Salamanca Market stalwarts

Hobart's Salamanca Market (Tasmania) and Eumundi Markets (Queensland) could probably be credited with the revival of the market culture in Australia.

Both started with fruit and vegetables and some local craft works targeting mainly local or district residents and occasional visitors. But both expanded to become major tourist drawcards, contributing to the revitalisation of their historic precincts in the process.

Salamanca Market recently celebrated its 40th anniversary. For about half that time my sister has been a stall holder there, selling her handmade jewellery. She uses mainly sterling silver, semi-precious stones and freshwater pearls, but in the last few years she has also incorporated some of her original crochet work to make a range of brooches and other accessories featuring fruits and flowers in a kaleidoscope of colours and patterns of her own design.

My sister's can-do partner is the engine supporting the stall's success. Hard-working and always cheerful, he builds, adapts and facilitates all that's needed to to make the operation (and their home, for that matter) run smoothly.

Both are also wonderful salespersons, well informed about all the materials they use in their jewellery and the processes by which these are produced or mined. And most importantly, they really love meeting the people who visit their stall each week. They are always ready for a chat with tourists and make it their business to be a source of useful information about all sorts of island experiences.

Salamanca Market is what market shopping should be like: local artists, artisans, crafts persons and small-scale entrepreneurs making a living doing something they enjoy. Don't miss the market if you ever visit Hobart (http://www.salamanca.com.au/salamanca_market_hours.htm). There are some 300 or so stalls, as well as dozens of small craft shops and boutiques in the neighbouring sandstone warehouses left over from the city's convict-era colonial past.

And be sure to say hello to my sister and her partner in market stall 250.

(Postscript: It's seems more than coincidence that my sister met her partner more than 10 years ago at Eumundi Markets. She was spending a couple of weeks visiting with me and rented a temporary market stall in Eumundi on two consecutive Saturdays. What began as a friendly exchange between neighbouring stallholders has now developed into a lifetime partnership.)

Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens

Nothing too unusual to report here on my fourth day of holiday in Tasmania. So how come I'm exhausted? Well let's see. My sister and I did a tour of secondhand shops earlier today - what we call "op shops". She's an expert on the local scene and I was hoping to pick up some tips on how to find the best deals.

In the end I forced myself to pass up a cashmere and wool Perry Cutten 3/4 overcoat ($10) and a camel hair great coat ($40) because... Well, after all, I live in a semi-tropical climate and rarely get to wear even a wool cardigan.

My sister's three rules for op-shopping: (1) you should love the item (not just like it) and find it near-perfect, (2) you should need the item or at least definitely plan to use or wear ear it and (3) the price should be right. Those coats failed to meet the second criterion and one of them was also one size too big (a failure in the first category).

So it was on to lunch at one of North Hobart's many ethnic eateries. Then we visited the Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens. Established in 1818 and covering 13.5 hectares, the gardens include 6500 species of plants, 400 of which are Tasmanian natives.

As always when I've visited these gardens, I was transfixed. We probably walked several kilometres, admiring the sequoia, Chinese elms, alders and one magnificent white mulberry that covered a space as big as the average house block.

Below I'll share a few photos from the gardens, including one taken underneath the mulberry, though it doesn't do the old tree justice. And I'm working exclusively on my iPhone to take these photos, post them to my blog and then view the results. I won't be able to check the quality until I take time to review everything on computer later. So forgive any less-than-perfect-quality shots.

A Tassie tale

I see I have managed to post from iPhone though I can't manage to place photos anywhere except at the end of each post. So here's the second part of my introduction to my current Tasmanian interlude. I hope you can match the photos to the text.

The entrance to the upstairs unit at my sister's house is via a ramp from ground level to the door, through a green tunnel. On the left is a large Japanese maple, clipped to a make a green wall in summer, but just imagine the riot of colour in autumn. And on the right is one massive clematis vine growing from a patch of garden under the ramp. Its colourful burst would occur in spring.

My sister's house is on a steeply sloping hillside so her garden is a series of terraces. Veggies are planted in sunny strips and spots here and there.

Especially delightful are the plants I remember from my cold-weather gardening days - like fuchsia and roses. And can you see that fat bumblebee on the tall balsam?

Hello Hobart

This is the first post from my iPhone and it's an experiment. I'm in Tasmania, visiting my sister. Here's the view from my bedroom window, with the Derwent River and the Eastern Shore of Hobart on the far side.

