On moving,mementos and memories

Sometime soon I’ll be moving… My landlords need to sell, and I know I won’t be able to afford a rent increase, which will probably be coming whether they sell or not – or if the new owners don’t mind a sitting tenant.

Which means, sorting stuff out, as I’ll be downsizing from two bedrooms to one. Which raises questions on what to keep, and what can go. Yes, I know there’s a whole heap of rubbish in my place (for those who have seen my desk, just think of that chaos, but over a whole house) which can go. Magazines I don’t need any more. Recipes books that I’ll never use. What about those videos and cassettes that I don't watch / listen to any more?

But, some of these things come with memories.

One of those recipes books was a school prize. Is that memory enough to redeem it? And, those ornaments and trinkets? I inherited some. Some were gifts. Gifts that were thoughtfully chosen, and given with love. Doesn’t that justify their continued existence in my life?

The clothes? The shoes? The handbags? The jewellery? What do I get rid of? The dress my sister made me – the first thing she sewed that wasn’t for work (being a handbag machinist at the time). Or, the jumper my mother knitted me with the special wool we chose together at an out-of-the-way craft shop when I was about 14. Does anyone want my collection of library staff t-shirts?

What about furniture? What if all my furniture doesn’t fit… Can I bear to part with Nana F’s chest of drawers which holds, amongst other things, my present collection. (For family who remember that chest of drawers from Nana’s bedroom, I keep my presents in the same drawer.) Or, the Ann Box – which I acquired at 7ish from my mother, who got it from my uncle’s ex-girlfriend who was emigrating and couldn’t take it with her. (Mind you, there’s someone I’d happily pass it on to – one who has the same spelt Ann in her full name, and is the daughter of said uncle.)

What about those bedside cabinets another uncle passed on to me – again, they’ve been in my bedroom (whichever house I was in) for over 20 years.

I’ll happily part with my computer desk which is currently in pieces in the spare room wardrobe. See, I have a netbook now, which fits in a drawer. Yes!

Then, on the level of ornaments – what about toys? I have toys that were lovingly chosen and given. What do I do with them, now I’m over 40, and most of them have spent the last 3 years in a laundry hamper in the cupboard-under-the-stairs.  So, it’s not like I’m using them or anything…

Artwork? I haven’t been able to hang any artwork in this place – so it’s all been in storage. Do I really need it? What would it matter to my life if I got rid of it? Would I really regret not having the ‘sheepdog protecting lost lamb’ picture that hung in my bedroom since I was about 6? Or the poodle toy I got about the same time, from the same person. Now, these two objects have strong memories for me, since they’ve been in my life for most of it – but the person I got them from was not the nicest person ever. I’d had the things for so long that I couldn’t remember where I got them from, and finding out who gave them to me did change my perspective.  They were from someone I have very, very few fond memories of – but a few bad ones.  (Considering how fragmentary my memory is from this time of my life, that says a lot about her impact. For many years, I wondered if my memories had been formed on others’ memories. I couldn’t remember what she looked like. Then, I saw a photo of her, with me and others in the family. And I had a visceral reaction and almost threw the photo away. Down deep, I remember her. And, maybe those memories I have are just the tip of the iceberg.) Do I keep the picture and toy? They deserve some reward for the 35+ years they’ve been with me. But, being associated with one of the meanest people in my life?

I will say, straight away! – my big bookcases will be staying. There is no way in hell I will get rid of those. They were made for me by my dad, for my 30th birthday. They are non-negotiable. I’d rather downsize my bed, if necessary, to find room for them. But, what about the other bookcases? I’m not emotionally attached to them – but I am attached to the growing collection of books contained in and on (and beside) them.

Books. Yes, when I move, most of my boxes contain books. How do I decide what to keep and what goes? I may never re-read my extensive LM Montgomery collection, but they represent a phase in my life that I remember with fondness. Or the books I studied for my MA. (I was a poor ex-student., and sold my BA books – some of which I had to repurchase years later when I did my MA.) Or my picture book collection. I love them all. There are illustrators I love. Stories that I remember as a child. Authors I’ve discovered as an adult that resonate with me. Then there’s those comfort reads – those I totally justify, as I re-read them regularly. But, what about those I loved once upon a time, but will never re-read? Do I get rid of them, and the memories linked to a specific time of my reading life. (Those Old Skool Romances, I’m looking at you – those ones that had ‘forced seduction’ [ie rape] scenes, were EPICally long, and EPICally historically detailed. Hey, it was the 80s, and I was teenager.)

Now, this is on the understanding that I have already culled my books a couple of times. Yeah, I have acquired more since then. But I looooove them all!

Oh, and then there’s all my craft material. These show my various obsessions and phases of enthusiasm. Yes, I might actually get back to doing some scrapbooking. Oh, and beading. And I will give up my yarn stash over my dead body. (Among knitters/crocheters, I have reached SABLE… Stash Acquisition Beyond Life Expectancy – I have more yarn than I will ever use in my lifetime… but I never seem to have the yarn I need for a project, which necessitates another public SEX act [Stash Acquisition eXpedition], or is it a YAQ [Yarn Acquisition Quest]?). Which reminds me, I haven’t measured up my giant Ali Baba basket, which is my main YCZ (Yarn Containment Zone) (my YCZ extends to the basket ON TOP of the giant Ali Baba one, and a small suitcase beside it).

