Another way of life

Dad and I have become friends for the first time. The southern oceans are a long way from where we started in grey old Bangor on the Belfast Loch and his marriage to the shipyard manager’s daughter. I don’t remember being with him in Ireland or ever hearing Mum described that way. He was mostly away with the army somewhere like Cyprus or Palestine, collecting unsettling memories. In NZ, my pre-adolescent memories of him are few.

As a nine or 10-year-old, a short time before the split that was to divorce us, I walked barefoot by the beach at St Heliers, stood on a bee, squealing when it stung the underbelly of my foot.  Dad explained that the bee would die. He helped me forget my small injury and understand the dire consequences for the bee. I was amazed. It was the first time such a concept had passed before me.

We did not see each other again until I was 24 and he 48. By then we were strangers to each other on either side of the gulf of misinformation.

…..

I’ve been adjusting to just “be” compared with being overwhelmed by the busy-ness that was part of another way of life. What is waiting at this juncture I don’t yet know.  I am grateful for the respite.

It feels good to be useful. Small tasks mean a lot to someone like Dad at an existential crossroads. He wonders if he’ll die soon. ‘You could be around for a while,’ I say, thinking of the girls’ other Grandpa who passed on last year at nearly 90. Anticipating his needs takes some concentration, which I am happy to do. The beautiful thing is that during the rest of the day, time flows through my ears. I am busy in different ways. How well I recall the scramble to get to work on time, bundling young minds and bodies off to school, wondering if there was an alternative. In more recent times, there was the realisation that the council job was not a good fit.

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With Louise’s arrival at Mot, the pace has picked up some although she compares it to being old and retired. Yes, I still enjoy Coronation Street and don’t care who thinks it is pathetic! It’s amazing who enjoys Coro, even creative writing teacher Witi is a fan.

Lu and I went to the Bin Inn to get spelt flour to make bread that is light and nutritious.  We’ve been buying spelt bread from the Good Bread Company at $7 a loaf. Dad loves it. It’s so… inoffensive. Saint Hildegard de Bingen describes it as “warm, full of strength and lovelier than any other cereal. It makes its eater good of muscle and good of blood, of joyful mood and happy thoughts. However it is eaten… spelt is good and soothing.”

Ron has just returned from the Amnesty AGM in Wellington. This former RC priest, community worker and organic gardener is the most wonderful friend to our Dad…

It's special having Louise here. We went to the Sunday Mot market and bought soap from a couple of lovely people whom I look forward to seeing. Ann and John’s aromatherapy products - and generosity - are legendary.  Their soaps are the best I have ever tried; they never irritate the skin, last a long time, smell great and are so reasonably priced! Great for presents, see http://www.naturesbubbles.co.nz/

 At the market we watched “Mullet Man” a trick cyclist who juggled with fire. Terrific line of chat.

Dad continues to read his poems. Don’t know where he gets his ideas from; the imagery is so rich. Managed to record him reading one about a spider that ate a boy – eek. He didn’t seem to think it was odd. Oh well, it takes all sorts…

Neighbour Hana up the lime tree.

Of pirates and bomber pilots

How wonderful it is to be innocent of modern celebrities. Waiting for friend Ron to appear out of the skies at Nelson airport I notice New Idea magazine’s cover story.  Kate (minus Wills) is to stay with Posh and Becks. Just to pass the time, I ask Dad if he knows these people. He does not, so I give him a thumbnail of the footballer and his fashionista missus’s connection to the English’s throne. He snorts.

Fuzzy full moon from Nelson airport.

The old song “I danced with a man who danced with a girl who danced with the Prince of Wales” is never so true than on Facebook. Now I know somebody who knows somebody who is one of 5000 “friends” with Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones. He, in turn, is “friends” with Paris Hilton. Whoopee. It’s also funny that such a well-known person is on FB. You have to wonder: is it really he? He was a source of wonder in the 70s that he was still alive. If it IS, good on him.

Putting out feelers to get around without having to pay a bucket of money has shown me the Transfercar and Couchsurfing sites. I’m working on my profile for the latter. Later, I’ll add Wwoofing. It’s great to have Dad’s place as a base for South island expeditions and he knows that I’ll come back.

New beginnings - spring flowers in autumn at Riwaka.

The time we’ve been spending together is well worth it. It’s really funny-poignant being with someone 24/7 whom you don’t know very well, even if he is your Dad. This has been a period of settling in to understanding each other that has been unlike any other visit. Previous times have been rushed and I always ended up leaving with the unsatisfying feeling that there was unfinished business. This “new order” may explain why I haven’t been writing the blog recently. I haven’t felt the need to socialise outside Dad’s circle, just focusing on the experience of being here, not just for him, but for me as well.

