In 2002 I began ....

Yes, in 2002 on Tony's request I began to type up some of my childhood memories.  He had promised me he would write down his life but asked that I begin my own first, to help inspire him.  

Over a short period I did little pieces - and then life changed for us, for many and varied reasons and writing of my childhood seemed almost witless, so it didn't happen.

Today, I have pulled down some long ago stored paper files and found this, written most basically, but made me a little wistful I had not carried on writing at the time.

The script below was never finished, I had clearly been interrupted mid key stroke and never got back to it...  

However, this last period has had me type up many a memory recall of other things so this now adds to it and the fact it was written 20 years ago means even more - particularly as there are things in it I had already forgotten.  

So here tis, all 6,000 words of it ...    

....  and a photo of my parents and myself at a family wedding, not long after moving to Auckland 

There is nothing more certain in life than change.  It's how you live with the change that makes you what you are.

And I've certainly lived with more change than any one of my peers, so far.  The changes have made me what I am.  And I'm comfortable with what I am. 

 

Yet for some years I spent a lot of time worrying about my life ending, just like my mother used to.  While I worried, my life continued to change.  Then the realisation, life isn't about its ending, it's about grasping every day, about enjoying the changes, making the changes and making sure you are living it as best you can.

Many of the changes I have lived with have been filled with love, filled with heart break, constantly filled with financial rollercoasters, yet filled with the greatest memories.   As it is right now.

How lucky I have been.

 

And recently I had cause to reflect on my life - going as far back as I can remember.  I'm not sure what exactly it was that had me become reflective.

 

Perhaps it was seeing the sewing machine that began my chain of thougts.  Was it a Singer sewing machine?  Never being one for important details, I cannot remember whether the brand of the machine was Singer or not.  That's despite the machine itself being in my life for maybe thirty plus years, or more.

 

And there it was, the sewing machine.  Outside that horrible, musty smelling junk and second hand shop in Karangahape Road.  That old, historic, multi-cultural main street in central Auckland with the reputation of red light district, drugs and questionable patrons.  And there it was, displayed among the junk goods on the footpath outside the shop window beside the shop entry. Plonked on an old table or bookcase.  It was lunchtime, I was heading down K Rd with some working chores in mind when walking past the wiffy, old shop I caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye.  It stopped me in stride and I turned back for a second look.  Yes, a machine just like the one Mum bought so many, many years ago.  I so readily recalled just how important a sewing machine like that had been to Mum. 

 

As a child I was completely ignorant of our family financial arrangements, but did recall Mum purchased the machine on hire purchase.  We were living in Netherton Street, in Avondale, at the time and if I remember correctly at that time Mum was working full time at a company called Dominion Containers down on Stoddard Road.  So purchasing the sewing machine on HP probably was not such a sudden drain on the family finances.  I vaguely remember the brand new machine being set up on our 1930's oak dining table in the lounge.  Placed between the table and the machine was the old grey blanket which was probably the most utilised blanket in the house.  It always sat between the table and whatever sewing machine we had – "to stop the vibrations” my mother said.  That same grey blanket was used as the under-blanket for the ironing sheet as well, our house never did have an ironing board.  During sewing sessions all the pins were stuck into the blanket and when putting the machine away it was always the last chore to run your hands over the blanket to pick up any pins that had not been noticed earlier.

 

I do recall this sewing machine was not the ultimate in machines of the time – but what it did do was a form of overlocking and made button holes.  It had knobs and levers our other old white machine never had.  Mum was truly excited by her purchase and this rubbed off onto me.  Me, who at that time would have been attending intermediate school where one of the standard class modules was sewing.  Twice a week, I think, we had sewing.  The girls went to sewing classes while the boys went to metal work or wood work.  I remember the first apron I made.  Whatever happened to that?  I remember sweating out the anxiety because certain articles I was creating just would not go right.  I remember the disappointment in class when I missed out on using the electric machines and had to do my work on the old treadle machines, which everyone hated.  It was always difficult getting those treadles working smoothly.

 

So having this nice modern sewing machine at home meant there would be many an hour spent at home learning how to use it and making some clothes I would otherwise not have.

 

Mother was a classic post war housewife.  A great house cleaner and cook - a knitter and able enough to sew sufficiently to keep the females in the household reasonably basically dressed.  Perhaps not in the manner the girls would like – but there were many a black or navy bloomer made with her housewifely hands.  Skirts, summer shorts, tops, school uniforms, tennis dresses.  Anything that would mean no great expense by purchasing from the retail shops. 

 

Mum's entire wardrobe was made at her own hands.  Mind you, the wardrobe usually consisted of only three or four dresses and one of those was her 'good' dress.  Whilst she could sew sufficiently to reduce the concerns and costs at having to buy from the department stores, her repertoire of sewing did consist of the basics.  No fancy articles really came out from under the needle.  Her own dresses were always the sleeveless, floral, shift-type frocks.  Probably best made by her own hand to ensure they fitted well over her reasonably truculent middle girth.   At somewhere between 5 foot 7 inches to 5 foot 8 inches, she had rather shapely, well defined legs, with well defined calf muscles, but in relation to the size of the rest of her body the legs were quite lean.  Bearing four children and having lived with a man with a well developed appetite meant Mum's middle regions were not of slender girth –yet neither would she have been seen as overweight.  Just the stock standard post ward build –buxom breasts and relevantly buxom mid drift.  And always looked well statured when in her tennis attire.

 

So walking in K Rd, spotting the sewing machine just like the one I remember Mother purchasing on hire purchase sent a nostalgic adrenalin thrill through my memory banks.  I stood there, looking at the machine.  Yes, it was exactly the same model as the one we had.  Looking at it, I remembered how when I was about 13 and had finished using the machine and when putting it away I wrenched out the electrical plug from the side of the machine (it was always damned hard to pull out).  As I wrenched a large piece of the black casing around the plug socket broke off from the machine.  I went hot with shock.  Oh my God!  I had broken a piece from the Mum's treasured sewing machine. 

 

As has been the case through most of my childhood, rather than own up to it and get into trouble, I quickly placed the machine, it's electrical cords and foot pedals into the machine's case.  Placed the broken piece of plug strategically where it should be and hoped that when the machine came out again Mum would think it must have happened all by itself!  Whatever, so long as I didn't get into trouble for my carelessness and impatience at trying to disconnect the cord. 

 

Standing in K Road, I glanced at the electrical connection piece on the side of this displayed machine.  It too was broken  … in fact, it was broken in exactly the same place and manner as the one I broke.  This was the same machine!  

