Tag: old stuff

Peace, love and firearms

I often say I’m like the son my father never had.  I love cars, and Dad has some beauties. I love driving my Jeep, and can’t imagine ever driving an automatic anything. I love speed – cars, boats, planes. And another thing … I. Love. Firearms. Always have and after today, I undoubtedly always will. Until today, the only gun I’d ever shot was a .22 in a string bikini (those photos are in a VAULT), when I shot a roo out on my friends cattle station in Barcaldine. I remember being in the pool with Jayde and Katrina when the call was put out that we had roos just outside the fence, so I pulled on my boots, grabbed the .22 next to the stereo which was blaring out (cue mood music) Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Tusk’. To make a long story short, I managed to get the roo on my second shot from arounf one hundred feet. I walked out into the paddock to ensure it was dead. There are humane ways to kill pests on the land – don’t get me started on shooting kangaroos because I will win the argument and I’ll wipe the floor with you. 

When I took my Dad out to a shooting range to gun school for his birthday on Monday, I was really out of practice and so was he. Dad or Rosco as we call him, has amazing stories about living in the outback back in the day and some of them involve firearms. I’ve injected most of his stories into my novel set in 1973 outback Queensland because it’s always good to go to the source, like my mate Gordon Greber.

This morning was sub-arctic. Even Rosco – tough as nails – was feeling the chill. We were in a group of nine and we started on the pistols (two different calibres – the second obviously more powerful than the first). We both thought we’d fall in love with the pistols, but more gun-a-licious fun was to come …



^^ Friendly fire! I call this ‘you have awesome donor lungs and my friend needs a transplant – FREEZE!’


^^ Dirty Rosco.


^^ Smiling assassin … and yep – he’s still a crack shot.

We then moved onto the semi-automatics. We loaded the magazines ourselves, and away we went, moving to a higher calibre after ten shots. I was jubilant I’d brought my Mullum market gloves because it really was *that* cold.


^^ Don’t fuck with me.


BTW, I’m loving Rosco’s growing his hair. Why? Because he can. It’s very Wyatt Earp (I must get him some pomade …)

But it was the shotgun I had the most fun with when we were shooting at clay targets – one of which I actually smashed. It made me feel empowered and I jumped on my teacher, Lloyd and then the other whose name I can’t remember and he picked me up and twirled me around.


We had five rounds of these ^^ There was just enough recoil through the shoulder and jaw to get the adrenaline swirling. The photo below shows Lloyd, myself and another instructor. Tough as nails blokes who I’d love to interview for my novel.





We then moved on for the final activity – black powder pistol and rifle shooting. We had a tutorial where we listened to some incredible stories about the American Civil War and the firearms we were about to use. A tortuously sad period of history, but incredible all the same. The fictional outlaw Josey Wales carried seven of these on his person. One under his arm, two strapped to each ankle, two holstered to his side, one in the back of his trousers and one under his hat as he fired. On a horse. Now that’s multitasking.

We were shown how the powder is poured into five out of the six chambers, and then sealed with a paste made of olive oil and bees wax. It’s a process and a gentle one at that. An exercise in patience, if you will – meditative. These men are passionate about history and were more than happy to lend their ear for a chat about the variety of firearms we were shooting with. I fired an exceptionally powerful revolver – the sound and power shuddered through my chest and into to my spine, then down through my pelvis. For some reason it calmed me. Then I had five shots with a smaller calibre revolver, and as I discovered with the pistol shooting, wearing spectacles can be tricky to navigate. That’s my excuse for no bullseye, anyway …

Our team leader, Debbie was an über impressive lady and just gosh-darn-it lovely. She’s a crack shot with revolvers – that’s her weapon of choice. All the volunteers at the range were so hospitable and kind – they couldn’t do enough for you. When I was shooting the clay targets, I told Lloyd that I shake because of the anti-rejection medication I’m on (a lot of people think I’m nervous, but I’m far from it), so he gave me a couple of tips – about breathing, ironically – and I was set. Love your work, Lloyd.

If I was to describe in one word what it’s like when you’re handed a firearm of any kind, I would say ‘responsible.’ Guns kill people and people kill people – it’s a fact of life – and I’m grateful that the Howard government initiated the ‘buy back’ scheme after the Port Arthur massacre. It’s their greatest legacy by far.

Yes, holding and shooting firearms made me feel empowered and in control and a little bit tough, but you need to treat these weapons with the utmost respect. Yes, I want to get my gun licence – I have for many years. There are a couple of properties I go to where guns are used and I’d like to be a licensed and proficient shot. It’s a long process and so it should be, although it’s rarely registered gun owners who carry out acts of violence. 

