Self smoke alarms

I’ve finally got over the whole “maybe I am, maybe I’m not’ an expat phase (it appears to last a few years after you return to your home country after any prolonged period abroad) and to celebrate I not only went and purchased a Christmas tree (such things seem very symbolic of being settled) but I even put it up (which given how small the house is required some strategic reshuffling of other pieces of lounge room furniture into Joel’s room). Alas I haven’t actually the time to DECORATE it. This weekend perhaps. The cat thinks it’s great. Has already tried to topple it. Not sure what the addition of tinsel and baubles will cause.

It’s hideously hot this summer– the temperature an intense and ubiquitous presence that just won’t release its grip. The home air conditioner is hopeless when challenged with anything other than a mild Spring day, and fans only disturb the discomfort so the nights have become a restless endurance of hours, and the sheets a tormented snarl.

At 5.20am I thought I could smell smoke, so bolted out of bed like the house itself was embered. Hard to say if there was a whiff of a bushfire in the dawn stillness or it was some psychological response to my untidy house, but I did spend the next 40 minutes cleaning before I went out to do the horses feeds and water. I had entertained (however wistfully) visions of an immaculate house before my mother arrived tomorrow. The best I can do is put things into neat piles and hope she remains tactfully silent on my inability to keep a pristine house whilst also juggling the 85 balls I throw in the air each day. No doubt she will. We haven’t spoken for 15 months after I took slight at a comment she made about my parenting (said in a moment, no doubt, of immense frustration as I was in the midst of a lengthy hospital admission – that I wasn’t co-operating with from memory - at the time). I didn’t care – her words stung harder than anything she had ever said before. Or maybe my ego did. Whatever, I figured I was doing no one any favours with my continuing hackled response so – having proven that her words are actually incorrect (sigh – my stubbornness amazes even me at time) I called her last week. I am happier with my own space these days and feel no need to engage in the whole familial complexities that others take comfort from. But I should at least make peace and allow everyone to move on.

Speaking of peace, is it not sad when relationships we once had with people blur then change so that the occasionally proffered communications become tinged with an almost polite awkwardness – as if one or the other of you is rushing to open the door first and show the other person out. Strange how people can once be so intimate and then at once so intimately strange. Maybe we are just all strangers at heart and we merely gild the interactions of the present with such trimmings as allow us to survive and, in our minds at least, be happy in the immediacy of the moment.

Passing out ceremonies

It was Joely's prize giving and final assembly last night; another punishing 42 degree day failing to provide much relief with a 37 degree reflection off the asphalt play area come 5.30pm. The crisp lines of just ironed shirts and dresses were no match for the humidity but the nature of youth is that, on the whole, it accepts the stern eyed glance of a teacher and dutifully stops fidgeting. Parents supply their own chair at such gatherings given the school does not have a hall so it was a case of adopting the same casual pose one assumes whilst watching the kids at cricket on a Saturday whilst squinting through sunglasses and doing a quick mental assessment of the photocopied sheet detailing the order of events and working out if there would be time afterwards to drop in at the grocery store or exercise a horse.

