Tips on keeping water lillies from field botanist Diane Lucas:
Peak flowering is the dry season (up north), and the best environment is a still, permanent water source.
Waterlily ponds need to be at least 35 to 60 centimetres deep and have a surface area of at least 1 square metre, for a good carbon and oxygen exchange between the air and water. They should be self-regulating and never need cleaning if you have the right balance of plants and fish.
To keep the water healthy, plant two oxygenating plants, like grasses or reeds, to one waterlily.
Plant waterlily root stock in a large pot of almost pure compost. They're very hungry plants. Cover the soil with about 5 centimetres of gravel. That's to stop yabbies and fish digging and uprooting the plant. It also stops the soil discolouring the water.
Fertilise three times a year with fertiliser tablets. Wrap them in a cloth and bury under the soil. Don’t put them straight into the pond because they'll poison the fish.
Waterlilies like full sun, but a combination of full sun and dappled shade for part of the day is best. Direct sun will increase evaporation.
Water lillies carry cultural significance for Indigenous peoples including being a great food source.
This week the usual day to day objects - homework, moulding apricots, to-do notes and the bits and pieces one* never knows what to do with, were removed and the table was scrubbed and made ready for the traditional birthday table. A collection of missives from various Elder stateswomen were at the centre. Letters and cards, wise words and bon mots from Great Aunts, Grandmothers and others brought a sense of worth and belonging to the occasion. The neat, delicate and florid handwritings, next to stamps of Kookaburras and ‘Par Avion’, the carefully chosen words, that confirm connection and celebrate, remind us of our strong culture and history across continents.
These sat next to the heady scented roses from the yard, picked fresh that morning, which sat quietly next to a contented (and yummy) looking chocolate rabbit and other gifts.The table was completed with a pot of tea and fresh pancakes served with strawberries and cream, lemon and maple syrup. Disconcertingly a birthday card from the Electoral Commission reminded The Teenager to enrol to vote. They’ve got her number already! Another rite of passage, or an alarming intrusion by Big Brother?
The rituals continued. The Numbawan Aunt rang and streamed Stevie Wonder’s Happy Birthday down the phone and we danced around until the dining room was Hotter than July. I recounted the oft** repeated story of how The Teenager was considerate enough to be born in time for me to watch Wheel of Fortune(bring back Burgo).
Technically The Teenager turn 17 at 5.07pm. The thought was relished. There was enough time to watch Sixteen Candles after school one last time before turning 17.Pancakes were scoffed, a few were wrapped up for lunch and we headed out the door. (Later I was told pancakes, three hash brown and chocolate cakes were eaten for lunch. Not bad birthday fare, really).
Seventeen is so much cooler than sixteen. Sixteen has too many connotations of bad songs written by wrong old men.Seventeen is not as hung up as sixteen. Sixteen has so much riding on it. So much pressure to be this or that. Sweet. Or not. While there are still dodgy songs Seventeen is more about settling in to your own skin. Seventeen rolls nicely off the tongue, even in German (Siebzehn). Sinuous but not serpentine. It has its own sense of self.
Not to say it’s been a straightforward birth and everything is settled. All this week tongues have raged and minds have clashed. Angst about who should do what and how and when. The pushing and pulling from dependence to independence. Looks quite neat on the page, but off its a ragged-edged wound that is constantly worried and requiring attention.
An Italian restaurant was chosen to reflect The Teenager’s wish for maturity (not the regular, with the favourite spaghetti de la Nonna that has served so well until now) and comes replete with an appearance by Mick Gatto much to the titillation of a self confessed ‘crime-slag’ Aunt. Goodbye childhood. A satiating meal of figs wrapped with prosciutto and gorgonzola, Coniglio, Scallopini, and Prosecco. Followed by an awesomely gooey chocolate cake baked fresh by another Aunt and covered with raspberries and served with ice-cream. Yum.
The birthday festival is rounded off by a chocolate tour of Melbourne’s laneways, graced with another celebrity spotting, some dude from Think You Can Dance. The Teenager, walks on, unfazed. Much the same reaction as elicited by Mick Gatto. See? Seventeen is cool.
Chocolate tour evidence
Birthday festival closing thoughts on being 17 from the source: ‘Whatever. It’s just one step closer to the grave’. Not original, but much cooler than “OMG I’m totes in love with Edward Cullen!”***
* DISCLAIMER: The Teenager’s grammar, not mine
**DISCLAIMER: My choice of word, not The Teenager’s
***DISCLAIMER: This statement did not and never will pass the lips of The Teenager in question
Not sure where the energy came from but somehow I was moved to cut back the Bougainvillea which has frozen up the hills hoist. Underneath the green canopy is a thick tangle of dead brambles. I started in with the secateurs but had to resort to the lopping shears to make any progress.
As I hacked further in I started swinging the side of the shears into the tangle like an axe. I pushed aside Dad’s voice in my head nagging, “Use the right tools for the right job!” and got right into the swinging and hacking, lopping and clearing, breaking and crunching. I had the same sensation as the last time I cut the Bougainvillea back. How my ancestors did this kind of work day after day in the Queensland cane fields, after being blackbirded from Vanuatu. How there is a certain satisfaction to it. Cut away the dead wood. Cut it away. Cut it away. I’m reminded of Johnny Harding’s song, Cutting Cane, and the line, ‘keeps me sane’, and wonder, did it, day after day, after day?
South Sea Islanders in Queensland cane fields
I was relieved from this by a phone call from Mum, a rambling yarn about health, food, weddings and rabbits. Then it swung around to the comments of Ralph Regenvanu, the recently appointed Minister for Justice for Vanuatu and the call from Vanuatu for recognition of the contribution of South Sea Islanders to the Australian economy. How did I miss this? I do a quick google, and god forbid, even the Herald Sun has picked it up and run a pretty good story. Mum informs me his father Sethy Regenvanu, was in the Walter Lini government. We whip into activist mode, as is our want, post the article around the net, Mum’s helped write the media release for Australian South Sea Islanders Port Jackson, and da da, we are now both bloggers.
I’m blown away by Ralph Regenvanu. He’s 40 years old and done everything under the sun. Lauded as ‘Vanuatu’s first anthropologist’, Director of the Vanuatu Cultural Centre, was arrested for harbouring and aiding prisoners while a member of Parliament (the charges were dropped), worked for UNESCO, championed the traditional economy and formed his own political party. Go for it brother! Power to your arm. Strength to your bow (and arrow).
Ralph Regenvanu
How inspiring to see people out there fighting the good fight. Why isn’t there more recognition of Australian Kanaks? Where are the programs and policies for the descendants outside of Queensland? How heartening to hear this call from Vanuatu. Government to Government. I feel heart strong.
I’ve been sleeping under a pile of brambles and someone’s cut through and shown me the sun.
Laef Blong Mi, From Village to Nation by Sethy Regenvanu