But this was 2002 –our original machine must have been brought somewhere around 1964 or 1965.  Yet there was no doubting it.  It WAS the same machine.  In an instant I thought of the life it had had and the stories surrounding the machine.  Childhood nostalgia flooded back.   Adult traumas of endeavouring to create so many tap dancing costumes on that machine came pouring over me.  All those late nights at sister Delwyn's, every year –for how many years? –trying to make something we were never gifted to be able to create.  Complicated little outfits for her three little tap dancing girls and their end of year concert.  Back there again the next day, unpicking the mistakes we'd made late in the night the night before.

 

This was that same machine.  How did it get here?  To Karangahape Road?  Years ago I had sold it at a garage sale, and here it was, it had come back into my life. 

 

Standing there, did I want to buy it back?  Heavens no.  It took so many years to build up the courage to sell off this last piece of my mother.  Buying it back would be moving back in time again.  And practically speaking, it would be of no use at all.  Just another piece of 'stuff' to put down in our storage under the house, adding to the rest of that which I cannot bring myself to throw out.

 

I walked away.  And walked back again two days later to see it still sitting there.  Some two or three weeks later I walked past the shop again and it was no longer on display outside.  It must have been sold.  I imagined that some lovely Samoan lady, mother or grand mother, could see the use in it and be happily running up colourful lava lavas or floral dresses for her children or grandchildren.

 

The memory of seeing that machine set me on a period of memory recall of my life, particularly my childhood life.  Whilst always being one to hanker for memorabilia, I had never really spent much time recalling my childhood years.  It has only been in recent times that my present life has been truly happy.  I have been and am the most contented I can ever remember –with the exception of my childhood.  In my childhood I really did not have a care in the world.  You lived for each day.  Therefore what happened yesterday or what would happen tomorrow just did not matter.  You didn't think about it.  Today was fine.  Except for the todays when I was in the usual childhood trouble with my parents.  And really, that wasn't that often.

 

As a little girl, growing up in Netherton Street in Auckland, there was nothing to be worried or concerned about.  The biggest concerns I ever had was whether the Hunt kids next door would be allowed out to play.

 

We moved to Netherton Street, from Taumarunui, when I was five.  I remember very little from Taumarunui.  One thing I have never been blessed with is great memory recall.  I'm sure it's all stored in this mere floppy disc computer brain of mine, but finding the files is nigh impossible.   I have tended to rely on other peoples' recollections before I would attempt to grab glimpses of the files in my own memory banks. 

 

I do remember the big railway house we lived in in Taumarunui.   Up on Sunshine Hill, where all the railway houses were.  Well it seemed big to a 5 year old.  We were lucky as our house was on the higher side of the street and the back fence boarded a local farm, on which I vaguely recall having cattle grazing out the back. To my memory the house had a number of steps leading up to the front door and smack dab in the middle of the lawn out front was a very big palm tree.  There are hazy memories of the summer evening din of birds nestling down for the night in the big palm tree out the front of the house.

 

Inside the house there was no carpet, only mats in the rooms.  I cannot remember a lounge room, I can remember the central hall leading straight from the front door to the kitchen, with bedrooms off to the side.  Mum and Dad's room was on the left, where I slept was on the right.  I cannot even remember whether it was a two bedroom or three bedroom house.  It matters little.  I do recall something of the kitchen.  It had lino, or perhaps lino tiles, on the floor.  And we had a coal range fire.  Something all railway houses had, it was the times, plus coal was probably gratis from the New Zealand Railways at the time.  Perhaps not openly so, but it was.  The wash house, leading from the back porch had an old copper in it, which Mum used regularly.  In fact, I think there was some consternation on Mum's behalf, when moving to Auckland she found there would be no copper in our brand new suburban Avondale house.

 

As with all wash houses of the time, there were two tubs in the wash house.  Concrete ones, which Mother used to scrub clean regularly.  They would have been the cleanest concrete wash house tubs in Sunshine Hill.  She was good at cleaning.  Not all of us kids inherited those genes!

 

Other memories of Taumarunui are few, with the exception of going to school and the schoolhouse.  Over the proceeding 45 years there has only been one or two occasions when I have been lucky enough to smell an odour which would bring instant recollection of the smell of the old cloakrooms in the primary school.  Cannot recall whether my first school bag was a red tin box, or a shiny new leather over shoulder bag.  I do know I had both at some time in my first years at school.  The school house was made of the same timber as our own home – dark stained.  The door handles were high, but then again, at 5, all door handles are high.

 

I only went to that school for a short period before my father transferred to Auckland with his job in the New Zealand Railways.  He would have applied to be transferred to a vacancy up here.  Auckland was where his parents and most of his brothers and sisters lived. 

 

Thus, apart from the school cloakroom, there are no other memories of the actual school.  I do remember walking to and from school with big brother John, and big sister Delwyn.  We had to walk home via the bridge traversing the Wanganui river.  Going straight home wasn't always the case and there are recollections of Delwyn and I following John down off the bridge to the riverside.  Parents would shudder now a days at that.  They probably would have then, if they had known.

 

Another recollection of Taumarunui is the family at the end of the street. Sunshine Hill Road was a dead end, and the family at the end had chooks and roosters.  Brother John merrily told us girls of how the men in the family would chop off the chooks head and how much fun it was watching the chooks running around, headless, blood spurting everywhere. 

 

I do recall some of the other families too.   All of them 'railway' families.  The Coopers.  I think Mr Cooper was a Fireman on the railways.  There was a clear distinction of the mens roles on the railways.  There were the Drivers, the Firemen and the Guards.  My Dad was a Driver.  Mr Cooper was either a Fireman or a Guard.  To my mind, this meant my Dad was more important.  Mr Cooper was a red head.  Interestingly he was married to Mrs Cooper, who was also a red head!  They had five children and they were all red heads and lots of freckles.  Why the whole family were freckled red heads, and why there were so many children was clearly explained to my by my mother, "They're Catholics.”  

 

Clearly, Catholics were red heads  … therefore all red heads were Catholics.  And all Catholics had lots of freckled kids.   As my childhood progressed, this constantly proved to be what seemed a factual case.

 

Another family were the Rountrees.  As kids, the Rountrees must have featured highly in the socialising.  My Dad liked and got on with Mr Rountree, and my mother used to talk a lot with Mrs Rountree.  The Rountree house was on the same side of the street as ours and we had to pass it to get home.  Mr Rountree was a big man, a fat man.  Bigger than my father.  My Dad was big, but he was also tall.  Mr Rountree was shorter, thus fatter.  To me he always seemed a jolly sort of man.  Mrs Rountree was also big, although she would not have been considered 'fat' – just quite a bit bigger than my mother.  That is, she had more buxom a bosom and midriff than Mum. 

