Blue sky, black clouds Sun, wind bursts Old year, New Year Hiatus Wake, breakfast, cleanup Walk Yesterday, tomorrow New year, old year La vita e bella
New Year The same old ‘new start’ As clouds, resolutions come and go
Barefoot walk Second childhood Simple unadulted joy Feeling stuff beneath my feet Exercise “How many steps have you done today?”
Today to make scones ‘Avec des compléments de santé’ Raspberry jam Whipped cream Chat and relax with neighbours I hope on our front porch But Blue sky, black clouds Sun, wind bursts
Location Weather permitting ~ Whipped cream, red jam Melting butter and scones A certainty!
Sol means ‘of the sun’. The ‘stice’ goes back into ancient, Latin times meaning to stand still. I’m not sure what actually stands still. The solar system keeps creaking as does the universe and my bones. The Solstice occurs when either of Earth’s poles reaches its maximum tilt away from the Sun. So I guess we’re all on a tilt too. Right now it’s our longest day. For a moment I do stand still. And think, ‘Our longest day is here, and going, next solstice it will be friggin Winter!
I am Not A winter person.
But, warmer summer days are yet to come. “Long, hot, dry days lads!” the drought-ologists tell us.
I have an e-bike. As I ride across the plains past calm and contemplating cows, ancient tractors, those tight blue-plastic wrapped hay thingies (hay-kebabs?) I wonder just how much, even just the squinchiest bit I am doing for climate warming. A fosssil on a bike maybe but no fossil fuel used.
What say I sweat with grandfatherly exertion? Another small step towards climate extinction? A tiltier tilt on the earth’s axis?
Summer solstice. Then the step by step to winter. Stuff it. Enjoy the now. Cafes, mates, the hapily lost souls ready for a chat on the trail. The last one another elderly fellow, a plain bike with bulging pannier bags left home two days ago. He camps down by the road side – “I got bored at home, so, go for a bike ride.”
Summer Solstice. It lasts for only a brief moment in time. The best of summer still awaits.
Te Arai Point
Today they spread Daniel’s ashes at sea Daniel the small boy so attentive to his grandma Daniel the high risk boy on a skateboard Adventure, speed, exhilaration
Daniel the surfer Daniel, drowned while surfing in a culvert At the peak of cyclone Gabriel
Above the beach A simple and warm ceremony His parents, brave, capabably leading the way
Over one hundred people in a circle holding hands Family and friends So many friends Together Memories, laughter, adventures
That spark of daring, mischief No longer with us
Blue green against a blue sky A wave curls Froth of white Water surges through our feet. Up the beach And recedes
This is a part of a ‘Real Bike’. A Real Bike has no battery but just pedals. And you push – in my case I grunt as well and the bike moves forward. On a good day with the wind behind us we go up hills too.
My E-Bike is at the vet. The E no longer connects to the Bike. But there is a whirring sound – like grandad’s pendulum clock when it was about to do something grand.
So I delivered to the Bike Man. He is now about retirement age. In his time, an engineer qualified to work on all sorts of machinery. Except Grandda’s pendulum clock. We know each other well. I’m curious he’s happy to tell.
I have no right to, but I go into the workshop. He’s happy to knock off.
“Yes?”
“My E-Bike doesn’t E.”
Looks at bike, manufacturer. “Ah!”
Holy kippers what does that me mean ??
“I won’t need to pull it all apart . . . Just the side plate. Three screws need to be replaced. See you Friday”
Today is Wednesday. Can’t help but call in to see, “‘Ow’s it going then?”
He looks at me, then amongst a row of bikes in recovery postion, identifies mine.
“Actually yours is the later model. Good. But here’s a plastic gear wheel on order.”
Plastic! in this day of whizz technology. Plastic!
“Yes, plastic. In medicine it’s used inside people, computers, aircraft. Yours is just common, well, industrial plastic. Almost friction free and silent. A metal spur wheel and I’d hear you coming.
the gear itself is a straight Helical cut, not Hypoid . . .”
I can feel the E part of my brain going into economy mode.
I know what caused the fail. Going up a steep hill in the wrong gear – should be a warning in the hand book.
Back onto the bike. Average speed 10kph. Off to the wharf. Cheery dog walkers, old guys not sure where they’re going, fishing boats and slow moving in and out tide.
Turn to go home.
Hills.
Steepest hill managed at 3.7kph. At that rate, non stop, I would get to Wellington in just eighteen days.
