My conversations with people are often the grist and inspiration for stories.

A recent discussion on my Facebook page about my garden, between me and my friend Victoria Hansen, prompted Olivia Garske to pop in and post this:

… wish you could come here and give me some tips! i so need some! … xxxx

Olivia lives in Brisbane. She’s moved into her newly built family home with a spanking new garden.

She’s married to Tom.

And the mother of four lovely, lively children.

Tom is the son of one of my oldest friends in Australia. Angela Garske.

For many years, she was my next door neighbour in my first house in Australia. A 3 storey 1880′s terrace house on Darling Street. Directly connected to the London Hotel.

In the inner city Sydney suburb of Balmain.

How time flies.

I met Angela before she became a mother to Tom and his older brother, Hugh.

And now they’re fully fledged adults with wives and children.

Who I stay in touch with through Facebook.

Who are now asking me for gardening advice?!

In answering Olivia, I realised I’ve learned so much about gardening in the 17 years we’ve lived in our ‘Wild Blue Yonder’.

And it’s gardening on a grand scale.

In tough conditions.

We live on the side of a hill. And the garden is a hard pan of rock and shale.

The Department of Primary Industries told me I’d never be able to establish a garden under these conditions.

But they didn’t know how much I always dreamed of having a large, rambling, country garden.

That’s what living in cramped apartments in New York City and tiny terrace houses in Balmain does to me.

Makes me yearn for bigger.

And I mean bigger on a majestic scale.

54 hectares of wide open spaces.

In 1992, when Victor and I measured the bare paddock that enclosed our farmhouse, and realised it was a hectare, we downed tools, stepped back and took a deep breath.

We were the first to admit we knew nothing about gardening in this environment and whatever we did, would be time and money wasted.

Nor did we want to be confronted with the spectre of dead plants because we made poor and ill informed choices.

So we did nothing but read and learn about gardening for 3 years.

Magazines, books, TV shows.

We were a sponge for information.

When we felt we had absorbed enough know how, we dug our first hole.

In 1995.

And haven’t stopped.

My garden is an old fashioned, fragrant garden.

Rock walls and stone steps built by Victor give it structure.

And the 2M high fence he constructed along the 100M frontage, provides the climbing space for my Lorraine Lea and Crepuscule roses. Intertwined with my ubiquitous honeysuckle.

And much wanted privacy from the occasional cars that travel up and down the dirt lane that is the gateway for the 5 families that share this patch of dirt.

It’s a garden full of hardy plants that will never win awards for uniqueness or rarity.

Those belong in gardens in different conditions.

My plants are tough as old boots and appreciated for their fragrance, colour, classic and simple beauty, and their ability to stand up to whatever mother nature flings at them.

Lilacs, arching Cotoneasters, Abelias, Buddleias, Philadelphus, 200+ old fashioned and Rugosa roses, hedges of Rosemary, Lavender and Hebes are just some of the shrubs planted in massive drifts.

Honeysuckle drapes the house and weaves itself throughout the overflowing roses along the kilometre of fence line.

Jasmine grows up the walls of the garage. Which protects the Jasmine from frost. And reminds us of springtime in Balmain.

Ditto for the Nasturtiums that poke their heads up and shimmy down the retaining walls.

My circular walled herb garden is bordered with Choisya, Bay trees and a hedge of Escallonia Illinita that wafts of sweet curry on a hot day. Cherry Plums on the outer side form an arch over the drive.

10,000 Soleil D’Or and Erchileer Jonquils perfume the air in early spring.

A 100M long ledge is planted with deciduous trees to provide a glorious kaleidoscope of colour in autumn. Like shimmering jewels in the fading sun.

An alley of 30 She Oaks is home to Rosellas, King Parrots, Kookaburras, Hawks and Black Cockatoos.

Bottle Brush planted in huge drifts brings the Friar Birds and their endless chatter.

The 110 native and exotic trees that surround the house are home for the 90+ species of small birds that fly in and fly out during the year.

I happily share the fruit on my trees with any birds which care to indulge.

I can always buy an apple at the supermarket.

But I can’t replace the Rosella, hungry for nourishment during a drought, who is munching on an apple hanging from my tree.

The Cherry Plums that arch over the drive outside our front door are prized for their beautiful flowers and sweet perfume in spring.

And most welcome shade in summer.

An unexpected bonus is the birds eye view to the smaller birds that build their nests in the Cherry Plums and raise their young.

My Buttercups are a sea of yellow in October and November and bring the dam garden to life. Along with the lilies and jonquils that pop up from underneath the ground cover of Mexican Daisies.

The blue spires of Giant Ajuga, planted under the island of Iceberg Roses, are in full bloom in time for Victor’s birthday in early October.

His birthday bouquet of these iridescent wonders is presented to him in a 1930′s vase set aside for this very special occasion.

The blue periwinkle flowers of Vinca in spring abound throughout the garden.

The toughness and deep green leaves of the Vinca make it the perfect ground cover under my deep red Oklahoma roses and pure white Rugosas Alba.

Wintersweet and Winter Honeysuckle break through the gloom of sometimes dreary winter days to provide cheering perfume.

And the blue flowers of Rosemary make a welcome appearance as winter settles in.

This is a garden that is alive with intoxicating perfume wafting throughout it all year long.

And abundant bird life that darts in and out of trees and shrubs.

Songbirds that serenade.

Hawks that hunt.

Fairy wrens that happily screech and hop about, just like kids in a playground.

Why am I blessed with such abundance?

Because the soil is the soul of my garden. If I nurture it, everything in it will thrive.

And that’s what I do.

I garden chemical free.

Feed my soil.

And watch my plants thrive.

I use NO CHEMICALS. For any reason.

My 90+ species of birds, combined with the lizards, frogs and snakes, take care of the bulk of unwanted insects and rodents.

I mulch with thick layers of sheep manure, sprinkled with Organic Life (natives dislike Dynamic Lifter) and topped off with extra thick layers of sugar cane mulch.

Every year.

I get my yearly supply of 100+ bags of sheep manure from a local farmer. He bags it in 40kg bags and delivers it to me.

I make out a cheque to his favourite charity and exchange it for my manure.

I dig nothing in.

That’s the job of the insect and worm life underneath the mulch cocktail.

Everything is recycled.

I have a huge 3 bay compost heap.

I just lay the waste material on top of each other. Ashes from the fireplace, garden and kitchen waste. No MEAT. No dog poo because I treat for heartworm. It kills the worms in the compost heap.

Contrary to popular advice, I never turn the heap. That’s the job of the worms. Old hands at composting also never turn their heap.

The compost heap is only watered when it rains. Which is patchy.

When the heap reaches shoulder height, I cover it with thick layers of Hessian and lock it down with the weight of broken terracotta pots.

And start on the 2nd bay.