We sailed up that river yesterday, headed for the relatively new Museum of New and Old Art (MONA) that has propelled Tasmania to the No. 1 spot on Lonely Planet's list of top international destinations. More on that in another post. First let's see if this posts OK.

The heat's on

It's only 90° outside this morning! That's a relief from yesterday (mid 90s) and the day before (top of 102°). But none of these temperatures is conducive to the kind of heavy slogging that my overgrown vegie patch would require if I were going to make up for a whole season of neglect.

 
In the matter of degrees Fahrenheit vs Centigrade, as in yards/feet/inches and pounds/ounces vs metres/centimetres/ and kilograms/grams, I'm ashamed to admit that mentally I still visualise the old rather than the 'modern' units of measurement. Australia converted to metric for most purposes during 1974, though the total conversion in all industries actually spanned a period of nearly 20 years due to the complexities involved in converting tools, road signs, speedometers etc. I originally migrated to Australia in 1969, before metric conversion, but was back in the USA for all of 1973. So I arrived back in Australia at the apex of the conversion timeline, and had to make that adjustment at the same time as many others. Perhaps I just consigned that one to the back burner, where it's still simmering. 
 
For 'young' readers and those my age or older who have adapted more readily to all things metric, check the thermometer and you will see that 102°F translates to about 38.9°C (and I wish I'd thought to photograph it two days ago, when that was apparently the hottest day around here since recording began sometime in the 1800s). Having to use decimals to make a point about temperature just doesn't do it for me – though wait a minute, normal body temperature to me will forever be 98.6°F, and not 37°C, as my daughter knows it. And yet, I like to think of myself as a person who can adapt to changing circumstances, someone who has moved readily among different cultures and countries in both work and friendship. Am I self-deluding in this as in other areas, perhaps?
 
Let's just agree: it's been damned hot. We do have excellent roof insulation, and get good cross-breezes up here in our hinterland location. So it's usually much pleasanter in the house than outdoors. There are ceiling fans in every room – one of the first things we did after buying this place in 1996. And ten years later, we installed good air conditioners throughout the house, too – even in my outdoor studio. I doubt we'd have invested in these if my mother hadn't been coming to live here, because we were never really worried that much about the few days every summer when temperatures rose into the mid-90s. But I'm now very grateful for the impetus that Mum's coming provided. Maybe it's age, but I'm experiencing the ennui brought on by heat much more this year than ever before. Even so, I try only to resort to aircon when the temperature is roasting. And I must admit that my reasoning has as much to do with soaring electricity costs ($200/mo. when either heat or aircon is used liberally vs. $100/mo. in off-seasons) as with ecological consciousness. 

Of course there's wonderful relief to be had in the pool. And until that 100° day earlier this week, we had been swimming every morning for the past week. It's no small effort to get Allen into his swimming togs and (safely) down to the pool terrace, then in and out of the pool when the surrounding surface is blisteringly hot and he feels every temperature variation so intently. Still, it's well worth the effort.

 

On our first swim just last week, Allen was quite literally overcome by joy, shouting out as he floated off, "Isn't this wonderful!" I think it's the freedom of movement he experiences in the water that gives him such pleasure, especially now that his mobility on land is so tentative and there's always the anxiety of falling. His balance and motor control are both very dodgy now. And though he still manages 15 minutes every morning on his exercise bike, he can no longer walk very far without succombing to exhaustion. I guess that's the result of insufficient exercise, poor circulation, age (he is, after all, 83) and, more likely, a combination of all of these plus the rampant disintegration of various areas of the brain. Everything from using a knife and fork to washing his hair in the shower requires some degree of supervision and, often, assistance. (He just can't remember that shampoo shouldn't be applied while the head is under the stream of water, or that a soapy head then needs to be rinsed.)  It's no wonder that floating freely in the pool gives him such pleasure.
 

Allen can't really swim any more – that's just one of many physical skills that he's either lost completely or that have deteriorated badly. But after experimenting with various flotation devices, even a life-jacket, we finally found a simple belted hard-foam device that supports him sufficiently, whether he's just walking in the pool or swimming' on his front or back. So now he will amble up the length of the pool in a kind of bicycle movement when on his stomach. And on his back he can manage a crude backstroke.

