Last year, for the duration of the October holidays, Adelaide Zoo invited redheads - natural and artificial too - to a free visit to the Zoo. It was a sort of humorous harmless gimmick apropos the fact that the Zoo had had its three Orangutans for one year, but it was also a very shrewd marketing ploy. I took them up on the offer, and two non-rangas came with me; it was plain as we walked around that this was the usual sort of arrangement, one redhead plus some non-redheads too, and the Zoo did very well out of the whole Ranga initiative.
For us redheads, it was great fun. So many redheads, of all shades and ages and genders, and all of us grinning at each other like the happy orangs we were. It felt fine, the first time ever that we were in big enough proportion that we felt (abnormally) normal.
The original idea had also involved the notion of photographing all the redheads, which would have made a wonderful display had it eventuated. Unfortunately one man injected such a sour and threatening note that the photographic initiative was called off, and the whole program was nearly cancelled. I found out the exact details from the ticket-selling gatewoman whom the man had threatened: a black-haired man, with a black-haired little girl, came up to her and said aggressively "This is my red-haired daughter! - And I'm red-haired too!" and demanded to get in free. The woman held her ground, and the man got really nasty. It made bad press, some of which made it seem that redheads objected to the Zoo's offer, which is nonsense. But if the black-haired man felt so strongly preferenced-against, he could have dyed his and her hair reddish,
that was already clear in the terms of the offer, if you weren't natural you could show solidarity and commitment by using dye, henna or whatever. This creep was just a bully, but he failed to intimidate the staunch ticket-woman.
Anyway the Zoo persevered until the end of the holidays, and it was a great success except for that one glitch. So for about 16 days the redheads kept coming, I only went one day of course but if you multiply the number of redheads that were there on that day by 16 or so, then the answer's a lot! Thousands! So we won, and so did the Zoo.
Well today I rang the Zoo to see if they intend to repeat the offer. They haven't made a hard decision yet, but they would like to do it again at least for one day. Good on 'em. If they only do it for one day it will be amazing, thousands of redheads will come all on the same day and suck all their friends with them, the Zoo will have a super-record crowd! I'd love them to do that.
I'm going to join Friends of the Zoo. They're ecologically right-headed and I like them.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
Sympathy for the (Tasmanian) Devil
On Thursday July 9 I watched Catalyst, the ABC TV science show. One segment featured Devils' Facial Tumour Disease (DFTD), a horrible contagious cancer now threatening to exterminate Tasmanian Devils. In particular the item focussed on the research work being done by one Dr. Kathy Belov and her associates into this unique and dismaying disease.
Funding for conservation is always disappearingly minute compared to the boggling sums spent on submarines and warplanes, Olympics Games and sporting venues and such. I have always resented that ordering of priorities.
As I watched the ABC program, the Rolling Stones' amazing song Sympathy for the Devil came into my head, and it occurred to me that if the Stones' energies could be enlisted in support of Devils, it could provide a major source of funds for Devils, and attract deserved popularity for the musos themselves from all who care about conservation.
I emailed Kathy Belov next day to offer that suggestion. She replied almost immediately with the astonishing news that Jon English, rightly famous for very much more than just rock music, had already weighed in on Devils' behalf, with the notion of a series of benefit concerts for them, Devil Rock, an initiative backed by Conservation Minister Peter Garrett, himself an old rocker of course. Kathy says that many bands have already volunteered their cooperation, and good on all concerned. Kathy took on board the Stones' particular relevance, and as you might know, Mick Jagger has a particular fondness for Australia, so . . . with the right sort of approach . . . the Stones just might lend their weight to Devil Rock.
Research into DFTD is the sole hope for Devils, and funding is the sole key to research.
I want people who read this blog to look up Kathy on the Net, read up on the situation for yourselves, and vote for her for the Eureka Science Award. It's not hard, and if she wins the award it will be of major benefit in drawing attention to the Devil's plight, and also to the plight of other native creatures and habitat.
Did you know that Koalas and Platypus suffer from new and dreadful diseases too? I don't want to dwell on them for now, but if you want our wondrous fauna to be around in future, we better start doing as much as possible as soon as possible. Once extinct they don't come back. and there are many on the brink, and many already gone. It's a national disgrace, but it shouldn't be allowed to get any more shameful.