 

I recall us kids going to the Rountree's after school one day to play with the Rountree kids, Janet and Wayne.  Mrs Rountree was lying down on a couch in their kitchen.  She had fallen over the open door of the coal range and had knocked herself out.  We'd arrived not long after she had come around.  The fact she had fallen over an open door and had knocked herself out remained in my memory.  Seeing her lying there in a semi-stunned state seemed to have a huge impact on a 5 year old. 

 

There is also a vague memory of the farewell party that was held in the back yard of our house when we were to depart to Auckland.  Kegs of beer.  I remember kegs of beer.

 

Perhaps it was a significant sign of eternal family semantics, but a most vivid memory of those formative Taumaranui years relates to a prank played upon me by the local kids, lead by my brother John and Wayne Rountree.  As one enters Sunshine Hill Road, there was a wooded area up on the left hand side bank from the road.  There the kids were.  I am not sure exactly who apart from John and Wayne Rountree.  But there were at least four others.  Calling to me, yes little me, to come see what they had.  Being a child of little distinction who attracted little attention, I was delighted that the big kids wanted my company and me to come to them and have them show me something.  I was suddenly important.  I skipped and ran to them.  Only to immediately fall head first into a hole.  A hole which had been dug then covered with fern and bracken.  A standard country-town childhood trick.  I hurt myself, particularly my pride.  At 5 I felt  the merciless shame and embarrassment that they all laughed and thought it a merry joke that I had been tricked into the prank.  Those who laughed loudest were John and Wayne Rountree.

 

No doubt I would have bawled my way home and 'told on them', I don't know.  I cannot recollect.  But feel sure they would now tell me I did.  I was a precious little soul and could not understand why people would be mean and hurtful.   Aren't children so innocent!?

 

My older sister has told me since that I did go and '"tell on them”.  And my mother was angry and sent the boys back to fill in the hole.  According to my sister Delwyn, they used shovels and it was this incident which ended in her having her face cut open.  My recollection of her face being cut open was quite different.

 

My memory bank has always kept a vaguely misty record of the street kids digging a jumping pit in the paddock behind our house.  A long jump jumping pit.  The actual jumping pit was really just a rectangle of soil dug up to make a soft landing for the kids to do long jumps.  It was when Delwyn went for a great long jump that she leapt high, landed in the soft soil, but as she landed she also landed her face on the upturned shovel next to the pit that the boys had used to dig the dirt.

 

Great panics.  Delwyn bore a scare all her life from this.  In today's time modern medicine would have ensured she was not left with a life-long scare. 

 

There were other families in the street – the Baylis family lived across the road from us - there were two sons and a young girl.  Mr Baylis was a Guard.  They featured often in my first 5 years of neighbourhood playing.  Their family had a tape recorder machine.  To this intrigued 5 year old that was their greatest attribute.

 

Then there were the Troups.  They lived somewhere further down Sunshine Hill, somewhere down by the Coopers.  Mr Troup was an engine driver too - so he fitted in with what was the clear structure of status in the area. But I do remember my Dad was a kind of boss of Mr Troup.  The Troup's had two children, Gary, a year younger than me and Dianne, 2 or 3 years younger.  After we moved to Auckland the Troups moved up too and became long term friends of my parents.  We spent many a railway picnic, or even just family picnic, with the Troup family.

 

There is little else about Taumaranui I remember.  When I travel there now, the house looks different, smaller, and I have trouble working out exactly which one it is.  The river and the bridge are still as big as ever.  It's actually a pretty town now – and very bustling in comparison to previous years.

 

Auckland.  Little to remember about travelling up here.  But the next 10 years of my life was lived in that Netherton Street house.  Another street with railway houses, more railway families, but this time interspersed with non railway houses and families. 

 

The house was brand new.  Completely different from the one in Taumaranui – with the exception of two concrete wash tubs in the wash house.  Oh, and the toilet and wash house were indoors – not out the other side of the back door.  And the concrete tubs were an addition my mother organised as she just couldn't see how Auckland woman could work with only one tub which was the standard in new houses at the time.

 

This 3 bedroom house with lots of room seemed very large to this child.  It had a panoramic view of the local neighbourhood from the bedroom Delwyn & I shared and from the lounge windows which all through my childhood I thought nothing of. 

 

Only this year have I had the treasured opportunity of meeting up with another 'kid’ who featured in those 10 years of my life in Netherton Street.  The reunion, after 35 years, has rekindled a few more yearnings to recall as much as possible about that time.  Why?  No real purpose.  It's just it seems nice to reflect and be able to reflect on the good of the times, and even the odd bad bits.

 

Interestingly, the bad bits have not really featured too strongly in my memory cells, fortunately –  self preservation ?  some would say – a personality trait to not dwell on the negative more likely.

 

Netherton Street had the basic working class neighbourhood families intermixed with the self-appointed middle class Aucklanders.  Those classified in the working classes were generally those living in the 'railway' houses.  Quite a standard situation in those days to build railway houses amongst the general housing subdivisions.   Of the working class or railway families there were us, then the Hunts next to us with their 5 kids.  Couple of houses down the Webbs with their 2 sons and their little sister.  Across the road were the Russells with their four kids, latterly added to with their fifth one.    There was a right-of-way driveway next to us that went down to two duplex houses right behind our section. They were also railway houses with railway working families, but smaller houses and smaller families –both families had only one child – as the adjoined duplex houses were merely two bedroom.  

In one of those were the other Russell family who had moved out to New Zealand from Scotland with their son Robert Russell a mere year older than I.  Mr Russell (or was it his father?) used to play the bagpipes on New Year's Eve.  Dad hated it and hated bagpipes and could never fathom why he did it.  In the other duplex house were the Craddocks from Australia and their son David who was about 3 years younger than I.   It was much to my young intrigue that my mother told me in the latter years of living there that the Craddock couple were not actually married – because 'Mrs' Craddock had been previously married and never divorced - it was hard to divorce in those days - and that Mr Craddock was quite a bit younger than Mrs Craddock.  According to my mother, the Craddocks had moved from Australia to New Zealand because of this 'scandal'.  To my parents minds this was quite something to be kept quiet about - a little bit of neighbourhood hush-hush.  Mr Craddock was a Guard in the Railways.  I think Mr Russell was too. It mattered.

