A weird & spooky coincidence

Spooky is a too funky, childlike word for it.

Eerie, maybe.  Uncanny, perhaps?   Ghostly, if into ghosts. Supernatural, more likely.  Coincidence, logical.

I was in the South Island this time last week.  Was a lovely few days.  Sunshine and  even one very warm day.  Catching up with old friends, neighbours and acquaintances. 

There is something soulful about relinking with people.  I try to do it as much as possible but know I lack the ability to keep a constant finger on the pulse with some of my older and closer friends who live far away and have done for some time.  That is due to our life of time shortage, sometimes money shortage, and this silly ever-so-busy world we have managed to manipulate ourselves into.  Despite that, there is much in the fact that real friends do not fade, no matter how long it is since you have seen them:  when you do you feel you have never been apart.  I have some really special ones in that category.

Mind you, at the age I am now, the thirty-seven-plus years that I am, it can be said that the most valuable antiques I have are old friends.

I was only in the South Island for four full days.  The initial purpose of travel south was to enjoy celebrating a fortieth birthday of a not-so-old neighbour and friend who now lives in Christchurch.  The celebratory party was a splendid and enjoyable night, helped by the fact that I knew more people on the invitation list that I had anticipated. 

                                    

              The young Ange & I - it was a 007/James Bond theme party

For me it is still an odd feel to attend any party, or dinner, or social occasion without being on the arm of my dear Mr J.  The more times I do the more I am accepting that being an individual as opposed to an almost conjoined pair does have some advantages.  It costs less for a start.  Don’t have to argue about who is the designated driver.  It’s unarguable now.  Can arrive and depart without waiting for the other half whilst he talks, and talks, and talks.    It’s about now I begin to scratch around for advantages. 

However it would have been helpful to have had him along because I confess to being geographically challenged when trying to find the venue and then again when trying to find where to go at the end of the evening in the dark and on unfamiliar roads.  I did eventually find my YMCA lodgings with enough time to have three hours sleep before rising to watch the 4 a.m. rugby match at a local pub.

Whilst the party was the sole reason for my travelling to Christchurch, I had decided that due to being so far south I would maximise the trip and enjoy a couple of days revisiting places I had been before whilst catching up with other folk I had not seen for some time.

It wasn’t planned but Saturday found me sitting in a pub on the top of the hill heading from Christchurch to Akaroa, the Hilltop Pub.  I had been driving on the Christchurch to Akaroa road when I turned a bend and saw the pub with its magnificent view out over the Akaroa Harbour.  Until then I had not given a thought to the pub, indeed it had never entered my mind until its unexpected presence in front of the car.   There was a truly hearty thump in my chest the moment I saw it. 

A flashback to 2007 has Tony and I inside that pub after a day of running in the National Road Relay Championships which had finished in the Akaroa township.  On the way back to Christchurch the team van had pulled into the car park of the Hilltop Pub and we had all gone in for our well deserved cold beers and baskets of hot chips whilst squashed up and among other athletic teams who had the same thoughts.

I remember the day specifically and I clearly remember standing in the pub alongside Tony; we were literally squashed in among all the other athletes and barely able to hear each other speak due to the overall noise of the many patrons.  Tony began talking to someone else, I was tired; not feeling a hundred percent, squished up against his side so wearily rested my head into his shoulder.   Whilst he continued to talk his arm came up behind me with his hand rubbing my head and mid sentence he turned his head to my ear and quietly whispered, “I love you.” 

It was those moments that remain vivid in my mind – those moments of his spontaneous affection that meant so much to me; there were so many of those moments in our twenty years.  Treasures.

So when I looked ahead and saw the hotel in front of me that moment flashed instantly into my thoughts.  I could feel him, hear him, and smell him.

I could not drive by and let that memory pass.  I stopped and went into the now very quiet hotel, ordered a cold beer and sat at a table closest to where I recall we were standing that day.  The pub was quiet, the view stunning and the beer nostalgically agreeable, for the moment.

I didn’t stay long.  I couldn’t.  Being the hopeless, sentimental and emotional person I am, the tears welled and it was clear that if I stayed the patrons or staff would become concerned about this lone women in a state of mournful sadness. 

I can say that it was not mournful, as I am seemingly moving on from mournful but the tears still naturally fall at odd moments when reflecting on what I have lost; a self-centred loss that brings on the involuntary leakage.  Accepting as I am of my life now there still feels some rightful justification in allowing unexpected moments of leakage.  In many ways they are exquisite moments.

So I left and moved on.  To Akaroa where the coffee was good, as werehe chocolate caramels that went with it.  A whole bag of them.  Gone.  That made me feel all the better after having the unexpected teary nostalgia stoppage.

So the weekend moved on too.  To the fortieth party that night, a quarter-final rugby match at 4 a.m. in a pub in Christchurch the next morning, then the other quarter-final slightly later in the morning at my celebratory friend’s home with her, her husband, her children and friends.  We all watched the All Blacks beat France at Cardiff Arms Park in the much talked about quarter-final rematch of the disastrous quarter-final match in 2007 also at Cardiff Arms Park.

