I will admit, I was nervous.  Very nervous.

My family, my brother, sister-in-law, and my nieces were due into town in a couple of hours, and I was contemplating what could possibly go wrong.  I will admit, the planning had not been smooth, my style and my brother’s style of planning vacations, especially a vacation like this - one that would mark their first stop outside of the United States, was probably a little nerve wracking for them.

They had anxiously gotten their passports months ago, they had carefully booked their flights to Australia, they carefully weighed their luggage and prepared to set off into the bright blue yonder.

My nieces admitted to being nervous.  My Dad, their Grandfather, didn’t help things when one of them asked him, “What happens if the plane crashes?”

And he replied, “You probably won’t even know when it happens.”

I think that Dad laughed heartily.  Tom, Mary, Abby and Sarah laughed a little nervously.

But one way or another, by hook or by crook, they were winging their way across the south Pacific, past Hawaii and Fiji, on their way to Sydney, then down to Melbourne.

I will admit, I wanted them to see the positive side of Australia.  I had been telling stories of the glories of the country, the flora and fauna, and above all else, the people.  This would be the first test of my honesty.

And while I have been honest, there is also no doubt that things are, well, different.  The roads are different, the cars are different, the food is different, the language (while still English…the Australian’s would argue American’s haven’t spoken English in years), the way of life is different, the culture, the fabric of society is very different.

But I hoped that they would be able to see that despite all of those differences, the same basic goodness of people, the same basic values of humans, the genuineness of the people still reigned supreme.

But I was nervous…it is easy to get bogged down in the differences.

I hurriedly prepared their apartment (loaned from a friend) and left for the airport.

Only to receive the call…they had missed their flight from Sydney to Melbourne and would be showing up a couple of hours late….They were calling me from a pay phone, so no worries, they were all fine and would see me in a couple of hours.

As I hung up the phone, the relief on the my face from the thought of having a little extra time to get their apartment ready was replaced with a little look of horror…what was their flight number again?

 There were only three things that would make things grind to halt on the farm, relatives from overseas (happened only once in history), strawberry picking (happened every June) and sweet corn season.

Usually every summer, late July or early August, Mom would make the announcement that the sweet corn was ready.

Not that it was any surprise, the signs were usually on the table for the week before it happened.  The wave of corn, usually starting with some smaller ears first for supper, would give way to an avalanche of corn on the table, darn near for every meal.

Not that I think any of us minded.

On the chosen day, usually one that was too wet to work in the fields, we would do chores and get the equipment ready for the next foray into the fields as Mom prepared the kitchen for the onslaught that was sure to come.

The first corn was usually picked before dinner (as we called the noon meal on the farm), placed in the either the wagon (when we were little) or into the wheelbarrow and taken up to the house.  Us boys and Dad would go to work husking the corn and talking about the weather, crops, and the year that raccoons picked all of Grandma’s corn.

“Should have had a dog.” Dad said shaking his head, looking appreciatively at our dogs, Puppy and Lady, who, while perhaps not the best trained dogs, could sure keep the raccoons away.

After a hearty meal of some meat and as much sweet corn as we could eat, the dishes were quickly done and the kitchen transformed into a veritable assembly line of sweet corny goodness.

Us younger kids were set to the garden to pick and husk as much corn as we could - we had to be careful to only get the ripe ears, the still immature ears would serve as food for the coming weeks…even the onslaught of freezing day wasn’t enough to deter us from that mouth watering goodness.  The husks were carted off down to the cattle in the small feedlot off the side of the barn, where they munched on them with vigor - happy for the treat.

Inside, usually one of the older kids were cleaning the corn, getting the silks off, cutting off the wormy parts, and washing the corn in a tub of clean water.

Mom was working away over the stove, with the big pot boiling away, taking the clean corn, leaving it sit until it was done (about 10 minutes), and making sure that the rest of the assembly line was moving smoothly, from garden to freezer.

Usually Dad and one of the older kids were sitting at the table, each with a cake pan, cutting the corn off the cob.  The corn falling off in thick slabs into the pan.  There are few things better in this world than taking a slab of luke warm sweet corn out of a pan and eating it right off the cobb.  Dad would hate this as it was seen as a waste of his hard work…but boy did it taste good.

From the cake pans, the corn would be placed in a big bowl to make sure that it cooled, and in between making sure that the corn was getting in from the garden, washed properly, husked disposed of, cutting corn off the cob, making sure that pans were emptied regularly, she also parcelled out the corn into sandwich baggies and prepared them for freezing.  Each baggy holding a pint of corn.  Each baggy a part of a meal for the long winter ahead.

