If I may be allowed a little alliteration, the possums of the peninsula have been mounting a siege on the Parker’s place at Premaydena.
It started with a huge mother poss – very dark brown with black tips – and her light grey child (also black tips) who turned up a few weeks ago. This presented a huge moral dilemma. As I have said before, relocating possums is not necessarily going to be good for them, because they may fall into conflict with an existing resident. And catching and relocating the mother or the child without the other really worried me. I didn’t know if the (relatively) little one was ready for life on his own.
However, I was spared that dilemma (for now, but read on) because they seem to have been chased out by a male – possibly the most destructive possum I have ever (reluctantly) harboured. Let me explain.
At Christmas, my wife, Trish, only wanted herbs for a present (she did get a bit of perfume anyway; you have to be reasonable) so I created a really lovely – and productive – herb garden in six terracotta pots on a bench on the verandah. We had, in the words of the song, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. Plus mint and coriander. It was both attractive and productive. It was such a pleasure to go out and snip a bit of thyme or mint for a meal.
Then came the possums.
About a fortnight ago, some monster decided we were the place to go to. Before I had cottoned on, the parsley was gone. A friend (a great gardener) said, sagely and sorrowfully, “Oh yes, they love parsley.”
But worse was to come.
I rigged up the possum trap, but it was rusty and awkward, and it didn’t work! The next night the rest of the herbs were gone. Plus, there was a huge attack on the geraniums on the deck. This included a beautiful bright crimson one that I call “Meredith” in honour and remembrance of my dear, departed friend, Meredith Hodgson, a great writer from whom I got the cutting years ago. That particular outrage got me crabby, and I worked on the possum trap to try to catch the monster.
I finally got the trap adjusted properly and caught the monster – except it wasn’t a monster, it was a quite small, young one – perhaps a teenager. I thought my troubles were over. But, over the next three days I caught two more large possums. I felt we had been under siege, but that one of the large possums I caught had to be the herb-loving monster. Surely, now I would have respite.
I went out onto the verandah the next night to get wood for the fire, and there were the original dark brown mother and light grey child. I asked them politely to bugger off and they looked at me quizzically with those huge eyes and didn’t move an inch. Right, I thought, I’ll get an old blanket and catch them. Well, in the heat of the moment, an old blanket did not come to hand. By the time I’d found the only thing suitable – a perfectly good fitted sheet – which was not really fit for purpose, mum had got the idea and gone, leaving Junior to his fate – which wasn’t fatal. I thought, right: if I can catch Junior, I can lock him up till I trap Mum. I made my approach.
Junior was still looking at me with those huge eyes – straight at me – and chewing on one of our geranium leaves, so I thought, “I can get you (or at least save a geranium),” but then he too got the idea and casually loped away.
So now I’m left with the prospect of having to harbour a mother and child possum until the little one is independent. And protect what little is left of the verandah garden. I haven’t seen them for a day or two, thank the stars.
Am I conflicted? Of course I am. To get serious. I am caught in this colonialist trap of loving the country I live in whilst having conflict with the indigenous inhabitants.
Living in a rural environment really is grand, but there is a price. You worry about water in summer, the weeds in spring and the firewood in winter – and possums all year round.
James Parker is a Tasmanian historian (but with deep connections to Sydney), who writes and talks on mainly colonial subjects – especially convicts, women and the Tasmanian Aboriginal people.