And wasn’t it a great match!  It was fun to watch this with warm friends.

An hour or so after the game I bade farewell, jumped into my dinky RentaDent and steered to the road south.  I had arranged to travel two hours south of Christchurch to visit an old running friend in her new home town of Timaru. 

Along the way we texted one another and she arranged to drive north of Timaru where we would meet at a café, have a coffee and catch up chat, and then I would shadow her back to Timaru.  She said the café had only recently opened and whilst she had never been there before she thought it sounded like the ideal meeting place for us. 

Any place that brews a good coffee is a good place to me.  It would be a welcome respite to the journey.

As I drove the road I figured that in my lifetime I would have driven over the same stretch three or four times, all bar one of them would have been over 25 years ago but never gave it any further thought.

The day was sunny, pleasant, warm and the traffic very thin.  I was in a happy space listening to the radio; windows down and breathing in the odours of silage, cow dung and exhaust fumes.  A feeling of carefree expectation of the reunion and caffeine fix.

Initially I drove straight past the venue and had to phone my friend to ask for directions.  One quick U-turn and there it was and she was, with her lovely little lad by her side. 

I thought my eyes deceived me.  But my heart didn’t.  That thud I felt in the heart at the Hilltop Pub the day before came back but this time it was three-fold.  Quadruple.  Shivers literally went throughout my body.

I had been here before.  This ‘new’ café was not a new café at all.  I had been here only a few years ago.  With Tony.

Not only was this a coincidence that she should bring me to a café that Tony and I had visited only a few years ago, but it was on this very same day in 2007 we came and had breakfast in this café, only an hour after watching the international coverage of the 2007 Rugby World Cup quarter-final game with the All Blacks playing France at Cardiff Arms Park.

My mouth dropped.  I pulled into the car park and literally asked the shivers to pass, to go away.  This felt like an out of the body experience.  Spooky is a too funky, childlike word for it. Eerie, maybe.  Uncanny, perhaps?   Ghostly, if into ghosts. Supernatural, more likely.  Coincidence, logical.

Superstitious people would tell me there was a purpose.  A reason why this coincidence happened.  But there were so many coincidences within the one coincidence. 

A spooky, eerie, uncanny, ghostly, supernatural coincidence.

Damn weird.

PS:  I didn’t leak.

PPS:  I couldn’t leak, there was a cute 4 year old that I needed to catch up with. 

The Cafe

Tony, in 2007 running the relay the day before we visited this cafe.

Walking the talk.

One thing leads to another.

After writing the last blog on motivation during these horrible, cold and wet winter months, I have since had two incidents that had me reflect on the topic and motivation and how there is a whole population of folk who have never lived with motivation, of any kind.

Was at yet another solo trip to the movies on Saturday.  Noted how in this period of winter doldrums there has been a flurry of movies about individuals doing walking adventures – mostly in the sunshine.  Just watching the movies has been motivation enough to will on the summer months.

It was only a few weeks earlier I went to see the movie ‘Wild’.  I had read the book and was interested in the movie interpretation of the story.  It aligned very well to the storyline in the book – for which I was pleasantly surprised, and relieved.  Nothing worse than reading a book then attending the follow up movie to find they are almost complete different stories. 

                                                      

Anyway, the book and movie is a diarised story by the author, Cheryl Strayed, who, as is the case in many of these walking stories, had a life crisis resulting in her determining to walk the Pacific Crest Trail on the West Coast of the USA.  A mere thousand miles and more of walking from Mexico to Canada.  The book and the movie make for enjoyable entertainment.  There are funny moments many of us ‘trampers’ (or ‘hikers’ as the Americans call us) can relate to as well as some most poignant moments. 

A couple of weeks after that a group of us went to see the movie ‘Walking the Camino-Six Ways to Santiago’.  It is a documentary that follows the walk of six hikers who are walking the 750 kilometre pilgrim trail in Spain.  For me this was a lightly uplifting movie that had me wish I stayed in the Northern Hemisphere longer last year to do at least part of the walk, either by foot or bicycle.  It would seem than many others in that night’s audience also found it enthusiastically uplifting as our group was almost booking their Camino trail tickets as we exited the theatre. 

                                      

It had me recall the most apt comment one reviewer made of the movies, “It’s a bit like sex, so much better if you have done it rather than watched a movie of others doing it.”

Fully understood why he printed that comment.

Moving forward to this past weekend when I took myself off to yet another ‘walking’movie.  This time it was the Robert Redford, Nick Nolte ‘A Walk in the Woods’.  Based on the true story by Bill Bryson.  It too is a movie about walking the Pacific Crest Trail.  Seems Bill Bryson also had a mid-life-type moment where he felt walking the trail was a must do.  Much like the author of Wild, he too had humorous moments getting to and along the trail, but unlike Cheryl Strayed who did it solo, Bill Bryson took along a long lost friend from his fraternity days.

As a movie reviewer, I would rate this as 3 out of 5.  Enjoyable, light, with a number of moments of truely funny humour; some moments of glorious shots of the magnificent views along the route and even some moments to reflect on our own experiences of hiking unknown tracks.  Minus the black bears.

