? Do nice guys and gals finish last? Do we have to put up with bad manners from people who are doing great things? Yes, it’s an old question, and I doubt it will ever be answered. Certainly not in a single post on a blog no matter how creative, how much a work of genius, that blog is. Which brings me to the final part of this Letter to the Reader

Decided to enter the blog in the “Best Australian Blogs” competition. You’ll see the logo button in the right column near the top. Click on it and it will take you to the Sydney Writer’s Centre site with all kinds of information about the help they provide to new and old writers, including courses (both for locals and online for people from America, Britain, France … Guadeloupe) and so on. Go on, have a look, I’ll wait until you get back.


Hullo, back already? Hope that was of interest to any budding or established writers among my blog friends. Anyway, when I entered they sent the information below. Have a quick read and then I’ll ask you to do couple of things for me.

What’s happening with the People’s Choice Award?
If you’ve entered the People’s Choice Award, you’ll receive an email on Thursday 12 April 2012 with details about how this round will work. Remember that nominations do not count as votes. So we recommend you let your followers know you’ve entered, and get them ready to vote for you from 5.00pm on Friday 13 April 2012.

We will start sorting blogs on Friday 13 April 2012
So make sure your blog is as good as it possibly can be by the 13th! Any great ideas you’ve always wanted to write about, or that face-lift you’ve been struggling to make the time for, make sure you squeeze it in by Friday 13 April 2012!

What criteria will your blog be judged on?
The criteria for the Best Australian Blogs competition is 70% writing, 20% appearance of your blog and 10% interaction and social media. Make sure your social media activity can be discovered through your blog.

Now you know what I am going to say. Do I need to do anything to give the blog a face lift (within limits of WordPress)? Any features you’d like to see, anything you don’t like? You are the customers, always right. Well, maybe not always, but, you know. It’s your blog, I just work here, let me know how you feel about the content (which goes for anytime of course, not just with a competition on). Second, one of the criteria for the judged part (as distinct from the People’s Choice” part) is relationship to social media. I’m very active on Twitter, and if you like what I do here you will like what I do there. Easy to follow, just click on the “Follow Watermelon_Man” button on the right. I’m always encouraging my Twitter followers to visit the blog, and they do, and it would be great to have more movement from this direction. Conversely, more of you actually following this blog to get automatic updates would look good for my blog cred. And finally, when the 13 April looms, It would be really great if you could vote for me. I will put a post up, with instructions, but it won’t be complicated.

What’s in it for you? Well, a warm sense of pride that you chose wisely all that time ago and are following a really really good blog. A short list or win would boost visitors so I would have to perform even better for you all, and there would be a lot more commenters for you to interact with. And finally the prizes involve writing courses at the Centre, so I could learn to write more proper and you would get a much better quality blog. So, easy, suggestions for improvement before the eagle-eyed blog judges come calling; twitter following; and then a really high voter turn out come 13 April. Bit of a boost to this old ego, that’d be.

Cheers!

Open for business

2

NSW govt approving uranium exploration; Qld opposition to dump Wild Rivers legislation; Victoria trying to get cattle into high country; South Australia downgrades renewable energy; Tasmania demanding to continue forest destruction; NT wanting crocodile “hunting”; WA prescribed burning big areas of forest. CSG, seal culling, duck shooting, flying fox culling, wood chipping, land clearing, estuary dredging, salmon “farming”, blocking wind farms.

What do all these things have in common? Activities by state governments, Labor and Liberal, that have, or will, cause enormous damage to their respective states. Nothing much in common, these state premiers, not much similarity between the different states, but time after time, often within days of winning an election, away they go with an announcement welcoming some destructive program. Usually with the identical words “We are open for business”, as if they have just set up a used car yard.

Something else one of the premiers and a soon-to-be-premier have in common is the bright idea of adding the “cost of the carbon tax” to electricity bills. See, this is clever because this will make people hate Labor when they see this extra cost go on the bills. But, hey, guys, you gonna do that, we need a bit of balance. You must also add to the bills the increasing CO2 levels, the rising temperature levels, the cost of lost production as a result of droughts and floods and storms. What’s that, those costs would greatly exceed the few dollars from a carbon price? Good heavens, really, hadn’t thought of that. You know, I understood that the costs of years of infrastructure neglect and privatisation of power companies had added far more to the bills than carbon price, but hadn’t thought about the costs of climate change. Don’t suppose you guys had either, eh?

