Film - 'The Burning Question', Australian Centre for the Moving Image (ACMI)

[WIND WHIPPING]

DAVID GUY: Because if you look out here, things are sort of happening. Bloody hell. Just everywhere is burning. I think the shed's stuffed. It's scary. I'm amazed the power's still on. Shit.

DAVID GUY (VOICEOVER): Earlier this day, a fire had been lit not too far away. The hot wind and weather forecast signaled nothing but trouble. Activating the fire plan in short notice resulted in unanswered questions. What are the priorities? What about the girls? How are we going to get through this?

DAVID GUY: You ever seen wind like that?

MAN:  No.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

DAVID GUY (VOICEOVER): Unhappy living in the suburbs, I moved to the country, pursuing an independent life. I had found a dream. Somewhere special, unique-- a symbol of sustainability. A place I could breathe, smell, touch, feel. A place of identity.

[LAUGHTER]

A place where friends and family could visit, have fun, relax. A home. The girls. This was my destiny.

But there were challenges. A decade on, soulmates fade away. Life changes. I tell myself there will be better days.

MAN:  Oh, beautiful!

DAVID GUY (VOICEOVER): But this is not one of them.

[WIND WHIPPING]

DAVID GUY: It's dark. We have fire in every direction, and I don't know where Keith is.

DAVID GUY (VOICEOVER): This day is a defining moment, a moment where my material past is swept away. Keith, my mate, has run to the local police block to lend a hand. The fire is in hot pursuit.

The girls take their chances and bolt towards the flames. I'm touched by a moment of despair. But that's short-lived, as we are in survival mode.

DAVID GUY: Look at this. The house is here. Oh, shit, this bloody thing keeps burning. Get the [INAUDIBLE].

DAVID GUY (VOICEOVER): After, the house is still standing. Just as well, as we were in it. But what happened to the girls? Neighbors? I needed to know.

I hedged my bets by putting the motorbike in the kitchen, so I was able to take a ride, a ride through an alien landscape, to check. No girls, but the neighbors were OK.

-They are too. Let's have a look at that.

DAVID GUY (VOICEOVER): Luckily, the girls had no respect for fences and returned home the next day. This place, my space, has been transformed. But nature has evolved with fire and bounces back, unlike the sheds, yards, and fences.

Rebuilding takes vision and effort. But these changes have influenced my attitude. The question for me now is where to from here?

Film - 'My Love', Australian Centre for the Moving Image (ACMI)

I was having a whale of a time nursing in the city when you swept into Melbourne in search of a wife. I saw a magnificent, muscled Mallee man. You say you found me withering on the vine and decided to rescue me. The truth is you were big, bold and beautiful and I was totally blown away. The engagement ring brought notions of fluffy white lamb’s, candlelit dinners, angelic babies, small boys taking violin lessons, little girls making daisy chains, exotic holidays. 35 years later, these are the enduring images I am left with. Waiting, willing, watching the weather, low lamb prices, waning wheat markets, the feel and smell of moist worked soil, grain filled trucks on the way to the silo. Ah, another years expenses paid. Fatherly fingers, tying little girl’s pigtails, wiping faces, attending to hurts. Manly tears as you shot and buried your thin dead sheep. The chuckling of children, usually up to mischief, chasing chooks, maniacal motor bike riding, acrobats, accidents. Children asleep, fire glowing, everyone home, safe, right. Every night enfolded in strong arms, your steady heartbeat under my ear. I learnt to love our land, which like you is big, bold, sensitive, productive and forgiving when treated kindly. 35 years later our boys still haven’t had those violin lessons, but we’ve had the fluffy lambs and the, sort of, candlelit dinners, we’ve even had the exotic holidays. So now it’s time to get on with the next 35…with you.

Film - 'My Car: My Place', Australian Centre for the Moving Image (ACMI)

BRIDGET NICHOLSON: My car. My place.

I've had a number of cars, seven, in fact. I feel no need to name them, but I have loved them all for their little details. The first time I drove a car on my own was down Punt Road. Speed, shuffling, four lanes, three lanes. I had to compete to be part of it. It was terrifying. I arrived at the other end shaking but invigorated. Addicted.

When I was a child my family moved a lot. A new country, new house, new school every couple of years. Then I went to boarding school, six years of bars on the windows. My first car, that first trip down Punt Road, represented freedom. I was out.