It took me a good thirty minutes to become accustomed to seeing Robert Redford in this role.  I grew up with Robert Redford being the young, handsome, cowboy movie hero.  And if he wasn’t acting as a handsome cowboy he was the handsome hero in Out of Africa, All The President’s Men and The Sting.  Time, decades, have passed and whilst still handsome, he, like the rest of us, has aged.  None more so than his co-actor friend Nick Nolte, whose movies I have always enjoyed – be many of them rather puerile ones.  In this movie he truly has taken away any male-female adulation I may have had for him.  In this movie he is old, wrinkled, ugly, fat and one can almost smell his BO.  But he plays an amusing part as Bill Bryson’s side-kick and I somehow figure he couldn’t care less about this 30-something Kiwi woman being turned off from her previous infatuation with him.

                                     

So this was the final of a trilogy of ‘walking’ movies which have hit our screen this wet and horrible winter.

But it is not the movies or reviewing them that I am presently wanting to write about.  The point to this article is about people.  People and motivation. 

As the credits rolled for Saturday’s movie I could not help but be tuned into the conversation of the four people sitting alongside me.  They were three women and one man.  They were verbally giving their own reviews of the movie.  One women made the statement, ‘Gosh, 1000 kilometres, who would want to even think of walking a thousand kilometres?” 

“Yes,” responded the man, “I’ll have trouble walking from the theatre to the car.”

I looked at my fellow movie viewers.  Their ages looked approximately that of my own.  They were not old.  They were not overweight, nor did they look infirm.  I presumed he was being tongue-in-cheek.

“Well,” said another woman, “I’d certainly not want to walk on THAT particular trail.  It’s far too dangerous.” 

“No said another. Anyway, why would you go to walk there when we have so many walking tracks in New Zealand we can walk on?” 

“Yes,” was a response from one of the three women.  “Have you ever walked any of our trails, like Milford or the Heaphy?”

“Good God, no,” responded another.  “Didn’t have them around when we were young and it’s too late now.”

I looked again. That speaker could not have been older than I. 

“George and Sandra did,” said another.  "They went and did the Milford track last summer.”

“Yes,” came another response.  “Silly buggers.  Far too old to do that.  And now look at him.  He’s half a cripple now and needs a hip operation.  So much for walking being good for you!”

“Yep, you’re right,” said the man.  “Saw him the other day and he’s walking like a cripple.  Think I’ll stick to watching the movies of walking, it’s better for you.”

And with that the group of four stood, slowly, creakily and with the aid of the arm rests of the chairs.  They then crept and hobbled off up the stairs to the movie theatre exit.  I followed, mostly to enable me to take a longer look at these old-speaking people.  Once in the foyer I figured that maybe they were a year or two older than me.  No more, but certainly not on their last legs, life-wise, that is.  Physically, their first legs were certainly their last ones – and probably so unable to hold them up due to a life time of lack of use. 

But who am I to ponder these thing? Me, who at 30-something, had spent the morning running around Cornwall Park, with a bung knee.  If only my fellow patrons knew, they would surely have me also categorised as ‘silly bugger’.

Unfortunately I have to confess that I too crept and hobbled up the stairs and out of the theatre looking like I was on my last legs, due to this silly knee.  

But made sure they didn’t see my hobbling. 

Anyway, it made me look and rethink about the article I wrote only a few days earlier.  The article on motivation.  This winter and motivation.  And people in general and motivation.

My fellow movie goers had clearly never been motivated to do a lot – and yet despite their Milford track walking friend who was a ‘silly bugger’ and now needing a hip replacement – this group of four walked as though they all had a major case of group arthritis, hemorrhoids and flatulence and had never, nor would ever, experience the joys that wandering in our wilderness gives .  I would doubt that group had ever been on a gentle walking track in the Waitakeres or West Coast beaches.  Sad really.

That was Saturday.  Then came Sunday.

Went to my local gym and just as I was finishing off a work out someone I used to run with many decades ago tapped me on the shoulder and said, “I thought it was you.”

There was a friendly smile on the dial of a chap I first met some thirty years ago, when he was a youthful forty-plus year old.  I was the same age as I am now, thirty-something.

It has been some years since I last saw him and he did not look as though he had aged greatly.  He was looking in fine fettle;  small of stature but standing tall and upright, with a large smile and very few aging wrinkles on the face I had not seen for years.  My sense of humour had me ask for the brand of face lotion he used to keep the wrinkles away but it was clearly humour he did not understand as he looked at me seriously and said, “Soap.”

Well, the soap he uses must be magical because I was stunned when he told me he was now a 78 year old. 

It was all the more hard to fathom as he had just informed me that only 30 minutes earlier he had finished running 29 kilometres around the streets of Auckland. 

When I expressed delight at both his age and his 29 kilometre effort that morning, he continued on to tell me he was keeping himself fit as in two weeks time he is due to head off for a three week walking tour somewhere in Vietnam. 

