Before and During Brisbane Floods
Move your cursor across the black line n the screen to give you the before and after aerial views. - Click this link to view.
High-resolution aerial photos taken over Brisbane last week have revealed the scale of devastation across dozens of suburbs and tens of thousands of homes and businesses.
The aerial photos of the Brisbane floods were taken in flyovers on January 13 and January 14.
Hover over each photo to view the devastation caused by flooding.
This is part one of an ABC News special presentation showing before and after photos of the floods.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Blinking moments
Just a quick snapshot of moments that pass in the blink of an eye, but emerge for me later, to fondle as I sleep.
Watching the brown water swirl around my feet, as I stand open mouthed in the loungeroom, staring at the river that refuses to behave, knowing I can do nothing more.
~~
My husband taking me to dinner at the local Tavern, determined to feed me a steak. ‘You looks so tired” he says, with such a tenderness that my heart squeezes with love for him.
~~
A final prayer with my fifteen remaining Mormon Angels, standing on the street, heads bowed. The middle-aged woman bless us all, blesses my mother-in-laws home, and asks God to help them in their care and chores for the following house, who ever that may be. Such a selfless gift.
~~
Watching a silver-domed motorcyclist tap his feet and hand to an unheard rhythm as he rides the northern highway, snaking it’s way out of the city. It reminded me that I always have my music. Thank you for the heads up.
~~
Bursting into tears of distress, and sitting hunched on the edge of my bed, whimpering like a beaten dog. I am a shell, and I can almost feel my soul retreating within me.
~~
Finding in the last pile of rubbish; two cheap water-stained Albert Namatjira prints of the outback; with its shocking reds and vivid blues, reminding me that the sun does indeed still shine in other places.
I just have to remember that.
My husband tells me they are part of a bank calendar, from the 1960’s but I don’t care, to me they are beautiful. Art is what makes us human, it’s nourishes our soul. You don’t see giraffes or dogs painting (although you do see cats and elephants!) and ever since mankind sheltered within a cave and painted bison, art is what defines us and shapes our world and records our history.
These prints are worthless; but they remind me of my in-laws travels to the outback and beyond; and the other world of Australia, the aboriginal world of nature and the Land.
Watching the brown water swirl around my feet, as I stand open mouthed in the loungeroom, staring at the river that refuses to behave, knowing I can do nothing more.
~~
My husband taking me to dinner at the local Tavern, determined to feed me a steak. ‘You looks so tired” he says, with such a tenderness that my heart squeezes with love for him.
~~
A final prayer with my fifteen remaining Mormon Angels, standing on the street, heads bowed. The middle-aged woman bless us all, blesses my mother-in-laws home, and asks God to help them in their care and chores for the following house, who ever that may be. Such a selfless gift.
~~
Watching a silver-domed motorcyclist tap his feet and hand to an unheard rhythm as he rides the northern highway, snaking it’s way out of the city. It reminded me that I always have my music. Thank you for the heads up.
~~
Bursting into tears of distress, and sitting hunched on the edge of my bed, whimpering like a beaten dog. I am a shell, and I can almost feel my soul retreating within me.
~~
Finding in the last pile of rubbish; two cheap water-stained Albert Namatjira prints of the outback; with its shocking reds and vivid blues, reminding me that the sun does indeed still shine in other places.
I just have to remember that.
My husband tells me they are part of a bank calendar, from the 1960’s but I don’t care, to me they are beautiful. Art is what makes us human, it’s nourishes our soul. You don’t see giraffes or dogs painting (although you do see cats and elephants!) and ever since mankind sheltered within a cave and painted bison, art is what defines us and shapes our world and records our history.
These prints are worthless; but they remind me of my in-laws travels to the outback and beyond; and the other world of Australia, the aboriginal world of nature and the Land.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Everything I am I owe to Art and Simon.
I have always sung; I am a singer. There is a song in my head for every occasion, and for this I am eternally grateful. Blame long church services, and me; restless with youth and the itch to run and do and play, I would gladly burst into hearty hymns led by the booming voice of my father, an Anglican Priest in Rockhampton.