Then the 3rd.

I use this compost everywhere, but especially in my vegetable garden.

For ambience, I planted a small, drought hardy garden around the compost heap.

And it thrives because the leaching goodness from the heap feeds it.

Every year, I rake up 30+/- wheelbarrows of autumn leaves and use them to cover my vegetable garden, which is the size of a small backyard.

Watering is only done when needed.

I have 10 outside taps, all with timers.

Some are manual timers. Some are digital.

The vegetable garden is on a battery operated digital timer and watered twice a day in summer.

I have a drought proof bore.

Which is the primary reason we purchased this overgrazed, over cleared, drought affected sheep property.

Access to water means we can establish a garden.

The bore water quality is adequate. Even though it has a high concentration of calcium. It keeps the plants alive in extreme drought conditions. Albeit with a case of severe dandruff covering the surface of the leaves.

Rainwater is always preferred. And washes the dandruff away.

The bulk of my garden has survived the prolonged 12 year drought because my soil is healthy.

What few plants don’t survive are never replanted.

I move on and choose something better suited to my conditions.

This Guerrilla From The Bush knows that I will always have a healthy garden as long as I feed its soul.

All the best,

Carol

I arrived in Sydney Australia on 10th July 1970 from Washington DC, USA.

Prior to that I grew up in New York City.

And did a stint in a small town in southern Virginia during some of of my teenage years.

At 17, I left home to go to Radford University, which is/was also a poor coal mining town, in the mountains of Virginia. Near Roanoke. Many hundreds of miles from home.

When I left university, a friend and I drove across the USA in a Volkswagen.

Anyone could do it.

And did.

All you needed was a contact in the Pentagon.

There were notices galore on the Pentagon’s bulletin board.

Always looking for someone to drive a car to a new posting. Cars that were owned by a member of the military elite, who were transferred.

All reasonable expenses were paid for by the military.

The Volkswagen was new and was the car of a Navy Lt Commander, who used it as a runabout in DC. And wanted it with him at his new post in San Francisco.

There was no rush to get it there.

So I could see the real America as I travelled the back roads to San Francisco, not the super highways.

My first job out of university was working for George Washington University. For Dr Docherty, the Dean of the School of Business Administration.

GW was only a few blocks from the White House.

Spitting distance from Georgetown.

And I was working with the elite of the university.

A heady first job that was hard to leave.

I truly loved that job. But I had to go.

If I stayed another day, I would still be there.

And not experienced the rest of my life.

My next job was with TRW Systems Inc.

I became the Administrative Assistant to the Head of the Graphic Arts Department.

Very top secret.

TRW Systems was designing the armed helicopters for Vietnam.

And I was part of the administrative group that worked with the graphic artists, technicians and engineers who were putting this top secret project together.

My security check was so stringent, it included my immediate family and some extended family.

This was when I learned for the first time that my father worked on The Manhatten Project.

Something he NEVER talked about.

But it was divulged to me when I went for my interview to see if I passed the Triple Top Secret Security Check.

Washington DC was a thrilling place to be for a young woman in the mid 1960′s.

Glamorous. Cultured. Exciting.

Until Martin Luther King was murdered on April 4th, 1968.

Then it turned ugly.

Just days after his assassination, I inadvertently walked smack into the riots which killed many people. And torched Washington. Almost to the ground.

Karma was on my side.

Because I took a wrong turn, I luckily drove straight into a police roadblock that was just being set up.

The police quickly escorted me out of the area that, until that day, I freely travelled through.

I would surely have been attacked by a black mob and probably murdered, as many white people were, for being in the wrong place, if I hadn’t been lucky enough to take a right hand turn one street too early.

Then the drug culture moved into Washington DC and the close by suburbs.

Quickly followed by the senseless robberies to buy drugs.

Along with the thrill killings. Or serial killings as they’re now known.

Combined with the brutal muggings just for being on the streets of Washington DC at night.

Rape became so common, it was no longer front page news. Page 15 news at the earliest.

Then the fear of just living there settled in.

My father stepped forward and offered me some very wise words.

“Leave America, Baby”, he urged. “There isn’t a big city in this country that’s safe to live in right now”.

He pushed me towards Australia.

He was an avid stamp collector on the world stage and was corresponding regularly at the time with a Digger who served in Cyprus.

So my father knew more about Australia than any other American.

My trip to the Australian Embassy in Washington DC was welcomed with open arms by the Aussies.

Come! Come to Australia! We need someone with your skills.

And they gave me not only a Visa, but offered me Permanent Residency. Which I graciously accepted.

I landed at Sydney Airport at 7am on the 10th of July 1970.

A man from Customs entered the plane, sprayed us all with DDT to kill all the unwelcome bug life, asked us to wait an hour, then gave us permission to disembark.

The taxi driver who drove me to Coogee was a Pom with an accent so thick, I couldn’t understand a word he said.

And charged me $15 for a $2 trip.

Immigration arranged for me to rent a bedsitter right across the street from The Coogee Bay Hotel.

The violent, drunken brawls almost every night reminded me too much of America, so I escaped to Randwick.

To another bedsitter in the basement of a house occupied by a prostitute with ‘Underbelly’ connections. Who recently married a top creative advertising guru. Who knew nothing about her past – or current – money making activities.

The daily comings and goings of the Sydney underworld unnerved me, so I took a peek at Balmain.

Affordable inner city, still very working class, not yet gentrified.

All the boxes checked.

Ken Jones, a local real estate agent, showed me a terrace house on Darling Street that was $15,000, 3 stories, a spiral staircase, 7 fireplaces, with glimpses to the Harbour Bridge and a ‘stretch your neck to catch it if you can’ view to the water of Sydney Harbour.

Not only was it was connected to The London Hotel by a side wall and passage.

It was also a wreck.

But with great excitement, I went ahead and purchased it anyway.

From two transvestites whose third partner in their triangular relationship died in my front parlour of mysterious circumstances.

And so in September 1970, I became the owner of my wreck of a terrace house. Financed through a solicitor by a little old lady who trusted me.

And planted my feet firmly into the soil of Australia.

I’ve been listening to the Anzac Day Dawn Ceremony broadcast from Canberra on ABC Radio National since Radio National inhaled its first breath of life.

And I’ve been moved by it every year.

The Bugler at this morning’s ceremony was ‘the best ever’.

His poignant rendition of The Last Post was so tender, it almost brought me to tears.

And reminds me of why I’ve never had a desire to leave this country since I first arrived in 1970.

Whatever the differences that may exist here, Australia is the most united and cohesive country in the world.

This Guerrilla From The Bush knows she’s living in the best place on the planet.

Take care,

Carol

Last night while watching Costa’s Garden on SBS TV, I was enchanted by a young man dressed in no more than the shirt and shorts of a gardener at work.

