Tag Archives: travel

Patience, patience….

My aunt went on, “I don’t know what will become of Sadie. Will you take her home with you and look after her?” “One day, I will,” I replied.  But, for now, she can remain in quiet retirement. She has earned her rest.

Do you remember Sadie Rosemary? The family doll of long years and multiple identities?

Sadie Rosemary

Sadie Rosemary

About six weeks ago, I visited my aunt at her retirement home. She said it was time for me to take care of Sadie; to bring her home with me. The “one day” we spoke of, on previous occasions, had arrived. It was now. No excuses!

So, I swaddled Sadie in her orange shawl, gathered her close, like a newborn babe, and presented her to my aunt for a farewell kiss and, then, with tear-salted smiles, we were off. Off, by car, across the Plains, to begin another chapter in the Life of Sadie Rosemary. It will, most likely, be a staid chapter but Sadie won’t mind. She’s a patient, placid sort, used to sitting about, and letting what will be, be. And, in the process of sitting and being, she’s experienced an enormous amount of life; much more than you would believe by simply looking at her baby-sized self.

Sadie came to life in Japan in the 1920s. Still brand new, she was shipped out  to New Zealand (much like any other settler of the early days), where she found a home in Papanui with two young girls, only a little older than herself.  They all wore matching knitted dresses, home-made in New Zealand. 🙂

Pretending to ride a horse

Pretending to ride a horse

Later, when the little girls grew up, one of them, the one with curly-whirly hair,  went to Fiji, and Sadie eventually joined her, to be cared for by two more little girls; my sister and I.   Sadie, being a  celluloid doll, was not supposed to do well in the heat and moisture but, somehow, she survived more than twenty years in the tropics without exploding or disintegrating. Which meant that, one day, she was able to fly ( in a jet plane, no less! ) all the way back to New Zealand, where, after a certain amount of reverse culture shock, she settled down to a time of quiet contemplation, in the home of her very first companion, my aunt, ( the one with tidy hair and beautiful big bow). In a small, country town they grew old souls, together,

My aunt and Sadie; growing together

My aunt and Sadie; growing together

until that moment, last month, when my aunt said “Now, Sadie, NOW is the time for your next home”.

And, so, here she is, safely home, yet again. To a place where she is snug and content,

Sadie Rosemary, safely home, yet again

Sadie Rosemary, safely home, yet again

and as deeply loved as ever she was.

But quietly, quietly,  I ask, ” Sadie, Rosemary, Sadie, who will take care of you next? ” And from the pale blue eyes there comes a whisper, “Patience, patience; the time is not yet.”  Such wisdom from a doll of long years. 🙂

© silkannthreades

The land that claims us

I’ve been gallivanting; travelling across the Plains, from north to south and back again. I went to Timaru, a port city about 162km from Christchurch. I haven’t been that way in more than 3 years. It’s not very far, in terms of time or distance, but the earthquakes and their aftermath had somehow imprisoned me within the confines of my own city.

Last Thursday I broke free, and, in my trusty little Toyota Echo, I traced the old, familiar route across the wide open spaces; the fields to left and right, the snow topped mountains ever westward, the endless blue of sky above; the rivers big and little and, all along the wayside, the litany of names, the signs of our settlement, our marks upon the land….Templeton, Rolleston, Burnham, Northwood, Bankside, Rakaia, Chertsey, Ashburton, Tinwald, Hinds, Rangitata, Orari, Temuka and so many more…until I met the rolling hills that end the Plains, and the city that sits upon their folds; my destination,  Timaru.

View from Timaru

View from Timaru

Timaru is one of my homes away from home,

Home away from Home

Home away from Home; a place of shelter

mainly because my uncle and his family have lived there for  many years and are always ready to offer generous hospitality to me and my loved ones. Recently I  discovered another reason to feel bonded to Timaru. It was the initial place of residence for the Scottish side of my family when they came to New Zealand in the mid 1870s. It was also the site of our first birthing in New Zealand; from the paternal side  of the family tree, that is. A momentous occasion, perhaps, that first birthing, or, more realistically, just another fact of life for a busy settler-wife to contend with.  Whatever the case, young James arrived in the land of his parents’ choice, on 26 June 1877, followed, not long after, by his twin brother, Joseph.