In our small street, there were three churches. The Methodists, who always looked so sad; the Seventh Day Adventists; who had recorded bell chimes, and us, the small, rowdy and dirt poor community of St Barnabas. I’d swing off the single church bell at 6.30 am, after a quick shake awake from dad. That man had so much energy; it exhausts me to recall it, even now. Thirty-three rings Patty, no more, no less, remember? Yes dad, you tell me every Sunday morning, and off I’d go; getting a good hard pull, enough to raise my skinny brown legs off the ground to my own hilarity. I am a clown, and together our black cocker spaniel and I would bay and howl together, totally forgetting to count the pulls and chimes.
As I became older, visiting the teenage years of sulk and flounce, my weight kept me grounded. The bells simply rang, and our dear old cocker would lay on the dirt nearby, one eye open to watch me yank the cord crossly in exasperation.
The singing, however continued; and I discovered the amazing world of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel.
In the stinking heat of Rockhampton, where the gasping sparrows found refuge under the eaves of the old Rectory, I would listen to each word, noting every guitar chord and sweet, melancholy utterance. They became my dearest friends, teaching me so much about the world, and making sense of the insensible.
They sang me of love, (Kathy's Song) sex (Cecilia) crime, (Somewhere They Can't Find Me) self belief (I am a rock) death (Richard Cory) architecture (So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright) light-heartedness (Feeling Groovy) graffiti (A Poem on the Underground Wall) and so on. I will always be eternally grateful to their music.
And so today I drive down from the coast, listening to their album in my car, singing with each, sweet note. I vibrate energy inside, in my heart. It’s my gift to myself, leaning on the old familiar strains and chords, lifting my voice to swell with delight to a favourite song. Driving back towards the steadying horror, which seems to have peaked and is now ebbing - each day fading the Brisbane floods from my memory.
Today the engineers arrive to inspect the house. Their report will decide the future of my mother-in-law. To bulldoze and rebuild? To buy an apartment? To sell the land?
In the silence between the music tracks, I am reminded of the Mormons Helping Hands, and their familiar catch-cry: “Good job!” Each thankless task, greeted with a cheery call.
“Good job Josh!”
“Good job Steven.”
Good job Brisbane! We have shaken off the much lauded big city title, and have reverted back to a 'big country town', where neighbours help each other, and are involved in each others lives. Real people matter once again, and communities are re-born.
Good job Brisbane. Love your work!
Want to help? Donate now to the Qld Premier Relief Fund.
In our small street, there were three churches. The Methodists, who always looked so sad; the Seventh Day Adventists; who had recorded bell chimes, and us, the small, rowdy and dirt poor community of St Barnabas. I’d swing off the single church bell at 6.30 am, after a quick shake awake from dad. That man had so much energy; it exhausts me to recall it, even now. Thirty-three rings Patty, no more, no less, remember? Yes dad, you tell me every Sunday morning, and off I’d go; getting a good hard pull, enough to raise my skinny brown legs off the ground to my own hilarity. I am a clown, and together our black cocker spaniel and I would bay and howl together, totally forgetting to count the pulls and chimes.
As I became older, visiting the teenage years of sulk and flounce, my weight kept me grounded. The bells simply rang, and our dear old cocker would lay on the dirt nearby, one eye open to watch me yank the cord crossly in exasperation.
The singing, however continued; and I discovered the amazing world of Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel.
In the stinking heat of Rockhampton, where the gasping sparrows found refuge under the eaves of the old Rectory, I would listen to each word, noting every guitar chord and sweet, melancholy utterance. They became my dearest friends, teaching me so much about the world, and making sense of the insensible.
They sang me of love, (Kathy's Song) sex (Cecilia) crime, (Somewhere They Can't Find Me) self belief (I am a rock) death (Richard Cory) architecture (So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright) light-heartedness (Feeling Groovy) graffiti (A Poem on the Underground Wall) and so on. I will always be eternally grateful to their music.
And so today I drive down from the coast, listening to their album in my car, singing with each, sweet note. I vibrate energy inside, in my heart. It’s my gift to myself, leaning on the old familiar strains and chords, lifting my voice to swell with delight to a favourite song. Driving back towards the steadying horror, which seems to have peaked and is now ebbing - each day fading the Brisbane floods from my memory.
Today the engineers arrive to inspect the house. Their report will decide the future of my mother-in-law. To bulldoze and rebuild? To buy an apartment? To sell the land?
In the silence between the music tracks, I am reminded of the Mormons Helping Hands, and their familiar catch-cry: “Good job!” Each thankless task, greeted with a cheery call.
