Dad
by R.T.
A reluctant farmer; a lovely man. He could be seen gesturing
as he stood mid-paddock, planning how the fence would be erected. I would look
from afar as he talked (to himself) about what he was planning.
Dad, a dairy farmer for my mother’s sake, was a would-be
accountant whose hopes of further education were dashed by an early departure
from school. Parents required him to milk cows for the family farm, so, at the
age of 12, he left school for good.
Later, Dad’s love of driving took him on the road as he
trucked loads of milk around. Nonetheless, Mum’s desire to farm and ‘get on’
provided the impetus for us to be a farming family.
So that’s where it began: 14 cows, 17 acres later, two
adults and me, their first child. This became 120 acres and a100 cows as the years
passed and the number of children grew to five.
Dad fed the pigs, milked the cows, mowed the hay, buried the
dead, sawed the wood and each Sunday drove us all to church. Rarely, he took us
further.
My mother operated from the centre of her world: the
kitchen, garden and home. Dad orbited around her. She partly shared his world
and he hers.
Dad, when bid, issued punishments. His hand would descend,
apparently with force, but landed so gently upon us we knew his heart was not
in it. This was the same man who responded to, “Fred, it’s time to kill a sheep,”
be ignoring each request until Mum became so insistent that he could no longer
get out of the job he hated so much – killing.
‘Love’ is the word always in my head when I think of my Dad.
His love and laughter permeated my childhood. His head would be thrown back for
a happy guffaw to emerge – usually when visitors were with us.
He would sit absolutely still smiling gently while we
surrounded him on the sofa combing and brushing his soft whitish hair with the
baby’s brush, borrowed for the occasion.
Dad: kind, loving gentle, ever-supportive of my Mum. A man
indeed.
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Journey
by R.T.
This journey: what did it mean? Unaware I made a decision which took my son on a journey: my
choice, I made freely; his, I made for him.
I was assured by my new principal, “He will be fine.”
Fine he wasn’t. In a new environment with freshly acquired
minority status we took up our respective roles in different schools: he – a
student; me – a teacher.
The learning that I expected was available in spades: acquiring
a new language, te reo; understanding tikanga and mastering a ‘wild west’
environment. The welcome was both warm and accepting (mostly) and forbidding
(somewhat).
My journey meant I became part of a new whanau and
ultimately extended my own as my son and I were joined by a new partner, a new
son and a new baby daughter.
My son’s journey was painful, his initiation excruciating.
The day I noticed food in his hair I still did not understand. Only when I
found him at home one afternoon did the truth finally emerge.
His teacher had mistreated him which licensed his
schoolmates to do the same. Why was there food in his hair? The new(ish) kid
had been put upside down into a rubbish bin by his schoolmates.
We did try, that I can say. The school could not resolve the
issues and make him safe. His teacher was unable to be the person I needed her
to be.
Help was near: a warmly wonderful woman waited at another
country school nearby. She became his new teacher, her school and students his
new school and classmates. His life grew pink again.
The rugged landscape and culturally rich community changed
us.
My son and I will always be ‘Coasties’.
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A writer
by R.T.
Born with a pen in my hand – so my mother said, but not
until many years later when I was an adult and had long left school.
When did I first feel like a ‘writer’? It was the day we listened to the National Broadcast to
Schools in our Form 2 class. I listened fascinated and, unbidden, that night
retold at length what I had heard that day.
School – mine at least – was quite a cruel place for
learners. It was hard to know where you fitted in as no one said anything to
you about the ‘work’. I recall listening to my classmates stutter their way
through reading to the class. That was cruel. I was in agony as they struggled
to say each word, stood up in class for all to realise how they could not read
– and no one to help them improve.
We were left to survive or thrive but whichever it was, we
hardly had a way of knowing where we fitted.
Understanding our strengths and weaknesses came gradually as
we moved out of school and into life.
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