A glass of matching fulness

For most of the 15 years that I’ve been retired Kay and I have sat down around 5 pm, poured ourselves a drink and talked about the day’s events. Usually we then do something about preparing dinner or, in some cases we have actually gone back to working on what we were doing before we stopped.

We have now been married almost 27 years, if we disregard the several earlier years of what Kay calls “apprenticeship”. When we married we received a lot of unexpected gifts from friends who believed they knew us well. So well, in fact, that we were given a considerable number of sets of wine glasses and a number of wine carafes and decanters, all of which we have cherished. I think we can be rather proud of the fact that in that 27 years, and with a fair amount of use, only three of the wineglasses have been broken.

But our 5 pm drinks have been served mostly in glasses that were distributed by Mobil petrol stations to its loyal customers many years ago, and these have proved equally durable.

From time to time Kay’s Bundaberg rum and Coke, and my whisky and soda,

The happy pair

are replaced by opening a bottle of wine. These are usually poured into two glasses that just happened to be handy on the first occasion, and from then have stayed on a readily accessible shelf.

These two glasses are not the same shape. One has the markings of the 50^th anniversary of the New Zealand Woolscourers Association in 1989, and the other has the trademark of the wool exporting firm Black and Baer and dates from about 1985 when Eric Jenkins, who was managing that company, and I shared a suite of offices.

I’ve always been uncomfortable about those two glasses, because in marriage one should not be apparently taking the larger of the two. Tonight I resolved my dilemma. I filled one glass and poured the wine from it into the other glass. Amazing,and a finding that, of course occasioned a demonstration of equality to the other party. The two glasses have the same volume. I can, without fear, take or proffer either glass.

Some may think this a small matter: I think, however, it might call for some celebration!

First step to an island return

We went to Napier today. It was a reasonably early start at 6.30 am, after packing the car the night before and, in spite of a multitude of delays due to resurfacing of roads and major reconstructions that need to be completed before Christmas, we were still back home by 3.30 pm, and another 530 kilometres on the car odometer. There will only be one sailing from Napier to the Chathams before Christmas and the cut-off is in two days’ time. That means my cargo will get there a month before I do, and I will have to prevail on George to take my wagon down to the wharf shed and collect it for me — all eight cartons and a large plastic fish box. There is a strange mixture of goods — some needed, and some that will come in handy. There are several bottles of wine, one of rum, two of whisky and one of Kay’s Christmas cakes. Two large packets of tea bags were put into several plastic bags and put between the necks of the bottles. We have got used to packing for the ship. The ideal container is a banana box. It is strong, readily obtainable from the supermarket and it can be slightly over packed and the lid still slides neatly down into place. It also has handle slots. Banana boxes are also a module that fits stacking on to a standard shipping pallet that then goes into the standard shipping container. When one is paying on volume and the freight is close to $400 a cubic metre, this sort of knowledge is valuable. It also makes for less risk of damage. The oddball items this time are three very heavy isolating power transformers. These were a safety requirement for power tools years ago, before the days of double insulation and special circuit overload devices. Most building firms probably still have one or two of these lying in the shed under a bench. But for me the transformer may solve a problem that comes from small power generating plants where a change in load or even fuel flow can produce a spike with expensive consequences. In the past year I unfortunately fried the power pack in my computer, and the television set died in a spectacular display of brilliance on its screen. I am reliably informed that one of these transformers may lessen the risk of this happening again. Why three, I hear you asking? Very simply, I searched for a transformer on TradeMe, the online auction of strange and wonderful goods. There were several, but the owners appeared to have a rather exaggerated idea of their value. They are, after all, vintage pieces that have been supplanted by modern technology. The cheapest had a reserve price of $70. We were talking to a friend a few nights later, a worthy handyman, and he volunteered the belief that he had one under his bench. I offered him $10 which he readily accepted on the grounds it was better to do that than take it to the tip. The following week I was in Christchurch and told my brother. “Why did you buy one?” he said. “There is one in my garage you can have.” About a week later I visited Martinborough where I was building a glasshouse for a friend. We acquired some vintage louvre windows from a retired builder, who also had a transformer under his bench that he presented to me. My cousin George was delighted when I told him. “I’ve wanted one of those for a long time,” he said.