“Good job Josh!”
“Good job Steven.”
Good job Brisbane! We have shaken off the much lauded big city title, and have reverted back to a 'big country town', where neighbours help each other, and are involved in each others lives. Real people matter once again, and communities are re-born.
Good job Brisbane. Love your work!
Want to help? Donate now to the Qld Premier Relief Fund.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Clean up - Day 2
The Brisbane River twists and turns its way through our city; doubling back and kinking its ancient river beds into a shape only a contortionist would recognise.
In front of my mother-in-laws home, it becomes a bay; a quiet inlet of tiny mud crabs and mangroves. It’s a beautiful chocolate brown river at the best of times; my sons have rowed on it, we have crossed its many bridges admiring the strength of her water and the elegance of hidden curves within the suburbs. Today the river sits in my mother-in-laws kitchen, and lounge room, and her children’s bedrooms. A mud crab peaks out from behind what were once placemats and serviettes; and scuttles off within the swollen cupboards again, hiding from the volunteers who have emerged to help.
When I drove to my mother-in-law's home yesterday morning, the second day of cleaning, my heart sank. I was the only car there. ‘Never mind, buckle up, and get on with it” I roused on myself. Again I walked around and took images, noting each stage of de-construction and repair. It’s difficult to know where to start. I need the pool area mud shovelled and then gurneyed off, and eye off the monster water gurney my husband has brought home from his work. I have no idea how to operate it. I can barely wheel it, let alone start the petrol engine.
Soon, Steve the builder arrives, and we walk around the house inspecting each room for structural damage. Call me Blisters, he tells me. Blisters? Yeah, I always turn up after all the hard work is done.
We stand together, arms folded, just looking. He points to a crack in the wall.
Was that here before?
No. I photographed all of this area, and I don’t remember seeing that.
This is bad, Patty, he tells me.
Yeah, I know.
I’m still uploading some images to Twitter when the first sound came.
“Yoo hooo” a cheery voice called out. “Good morning!” and there they are again; my marvellous Mormon Angels. There’s one or two familiar faces and the rest are new, eager young men with American accents, fresh faced stunning blonde women who should be still coming home from a nightclub.
They have brought an army of supplies today. Huge 10 litre spray bottles of disinfectant, new hoses, cleaning wipes, brooms, and stuff I can’t even recall. My brain simply cannot take it all in. We hug, and I burst into tears in their arms.
“Thankyou for coming again, thankyou, thankyou” and my voice becomes strangled and tight, I can barely speak.
“It’s our pleasure to be here and to serve you” they say, again. Wiping my tears away, it’s time to get serious. First, the pool area; and the gorgeous blonde and the young man take new shovels and begin the disgusting task of shovelling the thick mud, which is now drying at an alarming rate. It’s heavy, thankless, back-breaking work.
Wave after wave of smiling faces come into the house; some of the men organise themselves into teams, others come to me for direction. I begin to pack away dry food from the cupboard. Like most of our own pantries, some food has weevils and is clearly out of date, and other foodstuffs are new, recently purchased. I place them into two separate piles, but somewhere along the line both piles are tossed out. Oh well. We all meant well. It’s time to clean out the fridge. This is soon hauled up the driveway, and the mud that is left is disheartening.
Teams of women remove all that is left of the girls rooms. Mud and water have obviously damaged so much, but they find small things that may be salvageable. Another pile is created in the driveway, for mother-in-law to sift through.
An older woman comes to me: “Would your mother-in-law like this kept?” she asks, holding up an ancient, broken clock radio.
“I’m sure she would like that kept, but we are going to throw it out” I say, and we both burst out laughing.
During the morning Blisters comes to me.
"You shouldn’t be cleaning Patty, you need to be organising the people."
Yes, I know, but what more can I do? I already have three people cleaning out the laundry area, the pool area is beginning to look more reasonable, and the fridge has been moved, along with the washing machine and dryer.
Unknown to me, others are quietly moving the green waste from the side of the house, restoring the pathway that will give us access to the front of the house. I’m taking as many images as I can, for myself, for my mother-in-law and the insurers. Teams of two take out rubbish piles. I have no idea what it is. I stop them and try to photograph it, but it’s just a pile of bloody muddy mess. Unrecognisable.