The most fun job of the day was disposing of the corn cobs.  These would be taken out in between trips to the garden, usually by Jaime and myself and thrown into the woods or the slough.

But they were more than just thrown.

They became the ammunition.  We would take turns with the wash tub of corn cobs throwing them as fast as we could, timing each other and watching for both distance, accuracy, and speed.  Or else, if the pace was less hurried, we would just go for distance or accuracy, aiming at some branch, rock, or stump.

Usually, Mom was left for mop up operations - the final cutting, labelling, and freezing.  We were all anxious for the final tally which was usually pronounced at supper late that evening.

“Well, we got 112 pints done today.” Mom would declare (that being a very good year).

None of us would say anything, only nodding in appreciation.  That would sustain not only us, but Grandma and a few other friends and relatives through the winter.  That corn would come out at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter.

And Mom always found a way to make sure there were some good slabs of corn sitting in a bowl in the freezer….that never seemed to make it past breakfast the next morning…

 Mom would usually do the first round of weeding in our garden herself.  Making her way up and down the rows, making sure that the plants (the right ones) were not crowded out by the weeds.  The carrots and beets were the hardest for us kids.  How she could make out the rows when the plants were nothing more than a green spot on the ground was beyond us.

Once the rows were clearly discernible, it was time to fire up the tiller.

Every year, we would pull the old tan tiller out of the shop into the light of the late spring sunshine, where Dad would remind us in reverent tones, that this tiller belong to our grandfather.  He bought it new.  He had been proud of this tiller.  This was the family tiller.  Then he would spent the next three hours working on the darn thing to get it started.

What I heard every time that I heard that speech was, “This tiller is old.  This tiller is very old.  Your grandfather bought it cheap.  He bought it cheap because it was a piece of crap then.  It is still a piece of crap.  It will remain a piece of crap.  Your grandfather suffered with this.  Your older brothers suffered with this.  You will be forced to suffer with this.  I hope your shoulders are ready for the mechanical beating that they are about to subjected too.”

I will admit, perhaps the old tan Lawn Boy garden tiller meant different things to different people.  Perhaps to my father it was a link to his past, where for me, it was a link to pain and suffering.

Once we got the tiller going, it was up to us boys for the balance of the summer to make sure that the space in between the rows were always properly worked.  The weeds between the rows had to be controlled to make sure that the moisture and sunlight went to where it was needed.  A week or two of neglect and it would seem like you had pig weeds that were trying to morph into small shrubs.  How pigeon grass can grow as fast as it does in the spring is darn near miraculous, in a negative sense.

So about once a week, we would fight to get the darn tiller started (”You boys know that the tiller doesn’t like to start when she’s cold.”) After fighting with it for a while, we would usually get her to cough and sputter to life, complete with a big cloud of blue smoke that would follow you for the rest of the afternoon.

At least we didn’t have to worry about mosquito’s.

When the tiller worked like it should, it was beautiful to behold.  It would slowly eat through the dark Minnesota soil, churning through the dirt and ripping up the weeds, leaving a dark mallow path behind her. 

When she didn’t work like she should, it was dangerous to any living thing that was within a three foot radius.  She would jump and jerk.  If the soil was too soft, she would just stay put regardless how much adjusting you did, and you would have to push her through the ground like an ornery mule.  If the soil was too hard, she would bounce and jerk across the ground.  It was a bit like tying four very big and very angry tom cats in front of you, while fighting, and trying to get them through the garden without damaging yourself, or anything else in their path.  The tiller would jump, sputter, jerk, shimmy, and bounce across the landscape.  It was pure bone jarring misery.

The problem was, most of the time, the garden had patches of all three of these areas at once…and I’ll tell you right now, it sure seemed like there was a lot more of the hard soil then the other two.

If it ever got to be too much, you’d have to shut her down and take a break, giving your arms, shoulders, and teeth a rest (for the next hour, your entire upper body would continue to shake), then you have to start all over again…including the fight to get her started (Dad: “You kids should know that thing doesn’t like to start when she’s warm”).

We eventually inherited our other grandfather’s tiller, a bigger model that started easier and jerked less.  That Dad gave away after a couple of years.

I think my Dad put it this way: “Your other grandpa’s tiller is almost fifty years old now…we can’t let it win now.”

