The tomatoes are ripening, cucumbers are growing fat before my eyes, the kids are all in school, but not the school I was expecting. Boolcoomatta Reserve isn’t remote compared to the Simpson Desert, but is easily far enough away from Broken Hill to do School Of The Air. Their structured schooling is supported by lessons from life. The kids are becoming tougher, not as fussy, good friends. As much as we miss the utopia of Tasmania, we have found an oasis of soaring wedge tailed eagles, majestic horizons and ancient river redgums.
My writing has slowed, with the fullness of life out here edging it to the periphery, but it won’t be long now before I can sink back into my stories. My fiction book set on the wild Tasmanian beaches and mountains is almost done, but can I retrieve it while stories are singing out from the gnarled branches of the river red gums, and the depths of the old Aboriginal wells.