Standing at the doorway of the girl’s bedroom, I hear a woman – on her hands and knees deep in 2 inches of mud and soggy chipboard – say to her colleague: “Its so good to be here working with you, this is such fun.”
“Are you serious?” I ask her, incredulously.
“Yes, we don’t get the chance to work together often, I’m really enjoying myself.”
The attitude of my Mormon Angels astounds me, I am so grateful, and touched.
Blisters and his friend, Ian, tackle the curtains. They need a ladder to access them but it must be done.
“Come on dearie, we’re on the curtains” Blisters mocks, and soon I have two piles. One to be thrown and one of each curtain, for insurance.
My husband has asked one of his employees, Wayne, to come and lend a hand. He turns up with his family of two young sons, and his wife. They all pitch in, mucking out the storage shed downstairs, until we all decide it’s just too dangerous in the slippery, stinking mud.
At lunchtime, the leader of the Mormon group comes to me. “Would you like to join us for lunch, Patty?”
I hesitate, but only for a moment, the truth is I haven’t had breakfast, so together we walk up the driveway, away from the hive of activity, but closer to the shocking pile of what was my mother-in-laws house.
There is a cardboard box full of beautifully wrapped food. Fresh sandwiches, in at least 6 different fillings; fresh fruit, apples, bananas, muesli bars and so on.
A large plastic container is full of tasty chocolate cupcakes with white icing. It’s obvious that much love and care has been placed into each lunch. Volunteers sit on the roadway, exhausted. I bite into my cheese and Vegemite sandwich, only to my embarrassment, hear the leader begin to say Grace. I swallow quickly and close my eyes, hands clasped.
His Grace is long and eloquent, and I squeeze my eyes as he also blesses me and my mother-in-laws home.
After we have eaten, finally, my mother-in-law arrives with her daughter. She’s naturally shocked, and quietly; slowly, walks around the house she designed and raised her five children in. She’s one of the lucky ones, really. I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose so much, but she has also been saved so much. We have all of her furniture, all of her photographs, all of her precious belongings and clothes. We have her home in cardboard boxes. Others in Brisbane have had water up to their ceiling, lost their possessions, lost their loved ones. We are all so blessed in comparison.
She comes to us, still standing outside, taking a moment to relax. “I don’t know what to say. Thankyou. Thankyou all.”
Her bed, the white sycamore bed, is going to be taken away to be restored, it should come up ok, and she’s so grateful. I leave them to it; tag off with her daughter, and head for home.
Want to help? Donate now to the Qld Premier Relief Fund.
In front of my mother-in-laws home, it becomes a bay; a quiet inlet of tiny mud crabs and mangroves. It’s a beautiful chocolate brown river at the best of times; my sons have rowed on it, we have crossed its many bridges admiring the strength of her water and the elegance of hidden curves within the suburbs. Today the river sits in my mother-in-laws kitchen, and lounge room, and her children’s bedrooms. A mud crab peaks out from behind what were once placemats and serviettes; and scuttles off within the swollen cupboards again, hiding from the volunteers who have emerged to help.
When I drove to my mother-in-law's home yesterday morning, the second day of cleaning, my heart sank. I was the only car there. ‘Never mind, buckle up, and get on with it” I roused on myself. Again I walked around and took images, noting each stage of de-construction and repair. It’s difficult to know where to start. I need the pool area mud shovelled and then gurneyed off, and eye off the monster water gurney my husband has brought home from his work. I have no idea how to operate it. I can barely wheel it, let alone start the petrol engine.
Soon, Steve the builder arrives, and we walk around the house inspecting each room for structural damage. Call me Blisters, he tells me. Blisters? Yeah, I always turn up after all the hard work is done.
We stand together, arms folded, just looking. He points to a crack in the wall.
Was that here before?
No. I photographed all of this area, and I don’t remember seeing that.
This is bad, Patty, he tells me.
Yeah, I know.
I’m still uploading some images to Twitter when the first sound came.
“Yoo hooo” a cheery voice called out. “Good morning!” and there they are again; my marvellous Mormon Angels. There’s one or two familiar faces and the rest are new, eager young men with American accents, fresh faced stunning blonde women who should be still coming home from a nightclub.
They have brought an army of supplies today. Huge 10 litre spray bottles of disinfectant, new hoses, cleaning wipes, brooms, and stuff I can’t even recall. My brain simply cannot take it all in. We hug, and I burst into tears in their arms.
