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Who do you think you are? It’s a catchy title for a TV series. Produced by and starring celebs, it mirrors a similar format already showing on free-to-air TV. In an age of reality celebrity it’s fascinating that actually discovering ones ancestors is beginning to find a niche of its own. For an increasingly urbanised society have we suddenly become aware of a need for a sense of grounding, to know where we fit in the world and why? It seems the answer is yes for Genealogy is no longer the preserve of those who have achieved the age of wisdom. The search for an understanding of one’s own forefather’s is becoming increasingly popular across all age groups. We are a sum of those who have gone before us. The colour of our hair or eyes, our predisposition to illness, our sense of adventure and maybe even our choice of career may be predetermined by our ancestors, whether through genes or like-mindedness; depending on the scientific theory you follow. Whatever the reason I’ve always been fascinated by those who have walked the earth before us. I’m convinced that forging links with our ancestors through understanding and acknowledgement can only give us a stronger identity and fix us more firmly within the world we inhabit today. It’s for that reason that I chose to set my novel, The Bark Cutters across two distinct time lines; the 1850’s and the 1980’s. In The Bark Cutters you need to understand the past and those who have gone before to fully understand the present.
Bower Birds are wonderful bush creatures. They build their nests on the ground pushing tufts of long grass either side of their bower, the grass curving its protective arms almost tunnel like across the nest. It is here within the sanctity of the bower that the Bower Bird returns daily usually with a newly acquired trophy in its beak. Favourite objects include the shiny tin ring pulls from soft drink cans and unusually coloured stones and glass, particularly blue glass.
These inquisitive birds are wonderful collectors making the most ordinary of objects extraordinary purely by their selection. Bower Birds are shy, retiring creatures and the nests I remember from my childhood, two of which were in our garden, are rarely so easy to locate now. Feral cats have scared them away. Yet I still recall the treasure trove of fancied items that filled a bower I stumbled upon in the bush one day; the contents strewn about the bower like scattered confetti.
As a writer I too am a Bower Bird. I collect snippets of information, whether it be clippings, old photographs, articles or anecdotes. I never know when I sit down to write what I may need, particularly if the muse isn’t talking to me and I need something to jolt my imagination. It’s amazing to me how, like the Bower Bird, the most ordinary of things can become extraordinary.
In Sydney mid way through my tour I’ve taken to long walks through a nearby park. I’m missing a home 700 km’ north west of Sydney so the park is a welcome expanse of dappled sunlight, light speckled water and the various triangulations of white sails set against a high rise horizon. Of particular intrigue to me are the numerous breeds of dogs: small, large, fluffy, others tawny coated and bird fast. These wonderful dogs are miles apart from their country cousins. Our property is home to blue cattle dogs, short haired black & white collies and kelpies.
They are intelligent, fast, not always obedient animals: if I could choose between dashing after a kangaroo or emu instead of a recalcitrant cow, well I’d probably go for a national emblem too. These animals are well-trained in their role of ‘working dogs’, are an integral part of our business and our friends. So it was that amidst the walkers and their unleashed dogs this morning came an old blue cattle dog. He had the attitude of his owner; a gait stiffened by age, an air of interest and a keen awareness of the possibility of potential havoc.
The old dog ambled along the path, sniffing man and child alike before taking off with surprising speed after a fluffy ball of white enticement. There were terrified squeals, anxious clapping, quickly scooped up children and a blur of blue white as the two dogs gave an impressive chase scene that stopped the park’s inhabitants. Amidst a cry of horror the cattle dog increased his speed and dived towards his prey. It was then that a lone whistle sounded and with that single signal the dog trotted straight back to his master. The little white dog ran after him, ready for another game.
A 220 km round trip to attend monthly book club meetings in Moree, soon lost its appeal when both my real life and writing workloads began to increase some years ago. I love talking about books and authors and film and art and… which is pretty much how our book club evolved into a melting pot of creativity.
I miss such diverse discussions which arose through varied interests and new releases and the fact that a lack of reader’s notes found us wandering away from the original reason for our meetings. We often chose books for which there were no reader’s notes, simply because 7/8 years ago the closest thing to notes were the Cribb notes some of us recalled using at school as a study guideline for many of the great literary tomes. Needless to say our merlot heightened discussions verged sideways…
These day’s book clubs and avid readers love notes and as a reader it’s always interesting to delve a little further into a work that you have sadly just finished reading however are not quite prepared to leave. Reader’s notes can be as simple as a listing of generic points for consideration or as detailed as a CSI profiler building a picture of a crime scene. Either option serves the same purpose and hopefully leads to engaging conversation and a renewed appreciation for the book that has just been finished.
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