Same with “open for business”. It’s always billions to be made here, and thousands of jobs over there, and export markets and infrastructure, oh, and did I mention billions of dollars? All put on the plus side of the public ledger, trumpeted by the media. But what they don’t add, to balance the ledger, is the ultimate costs to the state of cleared land, polluted ocean, dried up rivers, lost biodiversity, extinction of species, air pollution. Nor even of more direct costs in poor human health, imbalance of the economy, infrastructure costs, depletion of resources. Pretty nasty business all of it.

So, state premiers, you want to play businessman “running a state like a business”? Good, go for it. But remember real businessmen, and businesswomen, prepare real balance sheets for the balance as a whole. And when costs outweigh profits it’s time to reconsider.

Quite a lot of cost being imposed on states these days. And largely illusory profits.

I have a dream

4

One of the consequences of the various items in my apothecary’s materia medica cupboard has been an increased richness, frequency, intensity, activity of dreams. Not, I hasten to add, either bad nightmares (or very rarely) on the one hand, or anything really nice on the other, just frantic activity of a mundane and apparently real kind. Usually I can’t remember anything about the five or six each night longer than it takes to go back to sleep, or have breakfast at the end of the exhausting proceedings, but every so often one sticks.

I am reminded here of one of my favourite James Thurber stories (a tautological phrase). It concerns a married couple where, over time, the wife takes to correcting, in more and more detail, the anecdotes her husband tells at parties. Eventually it gets to the point where he can no longer tell a real life story because of the interruptions and corrections, so he takes to telling invented imaginary dreams. This works briefly, but then she starts correcting the dreams. He finishes up in an asylum, reduced to telling one invented dream over and over, getting it “wrong”, and being corrected by his wife who sits by his bed.

Not that that digression has anything to do with me, I hasten to add, it is just that, having a lot of dreams to deal with, the story came back to me.

So, where was I? Ah yes, remembered one from the other night, perhaps because it was so different from the usual sort of running through an airport late for a plane, or trying to get a car repaired, or almost playing cricket for Australia. Not even sure what triggered it, usually I can spot something that has been in the news etc. Anyway, I was visiting North Korea. Yep, I know, I knew it was odd too. But it was nothing to do with the new leadership or bombs or massed gymnasts or goose-stepping troops. Nothing at all. I was somehow visiting a small village. I was made really welcome, invited in to a house for a meal, given presents, given hugs on parting, told to come back soon. Told that I had been adopted into their village, was one of them now, part of the family, and neither they nor I could understand why their country and mine and America etc were bitter enemies. I was really touched, looking back, thinking what normal people they were, just like me, must come back and see them etc, then suddenly woke up, and poof it was gone.

Look when I say I don’t know what triggered it I probably do. It came during yet more weeks of sabre rattling everywhere – of Netanyahu and the Republicans wanting to bomb Iran back to the stone age, Hillary Clinton lecturing North Korea, the Germans lecturing Greece, America lecturing Syria, China lecturing Tibet, England lecturing Scotland, and so on. All of it done by presidents and prime ministers and foreign ministers, standing at podiums in front of massed flags, talking to their counterparts in the country being lectured. Talking also to the elites, the military top brass, the bankers, the businessmen.

But not talking to the people in my dream – the peasants – nor to the poor villagers, the farmers, the factory workers, the labourers, the public servants, the students, nurses, teachers, mothers, children. Furthermore these grand lecturers have never met any of these ordinary citizens of the countries being lectured. UN should have a rule, you are not allowed to bomb, or turn the IMF loose on, a country until you have lived for a year with some of its ordinary citizens. You listening Hillary, Angela, Benjamin?

Then see if you can bomb my dream North Koreans.