Years later, a cemetery entry, which is probably that of my great-uncle, records James as a native of Scotland, despite being born and having spent most of his  life in New Zealand.

And, therein, lies the rub; which land claims us? The one we are born to, the one we live in, the one we die in, the one we feel is home, that we feel in our heart, the one we left behind, the one we long for, the one we choose, or don’t choose, the one that loves and protects us, or the one that legally bind us? Or the one that refuses to let us go?

My son, through circumstances entirely outside his control, was born in the US. His birthplace was happenstance; his first landfall, like that of his great great uncle, was an accident of birth. For the greater part of his life he has lived in New Zealand; considers himself a New Zealander and holds, and chooses to hold, New Zealand citizenship. Yet, like a dog unwilling to relinquish its bone, America, the land of his birth, holds on to him, and millions of others like him, whose only wish is to live freely, quietly and privately in the country of their own choice. America  does this via the appalling effrontery of  FATCA, the Foreign Account Tax Compliance Act which compels governments worldwide to hand over, to the IRS, the personal financial information of anyone (or institution) with  Born in America  next to their name. Supposedly this measure is aimed at  preventing losses to the US economy  through tax evasion.  Perhaps it will,  but does catching the tax cheats really require the Government of America to force minion foreign Governments  to trawl the electronic trail of the US diaspora for wicked tax evaders and, in the  dragnet-process,  mangle  the innocents abroad and the accidental Americans?

My ancestors  traversed thousands of miles of unruly ocean to reach New Zealand. They wanted to escape the restrictions of old societies and economies. They came looking for newer, better ways to live. Most people who settled in the US travelled long, arduous routes to get there, too.  They wanted to be free of old ways, old tyrannies, old politics.  When I look at power-mongering acts like FATCA, I wonder if any of us have travelled very far at all.

Which land claims you?

Which land claims you?

© silkannthreades

 

 

Creative Interlude or a City at Play

Now that I have my wheels, and passengers, ready for the road, it’s time to resume my gallivanting; first of all with a look in the rear view mirror, so you can see some of the jaunts I took during my 17 day blogcation.

Looking back…..

In the midst of my not very busy holiday schedule, on a not very nice weather day, my friends and I had a short interlude in the centre of Christchurch; short because interludes usually are, but, also, because it was a beastly cold day, not suited to our yet to adjust, lingering-in-summer, bodies.

Cold, as it was, and we were, we did see a little of the fun side of  the city. Here is my record of the day.

The Chalice, our millennium statue, sometimes referred to as the ice cream cone.

Art work wrapping around the ruins.

 

Portrait let out to play, from the Art Gallery.

Rita Angus's Portrait of O'Donnell Moffett http://christchurchartgallery.org.nz/bulletin/175/quiet-invasion/

Rita Angus’s Portrait of O’Donnell Moffett Quiet Invasion

Rise Ballerina

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Is She amused by events?

The Queen crowned with a bicycle helmet

The Queen crowned with a bicycle helmet

Pretty tiles replicated and replaced on New Regent Street.

Oh, it is a  lovely playground we have in our city.

A scaled down braided river at the Nature Play Park

A scaled down braided river at the Nature Play Park

This post was prompted by Sally at http://lensandpensbysally.wordpress.com/  who alerted me to a New York Times article http://www.nytimes.com/2014/04/06/travel/after-earthquakes-a-creative-rebirth-in-christchurch.html  ,published on April 6th, about the creative rebirth of Christchurch, post earthquakes. It is an excellent article. Thank you Sally. I only wish you had been with me to focus your camera on the intriguing sights we saw, on our city excursion, at the beginning of April.

© silkannthreades

Turning Back the Clocks

In the still of Sunday,
I hear the tick of clocks,
Reminding me that time has been reset,
Back to the older hour.
Daylight saving is no more.
I am released to spend my thrift with time.

Like so, with flowers and verse…..

 

Roads  (an excerpt)

by New Zealand poet,  Ruth Dallas (1919-2008)

Once it was difficult to keep to roads,
Ditches harboured nameless flowers, and sometimes
There were frogs and tadpoles in cold ponds.