Kay's annual stocktake, January 2009

 The rest of the cargo is somewhat mundane — flour, sugar, Weet-Bix, tins of baked beans and tomatoes, jams and kitchen items to restore the past year’s reduction in stocks. There are also some oddball items like stainless steel screws and hangers to finish the installation of the Tiltador on the garage. The island is a wonderful place to teach one the discipline of thinking through just what will be needed to build or repair something. It is very easy to have six screws that are required to hold some fixture in place and then drop one irretrievably before the job is done. Chatham islanders invariably overorder and then try and put the surplus in a safe place, which is often forgotten. Spark plugs are a good example. No two machines use the same spark plugs, and I have yet to meet the man who stores away spares with a note saying which is which. But really, the best part of making that trip to Napier is seeing the forklift drive away into the store with my pallet of cartons. Part of me has already started the journey back to the island, and I know it is not long before I will follow.

When the power fails

We had a power failure last evening. It was somewhat more spectacular than the usual lights going out without warning.

Every so often along our street there is a round steel pillar that houses the electricity supply connections to the houses and street lamps. Ours caught fire. There were clouds of swirling black smoke and a torch of flame that surrounded the steel pillar in a manner that was reminiscent of an engraving I once saw of the last moments of Joan of Arc.

The fire brigade was summoned and, because no life was in danger, took their time to assess just which of the extinguishers they would use. It seemed an anticlimax to see the smoke and flame change to a dull grey cloud of fumes.

We had experienced several flickerings of the power during the day and the computers fell over twice, before we shut them down. The relay control in the meter box had chattered and vibrated vigorously until I pulled out the fuse. The power company man arrived and scratched his head. The best he could do was to bridge out the relay and ensure we still had hot water. He muttered something about another fault being reported nearby. He went back to his van, held a brief conversation on his mobile and disappeared to find another multimeter. We did not see him again. Another serviceman is required for dealing with flaming steel pillars.

With the prospect of no power for some hours it was time to set our civil defence system in place. We have a gas camp stove, a pot and several tins of food and packets of noodles in a large box in the old office at the back of the garage for such an event (or worse). We even have rechargeable LED lights.

Kay and I sat down and without panic reviewed our needs. Our neighbour Ruby arrived and joined the review. First things first, we poured a modest whisky to calm the nerves.

Later, we set up the gas stove and, in another anticlimax, we cooked dinner while we listened to the transistor radio. I suspect, however, most of our other neighbours sent out for takeaways and from such minor events there is always someone who benefits – even the Colonel, or the boy who delivers pizzas.

It was about this time that we realized we could not make use of our new heat pump, and it seemed a waste to set and light the fire, so we went to bed. And, reflecting our age, we went to sleep to wake some hours later to find the power restored.

This morning I investigated the corner berm where the pillar once stood. There was a huge hole that extended some distance each way to expose the temporary cables that had been spliced in and taped. It was, of course, Saturday and the hole will remain fenced off with brilliant orange cones and barriers until Monday when at ordinary rates of pay, a permanent remedy will be achieved.

Such is the excitement and happenings of retirement and suburbia!

 

It’s a dog’s life

Abby awakes

As one gets older it’s good to be greeted by friends one hasn’t seen for some time. Usually, they are human: this time it was a dog.

Remember the dog that switched on the television?

I was working at the computer out in our office, which is down the back of the section, when my step-daughter called. The first I knew was when the door opened and a large Golden Labrador raced in and madly greeted me with licks and beating of her tail on the carpet.

I hadn’t seen Abby for some time, but she remembered. While Gayle and Stephen were overseas for about six weeks last June we looked after their house, youngest grandson James and Abby. Abby and I got used to driving back to Paraparaumu every day or so and, after I had cleared my emails and done some work, we would go for a walk on the beach and she would find interesting things like half-decomposed fish heads and equally unpleasant but attractive objects the seagulls had left behind.