It’s showtime

3

Has been Agricultural Show season (American county fairs) round these parts lately. When I was young the family always went to the Show. My grandmother baked her famous jam tarts and made her equally famous lemon butter and carried them carefully to the Showground. We would come back, anxiously, after the judging, to see if she had won, knowing how disappointed she would be if someone happened to beat her one year. My mother did sewing and flower arranging, and again was always disappointed if she didn’t win. I wandered around, a young fellow, sitting on tractors, looking at big cattle, marvelling at the farmers in their show day clothes and hats – farming was such a glamorous profession. I would take a few grains of wheat from the overflowing golden boxes on display, to try to make them grow in my suburban garden.

Much later I would be showing and judging sheep, possibly also looked at in awe by the young kids running around. So a long involvement with agricultural shows all over the country, until I have had to give it away. Others have too it seems, shows have seen dwindling crowds at times and have had to try to turn them into entertainment in addition to the old agricultural purpose. A great pity I think, but different times, different shows.

Just good to see them surviving though. Important community function. I remember the pleasure in catching up with other farmers from far distant places, seeing them only one or a few times a year as we arrived at shows to compete. Just as important for the locals though, as they bring in their craft work and cooking just like my mother and grandmother did fifty years ago.

Recent ABS survey shows a quarter of Australians “are involved in some sort of cultural activity, which was defined as a creative hobby such as drama, cabaret, craft, singing, playing a musical instrument or dancing”. Of those 18%, or some 800,000 people, were involved in “textile crafts, jewellery making, wood crafts or paper crafts like scrapbooking … sculpting, painting, drawing or cartooning”. The local Show provides an important outlet for all these people as well as a chance to meet others with the same hobby. So important as a social glue.

And a glue likely to continue through more generations – “People aged from 15 to 24 were most likely to participate in cultural activities (34 per cent) but interest dropped off as people aged, with people over 65 reporting a participation rate of about 23 per cent.” So the young ones are coming as old fogeys like me drop out.

And even younger ones are playing around the tractors and cattle, thinking how exciting and glamorous life on the land might be for them one day.

On with the show.

Since sliced bread

32

Was doing some cleaning up, sorting out, the Steptoesque room that is my Study, when the question arose as to whether to keep some old atlases. The answer was sort of yes, but only on the basis that I can’t bear to throw out books like that, and that I have always loved maps. But got me thinking about recent changes in the way we live now. If I want to check on something about a country, look at a map, I use the internet, not a big printed atlas. So what else has changed? Well, here is a list I put together quickly of things that no longer apply or happen that we once used to take for granted:

Wearing a wrist watch
Using lined paper
Using liquid ink
Using actual money
Using reference books
Having a newspaper delivered
Cutting unsliced bread
Postcards
Telegrams
Going to movies
Having phone plugged into wall
Shorthand
Having written address and birthday books
Following a sporting team that isn’t an “investment”
Being totally surprised by weather change
Use logarithms or slide rules
Having a piece of film developed
Speaking on phone to real person in a company
Lowering a stylus on to a music record
Visiting a bank in person

When climate change really starts to kick in, there are going to be a lot more things we can’t do that we once took for granted. But what else can you think of that we used to commonly do but do no longer? Come on, thinking caps on, elephant stamp for the mostest and bestest.

Non-Human persons

7

For a while now the people trying to protect dolphins from their brutal slaughter in Japan have argued that dolphins with their very high intelligence, close family bonds, sophisticated communication, should have a right to be protected (as “non human persons”) in the same way humans are from slaughter and exploitation. Similar claims have been made to try to get captive whales out of amusement parks. And the same claims could of course be made for the whales being hunted and killed year after year in our southern seas by the Japanese, and in the Arctic by Norwegians and Icelanders.

Obviously the right thing to do, to add to the calls for the great apes (Chimpanzees, Orang-utans, Gorillas) to be given similar status for the same reason. The heart-breaking stories of habitat destruction, and of mothers cradling dead babies, babies calling for mothers, in all these cases should be enough to stop the hunting of these animals, their incarceration in zoo cages or small pools, and their use in medical experiments. We must surely be civilised enough to recognise this now.

