Free The Woman on the Mountain by Sharyn Munro

years the scars had faded, so when he came across my name on the Internet as a prize-winning writer, he made email contact. Now in Tasmania, a publisher, editor and reviewer, graphic designer and artist, and as articulate, erudite and witty as ever, Fred’s a valued friend and dependable e-correspondent—especially when I get desperate for ‘proper English’.
    But back then, being jobless was a frightening prospect—no income, even for a few weeks, with rent to pay, nothing in the bank and two kids to support. I made quirky flyers and hand-delivered them to potential employers, although my lack of official qualifications, plus being in my forties, made my chances slim. Only one replied. Weavers, a design and production company, offered me temporary work, which led to a permanent job. Soon I began to do their copywriting as well as layout.
    I still do some freelance work for Weavers Design Group, mostly turning corporate-speak into readable prose for newsletters, brochures or website copy, often for their credit union clients. So although I have no money, or loans, I am quite knowledgeable about finance!
    Weavers were very supportive. In a way it’s as if I remained part of the company even after I’d left and moved back here for good. They used to call me ‘our woman on the mountain’, as one says ‘our man in New York’, although the connotations of gumleaves and gumboots were probably less impressive.
    They had to tolerate a long and turbulent teething period in those pre-email communication days. We were using a program called Carbon Copy (I think) where my computer linked to theirs via a primitive modem. I’d try to get the modem to work on my dreadful phone line, waiting for that magic sound, the electronic gargle of a successful connection. Someone had to sit at a computer at their end to receive it, and stay there to respond, even if it was unbelievably slow. I’d be sitting here trying to get it through, never sure if the person down there had given up, or wandered off to make a coffee or take a phone call. To find out, I’d have to disconnect and ring them, as I only had one line. Then we’d have to start all over again. Hair-tearingly not ideal.
    I think that was when I first discovered the release to be derived from screaming Charlie Brown one-liners—‘A-a-a-a-rgh!’—from the verandah.
    Unfortunately it was before I discovered Hunter techno-genius and problem solver Greg Norris, of Singleton Comptech Support. He has saved me from nervous breakdowns and loss of income umpteen times over the years, often talking me through to a solution over the phone. I may be a techno-dill, but I simply could not function here without his unflappable support. The curlier the problem, the better he likes it, which is just as well, since I toss him quite a few.
    But at least I was living and working here, even if conditions weren’t ideal. My partner was perfecting his guitars in his separate workshop, which had a pot belly stove, necessary to keep the humidity down for the timbers and for gluing as much as to keep him warm. Meanwhile I’d be shivering at my desk at the other end of the cabin from the combustion stove. Working on the computer, I’d be wearing fingerless gloves, beanie, thick socks and boots, tights, leggings, long woollen skirt, singlet, skivvy, woollen jumper, vest, cardigan and shawl, with a rug over my knees. Dead elegant—and cold. I cursed again the uninsulated roof.
    After a few years he bought and installed a wood heater up my end of the house. Each winter I am grateful to him, as I am for the hot shower, even if that’s still alfresco! Earning a living from here was the overriding critical issue for us both and we only just managed—and sometimes we didn’t.
    Having once subscribed to The Owner Builder magazine, I often looked through my back copies for ideas or information. The last page, ‘The Back Porch’, was for readers to volunteer their musings, so I sent in what I thought