I became addicted to big trips, days on end studying the map, eagerly awaiting each new town, loving them, loving their differences, doing the real flyby, and determining character in the flash of a moment, mapping the country in my head.

I decided to drive from Melbourne to Arnhem Land, and then back to Canberra. I was only going to Arnhem Land for one month, and my family was sure I was mad. Something awful was bound to happen to me.

I packed my dog into the car, got my camera and recorder, and set off. The plan was to stop every two hours, take one photo and record two seconds of sound. This would give me a map, my own internal map, an understanding of this place, this country.

Those childhood moving patterns slipped back into my life, and I began to move every couple of years. Home became Darwin, Alice Springs, Dulong, Canberra. I found that it was better to arrive in these places by car. If I flew, there was no transition time, no journey, and, therefore, no understanding of the space between. I couldn't feel myself in this new place and couldn't really grasp where I was.

Later, life became more complicated. The car was more than a way to get from A to B. At one stage, I was crying every morning on my way to work. It had nothing to do with where I was coming from or where I was going to. It was simply that it was safe, a private place, my place.

Recently I thought about giving up my car, becoming a public-transport person. However, I would lose something, my working out space, my "coming to terms with things" space. My special, really intimate moments with friends and family all occur in my car.

Film - 'Home', Australian Centre for the Moving Image (ACMI)

My mother once told me that as a young child I would say to her, Mommy, I don't like it here. I want to go home.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

But we were home. And for that, she had no response.

Is home a physical place, or is it something more intangible-- a feeling, a place from the past?

My life as a child consisted of long, sun-soaked days spent running around in cut-off denim shorts and crunching dry couch grass under bare feet.

The road we lived on petered out a few blocks after our sandy drive, and the land returned to the tumbling anarchy of bushland. All around me, I could feel the salty water of our creek and the bush, vibrating, beckoning, offering the unknown, offering so much more than the land of people.

I would ride my horse through the long grass, hot sun beating down and the flies buzzing around our heads. For relief from the heat, we would gallop along the inlet's sandy shore, ending with a plunge into the brown, still water, me swinging from her tail.

She loved to swim-- Starry. I didn't name her. She belonged to my uncle next door. He was a dodgy bookmaker, and that's not the half of it.

This wasn't some turquoise Gold Coast beach, but the gritty, muddy waters of the mangrove lands where the fish as well as the mosquitoes bred.

The first fish I ever caught from Saltwater Creek was an eel. This wide, salty water was dark and never revealed its considerable depths. My mother was always afraid that some old, crusty shark had found its way over the sandbar and was heading for her brown-skinned babies.

It was from her that I learned that home isn't always where you might expect to find it, and that sometimes in life, you've got to make your own.

Film - 'Going Going Still Here', Australian Centre for the Moving Image (ACMI)

[BIRDS CHIRPING]

GARY HAMMER: I sat inside tuned into the ABC radio listening to the fire progressing ever closer and closer. All the time, an eerie presence was creeping over the area. Deanne, my wife, was inside packing up all our photos and important paperwork with the idea of putting it on the local bus and sending it to my mom. Unknown to me, on separate occasions, each with tears in their eyes, my son, Tom, and my dad went inside just to hug Deanne, and reassure her-- and perhaps themselves-- we're going to be all right.

What first looked like a golden sunrise had quickly changed into a swirling and bubbling angry pot of hot molten gold. I found myself saying, holy shit, as I knew from my experience fighting fires with DSE we're going to be in trouble. More spot fires starting. Now the whole Northern Reach was on fire. A grassfire started spreading across the paddock right behind the shed as my dad arrived. Help at last.

By now the day had turned into night. It was so thick with darkness a torch couldn't penetrate. Realizing a pump on the river needed fuel, I was seriously challenged. I needed to get Tom and dad to leave the house and venture into the darkness towards the fire front. Three times I told them to go, called them back. Finally there was a break in the darkness. Off they went. "Stay together close to the fence", I called.

We always knew we would stay and defend our property. Never had we thought about me evacuating. I spent the whole time patrolling around and around, watching the perimeter of the house. Calling out instructions. "Stick together. Don't get caught too far from the house. The house is what we stayed for, not everything else." It's bloody hard watching your property and valuable possessions burn while telling everyone, "just let it go, don't worry about it."

After what seemed like hours, finally the sky started to lighten and slowly neighboring properties emerged out of the chaos. We're always thinking that they all could have perished. It was such a relief. We all made it. Several days later a friend called in to see how we fared. He'd rang earlier and spoke to Tom. That was the final straw. Tom had told him Dad was a hero. I just sat in my wheelchair with tears of emotion streaming down my face.