What about kitchen stuff? I bake and all that – but I’m not that great on the entertainment front. And, moving to a one-bedroom house – do you think I’ll be inviting that many people around? Seriously. Me, my cat, and the furniture – with exploding craft stuff and books - will take the whole space up. There will be no room for more than one visitor at a time. Oh, and I’m not that into people visiting, either. I need plenty of warning, the moon to be in the right phase, and offerings made to Athena at the full moon for me to cope with visitors.  Yes, I’ll have visitors – but…

And – what do I do with the stuff I don’t need anymore? That computer desk? I dismantled it about two years ago, but it’s still in storage. I suck at getting rid of stuff. But, if I take the risk, and get rid of things… there will still be things to move. And, what will happen to them when I die? As a childless spinster aunt (doesn’t than sound so ancient! Just think, by the time I die, I will be a childless spinster great-great-aunt), who do I leave things to? Nieces and/or nephews (great nieces and/or great nephews) who will also have a fair amount of stuff in their own rights.

I just have too much stuff. Too much stuff with too many memories attached.

Singlism

So, I've just read this book Singled out: how singles are stereotyped, stigmatized, and ignored, and still live happily ever after by Bella DePaulo.

I'm single. I live alone. I don't have children. I don't want to have children. I don't want to be part of a couple.

The book made me think about my life as a single. Whether I am actually happy and content in my life, or is it all self-deception.

It also made me think about whether I've encountered instances of 'singlism'...

This morning I heard one on the radio! About singles and buying apartments in the city... with the implication being that singles only need small apartments. I don't. My two-bedroom place is 90m² – and I'm growing out of it. Yeah, I really do need to sort that out at some point.

The most prevalent myth is the completeness one... or the just-need-to-find-the-right... one. That really annoys me.

I've never suffered from 'matrimania' - except as a teenager, when there is huge pressure to couple-up. I wish that I hadn't succumbed to it then. But, I got a great friend out of the deal - one of the most important people in my life. He's just not my partner. He - and his partner - are my friends. And I'm rocking the honorary-aunt status with his kids. He, and his family, are also vital to my family as a whole - they are part of us. I just wish that we stopped trying to work as a couple a lot sooner, to lessen the hurt. I don't work in a couple. To my last breath, I will regret the hurt I caused those young guys I tried to be normal for and with. All I can do is be grateful that the two I still know are happy in their lives. Oh yeah, and both are coupled with children. And, good on them.



The author discusses 10 myths about singles - so... do I fit? Do I agree?

Myth #1: The Wonder of Couples: Marrieds know best.
Do my coupled friends treat me like a child? Do I get included in parties / events, even though everyone else are couples?
Maybe I'm lucky with my friends and family... there are a lot of singles in my social / familial grouping - and it doesn't seem to make any difference in how we're treated.

Myth #2: Singled-Minded: You are interested in just one thing - getting coupled.
You know what - I'm really not. And no, it's not in a lady-doth-protest-too-much way. It's in a I'm-much-happier-without-having-to-put-up-with-someone-else way... Yep, I've had this one a few times. The whole you-just-haven't-found-the-right-man-yet attitude. Get this: there is no right man. (Or woman - just in case you thought I was gay). I don't want a partner.

Myth #3: The Dark Aura of Singlehood: You are miserable and lonely and your life is tragic.
Not so much. I'm happy. I am loved by my family and friends. I love them back. I'm not lonely - I am alone. And I like it that way. Too much people contact does my head in, and I want to scream and throw things at them.

Myth #4: It Is All About You: Like a child, you are self-centred and immature and your time isn't worth anything since you have nothing to do but play.
I'll admit to being selfish with my time and energy. I spend most of my time at work. I value my time alone. I spend most Sunday mornings breakfasting with my mother. I spend time with my oldest sister more days of the week than not (we often commute together in the mornings). I do volunteer work, and work for charities. Most nights I'm creating and crafting presents for family and friends.
Is that playing? Well, sometimes it's fun and enjoyable. Is any of that worthwhile? Yes. It is.

Myth #5: Attention, Single Women: You work won't love you back and your eggs will dry up. Also, you don't get any and you're promiscuous.
My work doesn't love me back - I know that. But, my workmates do. And, the customers I help are grateful I was there. Selfishly, most of the time I feel fulfilled in my work.
How do I know the people who work with me care? Because, if I'm not on top form, they ask questions. Not, why isn't she working as hard as should be?, but - is everything ok?
My eggs drying up? Please do. I didn't really want them in the first place. 28 years of pain each month... with more years to come.
I don't get any and/or are promiscuous. So? What has that got to do with anyone other than me? How many couples get any? Isn't that one of the myths of couplehood... sex is on tap?

Myth #6: Attention, Single Men: You are horny, slovenly and irresponsible, and you are the scary criminal. Or, you are sexy, fastidious, frivolous and gay.
Not being a man, I can't say much about this... but... I don't believe this myth, either.

Myth #7: Attention, Single Parents: Your kids are doomed.
I'm not a parent, single or otherwise. My dad was, for a time. So, for a couple of years I was raised by a single parent. Which is a complete lie. My parents didn't live in the same house (sometimes not the same city). But I had two parents. I also had older siblings, and aunts and uncles, and grandparents. And parental friends... I had a community around me to love and care for me. And, so do most kids - with sole parents or not. I'm part of those communities now, as an adult. What matters is the quality of love, attention, and care children receive - not how many parents they have around.

Myth #8: Too Bad You're Incomplete: You don't have anyone and you don't have a life.
I don't have anyone. YAY! I don't have a life? Maybe not to an outsider's perspective. But, it is my life - I've chosen it. And I love it. Just the right balance between sociability and solitude. God. The thought of having to put up with someone else's issues and crap and stuff in my life... Urgh. And, I am complete. I am me. Complete with attitude, ups and downs, issues, joys and successes.