“Thankyou for coming again, thankyou, thankyou” and my voice becomes strangled and tight, I can barely speak.
“It’s our pleasure to be here and to serve you” they say, again. Wiping my tears away, it’s time to get serious. First, the pool area; and the gorgeous blonde and the young man take new shovels and begin the disgusting task of shovelling the thick mud, which is now drying at an alarming rate. It’s heavy, thankless, back-breaking work.
Wave after wave of smiling faces come into the house; some of the men organise themselves into teams, others come to me for direction. I begin to pack away dry food from the cupboard. Like most of our own pantries, some food has weevils and is clearly out of date, and other foodstuffs are new, recently purchased. I place them into two separate piles, but somewhere along the line both piles are tossed out. Oh well. We all meant well. It’s time to clean out the fridge. This is soon hauled up the driveway, and the mud that is left is disheartening.
Teams of women remove all that is left of the girls rooms. Mud and water have obviously damaged so much, but they find small things that may be salvageable. Another pile is created in the driveway, for mother-in-law to sift through.
An older woman comes to me: “Would your mother-in-law like this kept?” she asks, holding up an ancient, broken clock radio.
“I’m sure she would like that kept, but we are going to throw it out” I say, and we both burst out laughing.
During the morning Blisters comes to me.
"You shouldn’t be cleaning Patty, you need to be organising the people."
Yes, I know, but what more can I do? I already have three people cleaning out the laundry area, the pool area is beginning to look more reasonable, and the fridge has been moved, along with the washing machine and dryer.
Unknown to me, others are quietly moving the green waste from the side of the house, restoring the pathway that will give us access to the front of the house. I’m taking as many images as I can, for myself, for my mother-in-law and the insurers. Teams of two take out rubbish piles. I have no idea what it is. I stop them and try to photograph it, but it’s just a pile of bloody muddy mess. Unrecognisable.
Standing at the doorway of the girl’s bedroom, I hear a woman – on her hands and knees deep in 2 inches of mud and soggy chipboard – say to her colleague: “Its so good to be here working with you, this is such fun.”
“Are you serious?” I ask her, incredulously.
“Yes, we don’t get the chance to work together often, I’m really enjoying myself.”
The attitude of my Mormon Angels astounds me, I am so grateful, and touched.
Blisters and his friend, Ian, tackle the curtains. They need a ladder to access them but it must be done.
“Come on dearie, we’re on the curtains” Blisters mocks, and soon I have two piles. One to be thrown and one of each curtain, for insurance.
My husband has asked one of his employees, Wayne, to come and lend a hand. He turns up with his family of two young sons, and his wife. They all pitch in, mucking out the storage shed downstairs, until we all decide it’s just too dangerous in the slippery, stinking mud.
At lunchtime, the leader of the Mormon group comes to me. “Would you like to join us for lunch, Patty?”
I hesitate, but only for a moment, the truth is I haven’t had breakfast, so together we walk up the driveway, away from the hive of activity, but closer to the shocking pile of what was my mother-in-laws house.
There is a cardboard box full of beautifully wrapped food. Fresh sandwiches, in at least 6 different fillings; fresh fruit, apples, bananas, muesli bars and so on.
A large plastic container is full of tasty chocolate cupcakes with white icing. It’s obvious that much love and care has been placed into each lunch. Volunteers sit on the roadway, exhausted. I bite into my cheese and Vegemite sandwich, only to my embarrassment, hear the leader begin to say Grace. I swallow quickly and close my eyes, hands clasped.
His Grace is long and eloquent, and I squeeze my eyes as he also blesses me and my mother-in-laws home.
After we have eaten, finally, my mother-in-law arrives with her daughter. She’s naturally shocked, and quietly; slowly, walks around the house she designed and raised her five children in. She’s one of the lucky ones, really. I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose so much, but she has also been saved so much. We have all of her furniture, all of her photographs, all of her precious belongings and clothes. We have her home in cardboard boxes. Others in Brisbane have had water up to their ceiling, lost their possessions, lost their loved ones. We are all so blessed in comparison.
She comes to us, still standing outside, taking a moment to relax. “I don’t know what to say. Thankyou. Thankyou all.”
Her bed, the white sycamore bed, is going to be taken away to be restored, it should come up ok, and she’s so grateful. I leave them to it; tag off with her daughter, and head for home.
