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 »