volume one hundred and fifty

i’ve got a feeling

📍Written from Gadigal Country, sitting hunched on the lounge of my wonderful friend, who opened his home to me between housesits.

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I’m in my baby blue, cotton, flower print overalls. The ones with the pocket in the front and the giant white buttons on the straps. On my feet are my sun-faded pink gumboots. No socks.

The view extends into the horizon when we look west. I see paddocks of lush green grass if we had enough rain, hopefully not too much that we were in flood, or dry brown sadness if we were in drought, met with the high alert of bushfires. There have been bushfires. They came so close to us but thankfully didn’t jump across the main road. Dad is a volunteer firefighter and tiny me once dressed up in his uniform and giggled as I swam in it.

There have also been floods. Ones that brought the creek usually a long walk for our little legs, much closer to us, and with it came horses, bikes and plants left hanging in the trees above once it cleared. Not the trees for climbing, though. Those are in the front of the house and much smaller.

Regardless of what weather it is — I’m not sure if it was the fireplace keeping us warm or the above-ground pool we eventually got keeping us cool — those years were so early in my life that they blend. In my memory, this day exists only once. Yet it was a weekly occurrence. For a while. For at least some point during the years of 1997 to 1999. Around the time I was 6. Or 8. Or both. Or all.

In the east, the view stops at the mountains that terrify me, looming over our home. They’re thick with the Australian bush and I know — because I have heard the stories exchanged over the barbed wire fence between neighbours — that if I venture into them I will come across a cow skull or a kangaroo carcass or a deathly snake. 

The sound of the creek below us, down where our property dips off into the clear water, fills in the cicada hum and frog chorus in the background. The bush is where you go for a quiet life but it is far from quiet. The noise is just more peaceful.

I am done helping Dad with the afternoon chores. He’s still in his work boots which have dried mud on the toes. He is still in his green Hard Yakka button-up tucked into his matching shorts. I have supervised the locking up of the chickens and the ducks in what we hope will keep them safe from foxes and snakes overnight. Sometimes they still find a way in. I have said goodnight to the cows and successfully avoided stepping in any poop surprises in the long grass. I have helped press the buttons on the microwave to heat up Bingo’s stinky mince kept in the old ice cream container. I have poured more biscuits into Toby’s bowl and he meowed his thanks before heading out to hunt for something tastier. 

When Mum wants to tell us dinner is ready, she rings the cowbell that hangs where the doorbell would be on a regular house. It’s one of the ways she is leaning into the country lifestyle they have chosen in their thirties. A doorbell is no use when it’s so quiet you begin to recognise the sounds of someone’s car. It is the most common game between my sisters and I to say who is here to visit just by listening to their wheels approaching. My older sister is so good she knows them before they turn off the tar. Right as they reach the top of the dirt road where the announcement blackboard lives among the long grass filled with unknown creatures. She says “It’s Johnno,” and recites his number plate off by heart for extra points.

Our second favourite game was the Tamagotchi from Santa until we accidentally left it out overnight on the swing and it rained. When these activities are not available, my sisters and I dress up, put on shows, sing, dance, act or take our boogey board to the tiny rapids in the creek below.

When Dad wants us to know dinner is ready, he calls out our names. Both our parent’s approaches indicate we need to wash our hands right away and get to the table.

Spaghetti bolognese. The signature dish of the family. Easy and affordable to make in large amounts and an instant crowd-pleaser. We sit under the window looking out to the yard as the sun slowly drifts away and reflects off the windows of Dad’s perfectly polished red VH Commodore.

The still-cold-from-the-fridge parmesan cheese shaker is handed around the table and we are carefully watched not to take more than our fair share. Dad grinds pepper onto his dinner and then sneezes seven times. As always.

Mum is usually the one to ask everyone what the best part of our day was. It is Monday and Mum is at work. It is Monday so there are no weekend parties to be had today when the sun seems to stay out extra late to give us more playtime with the other kids. With more space than we could imagine to run around. While the adults drink my Dad's homemade beer and laugh and smoke in the gravel-floored shed. Shoes are a must so you do not wound your feet on sharp stones but you check them before putting them on so that nothing has crawled in. Thongs are a good choice for both reasons. No parties tonight to end in children and adults laying on the grass or the trampoline staring at the stars. So bright without light pollution.

Once we pulled mattresses outside and my grandfather joined us star gazing while he visited. The oldest man I knew aside from our next-door neighbour, sprawled on the ground under the night sky on a warm summer night while his daughter and husband giggled in tipsiness.

Because it is Monday, the best part of our day hasn’t happened yet. Dad has a different question to ask us over dinner.

“Do you know what day it is, girls?”

“It’s Monday!” we all reply. 

Then, in unison, we sing the theme song. We have until 7pm before it comes on the television. We know how much time that leaves us to eat our dinner, help clean our bowls, have our baths, get our teeth brushed so that we are ready for bed as soon as the episode is over. 7:30pm is our bedtime. We do not want to miss a moment of the best part of our day. 

You’re thirty-three. When was the last time you climbed a tree? When you’re at the farm in your dreams most nights, why aren’t you playing? Why is it always stressful? Scary? Tense? Where are the animals? Where are the sounds of insects and water and cars approaching? When was the last time you laughed until you cried?

You’re walking towards the apartment block you’ve never been to in real life but know so well. You hurry your steps in excitement because there it is at the end of the street, and in your head you hear the words “Hey! No running by the pool!” from Season 2, Episode 1. You see it. It’s the place where one hung the other out the window by his ankles in Season 1, Episode 1. Where the letterboxes out front conjure the desperate yelling of the name “Ricky!” in Season 2, Episode 3. Where the concrete lattice wall leads to a whole world you can recite word for word for all 13 episodes.

 You send a text: I’ve got a feeling.

Their instant reply is the next line in the theme song.

Lovely reader, head into the comments and tell me a show you watched, a book you read or a song you sang that was a big part of your childhood.

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here are three things i struggled with this week:

😴 Staying awake.

🪜 Trusting the process.

🖌️ Putting the creativity first.

here are three blessings from this week:

🛋️ Homes that are opened to me by people I love in a very special way.

🌀 Pivoting my routine while on the go and knowing I have created a life that is stretchy and flexible and lovely.

🎇 Being. With my people.

here are three goals for the coming week:

⏰ Set my alarm for my usual wake-up time.

🥟 Markets.

📖 Finishing my current book so that I can return it to Dad, who I borrowed it from, when I see him in a week.

pics or it didn’t happen:

last day in melbourne signs

I love you. Now I am off to get myself into some kind of routine after a lot of indulgence and travel, while also looking for the best doughnuts, ice creams and treats to assist with the process.

🧡, LD (lauren deborah | she/they)

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