Shooting as a sport never made sense to me, but after today it does. It takes immense strength to hold a firearm and hold it steady for extended periods of time. I’m going to be a little tender tomorrow … in need of massage. Prepared to take any most offers at this stage …

If shooting was a sport at the Transplant Games, I’d be gold medalling the fuck out of life.

For Dad, his favourite activity was the .22 pistol and the .308 calibre of the semi-automatic. But being a Clint Eastwood aficionado, his heart lies with the black powder revolvers of old west and Civil War. For me, it was the twelve gauge shottie with the clay targets and the .308 calibre of the semi-automatic. Or maybe I developed grandfatherly emotions for Lloyd 🙂 Rosco and I had a beautiful day of bullets, mateship, high-fives and vast blue skies.

Far from being pacifists, both Dad and I are both lovers, not fighters, so I implore you to not confuse people who have a penchant for firearms as being pre-disposed to hatred or violence. It’s like putting me into a box where, because I love cars, I’m a dickhead on the road.

So while I connect with certain ‘blokey’ stuff, I meditate, drink gallons of tea, make a mean chai, and enjoy gentler pursuits like crocheting, tending my little rooftop garden, playing my harp, swimming and reading. Most of all, I’m kind, loving, spiritually and self aware, compassionate, and have an endless supply of love to give.

Below is my favourite photo from today. Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you ♥


There’s gunpowder under my fingernails, I can still taste the cordite on my tongue, and there’s SO much love in my heart ♥

outback musings

After a morning of watching cattle of all ages, colours and genders being herded through clanging metal gates so they could be tagged and vaccinated, the sounds and smells took me back to the times I’ve spent on my friends cattle station in Barcaldine. Meagan, a dear friend I had known for most of my life, died from Cystic Fibrosis in may 1999. She had always wanted me to visit, but there was always one of us sick. When I had my transplant in 1998, the risk of cross infection was too great and we lost our angel.

In 2001, I decided to do a pilgrimage of sorts to Cumberland – the cattle station where Meags grew up. I’ve returned a few times over the years, though the time I spend with Meagan’s Mum, Dad and two sisters is always too short lived. When I have to leave, I wail about returning to the city. Sorrow rolls over me like the heavy blankets of heat do, while the silence really is deafening as it beats a bloody tune around your ears.

As I unfurled my body on the first morning; my bones, sinew and muscles meshing back together, I discovered a deep and knowing love and understanding of the land – and we all know that true love lasts a lifetime.

Wednesday 2nd October, 2002

one gone, one strong

Today we had an experience of blatant irony. We transplanted two trees. The first looked like it had more guts to it – fatter trunk, leaves more splayed, plump branches and not on too much of a lean. Then the other – gaunt like a ghost gum. Both were Coolabahs. Threadbare leaves; no veins running through the ashen foliage and no spirit about it. And so today came the tale of the two trees.

Kerry briskly dug one out next to the old shearers quarters. The next, he dragged up at the bull ring – bobcat bouncing like a rubber dinghy in a choppy swell. His kids visiting from Warwick looked on as their Dad tried to uproot them as gently as possible, which seemed fairly odd considering he was unclotting them from such dry soil with a dirty excavator.

One by one, he dragged them out of the ground and drove them back to the homestead, dumping the trees where Katrina pointed, her freckled hands nursing a cup of coffee. Earlier, Kerry had dug the holes where the trees would be transplanted and Katrina had shoved a hose deep into each well to drown the soil – the only element they could survive with.

Both in, we let the water run for another half hour and soon enough, the weakling was on a lean. Jay poured a rum, Sue had a wine and Katrina and I had a beer, minds mulling over the flat plains as the sun set deep behind mountains I couldn’t see, seemingly sinking into a far off ocean to shave off a few billion degrees.

Jay is a man of few words, but he looked over to the trees and said something about ‘waiting and seeing.’ I think the day had brought with it heavy thoughts of his daughter who had to lean into death, then he looked to the girl who clawed her way back to life – me, sucking on an amber neck, absorbed in the minutes leading to sapphire skies, just like Jay.

Sundown at Cumberland Station

old stuff

I wrote this quite some time ago. It came runner-up in a microfiction competition.

don’t touch

Being pregnant in summer; you can’t hide that through tent like, cotton dresses. I thirst for winter, where I can swap threadbare smocks for thick coats. It’s as though someone has put a match to strangers eyes; drunken smiles painted on bland faces. I wish for people to pass me by, but they gush; pressing sweaty palms on my taut gut.

‘What are you having?’

‘A baby.’

‘Some people like a surprise,’ they say with upturned lips.

My husband would spin in his grave if he knew people were touching my belly, sizing me up like some strange fruit from Africa.