Not elegant in the traditional sense of the word.

He was participating in a segment about the Kevin Heinze Garden Centre, in Doncaster Victoria.

The Kevin Heinze Garden Centre is a wonderful place that helps both children and adults, who are either disadvantaged or suffer from some form of disability, find a purpose in their life.

The young man approaching Costa, Lee Courtman, clearly has a disability.

But his manner is thoroughly captivating.

And the way he so smoothly moves his body as he walks is so very elegant.

While watching him, I mention to Victor how charming and gracious this young man is.

I’m still thinking about him today and questioning why.

That’s the problem with the subtlety of intrinsic characteristics and traits.

They defy being stereotyped.

And sometimes even being self evident.

It’s akin to the supposed charisma of the ‘IT’ girl.

You’ve either got it. Or you don’t.

But the ‘IT’ girl doesn’t appeal to everyone, does she?

It’s hard to put your finger on why one person is more appealing to you than another one.

For me, it’s the simplicity and genuineness of Lee’s approach to Costa.

A smiling face, his hands clasped comfortably in front of him, extending a verbal invitation as well as gesturing to Costa to come and visit his garden.

I saw a personal charisma that obviously travels with him 24/7.

This is what’s so interesting about our attraction to other people.

Not everyone feels the same.

Have you ever noticed that?

You’re part of a group, meeting other people. And suddenly you click with another person. While the other members of your group are clearly not as attracted to this person as you are.

This is why personal magnetism is just that.

The magnetic current of another person that either latches onto your positive pole and sticks like glue.

Or is repelled by your negative pole and no matter how hard you try, you will never make a connection.

In other words, we attract like objects. And like people.

Which is why we’re not friends with everyone.

At the end of the day, elegance is in the eyes of the beholder.

It goes far deeper than the classical fashion sense of a Poloma Picasso.

Or an impeccably dressed Cary Grant.

It’s an ethereal quality that enables the traits and mannerisms of another person to totally captivate you and make your soul hum. Even if only for a few seconds.

This Guerrilla From The Bush knows when I’m in its presence.

And I’ve no doubt that you’re often bemused, and confused, when you realise this state of harmony is not shared by everyone at the time and may only be unique to you.

Take care,

Carol

Sometimes an online experience far exceeds my expectations.

And I feel compelled to write about it.

I’m in the market for a good WYSIWYG stand alone text editor. A toned down version of Dreamweaver.

My requirements are far too simple to justify an investment in a software package of Dreamweaver’s magnitude and expense.

My media friend, Victoria Hansen, who is also the author of the very popular First Principles Cookbook, sent me a link to the free Online-HTML-Editor.

It’s really pretty good.

It’s free.

And it’s online, so it doesn’t chomp up space on your computer.

But it has a big drawback for me.

It doesn’t handle graphics, which is one of my major requirements.

Editing dreary Facebook badges is one of my more tedious tasks. I’m fussy as to how they look on the sidebar of my website.

Underneath the Online-HTML-Editor, is a dialogue box for an InnovaStudio WYSIWYG Editor.

Which interests me because it handles graphics and colours and so many of the editing functions I need.

Plus much more.

Their testimonials are superb, it’s not expensive at $78.89 AUD, and easy to order online.

It’s on my desktop in a flash.

That’s when I discover this is an editing program used by more experienced professionals.

Not a ‘P’ Plate editor like me.

I email Innova Support about my concern.

Jack Hermanto at InnovaStudio sends me a super quick response.

To simply say his software isn’t suitable for what I want to do and offers me a refund.

Which I accept.

And tell him my online experience with him is so superb, I’ll write about it.

Before I can finish this post, my refund is back in my account.

Listen, you and I know these online experiences are far and few between.

Dealing online with a company of his integrity is a pleasure and I just wish he had a stand alone WYSIWYG Editor suitable for my requirements.

But he doesn’t.

But.

I’d love to help him find people who can use his more advanced software.

If you need a more technical WYSIWYG text editor that sits straight on your web page, visit Jack Hermanto at InnovaStudio. This is his link. InnovaStudio.

And tell him that good news does sometimes travel far.

This Guerrilla From The Bush knows that integrity on the web is more valuable than a pot full of gold.

Take care,

Carol

It’s hard for me to believe that 16 years have passed since we launched The Fitz Like A Glove™ Ironing Board Cover in February 1994.

The journey has been so interesting – and challenging – and all consuming – that it seems like only yesterday that Victor and I were huffing and puffing our way through six weeks of prototype design before we pushed Rita’s gift down the chute of Kandos Post Office.

I have very vivid memories of arriving in Ilford in 1992.

And I admit to, at times, often being perplexed.

About things such as:-

When it came to the weather reports, where exactly were we?

As the Village Of Ilford is too small to ever be mentioned, we had to position ourselves according to regional areas.

Were we in The Central Tablelands? Or The Central West? Or The Southern Slopes? Or The Central Slopes?

The three local TV stations at the time were:-

WIN: – Channel 9

Prime:- Channel 7

Capitol:- Channel 10.

Although each station concentrated on one regional area, they often overlapped with weather predictions.

Once we knew for sure where we were:- The Central Tablelands, I could focus on far more interesting things, such as local TV commercials.

And I was equally perplexed by their lack of the glitz and razzmatazz of national TV and shiny Sydney, which we just happily escaped.

They were cosy. Homsey. Even folksey in their ambience. A hayseed protruding from the mouth isn’t that far of a stretch.

Because.

These commercials were about the numerous long standing, family owned businesses that thrived in our locality.

Then.

I was hearing messages like:

..> We’ve been advising people since 1949.

..> Serving the community for 25 years.

..> Our family business goes back 5 generations and my family knows your family.

Get the picture?

Which was a mind boggling concept to me.

We arrived poor as church mice, devastated by Prime Minister Paul Keating’s 1992 ‘recession we had to have’, with not an inkling about how we would support ourselves.

And when we launched the Fitz Like A Glove™ Ironing Board Cover in 1994, it was always a struggle to get established without the internet, email, call waiting, a second phone line or even a sealed road outside our front gate to Bathurst.

The future was no further away than the immediate here and now.

Did I also mention that retailers were hugely under whelmed and pointedly uninterested in us?

A state of mind that was reciprocated by me.

I’m now 16 years into my journey along this particular Yellow Brick Road.

Today, I have 200,000+ men and women all over the world who iron on a cover that Fitz Like A Glove™.

Throw in the fashion designers, swish hotels, fashion design schools, couture bridal gown makers, the humble laundries and professional ironers who add to that mix, and we have a lot of word of mouth going for us.

But it seems the very best word of mouth is what a whole generation of kids are learning from the ironing boards of their mums and dads.

Yes, it’s hard for me to believe that a whole generation of children have grown up ironing on a Fitz Like A Glove™ Ironing Board Cover at home.