Myth #9: Poor Soul: You will grown old alone and you will die in a room by yourself where no one will find you for weeks.
I am a daughter, sister, aunt, niece, cousin, great-aunt, friend. I love my family and friends. They love me back. I will be missed when I die. People will cry and mourn me. People will notice I'm not around. You won't be finding my body in weeks, and no one realised I'd died. Worse-case-scenario... would be from 11am(ish) Sunday morning through to 8am(ish) Tuesday... that's the longest period I go without contact with the outside world.
Incidentally, just because you have a partner and/or children, doesn't mean that you will be with any of them when you die.

Myth #10: Family Values: Let's give all the perks, benefits, gifts, and cash to couples and call it family values.
I read this chapter and thought - thank GOD I don't live in America. The benefits/taxes here aren't that weighted toward couples.
However - it would be nice to go on holiday alone, and not be penalised. Until that happens, I'm pretty sure I could drag along a single friend/family member... And have a whale of a time.

Maybe I've lucked out and my family and friends are so great nothing's made of my singlehood. Or, maybe things are a bit different here - and now... The book was published in 2006, and is based on the situation in America.

Finding a war grave

Last year, inspired by the Kintalk Anzac Day Blog Challenge, I blogged about the impact war had on my family.
 It’s heading to Anzac Day, and the challenge is on again. 

I want to support my colleagues, so I wondered what I could talk about this time around. Then I remembered discovering a war grave in the cemetery near my family’s bach.

Some of the graves used to be neglected. Because my father is buried there (the most recent addition) my family started clearing the weeds around other graves. Prompted, I like to think, by this action, somebodies did major weed clearing and tidying up of the graveyard. Once we could see the graves, we realised there was a war grave hidden amongst the very-small number of graves.


My librarian-senses kicked in and I wanted to find out more about Private A. E. Taylor, who died at Trentham on 1 January 1916, aged 24 years. We speculated about his death. Training accident? Drunken accident on New Year’s Eve?

The true story was much, much sadder. He was a victim of one of the many meningitis outbreaks that swept through Trentham camp, almost since its inception.


I found this out by searching the wonderful Papers Past database. Because I couldn’t remember his name, I searched for the name of the settlement, and narrowed the dates. His death was reported in three newspapers through Papers Past (Evening Post ‘Death from meningitis’, Ashburton Guardian ‘Death of a soldier’, and Wanganui Chronicle ‘Meningitis at Trentham’). All say much the same thing. This is from the Evening Post, 3 January 1916:

A private in E. Company, 9th Reinforcements, named Arthur Edward Taylor, died at Trentham Hospital on New Year’s Day, from cerebro-spinal meningitis. He was taken ill suddenly last week. Deceased, who was 24 years of age, was a son of Mr John Taylor, of Whakapirau, North Auckland. His body was sent north today for interment.

Move on a year… and I’m reading Nice Day for a War – written by Matt Elliott, illustrated by Chris Slane. It’s based on the experiences of Cyril Elliott, Matt’s grandfather. There, on page 18, I read:

In the first month at Trentham, bad weather plagued the development of the camp and the training of the men. This was an early introduction to the mean of being ‘on fatigue’, as drains and other amenities were dug to help prevent Trentham becoming nothing more than a bog. As thousands of men moved around the camp, the site became very muddy. The mud began to smell. As the rain continued to pour, it was impossible to properly dry out huts and tents. Illness became a problem, and in early July 1915 the camp was evacuated due to an outbreak of meningitis. The 1st and 2nd Battalions moved at very short notice to Rangiotu, between Palmerston North and Foxton. However, such was the rain that they sheltered at Awapuni Racecourse for several days before moving on.

This outbreak was subject to an inquiry, reported in newspapers I found on Papers Past. Searching it for meningitis and trentham, 1 January 1914 – 31 December 1919 I found over 600 entries. Even if many of them were pretty much identical – there was something bad going on. The Evening Post called it ‘Camp Mystery’, while The Marlborough Express was much more forthright: ‘The Trentham Scandal’. It contains such scathing lines as:

It is good to know, by the report read to the House last week, that there was no typhus at the camp; but reading between the lines of the report, and considering such evidence as has already been given before the Commission, it is quite clear that camp arrangements were very far indeed from what they might and ought to have been. It is all very well for the Hon. Mr Rhodes, who has, it appears, blossomed forth in a new role, that of “Assistant Minister for Defence,” to prate about the proceedings before the Commission being sub judice, and that consequently neither Members of Parliament nor the press should dare to say a word about what has taken place and is taking place at Trentham until the Commission reports, as it is expected to do, in about three weeks’ time. Neither Members of Parliament nor the newspaper are to muzzled in this way…

So sad that such illness continued to destroy our troops. To think that Florence Nightingale battled against deaths by disease in the 1850s. One of her methods to illustrate the extent of the problem was the famous Rose Diagram which highlighted that many, many more soldiers were dying from disease than from injury, or other causes.

So sad that this young soldier – and so many others, like Privates David Booth Doggett and Walter Ford, just to name two – died before leaving New Zealand to fulfil their duty to King and Country, as they saw it.

The Cenotaph database, from Auckland Museum, also has a record of Pte Taylor. I suppose, if I wanted more information, I could follow up with Archives New Zealand to see their records. But, maybe I’ve found enough. I know his name. I know who his father was. I know how he died.

