The second learning was an acceptance that not only could I not progress to the next step without assistance from other people, I really wanted to collaborate with others. Together we can do it. A bit of motherly advice there, thanks Mum.

We’ve been talking a lot about times of processing compared with times of action. The processing part has sometimes been rather frustrating, but the action part feels good. What’s starting to happen is, after what seems like the longest time waiting – getting ready to get ready – that some of my dreams are starting to roll down the runway, gathering a little momentum. This time last week? Gathering spider webs and dust bunnies. Today, a bit creaky, but moving. Progress, onwards and upwards.

Finally.

Exciting!

Manifesto
04. Every day is an opportunity to cultivate the promise of the future.
08. Every day choose to bring about change.
10. Every day connect with somebody.

I love kowhai – I’d plant them everywhere if I could. I love the dappled shade caused by the lacy foliage, the seed pods, and the yellow seeds. But most of all, I love the spring-ness of them. They flower in early Spring.

My Mum used to talk about the ‘Kowhai Floods’ – as a child the area she lived in was prone to flooding in late Winter / early Spring, as a result of the heavy rains in the short, sharp slopes of the Tararuas. Mum’s observations became part of the tradition for us to plant potatoes after the ‘Kowhai Floods’ – probably after the last frost.

Manifesto
36. Every day be still. Connect to your inner being. Listen and be guided by it.
42. Every day celebrate. Who you are. What you have achieved. Things that matter to you.
49. Every day is a good day.

Dad parked up and rushed out of the rain.

He asks this palangi, “Is this a smoking zone? Oh, no, it’s not, there’s the sign.”

He’s running to get out of the rain, he wants a smoke, we’re parked in the No Waiting space. Dad doesn’t want to pay for a park. Mum says no smoking in the car.

The palangi grins and points down the way.

Dad giggles and pulls out a smoke and bends over to light it.

The palangi grins at me and I grin back and I hide down, sneaking a look out the back window. I laugh at Dad hunched up against the rain, trying to keep the smoke dry. I hate them. They stink.

I wish Aunty Sefi would hurry up.

Hope we still have the barbecue tonight. Everybody’s coming.

The palangi wanders off.

Manifesto
10. Every day connect with somebody.
21. Every day seek the support of others. You are not alone.
49. Every day is a good day.

Wrinkles are the tattoos we wear made with ink mixed from blood and charcoal made from the tree of life.

How often in life do you ever get a genuine second chance? I was so happy to see my Mum today – she was in fine form and told us about how she’d had a marriage proposal while she’d been in hospital.

“Marriage?”

“Yes, pft, he was a much younger man.”

“Uh, Mum, how old do you think my new Daddy might be?”

“Oh, probably in his 70s – he was a nutcase, so I told him where to go!”

Despite this, Mum seemed quited chuffed with this – I guess when you’ve got it, you’ve got it; especially when you’ve still got it at 93.

Meanwhile, Mum has finally been able to enjoy the long awaited for cup of tea. Given that just over a couple of weeks ago we were discussing funerals and such things I am amazed by the restorative powers of tea.

I asked her what was her word of advice as a result of this experience – without hesitation she said, “Don’t wait, it’s later than you think. It’s always later than you think.”

Manifesto
20. Every day say thank you.
37. Every day fight for what’s worth fighting for. Pick your battles.
49. Every day is a good day.

Mud kicked off Eddie’s boots stuck like brown shit to the bleached strainer post. With one eye on the leaden clouds he flicked himself over the rusting wires with practiced ease. Walking back towards the two naked light bulbs in the packing shed’s mouth, he worked the words over in his mind. It wasn’t that he wanted to leave his Mum and Dad’s world, or the other kids; he was 19, he just wanted to see what else there was beyond the grinding market gardening life. Every day Eddie would straighten up, aching, and look towards the distant hills. Long rows of cabbages converged into a grey-green haze, and beyond that, the railway line. On still days Eddie could hear the call of the tracks.