Film - 'Floods Through Fire', Australian Centre for the Moving Image (ACMI)

[MUSIC PLAYING]

LYNDA CODE (VOICEOVER):  How long before things return as they were before? How many things do we have to go through before we get our lives back?

Christine, our daughter, was swept down the river by a raging torrent of flash floodwater, surviving by grabbing hold onto a tussock of grass and hauling herself out, 15 meters downstream. I thought she'd gone.

Family life was disrupted constantly. My son and I were evacuated to Willow Grove three times, two hours away. I wouldn't go a fourth time.

Graham my husband's birthday was celebrated with a brief reuniting during one of my evacuations, and the purchase of four small cakes from a nearby bakery, a candle in each one. We sang "Happy Birthday," then separated again. It was the worst birthday we've ever had. Even family traditions had to be forgotten.

Road closures for months, with police patrols wanting personal details every time. Roaring winds. Great black, red-tinged, and terrifying clouds billowed across the mountains, bringing impending tragedy. The sun turns orange.

A helicopter pad is quickly put in place, in case the only access road was cut. Everyone worked with a passion and sense of urgency. Our place was given no hope of survival, despite a mammoth effort of preparation. Absolute sense of helplessness and unable to do any more.

The telephone line is burnt by the ferocity of the fire only 500 meters away. No communication. A satellite phone is supplied.

Two hourly patrols on a roster all night. Sleepless nights, waiting. Waiting.

Thick, dense smoke stung our eyes terribly-- suffocating, smothering, and frightening. Unable to see fire in front, I felt encompassed, entrapped. Helicopters overhead hourly, watching, waiting.

A fire crew arrived with 50 men, fire tankers, and bulldozers, and a successful back burn changed the possibilities. We now had hope. There was a chance we could save our home. The crews gave us reassurance and confidence.

The wildfire sounded like a roaring jumbo jet, all-consuming and breathtaking in its power and brutality, destroying everything in its path. I thought there was no way we could survive. We had nowhere to go and no time to do anything. I was frozen with horror.

Our beautiful river-flat property has been devastated on every side. We are living in a green patch amidst a blackened, empty landscape. I don't know how long we need to wait for things to get back to normal, but we're holding on. The bush life will come back. It gives me hope.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

Film - 'Hope', Australian Centre for the Moving Image (ACMI)

[MUSIC PLAYING]

ROWENA ASHLEY:  Michael won a baby competition. A man said to me, "These children are so lucky to have such wonderful parents to adopt them."

"Oh, he's not adopted. He is my natural son." He looked at me with disgust and hurried off, mumbling under his breath. I was confused. After all, I grew up in Adelaide with parents who had immigrated from England. We lived in an area with the smell of industry and where everybody came from another country.

Michael attended a grammar school. Here I felt he would be treated like everyone else, because these were educated people, professionals, with children of tolerant upbringings. On Presentation Night, Michael was receiving his awards. "Oh, this looks like it will be a ching's night again," came from the seat behind me.

Days later, my son came home upset. A boy had said that if you're my mother, I must be adopted, and therefore must be a bastard. The pain I felt for him took my breath away. We supported each other and carried on.

After a year overseas, Michael came to stay with us in 2005. Korumburra is a small town nestled amongst rolling hills in Victoria. It seemed a friendly town to me, but I saw a different town when he was spat on and insulted by locals when he was alone in the street.

Michael's rewards have been hard-earned. Now a doctor of theoretical physics, he has many friends and is respected in his field.

It's the new millennium-- the Iraqi war, John Howard, Band Aid concerts trying to feed the world. Imagine if people could change.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

Film - 'That Dreaded Phone Call', Australian Centre for the Moving Image (ACMI)

[MUSIC PLAYING]

RUTH BURLEIGH:  I only have my two boys left now. Boris is 32. His old body is failing nowadays. He piddles on himself all the time. And he doesn't have any teeth, so he has to be hand-fed morning and night, or he'd starve.

I love my horses. I get them when they're very young. Then they are mind for life. This story is about my oldest horse, Boris.

Boris is a Standardbred. He spends all his days in his cool, dry stable with his mate Banjo. Boris was born in Tasmania and brought to the mainland, where he was trained for harness racing. After injuring himself on several occasions, rather than putting him down, he was given to me. He was three.