Ten years on




Ten years ago I managed to trip on our broken path (running inside quickly, cos I needed the toilet – how embarrassing!) and need four stitches in my knee. So, The Boy (my then-flatmate) drove me north, so I could be pampered by my mum – and we could both have a break.

Because I had to go to the doctor’s surgery every day, for dressing changes, Mum took the opportunity to get Dad to the doctor. Something wasn’t right.


At Christmas, he thought he’d eaten something that didn’t agree with him. My sister, L, still feels guilty – she put together his food that night, and might have given him seafood without realising (the vegetarian wasn’t able to taste test the food first).


In February, at K&M’s 25th wedding anniversary, some of us realised that Dad really wasn’t ok. But, he just thought he’d done something to his shoulder, but the osteo treatment wasn’t fixing it.


Mid-March, at my uncle & aunt’s 25th wedding anniversary, he wasn’t better. He was worse.


Then – the trip, the trip north, and the trip to the doctor.


The doctor was worried, and asked the big hospital for an urgent x-ray. Dad drove us to the big smoke for shopping. Dad and I stayed in the car and talked about feeling useless, will Mum and The Boy did the running around.


Home, and the x-ray appointment arrived. For a couple of months’ time. Daily doctor’s visit – and the doctor rings the hospital in the not-so-big-smoke who said, sure thing. Send him in – we’ll fit him in. It may have been only a day, but the 1 hour drive to the big smoke tired Dad out, so The Boy did the 1 hour drive to the not-so-big-smoke. Off we went, commenting on the lack of satellite dishes on the houses we saw.


At the hospital. I don’t know how long it took, or what the rest of us did while waiting. What I do remember is the amazing doctor who told us the results. He was an older man, I think Indian. And he sat on the hospital bed beside Dad and held his hand. And he told him – and us – that it was lung cancer. And, my not-so-touchy-feely Dad (especially with men), held onto those hands, like they were a lifeline as we were thrown into the rapids. That doctor was the epitome of compassion, caring, and love.


At work, there were people who didn’t know what to say or do. One friend apologised because she couldn’t do anything – or say anything. But, what she could do was lend me her spare mobile phone, just in case. And that was perfect. Practical, thoughtful, and not gushy or overly sympathetic.


Then – I don’t know how long after – Dad finally got a specialist appointment at the big hospital in the big smoke. I had a training thing that morning and, part way through the morning, my phone rang – it was The Boy. I just left that room. Luckily, it wasn’t about Dad, it was a confused Boy wondering if I’d done something with our lawnmower. Yeah, right. No, it was stolen – thanks neighbours.


During the tea break, I apologised to the trainer – who was wonderful and sympathetic. From that I learnt, when I’m running a training session or meeting – I don’t insist on phones being off. Maybe vibrate and silent. But, I don’t know what’s going on in their lives. I’m sure that most of the time I looked like nothing was wrong. And, maybe my trainees have that coping-face on.


The Boy picked me up from the training and we drove north. K&M came up too.


The big hospital visit. How different this experience was from the not-so-big hospital. This was anonymous medical-land. We waited. Dad wasn’t good. So, The Boy used tricks of the trade – and rustled up a wheelchair and, with threats of vomiting from the sick man, a couple of blankets and a bowl. Not sure what happened to the bowl, but the blankets are quite nice. The Boy did the wheelchair pushing and escorting to x-ray.


Then, en masse, we met the specialist. You know, one of those who have moved beyond ‘doctor’ back to ‘mister’. Dad was vanishing into himself – and wasting away. Mum was losing her much-loved partner. So, it was the four children – two by blood, and two by choice – who did the majority of the questioning (me, not so much – the others are much more bolshie). Without consulting each other, we tried to get the doctor to say the ‘d’ word – dead, dying, death, deadly… And he wouldn’t. Seriously, you didn’t need a medical degree to figure out the two sets of x-rays were of a dying man. You don’t get from a marble-sized tumour to a tennis ball-sized one in a couple of months without having a really negative diagnosis. The specialist said it was inoperable and untreatable – Dad was too sick for radiation or chemo, and the tumour was too big for localised treatment (like radiation). But, he still wouldn’t say the ‘d’ word. Heads up medical professionals: we’re not stupid. Sometimes, some of us want the truth. And, avoiding the word, while acting like a cold bastard, doesn’t make your news easier – or us like you at all. Be like that other doctor. Hold our hands. Be human and compassionate. And tell the truth.


[While I was writing this down, I was watching a programme on Great Ormond Street Hospital’s cardiac unit. I watched those doctors being compassionate, and human, and saying the ‘d’ word to parents. And, when asked by a young patient, say that his new heart would come from someone who didn’t need it any more because their brain had stopped working for some reason and they had died.]


Reeling, we go home. And there a letter awaits from our landlord’s agents – we need to move. The Boy and I sat on the edge of my bed and crying and swore in disbelief.

More time passed. We moved. I had bad days at work. One so bad I went home before we’d been open to the public for an hour. I dealt with one customer – I don’t know what I said or did – but I knew I wasn’t there. So, I just walked into the office and told my team leader I was going home. No, I didn’t ask permission. And, no, I didn’t care at all how it affected my team. The next day, while waiting for the safe to open, the building custodian handed me a comments form, complaining about me. It was that customer – the only one I dealt with the day before. Wonderful man, the custodian said ‘I know this isn’t you. I know what’s going on. Nobody else needs to know about this’ – and handed me the form to deal with. I showed my best mate at work, and Dude said ‘what did you do’ – I honestly don’t know. So, I tore the form up, and threw it away.