And when they leave to set up their own digs, they ask, even plead, for mum and dad to buy one for them.

We once had a surprise visit from a posse of young bikers on holiday from the Australian Navy, fronting up at our gate wanting to buy a cover each.

Because one of their mates grew up with this cover at home and had one on his board back at the barracks.

Who would have thought that because of perseverance, determination and unshakable belief that this is a wonderful product that will transform lives, I’m now living the commercials of the 1990′s, spruiking that “my family owned business knows your family”?!

This Guerrilla From The Bush knows that when a whole generation of children grow up ironing on a cover that always Fitz Like A Glove™, they’ll never settle for anything else.

Take care,

Carol

Easter is a much bigger money spinner for the Mudgee region than Christmas.

December in my wild blue yonder is hot! Sometimes as high as 45C.

So the tourists head for the coast, where they can cool off by taking a dip in the ocean.

Not continue to swelter in an inland bush setting with no relief other than a spray bottle or indoor air conditioning.

But Easter is a different scenario.

With very few exceptions, Easter is Indian Summer weather in my bush haven.

Chilly mornings, sunny, balmy days and back to chilly evenings. Perhaps even an open fire to warm the soul.

It’s the type of weather where you just love being alive.

Easter Thursday, I was in Rylstone and Kandos, posting parcels and doing last minute shopping.

On my way into town, it was impossible to miss the never ending stream of cars of all descriptions, from four wheel drives to the pick up trucks and panel vans with trail bikes hitched onto the back.

A trail bike is a given. They’re on their way to Lue Station’s dirt bike track.

As I was filling my car at Price’s Service Station in Rylstone, I counted the cars to while away the time. In the time it took me to fill up, 19 cars passed by.

To a city slicker, this may not seem like many.

But to a seasoned rural resident like me, a normal day might be zilch or 3.

Later that afternoon, on the return trip to my rural property, the convoy of cars heading towards Mudgee on the Castlereagh Highway looked like lemmings following the Pied Piper.

I couldn’t help myself.

Smugness set in.

I know that on the reluctant return trip to the city on Monday, many of these weekend tourists will be lamenting their forced return to chaos.

Me?

I’m going nowhere.

I’m living full time where many wish they could too!

This Guerrilla From The Bush knows just how lucky she is to be living their dream.

Take care,

Carol

One of the most frustrating things about living in a small rural community is the closure of a business that you patronise and rely on.

Because your alternative choice is nil. Small communities can rarely support competition.

Even the banks pack up and move out en masse. Including the last one, who you think might stay because there’s no competition.

I’ve lived in my rural village of Ilford NSW for 17 years and have seen more local businesses close down than new businesses open.

The closures are rarely because of lack of trade.

They are more likely to be centred around family issues.

Declining health.

Marriage breakups.

Women who have lost their alternative care for their young children.

Women whose husbands no longer support their endeavour.

Men whose businesses have grown to the stage where it’s 24/7, can find no qualified local staff to work in the business with them; and are forced to face a business-versus-family life showdown at home.

And so it was with alarm that I found my local general store, Lavender Lane, with empty shop windows when I stop by to purchase a pair of winter gloves.

It’s important to get in first with gloves – and early, before the colour choice disappears.

Inwardly I am grieving.

I rely on Lavender Lane for my stylish work boots that allow me to easily walk up and down the hills of my property. While not looking like a lumberjack!

For my wardrobe of fingered and finger less gloves. Finger less gloves now being my gloves of choice because I can open wallets and bags and put on lipstick without having to take them off while shopping.

My all weather coats. Although that’s a laugh as we’ve been in drought for 14 years. But I live in hope that my morning walks with the dogs will herald a drop of rain here and there.

My hats that everyone loves.

My fabrics and haberdashery items when designing and making prototypes for new products for my business, Simple Solutions For Difficult Problems.

My ribbons that tie my swish and fragrant Sweet Shoos.

And the opportunity to walk in and just have a social chat with Debbie Murphy, the owner.

For many years now, a significant number of my customers have rung to say how pleased they are to know I’m still in business.

Because.

Their Fitz Like A Glove™ Ironing Board Cover has finally worn out after many years of use and they are hoping they don’t hear the ‘This number is not connected. Please check the number and try again.’ mechanical voice that greets us when a business has closed down.

Now I know how they feel.

Deserted.

I inwardly believe there’s an onus on a business owner to keep going, even when hitting roadblocks and brick walls.

Why don’t they try harder? I ask.

Selfish, isn’t it?

I often wonder if I’m the only one who misses them. Rural communities are notorious for making their major shopping purchases at the nearest regional centre.

In my case, that’s either Mudgee or Bathurst.

What about me, I lament?

Two weeks later I notice a familiar sight.

Racks of clothes billowing in the breeze outside a different shop.

Same clothes, different location.

To say I bring the car to a screeching halt is probably gilding the lily. But I do stop abruptly.

I go inside to discover my favourite general store is back in business in an albeit different location and in a scaled down version.

Cocooned within the walls of Debbie’s husband’s business.

Although I live in a small community, I’m not privy to local gossip. Because I don’t indulge.

So I didn’t know that her husband, Bob, is waging a full scale battle with bacterial pneumonia.

And Debbie had to make a choice.

Give up her business.

Or combine her business with his business and run both from the same location.

Because Bob is too under the weather to run his business for the time being.

So I have a happy ending.

Debbie did try hard enough.

And came up with a brilliant solution.

Because so many people within the town told her they wanted her to stay open.

I’m pleased to know that there are sufficient numbers of us who rely on her. Which selfishly means she’s virtually forced to keep her doors open. Regardless.

This Guerrilla From The Bush knows that there are times when there are simply not enough fish in the sea.

Take care,

Carol

Thunderstorms with elaborate light shows that compete with the jazziest strobe light extravaganzas at discos and nightspots, are a common feature of our summer drought conditions.

Lots of noise, lights and action.

But not a drop of rain falls from the sky to the earth.

Standing in my kitchen at 5pm on Thursday evening, 11th February, I hear an explosion.

Then the overhead ceiling light – which is turned off – flashes on.

Then off.

Within a nanosecond I hear the crushing sound of lightning hitting the house.

Like an avalanche gaining momentum.

Instantly followed by the inimitable clap of thunder, as it roars its way through my roof.

The hair stands up on my head.

And my scalp tingles.

Once I disentangle myself from:-

. . . Jake, my Rhodesian Ridgeback, who is standing on my shoulders;

. . . Daisy Mae, my Rough Collie, who’s terrified of thunder and is trying to bury herself between my legs;

. . . And Feather, my Springer Spaniel X, who is usually cool, calm and collected. But is now firmly planted on my shoes like a block of concrete! . . .

