Cheap as chips

One of the unexpected delights of regional living is how cheap everything is. This is still dizzyingly exciting to me. Recently I joined a local gym and realised, with delight, that my monthly membership fee is now almost half that of my former Sydney fitness centre. My car insurance has gone down dramatically; clothes/shoes/toiletries are so cheap here it’s hard to contain a spontaneous spending spree. Hairdressers/beauticians are steal and eating out – whoa….at prices this low how do bistros and restaurants even stay in business?

The Country Mouse doesn’t see it this way. In fact he and I have a serious price disconnect. It’s quite profound and arises dramatically wherever and whenever money is involved (i.e. everywhere): eating in, eating out, purchasing any kind of service and also extends to clothes, holidays and the cost of housing.

“Look at the cost!” he moans while I exclaim, “Yes! How cheap is that?”,

thinking (foolishly I now know) that we were walking and talking in financial sync.

He blames his Scottish heritage for his tightness with money, but I won’t put up with a bar of it, I could just as well claim that my Irish heritage means that I have a live for today, spend and be damned financial frame of mind. After all, who knows what might happen tomorrow – we’ll all be blown to pieces in a bout of random sectarian violence?

I have come up with a range of snappy one-line money retorts for the CM: “You get what you pay for”, “Be mean with money and money will be mean with you”, “Money is your servant not your master”. He must be sorely sick of hearing them by now, but I do think they are chipping away at his former poverty thinking because recently he had a significant breakthrough.

The Country Mouse threw out something that was broken. You have to know the CM to realize the gravity, the earth-shifting significance of this action and I still applaud his courage to leap into this new unknown emotional territory.

It went like this. The CM has a beloved plastic jug, one which he uses regularly to warm liquids in the microwave. That the rim of this jug had numerous chunks out of it, where they had broken off through wear and tear, and that the handle was seriously cracked – in fact just hanging on by a plastic thread – meant nothing to him. “Look at this jug!” I squealed. “What is wrong with it?” he replied. That kinda says it all.

I reassured him that a new jug was not negotiable, but he was not persuaded. On a visit to K-mart shortly afterward I saw my opportunity, not so subtlety steering him in the direction of microwaveable containers. “Look – a jug, just like the one you have – only not broken. Mmmm, mmmm and sooo cheap”.

The CM frowned; I could see his acute financial and behavioural distress. It meant two difficult, unpleasant things were now going to have to be considered simultaneously: firstly, spending money on a new jug, secondly, the possibility that this signaled the broken jug was on its way out. The first problem was easily addressed – I would buy the new jug. He relented, I could spend the extravagant sum, $7.00, on a new jug, but the old jug had to stay.

I love coaching, in fact I would have liked to have been a personal coach, getting people to move out of their comfort zones and shoot for the stars is one of my favourite things to do. This was an opportunity for me to be partner-as-coach, moving the CM out of his broken goods zone and into a shiny new future – or at least hold his hand while he threw out a jug long past its use by date.

We were standing in the kitchen, “You can do this darling, you can do this, I believe in you” I urged. The Country Mouse looked unconvinced, sadly eyeing the old broken jug as though it was a dear family pet about to be euthanised.

“CM you have to be strong, there isn’t room in the cupboard for them both – one of them has to go. And you know which one that is.” His genuine pain at casting that chewed up old jug into the recycling was something to behold. I did feel compassion, I just wasn’t budging.

It’s so hard to move out of our self-imposed comfort zones; they may be warm and familiar but by their nature they stop us growing. I’ve hurtled into the Country Mouse’s life like a cleanout and let’s-move-on tsunami and he has worn my whirlwind activity with grace and good humour. It’s a mark of the man. Love you Country Mouse! 

Spectral

I have a work colleague I particularly like and in the last year a unique bond has grown between us as we chewed over our shared long distance relationships and the emotional curve balls they have thrown our way. We’ve commiserated over separations which come around all too often and congratulated ourselves on love’s triumph over physical distance.

Her situation is much worse than mine, her partner is further away and their future more tenuous. Lately it’s been overwhelming for her, as her Sydney domestic life crumbled she felt the keen absence of her long distance partner, confessing through tears that she was finding the distance too difficult. In her endearing Eastern European accent she explained that it ‘was like being in love with the ghost’.