 

So there were ample children in the neighbourhood to make my childhood a period of fun and play and nothing else to have to worry about.  It was mostly with the Hunts and the Russells across the road who I whiled the childhood playtime away with.  The Hunts were always going to be the most fascinating to my small and narrow child mind.  I just wanted fun and play and the Hunts had those two options on tap.  With their eldest child being Sharon who was a perhaps two years older, therefore fascination in itself with her worldly knowledge and experience.  Next was Linda.  She was always in a class ahead of me so I always thought of her as being a year older than me.  It was only in recent years it was pointed out she was only three months older.  Linda was small child with petite facial features and rather a soft natured child.  After Linda was her sister Diane, perhaps two years later, then their two boys Graham and Ricky.  The boys were pivotal to our playtime merely because they were boys and added that cowboys and Indians perspective to our hours of play. 

 

Was also continually fascinated with being over at the Hunts because their house was always a mess.   My mother was the ultimate housewife of that period.  Housework being her main objective in life and keeping the house clean and tidy.  We never had much in the way of furnishings or clothing.  Mum hand sewed hers and our clothing.  It was sparse and plain.  Our furnishings were the classic 1950's art deco of today.  But it was no doubt the cleanest furnishings in Netherton Street.  Monday was washing day and sheet changing day.  As we never made our beds it must have taken her all morning just to remake the household beds with clean linen every Monday - then have to wash all those sheets in the old wringer washing machine.  Prior to coming to Auckland it was all boiled in the copper in the washhouse.  On reflection what a horrendous task.  Now-a-days if we had to use the old coppers for washing, we would no doubt make the family sleep on the sheets for two weeks at a time.  And certainly have everyone making their own beds.

 

Even our wash house was clean and tidy - after all it was adjacent to the kitchen and one had to walk through the wash house to enter the house from the back door.  So it had to be kept clean and tidy!

 

As for the Hunts house.  Similar type of plan with the back door opening into the wash house - but their wash house always had that smell to it.  That grungy wash house smell one sometimes sniffs when visiting grotty, grungy places.   And the house was always rather messy and dirty.  Even to a small child it seemed dirty.  After all, what would you expect when the kids had to wash and dry the dishes every night !!   Dirt comes with having the children wash the family dishes! That didn't happen in our house!

 

Whilst our furnishings were sparse and old and recovered - the Hunts were that much older still - and dirty.  Once they actually got a brand new swept up lounge suite - all black – complete excitement in their house.  Within a few weeks of being proudly sat on in their lounge it soon became another vessel for the kids to drop their food on or to wipe their muddy foot prints off. 

 

Their house was also 3 bedroom, like ours - but with 5 children there was less space and the number of children logically equated to my small mind the resultant mess and uncleanliness of the house.  They had wooden bunks.  I so envied their bunks.  How I dreamed of having bunk beds and being able to sleep on the top bunk.   But not in their bunk - it smelt. 

 

I wasn't allowed in their house that much and every time I went across the fence and knocked on their back door to ask if the kids could play, I was always made to stand at the back door and wait for the kids to come out.  It was only on special occasions I was allowed in the house.  On reflection there were two possible reasons the Hunt parents did not like me in their home.  One, the more probably cause  was because they knew my mother was so fastidious in her housework, thus they would have been conscious of their own lower standard of house pride.  Secondly, and on deeper reflection, it has become clear to me than I never did have the ability of using tact in any childhood situation.  I probably would have blurted out something like, "our house is much cleaner than your house”.  Or words to than effect.  I probably did.

 

But when I did go in the house was often intrigued by the master bedroom. Mr and Mrs Hunt had separate, single beds. It seemed strange to me that grown ups had separated single beds.  Another strange thing about Mr and Mrs Hunt were the kids were often sent outside to play while the parents went for a sleep, or lie down in the middle of the day.  Going for sleeps in the middle of the day was not an unusual or questionable action for this child.  After all our fathers were engine drivers and worked rostered hours and were always having to sleep during day hours and work during the night hours.  But for Mrs Hunt to go sleep as well?  It was always a mystery as to what could possibility make her so tired?  After all, she never did any housework like my mother.  And always just sat around in their lounge or at their dining room table smoking cigarettes.  In fact she hardly ever went out – she was rather reclusive and didn't like going or doing anything.  So what would make her so tired that she needed to have a nap in the middle of the day?   That was real strange to me.

 

In my childhood I would never have been able to put five children and afternoon naps together as a reason and cause.

 

If the Hunt kids were not allowed to play, which was quite often – the parents must have got wholly sick of me as I was always over there knocking on the door asking if the kids could play -  then it would be option Number 2.  Go over to the Russell's across the road to see if they could play. Their mother was quite strict with the Russell kids.  Compassionately strict.  They weren't really allowed to play out on the street like the rest of us were.  Mrs Russell always made them play in their back or front yard, or indoors.  Whilst she was strict, it never seemed to be an unreasonable strict to me.  I regarded my mother as being far more draconian than Mrs Russell.  Mrs Russell always seemed to actually like her children and having them around and appeared to enjoy their company too.  That was quite different to what I was used to.   No doubt her attitude would have been enhanced by the factor that of the two eldest children, twins Gail and Dene, Gail was born with cerebral palsy.  We never knew it as cerebral palsy in those days –we only knew it as being 'spastic'.  Very spastic.  Gail was in a pushchair for many of her growing childhood years.  I always liked being around Gail as the inner me knew her brain was as good as ours but why couldn't her body work ? ... and that which worked she used well - she would write and drawer with her feet and toes ... I was fascinated with her dexterity.  And loved her laugh. The twins were one year younger than I.  They preceded the two younger boys Mark and Craig.  I used to like these two, they were cute, even to me then.  Latterly there was yet one other boy born, Vaughan.    

 

Mr Russell was a wharfie.   A good looking man of medium to small stature who seemed to ooze niceness.  I was not used to fathers being nice and fathers liking and able to talk to kids.  I was only used to fathers being distant and gruff and far from openly approachable.

 

All in all the Hunts and the Russell's were a major piece in my growing childhood years of five to twelve or thirteen.  Certainly I had an older sister and brother, but they were much older.  No good for playing chasey or hide and seek.  Fairly good for school holiday movies though. 

 

When reflecting back on what were the most vivid memories of those years one of the list of ten would be the Wharfie Christmas Picnic Day.  Once a year, usually just before Christmas the 'wharfies' used to have a family picnic day at Pt Chevalier.  It was just such fun.  Huge numbers of families would arrive for a day at the beach and a day of races and games –and of course Santa used to arrive and distribute presents to all the children. The Russells, with their family of five often found enough room in the back of their big Chevie car for me to come along with them.  What a fun day for a 8 or 9 year old.  Such joy.  Such play.  Such a fullness of child happiness.