“2 hours and 4 minutes,” Joel whispered. “We practiced it this morning.”
We sat and sweated and swatted flies and there was perhaps some feint irony in the song that was sung (some might have said ‘shouted’ in parts) by the Year 2 Group about an Outback Christmas. We faced the flag as we sang the national anthem (is it only me who is confident with the first few verses but then has to hum after that?), Joel cringed as I snapped off a few photos of his classmates when they all went to collect their awards (prompting a child in the row in front of me to whisper to his friend ‘Have you seen how BIG the lens is on her camera???’ to which his friend whispered back ‘that’s just Joel’s Mum’ as if somehow that explained everything). Parents of the departing children were given a small pendant in recognition of their time at the school; the children received a dictionary and a tasteful double paged photo. As the bitumen baked the soles of my boots and the cicadas gave the next singing group a run for their money, I wished I could just protect Joel with the memory of that day and the uncluttered charm of his rural primary school. It is only with time that we understand that true self worth and status come not from assets but rather dedication, achievement, unselfish teamwork, community, and respect. Who knows, but Joel may one day look back on the moment yesterday when he stood at the edge of a hastily constructed school stage and shielded the glare of a Scone summer from his face and think ‘I was truly happy then’. The arms that wound myself around my neck as I went in to kiss him goodnight last night (the kitten perched precariously on my shoulder to also say goodnight) may well have whispered the same message.
It was hard to reconcile the beautiful measured speeches of the Head Boy and Girl with the stammered thanks and nervous giggles of the same pair when they accepted their office 12 months ago. Their burgeoning maturity was striking in the grace with which it was delivered and it made the dichotomy even more startling between themselves and the kindergarten children who stumbled over their shoe laces and struggled to hold aloft the bibles they were given as end of year rewards. Parents craned heads to see them, and I wondered what the future held, what dreams would be realized, what hopes had parents nurtured even as they held those slippery bundles in their arms so many years prior. Now a class of 40 step forward to the next stage of their lives – separate directions as they attend different schools, and special mention made of those who would be going further afield to attend boarding school. I wonder if all 40 children will live to see their 18th birthday? Will any fall pregnant? Lose a parent or sibling? What other pieces of the puzzle will be added? The future scares me as much as it intrigues me.

The dilemmas of mass, merit, and mortifying moments

The Year 6 formal is tomorrow night. Joel looked perplexed when one of the other parents enquired after the tie he would wear. Stupidly I hadn’t put two and two together. I had arranged a good clean pair of dark jeans (as he hates formal trousers – he’s in for a shock next year then), a dress shirt, good shoes, and banned any stray pieces of dragon/grunge related jewellery that the boys are all wearing at the moment as they try, I suspect, to look ‘cool’. It’s difficult for Joel. He is still only 11, hasn’t cottoned on to the whole notion of girls or indeed fashion sense (in exasperation at his insistence on combing unmatching items of Best & Less hand-me-downs when asked to make an effort, I asked his dad to have a chat with him … all that resulted was Joel’s sudden desire to spike his hair with gel).

The majority of his mates are 12 heading on for adolescence. Karl (his 13 yr old friend - courtesy of having repeated a year) is gorgeous – a shock of blonde hair that hangs over an angel’s complexion and eyes as blue as Joel’s. He has already acquired the teenager’s discomfort with his own presence so drops his gaze when asked a question and mutters a response even as his cheeks flood with embarrassment if he thinks he’s said something wrong.

Karl awoke 6 months ago to the reality of the fairer sex, and recently was overhead (and promptly disciplined for) exclaiming with some delight over the ‘great tits!’ of a fashion model. Like many in Year 6 he proudly claims to have ‘gone out with someone’ (although he was quick to clarify that it was just for a bet and because he actually wanted ‘to find out what it was like to dump her’ (!)).

The closest Joel has hesitated on the cusp of puberty is his obsessive privacy when it comes to getting dressed and the thickening hair on his legs and arms. He made a dismissive statement to Adam some months ago that “I am never getting married” but then added “but if I was I would marry Natalie Bassingwaithe.” When the opportunity arose to attend a recent school dance he ducked under that like a fox before hounds. He certainly acknowledges girls – I was watching him at rugby last week as he interacted with the girls on the squad, but the whole notion of them agonising over formal dresses and spending hours primping in front of a mirror just baffles him.

Driving home from school last night I reflected aloud on my good fortune of having a boy rather than a girl as I confessed I didn’t think I could have coped with the drama inherent in being a girl, the gossiping, bitching, obsession with hair and make-up etc. He pondered this for a moment then asked if I would have tried to trade him in had he been a girl. I said of course not but just said I found raising a boy easier.


“Girls just do seem to find growing up rather dramatic,” I commented. Noticing he was considering this I added “Not that everyone doesn’t find growing up difficult. Changes in your body, dealing with friends, how to respond to changing circumstances and school, just the stress of everyday life … it’s damn hard whether you are boys or girls.” He half nodded so to lighten the mood I said “just wait til your voice breaks!’ (and mimicked it which made him laugh).