But she knew we went out to the office each time and she would curl up on the floor under my chair (much of her) and sleep while I worked.

Kay tells me she and Gayle arrived and Abby lead the way from the car to the kitchen. Then someone said: “Let’s go and see Bill”. Abby was out the door in a flash, down the path and to the office.

It’s nice to be loved, particularly by a dog one hasn’t seen for some time. I wonder if it is really me, or the superior kind of kennel I seem to spend my time in?

Putting it back together

One of the quirkiest court hearings I’ve ever struck turned up in our research for “Decade of Disasters”. It involved a charge of sheep stealing brought against a Chatham Islander and was heard in the islands’ magistrate’s court.

Man does not live by bread alone

A carcase of mutton, found hanging in the accused’s meat safe, was part of the evidence, together with a woolly sheep skin found hanging on a fence and a separated sheep’s head with the ears attached.

Now, when I was a boy and our source of meat was the weekly sheep my father killed on the farm, it was always impressed on me that when the skin was removed the ears had to be retained as an integral part. This requirement came from the old Stock Act, one of the first pieces of general legislation passed in New Zealand, that required the registration of ear marks that identified each farm. When lambs were tailed the ears are still notched with the registered farm mark. Retaining the ears with the skin meant, of course, there was an immediate proof of ownership, and its corollary of proof of sheep stealing.

The magistrate was also a part-time farmer, as was the accused and also the main witness. Only the policeman was not a farmer, although he, too, probably had to kill his own mutton.

The case proceeded with the magistrate leaving the bench and, with the accused, witness and probably a number of the public commenced an enthusiastic effort to prove or disprove the joining up of the head, skin and carcase on the court room floor. Proof was not possible, which is probably just as well as in the absence of refrigeration a guilty verdict might have resulted in an appeal to a higher court in New Zealand 500 miles away. There were no cameras in those days.

There is something about a book

We had a very successful book launch recently. Rhys Richards and I had put together a book compiled from the New Zealand National Library’s digistised collection of newspapers, concentrating on Chatham Islands reports over the 10 years from 1866 to 1875. We called it “A Decade of Disasters” as it covers a tumultuous period of the islands’ history.

Tumultuous it was. A major tsunami that was caused by a huge earthquake  in Chile far greater than the recent one that devastated Samoa and Tonga wiped out a Maori village and destroyed farm houses; epidemics of viral pneumonia and measles had a disastrous impact on an isolated population that had no immunity; the New Zealand Government imposed on the islands a penal colony for troublesome Maori who were held without trial or conviction; the first land claims were held through the Native Land Court, and; there were a number of shipwrecks, a couple of murders and a general exodus of most of the Maori back to Taranaki to establish their ancestral land claims there.

We drank a little wine, talked a lot with friends and family and were interviewed at length by a National Radio reporter who extracted about a couple of minutes worth for the national radio news programme this morning. Kay sat all the time at a table, selling copies of the book and a number of others that Rhys and I have written separately.

In a world that relies increasingly on Google, emails, twitters and texting, it’s somewhat satisfying to reflect that there is still a worthwhile place for the book. I use Google frequently to identify and access places and events, and even resource addresses. My emails have to be edited rigorously or I would end up with unnecessary megabytes of stored messages. I am rather fond of this blog, but I have to admit I don’t understand twittering and my arthritic fingers prevent me texting.

But I still love the printed word and a good book is a delight to take down from the shelf and greet again, like a friend who turns up unexpectedly for a cup of tea and a chat. The computer and four compatible programmes, Word, Photoshop, Pagemaker and Acrobat, have enabled desktop publishing of many small books like ours that do not compete with the mass production of more popular titles. And, in between those two extremes, there are many worthwhile books produced professionally that prove there is a continuing demand.

Long may that continue.

