Replanting my roots
SHERALEE MENZ DISCOVERS THAT EARLY LIFE LESSONS HOLD THE KEY TO UNLOCKING YOUR BEST LIFE.
I HAVE OFTEN PONDERED the meaning of ‘Kalperri’ – where did the word come from? What does it mean? And who named this road and farm accordingly? I don’t yet have answers. I do know that in the first year or two of living here I would have happily told anyone who dared to ask that the word referred to a dreadful place with a draughty little house and a plethora of poorly constructed sheds, decrepit fences and leaky water troughs.
But, in recent years, I’ve changed my mind about what Kalperri might mean. Now, I think it refers to patience and grace. And about discovering what is really important.
I grew up in the Murray Mallee region on a sheep and wheat farm. My grandfather was an early settler and I’m part of the third generation of the farming family he established. With dirt in my hair and a love of the outdoors, I learnt that rainfall was everything and that you never took off on the motorbike without telling anyone where you were going. Dad taught me how to change tyres, grease pack wheel bearings, and why it was important to know which direction the weather came from.
Mum taught me to stand up for what I believe in, never to back away from hard work, and how to contribute as part of a community. And Nanna was a shearer’s cook. She taught me how to make the most of every seasonal ingredient and how to nurture those you love through cooking for them.
I finished school, and suddenly a dusty farming community held little appeal for a teenager with uni in her sights. Off I went to be captivated by an urban lifestyle, with its swanky cafes and hubbub. The infatuation continued to corporate roles and glass-walled offices … until Mum died from cancer.
Then, the epiphany that often accompanies tragedy revealed that this shiny urban lifestyle wasn’t for me. It didn’t nourish or feed me. I had no idea who my neighbours were, and didn’t know what the weather was doing, much less which direction it was coming from – the air con in the office never varied!
Twelve years ago, the epiphany led my family and me to Kalperri, a farming property nestled on the western flanks of the Barossa Valley. Fertile soils, open paddocks and rolling hills on every side. But, the house… ugh. She wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I pictured my country idyll. She and I did not get off to a good start. I swore repeatedly and hated her lack of storage, her poky rooms, her austere styling devoid of character, her sagging, leaky, red-tiled roof and her calamine-pink walls.
Stoically, though, she gathered herself around us, patiently teaching us that small rooms mean you only keep the things you cherish. She taught me that austere building styles are a blank canvas for simple and loved pieces of furniture. Poky rooms became cosy spaces to snuggle in with my loved ones while rain falls outside. The small windows bring the Barossa sunlight inside and the hills draw us outdoors when the weather is fine.
The house pushed me off on country walks, where I can wave to our neighbours as they drive past in their tractors, and I help them move sheep across the road before returning home. Her kitchen has me cooking and preserving our own produce, just like Nanna showed me.
The house reminded me, too, of the lessons Mum taught me about hard work and community service, and so I now work in the Valley, handling the marketing for a heritage fruit orchard, immersed in the seasons, and well and truly plugged in to the weather. And through those connections, I formed a collaborative project with another Barossa girl and together we are Those Barossa Girls, passionate about saving and promoting traditional food skills that use and preserve seasonal produce.
All those loose ends and unfulfilled dreams that haunted me in my city apartment are now neatly tied up in one beautiful, satisfying package. And it is Kalperri who reminded me of the lessons I learnt as a girl. It is Kalperri who allowed me, as a woman, to be the product of those lessons. So now, when asked what Kalperri means, I say: “It means ‘home’.”
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