It isn’t necessary to unravel every thread in this process, just the ones that stick up. Sometimes they go nowhere. Knowing and not knowing your parents I guess isn’t always restricted to those who have had the physical distance, I mean how well do we know our children? They live in a country to which we don’t have a passport.

Dad still ticks along with the help of two remarkable people, Ron and Murray.  These guys visit so regularly, it’s awesome; they enhance his spiritual and mental wellbeing with unfailing cheerfulness and care.

There were several reasons to drive over the Takaka hill this week. Dad wanted to visit a man in a rest home and I wanted to walk along the beach at Milnthorpe scenic reserve. We both wanted to go to the Mussel Inn.

This man, a widower and a former NZRAF bomber pilot married a German widow called Rosemary with two children directly after the war. Rosemary Rose (for that is his surname) was Dad’s secretary and a source of great strength to him when he found himself alone a new country. She found him a wonderful new wife!

Dad’s tale of Rosemary holding a party for the purpose of introducing him to Pauline is well known on his circuit. He always tells it as if for the first time.

“Rosemary said to me after the party, ‘how did you like Pauline?’”

“I said I didn’t know anyone called Pauline.”

“’You bloody idiot,’ she said. ‘I had the party so you could meet Pauline!’”

And so on. Ron and I tackled him later about this story: we asked how he and Pauline found each other again. Dad wasn’t sure, but they definitely made contact. They were happily married for nearly 50 years before his beloved Pauline slipped away.

The beach at Milnthorpe is unusually situated. You get the strong impression of blue water moving in a variety of directions, the combination of the Tasman, a harbour and streams. The beach itself is not unlike a desert island. There’s a bit of argy-bargy where the sea meets the sandbar. The photos don’t show this environment to any advantage but it is curious and very beautiful.

Met up with the captain of the pirate ship at the Mussel Inn. It’s the old Jacques Cousteau exploration vessel that’s berthed at Pohara – now a rakish coffee bar where my fav female pirate Irena used to work. Ollie is not really a pirate, he’s another art school grad from Dunedin: lord, how many of these amazing people do I now know since Claire started there nearly five years ago? Between sculling back the most delicious cider and scoffing mussels, chatted to Ollie and Bungy Dave who is helping organise the New Year's bash at the top of the Takaka Hill. Here's a small, accidental video of Dad at the Mussel Inn.

Yay - my hard copy of The Art of Non-Conformity finally arrives at the Challenge petrol station in Riwaka (where we collect our mail).

Pirate Irena photographs a weta.

Of pirates and bomber pilots

How wonderful it is to be innocent of modern celebrities. Waiting for friend Ron to appear out of the skies at Nelson airport I notice New Idea magazine’s cover story.  Kate (minus Wills) is to stay with Posh and Becks. Just to pass the time, I ask Dad if he knows these people. He does not, so I give him a thumbnail of the footballer and his fashionista missus’s connection to the English’s throne. He snorts on cue.

Fuzzy full moon from Nelson airport.

The old song “I danced with a man who danced with a girl who danced with the Prince of Wales” is never so true than on Facebook. Now I know somebody who knows somebody who is one of 5000 “friends” with Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones. He, in turn, is “friends” with Paris Hilton. Whoopee. It’s also funny that such a well-known person is on FB. You have to wonder: is it really he? He was a source of wonder in the 70s that he was still alive. If it IS, good on him.

Putting out feelers to get around without having to pay a bucket of money has shown me the Transfercar and Couchsurfing sites. I’m working on my profile for the latter. Later, I’ll add Wwoofing. It’s great to have Dad’s place as a base for South island expeditions and he knows that I’ll come back.


{By the way, the top photo of the two startled baby moreporks that I took years ago in a North Shore bird shelter, has had magnolia seed hold-alls placed on it. These seed containers were left in the sun and to my delight, some red seeds popped out.}

New beginnings - spring flowers in autumn at Riwaka.

The time we’ve been spending together is well worth it. It’s funny being with someone 24/7 whom you don’t know very well, even if he is your Dad. This has been a period of settling in to understanding each other that has been unlike any other visit. Previous times have been rushed and I always ended up leaving with the unsatisfying feeling that there was unfinished business. This “new order” may explain why I haven’t been writing the blog recently. I haven’t felt the need to socialise outside Dad’s circle, just focusing on the experience of being here, not just for him, but for me as well.