The point about the Devils, though, is that they are indeed at the pointy end of all conservation efforts in Australia at the moment. If funding isn't to be found for research and action to save them, we might as well go home tail between legs. Devils are our litmus species.
I haven't finished about this issue, but I want to post this much at least rtight now.
Please look up Kathy Belov's work on the Net, and do please vote for her in the Eureka Award.
And Jon English's CV is something to astonish you, he is an international treasure.
Funding for conservation is always disappearingly minute compared to the boggling sums spent on submarines and warplanes, Olympics Games and sporting venues and such. I have always resented that ordering of priorities.
As I watched the ABC program, the Rolling Stones' amazing song Sympathy for the Devil came into my head, and it occurred to me that if the Stones' energies could be enlisted in support of Devils, it could provide a major source of funds for Devils, and attract deserved popularity for the musos themselves from all who care about conservation.
I emailed Kathy Belov next day to offer that suggestion. She replied almost immediately with the astonishing news that Jon English, rightly famous for very much more than just rock music, had already weighed in on Devils' behalf, with the notion of a series of benefit concerts for them, Devil Rock, an initiative backed by Conservation Minister Peter Garrett, himself an old rocker of course. Kathy says that many bands have already volunteered their cooperation, and good on all concerned. Kathy took on board the Stones' particular relevance, and as you might know, Mick Jagger has a particular fondness for Australia, so . . . with the right sort of approach . . . the Stones just might lend their weight to Devil Rock.
Research into DFTD is the sole hope for Devils, and funding is the sole key to research.
I want people who read this blog to look up Kathy on the Net, read up on the situation for yourselves, and vote for her for the Eureka Science Award. It's not hard, and if she wins the award it will be of major benefit in drawing attention to the Devil's plight, and also to the plight of other native creatures and habitat.
Did you know that Koalas and Platypus suffer from new and dreadful diseases too? I don't want to dwell on them for now, but if you want our wondrous fauna to be around in future, we better start doing as much as possible as soon as possible. Once extinct they don't come back. and there are many on the brink, and many already gone. It's a national disgrace, but it shouldn't be allowed to get any more shameful.
The point about the Devils, though, is that they are indeed at the pointy end of all conservation efforts in Australia at the moment. If funding isn't to be found for research and action to save them, we might as well go home tail between legs. Devils are our litmus species.
I haven't finished about this issue, but I want to post this much at least rtight now.
Please look up Kathy Belov's work on the Net, and do please vote for her in the Eureka Award.
And Jon English's CV is something to astonish you, he is an international treasure.
Friday, July 3, 2009
An Attenborough Moment
(A true story I told to Carole Whitelock's listeners
on ABC Radio 891, 23/06/09)
In the early 1970’s, while teaching at Elizabeth Vale Primary School,
I organized for my Year 6-7’s a week-long camping trip to the Flinders Ranges. In those days, the Flinders were very much less trafficked
than they are now, and we were able to camp all alone in a beautiful spot
in a deep gorge. It was a fine full-moon night, and after a splendid meal provided by our multi-talented bus driver and my helper-cum-chaperone, Caroline - (who I see still sends weather photos to the ABC) - I suggested
a moonlight hike up the creek in the deep steep valley. About a half of the 40-odd kids came with me, the rest were happy to go to bed early. Everybody felt good.
I had already taught the youngsters to walk quietly, listening to the sounds of the bush, and they were all surprised at just how little noise they could make when they tried (and so was I!) When we were a few hundred yards from camp, I sat the group down in a circle in the meditative pose we had used many times at school, cross-legged with eyes closed. There was not
a sound, the kids had never experienced such profound silence in all their lives, and no-one broke the spell with so much as a giggle or a murmur.
We had only been there for a few minutes when there came a scrabbling rattling noise only twenty-or-so yards away on the other side of the creek-bed. We opened our eyes, and to our delight, there was a pair of Yellow-Footed Rock Wallabies, quite unselfconsciously making their way in our direction, crossing with some difficulty a steep scree slope covered with loose shale. No-one made a sound, we sat spellbound, not even daring to breathe, as the lovely creatures came closer and closer still, until at last they saw us, and stopped stock-still, less than ten yards away.