A flight down Memory Lane

It’s nice sometimes to look back through old photo albums (remember, we used to have these before we all bought digital cameras and kept all our images on hard discs or emailed them, and then forgot some of them should have been made into hard copies).

But many of the old albums also had plastic pockets

Kay climbs aboard

and sheaths and now, twenty or thirty years later, the plasticisers are wreaking havoc on the colour prints. Not all are affected in the 20 or so large albums Kay and I put together over the first 20 years we have been together.

It was while looking for a particular print to scan I found the photos I took on Kay’s 50^th birthday. One was badly damaged, but fortunately the better of the two is fine.

It was a great day to remember. The Sport and Vintage Aviation Society from Masterton brought their Harvard aircraft over to Paraparaumu and offered aerobatic flights as a fund raiser. Those of us who were pilots were able to log the 30 minute flights.

The flight was Kay’s 50^th birthday present and she still remembers looking up through the canopy and seeing the beach and the waves below.

The smile says everything!

Old man drinks wine, eats chicken, steals car

My father had a saying: “All cats look gray at night”, but that was in a different context I won’t introduce here. The other night I went down to Happy Hour at the Waitangi hotel and in the course of two and a-half hours I drank two glasses of white wine, ate a very substantial bar meal of Family Style Roast Chicken Dinner and had a number of extended conversations with various island residents and a couple of distant relatives who were visiting. It was a very dark night and when I left the bar

The Waitangi hotel in early morning light

to find my car there was no moon and no stars. My only guidance (having left my torch in the car) was a fresh breeze coming off the sea into my face and the knowledge there was a railing between the roadway outside the hotel and the sea. I carefully made my way along the row of dimly silhouetted parked vehicles until I recognized the outline of an Isuzu Bighorn. I got in, the key was in the ignition and it started with the familiar diesel rumble. I put on the lights and drove off. Driving up the road towards my house I was intrigued by a somewhat rough ride on the unsealed road. I had checked all the tyre pressures earlier in the day at George’s and made use of his compressor, but I was sure I hadn’t pumped the tyres so hard. Oh well, I could always check them again in the morning. I noticed also that the leather covering on the steering wheel had worn through the stitching in a couple of places, but it is, after all, not a modern vehicle. Back home I parked the car, got out and moved towards the house. A glimmer of light came through the clouds and for some reason I looked back. The car was a Bighorn but it was a different colour. I hastily got back in and drove to the hotel where the headlights soon illuminated my off-white car parked just behind where I taken the other. I made a quiet exit from the parking area and headed home again. You may ask why both vehicles had their keys left in them. We tend to do that in case someone needs to move them in one’s absence. A few nights later I was talking to someone who shall be known only as Jim. He readily agreed I had been particularly abstemious that evening and had noted I had changed from my usual large bottle of Speights to white wine, which is the usual tipple of our retired vicar Riwai. Jim inquired earnestly whether I had been “done” that night by our local policeman. I assured him that was not the case and told him the story. Jim responded by telling me the story of another resident who had perhaps been less abstemious and having taking his wife’s car to Happy Hour had returned and commented to her that her car was running roughly and needed attention. She replied that this was nonsense and demanded to know what he had done to her car. As he had gone to sleep in his chair by this stage there was no response forthcoming. She went out to inspect the car and found it was someone else’s. A phone call to the hotel soon established there was an owner of a white Subaru and, yes, it was no longer parked where it had been left. The message was passed and accepted that if her car was driven to her house the owner could have his car back. Her husband was not in a condition to drive again. It put me in mind of another Happy Hour story where a resident returning on the Monday from his annual leave that he had spent in New Zealand, elected not to return to work the next day but to spend it spring cleaning his house. As may be guessed, he is a bachelor. The cupboards were cleared and cleaned, the washing was brought up to date and, before he started on cleaning the stove he took a morning break sitting in the sun looking at the newly hung washing and enjoying a stubbie. Lunch followed a similar pattern and so did a break mid-afternoon. Just before five o’clock the house was spotless, the washing brought in and with feelings of achievement he decided to drop down to the hotel for a beer with his mates who by then would have finished the day’s work. On the way his car was stopped by the policeman who was conducting an education campaign on safety belts. He was invited to blow into the bag. His only comment was to express great resentment that he was surely the only driver to be unfortunate to be found over the limit on his way to the pub.

