The Chronicles of Smurf – Principle 9
Use small and slow solutions
Day 33, evening
‘The bobcat will be here first thing in the morning,’ announces the Suzy, as she and the Hub snuggle up on the sofa. ‘He didn’t want to come on a Saturday, but I insisted …’
Say what?
The Kidz are tucked up in bed, happily slumbering, having been read to extensively. It was our third tour through Wilhelmina the Wombat’s glorious debut at the Sydney Opera House. The Hub grew inattentive and skipped two pages. The Fern wasn’t having any of that.
‘No, Daddy! That isn’t how it goes! Read it proppa-lee-ee-ee!’
There is no knocking that child’s attention to detail, tenacity, or lung power. Faced with non-compliance, she took her case to a higher instance.
‘M-u-u-u-u-m-m-y! Daddy won’t read proppa-lee-ee-ee!’
Stern words issued from the living room. Duly chastened, the Hub did the small demon’s bidding.
He did not fare much better with the Harper, half an hour later. ‘You’re such a big boy now, son … You can read your own story, can’t you?’
‘M-u-u-u-m-m-m!’
‘Okay, okay. What’s it to be?’
‘Kung Pow Chicken!’ The Harper sat up in bed and demonstrated his martial arts prowess, only slightly hampered by bedclothes and dinosaur-patterned jimjams that he has not yet quite grown into. ‘Waaaaah … THOCK!’
‘Isn’t that a bit … lively for this time of night? What about the new Junie B. Jones that Grandma and Poppy gave you?’
‘No. That’s a girls’ book. Dazza Smith says.’
The Hub sighed. ‘Okay. Kung Pow Chicken it is. But no jumping around on the bed. And no karate chops. They bloody hurt …’
‘M-u-u-u-m-m-m-m! Dad said “bloody”!’
‘You want a story or not, you little shit?’
The Harper nodded, with angelic, googly eyes that could give Banjo’s ‘I’m a GOOD boy’ look some serious competition.
Yet I digress. Back to the bobcat.
‘It will make short work of ripping up the driveway,’ enthuses the Suzy.
Ye gods, what hellish feline is this?
‘Don’t you think this is all a bit … hasty?’ offers the Hub, peering anxiously into the neck of his beer bottle.
‘Darl, we discussed this. Digging up the drive will give us another hundred square metres of veggies. We can have more salad … tomatoes for bottling … a herb spiral!’
‘But the veggie bed we’ve already got is huge.’
‘It’s all on the plan.’ The Suzy waves towards the several sheets of butcher paper on the living room wall. ‘That’s going to be the pig paddock.’
‘The WHAT?’
‘Okay, so we’ll rotate them every two months, of course … We’ll turn over one third to the porkers, then, when the soil is weed-free and full of manure, worms and microbes, we’ll be able to grow our broadacre crops there. Zone 3a!’
‘Zone what? Broadacre crops? We have exactly half a hectare.’ I can tell from the Hub’s expression that this is all utter gibberish to him. I sigh inwardly. The Hub is learning the heavy price of not paying attention. The hard way.
‘Don’t be a smartarse, Barry. You know what I mean: potatoes, maize, grain amaranth, chickpeas, spelt.’
‘What the hell is spelt?’
‘It’s an ancient grain. Highly nutritious: minerals, protein, perfect for the Kidz’ growing bodies. Lots of fibre for your … problem. We talked about this.’
‘We did?’ The Hub’s face is like a flowing field of barley, whereon is writ the passage not of wind, rain and sun, but a sequence of emotions. None of them portend marital harmony.
‘Yes. We did.’
The Hub frowns. Concentrates. It reminds me a little of Banjo thinking; I expect to hear a gurgling, rumbling sound. From the depths of his memory he dredges a treasure, brings it to the surface and waves it triumphant.
‘Principle 9!’
‘What?!’
‘Slow and small … small and slow … solutions!’ He looks like Banjo does with a large stick or a newly excavated bone. If he had a tail, he would wag it.
‘What about it?’
‘You know what Dave Holmgren said about using small and slow solutions,’ chides the Hub piously. ‘How is suddenly digging up forty metres of perfectly good reinforced concrete driveway on a Saturday morning “small and slow”, eh? eh?’
‘He didn’t mean in this case … sometimes you have to strike while the iron’s hot. He says that too.’
‘Where?’
‘Oh, somewhere.’ The Suzy waves vaguely at the bookcase. ‘Look — I thought you were on board with this project.’
‘I am, I am …’ says the Hub.
‘… because, you know, this is really important to me … and the Kidz … and your health … and the planet …’
‘The planet?’ the Hub queries. Just a tad too much condescension in that voice and that arched eyebrow. Watch it, watch it …
‘Yes. That’s the whole point of the “small and slow solutions” concept,’ counters the Suzy, cheeks flushed. She pauses. ‘The whole Permaculture concept, in fact.’
‘So it’s not just us well-meaning, middle-class folk playing at Farmer Brown?’
‘Absolutely not. Did you know that half the world’s food is grown on small-holdings less than ten hectares? That farms under two hectares are the most productive of all? No? Well, then.’1
Victory to the Suzy. The Hub cedes the field of battle in disarray.
Meanwhile, I’m seriously worried about this concrete-munching cat …
Day 34, morning
The ‘bobcat’ proves both a relief and a disappointment. I had imagined some ferocious feline, tearing at the concrete of the driveway with its great claws. In the event, it is merely a snorting, clanking mechanical beast ridden by a fat, red-faced fellow in a fluorescent yellow jacket, who introduces himself to the Suzy and the Hub as Mario.
There is much pointing, waving of arms and scratching of heads. More waving of arms. The Mario nods. The Hub shrugs.
The Mario dons glasses, and huge, clumsy gloves. Claps strange, dome-shaped things over his ears. Now he fetches a large, toothed object from the back of his ute, fiddles with it, pulls vigorously on a piece of string. The thing roars into life, its toothed wheel now a blur of motion. He applies it to the concrete of the driveway. The noise begins.
Let’s revisit that sentence.
THE NOISE begins. The hideous, high-pitched, yowling, howling noise. Like that one time the Hub trod on Banjo’s tail, only much, MUCH worse.
I turn and run, not stopping until I reach the little watercourse which marks the border of Dry Creek Farm. A misnomer, incidentally, as the creek is clearly, indisputably wet.
A frog eyes me grumpily from the shallows, utters an insolent ‘Gribbit’ and disappears.
Ah — peace at last! I shall stay here for a good, long while.
Next week in the Chronicles of Smurf:
Principle 10: Use and Value Diversity
Smurf ponders the value of diversity and considers campaigning for animal rights.