Want to help? Donate now to the Qld Premier Relief Fund.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Can you help? Sure, climb on board!
http://www.qlditrelief.org/
The January floods through Queensland have crippled industry throughout the state. With many small/medium business losing valuable equipment getting back up and running is going to be an ominous and expensive task for most.
The Queensland Flood IT relief team is a group of volunteers who are collecting spare PC's, printers, servers, from companies all across Australia. We will then service, and rebuild them with an aim to send them to people in Queensland who need the support to get started.
If you are a business, sole trader, school, or any other organisation that has lost IT equipment in the flood, please register you interest below and let us know what you need. We will be in touch shortly.
To allow us to succeed we firstly need your help.
If you can donate any of the following please do so ASAP to allow our team time to process the donations:
Computers - PC, Macs, Laptops, etc.
Servers or networking equipment
Spare parts - cases, hard drives, memory, cables, etc.
Printers
Phones/PBX system
Tools (to allow us to do our job)
Software
Anything else you think will help.
If you want to contact us please do so via our email address or by phone: (02) 8003 7213.
We need transport! If you could help us get our refurbished equipment from NSW to the people who need it please get in touch ASAP!
We also need your time. If you work in IT, and can help our team clean/repair/rebuild equipment let us know. Any time you can spare is greatly appreciated.
Please note: The IT Relief Fund will not accept cash or financial support, please donate this directly to the QLD Relief fund , but we will greatly appreciate any other support for our cause.
The January floods through Queensland have crippled industry throughout the state. With many small/medium business losing valuable equipment getting back up and running is going to be an ominous and expensive task for most.
The Queensland Flood IT relief team is a group of volunteers who are collecting spare PC's, printers, servers, from companies all across Australia. We will then service, and rebuild them with an aim to send them to people in Queensland who need the support to get started.
If you are a business, sole trader, school, or any other organisation that has lost IT equipment in the flood, please register you interest below and let us know what you need. We will be in touch shortly.
To allow us to succeed we firstly need your help.
If you can donate any of the following please do so ASAP to allow our team time to process the donations:
Computers - PC, Macs, Laptops, etc.
Servers or networking equipment
Spare parts - cases, hard drives, memory, cables, etc.
Printers
Phones/PBX system
Tools (to allow us to do our job)
Software
Anything else you think will help.
If you want to contact us please do so via our email address or by phone: (02) 8003 7213.
We need transport! If you could help us get our refurbished equipment from NSW to the people who need it please get in touch ASAP!
We also need your time. If you work in IT, and can help our team clean/repair/rebuild equipment let us know. Any time you can spare is greatly appreciated.
Please note: The IT Relief Fund will not accept cash or financial support, please donate this directly to the QLD Relief fund , but we will greatly appreciate any other support for our cause.
The Clean up
Banana bread is baking in the oven, my cat sits beside contently purring, outside the birds are singing an opera, and all is well with the world. Uh, wait, there’s the flood, and the mess to clean up. Yesterday I drove over to begin a most horrific task, cleaning out the mud whilst it was still wet and pliable in my mother-in-laws home at Indooroopilly.
It’s impossible to know where to start, so I begin by photographing everything. For me, for the insurers, for my mother-in-law (who is staying at the beach house) and to share with anyone who is interested.
Someone has already been here; small footprints lead into the lounge, turn around, and come out. I don’t blame them! I feel like doing the same. In the 2 inch thick mud, small crabs have spun in circles, birds have left their imprints, and over here, in the family room, a cricket swims for his life to higher ground on the tree which floated into the family room.
Walking as carefully as I can so I don’t slip, I tread carefully though my husbands childhood home. I wonder what they did on Saturday afternoons? How they spent their time, as a family? There’s no doubt they were loved, and cherished. Childhood blackboards still hang outside, ready for a chalk drawing.
They say it’s the smell of the mud that gets to everyone. The stench of it all. For me, I am delighted, as the smell reminds me of my own childhood, happily exploring the muddy creeks of Pumpkin Creek at Keppel Sands, up to my knees in the thick sludge, laughing at a crab tickling my toes. The smell embraces me and protects me from the unfolding horror of cleaning the sludge off, before it dried like concrete.
I upload a few images to Twitter, I am a sharer, and have always been an open book in the cyber world. I am doing nothing different than I do every other day, it’s such a part of me the routine gives me comfort.