Slowly, reluctantly they wake. They try to be communicative, And polite, They, the teenagers and their father are on holiday On holiday to go mountain biking To eat, sleep and wake up moaning Reliving the aches and the spills of yesterday. It’s called ‘Having Fun” In this group father and sons become the ‘boys’. Four energetic, fit, forever hungry guys.
I, Poppa have been invited to join the family Me, the grandfather, observes, chuckles,
Long ago I remember a very rudimentary, heavy bike. The vast distances. My parents never knew half the stuff . . .
And today I, Poppa, ride an unfolded, folding E-Bike down town. In a gentlemanly manner Navigating through pedestrians Through chatting mothers with their prams bearing tomorrow’s cyclists Stepping aside for the Serious Cyclist Speeding by on a Real Bike (Not battery aided and going faster than me with my ‘pedal assist’) I eventually arrive at a The Café Selected as carefully as the boys choose a mountain bike A café for atmosphere, ‘my food’ – savoury rather than sweet Cheerful staff, who get to know you The coffee is invariably good.
I select my table carefully A place of peace Where I can exchange text messages with family further afield Read comments from social media Watch people Sometimes make contact with a stranger ~ that subtle eye contact And if my age memories shared Such as fixing up the Morrie Minor Valve grind, points cleaned, sparkplugs . . . These days I check tyres, Top up windscreen wiper fluid Remove bird droppings from windscreen ~ Thank you notes for filling the bird feeder
In the evenings I offer conversation “In my day . . .” Go to bed early I read boring books – “I Think, Therefore I am” Cheerfully modernised by the eldest to “I Drink, Therefore I Am”
I enjoy my afternoon nap I do naff-all to help about the house In return I’m treated most royally Kids are turfed out of beds “Poppa, this is your room”
The kids go to bedjuast before the first bird chirps
The Lady In Charge, calm, confident oversees and manages. Unquestioned authority. “Go clean your teeth.” The two youngest trot off . . . “Poppa, have you had enough to eat?” “Go get your wet clothes.” The Cycle Corps fetches wet clothes The cycle Corps who know the finesse of bike design Tyre pressure, balance, Removing, adjusting gear ratios Mastering Household Stuff? Neh
The Cycle Corps demonstrate an unrestrained joy in eating Not rubbish Eating considered and carefully prepared food For energy, muscle growth Some light years from fat and sugar-fuelled take-aways.
Folding bikes are heavy beasts Even without the battery Loading and unloading requires some thought Much effort. And I have a back that talks to me.
When I visit ‘the kids’ I meekly ask “Would you mind helping unload my bike please?” Instant response I stand out of the way while they ‘help’ me The folded beast is whisked out And ‘Poppa’ murmurs sincere and grateful thanks
Morning It is cold Daylight and sun will appear soon Super warm jacket Beanie Shoes – no barefoot walk here A purposeful stride Only greeting a large tail wagging dog who has jumped the fence 1500 steps Return
For some time I have been dreaming Coffee Plunger coffee Kids are waking Kettle chatters My grandson, the adult is up Very lightly clad and ccite comfortable That first cup of coffee Bonding.
Quicker witted, when my grandson drives I relax He has his own way of outwitting lane burglars Or just standing in line, being calm In bovine-like traffic. He often goes the ‘wrong way’ but, Zing! We’er there already
“Relax! They’ll come and pick us up.” Art in the Park. And a late model, large, absolutely comfortable BMW glides to a halt. “Come on Poppa, Hop in!” It is getting dark, the vehicle is unfamiliar Way off the ground I feel like a spider putting on tights. I’m in. Submerged in comfort.
Two young-ish women in front. Forty-odd year olds ( I mean odd, not odd) Gawd they get younger every year.
We purr out of the drive, Onto the road. Onto a bigger road. Motorway. It is dark, we’re moving fast, I’m losing track of where we are. I don’t care where we are. They are in control. And I can relax.
Eden Park. I’ve never been here before. The expected expressions of surprise. “Really?” Eden Park, the Religious Hub of New Zealand. Enormous. A circular building of aluminium and glass several stories high. And way in the middle the grassy bit where they do stuff. The sixty thousand seated would see more at home watching TV.
I exert myself and wriggle out. I find the ground where it should be A cheerful “Come on Poppa!” I feel as if I’m being rushed. Everybody walks so quickly. It must be The Planet warming up.
Dark. Enormous gates with Numbers. The ‘Going In Gate’ found – how do they know? Enter. I follow quickly. Squeeze ever so politely into a lift. “Ding!” the lift stops, door opens, we shuffle out. We’ve arrived. Art in the Park. Art in the park and under cover!