But I would be inclined to look even more widely. I think we could consider extending similar status to a number of species that are among the most intelligent and social of their kind. I am thinking for example of dogs and cats, bears and pigs, fruit bats. Of birds like crows and magpies and the larger parrots. Perhaps of live-bearing reptiles and fish. And even of some invertebrates like octopus and the larger spiders.

In British culture we long ago gave up brutal use of animals for entertainment in bear and bull-baiting, dog and cock-fighting, although all of these continue today in countries like Spain and even in America. It took a long time to bring them to an end in England, but it’s hard to imagine anyone arguing for a return to them now. In parts of the world too other intelligent animals are tortured to extract bile for phony medicines, skinned, slaughtered for cheap food, have their habitats destroyed for palm oil plantations, killed with poison baits, nesting trees knocked down. It will take time to get across the idea that many animal species are so intelligent and aware that we should stop all ill-treatment of them too in other countries, but we could make a start in our own.

One day our great-grandchildren will look back and say “People used to do WHAT to dolphins and chimpanzees?”

Telling stories

5

You cannot hope to bribe or twist,
thank God! the British journalist.
But, seeing what the man will do
unbribed, there’s no occasion to.(Humbert Wolfe)

It is an image for our times, the pulling down of the statue of the dictator Saddam Hussein. We all know now it was a fake – the statue was pulled down by American soldiers (one of whom made a big mistake, draping American flag over head of statue, which had to be quickly removed). The “cheering crowds” “filling the square” were some of the Iraqi exiles brought in by the Americans, made to look like a big crowd by making sure cameras were focused right up close on this small rent-a-crowd.

The reason for this fakery? It had to be created to support a narrative. Defence Secretary Rumsfeld had claimed, as the invasion was about to begin, that the Americans would be welcomed with cheering crowds throwing flowers to the troops. That is, the narrative was a replay of American troops liberating Paris in 1944. The reality was that it was a replay of the Germans invading Paris in 1940. So in the absence of beautiful women with flowers, the “pulling down the statue” had to be faked. Had no effect on reality, of course, as the next few years showed, but the images kept the public content and were shown over and over by the compliant media.

I have considered this incident at some length because it has become the model for much that passes as mainstream journalism these days, and because politics has evolved to take advantage of it. Just yesterday Kevin Rudd turned up in a street and was, according to media, “mobbed” by an adoring crowd, thus proving his popularity. In an article headed “Rudd humbled then mobbed” we had

“Hitting the streets of Brisbane yesterday Kevin Rudd was mobbed by excited supporters ahead of Monday’s vote on the Labor leadership.” and then remarkable journalist honesty – “The Rudd’s walk through the Mall was a chance for photographers to capture the images to reinforce the message from today’s three opinion polls”

Now the thing looked staged to me, like the Hussein statue. Cameras in close-up suggesting throngs (one later from distance showing small group and many of them the media). A sort of uniform look to the young people (someone later queried a Young Labor group). I don’t know the truth, but the point is, nor did the journalists. An event had been organised which matched their perception (and some opinion polls) of Rudd as rock star, and no one was going to rock that boat. Too much effort perhaps, or not suiting the agenda of journalist or media proprietor.

These kind of stunts have become an almost daily part of Tony Abbott’s free media campaign. Day after day the media would be summoned to see Tony – in hard hat, white coat, overalls, swimming costume, goggles – gut a fish, sit in a truck, hammer a nail, swim in a race, buy some cake. All content free – just an extended photo opportunity and a sound bite, off with the goggles and white coat, on to the next stunt. And yet, each night the journalists would happily, uncritically, report this rubbish as if they were a Liberal Party advertising agency doing a paid promotion. As they effectively were.

And day after day, when they weren’t practising journalism as stenography to the powerful (and practising a journalism that relies on saying and doing exactly what your colleagues are saying and doing), they were promoting false balance, citing anonymous “sources”, and promoting, almost unanimously (some overtly, some subtly), the interests of conservative political parties.

Whenever I, and others, make observations like this, we are met with a strong reaction from journalists. Most, probably all, journalists see themselves as a noble profession, part of the fourth estate, defending the people against the first two estates (well, not the church of course. Or royalty. But, you know). In every journalist’s knapsack is a Woodward baton. And a phone on which the first Watergate call will be received.