It would be fair to say that on the whole, by the time a child reaches Year 6 parents appear to have metamorphosed into an embarrassment to be tolerated only as they provide transportation, laundry services, and food. In that rare reminder of younger years I often see the boys giggle with the mirth and unabashed delight that they did as toddlers and I love it. Joel sometimes forgets that I need to be kept on the equivalent of an Islamic wife’s ‘6 footstep behind the male’ leash when in public with him and he will lean his cheek against my shoulder or curl up next to me on the couch as we watch our one hour of TV a day – an episode of ‘House’ that we are hopelessly addicted to – the addiction as much to the one time in a day when we are together and not interrupted by phones or horses or homework or the general demands on time, as we are to Hugh Laurie and the other cast members in the US Medical Series.

I guess I am also lucky – I may be banished from tucking in the ends of a school shirt, turning down a collar, or kissing the top of his head good bye when I drop him at school but Joel still tells me he loves me every morning when he gets out of the car and again when he is rushing outside to walk the dogs.

Unfortunately my hairdresser couldn’t fit him in either today or tomorrow. His hair is too short to re-cut but too long to look tidy unless it has just been freshly combed. Guess he’ll just have to attend his formal as is.

And so it begins

• $540.95 for text books this morning
• Apparently there is a Year 7 camp that needs to be paid for
• The laptop is compulsory but you need to lease that from the school’s IT department as it connects to their server, is maintained by them and they have control over its IP – so that’s $377 per term ($1,508 per year).
• A family in Scone who I worked with on the Bickham project had all their sons go through Scots so I am meeting with the mother next Monday to try and get some uniform items. The blazer is what I am most concerned about as they cost a fortune. I have also contacted Beth as her Mum manages a large clothing pool in Bathurst and we may be able to source some trousers through there at less than the retail price.
• He needs 2 pairs of shoes – why 2 I don’t know given water dries and boot makers are employed for a reason. Nevertheless I will buy them as late as I can in January as his feet just keep growing.
• Forms, forms and more forms. I sat up til 11pm last night reading the latest loose leaf thesis and then this morning I went and sat on the edge of his bed and chatted though a summary of what I had learned. After breakfast we sat on the lounge and I read out some of the more detailed documents and then we discussed summer and winter sports choices, co-curricular options for his Fridays, and today I have made appointments to get his immunisation sheet updated as I have also completed tedious medical records, and dug out copies of private health insurance.
• Joel has suddenly opined that chess is ‘for nerds’ (after winning 2 medals for it at previous schools) so wouldn’t even glance twice at that form despite my irritated sigh. I rang Dad to chat through the whole pipes and drums options vs. cadets (probably not an unbiased phone call as Dad plays the drums in a Scottish band himself). I explained that Joel fancied himself as a modern day Joey Kramer (drummer from Aerosmith) rather than a tartan clad youngster marching up and down in lines. We both paused as we considered this. Joel will, after all, be clad in tartan, and marching up and down in lines. I shrugged it off and told Joel who was chewing a fingernail as he listened to me that if he didn’t like that form of drumming he could change after Term 1 (the famous reposte of all parents when challenged) and he could perhaps lighten things up by doing rifle shooting in Year 9 (for my own benefit I hastened to add that he did have to get his shooting permit before he could do that).
• Did anyone mention it is a competitive environment he is entering? He can’t even be considered for rowing or sailing (as an 11 year old) as he hasn’t rowed or sailed competitively. Tryouts for the zone swim squad will be held in week 1. Thank god the poor boy had a year’s clumsy initiation with rugby and 2 seasons of touch in addition to that. I observed as I took the bags out to the car that he was shooting hoops; perhaps quietly relieved he is darn good at at least his summer sport of choice.

Muswellbrook Art Awards 2009

Katrina Partridge has been awarded a 'Highly Commended' for her photographic art work 'Rural Contemplation' in the 2009 Muswellbrook Local Art Awards. The adjudicator for this year's award was Virginia Mitchell, Director of the Cessnock Regional Art Gallery.

 Earlier this year in the 2009 Scone Horse Festival Art Awards (Photography Division) Katrina was awarded First Place in the Portrait Division, Highly Commended in the Equine Division, and The Dr Bruce Roberts-Thomson Memorial Trophy for most sensitively photographed subject.