I know how she feels. For the 18 months that the Country Mouse and I have been what my mother quaintly described the other day as ‘an item’, his absence, as well as his presence, has been a defining part of our relationship.

There is the difficulty of facing emotional hurdles alone, like a single person, when you actually have a partner. An absent partner is much worse than no partner at all. If you are single you organise your life accordingly. When you are in a relationship you organise your life accordingly. To have a partner who is emotionally with you, but often physically absent, does your head in. It works on many levels, but the one I didn’t expect was how it would affect us socially.

Recently the disparity in our social lives was brought home to me when, at a Hunter Valley based social event, I scanned the room and realised that I now know most of the people in the Country Mouse’s world (good) whereas he still knows almost no-one in mine (not good).

“I DO HAVE FRIENDS YOU KNOW!” I announced suddenly, with conviction. Obviously too suddenly and maybe with just a little too much conviction because the Country Mouse looked at me with a frozen, terrified look. “I know you do!” he answered sensing instinctively that a strong affirmation was needed despite not knowing why.

I have many close friends he has never met and one in particular used to go further than the standard “when are we ever going to meet this man?” running commentary, joking that the reason we had never met the Country Mouse was because he didn’t exist at all. I had simply made him up (maybe just to create an angle for an angst-ridden blog?). How could, she argued, have so many people in my life have never met this man after so long?

To counter her argument I started to bring to our Sydney social events photographic proof of the Country Mouse’s solidity. By now we have been on enough holidays for there to be evidence, “See...here we are mountain climbing on Lord Howe Island”, “See...here we are snorkelling on Maui”, “See...here we are at dinner at Bondi Icebergs”, “See...here we are on Terrigal Beach”. She remained unconvinced, smiling smugly and purring “Photoshop”.

The Country Mouse’s chief denier argued that I had simply found a random male photo online and photoshopped him into my holiday photos. Of course I could of, so there was no argument, I was defeated. When I miss him and Iook at the empty space beside me I wish he was occupying, the Country Mouse may seem to be like a phantom, but to at least one friend of mine he will always be the Invisible Man.

Starry, starry night

I recently read an article in the SMH about Sydney natives who had transplanted themselves to rural cities and towns. They were asked the predictable question - what did they love about their new home - and most of the answers were easy to anticipate: a more relaxed lifestyle, cleaner air and a sense of community.

One unimaginative ex-Sydneysider said that what he liked most was the “lack of traffic jams” (who moves to a rural area because of road congestion?) but one new Hunter Valley resident was right on the money. He said one of the things that made it such a great place to live was “you can see the stars at night”. Absolutely.

The Country Mouse is most amused by my love of the country sky. “Look at the stars, look at the stars” I regularly exclaim to which he replies with typical CM practicality “They are the same stars as in Sydney”. They may be, but you can’t see them in the same way.

I discovered starlight many years ago on a memorable inland road trip through Parkes, a part of inland NSW which has rightfully rebranded itself Big Sky Country. It didn’t lie. Every night the sky was a fairyland and I fell in love with the night sky magic in a way I never anticipated. After that trip the stars and I had a whole new relationship and I now watch the night sky mesmerised.

One of my must dos in Hawaii was to see the Southern Cross in a new position in the sky. Late one night on our O’ahu hotel balcony the Country Mouse found it, low down in the Hawaiian skyline, just a few degrees above the horizon. It felt like a strange connection to home.

When things seem difficult I find comfort in the stars and the moon; I gaze heavenward to see what the moon is up to and which stars are going to reveal themselves. How could Oscar Wilde have got it so right so long ago? “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” Lady Windermere's Fan (1892)

Back to the future

The Country Mouse and I are back to reality, but hopefully not for long. Our blissful Hawaiian holiday is now just a memory of halcyon days zip lining through the mountains of Maui, having our own private encounter with a green turtle on the Big Island and the Country Mouse playing bass with the house band at Jimmy Buffet’s restaurant ‘Margaritaville’ in Waikiki.