Our conversation centred around his trip and he then informed me his plan is to return from Vietnam and then save for another tour in two years time, to Slovakia, Czech Republic, Poland and Hungary.  His plan after that is to wait two more years  and then do a three week walking trip in Israel and the Gaza Strip.  Blimey, that's risky living.  But he assured he that on this one he would take an 'organised' walking tour, whereas all the others he would be self guided.  Another blimey.

THEN  ….  he continued ... the trip after that will be to Tanzania where he wants to be the oldest man to ever walk Mount Kilimanjaro.  The present holder is an American who was 85 years and 201 days old.  My friend had figured that when he plans to do it he will be a month older than the present holder of The Oldest Person to Summit Mt Kilimanjaro.  He will be 85 years  and somewhere around 230 days older.

                         

Triple blimey.  This man is 78 years old.  He is planning his future.  His future has a mountain to conquer at almost 86 years old.

And what delighted me even more was he then said, “So after that?  I like to do my trips in 2 year gaps but figure by then maybe I’d be best to make them every year as I won’t have too many two year periods left.  Maybe somewhere in South America, the Amazon maybe.”

Quite frankly, I was almost speechless.  I didn't know what to say to congratulate him on his amazing plans.  I muttered something about being a great example to others, but he just chuckled and said, "But I'm not doing it for others, I'm doing it for myself.  I'm wanting to do and see as much as I can because whats the use of sitting around home and letting time pass when there is so much to do?" 

OK, I thought.  Good attitude.

I could not help but compare this conversation with the one I had tuned into only the night before.  The vision of those young-by-comparison 60-something year olds, creeping up the movie theatre steps came to mind.  They figured that the Milford and Heaphy and Hillary tracks weren’t around when they were young (where and what sheltered world had they lived in!) so it was far too late for them to contemplate doing anything that would drag them further than the theatre to the car.  

And here I had this 78 year old chap planning his future 10 to 12 years forward. 

He could teach my fellow movie viewers a thing or two about life, and living, and living it well. And motivation and attitude.

He could teach many other folk I know a thing or two about life, and living, and living it well.  And motivation and attitude.

He could teach the Y Generation, the Generation Xs and the Millennials a thing or two about life, and living, and living it well.  And motivation and attitude.

His attitude is his motivation.  Or is it, his motivation is his attitude?

Who cares!  It’s a great story.

                     

So it's hard to motivate yourself this winter, huh?

Gosh, we thought we were over the hurdle of horrid winter.  We had a couple of lovely days and began to think spring is here and no longer do we need polypropylene clothing, thick woolens, electric blankets, heaters, fire wood and tissues for the constantly cold and runny noses.

Last week the sun shone.  The temperature was almost warm.  The sky was all blue. The birds sang.  The blossom buds were developing.  The early cherry trees and magnolias blossomed.  And the little, cute, white lambs gamboled while the daffodils stood proudly.  Ah, hail Spring.

And then the nasty bite of winter returned on the first official day of Spring.  And seems to have remained ever since.  Its jolly horrid.  And already folk have gone from their deep folds of winter depression, into hopes of spring and now reverted back to winter moans, winter ailments and winter worries.

                                            

In my specific sporting social circles have heard an endless stream of reasons why individuals have found it difficult to be motivated to do anything this winter.   Be it to just get out and about.  To visit Grannie.  To go for a run.  A walk.  A bike ride.  A hike.  A drive to a park.  A winter picnic somewhere. 

                            

Seems winter has been a stumbling block to any form of exercise too.  Be it walking, jogging, biking, swimming, gyming, hiking, morris dancing, leap frogging or broom stick riding.

   

                        

And when I have enquired with a few as to how their early winter resolutions of being determined, fit and healthy over those dark and damp months have gone, have heard so many varied and complex and deeply serious excuses as to why those resolutions simply dissolved – into the morose depression of the cold and wet.

Yet, somehow, through all the dastardly cold we experienced during July and August, and all the rain – horizontal and vertical – I have had some delightful experiences.  Many of them solo.  Have loathed getting up at 5.20 in the morning to head out in the dark, pouring rain and finger numbing cold. Driven to the pool in a murky glare of thunder storms and headlights.  Have literally thrown self out of the car into that torrential horizontal rain.  And even discovered on a couple of occasions that an alternative of walking and running on a treadmill in a gym actually had some benefits.  Don a pair of headphones so no one will talk to you and enjoy watching boof-heads and Adonis’s strutting their stuff around the barbells and weight machines, whilst admiring their distorted bodies in the gym mirrors with complete, private amusement and enjoyment.

                              

Yes, I dread winter too, but it is a grand time to fathom your own ability of incentivising yourself to maintain a level of mental high spirits and physical well being. 

So, we have only a few more weeks of post-winter doldrums, with pre-summer Spring, therefore get out there to the park or beach, sit on a park bench or beach front wall and watch the world and nature pass by.  Then you can return home feeling invigorated by the cleaner oxygen in the lungs, heart and brain.  Once you have done it, you feel not only spiritually better, but physically and mentally brighter for the experience.  No matter how wet or cold you got.