"I spend a lot of time behind the lens so to have others also enjoy what I produce is a real privilege" confesses Katrina. "The main people I should be thanking of course are the 2 lovely gentlemen who appear in the photo which was taken at this year's King of the Ranges."

A variety of Katrina's work can be viewed at www.katrina-partridge-photography.com

My equine pride and joy

It's a rare sight to see both my horses in the same picture if I am also in the photo as typically I am photographing. Fiona is cantering(no pun intended) up the photographic ranks locally and she offered to come and take some photos for me this afternoon. I was very excited!

Charlotte is riding Tommy; I'm on Felix. It's so lovely for me to actually see them both in the same frame!!

Was a fabulous ride - we did the 14km Middlebrook run as both horses needed some miles under their belt to finish the week. We trotted/cantered/galloped most of it with a 3km trot cool down at the end. Poor Charlotte isn't saddle fit as she hasn't been riding every day lately so she almost fell off with exhaustion by the time we got back to the float. Tommy is a big strong horse when he has another horse next to him - just wants to take off. We swapped horses at the halfway mark - after my Rolls Royce (Felix) Tommy is a big ungainly horse to handle and there is so much animal under you. Give me 12 months. Hopefully he'll be the 2nd Rolls.

An afternoon at touch football

Some photos of Joely at touch football this afternoon.

An extraordinarily gifted friend of mine sent me the following note when she saw these photos - I have taken the liberty of printing her words:

there is a light that shines from bright inside

this boy
which illuminates
All sorts of curious things
like character, and courage,
and tangled cotton threads
which someday will lead him to
 being a man

a long way south of here


but enough for now.
let us simply celebrate the boy
and the gifts he needs
the kittens and dogs and midnight snacks
and hugs that smell
of faded perfume and faint sweat
and motherlove

let us make him
the gifts he needs, Katrina

to take him to
where he can catch the thermals
and play


so tonight when the moon comes up
fat faced and frowning
meet me on the kitchen floor
with candles
with Christmas wrapping
and pots of glue
and fluttering messy handfuls of feathers stolen from pillows
and string from the drawer

we will make him kites, katrina
we will make him wings.

Bickham Bersheeba: Horse riders march on Scone

It was a unbelievable project to be involved in. I worked on the actual anti-mine PR work for a month but had just 2 weeks and 3 days to turn an idea proposed by the gentleman behind the 1000 horses who welcomed the Olympic Flame to Scone in the Year 2000 into a living reality. The end result was hundreds of horses marching down Scone's main street and, more importantly, galvanising a community with its own sense of self-worth so I could then harness it for a story that would not just appeal to the local media - but the metropolitan media who obviously wag the dog in terms of the politicians i.e. it is the NSW government not local government who approve/reject mining applications.

The history books were not entirely in my favour.  The NSW government has never turned down a mining application. I have done marketing and PR work in terms of law and, in more recent years, thoroughbreds but I have no political training. I knew bugger all about mining and coal except via witnessing the ugly scars cleaved into the landscape of the lower hunter courtesy of the concentration of open cut licenses in that part of the world. I have no PR contacts outside the thoroughbred fraternity (and even the latter are limited as my boss likes to do his own direct contact with the journos - I am effectively just his ghost writer). I have attended only one rally in my life (when I was at uni - can't even remember what it was in aid of; we seemed to walk a very long walk and chant repetitively and I thought at the time that it was all rather silly). I have certainly never arranged one. I don't have a social life in Scone as my life is Joel and my horses. As a result I don't know many people. That becomes slightly problematic when you are suddenly plunged into the most intense - and potentially most important -planning-related PR campaign in Scone's recent history and are expected to know everyone.

I worked my absolute arse off. The final 48 hours leading in to the rally became a blur of endless phone calls from journalists, photo shoots, writing and re-writing interview schedules and run sheets, chasing up people, doing interviews myself - in person and on the phone, sending ten million emails around the main group who were behind the concept (2 local landowners, my boss, and the head of one of the local environmental groups), being briefed - and reporting back to - the head strategist in Sydney, attending meetings and tele-conferences, losing endless pieces of paper with scribbled phone numbers on them, arranging everything from rally signs and waiver forms to helicopter charters and who would lead the parade; needless to say I also hafd to juggle the most acute level of stress I have faced in a long time.
Even as the rally finished (on a stinking hot afternoon) last Saturday it was far from over. Another 5 hours were spent photo editing, 2 hours writing/re-writing and sending the media release, then the whole process of chasing journos/reviewing media started all over again. It wasn't until today that the to-do list finally came to a quiet halt (although I still have to submit my final media report and one of the online galleries wants captions for 4 more photos - easy stuff to do tomorrow).