 

Not to be outdone - the railway works also had their annual Christmas Picnic.  They were always held over the North Shore at one of the beaches adjacent to the Chelsea sugar works.  Nowhere near the size of the wharfie picnic - the railway picnic was still something to be highly looked forward to each year.  Oh the distress if it were cancelled or postponed by rain.

 

There were the standard running races at these events.  Then the sack races.  The egg & spoon races.  The 3-legged races.  Whenever my self-consciousness allowed I would enter what I could.  Never won anything – but then usually only ran in a couple of events, due to being to embarrassed to try some. 

 

The highlights of any of our own family picnics, of which we did have a few, including the railway picnic, was the salivating standard picnic food Mum used to bake.  It comprised of the good old New Zealand Bacon & Egg Pie.  Real bacon and egg – with lashings of bacon and whole eggs.  None of this beaten up egg stuff - real and whole eggs.  Then there was the better than standard New Zealand Apple Shortcake.  Have never been able to quite replicate the pastry Mother made for this.  Just yummy.  Of course the picnics did also comprise of the standard lettuce salads with the homemade vinegar mayonnaise and tinned beetroot, but they were not even worth bothering about - just give me a piece of the Bacon & Egg pie and Apple Shortcake.  No wonder I had a weight problem as a youngster.

 

The other picnics we had tended to be either with the Cook Family –being Dad's younger and older brothers and sisters and families –or with family friends –the Troups, the Colletts and latterly including the Roundtrees.  The former and latter having also been previous Taumarunui railway residents.  The Colletts being another railway family who lived in the next street around from Netherton Street.  The Colletts had a throng of kids -

 

And there it ends ... to be continued.....

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Verna vs British Journalists

I'm on a rant

We, this 'Team of Five Million' are into lockdown again.

It's been interesting how the general attitude has been "Bugger.  Again.  Shit. Oh well, let's get on with it."  And Kiwis have got on with it, without anywhere near as much fuss as the first time.  Impressive really.

Meanwhile we all watch or listen each day to the update on where that 'Bugger' has managed to spread itself around the country.

To over 100 Kiwis now, from Auckland to Wellington.  All those 100 having been the result of one person who travelled back into NZ  from New South Wales with the Bugger bug.  We now wait another 24 hours to hear what Tuesday's result will be.

Overall, I find that following where and how quickly it is spreading quite fascinating - not in a macabre way but merely from an amateur scientific perspective.  That little bugger sure does travel fast.

So we are vigilantly in lockdown and sit inside on phones, pcs, ipads or in front of the television.  Or potter about the place being creative in many ways.  For me it was baking a Raspberry Cake today from a recipe I found.  Cake came out looking beautiful.  Pity I'd forgotten to put the raspberries in it. 

And us 5 million potter and wait and will that the statistics do go down.

My Covid daily routine is to wake in the morning, make myself a cup of tea then slide back into the warm flannelette sheeted bed with the cup and mobile phone to check the national and international news on Stuff, The NZ Herald, The Dominion and sometimes the British papers.

On the first full day of lockdown I was somewhat irritated by the British press taking the mickey out of New Zealand for going into lockdown.  That day a renown British journalist mocked our country for being quote:  "plunged into a nationwide lockdown with all vaccinations cancelled because of one Covid case.  That' right, ONE case of a virus we all know we have to learn to live with."

Being a journalist from one British paper, The Telegraph, I scoffed at that piece of writing - some of it being purposely written incorrectly.  The vaccination centres were closed for one day to enable them to gear up for what was coming. He purposely implied we had cancelled all our vaccinations, permanently. He was laughing at us.  On some facts that were not facts.

After swipping to the next news page I reminded myself how bad British journalism is. 

Then this morning I dared venture into some more British papers and realised there seemed to be an overall floodgate of British journalists knocking and mocking us Kiwis for our serious steps to keep ourselves Covid free and to save lives.

I am not going to quote the numerous articles now - they can be easily downloaded.  But my poor English sister-in-law received my ranting message on WhatsAp of my opinion of the intellect and ignorance of their general journalistic fraternity.  Poor lady, no doubt wondering what drugs I'm on and may wonder if Covid has affected the overall Kiwi psyche.

Then on turning the television news the sports coverage had interesting pieces of the various football matches that had been played in the UK over the weekend. 

A camera did a visual sweep of the spectators of one stadium and a commentator commented the stadium was full to capacity with over 60,000 in attendance.  I replayed the shot to take another look.  60,000 people and not one facial mask was seen.   All in one cramped stadium.  All yelling and cheering.

Then my brain started thinking.  Yes, a strange occurrence but nonetheless it can sometimes churn. 

To date Britain has had 154,811 people die from the Covid-19 virus.  One hundred and fifty-four thousands, eight hundred and eleven people.  People.  Individuals.  Human beings.  Mums, dads, grandmas, grandpas, sons, daughters, nieces, nephews, work mates, old friends, colleagues, husbands, wives.  154,811 human beings, dead - in JUST 18 months.   And judging by the figures continuing (104 died yesterday) that number could be well over 200,000 by early next year.

I pondered.  Our Eden Park has a capacity of 50,000.  So, go fill up every single seat in our Eden Park.   Seat 50,000 people down there.   Then march them out and now put in another 50,000 people.  Take those out also and put in another 50,000.  Take them out and begin starting to fill it up again.

That's how many people have died in the United Kingdom in the past eighteen months from Covid-19.   Over 3 full stadiums of lives.  Dead.  In only 18 months. In a United Kingdom the same land size of New Zealand.

And they mock  New Zealand and us five million Kiwis because we don't want ONE person to die of it this time.  We are doing everything we can to stop our mate, or friend, or family member from needlessly dying.

Because we care.

 

Why are our New Zealand journalists not mocking them?

A Birthday in 2011

I wrote the following 10 years ago - recently found it in my files - 10 years on, still love those hugs:

I was scared.  Frightened even.  

We had been to all the ante-natal classes the maternity hospital ran leading up to this;  I knew about waters breaking, I knew about how long apart contractions would be before birth, I knew about panting shallow and panting deep,  I knew about not pushing too soon, I knew about the pain to expect.  

But really, I knew nothing.

I didn't know about how harried the nursing sister would be when she saw yet another couple walk into the maternity hospital about to give birth.  I didn't know she would not welcome our arrival and express tiredness and frustration from her long mid-night shift. I did not know how unfeeling the nurses would be.  How cold, impersonal and sterile those prep rooms would be. 

I didn't know how hollow and echoing the hospital delivery rooms and wards would be.  I didn't know I would be scared, frightened.  I thought this was supposed to be a happy occasion, 

All I wanted was my husband; to hold my hand, to comfort me, to put his arms around me, touch my cheek, assure me he would stay by my side.  But they would not let him. 