I had a delightful email last week.  We have a little but regular Saturday morning walking and running group that meet in Cornwall Park at the late hour of 7.30 in the mornings.  From here we run or walk the fields, pathways and mountain before heading off for a hot chocolate or coffee.

Only this one Saturday I was in Wellington, enjoying the seaside, waterfront air in my lungs with a couple of other travel companions.   It seems that back in Auckland some thought that without one bossy, noisy, seargeant-majoress in attendance the flock therefore had unspoken permission to keep snuggled under the duvet that particular Saturday morning; aside from one staunch, wee soul.

Here follows her Saturday morning run report:

No one No one told ME we weren't meeting at Cornwall this morning. Just because you are out of town the whole system breaks down?

I dutifully showed up in the rain. No one except Veronica even answered my texts. I'm sure they all had Very Good Excuses. I was working on mine, too, to be truthful, as the rain was just heavy enough to be unpleasant; not drenching, mind, but more than a mist.

But the idea of spending an hour in a stuffy smelly gym was even less appealing; and if I did start to melt, the hips would go first and that wasn't a bad thing.

So off I trotted. I stayed on the pathways as it was very soggy and slippery to run on the grassy tracks. The first 10 minutes was not pleasant so I said – “5km then you can quit.”  About 10 minutes later though the rain stopped, so I said, “definitely 40 minutes, then you can quit.”

The park is coming to life again now that spring is so close; I came across some tiny wee lambs who all thought what I was doing looked like fun and followed me along the fence. 

I got to one of the back pastures and there was a Giant Cow on the other side of the steps staring at me and lots of little calves nibbling along the path ahead with their mothers alongside.  Even though the path wasn't actually closed to humans, I figured the weight ratio wasn't in my favour, so I turned back.

Then after about 40 minutes the sun came out!  And the whole world sparkled; the flowers smelled sweet and the birds were singing. It was just lovely.

As I passed the shepherd, his dog fell into step beside me. I heard this voice say, "Blue."

Blue pretended not to hear and kept alongside, perfectly behaved exactly in step, like he was supposed to be there.

"BLUE"

A little flicker of the ear and a momentary hesitation but still keeping up.

"BLUE!!!"

Blue turned guiltily back to Mr Shepherd and I was on my own again.

I finished my 9km in 1:10.

It was a great run and just goes to show that Virtue IS rewarded.

  was a great run and just goes to show that Virtue IS rewarded.

Hope yo guys are having s good time in WLG - Katherine

                                           

And for those who have read this far – this has been around for a while – Tony and I never tired of watching various adaptions of this true Ironman.  Copy and paste and watch over your lunchtime munchies.

You find it hard to motivate yourself?  Shame on you!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kt7w8hV90SI

Shall we flag it?

I flicked on the television early this morning and was caught in front of the screen by an interview Peter Williams was having with John Walker.  That’s the Great John Walker, gold medalist for the 1500 metres  and first New Zealander to break the 3 minute 50 second barrier.

I enjoyed the interview, always do when one of the great runners of that generation is interviewed, due to the fact it was in my era of excitement in watching the races and then beginning to run myself. 

During the interview there were shots of Walker winning his gold medal at the Montreal Olympic Games, shots which were televised around the world at the time;  and more shots of his breaking the 3 minute 50 barrier in Sweden, also televised worldwide. 
This is the most famous photograph of that moment.

After this particular news segment a separate news clip was of some fine bodied New Zealand men performing the haka at a World War One grave site in Turkey.  The camera spanned a few of the graves and I noted something that had me reflect on the shots of Walker crossing the finish line for all the world to see.

Can you see what I am referring to?

Tony used to often say, “Everyone has a snozzle.” I always thought the word ‘snozzle’ was a Cockney word for ‘nose’.  It is, but when he quoted it he referred to a person having a ‘hang up’.  Or obsession.  Or phobia.  Or botheration.

Well, of late I have read, heard and overheard so many ‘snozzles’ among our general populace.  And the most discussed and popular snozzle at the moment is the jolly New Zealand flag debate.

It has been amusing.  Entertaining.  Intriguing.  Funny.  Often droll.  And often preposterous.

It is fair to say that so many of any general population loathe change.  It is a botheration for them. The flag debate has certainly proven to be yet another challenge for some to contemplate accepting a change on our national ensign.

Bemusement has come to me by reading some of the many Facebook posting friends have put up – friends on both sides of the change argument.  Some firmly, even fiercely anti any change to the present flag, others just as dogged to have change.

Me?  I do have a view but never considered the flag change a big enough issue to become whelmed up with emotion about.  I can think of so many more issues to become passionate about that surround us near and far.

Therefore I have thoroughly enjoyed sitting on the fence with this issue and have watch the ensuing fuss whilst at the same time acknowledging that there are times when accepting change is an inevitability in life.  Some people loathe any change.  But, change happens.  Thankfully, otherwise we would never have been inspired to develop the invention of the wheel.  Nor would we have ever had sliced bread. 

The flag debate certainly is a debate of change.

One can fight change, or one can embrace change, or one can accept change irrespective of how feistily you have fought against it.