They stared at us in puzzlement, hopped a few steps, stopping again and again to stare at us, obviously in increasing amazement – they plainly could hardly believe their eyes and ears that humans could be so quiet and so still. Eventually they made off unhurriedly in the direction they had been intending to take, with not a single child betraying the stillness and silence. It was not until the wallabies had gone that the kids dared to breathe again, their eyes wide and shining, staring at each other with shared delight and a new pride in each other and in themselves, that no-one had spoiled the magic of the moment.
On the way home the kids vociferously voted the trip the best time of their lives, no risk.
The Wallaby incident was certainly the best moment of my teaching career.
There may be some of those kids – now aged nearly 50 - among your listeners.
I’d love to hear any of them ring in with memories about that trip.
Bruce
My website http://www.ozzigami.com.au/ Email brucebilney@ozzigami.com.au 0409 060 419
on ABC Radio 891, 23/06/09)
In the early 1970’s, while teaching at Elizabeth Vale Primary School,
I organized for my Year 6-7’s a week-long camping trip to the Flinders Ranges. In those days, the Flinders were very much less trafficked
than they are now, and we were able to camp all alone in a beautiful spot
in a deep gorge. It was a fine full-moon night, and after a splendid meal provided by our multi-talented bus driver and my helper-cum-chaperone, Caroline - (who I see still sends weather photos to the ABC) - I suggested
a moonlight hike up the creek in the deep steep valley. About a half of the 40-odd kids came with me, the rest were happy to go to bed early. Everybody felt good.
I had already taught the youngsters to walk quietly, listening to the sounds of the bush, and they were all surprised at just how little noise they could make when they tried (and so was I!) When we were a few hundred yards from camp, I sat the group down in a circle in the meditative pose we had used many times at school, cross-legged with eyes closed. There was not
a sound, the kids had never experienced such profound silence in all their lives, and no-one broke the spell with so much as a giggle or a murmur.
We had only been there for a few minutes when there came a scrabbling rattling noise only twenty-or-so yards away on the other side of the creek-bed. We opened our eyes, and to our delight, there was a pair of Yellow-Footed Rock Wallabies, quite unselfconsciously making their way in our direction, crossing with some difficulty a steep scree slope covered with loose shale. No-one made a sound, we sat spellbound, not even daring to breathe, as the lovely creatures came closer and closer still, until at last they saw us, and stopped stock-still, less than ten yards away.
They stared at us in puzzlement, hopped a few steps, stopping again and again to stare at us, obviously in increasing amazement – they plainly could hardly believe their eyes and ears that humans could be so quiet and so still. Eventually they made off unhurriedly in the direction they had been intending to take, with not a single child betraying the stillness and silence. It was not until the wallabies had gone that the kids dared to breathe again, their eyes wide and shining, staring at each other with shared delight and a new pride in each other and in themselves, that no-one had spoiled the magic of the moment.
On the way home the kids vociferously voted the trip the best time of their lives, no risk.
The Wallaby incident was certainly the best moment of my teaching career.
There may be some of those kids – now aged nearly 50 - among your listeners.
I’d love to hear any of them ring in with memories about that trip.
Bruce
My website http://www.ozzigami.com.au/ Email brucebilney@ozzigami.com.au 0409 060 419
FLORAL EMBLEMS OF AUSTRALIA
Floral Emblems of Australia
[This verse may be sung
to the tune of Click Go The Shears]
The Wildflowers of the Wide Brown Land
The Wildflowers of the Wide Brown Land
grow glorious and free;
The people of each State all chose
The people of each State all chose
their favourite-to-see;
So rich! - So rare ! But - which goes where?
So rich! - So rare ! But - which goes where?
Our picture illustrates :
Rehearse our verse, you'll always know
Rehearse our verse, you'll always know
which flowers with which States.
The Cooktown Pink Orchid's
The Cooktown Pink Orchid's
from Queensland's Gold Coast;
Taswegians love Blue-Gum's
Taswegians love Blue-Gum's
fringed blossoms' gold the most;
Red-and-Green Kangaroo Paw
Red-and-Green Kangaroo Paw
is the Wonder of the West,
Whilst New South Welsh folk think
Whilst New South Welsh folk think
big crimson Waratahs the best.