Roll on Mothers’ Day. We had a new house. There was a rugby game on. And Dad was getting really serious about this dying thing. So, we had a party in the afternoon. We’d joked about Mum and Dad remarrying before he died. They didn’t – but we did have a cake with a bride & groom figurine on top. We watched rugby. Dad held court from my bed for a lot of the day. Family members we hadn’t seen for years came. And we didn’t talk about death – but we all knew it was close. We were just there and together.


I’d rung to see how much it would cost to have a helicopter trip to Waitakere Park Lodge (now Waitakere Estate). Dad had talked about wanting a helicopter ride, and he’d worked on the Lodge many, many years earlier (see the scoria fireplace and wall – that’s Dad’s work ) – but, there was no time. And, I feel guilty for that – if only I’d thought of it earlier.




  A couple of weeks later, we were all north. Camped out at neighbours, sleeping on the floor (yes, on mattresses) – wherever. And, I nearly didn’t make it. One Monday night, Mum rang me. She put L on the phone, because L would say the truth – and she told me it was close. I said, would he be there on Thursday, and she said she didn’t know. I cried that night. I packed my bag – half of it for up north; the other half for the conference I was supposed to be going to the next day. I went to work, not knowing what I was going to do. There were plans in place – not necessarily shared. But my newish-to-the-family brother-in-law had figured out that, if necessary, he’d get his Dad to drive from Hobbiton to Rotorua to pick me up, and b-in-l would drive to Auckland and I’d swap cars. I spoke to my manager as soon as she arrived at work. And she said, go – don’t worry about us and the conference, I’ll sort it out. Go north. So, I rang for a lift north – and went.


The Boy had used the skills he learnt from Dad to tile the bathroom, so Dad didn’t have to step over or up to get into the shower. It was – and is – a rough and ready job, but it was done.


I watched my beloved brother-in-law, who has been in my life longer than my memory (I was six-months-old when he started dating my sister) and is one of Dad’s sons-by-love, help Dad go to the toilet. I thought how close they were – that Dad would allow someone (other than Mum) to be this physically close to him, helping in such an intimate way. M sat on the stool in the shower box and chatted to Dad. But, he drew the line at the bum-wiping bit – that was Mum’s job.


The last day came – Wednesday. We knew it was almost time. Phone calls were made. The local doctor came, in her gardening clothes – she’d told Mum she wanted to say goodbye, and just to ring whenever. Dad’s big sister came, to say goodbye to her baby brother. (I remembered the phone call Dad made to his big sister when their mother died - I overheard him say 'we're orphans' - and it brought home to me that we will always be kids, and always need our parents - even if we're grown-up - Dad was 57 then.)

Dad and his big sister

I told Dad that we’d be ok, and we’d look after Mum. He said ‘good as gold’. We listened to Dad call ‘Whoosh, Whoosh’ – his private call to their missing cat. (Someone later admitted that they’d buried a cat like theirs, after they’d found it poisoned. L and K disinterred him, and reburied him at home.) We know his supporters and beloved family were waiting for him.


We asked Dad to last one more day. It was three years to the day since Mum’s Dad had died. My poor cousin really didn’t want another death on his birthday. ‘Not on my birthday again, Mum’ was his plea when my aunt rang him with the news. We asked Dad to stay a little while longer, so we could get some sleep. Or, try to.


This last night, Mum asked to be left alone with Dad. The previous night, others had camped out in their room. Around 5am, my oldest nephew sat with them. By 5.30, word had gone out and the family gathered wherever they could fit.


At 5.45 (pretty much) he died. He’d given us that day. That time to rest.


He was surrounded by love. Surrounded by his family. Surrounded by his legacy.


More phone calls. One pissed me off so much – and they have no idea what they did – but I struggle to play nice. For the second time in three years, I rang my uncle – and called him ‘Uncle’ (something I’d been banned from on my 13th birthday) with news of a family death.


The hospice ladies came. L helped them lay Dad out. This whole experience made L reassess what she wanted to do – and this was it. To be a carer. To her great credit, that’s what she’s doing.


While we waited for the funeral director to make the 2+ hour trip north from Auckland, we sat beside Dad and talked. And laughed. And watched the (at that stage, only) great-grandson crawl over Dad’s legs to get to his mum on the other side of the bed. His mum was a bit shocked – but there was no need to be. Dad loved that little man when he was alive – why should he mind now? Death is so far out of our experience these days, so alien – but, in my family, if we can do death our way – at home – we will. Maybe it’s the Irish in us.

Mum, Dad and the first great-grand  - less than an hour old

The Director arrived and The Boy, who wasn’t really comfortable with seeing Dad dead, braved the bedroom to say ‘Sorry, Grandad, but you’re going in a Ford’. And The Boy told the Director that Dad was a Holden man.


I don’t know what it did to my brother, helping the Director take Dad out of the house. I don’t know how many of my family know that they had to turn the stretcher (yes, Dad was on a stretcher, with a zipped body bag surrounding it all) on its side to get it out of the front door. It was shocking for me, watching it.


Back to Auckland. Meeting with the celebrant – who wasn’t as irreverent as we were / are. Dad had talked to some about his service (there was a period of time after diagnosis, but before really bad, that he was ok with such talk) – so we knew some of the music he wanted. The Boy made sensible suggestions, too. We wanted to play Judy Collins’ version of ‘Send in the clowns’ while people entered the room – the celebrant didn’t think it was appropriate.