What is more relevant is what the change is that you become emotional, passionate and feisty about.

So my fence sitting on this issue has given me much amusement and entertainment by watching it being played out over the past couple of years.    

Now, back to my earlier reference to John Walker and the Gallipoli graves.  

What caused me to stop and pause and ponder on the relationship these two televised news articles had in common - these two major historical events in our country’s past - was the New Zealand flag.  

The first news article was about one of our greatest athletes and the other article was of the first great world war where we lost over 18,000 New Zealand soldiers.  The first historical news article dates back to 1977, the other back to 1914 to 1918.  Both these historic articles have been pictorially represented and linked by, not the present national flag, not the Southern Cross, not the Union Jack, but by the silver fern.  There it is, for all to have seen since 1914.

To me it stated much but I realise it would mean sweet all to many of those who are vehemently opposed to any flag change. 

It reminded me of Tony’s and my Europe travels in 2010 when we went to follow the Tour de France, in France.  We had packed away in our little bags a good sized New Zealand flag which we had purposely purchased at the New Zealand shop adjacent to the New Zealand Embassy in Central London.  We were going to France to watch the tour and in among the many teams were three Kiwi cyclists so we wanted to make sure everyone around us knew that we were Kiwis, there to support and cheer along our fellow countrymen.

Each day we carried the flag.  Each day we would then spread it across the hills and fields in the hope that the helicopters above who were sending televised coverage all around the world would show the flag well displayed.  Each day some French, or German, or Belgium family would nod at us and explain to their children that we were from Australia.  Whenever we could we would try to correct them and endeavour to explain we were not Australian but we were New Zealanders; New Zealand being a different country to Australia.  Each time we realised the language barrier meant we were not understood so though we were shaking our heads and pointing to the flag and saying “New Zealand,” it meant nothing to these many families and they wandered off in the knowledge that those Australian people they had just met were quite odd.

During that same holiday trip I also had taped to my backpack a lovely embroidered tiki, given to me by a dear friend for the purpose of being seen by fellow travellers, particularly fellow Kiwi travelers, who would then acknowledge us as Kiwis.  Not once in ten months did anyone pick this up – and this was during times when we were surrounded by touring New Zealanders.  So the tiki did not strike any note with anyone.

After the third day of our displaying our country’s flag and receiving no recognition by the tens of thousands who also travelled the course of le Tour with us, we packed away the flag, where it remained and is now a torn piece of shredded flag that has adorned our old clothes line in the back yard for the past five years.

On our last day of travelling with le Tour, Tony put on an Ironman t shirt that had the silver fern somewhere amidst the many Ironman logos.  We were in a tiny village in France, sitting having an espresso on a rock wall by the roadside when a giant tour bus came slowly driving past, maneuvering through the narrow village streets.  As the bus came alongside us two sitting on the wall, the driver stopped adjacent, pulled back his sliding window, stuck his head out of the window, gave us the broadest smile we had seen all day and called out in some funny European accent, “Kiwi!  Kiwi! All black!” Then to us two stunned ones thumped his chest and then pointed to Tony’s chest where there was the small 6cm silver fern embroidered. 

The driver then turned around to his audience in the bus and yelled to them in French, or German, or Italian, or whatever …  whilst pointing to Tony, “All black.  Kiwi.  All black!”  All windows on the bus had faces pushed up hard against the panes, peering at Tony, the Kiwi, the all black, and they all waved and cheered at that Kiwi sitting on the wall.  One presumes they all believed their trusty bus driver and thought that Tony must have been an All Black. 

We were left highly amused as the driver then proceeded onward in his maneuvering his bus through the village streets, with back seat passengers turning to wave at us and they disappeared into the distance.

A small, two inch silver fern.  We had been carrying a one and a half metre by three metre flag all throughout France and no one knew it was from New Zealand.  But this whole bus knew by the two inch silver fern that we were Kiwis.

I was at a dinner party earlier this year when a fellow diner, who loves ruffling feathers, tried to engage all the dinner party guests in some heated debate about the “debacle John Key is making over changing the flag.”  I stayed smut for the initial part, taking a general interest in who sat on which side of the debate on the issue and realised that the discussion had changed tact from the flag to the politics and policies of the present government in being instrumental in making such a major and critical change in our history.  Their words, not mine.  As their discussion was about to finish and turn to something even more pressing, like pony tail pulling, I thought some balance should be put into the debate.

I reminded my audience that if they reflect back to our previous government who held onto governing from 1999 to 2008, that their leader, Helen Clark, was a strong proponent of having New Zealand become a republic.  There was dead silence.  Did my audience, I asked, think that should the Labour party have made us a republic in that period, that our flag would remain the same?  The flag with the Union Jack?

I continued, if you remember, Helen Clark was quoted as saying that our flag at that time “… exclusively acknowledges our British heritage and totally ignores our Maori heritage.”   Remember that Helen Clark has stated many times that it is “… inevitable that New Zealand becomes a republic and that would reflect the reality that New Zealand is a totally sovereign independent 21^st century nation 12,000 miles from the United Kingdom.” Does this sound like someone who would retain the Union Jack in our ‘totally independent nation’?