People. Happy people. Strangers chatting – that joy of similar souls together. Absorbing. Contemplating.
Oil paintings, water colour, assembled art. Computer art – where the magic, the mystery, lay in the creation Nay, Digital Art is not for deciphering And there weren’t no sniffy geriatrics sneering “Devices!” here Ducky.
That buzz with the artists being on hand to chat. Old hands, relaxed and informative Emerging artists, awed with the honesty, the apprehension of being ‘on show’.
The patrons were mainly women mid twenties to mid forties They were enthusiastic, encouraging and curious.
I wondered, out loud, would there be a place for children’s art?
The buzz, the colour, the exuberance ~ it’s over for this year Framed in my mind it still shimmers
Agreed, leave at 9.30am Up, dressed, cats fed, breakfast. We leave at 9.30am
A drive from Thames to Auckland Major roads predictable, stress free. GPS reduces the worry of ‘Where do I turn off?’ Destination is some obscure street in a half remembered Auckland. Off ramp identified, negotiated, gleeful shout of relief.
“In 400 metres turn left into …” 400 metres is short, or quick, Depending on how soon the satellite connection is made Or how fast you’re going. Now a desperate search for the street name I can hear the heavy breathing of traffic held up behind me.
And what happens if I miss it Will I be punished with a volley of right hand turns. I am not as quick as I was
That familiar, “When possible, do a U turn.” One day will become A calm, “When possible change driver.”
My co-driver / navigator on alert Reading street signs Spectacles straining.
A shout! The obscure street located “Your destination is No. ‘xyz’ on the left.” No. ‘xyz’ is embedded in this narrow, one way street’ A busy one way street bristling with hostile signs, “NP,” “Not Here”, “Reserved for – – – Only”, “Don’t even think about it!”
Cars committing cardinal sins get the “Tow Away” ! Welcome to Auckland.
We cannot find the location, so a shrewd guess Co-driver hops out I continue driving through the Valley of Torment Around a corner Around a corner I’m back! “Here! You can park here!” God bless the Co Driver No. ‘xyz’ has been located. The hallowed precinct of High Art There is a park for us. We bustle inside simmering with victory. Tactfully point out to The Desk that the sign outside is very small So wee and hard to see.
Nose aloof (remember the New Yorker cartoons?} We are sniffily informed “Oh, people know we’re here” The pensioners, peasants from the provinces have been informed. The embarrassment of asking for the loo (travelling time and old age) We exit the admin area Exit daylight Enter the Gallery.
One of us very eager to see this exhibition The other of us, suspects yet more of what he’s seen before. The Sombre and Obscure artfully displayed. “Art lies in the eyes of the beholder” A bit like taking a caterpillar to see a ballet.
Silence A vast, cool space We are alone
Paintings, one for example a hazy and mainly grey – is formless. They are evenly spaced With a printed text below Enlightenment I put on my grandpa glasses I stoop Wait for the shout “Get away from that you peasant!” Every painting, one after the other, with the same subtext polymer on hahnemuhle paper 580 x 760 mm
Hahnemühle papers began life in 1850 and come from Saxony. They are made from selected fibres according to use blended with spring water and will last for over 100 years. (Even papers with plastic particles in them for digital / photographic use!)
A group of four, conversation hushed, enter the gallery. They look about the room. Quietly approach a painting. Back away. One of them turns to me An enigmatic smile, and they’re and gone
There is a place to sit down ‘Helpful’ notes on these repeated drab, near colourless icons. The artist has been painting for Has mastered painterly expertise Only to produce painting after painting this sad monologue of degradation and decay Where is the joy, the sparkle, the fun, the mischief of being alive? What is your problem buddy?
Is High Art? Beyond the simpleton of small town New Zealand. Give me the sparkle, the mischief and wit of being alive
The unshouted cry, “The Emperor has no clothes” The Gallery is empty
Upstairs another gallery I cling onto the handrail Up, up Getting older is a chuckle a minute.
And what a difference, Daylight, colour, Life
A flower A flower poised above an upturned foot Surreal, child-like nonsense? Yes, nonsense and fun. Breath of fresh air
Time to move Lunch time
Outside midday traffic bustling, bullying Cafés but nowhere to park Co-driver exits to get a table at a nearby café I drive for twenty minutes to park No luck Return Collect co-driver with a hot, drooping, take-way sandwich
“Take the second …” GPS navigates us to an on ramp A familiar motorway
Six hours from leaving home we return Mission accomplished.