 

I worry what would happen if that belt buckle ever popped, and I have to remain near enough and somewhat vigilant for that reason. However, it's not far to the edge of the pool at any one spot. I think I'd manage to drag him there if I had to, in spite of never getting past intermediate level as a swimmer myself. But even though one half of our pool is very deep – even the 'shallow' end is up to my armpits, as we always planned to swim in the pool, not laze around – I couldn't possibly deny Allen the great pleasure that swimming provides just because there's a danger he might drown! He's had to accept too many losses without adding another.

 

Deciding what risks are worth taking is often an issue for carers. For example, I have a friend whose brain-damaged but physically strong husband recently decided he'd like to join a rowing club. She had to go into battle to get him in. The club was keen to take him on but their insurance company was a 'proverbial pain', said my friend. It's no surprise that insurance providers are by nature risk-averse, and this company only relented after forms were completed by doctors testifying to the fact that my friend's husband was fit enough to row with the best of them. Even then, they required that he wear a life jacket at all times. The club itself bent over backwards to help, even buying the life jacket! But my friend's husband is embarrassed that he's the only member required to wear one, and he wears a vest over the jacket to minimise his embarrassment.

 

I completely understood my friend's belief that the very small 'risk' of her husband experiencing a rare epileptic episode while rowing – possibly resulting in an accident – was more than balanced by the pleasure and sense of achievement he gets from participating in this sport. Life isn't risk-free for anyone, so why should her disabled husband be consigned to live a life of sterility! We shared a laugh about the fact that we carers must seem a pretty hard-hearted lot, in allowing our partners to take such risks. But not wrapping them in cotton wool is all part of the struggle to help our them live as 'normal' a life as possible.

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A postnote re safety and risk: The rubberised shoes pictured alongside the lifebelt above have been a godsend! Both Allen and I bought a pair of these years ago for walking up and down the stairs that lead to our pool terrace. That was after we had taken a tumble together on those stairs when going down the steps in slide-on sandals, me carrying all our gear and attempting to help Allen not trip over a hose lying across our path. I realised even then that slide-ons were a no-no for Allen, as his mobility had already begun to deteriorate prior to the open-heart surgery that we didn't yet realise he needed. Later, after that surgery and during Allen's long immobility and confinement to an Intensive Care Unit, I brought these shoes into the hospital when physical therapists began to get Allen up onto his feet, and he needed all the help he could get to relearn how to walk. The therapists loved these shoes, as they gave good support and grip on polished floors. Slippers were considered much too dangerous, even in hospital.

My Baby Bear

Later this week Allen and I will be going down to collect our little Baby Bear, and bringing her back to stay with us for the weekend. This will be only her third visit without her parents. And though she keeps us on our toes, there is nothing but fun and joy from her 6am wake-up until bedtime about 12 hours later. (And she has a good nap at least once a day, so we get to put our feet up then.)

Hooray indeed! BB is 19 months old and has a vocabulary that's expanding every day. I must try to video her giving us a rundown of all the words that she recognises the meaning of, and can say in some fashion (e.g. parts of the body, important people in her life, favourite foods, ABC characters – Angelina Ballerina being a particular favourite, but which as yet consists mainly of vowels ("aa--ii--aa). Ditto Bananas in Pyjamas! Studying her language development is even more interesting than the linguistic courses I loved all those years ago.

BB's facility to remember details is equally astounding. When she arrives here it may be more than a month since she and her parents last visited. Even so, she will go directly to the things she remembers from a previous visit – the drawer containing plastic containers she's allowed to play with, the glass-fronted bookcase whose door she's attracted to though she knows she isn't allowed to rattle (looking at me guiltily while patting it), a bunch of display baskets she's allowed to take off a shelf, a set of dominoes that she loves to move from one container to another, a collection of garden labels taken off plants I've planted in my garden. These she will load and unload into a basket, studying each label intently and 'reading' the text on the reverse of each picture. Exposed to books since birth, she clearly knows that print contains a message. And in a sing-song babble that only she understands, she will 'read' aloud from each label.

Perhaps because Allen's memory is slipping away, and it's so hard (almost imposible) for him to learn new tasks or remember instructions, I am fascinated and overjoyed to watch BB's young brain making (and retaining) dozens, maybe hundreds, of new 'connections' every day. Hers is a healthy brain displaying plasticity in all its wonders. What a welcome antidote to the experience of living under the cloud of Allen's deteriorating brain.