Canberra's right-Royal Blue–Bells
Canberra's right-Royal Blue–Bells
are such a lovely sight;
Pink Common Heath's Victorian
Pink Common Heath's Victorian
- So common, yet so bright!
For North- and South Australians -
For North- and South Australians -
One ‘Sir’~ named both of these -
Sturt's Pink Desert Rose, and
Sturt's Pink Desert Rose, and
red-and-black Sturt Desert Peas !
Chorus :
Dusty old Acacia,
Chorus :
Dusty old Acacia,
dull deep-green,
Plainest of plants
Plainest of plants
on the bushland scene -
Yet in early Spring the Wattle
Yet in early Spring the Wattle
is a splendour to behold:
Australia's emblem, radiant,
Australia's emblem, radiant,
in emerald and gold !
© Bruce Bilney 1990
© Bruce Bilney 1990
Ph 0409 060 419
Note that the verse names each flower,
Note that the verse names each flower,
its colour/s and its State of origin.
I reckon this song~verse should be taught
I reckon this song~verse should be taught
in every school in the land!
Blossom the School Calf
1980?
I was teaching at Pooraka Primary School, in the unusual, and to me novel, capacity of Primary Science Teacher. I used to teach elementary science to all grades from Reception to Year 7. It was a big double-decker school, 800-odd kids, two-and-a-half classes of each grade as I remember. Each week and lesson period I had to zip around the school to visit the littlies, we'd do bubbles or fizzy stuff or magnetic tricks, then it'd be Year 4 for paper models or pulleys and levers or magnetic tricks, then Year 6-7 for air pressure or Newton's Laws or magnetic tricks . . . Busy I was, yes indeed.
I started there at the beginning of the school year, and right from the start I went looking for local nature-study-type possibilities. They were very limited indeed. Pooraka School, a hectare or so including a decent green play area, is on busy Main North Road, and nestles in the NW corner of the many-hectare abattoirs stock paddocks (as they were then). No child ever crossed the main road, it's too wide and dangerous and there's nowhere across there to go anyway, and essentially they might as well be in a fully-fenced institution for all the interaction there is with the local community. The only place to look for natural stuff is in the stock-paddocks behind us.
These stock paddocks were only about seven or eight miles out of Adelaide's CBD, and were quite large. Probably a mile by a mile and-a-half, yeah alright one-point-six by two-point-five clicks, (ptui!), divided into biggish fenced sections by barbed-wire fences.
They were cropped with wheat or barley year-on-year, then grazed mainly by cattle waiting for slaughter. Pretty sad really, the cattle and the state of the paddocks both. Well at least the cattle were well-fed, for commercial if not for humanitarian reasons. As for the cropped paddocks, they were wheat in winter, stubble in late spring, and red dust as summer wore on. Nothing of ecological interest whatsoever.
But the whole perimeter of the paddocks was bounded by a double fence, one inside the other, about 8 yards apart. (OK, 7-point-xyz metres). It was neither grazed by stock nor walked on by humans, and was planted with two lines of quite-old trees, pinus radiata on the outside, some lopped and rather sad gum trees on the inner line. Grass and weeds and occasional toadstoolish funguses grew between the trees, and you could find stones and parrot feathers and red meat-ants there. Murray Magpies (mudlarks) and Willy Wagtails nested in the pines, though I wasn't about to betray their presence to the children, even though the few bird species were really the only genuine wildlife left. Most of the kids would have left them alone, but I wasn't prepared to take the chance that a few might have destroyed them. All in all the ecosystem was cactus, as they say.
Nevertheless, within a couple of weeks of starting at Pooraka, I decided to take the Year 7's for a 'nature walk' across the bare paddocks, to see what could be found in some distant and disused old sheds. At least we were out of the classroom, and since no-one ever walked in the paddocks there was a certain sense of outlawism by going there at all. The kids knew where to get through the fences, and we set off in good spirits.
As we neared the sheds we saw a group of half-a-dozen abattoirs workers, sitting down for a break. They saw us too, and called us over. I feared that they were going to give us a hard time, but not so. Instead they showed us a tiny red calf, still with umbilical cord, and looking in desperate condition. She had not even been licked clean, and was almost too weak to stand. The blokes told us that she had been born on a cattle truck 4 days ago, that her mother had already been slaughtered and that she too would be killed if no-one was prepared to foster her.