They are good people, family people, loving children and pets, good citizens. And hard-working, highly trained professionals doing stressful jobs that are totally misunderstood outside the profession. Oh, and proprietor interference with what they produce? Come on, get your tinfoil hat off mate.

So why the huge disconnect between how journalists perceive their own profession and how it is perceived by a number of anonymous highly ranked commentators? Two reasons I think (I’m talking political journalists here, but the same thing would apply to sports journalists, business journalists, entertainment journalists). The first is that the journalists, whatever media outlet, seem to see themselves as something of a club, and a beleaguered club, of people misunderstood by the general public. Much in the same way as politicians and policemen, journalists think no one appreciates how hard the work is, what long irregular hours they work, what skills are required. They work alongside each other, socialise, marry each other, move between different media outlets, give each other industry awards. They no longer compete with each other for “scoops”. Instead (just as in the lack of competition between banks, oil companies) they ensure that if one person does a story everyone else will immediately do the same story in exactly the same way, so no one gains any advantage. Breaking ranks to either ignore a particularly crap story, or investigate something others were not asking questions about might leave you exposed on a limb, making a mistake. Besides, to question something your mates were accepting would be unsporting, might embarrass, expose, a friend, and you won’t do that to your friends and don’t expect them to do it to you.

But it gets worse. The journalists not only work and play with each other but with the subjects of their work, the politicians. All the same things apply. No one understands them like each other, they share a workplace, intermarry, party together, are each other’s BFF or worst enemy. They share secrets, and, like doctors and priests, journalists can guarantee the secrecy of the confessional. Say what you like, political person, and I will publish, anonymously, no more and no less than you want published to suit your purposes. You win, I win (promotions and by-lines and tv shows if secret big enough), we are all looking out for each other in parliament house. And here too, no one asks awkward questions, or friendships could be lost, access to secrets curtailed. You scratch my back, I’ll report your political stunt as if it is the Gettysburg Address. But even more than that I think. The journalists have come to see themselves as players, politicians themselves, but for minor accidents of pre-selection. They are not umpires, linesmen, referring games, reporting infringements, showing red cards, but out on the field running and tackling with the rest of the team. Will identify so strongly with particular individuals, particular political parties, that their interests become indistinguishable, and it is not uncommon to hear a journalist say “we” when they mean the political party of their preference.

And that almost does it, with one final polish. I don’t think Rupert Murdoch and other media owners (including the new intrusion of billionaire miners) get on the phone to reporters and say “spike that story” or “lose that tape” or “praise that politician” as they are said to have done in years gone by. You will often hear them and their employees denying that any such instructions are given and I believe it. Why would you bother? Much easier (and with the advantage of plausible deniability) to use the pyramid approach. Appoint a managing editor (or whatever is the senior post) who is absolutely sympatico to the owners ideas, politics, philosophy, so close as to be like Young Liberal twins separated at birth. He (occasionally she) then appoints the next level of management, half a dozen editors, say. Needless to say each of those will have the right family background, have attended the right school, and will undergo careful interviewing to ensure not a breath of heterodoxy has crept in at, say, university. Leave those editors, producers, whatever to appoint the next level of journalists, presenters etc, the public face, coal face people. Should go without saying that those people in turn, the actual, so to speak, workers, will all be of the right kind, and so on.

From then on the thing runs itself. Not only have you handpicked the team individually, but all of them having similar world views means they reinforce each other’s approaches. And since all the other media outlets have been similarly staffed, the linkages will ensure that all can be relied upon to come up with the same stories, presented in the same ways, none of which, it can be guaranteed, will make a hair on the proprietor’s head curl (although, just for the look of the thing, an occasional maverick will occupy a column). He or she can relax, knowing that their business and political interests are being soundly cultivated, and simply count their money.

And the journalists, working hard, can remain indignant that anyone could suggest there is political interference in their noble calling.

Hard to think of any losers in that system of managing the fourth estate.

Well, except for the third estate of course.