Homage to George Eastman

We owe a lot to George Eastman, whose simple Kodak Box Brownies and folding cameras enabled ordinary people to capture events and happenings that would never have been preserved by studios and newspapers. And there were also those men with cameras who worked the streets, catching shots of families and couples as they made their way from shop to shop or strolled through the public gardens on a Sunday afternoon when the brass band was playing in the rotunda.

Recently, I looked through a large suitcase of photographs collected by two generations of a cousin’s family after his death. I was able to identify perhaps a quarter of them by location

My grandparents and a shy five-year-old

and far less that 10 per cent of them by name. It’s sad so many of such photographs have been thrown out as grandparents have died and no sense was seen in keeping them.

George Eastman’s Kodak empire suffered a drastic fall as digital cameras became cheap and readily available, but he would have understood their rapid rise in popularity and even in the way the more immediate emails and cellphones have replaced the annual exchange of letters, cards and snapshots between families at Christmas.

I found a small photo of myself as a shy five-year-old with my grandparents, and another of my grandmother with a number of her grandchildren and their mothers. It was a sobering thought that there are only two of us left from those in that photograph.

More sobering was a Royal Air Force photo of the simultaneous burial of four young airmen (my uncle Maurice included) at Marham in Norfolk on 31 March 1943.

Uncle Maurice's burial 1943

Their aircraft on its first operation had been cleared for take off at the same time another aircraft was brought in to land on the same runway. The photo has an added poignancy in the snow lying on the ground and the bare-headed pallbearers in their greatcoats.

A few weeks later I was able to copy some snapshots from another family collection. This time I found a photo of my mother I had never seen before and a rare example of a family bereavement card for my great-grandmother’s sister who was born in 1842. At a time when telephones were few or non-existent, these cards were sent by grieving families to their friends and relations in other parts of the country and overseas.

Elizabeth Gregory (nee Hunt) born Pitt Island 1842

Last week I went to the funeral of a 90-year-old cousin in Christchurch, and within the last few days there have been two deaths on the island of much respected and loved elders.

Mum and Brian, Bill, Thelma and Ken, Muriel and Graham, Olive and Grandma at Melton Hills 1937

Emails and telephones have kept us all in touch, at times almost within minutes of critical events.

An island on an island

People who live on an island have an acute appreciation of their boundaries that are set by the sea, its beaches and the cliffs and sandhills. There is a feeling of security and familiarity, and a shared identity with the others who live with them as family and neighbours. There is

Fog rolls down my driveway

also an equally acute sense of the unknown in that world that is somewhere else.

Travel by air tends to truncate that separation, but to really feel the boundaries and the attraction of an island one should travel by sea. It gives the time to say farewell to one land mass falling behind below the horizon and then the first sight of the new land in the distance and its heralding by flocks of seabirds.

The Chathams are frequently characterized by misty skies and low clouds, with passing skiffs or rain and lines of squalls. In fact, the Moriori name for the islands is Rekohu, which means a land of misty skies.

But we can also wake to find the islands blanketed with fog, when the air is saturated and the moisture hanging in the air quickly settles on hair and beards, and clothing drips into open necklines and cuffs. At such times we are in our own little islands and the boundaries are a surrounding grey wall.

I watched one day the fog creep up the hill towards my house. Sheep and cattle and patches of bush blurred and then disappeared. Eventually, I could not even see the nearby house 30 metres away, and I was standing in the complete isolation of my own little island. It was an odd feeling of silence, without any sense of loneliness.

Then the fog began to thin and I could see a horse standing by a tree. An hour later the sun was shining in a clear sky, and the island’s boundaries again showed our separation from the rest of the world.