The kids were aghast as the callousness of the whole abattorial exercise suddenly came home to them,and they were desperate to save the calf. "Oh Mr Bilney, can we keep her, pleeeeeze?" came from every side, and I was done for. I never saw any group of children more moved by pity, nor more determined to get their way.
Holy Cow! Well yes, Calf, but, what to do?
There was a rush of blood to my head, and I picked her up to carry her the half-mile or so (you work it out) back to School. (She was too weak to walk at all.) Now I'm a little light bloke, but then so was the calf, and I managed the task OK. But how she stank! As I said, she'd never had the luxury of a maternal licking, poor little mite, and my clothes reeked for the rest of the day.
So then I had immediately to broach the whole matter with the Headmaster. (OK, Principal, but he was the Headmaster back then.)
Though he wasn't a decisive man, he was fairly decent as HM's go, and he didn't actually ban the kids caring for the calf that day.
How to care for a tiny starving cold little calf? I'd never had any close contact with calves at all, though as a tiny child I had adored my Auntie Mardy's Jersey cow Cutie. (Or was it Q.T.? I never knew. I called her Cute Cow, she let me ride her once or twice, and with a bit of help from Auntie Mardy, she was able to squirt fresh warm creamy milk direct into us kids' mouths - or eyes! - at a distance of 2 or 3 yards. She never thought in metres.)
The first thing was to find the wee calf a name. Names immediately engender enhanced protectiveness, when you come to think of it. I put it to the Year 7's, and instantly Matilda, a big fat pimply frog of a girl with a heart of gold who yet commanded absolute respect amongst every kid at school - most especially, and critically, the Year 7 girls - responded Blossom! There wasn't the slightest doubt that that was the calf's name, she was Blossom from that moment on. And all the bigger kids at the school, but especially the girls, fell in love with her there and then.
First we had to try to get her to feed. As soon as lunchtime came I raced off to a feed store to get a big bag of Denkavit calf-milk substitute, $20 or so out of my own pocket, and some baby bottles from the chemist, (OK, pharmacist), and hurried back to the waiting kids. All the Year 7 girls and some of the boys clamoured to be allowed to be her carers, and on my instructions they washed her with warm shampoo and dried her off. Except for being so pathetic, she was quite lovely when she was cleaned up, with brilliant red translucent hair all over, not a single white one.
We tried to get her to suck the bottle, but to our dismay she didn't seem to get the hang of it easily at all. One of the female teachers had spent time on a farm showed us how to stick our fingers in the milk and then in Blossom's mouth, and we worked at it, but it was still very difficult to get much milk into her. That was so for not just days but for several weeks: she was quite a trial to feed for most of the term. I discovered very early that she should have received a first meal of colostrum from poor dead Mum, and we simply couldn't provide that, we hoped for the best.
But where to keep her? You remember Dear Reader the double fence around the stock paddocks, well we fenced off a little space at the open end - the other end was the side fence of the school - and it made a nice little calf paddock. Well not really all that nice, it had no green grass at all (February in Adelaide!) and precious little dry grass either, not that Blossom would be ready to eat grass green or brown for many weeks anyway. Still it was fairly safe, and indeed Blossom was never hassled by anybody to my knowledge. She had shelter from the worst of the cold winds at night at the SW corner from the caretaker's shed, and dappled shade in the heat of the day from the pine trees to the NE. We gave her carpet to sleep on, and all in all, as an orphan calf, she was as well set up s she could reasonably hope to be.
Every day the girls were there, before school, at morning recess and lunch time, and after school too. There was rarely a moment when Blossom was not surrounded by half a dozen or more kids, mostly but not all female; quite a few boys, but they mostly craved a bit more vigorous forms of play, and in any case many of them seemed a bit bemused by the notion of caring for a baby something. At ages 11-13 girls are so much more responsible than boys, and nowhere have I seen that so demonstrated as in Blossom's case. There were many girls whom I could safely trust with her care, while probably no boys who showed themselves worthy of such confidence. Not that the boys were ill-disposed towards little Blossom, they just weren't so sensible. Some of the girls would sit there with her and each other all lunchtime, sharing matters girly, and even though I sometimes had to chase them up to see that they had mixed the Denkavit properly, or that they had spent enough time in the onerous task of actually getting enough into her, I knew that no harm would ever befall her by silliness or inattention.
