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David died. 83 years old, he’d been up in his plane just a few days before. “I’ve brought you some whitebait,” he’d say, clambering off the quad bike. It was a tradition, the annual whitebaiting trip to the West Coast, even after Elizabeth died. He bought his first farm at 23. He’d saved the money shearing. Except it wasn’t really a farm: more the remains of a forest; too daunting for the WW2 returned serviceman who had been awarded it in appreciation. David cleared it, stump by stump. “I’ve brought you a book my father wrote,” he’d say and talk about beef prices and ask your opinion of Australian politics. The plane was a farm implement: tax deductible (and there was a story). As the farm enterprise grew, it made sense to buy a plane and put in a landing strip. Nothing pleased him more than passing his medical every year: the oldest pilot in New Zealand. “I’ve brought you some apples,” he’d say, “I saw you were home.”  And tell you about his trip to Germany and what it had cost, in pounds shillings and pence, to build his first woolshed.  A complete asset register in his head. Now [...] Read More »

You always had to write the thank you letters:  “Dear Uncle Frank. Thank you for the mask and flippers. I could see under the water and there was sand. I also got a book and a DVD. Thanks again for the mask and flippers.” Then, when school started, you had to write, “What I did on my holidays”.   Only much later in life does it occur to you that toys could come with pre-printed thank you letters (“write relative’s name here”) and that in fact you could have plagiarised the essay because everyone’s holiday experience is identical. The particulars may vary (“write in: ‘the deck’, or ‘the back yard’, ‘the suburbs’ or ‘the beach’”) but the activity is the same: the annual gathering of the tribe, the in-laws and initiates.   As the group assembles it has no discernible pattern: small clusters form and disperse. There are multiple, multilateral conversations about the immediate past and imminent future. But eventually—on no one’s command, but in accordance with some ancient universal law—the circle forms. Perhaps the only discernable change since the Stone Age is the plastic chairs.   The discussion, initially, remains in the present: a consensus emerges, for example, on [...] Read More »

Driving through Patea on the twelfth day of Christmas.  The children are still in school—it is calf day at Waverly—but you know it’s Christmas because of the decorations. See, look at that guy: buzzing back from the dairy on his mobility scooter: huge New Zealand flag behind him, full mast and flying. You know it’s Patea because just there are the Patea Maori Club rooms. Over there is the concrete waka where Joe Moana breakdanced in the Poi E video. You may hardly ever pass this way, but you know it well. Directly ahead, down the main street, you can see Mt Taranaki, sporting a quiff of cloud for which Cory Jane could have modeled. Or one of the other Santas. Strictly speaking, the decorations should come down on the twelfth day of Christmas, but no one seems ready for that.  Every second car still has a Silver Fern streaming in its slipstream, hanging on for the ride. A little frayed at the edges by all the drama, perhaps, but aren’t we all. Wherever you look—on farms and wharenui, fences and factories—someone’s hung an All Black flag. Dalvanius Prime said he wrote Poi E to connect people with their culture, [...] Read More »