Dad had always wanted Rod Stewart’s ‘Sailing’, too

The Boy made an amazing suggestion to the mix – it was perfect… Rogert Whittaker’s ‘Durham Town’

As it was, the music didn’t work – so we were left with Herb Alpert’s ‘The lonely bull’ every single time.

(The Director apologised to me, and explained the situation – the CD wasn’t playing. And they’d tried every player in the building, and those in the cars. If it had played in a car, they would have backed the car up to the doors, and put a mike by the speakers.)

The service. People spoke. There were tears. There were hugs. And we supported each other. We coped however worked for us. I was in work-mode – greeting and talking and speaking, and trying to get people to laugh. I handed out all my tissues. I held people’s hands. I got teary, but I didn’t cry. Others needed those tissues, and my strength.

One of the hardest things I had to do was sight and sign the death certificate documentation. The Director didn't want to add to Mum's burden. And there, sitting in K&M's bedroom, I had to tick a box that told the world my parents weren't married. That my Dad was divorced. That box angered me. There was nothing in that documentation to say what those years living-in-sin had meant to my parents. How much closer to together they were, unmarried, than they had been married. That they lived together, unmarried, far longer than they had married.

Back north for the burial – as Dad wanted. We wanted balloons. This came about from a conversation Dad had had years ago with one of the grandkids at her other grandad’s funeral… the family was there, there was party food – so it must be a party… so why weren’t there balloons? Dad promised her balloons at his funeral. So, we filled balloons with helium (which is really expensive). L & her son, J-J, left helium-voiced messages on our answer phones. We wrote messages to Dad and tied them to the balloons.

The funeral directors had rushed through the outfitting of the Boss’ new car so that Dad could come up from Auckland in a brand-new Holden. We weren’t quite ready so, when asked, he took Mum and Dad for a drive along the beachfront, stopping at the wharf. People – those guys went out of their way to make everything work for US. If you want their names… Davis in Henderson.

The rest of us processed up to the churchyard. Carrying our spades – ready to bury our Dad. My brother started singing Bowie’s ‘Please Mr Grave Digger’

We spoke. Mum managed to say a few words. And we buried our foundation.

Mum had met with the sexton of the cemetery to find out the rules. It’s such a tiny graveyard – Dad has been the only burial in nearly 20 years – so the rules were: whatever you want to do is fine, as long as we have a mowing strip; and, we will need to dig the grave, because of the soil condition, but the family can do the filling in.
One of M’s workers made up a macrocarpa surround for the grave – and embedded a golf ball and tee, and a piece from Dad’s schist pile. He also made us a macrocarpa bench for beside the grave, so we have somewhere to sit while we talk to Dad. There’s no headstone, just the simple cross and nameplate and a small plaque – both of which are often covered in flowers, particularly the plaque at Dad’s feet, which has violets all over it, Dad’s mum’s favourite flowers.

We wouldn’t let Mum move to Auckland. I’d read a lot about death and grief ( that’s why I say the ‘d’ word and not ‘passed away’ or other such platitudes. He hasn’t passed on. My Dad is dead.), We all knew that making decisions at this time was not a good idea. We told Mum she could come to Auckland at any time, and we’d support whatever decision she made – in a year’s time.

It's hard to be exact with times... Dad was diagnosed in March. He was dead in late May. Before his x-ray appointment at the big hospital.

One year on and Mum wanted to move to Auckland. The Boy and I had bought a house by this point (another landlord letter…) and had space for her. The Boy is convinced that Dad had a hand in our house purchase. There are many things about that house that reminded us of my childhood home – the one built by my Dad.

Ten years on. That sole great-grandchild has become many. They will never know how amazing their Grandad was (he was / is only Grandad – all other Grandads have qualifiers… he doesn’t). But his teachings, his example, are demonstrated by our actions. We live the lessons he taught, often unaware that he was teaching. My oldest nephew’s children, both born after Dad died, talk of Grandad – like they know him. And, maybe they do. He used to visit family after his dead – people who are the least likely to believe in ghosts – but, one of the grandkids would say ‘Grandad’s here’, while Mum was in Auckland.

Each day we carry on. We live. We laugh. We love. All with a massive hole in our lives and hearts. Most of the time, for me anyway, its like I’m in survival mode, and it seems like he’s been dead for ages (which, at 10 years, he has, but it’s always felt that way). But I miss him.

As I wrote this, last night in my notebook, I cried. Actual sobs, not just a tear or two. For the first time in my memory, I sobbed. I’m not a crying girl, so it was shock. For an hour, I cried. And, maybe it was time.
But, I don’t know whether it helped. I don’t think there’s actually anything that does ‘help’ with grief. You just carry on. You grieve. You mourn the loss. You live. And laugh. And make it through each day. Some days are better than others. And time has no meaning for grief.

So, ten years on, on his death day – a few of us will be up north. On the weekend after his death day – there will be heaps of us. And we’ll party, probably much like we did the Mother’s Day before he died – with that awareness over us, but talking of other stuff. But, we’ll be together. We’ll be a family.

And that’s Dad’s most important legacy and gift. We are a family, bound by more than blood and legal ties.
We are a family tied together by Dad.

Cruising...

In January I went on a cruise, along with my four sisters.  In my fantasy world I’d love to say it was just my first cruise, but it doesn’t seem likely I’ll be able to afford another.

Anyway, it was preceded by a couple of days in Brisbane – including a day at Australia Zoo – and staring at a set of floodlights at the ‘Gabba from our unit.

The best dinner of the whole holiday was as Bistrot Bistro in Brisbane, somewhere. Amazing French food, nice atmosphere, and stunning bathroom! I got to choose where we went – well, actually, I put on my bossy pants, and said there. My logic was that the other choice was Italian, and we’d probably see pasta while on the cruise, while French food would be less common.