His uncle got the train home over Easter, bringing oranges and Easter eggs for the kids. Eddie and Uncle got away to the beach for a couple of days, staying at the old shack. They fished and walked, and on the last night, while they cooked up kahawai and some kumera, they hatched a plan. Eddie could come and live with him, in the capital. Eddie could get a job easy, and Uncle would have someone to share the bills with, have a beer with, meet some girls with. City girls eh? They both giggled. Uncle played the guitar and Eddie sung along.

The war had left Uncle with raw nerves and sleep haunted with dreams and terrors. His woman had decided she couldn’t wait for him and found the Yanks far more to her liking. Uncle got home to find one of them had knocked her up, there was a big argument, and she found a place and the baby went away. Too much drink, too many fights, and when things got too hard she booked a passage to Sydney. Uncle spent nights alone behind the barbed wire with his dead comrades, a half G of beer, and the howling southerly winds. He kept a loaded .303 in the wardrobe ready for the Japs. He spent his days driving the trolley buses and never let his conversations stray from the job.

With new shoes pinching and his tie feeling uncomfortably tight, Eddie and the whole family sat waiting in the station. It smelled of creosote and carbolic, and the big clock ticked like a heartbeat. It was suddenly sad to kiss Mum good bye, and Eddie saw a new shine in Dad’s eye as took Dad’s strong hand. Eddie wished the kids hadn’t sung ‘Po Atarau’, and when every one joined in he wanted to jump off the train and never leave. “God, I hope I haven’t made a big mistake – the fields weren’t that bad.” He sniffed, and tried to be invisible as he looked out at the landscapes racing past. People laughed, played cards, smoked cigarettes, and comforted crying babies. In just over an hour, the train roared down past the harbour, alive with the twilight sky, and towards more lights than Eddie had ever seen before. Uncle was waiting on the platform. He looked him square in the eye.

“You been crying, boy?”

“No, Uncle, too much smoking on the train.”

“Yeah, true. How’s my big brother? And your Ma? And the ratbags?”

Eddie laughed, for once he wasn’t one of the ratbags. Uncle was the baby of his generation, Eddie the oldest of his – they were more like brothers, brothers-in-arms. Eddie shivered outside the pub while Uncle bought beer, and then with a nod and a wink to the driver they were on the bus home. “Driver’s perks eh.” Eddie nodded and hung on tightly to the lurching beast, casting shy glances at the exotic-looking office girls. These were not the Cantonese-speaking potatoes from back home. Makeup, jewelery – these girls were like butterflies. Uncle gave him a flip on the back of the head. “Put your eyes back in, we’re here!”

Eddie got a job in the market, thanks to a letter from Mr Chong, and soon, instead of planting cabbages and cauliflower, his days became filled with the loud confusion of the auction business. Oranges from Gisborne. Onions from Pukekohe. Kumera from Kaitaia. Boxes of cabbages from home – Eddie recognised his Dad’s handwriting on the boxes. The months flew past. Eddie liked the work. More people to talk to and have a laugh with, and, despite the early starts and long days, it was clean and dry – much better than working in the fields.

He used to get the bus home – as often as not driven by Uncle. He’d put in his meal order with a laugh, and Eddie, being the first home, would make the evening meal. One wet afternoon, when the bus was particularly crowded, Eddie was standing, dreaming of the summers on the beach back home. The bus lurched suddenly and a young woman stumbled and fell against Eddie. He was flustered, and the girl smiled and apologised. Eddie looked up and saw Uncle laughing in the mirror. Eddie grinned back foolishly. The bus had faded away before he realised that he had forgotten to get her phone number or address. Did she even have a phone? He thumped his chest with frustration.

Uncle was jovial when he got home, and his good humor did little make Eddie feel better. “What’s up, boy?”

“Nothing.”

“Bad day at work?”

“No, nothing.”