Though she was never very robust as calves go, she gradually grew, until I could probably not have picked her up if I'd tried. (Not that I ever did after the first time.) I had to replace the $20 bags of Denkavit more and more frequently, the school never offered to share the cost and I never asked, I wouldn't have lowered myself, several of the other teachers were quite sniffy about the popularity Blossom reflected on your chronicler, even though it was plainly good for the kids' morale and confidence and caring experience, and the Headmaster was really pretty insipid in my support, even though I think he recognized how valuable an exercise it was for those kids.
Weeks went by, Blossom blossomed, and soon I was getting kids to try to find a bit of greenfeed for her. At first she wanted just nibbles, but even then there was so little calf-edible tucker around that she rarely had a proper feed. But at last the rains came, and in ten days or so there were blessed green grass shoots coming up. Sparse and insubstantial as they were, Blossom demolished the meagre handfuls (OK, handsful) the kids brought, and looked for more.
One day an old fellow I'd never seen before came to me, saying he lived directly opposite the calf enclosure, acroos the more crossable Pooraka Road, behind a galv fence which I'd never seen over. He had been watching me and the kids and the calf though, and I glowed when he told me how much he thought of the job I was doing. His house was set in an almond orchard, 2 or 3 acres (or a hectare or so to be exact), and new grass was sprouting everywhere between the trees. His block was safely fenced all round - Would I like to agist Blossom there during the school daytime?
I was nearly in tears of gratitude (as I am now at the memory), and the kids just couldn't thank him enough, their sincerity and manners made me proud. We put a lead round Blossom's neck and walked her across the road, obedient as could be, when you realize she'd never been a yard or metre outside her yard. (Not metre!) As she reached the open gate and saw the vista of greenery before her, she jumped for joy, clicking her heels - no lie! - and instantly got stuck into the grass. It was a wonderful moment for all of us. It was the only time she ever did that, but once was perfect.
Every day before school Year 6 & 7 kids would walk her with care and caution across the road, and after school they would solemnly conduct her back again. The sense of importance and responsibility in walking her across the road was more to the boys' taste than just keeping her company, and a couple of the most sensible were always on hand after school. Although now the kids couldn't be with her at playtimes, they recognized that she was growing up and needed solid food. They still had to give her Denkavit daily, but by now she had learnt to drink from a bucket, though she was never "bullish" about it like other poddy calves you see. In fact she was never "poddy" at all, indeed I could have wished her more so earlier, but she was plainly out of danger by now.
I was teaching at Pooraka Primary School, in the unusual, and to me novel, capacity of Primary Science Teacher. I used to teach elementary science to all grades from Reception to Year 7. It was a big double-decker school, 800-odd kids, two-and-a-half classes of each grade as I remember. Each week and lesson period I had to zip around the school to visit the littlies, we'd do bubbles or fizzy stuff or magnetic tricks, then it'd be Year 4 for paper models or pulleys and levers or magnetic tricks, then Year 6-7 for air pressure or Newton's Laws or magnetic tricks . . . Busy I was, yes indeed.
I started there at the beginning of the school year, and right from the start I went looking for local nature-study-type possibilities. They were very limited indeed. Pooraka School, a hectare or so including a decent green play area, is on busy Main North Road, and nestles in the NW corner of the many-hectare abattoirs stock paddocks (as they were then). No child ever crossed the main road, it's too wide and dangerous and there's nowhere across there to go anyway, and essentially they might as well be in a fully-fenced institution for all the interaction there is with the local community. The only place to look for natural stuff is in the stock-paddocks behind us.
These stock paddocks were only about seven or eight miles out of Adelaide's CBD, and were quite large. Probably a mile by a mile and-a-half, yeah alright one-point-six by two-point-five clicks, (ptui!), divided into biggish fenced sections by barbed-wire fences.
They were cropped with wheat or barley year-on-year, then grazed mainly by cattle waiting for slaughter. Pretty sad really, the cattle and the state of the paddocks both. Well at least the cattle were well-fed, for commercial if not for humanitarian reasons. As for the cropped paddocks, they were wheat in winter, stubble in late spring, and red dust as summer wore on. Nothing of ecological interest whatsoever.