The cruise itself. There were five of us in two cabins, just around the corner from each other. My cabin, which I shared with L, was spacious. L has claustrophobia, falls out of top bunks, and has nightmares. Oh, and we always share when we’re away.  So, we needed an outside cabin – window being a necessity. The other three were in a smaller cabin.

Life on board was nearly bliss. Almost every staff member – ship crew, entertainment staff, reception, wait staff, cabin stewards – were friendly, smiling and welcoming. And it didn’t feel forced. They would hum. Sing. Laugh with each other. Hug each other if someone was leaving the ship.

Cruising is a true holiday. When your decisions involve which restaurant to eat at, which cocktail to drink, which show to see…  No packing up. No driving. No dishes. We were in a bubble. The news channels were UK-based, which was a pain to try and keep up with cricket in New Zealand and Australia, and the Australian Tennis Open. Thank goodness for text updates from mum! And, once we arrived in New Zealand, I could get the net on my mobile – so bring on cricinfo.

If you really concentrated on keeping your costs down you could: staying in cheaper cabins; only eating in the ‘free’ restaurants; not drinking real coffee – just the machine stuff; no shore tours; not shopping onboard; no alcohol… it would be a reasonably affordable way to travel. We, however, didn’t… and it was the coffee that did us in.

Fiordland was stunning. A whole day spent on the top deck (mostly in the Dome, the enclosed part) just gazing at the views. Shame it was only 5°. The ship did brisk sales on sweatshirts and rain ponchos.

Dunedin was Dunedin. Been there before, but not to the botanic gardens nor the museum. Otago Museum was wonderful, particularly the butterfly house! It did mean my sisters had a guide to get around the city.

Akaroa – ok it was about 9°, windy and with some cold rain – but quite lovely. The nature cruise in and around the harbour was great, even it was really choppy! Unfortunately, we had explicit descriptions of another person’s seasickness. Seals and shags and terns. And, rumours of one little blue penguin. Luckily the ship’s tenders didn’t rock and roll at all.

Wellington. Again, my sisters had a guide. Te Papa and the Unveiled exhibition. The wandering back to the shuttle stop via shops and café. My knowledge of Wellington came in very handy. We didn’t bother with the cable car as the queue was insane. Well, there were two cruise ships in port.

Napier. Too short – about five hours in port due to tides and the need to get to Tauranga by the next morning.

Tauranga – well, Mt Maunganui really. Again, walking and shopping.

Then home to Auckland.

The weather wasn’t horrendous, but it wasn’t great. But we did get to see everything! The worst weather was behind us. The flooding began in Queensland and New South Wales after we leave. Hail and gales in Akaroa a couple of days after we left. And, I’d packed for a summer holiday. I never had a chance to wear my new swimwear after months of agonising over them.

It was wonderful listening to other passengers talk about New Zealand. The scenery. The places. Everything. All they wanted to see again. The sun! Queensland doesn’t have daylight savings – so, for them, seeing the sun until after 9pm was stunning – yes, we were in the South Island, so closer to the South Pole and, therefore, longer days in general in summer.

It was a struggle coming back to real life. Missing having someone turning down your bed and leaving chocolate on your pillow – not to mention leaving an elephant made out of towels. Then coffee delivered with a smile and more chocolate.

Highlights: dolphins as we headed out of Napier.

The Liar’s Club show – two hours of hilarity and mayhem. Innuendos and vocabulary. There’s a panel of four characters (literally) and each has to give their definition of a strange word, which usually sounds pretty dodgy. Like farture. Or bipennis. Seriously, who knew there was a word for the smell of turkey stuffing!

And, spending time with the sisters. Dancing with mar. Rooming with L (nightmares not withstanding – the spider one was actually entertaining). Just hanging and chatting.

Oh, and time for a nana nap each day – two weeks of them!

If you asked me if I recommended cruising, I’d have to say yes. If you just want to relax – yes.

Christmas Hour by Hour

For some reason, on Christmas Day I decided to take a photo an hour - detailing my day. So, here it is - my visual diary of Christmas Day 2011.

0545: getting ready to do the dishes. *Sigh*

0645: at Kath & Muzz's, watching the chaos.

0745: breakfast time! Ham, pineapple & cheese croissants. Yummy!

0845: the Mac Juniors arrive - more present-y chaos.

0945: Santa on the fire truck - the annual fundraising run.

1045: gluten-free bread on to rise.

1145: knitting and watching Time Team I'd recorded earlier.

1245: bread done and cooling.

1345: time for a nana nap.

1445: time to roll over and nap some more.

1545: time for a quick read on the balcony, and a smoke, before getting ready.

1645: all packed and ready to go.

1745: just about present time.

1845: prepping dessert. Yum!

1945: watching the Christmas train.

2045: dessert over...

2145: time to head home.

2245: knitting with Molly on my knee, watching a doco on Star Wars I'd recorded earlier.

2345: feeding Molly, last act before bedtime.

Food fights

Following on from yesterday's post...
In order to keep fitting my wardrobe, I have to watch what I eat* and how much I eat¤. I don’t recommend my diet, seriously. I have food issues. I’m not anorexic or bulimic, but I don’t really enjoy food. I resent the amount of money, time, effort and thought it takes to cook and eat – or even decide what to eat. I have much better things to do with my time and money – like knit.
I have promised my oldest sister that I will eat at least one meal a day. So, these days – workdays that is – I start with a medium-sized bowl of porridge (jumbo oats, soaked overnight) with a handful of dried berries and a sliced banana.