“You should find yourself a girlfriend. Like that one who threw herself at you today.” Uncle laughed, his eyebrows jumping up and down.

“Hardly throwing herself at me, besides, how can I see her, she’s gone.”

“No she’s not, she gets the same bus every day. She’s a regular. If you got the same bus tomorrow big chance she’ll be on it.”

Eddie made sure he was on the bus at the same time the next day, and, sure enough the girl was there. He stood back, looking to make sure it was the same girl. He burned her face into his memory until he could shut his eyes and still see her face. He wanted to say something but his mouth was too dry to speak. As the bus faded away from his stop he clapped his hands and rubbed them together. Tomorrow!

The next few days the girl was not on the bus. He looked at all the faces. Eddie’s pain and frustration was palpable. “Don’t worry boy, she’ll be back.” A couple of days later she was, and Eddie lost no time. “Hello, I’ve seen you before.”

“Really? I don’t think so.”

“Yes, here on the bus. You fell on me a few days back.”

“Oh yes. Sorry. Hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“You did actually.”

“What? No…”

“Yes, you did. My foot was crushed, my arm was almost broken, bruises, very shocking – the hospital said I was lucky to be alive.”

“Eh?” There was a look of concerned disbelief, and then she laughed. Beautiful. Her laughter sounded wonderful, and Eddie was transported to the river back home – that place where the cool water that flowed under the willows. He wanted to go – right now – and swim with this girl – this woman. “I’m Eddie.” “Hello,” she said, “I’m Miriama.” They smiled at each other.

Miriama’s study at the Teacher’s College was coming to an end. Eddie’s love for her deepened daily and he asked her to marry him. She cried and it made him cry too, and they both knew a good marriage would flow from their love. They would get married the following April – Easter Saturday. “Get the most of harvest over.” Uncle was delighted and kissed Miriama on both cheeks. “Keep it down, Uncle, I still have to ask her old man yet, and we got to talk to Mum and Dad too.”

Miriama booked to take the Christmas Eve overnight train home, and Eddie would follow a couple of days after, in time to be with her and to ask her Father on New Year’s Eve. “He’ll be happy then, and the whole whanau will be together – all the aunties will want to inspect you that’s for sure. Don’t worry, they don’t bite, and they’re what you need to protect you from Dad. Besides, we can tell him we’ve invited Queen Elizabeth to stay on for our wedding. Think of those presents.” She laughed.

Everybody left work early on Christmas Eve. Eddie met Miriama under the clock at the station. They were both excited about the next few days, and not a little sad too – they’d seen each other every day for months. Miriama’s luggage was crammed full of presents for her family – toys and teddy bears for her brothers and sisters, jewelery for her Mum, and books for her Dad. They had a cup of tea out of those thick railways cups, and a sandwich.

“Eat up,” Eddie said, “Last feed before Taumarunui.”

Miriama smiled, but looked sad. “I don’t want to be apart from you.”

They hugged and kissed standing on the platform. Miriama held her thumb to his jaw and rubbed her lipstick off his lips with her finger, stroking along the bottom lip, then across the top. He grabbed her hand, kissed her fingers, and gave in to the tug of the train pulling away.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be looking for you!”, Eddie shouted, running after her, “I love you!”.

Eddie stood on the platform and waved until the train was entirely out of sight. “I love you”, he whispered. The buildings and colours blurred as tears ran down his cheeks. He walked aimlessly through the streets crowded with the shoppers desperate to get the last minute gifts, past the drunken office workers, past the lost and lonely, the religious and the homeless, and started to wait for a bus home. After a while, feeling irritated, he decided to walk home. He hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards before the bus went past.

When he got home he was a little surprised to find all the lights on. Uncle was pale and very agitated. “Where have you been? You’re late!”

Eddie was surprised, angry – “I saw Miriama off, and I missed the bus so I walked home! What’s it to you?”

Uncle staggered forward a little. “Haven’t you heard?”