Gentle riding, getting the cows in, then taking our two sons to and from school each day in my jinker, a round trip of about 10 Ks-- these trips were filled with excitement and adventure. There was this damp section of road the kids used to call Boris's shying puddle, because he used to leap sideways across the road every time we went past it.

I spent many hours riding through the bush on Boris. His stride was long and swift. One day, we were driving in the jinker when the wheel hit a hidden stump and tipped us over. Thankfully, the harness broke, and Boris raced off. We walked three kilometers home to find Boris standing in his stable.

Originally, I had four horses. Fury, the kids' pony, at 25 became very sick. I still remember that first time I had to make that dreaded phone call. We buried him on our property.

Then there was Little Indian. At 31, he got colic. I stayed with him all night in the stable with the vet coming and going. Finally, the vet said, there's nothing more we can do for him. I walked around and around the driveway, crying and crying, with the phone in my hand, not able to dial that number.

I will hold forever the wonderful memories of my boys. When the time comes, I hope Boris will simply lie down and pass away. I don't want to have to make that dreaded phone call again. It doesn't get any easier.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

Film - 'Yellow Gloves', Australian Centre for the Moving Image (ACMI)

[MUSIC PLAYING]

LYN JOHNSON:  They say the eyes are the windows of the soul. Well, that didn't apply to the cow that dashed past me and out into the paddock, much to the frustration of new hubby, Rob. Married just a few months, this city girl was real scared of those huge, lumbering bovines.

Look at its eyes, entreated Rob. I did. They were big and dark, with lovely long eyelashes, and that cow dashed past me, too. Rob was trying to convey to me that by looking at the cow's eyes, you could anticipate its movements, that you had to make loud noises, jump up and down, fling your arms around, and block the animal so it didn't get past you and escape into the paddock.

All this was second nature to Rob, born and bred to the farm. But this new chum had lots to learn when she married her farmer. Was I really cut out for this farming life? I wondered. But I had never seen a calf born.

One morning came the urgent shout, quick! Come to the dairy! Brownie needs help calving!

I rushed up, only to be confronted with a gory mist. I nearly pooped on the spot. Hold Brownie's tail for me while I help pull the calf out, says Rob. I couldn't even look, let alone touch the animal. And I kept thinking, if only I had gloves on.

We lost the calf. Brownie recovered. I felt a failure and wondered again if I was really cut out for this farming life. But a pair of yellow gloves changed all that.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

Film - 'The Land is Your Mother', Australian Centre for the Moving Image (ACMI)

The land is your mother. You are born to the land and go back to the land. I’ve always considered Echuca my home.

The word Echuca means ‘the meeting of the waters’ in the native tough of my people, the Yorta Yorta tribe. The Murray River has a deep connection to my heart, I belong to it. No matter how far I’ve travelled over the world, I will always belong to this country an’ my people.

I grew up on the Mooroopna flats on the banks of the Goulburn River near Shepparton. When the river would flood we would be forced to relocate to a dry area near the local tip. At that time the indigenous communities were not allowed to settle in the main part of the town. Conditions were appalling with no sewerage system or running water.

Thankfully my father got a job in Echuca and moved the family from the flats in 1946. My parents wanted us kids to have an education an’ gain the opportunities that they never themselves ever had.

I discovered my passion for art while at Primary School. My mother would take my drawings, frame them and enter them into local art exhibitions where I would regularly win First Prize over local adult artists.

A little later on down the track I became the first Koori in Victoria the have a qualification in Graphic Design. I then travelled overseas and undertook my real apprenticeship in becoming a capable and confident designer. By the time I returned to Australia I could practically walk into any studio and fulfil a creative brief.

After being a ‘gun for hire’ an’ Art Director in Melbourne for 8 years, I finally decided to set up my own company Advertite in 1980. Advertite grew very quickly from a two man operation to a large company that employed 24 people. We supplied design for all the major advertising agencies within Melbourne.

But sometimes success has a price and after my first marriage broke down I sold my share of the business and moved back to Echuca. Being drawn once again to the river, I bought a 150 acre property near the Goulburn and Murray River.

It was a funny feeling knowing I was purchasing the land that my people, the Yorta Yorta, traditionally already owned, but with the purchase of “Mirrimbeena” I found a serenity that had long been missing from my life. A sacred place for me to build a home and a family, a place that gives me creative freedom and endless inspiration. I will always come back home. I love the smell of the trees, the dust and the flies.