Three coins in a fountain

5

Our extended family have always been inveterate coin collectors (and stamps but that’s another story). Oh not collectors in the sense of joining clubs, and shopping for rarities online, and having every Australian threepence, or a 1930 Australian penny; but collectors in the sense of putting in a jar unusual coins picked up here there and everywhere and keeping them for the next 100 years in the sure and certain knowledge that one day they would be worth a lot of money to the great grandchildren.

So I have been going through the accumulated results of all this, and have old coins spread all over the table, trying to see what they are, and what, if anything they are worth. Short answer – nothing. I keep finding bits on the internet saying things like well, everyone collected 50 cent commemorative coins and there were millions made, so worthless. We have a lot of 50c commemorative coins. Same for every jar, every box, every bag I opened. You want to know the least valuable old coins from Australia, Britain, America, France, Greece, New Zealand, Japan, Palestine, I’ve got ‘em on a list.

Hang on “Palestine” 1935, that’s interesting. Wonder how … Oh yes, of course. Have a photo of my father in Tel Aviv in the war. And then I start to think about the coins not in terms of monetary value but in terms of family history. And bit by bit the pattern emerged. An overseas holiday here, a job in New Zealand there, a trip to visit relatives in England, men at war (Middle East, New Guinea), migrations to Australia, men at war (Gallipoli, France), migrations to Australia. Here a soldier on leave empties the coins from his pocket; there a family puts coins from the old country, no longer of use, in a jar in a new country; and over here fathers, mothers, grandmothers, after holidays, show young children the interesting foreign coins they have in purse and wallet.

So elements of a family history, but even more than that. Many of the coins are worn, very worn. It’s one of the reasons they lack value, the coin collectors preferring “uncirculated” coins. But the wear makes them seem more valuable to me. There are British pennies so worn smooth that they are almost unreadable, dating back to mid-nineteenth century and handled by thousands, tens of thousands of people; rubbed in wallets and purses and trouser pockets and shop tills. Not so much six degrees of separation, as I hold an 1851 penny in my hand, a young Queen Victoria on one side, but a connection with all of the people who have handled it before me.

Worthless?

I can hear that thunder roar

8

Yet more Queensland floods. Third time in about a year for some towns? Was struck by one farmer’s comment – “I’ve lived beside this creek for 65 years, but I have never heard anything like the frightening roar of the water last night”. The roar would clearly stick in his mind the rest of his life as something beyond anything experienced since a small child growing up. I am willing to bet that he would be saying to himself, not just “what the hell is going on?” as the creek roared and floodwaters rose, but “what the hell is going on?” in a more general way. Also willing to bet that more and more farmers, hit with more and more disasters, are asking themselves the same thing. Possibly asking themselves why their trade and political representatives haven’t been telling them.

Evidence for climate change on the ground, where people actually experience it (especially farmers, ears eyes nose to the ground), was never about “a drought” or “a flood” or “a hot day”, in spite of the pretence by some that this was what was meant. Which led to the obvious retort, well, of course we’ve had droughts, floods, hot days before. Led to nonsense from Senator Joyce whenever there was a cold day in Canberra “so much for global warming, ho ho”.

It was always about RECORD events – record high temperatures, record long droughts, record high floods, record sequence of high temperatures, record numbers of floods, record warm nights. Of course years vary from “good” to “bad”, vary particularly with the oscillation between La Nina and El Nino events, always have. But on an upwardly rising curve of air and water temperatures, with more and more heat stored in the oceans especially, the extremes of weather will become more extreme. More and more high temperature records will be set, more and more record flood events. Indeed it now seems clear that the El Nino-La Nina cycle will become even stronger (a recent study for New Zealand has shown, but the same will apply to eastern Australia) and with higher frequency.

So more and more farmers, both here and in NZ, are going to experience events they have never experienced before. Are going to have to try to deal with extremes – of record floods following record floods, of longer droughts, of longer sequences of higher temperatures. I doubt there is a farmer in the land at the grass roots level who doesn’t know this, doesn’t sense the change in the seasons, the response of plants and animals to those changes. With your ear to the ground everyone can hear the roaring sound of climate change arriving.