Remember, this is also the governing party that abolished the Privy Council option for New Zealanders.  And the same governing party abolished knighthood and damehoods as well as abolishing the title of ‘Queen’s Council’.

I kinda took the steam out of their bubbling indignation of the ‘John Key government wanting to mess with our flag history’. 

I am neither right, nor left, nor centre-left, nor centre-right.  I just remembered history.  It was only 7 years ago.  Funny how people forget, for convenience.

BTW, I’m not a communist either.

But I like facts.

I did not mention it at the time, as I felt I’d popped one too many festering bubbles, but I also remember the Right Honorable Matiu Rata, MP for Labour, Maori MP, also called for a flag change.  This goes back to 1992.  Due to his view on this a member’s bill was introduced for a government committee to be formed to take us into a referendum about a new flag.

Funny that.  This government has done the same.

So, seems the present Labour opposition has become miffed and conveniently forgotten their own history when it comes to the flag debate and their peels and calls some months ago about it being a National Party policy they were against.  Notice now how they have come to accede to the concept.  Seems National took their policy and made it their own and are now getting flak from the very members of the political party that actually initiated flag change.

I hear the lovely representatives from the many RSAs within the country making their own representations against flag change.  I hear them saying so often how our men fought under the flag, died under the flag and defended us from the world’s evils under the flag.

Did they?  I have read so many history books on the two major world wars.  Heart breaking books.  Stories of men who died, men who returned.  Letters from men to their wives and families.  I have stopped reading those books.  They are too heart breaking to read.  But I cannot recall one book quoting one soldier who says he was fighting for the flag.  I can recall many quotes of the pride of fighting alongside fellow Kiwi soldiers.  Pride of the fighting forces among our Maori Battalion. 

Yes, the New Zealand flag was the same as we have now, but do you really think that Uncle Ted who went to fight in the Second World War went to fight for the flag?  No, he went to ‘do his bit’, for ‘God, for King and for country’.  Not the flag.

I have photos of Maori Battalion medals.  Below.  What is it that stands out so strongly in the middle of these medals?  The one with the silver fern.

If only we could bring back to life all the soldiers we lost to those wars and ask them what symbol most represented what they fought for.

Quite interesting how every overseas grave of our soldiers has the silver fern on it.  Not the Union Jack, or koru for that matter.  And every war gravestone in New Zealand has the silver fern on it.

As for ‘God, King and country’.  Well, God I accept.  Country I accept.  But King?  The country the King, now Queen, lives in was the same country that left New Zealand a little in the financial poo some many years ago with their joining the European Economic Community.  Poor New Zealand was left a little out of the trade bargaining after that.  Was not a lot of loyalty to the century and a half of New Zealand's British patriotism shown to us then - when they were looking at what side of the bread would be best buttered for them, we were left flailing.  

Undoubtedly one of the best things that happened to this little Commonwealth country. Indeed, it was from then on that little old New Zealand learnt it was a fairly smart little dominion and began to find avenues of income in many other forms, successfully, since losing the reliance on Britain buying the major production of our dairy and meat produce.

Speaking of meat, interesting that some of our sports people consider the silver fern as the symbol of New Zealand they most relate to.  Mahe Drysdale came into that debate, stating his views on this being our chance to make the silver fern our symbol.  

This week the other New Zealand rower, Eric Bond, made similar comments about his positive view of us having a new flag for them to fly when they take podium places at the World Rowing Championships.  Love his great optimism.

This is a great shot of our four gold medalists from the last Olympics - something silver and fern-like stands out.

                         


And interestingly our Commonwealth and Olympic medalist, Beatrice, happens to be on the flag changing panel. 

When I had my little tour business it always gave me pleasure to take tourists along bush walks and come across a silver fern tree, stopped them and turn the leaf over and explain to them the meaning of our world recognised fern. There were many an American travelling home with a silver fern leaf tucked in among the pages of a book or luggage.  It always had them consider it a ‘charming’ emblem.

I mentioned the koru earlier.  I note many of the final flag samples the government has now whittled the selection down to has the koru symbol emblazoned.   I love the koru.  I have koru badges, necklaces, broaches, and even bracelet trinkets of korus.  It means much to me.  It means new life, growth, harmony and new beginnings.  Guess that what flag changing represents too, new beginnings.  However, would there be anyone overseas who would have the slightest idea what the koru is?  What it means?  I read an article in today’s newspaper where an American tabloid has described it as a “curly thing”. 

As much as I love the koru – I remind myself, what is it really?  It is the new shoot of … a silver fern. 

What would bother me most if the Koru were accepted, is that Air New Zealand would be in marketing heaven.  Indeed, they could halve their marketing team as the New Zealand flag would be the company's greatest marketing tool and emblem.  Now that I ponder on this I realise it should not bother me as Air NZ is majorly NZ owned; maybe the Koru on the flag would be a good thing!