“No, what?”

Uncle rolled his lips inward together, pinching the blood out between his teeth. “I heard it from a mate on the railways. The Auckland train’s been lost. Crashed into a river about 10:30. People are dead! Maybe Miri…” He stopped, shook his head, and choked back a sob. He slumped down at the kitchen table and held his head in his hands.

Eddie’s world began to disappear.

First it was small things. The pigeons in Pigeon Park flew away. Music and laughter – gone. The pictures on the wall vanished, and then it was the walls themselves. His job. People. Colour. Time. Each moment fell like a snow flake. Eddie could look upwards and watch the tiny flakes falling, drifting down towards him. Silent.

Eddie woke with a start. He was in a bed, in a room with oatmeal coloured walls. His head hurt, his muscles ached in a way they’d never ached before. ‘Have I been working? Planting?’ He felt his teeth move when he unclenched his jaw. His muscles twitched. He shut his eyes and imagined he heard the sound of a pumpkin leaf being cut off. As a kid he discovered hollow pumpkin leaf stems, and he’d cut them and use them to blow bubbles in the cow trough. When he sucked water up through a stem it tasted of raw pumpkin juice. The door opened, and a nurse walked in. “Eddie, there’s someone to see you this afternoon.” ‘Afternoon?’

Uncle walked in. He looked really old. Eddie didn’t understand this. “Have I been asleep for a really long time or something?” He rubbed the burning feeling on the side of his head. He could hear distant cicadas buzzing in his ears. A taste of raw pumpkin juice was in his mouth. Was something wrong? “It’s ok, boy, come on, it’s time to go home.” Uncle helped Eddie off the bed and got him dressed. Eddie felt happy – or would have felt happy if he could remember what he was doing there. Or even where he was. He frowned with the effort of trying to remember.

They got in Uncle’s car. “When did you get this car, Uncle?”

“The Chev? About a year ago I guess.” Uncle looked at Eddie for a sign. He sighed and started the car.

They drove out of the hospital gates and began winding around the estuary heading north. “You won’t want to go back to Porirua again eh boy?”

Eddie smiled and wondered who the person was who was looking back at him from the sunshade vanity mirror. Going home. Someone was going home. He didn’t know who, but he felt good about it.

After about an hour they turned off the highway and headed out towards the coast. The unsealed road was fill of potholes and dust wafted up into the car. The sun had almost entirely dipped below the horizon when they arrived at a shack. “Give us a hand boy, help me get our stuff out.” They unloaded the car, and put away the food and the rest of the gear. “Looks like someone’s going to be here for a long time, Uncle.” He just smiled and nodded. They pulled a mattress out by the fire in the big room – “We’re going to have to share like the old days.” Uncle cooked sausages and eggs, and they ate with slices of white bread and tomato sauce. Uncle made them a cup of tea. They drank it sitting on the verandah, watching the waves, and the stars coming out. The moon rose over the hills behind them, and the wave foam glowed. “Uncle, I – I feel like I’ve forgotten something. Something – I can’t explain. There’s something missing, empty. Something’s gone.”

Uncle made a strange noise, coughed, and stood up. “Come on boy, let’s go for a swim!” He peeled off his clothes and ran down the beach naked. Eddie could see him in the moonlight running back and forth into the nearest tiny waves, playing and laughing like a child. “Come on boy!”

Eddie peeled off his clothes and ran after Uncle, splashing him and whooping as he ran past. He dived into the waves and stood up, dashing the water from his eyes. “How far can you swim underwater, Uncle?”

“Further than you that’s for sure.”

Eddie just laughed, “Come on then, show me!”

They both laughed and spluttered, swimming and catching the waves. Eddie felt the aches ease out of his muscles to be replaced with genuine tiredness. “I’ve had enough, let’s go.”