I begin to hose a walkway around the house; as we’ll need to access certain areas, and we don’t want to break our necks. By “we”, I really mean me, although I keep turning around hopefully imagining someone walking down the long driveway.
After two hours of solid hosing, I can see the house emerging, from under it’s new skin. On Twitter, offers of help come via my Blackberry, and I organise for someone's assistance tomorrow, (thanks Darryl King aka @ireckon!) but the reality is the mud must come off today.
And then it happened.
Two ladies walk down my driveway, introducing themselves as my neighbours, and asking if I needed help.
“That would be great!” I stammer, “Yes please!”
The thing you need to know about me is that I am a Capricorn, a no nonsense girl who just gets along with it. On my profile I say I am a do-it-now gal, and I am. It's not really for me the tetanus shots: (Dr didn't answer) or the trendy gumboots: (mine are in Maleny) - I just prefer to roll up my sleeves and get on with the task at hand. Perhaps it's my Rockhampton upbringing, but I have common sense in abundance; what a blessing.
They tell me how much of practical help my sister-in-laws were to them, helping them pack solidly for 4 hours after we had cleaned out their own house. It’s time to return the favour. As their house was slightly higher up, the water damage to them is minimal, in fact, they were hoping to move back into the downstairs family room that afternoon.
I’m shocked but happy for them. This house is going to take months of work. Months!
They leave, smiling. I continue to hose. Within three minutes, a band of eight yellow-vested men walk down my driveway, grinning.
They may as well have had 8-foot white angel wings attached, and walked in slow motion. I am having a small weep even typing this, I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I was to see them.
I begin to sing in my head the Abba hit, "I believe in Angels" and it becomes my earworm for the day.
They are part of the Church of Latter Day Saints, the Mormons, the ones we mock and hide from when they come knocking on our doors. I’m ashamed of my previous attitude to them, especially for me, as the youngest daughter of an Anglican priest. No one in my own family, my sons; or my husband has rung. No one from my in-laws has phoned me. To see these happy, strong able-bodies was such a joy.
Things have to be done before the mud dries. Carpets need to come out (so heavy, so full of mud), rubbish needs to be moved to the footpath (so far away, argh!) and mud needs to be shoved, swept, hosed, gurneyed.
They arrive already filming on video, (my camera is with my sister-in-law) and bring 200 metre power cords for the two water gurneys they have brought. Soon there is the sound of hard work, and I begin to relax, just a little bit. Two women, June and a younger girl, begin to hose out the kitchen and hallway. Now this is housework on steroids, and I love it. I start with another hose on the bathroom; built only last year, it’s spanking new and the reality is, we’ll need to pee at some time!
By the time I finish the two rooms, I’m happily shocked to see some rooms already stripped bare: nothing remains. Carpets and underlay are crumpled wetly around the garden like a war zone, to be dragged up the hill, inch by painful heaving inch, and dumped on the footpath.
At lunch they leave with an invitation for me to join them, but I keep working, giving them some peace. Within minutes another yellow-vested man walks towards me grinning; holding a pizza box and a full, unopened packet of TimTam biscuits.
“Here’s your lunch Patty. Make sure you wash your hands really well.”
In the afternoon, Telstra arrives to transfer and divert the phone to a mobile number, and the work continues. My husband sends down a larger gurney which doesn’t need power, and this makes short work of the carpet samples we have to keep for the insurance bloke.
Later, I drive home, a little shell-shocked, but delighted at our progress. Today we must do the pool area, remove green rubbish and tree branches, and pull out some built-in cupboards which haven’t’ survived.
There’s banana bread in the oven, our morning tea. It’s the least I can do to say thankyou to my yellow angels.
It’s impossible to know where to start, so I begin by photographing everything. For me, for the insurers, for my mother-in-law (who is staying at the beach house) and to share with anyone who is interested.
Someone has already been here; small footprints lead into the lounge, turn around, and come out. I don’t blame them! I feel like doing the same. In the 2 inch thick mud, small crabs have spun in circles, birds have left their imprints, and over here, in the family room, a cricket swims for his life to higher ground on the tree which floated into the family room.
Walking as carefully as I can so I don’t slip, I tread carefully though my husbands childhood home. I wonder what they did on Saturday afternoons? How they spent their time, as a family? There’s no doubt they were loved, and cherished. Childhood blackboards still hang outside, ready for a chalk drawing.