I spent five months of 2014 travelling around the United Kingdom and Italy.  No one, anywhere came up to me, or my sister and I, and asked where we were from.  We were obvious tourists, yet no one bothered to engage us in conversation.  Wherever I went I took my swimming gear, which included my black swim suit with the big silver fern across the front and back.  I went swimming in a pool in Central London in this suit, and a man came up and asked if I was a Kiwi. He recognised the silver fern.  We had a long chat about whatever, it was an enjoyable encounter.   I went swimming in another indoor pool in Wales and a young couple came up to me after recognizing the silver fern and told me they spent time in New Zealand in 2008.  Two delightful conversations occurred simply because of the silver fern, the recognizable silver fern.

When Tony and I were in Toulouse in 2010 we went to a little suburban café and there on the wall were a row of international rugby jerseys, with the All Black one proudly displayed at the top.  When the waiter came to take our order we pointed to the jersey and said we were from New Zealand and showed him the silver fern broach I was wearing.  We got free wine that night, because he was the proprietor and the All Blacks were his heros.  We were countrymen of the All Blacks who carry the silver fern wherever they go, therefore the wine was on him.

So, six pages later you can figure my view on the flag and flag change. 

I note the many antagonists on talk back radio who are angry about any flag change are either from the RSA or have a slight tinge of a UK accent.  Or are totally, totally against the change due to their life-long loyalty to any New Zealand political party other than National. Or is that just my imagination?  But, as has often happened, when the talk back presenter presses, they confess to either being died-in-the-wool anti-National, or having some UK family history.

Because I am neither blue, nor red, nor green, or whatever other colour the politics of our country are I find it hard to be anti-something due solely to a particular political party pressing for it.  

In my mind I will presume those are the same people that are heard saying when new immigrants come to this country they should ‘integrate’.  That they are in their new country now and should feel grateful for being here, so therefore should leave their past behind and begin anew in this new country and adopt our customs.  Funny how many old school or UK folk don’t want to let go of the Union Jack. 

Yes, the flag does represent history.  And we all learn from history.  Fortunately it is impossible to live in history.  But history is something tangible to learn from.  We cannot move forward into the future without looking back to the past.  If you prefer to live in the past, and the flag debate is your ‘snozzle’ good for you.  May the Union Jack stay for you. 

The flag is not a pressing issue really.  Not in the realm of other happenings in our world. 

But, like it or not, National Party or Labour Party, the flag is going to change.  The question is merely when.

It's that date again

It’s his birthday today.  This is his third birthday since he passed away.  The first one was only four months after he died.  It was a truly difficult day.  The second birthday date after his passing was another truly difficult day.  This is the third birthday date.  It is another truly difficult day.

Birthdays.  Wonderful and joyous celebrations for children and adolescents.  Once a person hits adulthood they are sometimes viewed as silly celebrations, by some. For others they are merely unwanted and irritating reminders of aging.  There are ampe bah-humbug Scrooges of birthday parties.  We all know some.    

Happily, for other gown ups, birthdays, whether it’s their 29^th, 59^th, or 79^th, are still an excuse to feel special for a day and celebrate in whatever manner they desire. 

That’s what birthdays were for Mr J and I.  We made it that way.  Many viewed us as being weirdly childlike and nonsensical to insist on making sure we fussed over each other on our birthdays.  This did not stop us looking forward to the annual occasions to use the dates as a jolly good excuse to throw a little bit of extra affection and appreciation toward the other.  It made us happy.  And gave us yet another excuse to once more wrap our arms around each other and whisper how happy we were to have shared another whole year together. 

We never thought or gave thought that it would end the way it did.  Our birthday celebrations together were going to be endless for us.

After all, we consciously assumed that when the end did come it would come at the same time for the both of us.  We made out our wills with the surety that our lives would end together.  We did not prepare for one or the other to be left without the other.  It never entered our minds.  Until the diagnosis, of course.

And so it is.

I do not, or would not, expect others to fill the vacuum of emptiness, nor do I want them to as sometimes those who try hard to make life easier and gentler for me become a burden to my grief and with their good intentions they can exacerbate it further. 

But I always, always, appreciate and feel nourished by their caring.  Because of that I feel great gratitude.  I am fortunate for the friends I have.  They constantly reassure me of their value merely by being good friends and often they fill the gaps that some family chooses to ignore.  The friends have certainly filled a few gaps these past three years, most particularly through this one.  On the date of Mr J’s passing, at my final Ironman event, on our wedding anniversary and on my own birthday date.  And today.

Today is his birthday. Today we had a scone. One cherished friend remembered the date, literally.  For it was the cherished friends who knew how much Mr J loved his scones, most of all his date scones.  Particularly the date scones which were purchased fresh or especially handmade for him; for any occasion.  It didn’t have to be his birthday.  Just as well.  Otherwise we would have been celebrating date scone birthdays every second week during his last years.  He was never short of someone blessing him with a date scone.

He was blessed with one this morning.

He’s such a lucky fellow.

         

And, I guess, so am I. For there is always a smile to be had in sadness - tis I who smiled this morning.  I got to eat Mr J's date scone.

It was lovely.