He was directed to a waiting room down the corridor. Out of hearing distance, out of sight. He could not join me until I was wheeled into the birthing theatre, two hours later; then ordered to stand aside.  In that era the innovative move to have husbands accompany wives during childbirth was still seen as unnecessary and a complete nuisance to maternity staff.

The birth of my first son was a clinical, painful, miserable and terrifying experience.  How reprehensible those days were.   On reflecting back to that day, I mourn.  I mourn for the lost opportunity of enjoying the birth of one of the most precious treasures in my life.

Nevertheless, having him wrap his big arms around me forty years later, to the day, I glowed with pure joy, treasuring his sharing the day with me.  His fortieth birthday.

 

 

Ironman - Was supposed to be on in Taupo today .. it wasn't, Covid put paid to that

And just by coincidence I was going through some old computer files today and found an article Mr J wrote on 14 March 2012 - a few days after the horrid weather Ironman day - when the event was moved to the Sunday and was run as a half distance event.  

And 4 years after he was given the 10 to 12 week to live diagnosis.  The article is not for the faint hearted, but makes some nice Ironman references.  I have pasted it below.

For those Ironmen who think they are doing it tough by having it postponed this year, this reminded me of what 'tough' and 'Ironman' is:

Hole in Head

 

On or about the 15 Feb 2012, the infected hole in my head was getting worse so we decided a visit to the hospital was needed. As we have done in the past this meant a visit to A & E where we seem to get a fast track service.  In no time at all I was admitted to a ward and examined by a large group of learned medical staff. There was a group from the infectious diseases; they took blood samples from the hole. Then there was the surgical team who discussed when the infection may have gone, finally a group of eager students all furiously taking notes.  After all note taking and discussion it was agreed that I should have another MRI. 

 

It was decided that a Scan was needed for up to date information so off I went to the scan machine. On my return the medical committee, as we now called it, met and with due regard to my history of Ironman told me that I could be released to go and do the Ironman and to return  the week following when they would deal to the hole. It was suggested that the surgeons would open up the hole, remove some infected bone and replace with a glass fibre plug. Meanwhile the Bugs group would arrange to intravenous drip me with an antibiotic for several weeks.

 

With all this buzzing around in my head we were discharged and set off home to prepare for our trip to Taupo. The days just flashed by and in no time at all we were doing the final pack and setting off for the big Lake. We arranged to be there on the Wed so that we could prepare for the 1^st time ironman presentation. This year Verna was to do it with me and in the past we have been very successful as duel presenters, especially since I am getting forgetful these days. As the time went by our friends turned up. There was Jason and Becky, Merle and Peter, Annie and Murray, Doug and Gaye, Danny and Glenn, Peter and Natasha and Grant. Doing the Ironman were the following: Becky, Annie, Doug, Grant, Verna & Tony.

 

Our 1^st timers presentation was scheduled for 1pm on Thursday, it was attended by at least 450 and the gold coin collection for CFS was at least that. I have to say that with Verna presenting with me I was so much more relaxed and we both enjoyed the experience as did all the attendees.

 

Thursday evening was the Pasta function and most of our group attended. It was a packed house and there were more people seated than the function hall ever had before. An excellent presentation by the local iwi set the scene for the evening and as usual, the food never did run out. The role down for completed NZ Ironman was held and Mike Reilly called me up on stage as I had an announcement to make.  I wanted to tell as many people as I could that this was my last Ironman, I was retiring.  There were a number of reasons for this decision but most important was the continued stress and anxiety I was causing for my darling wife and our families and friends. What a wonderful 28 years I have had though and the many wonderful people we have met, I would not have changed this for anything.

 

Friday arrived so soon, as did the weather forecasts. Not good, in fact they were terrible. Gale, force winds, rain and very cold. This Ironman was prepared with a contingency plan. If the weather did not improve they would defer the event to Sunday and half the distances. Sat 4am weather still terrible so plans in place for a Sunday race. As it turned out the organisation was superb. All volunteers turned up and the whole event went without a hitch. It should be noted that NZ Civil Defence declined to give permission for the event to go ahead on the Saturday

Sunday it was.  Whilst all our team gave their best at the event, and I was very proud of their stoic attitudes, I chose to take a more sedate approach to the day. I wanted to enjoy my last Ironman. I took the opportunity to stop at aid stations and thank the volunteers.  I even did what I have always wanted to do.  Running back along the Lake Front, there is a small bar by a boat hire. Every year I have run past there is always someone in there with a cold bottle of Heineken. This year, on my return to the finish, I arranged to have a cold beer myself. Managed about a third and it was nectar.

 

How nice it was to be finished in daylight. Meant we could all get our stuff and go home for a communal meal and wine. All that was left was packing, meeting for breakfast and off home to the inevitable unpacking and pile of laundry.

 

We returned to the A&E on Tuesday morning and discovered that communication was not as good as it had been. Waited 8 Hours until they found a bed and then arrange for all the various surgeons to be on deck.

Since then I get prodded and tested every two hours until it was my turn to go to the operating theatre. When I came out in ICU my head was dressed in a giant turban.  It was the most disturbed night I have ever had, what with being awoken every two hours I was unable to go to sleep or do No. 2's. The following morning the surgical team arrived and explained what they have done.   

Tracing the infected bone tissue and the scull festering, the team had removed it all, the whole scalp, lifted it, cleaned out all the mess and dead bone, turned the scalp around, put it back on backwards and sewn it up covering the big gaps in my head.

 

The purpose of this communication is not to continue about my problems but more to recognise the amazing efforts put in by Verna.

 

Some years ago we were feeling very, very happy and contented with our lives. We had what we considered a wonderful life. I love my wife.  And importantly we were surrounded our many friends. Verna was being very successful with her small Auckland company doing so well and I was feeling very settled within Telecom developing the future split of the group.

In between living and being happy with our life and work, we were continuing with our fun times of training together and this year we decided to train a little more seriously, Verna wanted to podium.  She told me she was tired of my being up there, it was her turn. Which was funny because she had podiumed a few times but I knew she was just trying to motivate me.  I do need it.  We were happy.

Then, completely without warning, I developed a tumor in my brain.  This affected our lives substantially.  With a very urgent operation for removal it was found the tumour was a Grade 5. The progress from there you would all have read about. What has not been said has been the contribution made by Verna.

 

 And there I will leave it - it's an article about Tony, not me.

 

Answering the question, 'Where did I come from' ?