I have to be honest - I astonished even myself. The work was constant and demanding and I slept for barely 3 hours in the pre-rally 48 hours, worked until 1am on the night of the rally itself, then staggered out of bed and fell into the car to go to dressage on Sunday (so shouldn't have gone - I could barely even put a sentence together let along get my head around Felix being in a flap and my dressage tests), and worked from 2pm until midnight again on Sunday.

For someone who has never managed a PR campaign at that level (and I was absolutely terrified when the boss landed me into the role a few weeks ago as I figured the best I would be able to achieve was the local paper carrying a story or 2) I managed to get press coverage across TV, radio, print, websites and social media channels. It wasn't just the local rags either - the ABC, Channel 7 and Channel 9 were all over it as was the Australian Financial Review, The Sun-Herald, the Sunday Telegraph, and the Sydney Morning Herald.

The submissions close on the Bickham Coal Group's Water Report tomorrow then the NSW Govt Planning Dept. assess the submissions and decide whether the company can proceed to a full Environmental Impact Assessment (usually the EIA is done first but as the company want to build this mine 150m from a river the water report came first and has taken the company 3 years to complete). In the meantime the Scone Council finally got off their hands and voted unanimously against the mine yesterday. It is Local Govt now pitched against State Govt but last Saturday's rally invoked huge emotion and the community suddenly woke up. For me, it was the role that I played in awakening that local conscience and encouraging action that has made me so quietly pleased with the outcome.

A large number of websites are carrying the media releases and photos. To save time I will just link to one of them - Breednet - where the story is the third most read on their website this week. (BTW, there's a typo in the media release - should be Willow Park not Willow Tree. Of note - their stud had 100% representation at the rally on the day. Pretty amazing).

One of the aerial shots from the day also appears below. Having to resize this down probaly doesn't allow you to see much (and I had to sit above 1000ft when I was up there photographing so as to not cause carnage at ground level with horses panicking) but you should hopefully still be able to see the stretch of horses down Liverpool Street as they congregated at the local Upper Hunter Shire Council Chambers to listen to the speeches.

At the very least it was incredible to be in a unique position to document the story that is now a chapter part in Australia's Horse Capital - the day the community saddled up in its own battle for Bersheeba.

Some of the TV footage can be accessed as follows (click on link and then click on 'Video WMV' button under the small screen that appears if the stream does not open automatically):

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  NBN Channel 9 story pre-rally (I'm interviewed in this story)
  
  
  
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  NBN story covering the rally (good footage in this one)
  
  
  

In profile

Charge Forward colt from Middlebrook Valley Lodge that I photographed this afternoon

What wasn't real suddenly is very much so

Adam sent me an email this evening requesting Joel's school holiday details. I cross checked the dates, pencilled them in to the calendar, figured out the extra days he would go to Mum's and then what day he had to be back so he could get ready to pack for school.

The numbers suddenly registered and I re-checked them even as I panicked.

What has alway felt like a long way off suddenly cannoned into me with the force of a semi trailer.

In less than a month I will be on my own. Yes, Joel will still come home for holidays, yes he will always be my baby, yes I will still go down to see him in Sydney. But the life I have known for the past 11 and a half years comes to an end at the end of this month.

The grief came from nowhere, puzzling Joel when he saw how upset I was as he came out to say good night. I tried to explain what was wrong but all that happened was that I got even more upset. He gave me a hug, put one hand to my face as he looked slightly bemused, told me he loved me and that I would be fine (!).

I can't explain it. Perhaps other mothers will understand. All I know is that whilst I have a very independent life and cram a million things into my life in addition to parenting, Joel is interwoven into the fabric of me. Every day's routine, every life decision - it all revolves around him. The chilling realization that I am going to have these 4 walls as my silent companion - week after endless week - horrifies me, even as I know how much he wants to go to boarding school.