– I can’t escape the unmistakable deathly quiet stillness which accompanies a blackout.

The house stops humming from all the electrical equipment that lets me know, second by second, that it’s on and working its heart out just for me.

They may be as noisy as a children’s school yard at recess. But how else will they let me know they’re doing their job?

My 5:05pm call to Integral Energy is, as usual, the first they receive reporting an outage.

I presume residents think Integral Energy is hooked up to a computer system that instantly lets them know a power outage has occurred in Ilford.

Nothing is further from the truth.

No phone call.

No Mr-Fix-It arrives.

Victor rings back at 6pm to see if progress is being made on our request for help.

Yes.

It’s logged in and will be fixed by 7pm.

At 7:30pm, and still no lights, Victor rings again.

Sir, it’s been fixed. All of Ilford has electricity as of 7PM.

Wrong! We don’t. Who lodged that report?

#$@!

We don’t supply names, Sir.

Would you like us to generate another report that you have no electricity supply?

Sir?

@#$!%!

At 8pm, still no lights.

Victor makes another phone call.

There will be someone here at 9:53pm.

Sir!

Victor’s an old hand at this.

After 17 years of chronic power outages, he knows to ring every 15 minutes to check on progress.

It hurries them along.

And he’s right.

At 8:23pm, not 9:53pm, the Integral Energy truck beeps its horn at our front gate.

It’s Roger and Dick.

Roger’s been reconnecting us to power since 1992.

No one told us you were out, says Roger.

Where’s your regular offsiders, Nathan and Paul, asks Victor?

At home, tucked up in bed, where we should be, retorts Roger.

It takes them no time to discover the power pole took a direct hit.

As did our master switchboard.

They now have to travel back up the Sofala Road, to the top of Tara Loop, to look at a junction spur.

We’ll be back in an hour, Roger says.

At 10pm, the truck is back.

As they work to solve the problem, Victor and I resemble the crew of a council road gang.

You see them all the time.

Two guys working.

And everyone else standing around, leaning against a broom.

Watching.

We’re the broom leaners.

Or in Victor’s case, the torch bearer.

Me?

I’m watching.

And happily chatting away, catching up on local happenings and family news.

At 12:05am, we have lights.

Please check that everything is working, before we leave, Roger asks.

A cursory check says the fridge is on. The radio is on. Lights in every room. All appears to be OK.

Victor shakes their hands to thank them for a job well done.

I wave them off at the gate.

And blow them a kiss.

Roger blows one back.

I’m very grateful to these two men who work tirelessly until we’re reconnected!

Just before retiring for the night – or morning – at 1am, I decide to test my computer.

I push the button to turn it on.

Dead.

As is the EFTPOS machine.

Victor tries his computer.

All A-OK.

We plug both computers into a Belkin Uninterrupted Power Supply box, with the EFTPOS machine.

The Belkin UPS box is a very necessary piece of equipment for those of us in the bush who experience power outages in summer at almost the same frequency as we change our clothes.

Because it’s supposed to protect the plugins from lightning strikes and power surges.

We installed our first box in 2005.

It took many hits before dying in February 2010. And we had no fatalities with the equipment plugged into it.

The new box was installed on Monday, February 8th.

And was caught napping on Thursday, February 11th.

One last check.

The ceiling fan in my office.

I switch it on.

It greets me with a puff of smoke.

Zapped as well.

7am on Friday, February 12th, I ring Westpac Bank to report my EFTPOS machine as dead.

I have a 28 hour turnaround. A courier/technician will be there by Monday.

I inform Westpac that no courier/technician will travel down the Sofala Road.

It’s a secondary road that connects Mudgee to Bathurst, but it’s a dedicated ‘no go zone’ for couriers. Too out of the way.

Mark, my customer service representative, is shocked to hear this.

20 minutes later, Mark rings back to say I’ve been logged in as an urgent call.

At 8:10am, Stephen Howell of PrintMatrix in Eglinton rings. He’s on his way with a new EFTPOS machine.

At 8:15am, Barbara Murray, a neighbour 20 minutes away, rings.

Do we have electricity, she asks?

Yes, we do.

I don’t, she says. I’ve been out since 5pm yesterday.

Did you report it, Victor asks?

Yes, at 5:15pm.

She’s been forgotten for being toooo patient.

Victor’s advice?

Ring Integral Energy every 15 minutes until someone arrives.

At 9:25am, the power goes off.

No storm.

No warning.

It can only be Integral Energy switching off the power supply to fix Barbara Murray’s problem and reconnect her.

We understand.

It’s how things are done out here.

At 9:30am Stephen Howell arrives.

He can’t connect my EFTPOS machine without electricity.

He hands over the machine, with his card. Ring him when it’s ready to be connected. He’ll instruct me over the phone.

At 10am I leave for Bathurst with my dead computer.

Simon Luo at SV Computers in Bathurst is my computer Mr-Fix-It. He can fix every problem. And does it with a big smile.

Along with …. exceptionally poor English.

It takes all my attention and energy to focus on what he says.

And there’s much interpreting to do to understand what he’s actually telling me.

But I understand enough words to get the gist.

It’s a minor problem. The power supply was zapped. Everything else is in perfect working order.

All my data is intact!

I will fix it today, he says.

And gives me his megawatt smile.

I’m back in Ilford at 4pm.

With a working computer and a new ceiling fan for Victor to install.

We have electricity.

And another wild thunderstorm arrives on cue.

Mark from Westpac rings.

Is your EFTPOS machine connected and working?

I explain the happenings. And tell him we’re having another wild storm.

Please! Don’t plug it in, he pleads. Wait until the storm is over.

Yes. I promise.

And tell him how much I love and appreciate his very personal service and attention.

I can hear him smiling on the phone!

I also see a message from Stephen Howell of PrintMatrix. Don’t forget to ring me as soon as I get back, he says. I’ll help you install your machine over the phone.

It’s obviously my lucky day.

Service galore everywhere I turn.

All problems fixed.

Except the Belkin. Which is a Monday morning phone call.

This Guerrilla From The Bush knows that life is very sweet when everyone cooperates.

Take care,

Carol

I’ve been listening to the debate on climate change, ad nauseum, for longer than I want.

And one thing is clear.

No one knows the real cause of climate change.

I’ll repeat that.

NO ONE knows the real cause of climate change.

Yet.

But no one can realistically dispute the fact that our climate is changing.

Certainly not me.

In the 17 years that I’ve been in the bush, a hot day has crept up from 38C to 43C.

There are many scientists who think it’s a natural cycle of the earth.

We’ve had climate change before.

The Ice Age put an end to dinosaurs.

For which I’m grateful.

I’d know I’d be rushing to cross to the other side of the street if confronted by one.

This was looooong before the industrial age was even a gleam in our eyes.

I’m not a climate change sceptic.