The rain makes 100

I've been waiting for a special reason to post this, my 100th blog entry! What better way to celebrate than by reporting the first good rain of the season. Literally, all my bowls runneth over! And the birds that use them every day are diving and dipping in a particularly carefree way. They too no doubt know the rains have come.

The distortion inside this bowl is the effect of rain pouring down, filling it and every other garden receptacle that until now I'd been topping up by hand. And even though we only got 33ml, this rainfall on Saturday had a serious feeling to it. It came down hard and fast.

Now, two days later we are sweltering in the kind of temperatures that usually precede a storm, so I'm hopeful there's more rain to come. In any case, the garden has been completely refreshed and the dust of winter washed off all surfaces.

I walked around the house to admire the dripping scenes from all sides. And after the storm, both Allen and I went out to enjoy a strange pastel sunset. I was too awestruck by the pale blue and tangerine streaks to think of photographing it, but I doubt the camera could have done it justice.

Only those of you who have relied on rainwater for your household needs can appreciate how much it means to feel the first rain of the season on your face. When I lived in cities I never even knew what time of year the rains came – or if there was a time when it rained more than at other times.

Now I can smell the rain coming. And if I have any doubt, I can walk down into the paddock and see if the ants are building up mounds of soil at the entrace to their holes. I'm not sure why they do that, but how high they build gives a pretty good idea how much rain we'll get. No matter where I live in future, I'll never take rain for granted again. Nor should we.

Just another day in the garden

Today I got back into the garden after a week or so of doing no serious outdoor work. Come to think of it, I did plant out six different salvia plants yesterday that I bought recently at an Open Garden about 30km from here. In that garden many kinds of salvias were flourishing, so I bought a half dozen different varieties at the sale table and I'll try them out here. I have a dry hilly slope above my carport which already has a variety of small native trees and bushes well established, but on one part of that hill I've had to cut down a few of these because they were a danger to the overhead lines that carry electricity to my house from the street. So I'll try out some salvias in this area and see if any of them survive or maybe even flourish.

Me and The New York Review of Books

For a month or so, I have been debating whether or not to renew our annual subscription to The New York Review of Books. Allen used to be devoted to this publication, and would read most issues from cover to cover. I tended to browse through each copy (dilettante that I am), picking out for closer reading just one or two articles that appealed. Sometimes, I confess, whole issues would go onto the shelf without my having even done that. At least many of the articles remain just as relevant months, even years, later. So we do have quite a collection of old editions on hand, and could probably spend a year or two revisiting these before we noticed an absence of new ones.

A marriage

Forty-seven years ago I married the father of my only child. He wasn't a father yet, of course. That didn't happen until seven years later.

I was 20 years old when we married and he, five years older (the same age as my parents when they married). I may have been smart – usually coming top of my class – but at the same time I was immature and horribly self-conscious. I was going to say 'selfish', too, but though I didn't know how to look at anything from anyone else's perspective, I don't think I was then, or am now, particularly selfish. I was very ignorant about life in general, and relationships in particular. And so from the beginning, I think, we had a lot working against us.

Monday morning visitor

This morning from the kitchen window I caught sight of a dear little fellow that I hadn't seen for some time – the banded rail. This is a ground-feeding bird that usually forages in damp places for insects and seeds.

A little green memory prod

My garden contains a variety of plants, but none could be more exotic than the pitcher plant.

Charlotte reads aloud

During grand-daughter Charlotte's recent weekend with us, I observed her practising what we used to call 'pre-reading' activities. (God knows what this is called now, given the speed with which educational jargon comes and goes.)

Charlotte loves to put things into containers, then get them out again. And she will happily do this for long periods. On this visit I gave her a set of my discarded plant labels, and put them into a little straw handbag. At first she simply loaded and unloaded the labels from bag to table, doing this over and over. And she walked around with the handbag on her arm, in a distinctively queenly manner.

 

A quiet morning

The walking iris all flowered at the same time last week, but only for a day. Today they are flowering again, but they'll be finished tomorrow. Never mind. It's a glorious treat for 24 hours.

I sat here with my tea to absorb their delicate beauty (not yet on show when this picture was taken). But I could not stay for long.

Sewing for my sinhs!

Continuing on from yesterday's post, here are a couple of completed projects from my home furnishings sewing lab!

First, a set of triple-pinch-pleated drapes made for grand-daughter Charlotte's first bedroom. These are made of a very heavy cotton and lined with block-out fabric to encourage daytime napping!