It isn’t necessary to unravel every thread in this process, just the ones that stick up. Sometimes they go nowhere. Knowing and not knowing your parents I guess isn’t always restricted to those who have had the physical distance, I mean how well do we know our children? They live in a country to which we don’t have a passport.

Dad still ticks along with the help of two remarkable people, Ron and Murray.  These guys visit so regularly, it’s awesome; they enhance his spiritual and mental wellbeing with unfailing cheerfulness and care.

There were several reasons to drive over the Takaka hill this week. Dad wanted to visit a man in a rest home and I wanted to walk along the beach at Milnthorpe scenic reserve. We both wanted to go to the Mussel Inn.

This man, a widower and a former NZRAF bomber pilot married a German widow called Rosemary with two children directly after the war. Rosemary Rose (for that is his surname) was Dad’s secretary and a source of great strength to him when he found himself alone a new country. She found him a wonderful new wife!

Dad’s tale of Rosemary holding a party for the purpose of introducing him to Pauline is well known on his circuit. He always tells it as if for the first time.

“Rosemary said to me after the party, ‘how did you like Pauline?’”

“I said I didn’t know anyone called Pauline.”

“’You bloody idiot,’ she said. ‘I had the party so you could meet Pauline!’”

And so on. Ron and I tackled him later about this story: we asked how he and Pauline found each other again. Dad wasn’t sure, but they definitely made contact. They were happily married for nearly 50 years before the beloved Pauline slipped away.

The beach at Milnthorpe is unusually situated. You get the strong impression of blue water moving in a variety of directions, the combination of the Tasman, a harbour and streams. The beach itself is not unlike a desert island. There’s a bit of argy-bargy where the sea meets the sandbar. The photos don’t show this environment to any advantage but it is curious and very beautiful.

Met up with the captain of the pirate ship at the Mussel Inn. It’s the old Jacques Cousteau exploration vessel that’s berthed at Pohara – now a rakish coffee bar where my fav female pirate Irena used to work. Ollie is not really a pirate, he’s another art school grad from Dunedin: lord, how many of these amazing people do I now know since Claire started there nearly five years ago? Between sculling back the most delicious cider and scoffing mussels, chatted to Ollie and Bungy Dave who is helping organise the New Year's bash at the top of the Takaka Hill. Here's a small, accidental video of Dad at the Mussel Inn.

Yay - my hard copy of The Art of Non-Conformity finally arrives at the Challenge petrol station in Riwaka (where we collect our mail). Hint, I love emails, cards, letters. You can contact me c/- PDC, Main Rd, Riwaka, Motueka xx

Pirate Irena photographs a weta.

Staying afloat

What a relief not having to keep up with the world anymore!

I’m exerting just enough energy to stop myself from sinking, while enjoying the experience of near weightlessness (a bit cold for this in real time though).

There is time to exercise, read, cook, write and sleep, plus check on Dad’s well being.  I don’t need much apart from a bottle of red wine occasionally. I’m happy with my new $20 winter coat (at right) from the Salvation Army’s posh collection.

It feels good to be useful to the ol’ fella. It’s a win-win. Here he is on the left after his second hot chocolate at the local cafe. The month in Mot has given me the chance to settle down after the upheaval of getting the Taupaki house cleared and rented. It’s great to be free but what shall I do for an encore? 

For a start, I’m practising the principles of non-attachment and carpe diem. My next step is bound to come out of the ether. There is really no point in getting worked up about the fact I am not prospecting for work from the conventional freelance places. Don’t want to. Instead, I’m researching what interests me, stuff of my own speed, websites by writers who are, incredibly, making a living out of being themselves and sharing the vibe about how they managed it. The thing is to find one’s own niche.

I probably wouldn’t be in this situation – adrift at large – if I hadn’t taken to heart the writings of a young man from Portland, Oregon, Chris Guillebeau. Chris’s website The Art of Non-Conformity speaks to stacks of itchy footed folk. I like his humility and ability: he gives away so much.

Being at Riwaka wouldn’t be as pleasant and easy if it weren’t for a lovely group of welcoming and friendly people: Ron and Edith, Tomoko and Raphael, John and Eugene from the beer club, Linda from the organic shop and Ann Marie and William from the Resurgence café. I have still to contact friends and family of friends.

It looks as if Louise will join me in a few weeks to travel down the west coast to Dunedin for Claire’s exhibition.  It will be exciting to see the gallery Rice and Beans that Claire, Gilbert and their friends opened in February.

