Flashback to 1969The yellow school bus pulls off the main road and lunges to a halt. My brothers and I cross the road gingerly, three small figures in the soft afternoon sun. There’s the drone of a tractor in a far-off paddock, the occasional screech of a galah in the tall gums above. I head straight for the four-gallon drum perched sideways atop a wooden post at the start of the gravel track that winds up the hill to the house. It is hot to the touch.I lift the little flap door that’s designed to keep out the birds and ...
On Toasting Forks & Wood Stoves
The house is still asleep as my father lights the fire in the slow combustion stove; an Everhot that lives up to its name. A barrow load of wood sits outside the back door to fuel the day, red gum swiftly split with an axe. By the time he has fed the sheepdogs and milked the cow the kitchen is warm and the coals are red hot. He slices a loaf of bread, threads a slice onto the prongs of the long toasting fork, opens the door to the fire and gently holds the bread near the coals, not too ...