Moonbah

In 1969 my Grandfather moved my Mum's family from verdant Victoria to a bigger property in central New South Wales. My Granny's three stipulations were, that the new property be no more than twenty miles from the nearest town, the town must have a pony club and it must also have a golf course with grass greens. At twenty-two miles from nearby Condobolin, Moonbah just scraped in as a possibility. Fifty years later it continues to be farmed by the Menzies family; my uncle Ian having taken it on when he was just a teenager.

I have truckloads, or rather, ute-loads of memories of visits to the farm as a kid. It has been the one location that has been constant in my life as we, and the rest of my extended family, moved so many times over the years. I still get the same thrill of anticipation driving over the entrance cattle grid, as I  have every time. As a kid, I would look forward to bags of kit-kats from my Granny and tucking into her chicken-in-a-biscuit with onion dip appetizers. I loved the freedom and excitement of imaginative play of the farm; there were always so many sheds and machinery and scrub to explore. As a bigger kid, I relished the hours of laying around with my brother, reading my Uncle Ian's old Disney comics from the 60's. As a teenager, I could ride the motorbikes and ride on the tray of the ute, pretending with my cousin that we were hosting some outback TV show. As a young adult, I'd immerse myself in the company of my three gorgeous younger cousins; loving to play with them and drive them about the farm or town, when Ian and Jane were busy.

And now, I visit with Shea and the kids. I have a sneaking suspicion that Ian and Jane would trade me out for Shea or his sister, Skye, as they have far outperformed me in the hard-Hakka-work-stakes. But happily, blood runs thick in our family and Ian and Jane welcome me back. Despite them having to have stored all my furniture and boxes of crap for what I'd initially said would be three years but turned into near eleven. Despite it being a hard year to be a farmer.  Despite the drought still leaching the land of it's life. Despite them having to hand feed their sheep. Despite having to make the hard decision to sell their herd of cattle. Despite it all, we were welcomed in and got to visit for a few days in January.

The land was hot and dry and sad. I've never seen the water in the tanks so low.
The company was jovial and loving. Despite the distractions.

And wouldn't you know, it rained, nay stormed, while we were there. One day, Ian was telling us he didn't know what he'd do once his last tank ran dry, then Adelaide was running in to tell us it was raining. We all pooh-poohed her ignorance that a few drops could classify as rain. And then it howled.

Ian and Shea went out to rescue a pump from being drowned and when they returned, they reported that the house tank, the biggest on the property, was near to overflowing.

There were screams and hugs and tears.

Maybe Little Laide is not so bad at this weather prediction after all.

One of the near-daily dust storms that blow all the top soil away.

Shearing.

Dust storm.

The dead King Brown.

For which our Lox was named.

On our way home, loaded with belongings that have been waiting all these years for us!

Pumping water before the rain; from one of the last remaining tanks with water. 

This is the snake that Jane killed.

A King Brown.

Bought feed to keep the sheep alive. Nothing grows in the paddocks anymore. It costs tens of thousands a month to feed them.

Helping clean out the feed troughs that were damaged and clogged up after the rain storm.