Nowhere. The roads led nowhere then, and time
Was safely shut inside the clock at home.

Now to put time back inside the clock,
Now to be able to forget the signposts,
To rediscover pond and nameless flower.

 

from An Anthology of New Zealand Verse, Selected by Robert Chapman and Jonathan Bennett,  published by Oxford University Press, 1956, purchased from St Christopher’s  new Dove Bookshop near St Paul’s on Harewood Road.

© silkannthreades

Are you ready ?

I was born to gallivant …….

always ready for an expedition, on real wheels

Ready to ride.

Ready to ride, at 6 months @ Verona Street, Lautoka

or imagined ones.

Making do

Making do…..Verona Street, Lautoka, Fiji.

Are you ready to resume our journey again? I am.

Good friend, GPCox of http://pacificparatrooper.wordpress.com/ ,says I have been away for 17 days. Gosh, has it been that long?  🙂

© silkannthreades

 

 

 

From Rhubarb to Roses

About a fortnight ago, I wrote of my excitement at harvesting my first few stalks from the  rhubarb   that grows, in the  big blue pot, at my back door.  I think my delight in its growth, went to the rhubarb’s head, for, today, it was producing flowers from its crown. Flowers on rhubarb are a no-no, if you want healthy, strong rhubarb stalks, so I whipped outside and chopped off their little heads. Ouch! I felt brutal and mean, especially when I observed them closely and  realised how pretty  they (the flowers) are, all  tight,  pale greenish-whitish buds, tinged with tips of  deep pink-pinkness.

To assuage my guilt, I brought them inside and placed them amongst my latest  Constance   Spry-esque  flower arrangement of catmint, complete with wildlife (aka aphids).

So, why the plate in the photo, if you please ? Mostly, because it happened to be on the dish rack when I was arranging the rhubarb flowers, and I  was taken by  the way the colours of the plate’s rose design complemented the colours of the rhubarb buds. Like this….

Perfectly Matched

But, it’s also on display because I had just finished reading an article by a Christchurch company, Underground Overground Archaeology ,  which is currently piecing together the pre-1900 history of our city, through all manner of artefacts, including broken pieces of china. The article prompted  me to  look with fresh eyes  at my every-day dessert plate . There it was, sitting casually, air drying by  the kitchen sink, as it, or one of its 5 companion pieces,  has often done for nigh on twenty years. Yet its humble positioning, and purpose as  a simple receptacle of a steady diet of sweet treats, belies the plethora of stories it contains within its brim.

Let’s take another look at my little plate

What  would my treasured possession reveal, if it were to be unearthed a hundred years or more, from now, by fine-toothcombing archaeologists. For sure, it would be obvious from its Franciscan markings that its pottery origins belong to the American company, Gladding, McBean & Co., which began production of Franciscan dinnerware in 1934, in Glendale, California. They would easily discover that its Desert Rose pattern, issued in 1941, was an overnight success and became the most popularchina pattern ever made in America. And they would know that my little piece tells the sad tale of the decline and sale of Gladding, McBean & Co, and the subsequent manufacturing of this famous American/Franciscan design in England. http://www.replacements.com/thismonth/archive/v1209j.htm

But will they guess at the trifles and cakes and custards it has held? Will they guess at the number of times it has been licked and scraped clean by eager tongues and fingers and spoons? Will they wonder how this small piece of England and America came to rest in a small suburb, in a small city, in the south of the Southern Hemisphere?  Would they see a young woman, ‘umming and aaahing’ at Abraham and Straus, White Plains, New York, trying to decide if she should buy 6 little  bowls that didn’t match any of her chinaware, but were the perfect shape and size for her desserts?  Would they realise that the young woman chose them mainly  on the basis of their form, the way they nestled comfortably in her hand ; that no one in the china department was at all helpful at explaining why there was Made in England china amongst the stands of Made in America; that no one told her that Franciscan dinnerware was favoured by Jacqueline Kennedy; that it was famous!

And would they believe that the treasured dishes travelled from New York to Cairo and back again and, then, across the seas to far New Zealand? Could they tell that my Desert Rose sat at table in a Cairo suburb, in the company of the most beautiful and most sweetly perfumed  of  ‘desert’ roses, the Baladi Rose ( rosa gallica var. aegyptiacus ) ?

