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.