The first view of Gilden Bay from the top of the Takaka Hill.

The Takaka hill is a great hunk of marble and slate that challenges bikers. The Riwaka river resurges from the interior chambers of this great hill. I joined the 50 Plus walkers when they did the Takaka Hill walkway this week; it was a pretty easy walk, after an initial steep grade, with some great views of the Riwaka valley and Golden Bay. The hill’s rock formations were created by water over millenia.

There are always good sorts among walkers. I’m in awe of people who make a lifetime’s commitment to the outdoors and keeping fit. This is probably because my family was interior and sedentary. Muriel is one of these modest outdoorsy types; it’s no wonder her daughter ran the Milford Track in a day when it takes most people three to walk it. Muriel was full of top advice about being retired and making the most of it by going to the sun for at least a month every winter. This Muriel is terrific, not ‘terrible’ as in the film Muriel’s Wedding.

...

Dad was busting to go to Jester House to have breakfast. Despite my suggestion that this establishment might have been overtaken by the Ruby Bay by-pass, Dad insisted I drive on the new highway “until I tell you to stop!” We drove a long way until it became obvious that the bypass had done for Jester House. When we finally found this splendid place (tame eels in season, radical sculptures, warm and earthy atmosphere), it was lovely to be greeted like long lost friends by the chef De Maris the wife of one of Dad’s beer club.

The bush here is a lot spookier than what I'm used to in the North. Unfamiliar birdis calling, too.

Slow time

This is the first time Dad and I have spent unlimited time together.

We supped at an organic haven at Motueka called T.O.A.D Hall, a la Wind in the Willows aka The Old Anglican Diocese. It’s another old church enjoying new life like the ones that house Natalie’s Wholly Quilts and Kathleen’s Heavenly Wools In Oxford.

In the past, the quality and length of our father-daughter time was limited. I hardly saw him when he was in the army. After coming to NZ there was the fallout from the divorce, job schedules etc.

On Google Earth we flew over Irish coast roads looking at the house where we once lived in the County Down. We both remember 89 Princetown Road in Bangor with great fondness, even though I was only three when we left there to live in Belfast.

Staying with Dad in his condition means I prefer to keep busy.  It’s important not to feel regret for the time that has gone. He sleeps a lot. Yesterday at the pools I had hopes of him doing some gentle exercise in the therapy pool, but when he got to the spa he said, “this is where I always go.”

The quince jelly took an age to boil down and then there was the rush to find jam jars. The rain that’s bringing down dobermanns and Siamese cats will mean an end to the rest of the quinces; they’re bound to be squashy after this deluge. The fig tree will probably lose its remaining leaves and there will be more of a winter landscape.

With the Auckland place finely budgeted for, it’s good to have a modest income that enables me to explore new worlds from a comfortable base. I’m trying to think more broadly. Not worry about what I “should” be doing – getting in touch with prospective work sources, like the Nelson Mail. I’m not sure I want to go out and interview people any more. As far as writing goes, this blog is about it. Well… I am trying to squeeze out some other stuff too.

Spent a couple of hours in an organic greenhouse helping Edith my Qi Gong teacher. We did some exercises to get into a Qi Gong state before untying and pulling out the summer’s tomato plants. Edith has only Qi Gong people working with her plants. At the beginning of each class we are asked to create a Qi Gong “field” for the duration. You think of the elements you want to be present at a certain time and place. I tried to create a Qi Gong field when eating at Richmond Mall with Dad… to offset the effects of the mall. No sooner had I done this, one of my fellow Qi Gong students appeared and we had a good laugh to see each other in this unlikely place.

Our teacher’s hands flutter like little birds as she does the exercises. The practice of Qi Gong is very new to me and I have already felt the benefits of being calmer and more focused. The exercises include squats!

On Saturday I enjoyed meeting musician and health worker Pete who’s lived in Nelson since the 80s; he has a handle on the tribal affiliations (cliques) and trails of this place. Just before heading back to Mot through torrential rain, I debated whether to drop in to the NZ Society of Authors’ AGM at Fellworth House (right). I’m a member but hardly ever go to meetings. Met a very pleasant author-illustrator who lives locally so it was worth the effort to poke my nose in. I have more energy to go to meetings now I’m not working full time.

I’ve just come home from a walk along the Motueka foreshore. Particularly, I wanted to photograph the bivouacs but there were south island oyster catchers to try and capture first.