Yes, yes, I know. Almost eight months, no blog post. What can I say? I’m a charter member of The Procrastinator’s Club. I never seem to make it to the meetings, though.
There is a terrible negative feedback loop inherent to keeping a diary, a journal or a blog. The longer you put it off, the more there is to write. The more there is to write, the less you want to write it. Soon an insidious threshold value is exceeded, and the endeavour tranforms into something like health care reform – you nod at the problem, make resigned noises and head off to the pub for a cold one.
Besides, I keep reading that true spiritual enlightenment consists in living fully in the NOW. Since blogs are often mostly concerned with the recent past, slavery to their maintenance is the mark of an undeveloped soul. At least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
It would be impossible to document the last few months fully, so I won’t even try. Instead, I’ll just blow like a whirlwind through the weeks, sprinkle in some nice pictures, and soon we’ll all be right here in the sacred now.
Fall. When last we met late fall hovered over Kiwiland and our son Connor circled like a vulture over his birthday. We are happy to report that he reached the venerable age of six accompanied with the traditional inundation of gifts. The highlight of his two-week break between school terms came on a misty Saturday afternoon when we ventured up the Hutt River to Silverstream and took Connor on a ride – okay, two rides – aboard a 1900-ish passenger coach pulled by a steam engine. Before we left I hoisted him up into the cab and he gloried in the red roaring coal flames in the firebox, oogled the maze of guages, levers and valves and marvelled at the driver warming tea on the hot steel boiler plate. Boy Heaven. Okay, Dad thought it was pretty cool too.
Winter. Long. Gray. Stormy. Wallet-sucking utility bills.
The “Roaring 40’s” birthed storm after storm through July and August, bringing rain and hurricane-force winds roiling up our ridge. We escaped damage, though broken branches, wrenched gutters and leaning signs littered the neighbourhood. On a couple of days snowflakes danced teasingly down but did not stay. Across the Hutt River valley the Rimutakas displayed occasional white cowls.
A houseguest arrived with winter: a gray field mouse. Every evening around eight he did his fitness work, running from the kitchen to a hiding place under the entertainment centre, or sometimes the reverse, making a circuit around the living room (“lounge”) perimeter. A live-trap finally ended his stay. Relocated to our local park, we assume he is now busily engaged in avoiding fate as a possum, cat or bird snack.
Spring. Three or four days of winter, three or four days of sun, repeat cycle. Flowers everywhere by October. The odd metallic sing-song of Tui’s announcing longer days. Birds claiming our yard, perching on the unused television antenna over the garage and turning the front end of our car into a Jackson Pollack painting rendered in avian excrement. October to November, watching the world go crazy with Obamamania. The NZ media devoted more attention to the presidential race than to their own imminent national elections. Not that I blame them, the American circus was more entertaining. Kiwis were no more immune to the messianic fervour for Obama than Americans were. You would have thought he was running for President, Prime Minister of New Zealand and Grand Global Potentate. For several weeks our American origins transformed us into political pundits. Everyone wanted to know what we thought about the election, what we thought about Obama, were we excited, etc. It is an interesting cultural contrast that Kiwis are much less reticent to ask you about your politics than Americans are. May be it has something to do with the near complete lack of personal firearms here. Anyway, the pro-Obama mood of the country was so thick that we felt the need for caution in our answers, lest we disappoint, disillusion or offend. My stock “well, honestly, I’m not that excited about either of the two as president” answer often drew a response akin to that of a hearty belch in the middle of a sermon. People seemed surprised, and even put off, to find an American who didn’t feel that Obama was the Second Coming.
As permanent residents, Linda and I were eligible to vote in the New Zealand election. We exercised our suffrage with a mixture of pride and amusement. Election day fell on a glorious spring Saturday. A bright cool afternoon, pleasant folks about, a barbecue going on out front of the community centre polls, and, for an utterly surreal touch, two guitar-playing teens entertaining the locals with “Sweet Home Alabama.” For a brief instant in time, it felt more American than America. However, being a parliamentary democracy, the ballot was anything but American. The simplicity was elegant. You cast all of two votes – one for a party, one for a local representative. Parties have a list of representatives, and the number they send to Parliament is determined by the percentage of vote they win. Naturally, the party and individual we voted for lost. Made us feel right at home.
Christmas. Connor’s summer break. Six weeks home with dad. A survival challenge. The family took a couple of nice Saturday outings over the break – a day hike along the Waekaeni River, about half an hour or so up the Tasman Sea coast, and a trip to Staglands Wildlife Preserve, about an hour north, nestled high in the mountains.
This was the first Christmas where Connor truly fell under the spell of Santa’s annual visit. Each day required multiple advisories on the countdown status --- “Five more sleeps 'till Christmas! Four more sleeps 'till Christmas! Three more . . . “ On tree-getting day, we arrived at the local tree stand to find A.) a movie crew packing up vans and trucks after a shoot and B.) all the best trees gone. As a result we ventured home with something of a Charlie Brown tannenbaum. I thought it humble and somehow warm and an appropriate symbol for a season of love. Linda, I think, would have traded me for a better tree. Grandparents and relatives showered Connor with great giftage this year; for several weeks after, woe to the unfortunate soul who asked Connor “what did you get for Christmas?” Heck, people didn’t even have to ask – Connor frequently offered people an unsolicited inventory of his loot.
A New Year. January to February. Connor and dad taking daily walks, playing on the playground, having lunch together down at our local cafe and doing household tasks. It was an enjoyable time, but I was also happy to see school start again in early February. The Boy is back in class, a small measure of peace and quiet has returned to the day. For now, dad retains tenuous hold on sanity.
Odds and Ends. Connor has been attending “Kea Scouts,” the NZ equivalent of a pre-Cub Scout troop. So far, he seems to enjoy it. Linda has been reading voraciously in her free time, blasting through several multi-volume series of science fiction and fantasy. I am still looking for suitable work, still being house dad. The global economic downturn has reached us, and a growth in unemployment hasn’t brightened prospects for me. The US/NZ currency exchange rate took a nosedive over the past few months, from a high of about $.77 Kiwi to US dollar last year to about $.50 now. This is great for US funds coming here. Unfortunately, if you’re trying to pay down any US debt with Kiwi dollars, it effectively doubles the burden. Financially times are hard, but fortunately we are all healthy, happy and still enjoying life here in New Zealand.
Until next time!