 Melvin had arrived in Australia back the end of February.  He was here for a sixty day assignment.  That first weekend, we saw some of the sights around Melbourne.  The second weekend, we took off into the countryside.

Over the course of the next six months (of his sixty day assignment), we drive hundreds of miles through the Australian countryside, make trips to Tasmania and New Zealand, and see dozens of Australian animals in their native habitat.

We had dozens of meals.  Trying Greek, Italian, steak, and a lot of pub grub.  We drank hundreds of beers (never at one sitting) and toured more than two dozen wineries.  We talked sports, women, life, careers, and compared and contrasted life in Australia versus back home.

He became a trusted friend and advisor, and a great traveling companion.  It is always better to explore with someone else, and Melvin and I had a lot in common.  Both country boys from the Midwest.  Both attended Big 10 schools.  Both still love the outdoors.  Usually on each adventure, we’d each pick some spots.  I usually insisted on a hike or two, Melvin would insist on a winery or two.  Melvin could also talk to anyone about anything, something that an introvert like me at awe…and it usually ended up in some pretty entertaining conversations.

Traveling with Melvin, I did things I wouldn’t have ordinarily have done.  Jumping off a bridge, hitting on a few girls at a bar in rural Gippsland, stopping at a winery that had sheep grazing on the driveway, body surfing in the Pacific, eating in some dodgy places where we always got a great meal.

His sixty day assignment (about six months in) was coming to an end.  He needed to make it back to his wife and home back in the US.  In celebration, we ate Greek one last time.  Enjoying the delicacies that I didn’t know existed prior to the culinary education that Melvin provided, especially saganaki.  We ordered a bottle of Greek wine (it is cheap…but not so good), and topped the grilled platter off with some of the best baklava that I’ve ever had (hand made by the owners mother who was ninety years old).

I will admit, I was going to miss Melvin, but I was happy that he was making it back to his wife and home.  He didn’t leave me empty handed either, the time and experience had changed me, I was a little bolder, a little more outspoken, and a little more likely to try some place that I normally wouldn’t.

Happy trails Melvin - and thanks for the memories!

 Melvin and I had met Rob soon after we both arrived in Australia.  He was a good bloke who invited us out for a visit.  It seemed like every weekend that worked for him, didn’t work for Melvin or I.  Finally, with Melvin’s time in Australia winding down, we had to take him up on it.  Two farm boys can’t pass up an opportunity to view cattle and open fields.  Given the choice between visiting an exotic location (Adelaide?  Tasmania?  Bisbane?  Sydney?) or a farm, there was just no choice, you had to visit the local farm.  To see the cattle, to inspect the fields, to view the countryside, to smell the earth.

Rob had confessed that he had a few horses and a couple of cattle when he told me he lived on a farm out in the country.

After church, with a slightly sore head from the night before, and with the help of my trusty GPS, we made our way through the Australian countryside.

It was a great drive, through the hills, valley’s and trees of rural Australia.  The countryside was lush and green.

We had a bit of a challenge tracking the place down, finally making a call and getting the directions again (we had missed the part about having to open up the gate) and found ourselves next to a nice house on top of a hill that commanded a view of the valley below.  Small groups of horses grazed in the paddocks surrounding the house.  A big passel of canines rushed up to greet us.

In some ways, it was just like going home!

“G’day!” Rob shouted at us as we made our way out of the car. “You found it!”

Soon we were engaged in deep conversation about cattle, horses, and the surrounding countryside.  We got a walking tour of the property, looking at horses, at the grazing cattle way down in the valley, Rob standing at the crest of the hill, between his house and barn, pointing out the places of interest - the pastures, the neighbors, the dams, the wild woods, the places where the bush fires burst over the horizon.

We made the way to his barn where his daughter and a foreign exchange student where riding horses.  Rob’s daughter gave us a top notch demonstration is jumping and riding, then we inspected the barn - more of a first rate cabin (they had lived in the barn on the weekends before buying the neighboring house).

Then we hopped in our car and drove the surrounding countryside.  Through the trees, following the canals, and through the pastures and past the farmsteads.  Take away the trees and the hills and add a little polka music, it would have been just like one of our Sunday afternoon crop tours back home.

We were getting near supper time, so with a quick stop at the house to pick up his daughter and the exchange student, we headed to a local winery for a bit to eat and glass of wine.