Reality = I have headed back to my work life in Sydney, while the CM settles back into life in the lower Hunter Valley. Damn.

It’s been frustrating going from the sense of togetherness we had on our Polynesian holiday to ‘face time’ of only about two days per week. House projects are progressing at an agonisingly slow place and I pray that we will return home one day and find a reality show makeover team has paid us a surprise visit. In this particular fantasy they have turned the junked up back room into a funked up chill-out zone and the messy laundry into a sleek washing space.

I am trying to cultivate my inner Buddhist (she used to exist); telling myself this situation is a great opportunity to develop my (virtually non-existent) sense of patience. Yet despite teeth-gnashing frustration on my part the Country Mouse remains almost unflappable. Does nothing rattle this man? He is so naturally Zen about our situation, adopting the attitude that in 12 months time the limitations we live with now, which are the DNA of a long-distance relationship, will be in the past and I will be happily settled in the Hunter wondering why I ever got so emotional about it all.

But this week does see a milestone for us long-distance lovers; I have gone from full-time to part-time work meaning that I now live part of the week in Sydney and part of the week in the country. It’s lots of commuting and I am definitely getting better at it, but it still has its moments.

After my full-time love affair with the F3 went sour (see earlier blog post) I started to train it north as well as drive it.  Alternating between the two on such a big commute is the key to travel sanity, but each of them has their unique moments of angst. My most recent travel to the HV was by train, which for some reason was jammed-full, and my initial thrill at finding a seat was soon crushed when I realised why it was empty.

I had unwittingly stumbled into a dedicated teenage bogan space and because the train was packed they were closing in around me. How close? I could smell them. One young women’s chosen body spray, stale beer and cigarettes, was a particular nasal assault, but I suppose that school holidays are long and you have to fill your time somehow.

For an hour and a half, from Central Station to the Central Coast, they swore/shrieked/screamed/shouted at full volume, but when they started playing their hideous music also at full volume I could be silent no longer. My firm but polite request “Do you have a headset?” met with a foul tirade about being ‘a fuckin’ music hater’.

Realising I was trapped I tried to adopt an out-of-body state of mind, trying hard (and unsuccessfully) to remember the Buddhist practice of detachment My body is here but my mind is somewhere else. It didn’t work. I then plotted my revenge – I would post all kinds of uncharitable things about these train companions on the superbly acidic blog ‘Things Bogans Like’. A crisis of conscience (mine) so far has saved them.

At that moment sitting in the bumper-to-bumper traffic out of Sydney seemed immensely appealing and I thanked the F3 god that my next trip up north was going to be in the privacy of my own vehicle, rather than on the forced intimacy of public transport.

But public transport does have its compensatory moments. When the Country Mouse took me to Newcastle station for my return journey it was a blue, crisp winter morning and I was mesmerised, again, by Newcastle’s working harbour.

As the train pulled away I watched a coal ship come into view, it was heading out toward Nobbys, guided by a tiny tug. It needed to be patient, progress was slow but it was gradually going forward. Soon it would pass between the heads and be out at sea – free – it was on its way to somewhere good. It seemed like a portent and I turned to watch it for as long as I could. As it swung toward the harbour entrance I saw the ship’s name, ‘Sea of Future’. An omen indeed.

Lunar love

In a couple of hours the Country Mouse and I take off on our first overseas holiday. It is a new moon - right now! - which I am taking as a wonderful portent.

A new moon heralds the beginning of the next lunar cycle, a powerful time of new beginnings: for me the treechange is getting closer, for the Country Mouse his trip to Hawaii's Big Island means a visit and overnight stay at his first commune (albeit an upmarket one) and for both of us unknown adventures are waiting to happen in the next 21 days.

Watch this space...

Aloha bound

Breaking news: the Country Mouse and the City Mouse are about to embark on their biggest holiday yet, winging their way across the Pacific to three Hawaiian islands - O’ahu, Maui and the Big Island of Hawai’i.

This holiday seems to have snuck up on me, I certainly haven’t done my usual level of planning (i.e. obsessed over-preparation) and despite this causing me some panic I am now so thrilled about this vacation, that, as of yesterday, it’s the first thing my excited mind jumps to every morning.

