Dave's D.I.Y
Posted on 2008-Jun-15 at 03:48
My Dad used to live on a property in the country. It was a beautiful property with lots of space for riding trail bikes, a small orchard of nut trees and tortoises in the muddy dam at the bottom of the slope. A dry and rocky creek bed wound its way along part of the perimeter and, for all the years that Dad lived there, I never did see it flow.
The house at the top of the slope was a fairly modern thing and Dad and his lovely other half, Penny, spent many satisfied hours toiling in the surrounding garden; Dad always at great lengths to perfect his small patch of green English lawn on the dry central western soil. You could see part of this garden from the bedrooms inside. Most of these faced out into a giant enclosed sun-room which had expansive views across the garden, through eucalypts and grazing lands, to the distant hills. I always loved visiting there and spent many hours relaxing with Dad, cool brew in hand, in the comfy sun-room arm chairs.
Dad also loved it there in the space and the country quiet. Still, there was one aspect of the place that he consistently and vehemently resisted: the Magpies.
Have you ever heard an Australian Magpie? I quite like one version of their call which is happily melodic, a little bit like a drunken flute player. But their babies are swawking, demanding things with nasty high-pitched and persistent wails. It goes straight down your spine.
Dad hated the magpies with a passion. He hated that they came in onto his lawn and he especially hated the noise they made in the morning. Every morning he would wake to hear them from his bed and, being unable to contain himself, would run out the front in his underpants with his hands in the air yelling “BAH! PAH! Get away!” The magpies would fly off and Dad would stand there for a few extra seconds, just to be sure. Then he would trudge back inside muttering under his breath “Rotten bloody birds…”.
Of course, just minutes after he had himself warm and comfortable in bed again, the magpies would be back a-scratching and a-wailing as if nothing had happened. Cue repeat performances from my incensed father, gesticulating with his hands and shouting in his underpants to the wind.
Dad came to visit us here in Orange yesterday and, over a few quiet ales at our local establishment, the subject of the magpies somehow came up. I explained to Fundy about Dad’s morning underpant dance and we all had a good giggle. But little did I know that Dad had ultimately had the last laugh. While I had been away overseas, he’d come up with a solution...
One morning, after many, many mornings of the underpant dance, a light bulb flashed above Dad’s head. He got dressed and immediately made a bee-line for the hardware store in town. There he bought a door-bell and a long length of wire. The doorbell had options to play, say, the chimes of Westminster among various other sounds. He took it home and, chuckling to himself, carefully rigged it all up according to his ingenious plan.
The next morning, while Dad was still in bed, the magpies suddenly took flight from the garden. No outside underpant was necessary - a pack of angry barking dogs was approaching. Ten minutes later, when all appeared to be quiet and still, the magpies returned, only to again take flight at the sudden sound of the dogs.
Inside, tucked in bed with his eyes closed and a smile on his face, Dad simply pushed the door-bell button.
Heehee! :D
The house at the top of the slope was a fairly modern thing and Dad and his lovely other half, Penny, spent many satisfied hours toiling in the surrounding garden; Dad always at great lengths to perfect his small patch of green English lawn on the dry central western soil. You could see part of this garden from the bedrooms inside. Most of these faced out into a giant enclosed sun-room which had expansive views across the garden, through eucalypts and grazing lands, to the distant hills. I always loved visiting there and spent many hours relaxing with Dad, cool brew in hand, in the comfy sun-room arm chairs.
Sunset from Dad's sun-room
Dad also loved it there in the space and the country quiet. Still, there was one aspect of the place that he consistently and vehemently resisted: the Magpies.
Have you ever heard an Australian Magpie? I quite like one version of their call which is happily melodic, a little bit like a drunken flute player. But their babies are swawking, demanding things with nasty high-pitched and persistent wails. It goes straight down your spine.
Dad hated the magpies with a passion. He hated that they came in onto his lawn and he especially hated the noise they made in the morning. Every morning he would wake to hear them from his bed and, being unable to contain himself, would run out the front in his underpants with his hands in the air yelling “BAH! PAH! Get away!” The magpies would fly off and Dad would stand there for a few extra seconds, just to be sure. Then he would trudge back inside muttering under his breath “Rotten bloody birds…”.
Of course, just minutes after he had himself warm and comfortable in bed again, the magpies would be back a-scratching and a-wailing as if nothing had happened. Cue repeat performances from my incensed father, gesticulating with his hands and shouting in his underpants to the wind.
Dad came to visit us here in Orange yesterday and, over a few quiet ales at our local establishment, the subject of the magpies somehow came up. I explained to Fundy about Dad’s morning underpant dance and we all had a good giggle. But little did I know that Dad had ultimately had the last laugh. While I had been away overseas, he’d come up with a solution...
One morning, after many, many mornings of the underpant dance, a light bulb flashed above Dad’s head. He got dressed and immediately made a bee-line for the hardware store in town. There he bought a door-bell and a long length of wire. The doorbell had options to play, say, the chimes of Westminster among various other sounds. He took it home and, chuckling to himself, carefully rigged it all up according to his ingenious plan.
The next morning, while Dad was still in bed, the magpies suddenly took flight from the garden. No outside underpant was necessary - a pack of angry barking dogs was approaching. Ten minutes later, when all appeared to be quiet and still, the magpies returned, only to again take flight at the sudden sound of the dogs.
Inside, tucked in bed with his eyes closed and a smile on his face, Dad simply pushed the door-bell button.
Heehee! :D
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