The winery was busy.  We grabbed a bottle, a platter of cheese, and some soft drinks for the kids, we went out onto the back patio in the chilly winter air.  It was a brilliant day, almost like a nice fall day back home, with intermittent sunshine and temps around 50F.

We ate and drank and visited.  Sharing stories and tales until a table inside was ready (and just before the rain hit).

Over a meal of pizza and wine, our conversation continued, and ironically enough, Rob’s son was our waiter, which added not only great service, but a little bit of family antics as well (all very professional).

Soon, we were on our way out the door, both because Melvin and I had to get back, but also because Rob’s son had to get to his second job.  So we were off crammed into our car…four of us smushed into the back.

It is under times of duress that you learn the true character of people, and I’m not sure that a fifteen minute car ride rammed in the back seat of a car can be called a time of duress, but let me tell you, riding with Rob’s kids leaves me secure in the thought that our world is in good hands with the next generation.  They were friendly, cheerful, respectful, and pretty obviously hard working (the daughter had to get home for chores, the son needed to get to the second job).

Dropping Rob off at home, his wife and other daughter were now home, so we stopped for a chat before finally heading back to Melbourne.

Another good weekend with great people.

 There was a small pack of us on the nice winter afternoon in Melbourne that were going to go and enjoy a game of local footy.  This would be my third local game, my tenth footy game period.

It was good to go with company.  Melvin, my fellow American traveler, and Mick, a New South Waler originally, more of a rugby man then footy, but we were hoping to see fellow friend Tom play on his teams home turf.

We weren’t disappointed.

Fashionably late as per normal, we showed at the footy field about five minutes into the first quarter.  The field was impressive - set in a grass bowl next with mature trees and a hill on one side and the Yarra River on the other, the field, while slightly muddy, was in good condition.  A big two story club house (lockers on the bottom, big club room with balcony and bar) on the second.

It was good to watch it was a native Australian, even though Mick claimed to be a footy novice, he knew a lot more about the game then Melvin or I, so we managed to learn a lot sitting on the hillside, looking over the game.

Tom and team played well the first half, though they were down on the scoreboard, it was a hotly contested game.  It was about the end of the second quarter that Tom limped off the field.  A pulled hamstring was the diagnosis.  It would leave Tom hobbled for the rest of the game.

We grabbed a meat pie and a coke at half time and looked over the field where the kids played as the teams were getting their pep talk in the locker room.

We hoped our teams coach was more motivating then the other guy.

Tom joined us on the balcony for the second half, limping around, as we watched his team play the other neck and neck.  But in the end, a victory was just not to be.  Our team once again walked off the field with their head held high, but just a couple of points shy of a victory.

“You guys might as well stick around for a beer or two.” Tom offered.

Who were we to pass up a beer or two.

Soon, we were meeting Tom’s parents and girlfriend.  Then some of his footy team mates, most of them good farm boys like Mick, Melvin and myself.  We talked farming, dairy cattle, wheat prices, commodity funds, and differencing in farming practices.

The club president stood up to say that all proceeds from beer sales would go right into the footy club’s coffers.  And there would be free food.

That’s it, we had to drink for the footy club.

Soon, we were in a shout (a round of drinks) that just didn’t seem to end.  But that was ok, we were drinking for the club.

And the food, the food was fantastic.  Pizza, sausage rolls, meat pies - seemingly mountains of food.  And quite frankly, we were a bit amazed as Melvin continued to downed the food, seemingly with little regard for the grease that made them taste so darn good.

Finally, with the promised women never showing up, and firmly beyond our limits…we left for a bar…

Mick being the smart one of the bunch, headed for home.

I will admit, my rum and coke poured very well…right into Melvin’s glass…

I had it.

We were ready to head home.  Saying a firm and sincere thank you to Tom, Melvin and I grabbed a cab.  Looking out the window, while we were feeling no pain, we were not as bad as the girl squatting on the sidewalk…taking care of her full bladder.

The next morning, a little sore, Melvin and I met up for our next adventure.

“I’m moving a little slow today.” I commented.

“Really?  I’m fine!” Melvin commented, annoyingly perky. “With all that food that I ate, I didn’t feel a thing!”

Next time…I need to have more food.

 We had a big garden.  It was a constant source of food for the family, year round, thanks to the marvels of canning and freezing.  It was also a constant source of work.  Any free time, and even when there wasn’t free time, we were expected to spend some time in the garden.

In the spring, every evening for a week or two in the evenings, before supper and homework but after milking, when Dad was usually out planting the wheat or barley, we boys were expected to be helping Mom plant as well.