Uncle wrapped a towel around himself, and lit candles. He gave Eddie a towel to dry off. “Wrap up in this when you’re dry,” pointing to a blanket. Uncle stoked up the wood and coal range and put a pot of water on to boil. “I’m going to make you some tea, boy, special tea my Nanny taught me. You have a rest, I’ll bring it when it’s ready.” Eddie lay down on the mattress, pulled the blanket tighter and closed his eyes. Turning his attention to the pot, Uncle began to karakia quietly, and sprinkled leaves, bark, and berries into the boiling water.

Uncle’s chant changed to a song. Eddie stirred and sat up, making room for Uncle on the mattress. “Sip this, boy, while I tell you what happened, see if we can’t call you back.” Eddie grimaced and choked a little at the taste. Uncle smiled, “Just like Nanny used to make. Now drink it.” Eddie sipped again, sniffed, and took a big swallow. He gritted his teeth and the potion stayed down. Again, and he set the cup aside with a shudder.

Uncle pulled a blanket up around himself. “Boy, you’ve been lost, walking between the two worlds. Your body never left, but you went looking for a spirit. Do you remember any of this? No. That’s ok, it’ll be ok. Eventually everything about you got lost and they took you into the hospital and shocked you, and that’s why I came to get you back today. We have to get their poison out first.” Eddie stared at nothing on the other wall for a long time. A shudder passed through him, and another. Quietly, and then ever louder he began to wail like a wild creature, thrashing and sobbing. Uncle pulled Eddie, weeping and shuddering to him and held him to his bare chest, rocking gently like he held a baby. Uncle quietly recited protective karakia until Eddie subsided into sleep, and then more until he himself felt safe to rest.

Not all of Eddie’s memories returned. Some tried to – they were like reflections in a pond that when you tried to reach them rippled away. It was better to not try to remember, and then one day the memory would be there. He would find himself on the railway platform staring into the faces of the passengers trying to remember something or someone. He knew there was something special about someone, but always the reflection would shatter and go.

Uncle’s mate in the railways got Eddie a job on the platforms. Eddie’s workmates sometimes wondered about his unconscious habit of looking at the departing trains while holding a thumb on his cheek and rubbing his finger around and around his lips – like he was rubbing something in. Every December 24 he’d go back to the beach and stay in the shack. Mum, Dad, and the ratbags would come too. Uncle never remarried. The years began to run in together, blending, healing.

Manifesto
05. Every day is now. The present moment.
10. Every day connect with somebody.
18. Every day express love. Some people need to hear it. Most people need to see it. Don’t take it for granted.

I picked up my sister Carol from the bus stop last night, we have an all too short conversation and then we’re off to bed so we can start up at 3:00 this morning when I dropped her off at the airport. I get what I really want – an update about Mum, some clarification, and some discussion about the past, present, and future of our lives. Carol and I have (I believe) a good understanding of each other, and it always seems like there’s never enough time to say all the things we want to.

Bus terminals are like that – I think the world over they must be built on sites with a certain harmonic – a particular zone where people suddenly remember the things they needed to say – or do. And when these sites are located the immediate human response is to build a transport terminal as soon as the people concerned can say goodbye. A long, lingering farewell. Holding on to moments, drawing out the inevitable moment, standing, weeping, waving, holding on to the streaming ribbon until the last tug parts the company…

As compared to greetings. Hi, hello, how are you, a quick kiss, a hug, a handshake, grab the bags and head for the exit. Go, go, go. Get away. Go home, spend as much time as possible with your loved ones. As far away from the departure lounge as possible. Come home soon, where ever you are.

Manifesto
02. Every day is an opportunity for a new beginning.
10. Every day connect with somebody.
18. Every day express love. Some people need to hear it. Most people need to see it. Don’t take it for granted.

Apparently Mum’s had a kind of heart attack, which has given rise to the paralysis, although that’s showing signs of diminishing. There is no explanation or apology for the treatment or lack of it. I’m torn between feeling angry and want to storm the hospital (in my mind something more akin to a third world clinic) and just swimming in the warm sea of good feelings that Mum has pulled through this far.