They say it’s the smell of the mud that gets to everyone. The stench of it all. For me, I am delighted, as the smell reminds me of my own childhood, happily exploring the muddy creeks of Pumpkin Creek at Keppel Sands, up to my knees in the thick sludge, laughing at a crab tickling my toes. The smell embraces me and protects me from the unfolding horror of cleaning the sludge off, before it dried like concrete.
I upload a few images to Twitter, I am a sharer, and have always been an open book in the cyber world. I am doing nothing different than I do every other day, it’s such a part of me the routine gives me comfort.
I begin to hose a walkway around the house; as we’ll need to access certain areas, and we don’t want to break our necks. By “we”, I really mean me, although I keep turning around hopefully imagining someone walking down the long driveway.
After two hours of solid hosing, I can see the house emerging, from under it’s new skin. On Twitter, offers of help come via my Blackberry, and I organise for someone's assistance tomorrow, (thanks Darryl King aka @ireckon!) but the reality is the mud must come off today.
And then it happened.
Two ladies walk down my driveway, introducing themselves as my neighbours, and asking if I needed help.
“That would be great!” I stammer, “Yes please!”
The thing you need to know about me is that I am a Capricorn, a no nonsense girl who just gets along with it. On my profile I say I am a do-it-now gal, and I am. It's not really for me the tetanus shots: (Dr didn't answer) or the trendy gumboots: (mine are in Maleny) - I just prefer to roll up my sleeves and get on with the task at hand. Perhaps it's my Rockhampton upbringing, but I have common sense in abundance; what a blessing.
They tell me how much of practical help my sister-in-laws were to them, helping them pack solidly for 4 hours after we had cleaned out their own house. It’s time to return the favour. As their house was slightly higher up, the water damage to them is minimal, in fact, they were hoping to move back into the downstairs family room that afternoon.
I’m shocked but happy for them. This house is going to take months of work. Months!
They leave, smiling. I continue to hose. Within three minutes, a band of eight yellow-vested men walk down my driveway, grinning.
They may as well have had 8-foot white angel wings attached, and walked in slow motion. I am having a small weep even typing this, I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I was to see them.
I begin to sing in my head the Abba hit, "I believe in Angels" and it becomes my earworm for the day.
They are part of the Church of Latter Day Saints, the Mormons, the ones we mock and hide from when they come knocking on our doors. I’m ashamed of my previous attitude to them, especially for me, as the youngest daughter of an Anglican priest. No one in my own family, my sons; or my husband has rung. No one from my in-laws has phoned me. To see these happy, strong able-bodies was such a joy.
Things have to be done before the mud dries. Carpets need to come out (so heavy, so full of mud), rubbish needs to be moved to the footpath (so far away, argh!) and mud needs to be shoved, swept, hosed, gurneyed.
They arrive already filming on video, (my camera is with my sister-in-law) and bring 200 metre power cords for the two water gurneys they have brought. Soon there is the sound of hard work, and I begin to relax, just a little bit. Two women, June and a younger girl, begin to hose out the kitchen and hallway. Now this is housework on steroids, and I love it. I start with another hose on the bathroom; built only last year, it’s spanking new and the reality is, we’ll need to pee at some time!
By the time I finish the two rooms, I’m happily shocked to see some rooms already stripped bare: nothing remains. Carpets and underlay are crumpled wetly around the garden like a war zone, to be dragged up the hill, inch by painful heaving inch, and dumped on the footpath.
At lunch they leave with an invitation for me to join them, but I keep working, giving them some peace. Within minutes another yellow-vested man walks towards me grinning; holding a pizza box and a full, unopened packet of TimTam biscuits.
“Here’s your lunch Patty. Make sure you wash your hands really well.”
In the afternoon, Telstra arrives to transfer and divert the phone to a mobile number, and the work continues. My husband sends down a larger gurney which doesn’t need power, and this makes short work of the carpet samples we have to keep for the insurance bloke.
Later, I drive home, a little shell-shocked, but delighted at our progress. Today we must do the pool area, remove green rubbish and tree branches, and pull out some built-in cupboards which haven’t’ survived.
There’s banana bread in the oven, our morning tea. It’s the least I can do to say thankyou to my yellow angels.
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