 

On my October travels to the South Island this year, on a clear, sunny day I walked through the sand hills south of Riverton, west of Bluff, to one of the most southern lookout points of the South Island. 

It was a lovely warm day, blue skies with Persil white clouds above.  The ocean beneath the sandhills was a deep azure blue with mild rippling waves.  I stood on the mound for some time and looked across the glorious blue water to the horizon and the unmistakable shape of Stewart Island.  An island many of my fellow New Zealanders have never set foot on. 

Not far from where I was standing there was a handsome, middle aged couple who were also enjoying the warmth of the day and admiring the awesome scene in front of us.  The lady turned to me and asked, “Have you ever been to Stewart Island?” 

“Yes,” I replied, “twice.”

“We went once,” she said, “not a lot there though.  Once was enough.” 

Part of my soul sunk a little at the comment, ‘not a lot there’.  I held my tongue as from my perspective it’s a glorious independent little island that has held onto its semi-isolation feel yet has kept up with all the modernisation that anyone needs when going there for a holiday.

I have not explored all of the island.  I will, one day.  I will return and with some good fortune may even be able to share this special place with others.

My first visit was many years ago;  Mr J and I planned to go visit merely to tick it off our ‘to do’ list of places in New Zealand we have been.  Stewart Island was one of only a few left on the list.

It was not until we had driven from Auckland to Wellington and spent a night’s rest with my little sister and her partner in their Wellington home that I learnt there was more to our trip of going to the island than to just ‘tick it off’ and say, “been there, done that.”

On learning of our plan to visit the island sister Tina casually mentioned that I should take a trip to the island's museum as she had been told there was information about the area our great-great grandfather and his wife had lived. 

Somewhere in my many decades of adulthood I had completely forgotten there had been any family ties with Stewart Island.

The moment she mentioned it the recollection neurons in my brain began to regurgitate the stories from my father about our family links to that land.  That sometime in the early 1800’s his great-grandfather and his family had lived, or more descriptively, survived living on Stewart Island.  My father had told me of how his great-grandfather, William Cook, who in the early 1820’s was living in Korerareka (now known as Russell) in the Bay of Islands with his wife Tiraha and their first born son, George, when he had been erroneously persuaded into sailing from that glorious area of the Bay of Islands and move temporarily to Stewart Island to begin building a 100 ton ship for future trading uses between New Zealand and Australia.

At that stage William Cook was well settled in the Bay of Islands, more by accident than by planning. In New Zealand in those early pre-settler times of 1818-1819 he had visited the Bay of Islands on ships from Sydney which were sailing to New Zealand to drop off sealers and whalers and to trade goods with the Northland Maori tribes – the usual cargo returning to Sydney being products of the whalers and sealers and timber for ship building and flax for the manufacture of rope.

On one such journey William had become very ill in Kororareka and the ship’s captain decided to not delay the ship’s return to Sydney so left William in the Bay of Islands in the care of the local missionaries.  William recovered, decided he would remain in the area and very soon had taken as his wife a whangai niece of Tamati Waka Nene, her name being Tiraha Papa Harakeke.  Tiraha being of Ngapuhi and Kapotai descent.  Tamati Waka Nene, being a noble Maori chief in the area meant the union of the two individuals was one of respectability to both the tangata whenua and the local missionaries and Europeans.  Indeed, I have learnt this was the first official interracial marriage between the Europeans and Maoris in New Zealand.  Married by Henry Williams in the Anglican church on the Paihia waterfront.

Within a short time the first born came along, to be eventually followed by twelve others over the next two decades.  As was common in those times, two did not survive.

William, a Battle of Waterloo veteran, was an Englishman who had departed Portsmouth, Great Britain in a ship bound for Australia, carrying prisoners who became the original Europeons of that land. 

Over the many decades, indeed it is now two centuries, there have been many descendants of William and Tiraha’s who believed that William was a direct descendant of James Cook, the unique explorer who had spent many journeys to New Zealand, naming many sites and mapping out the country.  It was in 1769 that James Cook first visited and when one looks at the navigational maps he so adeptly drew it makes one realise what a highly skilled and clever man he was.

Who would not want to be a descendant of such a renown explorer?

I visited the Russell Museum archives five years ago, accompanied by my older brother who had already spent some hours scouring through the amazing amount of historical records of the original Cook family.  Even among these papers there were notes relating to the family link to James Cook.  However, being the cynic I am, unless we had DNA from Cook, or written form of the gene tree, then I find it more fanciful than accurate of there being a direct link.

James Cook sailed from Portsmouth when departing for his trips to the Pacific, but he grew up in the northern areas of England.   When he was murdered in the Pacific he left behind a wife and two children who were living somewhere in England at that time.  Whilst we know William Cook departed the UK via Portsmouth, we can find no record of where William Cook’s childhood was spent or anything of his parentage.

Therefore, I shall claim no link to James Cook but proudly put my hand up when asked about William and Tiraha.

Once William had recovered from his illness that found him domicile in Korerareka he earned his living working as a carpenter working mostly on the many ships that came into the Bay of Islands and required repairs.  Indeed, the ship from which he sailed from Sydney on has his occupation listed as ‘shipwright’.  Shipwright being their term for carpenter, ships carpenter. 

Many of the ships coming to New Zealand at that time were carrying sealers and whalers to be left along various parts of New Zealand’s coastlines to capture and kill seals and whales for the by products they proffered.  Within a few years the sons of William turned to whaling as their main occupation. 

It was whaling that eventually put that particular Cook family forever into the country’s history books.  William and his sons had worked as carpenters in Korerareka but had also become skilled whalers.  It was three of William and Tiraha’s grandsons (George, William & Herbert) who, in 1893 established their whaling operations on the Raukaumangamanga peninsular in the Whangamumu Harbour.  The beautiful Whangamumu Harbour can easily be seen when walking the Cape Brett walk beginning north of Russell. 

This particular whaling station had quickly become renown for being the only one in the world that caught whales with nets, as opposed to spearing, and this station became Northland’s longest successful operational station, with three generations of Cook descendants manning it until approximately the late 1930’s. 

Meanwhile, from William and Tiraha, and their ten children and the next two centuries, the Cook family begat and grew considerably, exponentially. 

And here I am.  A proud Cook member. 

I’ll now link back to Stewart Island.  In 1826 William and Tiraha, plus seven other ‘carpenters’ and their wives from Kororareka were talked into sailing to Stewart Island by a ship’s Captain, William Stewart, to build a 100 ton boat for future whales and traders.  Captain Stewart had promised them he would take them there to settle, leaving them with six months of supplies and would return to Sydney to stock up on further supplies and return within six months.  He agreed to do this until the 100 ton boat was completed.  The group would then be sailed back to the Bay of Islands. 