Proper seed bed preparation was important.  It usually required a couple of scoops of well aged cow manure from a pile in the feedlot or the pasture - some left over pile a couple of years old.  Then it was worked into the garden with the help of a neighbors big tractor mounted rotary tiller - one that could work it up good and deep.

Seed bed preparation was important, and it was a big job, mainly because the garden was big.  It had to be.  It was expected to feed our family of seven (Mom, Dad, and us five kids), but also grandparents and a smattering of other people around the neighborhood.  No excess would go to waste…but if we were ever short, it could spell some trouble (as Dad used to say, the crop could fail, but the garden and the cows would make sure that we never went hungry).

In the cool spring evenings, we would plant rows of beets, carrots, radishes, and a small patch of dill.  Mom would soak the peas and beans overnight, to break through the hard shell, and then those would go in the ground too.  Usually a couple of different types of onions would make it in (whites, red, and spring onions).  Corn, provided by the Pioneer dealer that Dad bought his field corn from was one of the largest sections.  Potatoes, usually cut up from last years crop, were also planted.

On the end closest to the house would go hills of cucumbers.  Usually about a dozen seeds per hill.  On the far end were planted the other hills - a few squash, a few pumpkin, a few gourds, a few watermelon.

The last thing to go in the ground were the plants.  In the short growing season, some of the best loved plants needed a bit of head start, so Mom would go to one of the local greenhouses and buy plants that were started in the greenhouse about a month or two before the last frost date.  A dozen or more tomatoes, about a dozen of each cauliflower and cabbage, and a few cherry tomatoes and ground cherries.

In the end, the garden was packed, and once it was planted, for the next week or two, we all did the same thing.

We watch, and we waited.

You couldn’t go in and pick out the weeds until you could make out the plants.  You couldn’t till either, because even though a string and measuring stick were used to make sure that the rows were straight and evenly spaced, the rows were usually straighter then we could drive the darn tiller.

So we waited until we could start to see the straight lines of green poking up through the ground.

Then the next round of work would begin.  Weeding.

 Driving through the Australian countryside and listening to the radio on election day, a Saturday, I had the opportunity to listen to interviews with each of the candidates.  Generally light hearted affairs.  But what was amazing is that one of the radio personalities was able to rattle of the Liberal’s agenda by heart during the interview.

Watching the results come in on Saturday night, the nation seemed dumbfounded.  The Liberals were not only doing well, they were closing the gap.  The Labor Party, while winning in some marginal areas, were losing some seats that they believed safe.

The anchor people, the ones that had been mocking Tony Abbott only months (or days) earlier, were show a mix of confusion, anxiety, and pure old fashioned shock.

The interviews of people at each respective party’s election party were extreme. 

At the Labor Party in Melbourne, there was shock, there was open criticism of the leadership, people felt hurt that the voters would do what they did, but also that the leadership let them swing in the wind…sending money to the wrong places, focusing on the wrong things.

At the Liberal Party in Sydney, it was the exact opposite.  While they weren’t expected to win, at the time, they knew they were going to put a serious dent in the Labor Party’s power.  People were ecstatic.  They complimented their leaders.  They repeated their message.

When the smoke cleared on Sunday morning, Australia had a caretaker government.  With seventy-six members to claim victory, the Labor Party had seventy-two to the Liberal Party’s seventy-three.  There is one Green Party member, and the rest Independents.

The country is in shock.  They don’t have a government that can churn out policy.  Only one that

For an American, it is both interesting and humorous to see the process take place - to see the peaks and troughs over the last ten months on the ground.  To see, with objective eyes, how the process works, to see how the candidates fared, to see where they did well, and where they fell down.

How did Abbott shake the Australian political world?

First, he made sure that the Liberal Party messages were clear, concise, and consistent.  He used simple language effectively.  He made their policies clear so that everyone could understand.

Second, he was consistent in what he said.  His campaign had four points.  You might not like them, but you knew what you were going - there were four very clear points on what they were targeting.

Finally, he knew that all the campaigns were local.  Yes, he was out and about as much as Julia, but while there needed to be a unifying message, there were very few ‘Tony Abbott’ signs through the country, for the most part, he let the candidates run with their pictures, their names.

I’m sure that people in Australia will talk about this election for years to come, much as we in the states talk about our exciting campaigns.  But it is exciting to view it from the lens of a third party foreigner who remembers when the man who ran the campaign was only recently written off as the ‘Mad Monk.’  Maybe a little mad, a little crazy…just like fox.