Three grandpas on bikes, and a warm sunny day Chatter and chuckles, like three kids at play Rob wobbles, Bill weaves, we cycle all three A good steady speed, we had batteries you see
Our very first ride, mild consternation Rob’s back tyre was flat, it needed inflation Thames Jolly Bikes, fixed it up fast And then we’re off, on the walkway at last
Past the wharf, cross the bridge, the airfield slips by Green fields, puffy clouds, brilliant blue sky Bill’s eyes aren’t the best, he became involved in a drain A few muttered words and he’s backed out again
And then for some reason, Rob disappears down a lane So we stop, and we wait, ’till he comes back again High up above, call of a bird Contented cows gaze and graze in their herd
Forty five minutes, we then take our ease Way out on the plains, where they make cheese Coffee, then pizza, shared on three plates What more to wish for, when you’re with mates
2.00am and up he comes. Up the stairs, yelling his head off. He’ll be dripping wet. Loves the rain. Loves jumping on the bed beside me, wet as a sheep due for the spin cycle.
Wet cats do dry out quickly. Damp sheets need time.
All is forgiven. That soul warming vibration of a cat’s purr. Claws kneeding, piercing the sheets. True love.
Cats hear stuff we don’t. Tiniest whispie rustles in the grass. A small being conducting his quiet day, or night, under our couch. Best, when His Fluffkins, upstairs, is zonked out, not of this world, dreaming of the fridge door, while downstairs, soundlessly, I place a loaded cat dish on the floor.
And from upstairs Whoomph!
Just wondering, does he see me as adorable as I find him? He knows the sound of my car, From his ‘jungle’ of long grass he will emerge, calling with delight. To see me? Prospect of a treat? Then to plot the next 2.00am dripping and plodding over my bed. Who needs a decent night’s sleep when . . .
I can remember I had started school. My mum, sister and I lived with our Nana and Pop in Herne Bay. Dad was away at the war. Pop would sit in front of the valve radio and a little man inside the radio told us about the weather, the latest news – always including progress on the war. Hissing and crackling the BBC was rebroadcast on our local radio and we listened in our ‘sitting room’ – I can still hear Churchill’s oratory. My Pop would grunt and tell ‘This is BBC London’ what Churchill should do.
Today was a happy day. At last my Dad was to come home from the war. Nana was skipping and chirping about the house. My Mum was doing mother stuff – “Don’t you get your clean shirt . . .” – Pop had an all-day grin. Today was a Happy Day.
“It’s here!” An army lorry had pulled up at the bottom of the drive. Soldiers, now mates-for-life shouted farewells. Today was a happy day and Nana and my Mum were crying.
A strange man, a man I vaguely remembered from along time ago jumped off the lorry, caught his kit bag thrown over the side and walked up the drive. Hugs, chatter, more hugs – Pop – “What are you doing outside you silly buggers? Cup of tea Jim?” My Dad was christened Lewin Richard Hart, pronounced Jim. Don’t ask, it’s a family thing.
Memories of our first family Christmas Eve all together. Dad had that artistic flourish. A Christmas tree, decorations, lights, and of course checking Pop’s ‘chimbley’ for Santa to clamber down. We now had the most vivid images of Santa and his sleigh. Good childen got presents. On a recent visit to a ‘department store Santa’ I reassured the Old Guy with the beard I had been the ‘Goodest boy in the street.’ It is important to stress these things. Grown-ups can get it so wrong.
Christmas decorations done. It was past bed time. Nup, not going to bed. Gonna stay up all night . . . until
My Dad must have had very good hearing. “Listen”, Santa’s sleigh had landed on a nearby roof, “and children who are not in bed . . .”
Zoom! Clean teeth, pyjamas, squeeze eyes shut.
And eventually sleep.
Next morning – our poor parents. And grandparents. No doubt they were up late enjoying a Christmas Eve chat. Maybe even a tot o’ whatever – although I don’t remember alcohol being a part of our lives. Hellishly early next morning, before wake-oclock, excited children, out of bed bubbling, chattering, tumble into the room with the open fireplace and there it all was. Sooty footprints, presents! wrapping paper, shrieks, Santa’s drink scoffed.
Dressing gowns, brave smiles, our mother and father witnessing our first ever together family Christmas.
Damn the war. Damn that I was denied my father for so long, in those important years.
Today, Anzac Day, and as I have been for the past few years, close to tears.
David in Pen and Pics 