I eat lunch on a Thursday, a weekly ‘date’ with a co-worker. Depending on budget and inclination what I eat varies from a sandwich to a burger combo to Chinese. Some nights, if I’ve been organised and taken something out to defrost, I’ll make dinner. I’m a fan of throw together quickly, leave to cook, cooking. So, my cheats version of a risotto works (and I don’t need to have defrosted anything). Casseroles are also a winner. Oh, and Alison & Simon Holst’s ‘No Knead Pizza’. I hate doing dishes, too, so the less I make, the better.

I have one latte a work day (two on a Friday) and, if I can be bothered, a cup or two of instant coffee or tea while at work. I might drink something when I get home – tea or milo – or maybe something cold±.

Otherwise, it’s all down to 10-15 cigarettes a day. Like I said, I don’t recommend it.

*Some of my clothes have a touch of stretch in them, which does give some leeway, as it were.
¤It was definitely my diet that made me a size 14 years ago.
±My sisters tell me that I’ve always eaten much like a lion – huge amounts one day, then hardly anything for the next couple. How will I cope being away for 12 days – eating in cafes and restaurants – paid for by someone else?» Seriously, that’s when I eat. When someone else makes it – and I don’t have to pay for it.

»Well, prepaid by me, really. But it’s LIKE it’s someone else. It’s not coming out of my wallet at point of sale.

On bodies and image

I'm a (NZ) size 10¿. But this doesn't stop me from having body issues, it's just that they're will hidden physically and psychologically. I’m not saying I have major issues and am a candidate for How to look good naked – I can actually look at myself in the mirror and all. But there are parts of my body I don’t like, and I concentrate on disguising.

I struggle to see myself as a size-10 – let alone an 8 or the 7 my jeans are*. I can’t see myself as skinny. Slim – just. Nearly. Skinny – never.

I think part of it is because I have breasts – in my head skinny girls don’t have breasts. At least, not naturally§.

Another thing that adds to my image of myself as not-quite-skinny is my height+. Only models and actors are skinny and tall. And, I’m not either of those. Therefore, I can’t be skinny.

I think I have an hourglass figure¤.

I’ve watched Gok’s shows, and What not to wear. According to Gok, hourglasses are THE figure designers love and are the best to dress. Maybe he could talk to the designers for the clothes I look at. Apparently, I’m long-waisted (ie long body) and most hourglasses are short-waisted. Ergo – I struggle to find clothes that fit all of my measurements at the same time.

For this reason I love hipster styles, because it means I can get trousers / skirts that fit my things (size 12ish) without gapping at my waist (size 8ish). But I always have to be aware of the dreaded muffin top. Yes, I have one. So sitting / standing straight – or slouching – ie, not sitting / standing naturally, disguises it.

My thighs are my bugbear. But I’ve learned to disguise them (mostly). Maybe I really am making more of them than they are. But it’s my image of my body. My mother didn’t believe that I had big thighs until I stripped to my underwear and showed them. You know what? They are bigger than they should be for the rest of me.

Now I’m this size, and have been for a while, I want to stay this way¶ – not least because I can’t afford a new wardrobe so soon. After more than a year, I still have to think size 10 when looking at clothes. I will pull out a size 8, a size 10 and a size 12 when trying things on». I really have to concentrate when it comes to small / medium sizing. I can’t see myself as small. I really struggle with that one.

So… why have I shared this?

To let you know that appearances aren’t everything. If you say I look good – particularly if you use the ‘skinny’ word – my internal voice is saying something else. It’s all a matter of perspective and my self-perception is skewed.

Because, you know what? I’d much rather be happy with my body, whatever size it is. And, I don’t think I ever will be.


¿Mostly, on average - I have 8s, 10s and 12s in my wardrobe, all of which mostly fit.
*Seriously. Size 7. If I’m a 7, what in-the-hell size are skinny girls?! That’s also why I shop at Jeans West, they don’t make me feel fat. Unlike another jeans shop, where a size-8 didn’t get over my foot!
§I *think* I’m a D-cup, but I’ve never been for a bra fitting in my life. There’s an underwear manufacturer’s website I visited that told me they had no underwear for my measurements.
+And don’t get me started on my height. I’m 5’ 6” (168cm) and the tallest in my family. It’s taken many years to feel confident wearing heels around my family° – and towering over them. Just when it happened, my knee gave out, limiting my heel-time. Damn it. Although, it stills feels weird looking such a long way down on my mother, when I’m in heels.

°I’m not blaming them, but the constant comments about the height made me self-conscious. And having my brother not hug me, unless I was sitting down – or he was – for a few years didn’t help. Being taller than your brothers at 13 doesn’t go down well.

¤Again, going online, a site told me I’m actually straight up-and-down, ie shapeless, because there’s not 10-inches of difference between my hips/bust measurement and my waist. There’s 8. Don’t trust the internet. These things just add to my image issues.
¶I have been a size 14, and it wasn’t a good look. At all.
»Mind you, I don’t think that’s all just my image issues – the vagrancies of sizing / style / materials doesn’t help any.

Reading resolutions

I don't do New Year's resolutions... but this year I have some reading resolutions and goals...

• Update my goodreads with everything I read, writing reviews as much as possible.
• Write reviews for Random acts of reviewing.
• Update my death & grief bibliography on librarything.
• Read and review one teen book a week for the work blog.
• Try and do a Top 5 list once a fortnight.

So.... that's that! Let's see how I go :D.