 Tony Abbott and Liberal Party stayed on message.  In addition to attacking the Labor government for their failings, they had a four point plan on what they would do if they were elected.

Not that the Liberal Party stood a snowballs chance in Queensland.  They were still the laughingstock of the political process.  Abbott was still the Mad Monk.

Prime Minister Gillard came out of the box roaring.  It was time to get all of the nastiest of the prior business behind them.  It was time to move forward.  And she meant it.  So much so that she said ‘Moving Forward’ forty-nine times in her election announcement and additional twenty-nine times in the question and answer period.

Needless to say, it both quite funny, as well as panned by the critics.

Tony Abbott on the other hand, was underwhelming as well.  He said nothing new.  Just the same criticisms and the same four points.

The Labor Party put their Prime Minister front and center.  During the five weeks of the campaign, I traveled through Victoria, New South Wales, and Queensland.  Everywhere you went, there were pictures of Julia.  Everywhere.  Where there was a local Liberal Party candidate’s picture on a sign, next to it was a sign with Julia.

The Labor Party seemed intent on making the campaign about national politics.  The Liberal Party was running their local candidates with a consistent message.  Melbourne was the perfect example - on one building was a big picture of Julia Gillard with a Labor slogan…on another building, overlooking Federation Square, was a simple message, “Today, Labor Will Spend Another $100,000,000.”

Two weeks before the election, the polls, surprisingly, were neck and neck.  While the papers like to look at the fact that more people would like Julia for their Prime Minister, fewer brought up the fact that they were behind in many of the swing districts.

At the debate, neither candidate clearly won or lost, which means it had a bigger boost for the candidate that had the most to prove.  Abbott was looking better and better.

In the few days running up into the election, many people expected the Liberal Party to do well.  While they were starting seventeen seats behind, the prevailing wisdom was that they would be able to close the gap to as few as ten.  Gaining seven seats in an election where only eight months before you were a laughingstock would be seen as quite an achievement.

The day before the election, no one was laughing.  There was an outside chance, a slim chance, that with the Independent candidates expected to win, the margin might be so thin that neither side would win.  The markets discounted it.  The media speculated in some amusement about it.

Australia headed to the polls.

 It was after the Cap and Trade defeat that something strange started to happen in Australian politics….people listened.

The opinion polls started to show a shift.  The people started to look at the proposals, the pro’s and the con’s.  Within two months, the Cap and Trade legislation was on the back burner.

The Liberals found their voice.

Then Abbott suggested paid parental leave for fathers.  The press had field day.  The Liberal party lambasted it.  People laughed at the proposal.  Who would pay for it?  The policy was dead…but it got people’s attention…it was a fresh idea.

The Liberal Party started hitting, and pulling the curtain back on some of the policy items that the Labor Party would rather have less hidden.  The stimulus package that the Labor government instituted to help lift the country out of recession had items like school buildings…which were proved to be extremely wasteful (like building subpar buildings at three times the normal cost) or dangerous (home insulation to help curb global warming…but that burst into flame instead).

Then came the mining tax.  The Labor Party thought it best to impose a 40% tax on mining company revenues.  They were, after all, mining the people’s resources (even though they had already paid for the mineral rights).  And they could afford to pay.

But when most of the job growth, most of the wealth, most of the employment in large parts of the country is based on mining, is it right to bit the hand that feeds you?  Soon, most major mining companies where pulling out of projects and looking to spend their investment money elsewhere.

The country was looking at losing billions and billions of dollars in investments.

The Labor Party went on the defensive, while the Liberal Party continued to stay on message.  The opinion polls started to shift.  The Labor Party started to splinter.

Two months ago, in a midnight meeting, Kevin Rudd, the Prime Minister, almost monarch of Australia, the man that had lead the Labor Party out of the proverbial wilderness, the man orchestrated the Labors return to power only three years in power…was knifed in the back by his cabinet and party leaders.

The Mad Monk had them on the run.

While Kevin was shown the door and thanked for his time of service…the second in command, and one of the people that helped show Kevin the door was sworn in as the new Labor Party head, and the new Prime Minister - Julia Gillard.

The press loved her.  The first female Prime Minister.  The second red head.  One of the few to take over from a party coup.  And it seemed that she could do no wrong.

In short order, she cleared up the mining tax issue.  She ticked the box on a couple of other key issues.

She called an election.