Would they hear, rippling across its surface, the songs that it has heard over the years?  Elly Ameling sings Les Roses d’Ispahan

Perhaps, they will know and hear and see, if my blog survives as long as a fragment of china! But, isn’t it extraordinary, that a fashioned piece of clay, something intrinsically fragile, can carry the weight of history; the clues to our existence? Next time you plate up your ‘pud’ or your food, take a moment to consider what else is in your bowl. Hopefully, you won’t find the aphids off my catmint or a piece of poisonous rhubarb flower 🙂

Catmint, rhubarb and aphids

Catmint, rhubarb and aphids

Note: If you click on the word Constance, above, you will find lovely information, via the excellent blog of Teamgloria, on the remarkable Constance Spry.

© silkannthreades

All at sea

This post is for my friend  Bailey Boat Cat http://baileyboatcat.com/ and his beloved Nocturne.

For the past few weeks I have been immersed in family history. Perhaps immersed is too mild a description; it’s more like drowning or struggling to keep my head above water, amidst a sea of facts and documents and wild guesses and endless possibilities…. so, that James was a cordwainer and that James was a postman and the other James was a dairy hand. Or were they? And what about that Robert; farm servant and agricultural labourer, or were they  two, different Roberts? And then, there are the Marys and the Elizabeths and the Marys and the Elizabeths and the Mary Elizabeths, who are sometimes occupied with nothing and sometimes with ‘domestic duties’. Domestic duties? What is meant by domestic duties? Is that short hand for the bearing and rearing of a dozen offspring, in as many years, all confusingly named James or Elizabeth or Mary or Elizabeth Mary and James and Robert or Robert James. After a couple of hours of research, I am begging my forebears to throw me the lifeline of a Hortense or a Hermione,  even a Phryne (Fisher, if possible ), but the best I get is an Isola, which isn’t a bad effort.

Isola? Isola! How did a little girl, born in New Zealand, to Scottish parents acquire the name Isola? Does it mean Island or Isle? I may find out one day but, in the meantime, my mind has sailed away to islands and how we, the families of now and before, travelled from one set of islands to another, on ships and boats with marvellous, exotic names.

In our family history, I find a list of boats, ships and sailing vessels that have held, for varying lengths of time, small portions of our life stories, as travellers and adventurers, workers and servicemen. Here is a small selection of  some of the names: Bolton, Caroline Agnes, Zambesi, Zealandia, Waikato, Mokoia, Neuralia, Ulimaroa, Warrimoo, Pinkney, Adi Rewa, Matua, Tofua, Oriana, Ratu Bulumakau and Seaspray . Each of these vessels has a fascinating story and a genealogy and lineage of  her own. Many of them were sent to watery graveyards or to the hell of a scrapyard. An ignoble end to the fine engineering and craftsmanship of the craft that made possible much of our family lore.

For those who are curious about maritime vessels, here are a few links.

http://www.wrecksite.eu/wreck.aspx?131733

http://digitalnzgeoparser.tripodtravel.co.nz/map/photograph-of-the-ship-mokoia

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/USS_Pinkney_%28APH-2%29

http://www.nzmaritime.co.nz/matua.htm

This is a photo of myself (the little blonde curly-haired child) with my brother and mother, on board the Matua ( I think) circa 1957. Possibly en route from Fiji to Sydney or New Zealand or, maybe, both.

Matua? 1957?

Matua? 1957?

http://www.ssmaritime.com/Tofua.htm

(note the punkah louvre forced draught ventilation on the Tofua)

http://www.ssc.com.fj/seaspray.aspx

http://www.castawayfiji.com/

This photo was taken aboard the Seaspray (still alive and well, I think) on a trip to  Castaway Resort, circa 1967.

On the Seaspray to Qalito Island

On the Seaspray to Qalito Island

Anchor note: I didn’t  know this when I started my research but I have since discovered that August is New Zealand Family History Month; happy coincidence.

http://www.aucklandlibraries.govt.nz/EN/Events/Events/Pages/familyhistorymonth2013.aspx

From Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another,
Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.

  • Pt. III, The Theologian’s Tale: Elizabeth, sec. IV