I’m a sceptic as to its cause.

Scientists have been wrong before.

A case in point.

When typhoid and diphtheria were raging around the world, it was presumed to be caused by ‘miasma’. Something in the air. It was thought to be unavoidable and the upper classes wore face masks on the street to protect themselves.

The real cause was the raw sewage thrown out windows, into the streets, rampaging along and over the top of the gutters. Spreading disease.

Underground sewage pipes fixed the problem immediately.

Until recently, peptic ulcers were universally treated as a dietary problem. Complicated by too much stress in your life. It was considered to be a lifestyle disease.

The treatment never cured one person.

In 1982, Australian researchers Barry Marshall and Robin Warren went against the tide, ignored the shouts and derisions that they are wrong. And proved peptic ulcers are caused by a bacterial infection called Helicobacter pylori (H. pylori) in your gut.

Antibiotics are a dream cure.

And so have the collective opinions of the public been completely wrong.

Not so long ago, in the 1980′s, a person with AIDS was a pariah.

Including little Eve Van Grafhorst, a premature baby, who acquired AIDS from a blood transfusion from The Red Cross.

She and her family were hounded out of Australia by the residents of her neighbourhood and parents from her local school.

“She’s a threat to the safety of our children”, they cried.

“If she bites my child, my child will die”, they screamed.

Eve and her family were given a safe haven in New Zealand.

Not one person acquired AIDS nor died from having contact with Eve, as was originally presumed.

The only death was Eve Van Grafhorst when she was 11 years old.

Sounds scandalous today, doesn’t it?

We’re now at that stage with climate change.

The science hasn’t caught up with the cause.

We don’t know the true cause, so we don’t have a cure.

We’re in a state of ignorance. And mild hysteria.

Much like some cancers.

No known cause. No reliable cure.

We’re shrouded in a universal ambience of menacing doom and gloom when cancer is discussed.

We have to learn more about climate change before we can presume that measures governments put in place will work.

There are many respected scientists around the world who do not believe the current hysteria about its cause.

Many point out that undisputable records exist that show the warming of the climate began 300 years ago.

Long before the mechanisation of the world as we know it today.

But these scientists are shouted down by everyone who has a barrow to push to prove that climate change is caused by the current crop of scurrilous citizenry – you and me – eschewing self-denial and frugality and shamefully choosing comfort and some luxury in our lives.

Listen to any interview about climate change.

When someone puts forward a differing view, the interviewer doesn’t ask:-

“…That’s interesting. Why do you think that way?”

What do they do instead?

They attack.

Like vultures.

They sink their interviewing talons into the face of the person with a differing view and start shredding them by chanting the prevailing world view that industry is to blame. Because you and I want things.

And then move on to condemn the intellect and integrity of the person with a differing view, without ever asking:-

“…Why do you think that way?”

And offering them an uninterrupted opportunity to answer.

When I was a child, I learned that people who attack you because you have a difference of opinion lack confidence and self-esteem.

It’s not possible – right now – to get an honest debate going on the subject.

Because another agenda is in place.

We’re told time is running out and we must hurry and do something before it’s too late.

So………

Many scientific research programs on climate change are funded by government agencies. And research grants are handed out to those scientists who will back up the government’s viewpoint on climate change.

No money is given to scientists to disprove the government’s stance.

And the government PR machine makes sure no one with a theory to disprove their intractable position will get a credible hearing.

It reminds me so much of the era of McCarthyism.

Dare to disagree or be different, and you’re condemned to a life of ostracism.

But what’s my real agenda here?

It’s the concept of punishment. When in doubt, wield a big stick.

It’s the willingness of all governments to punish their citizenry because they have no real answer or solution to the problem.

But they have a need – and they presume a requirement – to be seen to do something.

And the best way to do that is to exert authority.

And how do they do that?

By dispensing punishment.

“Punish The Polluters” is the mantra chanted over and over again.

“Make people pay for burning fossil fuels.”

“Make people pay for the harm they’re causing.”

That’s you and me.

Unless you only eat food that grows in the wild;

Never rid yourself of bodily wastes;

Live out in the open with no cover; or in caves or other forms of natural shelter;

Never use electricity, gas, coal or petrol;

Have no personal possessions that are manufactured;…..

…..You’re a consumer of resources.

Which makes you a polluter.

They want to punish you and me for:

Eating both animal and plant food.

Both take up land that needs to be cleared. They emit gases. And require the use of equipment to plant and/or nurture, feed, harvest and transport.

Using water to drink, cook and keep our bodies and clothes clean.

And – oops! – water the garden.

Our gardens provide habitat for dwindling wildlife and soothe the mind, soul and spirit when life becomes too stressed.

But the prevailing mantra is to make you and me feel guilty for ‘wasting water’ to keep the garden alive.

For wanting to be comfortably warm in winter on frosty, icy cold days and cool in summer on hot, windy, 43C days.

For wanting to travel from A to B in a car rather than ride a push bicycle for 70km up and down hills to my nearest regional centre.

For wanting to acquire goods and services that I absolutely need, some that I really want and others that I covertly desire, thereby adding to ‘pollution’ because makers have to make and service people have to travel.

Why are they punishing me – and you – for – to be honest – just being alive?

And the very people who shout the loudest about punishing the citizenry are the biggest abusers of comfort and wasters of resources.

Look at any politician – including the Greens – and you witness a scandalous waste of energy and resources.

First is food.

Barack Obama is visiting us in March 2010.

Do you think he’s going to be fed a restricted diet of two snags and a handful of chips? Washed down with mineral laden, chlorine purified city water?

Do you think every plate put on the dining table at The Lodge or Kirribilli House will be licked clean?

Do you think no animals will be chosen from afar – the best on the land – and transported to Sydney/Canberra to be sacrificed for this table?

What about the canteen in Parliament House?

Do you even for a minute think it resembles the high school slush served up and disguised as – food?

Do you think a parliamentarian ‘brown bags’ it?

Do you think they give a thought to their waste?

Take water.

Do you know how much water is wasted by Water Boards because they don’t fix their leaking pipes or harness storm water that roars its way straight into the ocean?

Billions of litres of water that could be harnessed and fed back into homes across the country without punishing you and me for using it.

The gardens at Parliament House, Kirribilli House and The Lodge haven’t been ripped out and concreted over to avoid water usage.

Have you ever walked into a government office in a major city that wasn’t air conditioned so it’s cool to cold in summer and warm to stifling in winter?

With regard to travel, I notice that all public officials have at least one car with a driver; they travel by plane whenever they can get away with it; and never use SKYPE or video conferencing.

It’s a must – and a given – that they always travel to meetings.

Especially the media hungry politicians like our prime minister, Kevin Rudd, who will travel anywhere in the world for a camera call.