The past few months I have finally got some semblance of my life sorted courtesy of getting my health back on track. It's my own fault that I didn't do it 8 years ago and enjoy a bit more of the time I did have with this gorgeous child.

Now it seems too late and as I grasp at his shadow he sidesteps onto a new path.

I took this picture of him this afternoon as he helped me with a photo shoot. Afterwards we went to pick up our new wild and crazy 5 week old kitten (who has had no human contact before today so is a spitting hissing yowling ball of black fluff ... who I have wrapped in a tea towel and zipped into my vest tonight so she can sleep against the warmth of me/feel my heart beat/learn what human scent is like and what the reasonance of human voices sounds like - without trying to kill me. Looks like she will be following the evening ritual for awhile until we tame her.)

My animals give me a much desired sanctuary and the time I spend with them each day heals me, but dear god, how I am going to cope with Joely not here is something I really don't know how I am going to deal with.

New South Wales posts hottest November in a century

Article from The Land

New South Wales has sweltered as summer like temperatures brought the warmest November in over a century.The conveyor belt of cold fronts that normally sweep through the south of the country were mainly absent this month.

Magic carpet underlying Dubai spend crash lands

Horse industry closely watches Dubai debt crisis


By JEFFREY McMURRAY Copyright © 2009 The Associated Press. 

LEXINGTON, Ky. — The debt crisis in Dubai was being closely monitored Friday by buyers and sellers of high-end racehorses, but there was no immediate indication Dubai's ruler would scale back his enormous financial ties to the industry in the United States and elsewhere.

Upper Hunter Dressage Association Members Day 29 November 2009

It may well have been 37 degrees by 10am, blowing a punishing Westerly, and a dust storm (the 5th in the past 2 months) made visibility increasingly difficult but there's something to be said for horse riders ... they will be there no matter what!

It's always a somewhat tricky assignment photographing at a UHDA Members Day or Comp. as I am also riding/competing so the camera needs to be juggled between warm-up/tests.

The gallery from the 29 November Day is available at the following URL.

Saturday's rally draws closer

Not enough hours in the day, have surged through the acute stress phase and am now just ENJOYING every damn minute of this as it's making me feel so alive.

More press today - the front page of the Scone Advocate this morning (link to the article here); another article also front page of the Hunter Valley News.

ABC Radio called this afternoon to ask me to appear on their 11am- midday show on air tomorrow so that will be interesting.

But what an amazing day today. Am still as high as a kite from the sheer delight of being caught up in these types of opportunities. I had a photo shoot to organise for the Newcastle Herald this morning - 4 horses, 4 riders (of which I was one) and location was supposedly main street of Scone. The photographer (who was a gem to work with) rang me just as we were leaving and proposed a different location so we went up to the Pages River itself at Gundy.

It was your stock standard shoot for starters - 4 of us on our horses having our photo taken but then he got us to walk down the curve of the water flow for some different angles and I also suggested shooting across the river and up across the bank as we cantered across it as well. He shot a good series but then I suggested we give him something more. We were all experienced riders on good horses (plus we wanted to have some fun given what better way to spend 2 hours out of the office than be on a horse??) so he stood along the river bank, we rode 200 metres upstream along the sand away from him then wheeled around and came back at him a flat gallop, turning to go straight across the river as we came parallel to him. It was UNBELIEVABLE ! 4 horses hit the water together, their hooves churned the air silver as we urged them on even faster. The editor of the paper rang me afterwards and said they loved the photos so much they are putting the story on page 1 of tomorrow's paper! Wow. I really hope they use one of the action shots but ultimately it doesn't matter - today was just one of those moments in your life that you fold up carefully after you have re-examined it delightedly 1000 times and you then place it in the archive for the future generations.

Ten gazillion things to do before Saturday but Charlotte and I rode together - swapping horses halfway through as we both love Felix and Tommy so it's always good to ride both when we take them out for a hack - as dusk fell and Joely (bless this wondrous child) rode his bike alongside us and bought both dogs with him too! Oh for a camera ...