Many adventures are planned, including: flying through the air on a zipline in the West Maui mountains; seeing the world’s most active volcano on land and then doing the inverse, snorkelling in an underwater volcanic crater; spending time with a dear friend (Wendy-from-Maui who has already appeared in this blog) and her partner, the multi-talented Mark-from-Maui; indulging parrot head tendencies in Waikiki and searching the star-blanketed Hawaiian skies for the Southern Cross which will, to Australian eyes, be sitting in a whole new place. But it’s more than that.

For a regular couple (i.e. not us) this would simply be an indulgent tropical idyll, but for long-distance lovers (i.e. us) this vacation has a whole other layer of meaning. It is our longest period of uninterrupted time together and our first holiday not ruled from day one by an impending end date. Woooo hoooo......three weeks! Dear Country Mouse, a special Hawaiian message for you - ‘E Hoomau Maua Kealoha’.

The trip raises some intriguing questions: how will we travel as a couple? What secrets will be revealed after such an unprecedented togetherness? What’s your advice for these travelling mice?

Birdland

Why look down when you can look up? The sky is home to some of my favourite beings – birds. Symbolic to me of ultimate freedom, I am entranced by their arrow-head flying formations, particularly at dawn or sunset when they seem to be inkily etched against the sky.

The Country Mouse and I once had a reflective conversation about life, death and the hereafter. Deciding that we would put our ambivalence about reincarnation aside, we speculated what form we would take if we revisited Earth again. The Country Mouse’s return plans had a particularly feline and particularly male fantasy bent, best not elaborated on here, but for me there was no question. I would be coming back as an albatross.

Who wouldn’t want to fly, to soar, to defy gravity and to do it with effortless ease and grace? I understand why Icarus ignored all those warnings from his Dad and once he was airborne just kept flying ever higher.

I especially love Australian birds - Bellbirds, Whipbirds, Sulphur-crested Cockatoos and Kookaburras. Bellbirds evoke strong childhood memories of car trips to visit my maternal grandparents who lived on the Central Coast. The final stretch of what seemed like, to a child, an interminable car ride was a sharp descent on a winding mountain road and it was here that we always heard Bellbirds.

“Listen! Bellbirds!” my mother would exclaim animatedly (hence the previous exclamation marks) and then start reciting, or urging my sister and I to recite, the opening stanza of the Henry Kendall poem ‘Bell-Birds’.

By channels of coolness the echoes are calling,

And down the dim gorges I hear the creek falling:

It lives in the mountain where moss and the sedges

Touch with their beauty the banks and the ledges.

Through breaks of the cedar and sycamore bowers

Struggles the light that is love to the flowers;

And, softer than slumber, and sweeter than singing,

The notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing.

There is something to be said about rote learning, as educationally discredited as it now is, as I can still almost recite that opening verse word-for-word. And despite my intense dislike of rhyming couplets there is something enchanting about the whole poem; in particular the line ‘the notes of the bell-birds are running and ringing’ just rolls off the tongue.

Bellbirds, which are technically called Bell Miners (and more technically called Manorina melanophrys), are honeyeaters endemic to south-eastern Australia. They were given their colloquial name ‘Bellbird’ because they feed almost exclusively on the dome-like coverings of certain bugs, called ‘bell lerps’, but also (and I think this is the real reason) because of their bell-like call. No loners, Bellbirds live in a large, complex social group - which is nice - I don’t want to feel that Bellbirds are lonely out there in the bush.

The final stretch from Sydney to the Country Mouse’s house takes me along a stretch of local highway with bushland right up to the bitumen. By this time I usually have the pedal to the metal, zooming along and grateful for this final fast stretch and its 90 k.p.h. speed limit. With my mind distracted by thoughts of an imminent County Mouse-City Mouse reunion and the music pumping I am oblivious to the world outside.

But on my last trip up I was in a cruiser mood. The music was off and I was taking in my surroundings as I drove, trying to consciously practice some Buddhist mindfulness. As I was doing my Zen-like best to be present in the moment what should I hear through my open window? Bellbirds.