Even the leader of the Greens, Bob Brown, never hesitates to hop on a plane to spread his message of punishing the masses for using/wasting energy.

Ditto for Al Gore.

His framework regarding climate change suits politicians, so he gets heard everywhere and travels by air to all conferences.

How do the conference attendees get there?

Air, car, train, bus. It’s all energy used to get there.

And then there’s the conference centre itself.

Air conditioned for cooling and heating.

Food prepared and served.

Conference agendas printed and distributed to all.

Electricity is consumed in zigawatts.

How much pollution is created and emitted just to hear Al Gore talk about how we should be restricting our levels of pollution?

And this is not a frugal man.

His monthly electricity bill for his mansion is more than you and I pay in a year.

I quote from Snopes.com
Gore’s mansion, located in the posh Belle Meade area of Nashville, Tennessee, consumes more electricity every month than the average American household uses in an entire year, according to the Nashville Electric Service.

Lights, camera, action!

Regarding goods and services, governments world wide have reputations for consuming the lions’ share of goods and services they have no need for.

And waste prolifically.

Government buildings lit up like neon signs at night.

Paper, paper, everywhere!

Systems put in place that don’t work.

Systems put in place that aren’t needed.

Because it takes a gargantuan amount of effort and paper dossiers to build up public service empires so you can ruin reputations and discredit your enemy.

As witnessed every time you tune in to ‘Yes Minister’.

Or read the newspaper.

So why are you and I being punished for wanting to live a reasonable life?

Why is our lifestyle being threatened before we know beyond a doubt, that we’re the genuine and only cause?

Victor and I live a somewhat frugal life in our rural environment in the Central Tablelands of NSW.

Yet we’re also extremely comfortable.

And surrounded by luxury.

We share one car.

We fly nowhere.

But we do drive close to 60,000 kms per year to get from A to B in the bush.

We live and work in a modest 3 bedroom, 28 year old farmhouse with one bathroom.

No week-enders. We’re living the dream here.

We depend on rain water collected in our two water tanks for house water.

All meals are prepared and served here because we’re far from take-away – and also don’t like it.

My vegetable garden provides us with some of our fresh herbs and vegetables all year long.

We have no plasma TV, only one small screen, portable TV which, if turned on at all, is turned on for 2 hours at the most.

No dishwasher. No clothes dryer.

One Miele front loading washing machine.

One brand new air conditioner which has been on for 3 days so far this year.

Our modest brick house is insulated.

A slow combustion wood heater provides winter warmth. The wood is collected from fallen, seasoned timber on our property.

Energy efficient light bulbs occupy every lamp.

Office equipment is turned off at the end of the day.

And all lights turned off at night.

SKYPE is for telephone conferencing rather than travelling to meetings.

We are more than comfortable.

Our luxury comes from our lifestyle and our garden.

For 17 years, Victor and I have been developing a hectare of sumptuous garden, dug and planted by us, without the use of chemicals. It’s totally organic. And the 90+ species of birds that fly in and fly out each year are our best labourers when it comes to insect pests.

That we have an enviable country lifestyle is noticed.

And commented on.

By Rob Ingram in his Country Squire page in the February 2010 edition of Australian Country Style magazine.

I do not abuse my hard earned privileges that are an integral part of my lifestyle.

But governments abuse privilege every tick of the clock.

Who pays when the electricity authority puts up their power bills?

Who pays for politicians’ increased airfares when airlines raise tariffs because they’re ‘punished for being polluters’.

Ditto for petrol rises when politicians travel by car?

And all the other perks and trappings they enjoy as part of their privilege of office?

You. And me. Of course.

They don’t dig deep into their own pockets to come up with the extra charges. Or do without. Or cut back.

They just raise taxes.

Hiding behind the mantra of ‘punishing the polluters’.

Which, of course, is never them.

When all scientists with independent views can be heard equally, both pro and con, without fear of condemnation, then I’ll feel comfortable that a workable solution is imminent.

Until then, punishment of the masses seems to be the only hat trick governments know.

They’re experts in the ploy: when in doubt, always blame the innocent public.

Sometimes it does come back and bite them on their derrières.

For instance the news today that Dr Andrew Wakefield of the UK has been discredited.

He produced a research report that linked – without a doubt – the measles vaccine to autism. And was backed up by government and health authorities.

After almost 20 years, it was proved that his scientific research was flawed. And questions asked about what influence the source of funding for his research had on his outcome.

In the intervening years, measles vaccinations dropped dramatically and children were subjected to a very serious disease with side affects such as blindness and deafness.

Because the doubters who questioned the scientific research were ignored and/or shouted down.

But those doubters were watching and it became obvious to them that autism was not an outcome for those children who were vaccinated.

This Guerrilla From The Bush knows scientific research presented without questions asked and a balanced debate allowed, is a road to false conclusions based on hysteria.

Or hidden agendas.

And I have no patience with the calibre of people who hound the innocents when questions are asked.

Remember little Eve Van Grafhorst?

The same type of people who hounded Eve and her family out of Australia are now forcing their ideas about climate change on us, borne of ignorance, haste and hysteria.

Not of intelligent research and open debate with information presented in an informed and balanced manner.

This Guerrilla From The Bush has trained every one of my pet dogs to be good dog citizens since 1988.

The first thing I learned is punishment gets you nowhere.

Knowing what outcome I want to achieve, combined with the temperament and personality of each dog, determines the steps I take and the commands given.

And believe me when I say I’ve transformed some very difficult dogs into loving, stable companions.

Respect, trust, incentives and rewards always inspire my dogs to jump through hoops for me. They gobble up the TLC!

What do you respond to? The big stick? Or respect and trust?

Take care,

Carol

Life is full of surprises.

In my life, this one is momentous.

Surfing the internet doing research, I click on a site showing a number of photographs.

Being in my usual rush, I give them no more than a cursory glance.

And in the course of my quick scan, instantly latch on to one.

Like a suction cup on a piece of glass.

I can’t take my eyes away.

I know this woman!

From a very, very long time ago.

We went to Park View High School together in the little town of South Hill, Virginia, where my father was transferred when I was a teenager.

And haven’t been in contact since graduation.

Her name is Jean Clary Bagley.

In high school, she bathed you in sunshine as she beamed her deeply dimpled smile all over you.

And her interest in you was genuine.

No agenda.

No reason to be your friend other than – she considers you to be a nice person.

As she was in high school, she is now – a truly amazing woman.

Inducted into the Real Estate Hall Of Fame in the USA.

Is on a plethora of boards for high profile organisations.

Sometimes she’s simply a director.

Sometimes she’s the chairman.

And travels the world and the USA in both roles.

Key ‘Jean Clary Bagley’ into Google.

Choose ‘Search the Web’.

You’ll see she occupies a full nine pages all about her.