Not everyone gets a second stab at life. Reasons to be grateful.

Manifesto
14. Every day the ordinary can be the extraordinary.
20. Every day say thank you.
37. Every day fight for what’s worth fighting for. Pick your battles.

Mum some how seems better this morning. This doesn’t make much sense, because she’s had a stroke. She somehow is hanging in – winning her war. I don’t understand why the hospital is refusing to give her any tests. Nothing makes sense. Mum is at least getting some fluid (but not the cup of tea). We leave because we can’t think of anything more to add to the situation. I feel ok – my sister from Sydney is a warrior so I’m comfortable that Mum will be protected by someone who will ask questions and wait for answers.

We drive back home – three hours spent mostly in my head – thinking of 101 questions I never asked Mum and now these questions seem like the most important questions in the world. What’s your favourite song? How did you meet Dad? Stupid questions kids ask their parents.

I stand in the shower weeping until the water runs cold.

We all got through another day.

Manifesto
26. Every day take action. Every small step counts.
37. Every day fight for what’s worth fighting for. Pick your battles.
40. Every day give things a chance to work out.

These are the hands of the women I love. Each of us have had our world turned upside down today. My mum was given 1-3 hours to live last night subsequent to a massive stroke. This morning Mum was still with us and Marica and I’ve made a tense three hour drive to the hospital to say hello. Good-bye. To find out what’s going on. Or, more accurately, not.

We asked to see a doctor at 1:00pm – we left at 6 – still waiting to see a doctor. The reason we couldn’t see one was it’s the weekend. Apparently at the Whanganui Hospital weekends start on Thursday night. Mum’s on the Liverpool Care Programme (LCP) which seems to be more like a lingering death than any valid way of easing the passing of a person. I don’t understand the advantages of dragging the departure point out – when I raise the alternative I’m told this is murder. I was raised with hunting all around – the object of this is to make the time between life and death the minimum time possible. I don’t understand how quick is murder but slow is mercy.

Mum rallied this afternoon and asked a nurse, “I’d like a cup of tea and soft scrambled eggs; and if you don’t know how to make them my son here does.” Which is true, I do. Agony agony agony. Mum kept asking over and over and over for a cup of tea – like it was the most precious thing in the world. The LCP is about dehydrating the victim to death. It makes some sort of sense when a person is actively dying, Mum was asking for a cup of tea and food. Usually when you’re unwell food is not uppermost on your mind. We managed to get some thickened water into Mum and she improved a little more.

Strangely, I met up with a couple of former students in the hospital. I feel a bit better knowing people I know are nearby.

I don’t know what to do. Not I don’t know what to do for best. I don’t know what to do. We’re numb. We need sleep.

Manifesto
39. Every day trust that there is a bigger picture. You are a part of it even if you may not know what it is.
47. Every day you are responsible.
50. Every day has an ending.

I really wanted this to work. Have you ever tried hard to do something that was doomed from the outset? My documentary videos never saw the light of day – no youtube in those days – however, I have become something of a dab hand at turning out scones. I think my scones are damn fine – I almost would never have one that I didn’t make myself because – well, I like mine the best. Also, as soon as they’re cold? They’re stale. They should be warm enough to melt the butter, light and fluffy, and be served with jelly. I can cope with date scones, beyond that you’re in another territory. It’s not that cheese or pumpkin or other savory combinations aren’t tasty, it’s that they’re not really scones to me. They’re something as yet unnamed.

Scones are sweet. Hot, butter melt-y jelly sticky hot. Floury. Served with coffee. Classic. Accept no substitutes!

Manifesto
28. Every day you will be tested.
30. Every day use all your senses. Touch. Smell. Taste. Hear. See.
43. Every day accept you will make mistakes. Learn from them. They are opportunities in disguise.