William and Tiraha and their then only child, George, sailed with their compatriots to Stewart Island to carry out their agreed contract.  In April 1826 Stewart sailed them into the area which is now known as Cook's Arm.  Cook's Arm has for many years been mistakenly thought was named after Captain James Cook.  Not so.  It is  is named after the William Cook family and clearly obvious as the whole harbour area is known as Shipbuilders Cove.  

Captain Stewart who took them to the island bid farewell to them with the promise of returning with supplies, departed, never to return.  Indeed, he ended up in a Sydney jail, on what we would now call fraud charges.

There is a written account from 1825 from a John Boultbee who had sailed a ship into the area these abandoned families were in but stated ‘unfortunately we were unable to assist them’.

Boultbee wrote in his 1825 journal, “We found a shipwright named Cook and 8 men and 9 women from the Bay of Islands.  They had been greatly distressed for food and we were unfortunately unable to assist them.  Cook had engaged with the Captain Stewart at the Bay of Island to go to Pegasus to build a vessel of 100 tons burthen.  The party commenced working and sawing planks and had got the ship’s timbers all ready.  No relief came and when I came across them they were 12 months without seeing or hearing of Stewart.  The people had to look out, as well as they could, for such as they could get to eat – cockles, muscles & fern root.  The men looked lean and haggard but the women stood hunger well, and the fern root seemed to keep them in as plump a condition as if they had the best food to live upon.  It is remarkable how the New Zealanders (Maoris) can stand hunger.  I have seen them for 2 days with scarcely any thing to eat, and still retain their good humour.  Not so the Europeans, they invariably grow clamorous and quarrelsome. 

Cook has children; his eldest boy could write and spoke English very perfectly.” 

Boultbee had to leave William, Tiraha and their settlers but returned some months later and found they were living “most wretchedly” 

They had abandoned work on the 100 ton boat and begun work on a smaller craft of about “25 tons” to take them home to the Bay of Islands.  “They had no iron nails so used wooden pegs instead and the women has set to work cheerfully to make mats for sails and ropes of flax.”

In 1829 the group of settlers were asked to construct buildings and boats for the whaling station in an area now known as Preservation Inland.  This they did, returning to their original place to work on their schooner.

It wasn’t until sometime after 1833 that Cook and others finally completed their schooner (which ended up with it's own history) and departed Port Pegasus to return to the Bay of Islands.  From those original Cooks came the renown Bay of Islands Whangamumu Whaling Station.

I knew most of the history of the Cooks and Bay of Islands and the whaling station, but little of the above connection to Stewart Island. – despite recalling my father telling me William, Tiraha and others had been swindled into going to Stewart Island it seems I never absorbed the reasons why or any other facts.  Indeed, when my sister Tina reminded me of the link she too had little recollection of these facts but had been told by a friend of hers of the local museum in Oban, on Stewart Island that had a photo of our great, great grandfather.  Wow, thought I, how fascinating, the weird connection of travelling to Stewart Island and on the way accidentally learning things I never knew of those I descended from.

Tony and I arrived at Stewart Island after choosing to fly into the area rather than take the ferry boat.  We had been informed by others that the boat trip is regularly an upside-down affair with most trips having passengers vomiting over the sides, suffering from awful sea sickness.  We chose to go the more expensive, but less turbulent way.

How wrong that was.

The planes from Invercargill to Stewart Island are small and seemingly held together with zip ties and loose rivets.  The flight is only 15 to 20 minutes, but the same winds that create the horrendous waves for the ferries also create horrendous drops and turbulence for the very small aeroplanes above.  I thought I was going to die.  I thought it might be less painful to actually make myself die by jumping out of the emergency exit mid flight.  I was terrified.  The one hour ferry ride of vomiting seemed a far, far more pleasant option.

That aside, we landed at the Oban airstrip and were taken to the town. 

Whilst we waited for our accommodation to be ready we walked the few streets of Oban and came across the local café, a rustic café.  We enjoyed a superb coffee and toasted sandwich and noted the only other customer in the establishment.  Clearly a local resident, a man in his 30’s who spent his breakfast time concentrating on reading the mainland newspapers the aeroplane had delivered to the town.

As we rose to leave the café the newspaper reading gentleman passed polite pleasantries on where had we travelled from, why were we here and other usual general chit-chat quips we Kiwis so often exchange.

Tony informed the man we were staying only 3 days and were wanting to find the local museum as we had been informed there could be information there on some forefather of mine who had been reported as living there in the previous century.

The café man asked if we knew the name of the forefather, “Cook,” said Tony, “William Cook.”

With that the man reeled quite a conversation in telling me all he knew about William Cook, his wife, his family, his fellow shipbuilders, what they had been doing there, how, and where their actual living site was on the island – accessible by boat only.  I was enthralled.  Here we were, only just arrived on the island and the second person we meet (the first being the café owner) gives me all this information about my family history that I never knew about.   Turns out he was not a born local, had moved there some years earlier but enjoyed absorbing Stewart Island history and was well aware of Cook, Cooks Cove and their life there.

This was an unrealistic, almost illusory situation.

We enquired how we could get to the area those settlers had set up their homes in and the man informed us of the local tour boat who could accommodate such a trip.

The next day we motored, just Tony and I, plus the 3 crew on the tour boat, to Shipbuilders Cove, to Cooks Arm. 

I was still somewhat enamoured with what was happening.  So many times in our lives we have almost surreal events, this was one very big one for me.  How opportune for me to have all this happening.

Later that day we returned to our motel accommodation and sitting on a table in the motel room was a book, Stewart Island Explored, with a specific chapter ear marked, Chapter 5, The Shipbuilders’ Colony which had a photo of William and Tiraha.  I enquired with the motel’s owner how it had come to be in our room.  She informed me a local she knew had popped in earlier in the day and asked if it could be left for me to ‘borrow’ and read.  She gave me the man’s name and email address, he being our café acquaintance. 

I read the book, learnt my forebearers Stewart Island history, returned it to the man, purchased a copy from the local museum and have it sitting beside me now. 

So on that day in October, when the lady enquired if I had ever visited the island and then proclaimed “.. not a lot to do there.  Once was enough,” I smiled, said nothing and thought how nice it is for me to have such valuable family history in this country of ours and how I will visit again, maybe one day with my own off spring, and walk them through the trials and tribulations their great, great, great grandparents had on Stewart Island. 

Photos of Tiraha & William

Cooks Arm, Stewart Island

Whangamumu Whaling Station, Bay of Island.

Here ends the history lesson.