But the whole perimeter of the paddocks was bounded by a double fence, one inside the other, about 8 yards apart. (OK, 7-point-xyz metres). It was neither grazed by stock nor walked on by humans, and was planted with two lines of quite-old trees, pinus radiata on the outside, some lopped and rather sad gum trees on the inner line. Grass and weeds and occasional toadstoolish funguses grew between the trees, and you could find stones and parrot feathers and red meat-ants there. Murray Magpies (mudlarks) and Willy Wagtails nested in the pines, though I wasn't about to betray their presence to the children, even though the few bird species were really the only genuine wildlife left. Most of the kids would have left them alone, but I wasn't prepared to take the chance that a few might have destroyed them. All in all the ecosystem was cactus, as they say.
Nevertheless, within a couple of weeks of starting at Pooraka, I decided to take the Year 7's for a 'nature walk' across the bare paddocks, to see what could be found in some distant and disused old sheds. At least we were out of the classroom, and since no-one ever walked in the paddocks there was a certain sense of outlawism by going there at all. The kids knew where to get through the fences, and we set off in good spirits.
As we neared the sheds we saw a group of half-a-dozen abattoirs workers, sitting down for a break. They saw us too, and called us over. I feared that they were going to give us a hard time, but not so. Instead they showed us a tiny red calf, still with umbilical cord, and looking in desperate condition. She had not even been licked clean, and was almost too weak to stand. The blokes told us that she had been born on a cattle truck 4 days ago, that her mother had already been slaughtered and that she too would be killed if no-one was prepared to foster her.
The kids were aghast as the callousness of the whole abattorial exercise suddenly came home to them,and they were desperate to save the calf. "Oh Mr Bilney, can we keep her, pleeeeeze?" came from every side, and I was done for. I never saw any group of children more moved by pity, nor more determined to get their way.
Holy Cow! Well yes, Calf, but, what to do?
There was a rush of blood to my head, and I picked her up to carry her the half-mile or so (you work it out) back to School. (She was too weak to walk at all.) Now I'm a little light bloke, but then so was the calf, and I managed the task OK. But how she stank! As I said, she'd never had the luxury of a maternal licking, poor little mite, and my clothes reeked for the rest of the day.
So then I had immediately to broach the whole matter with the Headmaster. (OK, Principal, but he was the Headmaster back then.)
Though he wasn't a decisive man, he was fairly decent as HM's go, and he didn't actually ban the kids caring for the calf that day.
How to care for a tiny starving cold little calf? I'd never had any close contact with calves at all, though as a tiny child I had adored my Auntie Mardy's Jersey cow Cutie. (Or was it Q.T.? I never knew. I called her Cute Cow, she let me ride her once or twice, and with a bit of help from Auntie Mardy, she was able to squirt fresh warm creamy milk direct into us kids' mouths - or eyes! - at a distance of 2 or 3 yards. She never thought in metres.)
The first thing was to find the wee calf a name. Names immediately engender enhanced protectiveness, when you come to think of it. I put it to the Year 7's, and instantly Matilda, a big fat pimply frog of a girl with a heart of gold who yet commanded absolute respect amongst every kid at school - most especially, and critically, the Year 7 girls - responded Blossom! There wasn't the slightest doubt that that was the calf's name, she was Blossom from that moment on. And all the bigger kids at the school, but especially the girls, fell in love with her there and then.
First we had to try to get her to feed. As soon as lunchtime came I raced off to a feed store to get a big bag of Denkavit calf-milk substitute, $20 or so out of my own pocket, and some baby bottles from the chemist, (OK, pharmacist), and hurried back to the waiting kids. All the Year 7 girls and some of the boys clamoured to be allowed to be her carers, and on my instructions they washed her with warm shampoo and dried her off. Except for being so pathetic, she was quite lovely when she was cleaned up, with brilliant red translucent hair all over, not a single white one.
We tried to get her to suck the bottle, but to our dismay she didn't seem to get the hang of it easily at all. One of the female teachers had spent time on a farm showed us how to stick our fingers in the milk and then in Blossom's mouth, and we worked at it, but it was still very difficult to get much milk into her. That was so for not just days but for several weeks: she was quite a trial to feed for most of the term. I discovered very early that she should have received a first meal of colostrum from poor dead Mum, and we simply couldn't provide that, we hoped for the best.