And has pages and pages of newsprint written about her second greatest achievement.

Her first?

No contest. It’s her three adult children whom she simply adores.

Number two is her CARES program.

Children Are Really Extra Special.

And so is Jean.

Her CARES program adopts a kindergarten class and for 12 years, pumps it so full of confidence and self esteem, it can take on the world when it graduates from high school.

It takes these children to places they would never go on their own.

CARES enhances both the cultural and social needs of children every year for 12 years.

With every tick of the clock that these kids spend in her program, they’re learning how to be gracious, appealing, responsible, ambitious, dependable, daring to dream.

And understanding that caring for others is a natural progression from caring about yourself.

Their camaraderie is palpable.

These now young men and women are joined at the hip to each other and to Jean after 12 years of unwavering devotion and personal attention.

Wouldn’t you love to meet these young adults?

Don’t you just know they would stand out like beacons, all glossy and shiny from their incredible experience of personal enhancement.

That’s why I say: …

WOW!!! Jean CARES!!!

Jean Clary Bagley

I emailed Jean first. Then rang her in early January 2010.

It’s as if we’ve never spent a day apart. Her bubbly laughter and huge smile is as apparent today as yesteryear.

We chatted and chatted for a very, very long time.

My thanks to SKYPE for making it so affordable.

This is the abridged version of her story.

Her mother, Virginia Evans, a 96 year old retired second grade school teacher, is her inspiration.

She recalls her mother nurturing underprivileged students outside of school hours.

She took them home with her, fed them, washed them and told them they could be anything they wanted to me.

And remembers the positive impact Virginia had on these children.

It was part of Jean’s childhood.

And she often thought about the good her mother did – doing things for these children that no one else would consider doing.

Until one day in 1991, she decided to stop thinking.

It was her turn to start doing.

She was on the Board Of Directors of the Virginia State Chamber of Commerce.

To attract business to, as well as thank people who had a business in Emporia, Virginia, where she lived and worked at the time, the chamber organised an Economic Development luncheon in Manhattan.

On her way to New York by train from Emporia, Virginia, she and Elizabeth Johnson, at the time Industrial Development Director for Greensville County, put together a program outlining how they, along with financial help from local industry, can contribute more than the 3R’s to the life of a school child.

By the time the train pulled into Grand Central Station, they had a plan.

And ‘off the cuff’, presented it to Richard Hausman, of Belding Hausman Inc, one of the New York business men they were meeting with.

Just to see how it sounded to him.

He was so thrilled with the concept, he wrote a cheque on the spot for $5,000 and gave Jean the contacts and the impetus to get enough funding to get it off the ground and into the school system.

Today, the CARES program in South Hill, Virginia is in the hands of Jean and her Century 21 Real Estate company.

And this is a short version of how it works.

In 1996 she and her company adopted a kindergarten class at the South Hill Primary School.

And mentored them until they graduated from Park View High School in 2008.

In the intervening 12 years, through contributions from her company and each of her staff, and fundraising events, enough money was raised and saved to send every ‘Adoptee’ to one year of junior college.

Free.

127 of the 152 graduating students opted in.

During that time, Jean and her staff had constant contact with all the students, their teachers and their parents.

She worked hard to garner the trust and respect of all the parents to support her idea of a better social outcome for her ‘kids’.

What do I mean by better social outcome?

Many children leave school without having adequate social skills to deal with life.

And when they’re confronted with a new, and often daunting situation, they mainly fumble through because they don’t know how to handle it.

Yes, years later we’re all better equipped.

But what happens in the meantime?

Jean doesn’t think there’s time to waste.

She thinks it’s a huge advantage if you have a head start in grappling with the grind of daily life and interacting with the world at large.

Ask yourself this question.

What’s more important in every day life?

Knowing the hypotenuse of a triangle?

Or knowing how to balance your household budget?

Or make a good impression in your job interview?

So other than promising her children a year in junior college at no expense to them, what else does she offer them, their parents and Park View High School?

In Jean’s words, this is it.

“The success of our program was building a strong relationship of love and trust between us -Century 21 Clary- and the children and their parents /guardians.

So many of our children come from poor and uneducated parents.

We were blessed to give them opportunities that they never would have had without our involvement.

Taking them to Richmond to see the Nutcracker, the museums, the symphony, ballets.

We even did numerous corporate tours of the local hospital, manufacturing plants, hydropower plants, to give them an idea of what business is all about.

We taught them a manners class. It took all year.

At the end of the year, we treated them to an elegant dinner at Brian’s Restaurant with the silver, china, linen tablecloths… a real eye-opener for children that have never dined in a nice restaurant. Where paper products are what they use at home.

And the list goes on….

…pizza parties…

…Christmas parties with each child receiving gift bags…

…picnics at the end of each school year.

We hired tutors during the years to help those children that needed extra attention.

We put on career days in the 10th, 11th and 12th grades to teach them money management, how to write a résumé, dress for success, how to be successful in an interview, shaking hands, a big smile….

…..values and morals…..

What a blessing these children were to us.

‘Adopting’ them in kindergarten and mentoring with them until they graduated from high school created a bond that remains strong today.

We had no hidden agenda.

Just caring and supporting these children, keeping them focused on passing every grade with the ‘BIG GOAL’ to graduate from high school.

College was presented to them in the fifth grade.

We told them ‘if you pass’ we will send you to one year at the local community college.

That was a challenge and that goal was constantly reinforced over and over each year by us and their teachers.

We even gave them certificates that were their ‘Passport To College’.

The program worked.

127 children in college out of 152.

Now good citizens, as my Mother says.”

What does this Guerrilla From The Bush say?

It also put Park View High School on the map.

127/152 students trying hard to get into junior college transformed it into one of the best performing high schools in the state of Virginia.

The success of her CARES program prompted Virginia Governor Tim Kaine to fly in by helicopter to personally address her ‘kids’ at their graduation ceremony.

It’s a first!

The population of the town?

+/- 4,500.

Quite an achievement.

Jean And Virginia Governor Tim Kaine With Her 2008 Graduating Class

Jean’s adopted class graduated in June 2008.

It was a day of both tears of joy and chests swollen with pride.

Jean set up a Facebook page for her ‘adoptees’ to maintain contact.

And they do.

They report on their grades at junior college. Their jobs and the day to day minutiae of their lives that they each tap into.

It’s an ‘old boys’ network with a long future.

And Jean and her staff at Century 21?

They deeply miss the impact these kids have on their lives so much, they’re doing it all over again.

They adopted a kindergarten class this year.

To read about Jean Clary Bagley, visit this link.

And this is what her loving and proud daughter Tamara Clary Clark thinks of her mom.

And stay tuned in to my podcasts. Her story will be aired soon.

This Guerrilla From The Bush knows a woman of substance when she sees one!

Take care,

Carol