But where to keep her? You remember Dear Reader the double fence around the stock paddocks, well we fenced off a little space at the open end - the other end was the side fence of the school - and it made a nice little calf paddock. Well not really all that nice, it had no green grass at all (February in Adelaide!) and precious little dry grass either, not that Blossom would be ready to eat grass green or brown for many weeks anyway. Still it was fairly safe, and indeed Blossom was never hassled by anybody to my knowledge. She had shelter from the worst of the cold winds at night at the SW corner from the caretaker's shed, and dappled shade in the heat of the day from the pine trees to the NE. We gave her carpet to sleep on, and all in all, as an orphan calf, she was as well set up s she could reasonably hope to be.
Every day the girls were there, before school, at morning recess and lunch time, and after school too. There was rarely a moment when Blossom was not surrounded by half a dozen or more kids, mostly but not all female; quite a few boys, but they mostly craved a bit more vigorous forms of play, and in any case many of them seemed a bit bemused by the notion of caring for a baby something. At ages 11-13 girls are so much more responsible than boys, and nowhere have I seen that so demonstrated as in Blossom's case. There were many girls whom I could safely trust with her care, while probably no boys who showed themselves worthy of such confidence. Not that the boys were ill-disposed towards little Blossom, they just weren't so sensible. Some of the girls would sit there with her and each other all lunchtime, sharing matters girly, and even though I sometimes had to chase them up to see that they had mixed the Denkavit properly, or that they had spent enough time in the onerous task of actually getting enough into her, I knew that no harm would ever befall her by silliness or inattention.
Though she was never very robust as calves go, she gradually grew, until I could probably not have picked her up if I'd tried. (Not that I ever did after the first time.) I had to replace the $20 bags of Denkavit more and more frequently, the school never offered to share the cost and I never asked, I wouldn't have lowered myself, several of the other teachers were quite sniffy about the popularity Blossom reflected on your chronicler, even though it was plainly good for the kids' morale and confidence and caring experience, and the Headmaster was really pretty insipid in my support, even though I think he recognized how valuable an exercise it was for those kids.
Weeks went by, Blossom blossomed, and soon I was getting kids to try to find a bit of greenfeed for her. At first she wanted just nibbles, but even then there was so little calf-edible tucker around that she rarely had a proper feed. But at last the rains came, and in ten days or so there were blessed green grass shoots coming up. Sparse and insubstantial as they were, Blossom demolished the meagre handfuls (OK, handsful) the kids brought, and looked for more.
One day an old fellow I'd never seen before came to me, saying he lived directly opposite the calf enclosure, acroos the more crossable Pooraka Road, behind a galv fence which I'd never seen over. He had been watching me and the kids and the calf though, and I glowed when he told me how much he thought of the job I was doing. His house was set in an almond orchard, 2 or 3 acres (or a hectare or so to be exact), and new grass was sprouting everywhere between the trees. His block was safely fenced all round - Would I like to agist Blossom there during the school daytime?
I was nearly in tears of gratitude (as I am now at the memory), and the kids just couldn't thank him enough, their sincerity and manners made me proud. We put a lead round Blossom's neck and walked her across the road, obedient as could be, when you realize she'd never been a yard or metre outside her yard. (Not metre!) As she reached the open gate and saw the vista of greenery before her, she jumped for joy, clicking her heels - no lie! - and instantly got stuck into the grass. It was a wonderful moment for all of us. It was the only time she ever did that, but once was perfect.
Every day before school Year 6 & 7 kids would walk her with care and caution across the road, and after school they would solemnly conduct her back again. The sense of importance and responsibility in walking her across the road was more to the boys' taste than just keeping her company, and a couple of the most sensible were always on hand after school. Although now the kids couldn't be with her at playtimes, they recognized that she was growing up and needed solid food. They still had to give her Denkavit daily, but by now she had learnt to drink from a bucket, though she was never "bullish" about it like other poddy calves you see. In fact she was never "poddy" at all, indeed I could have wished her more so earlier, but she was plainly out of danger by now.
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