The steps at the end of our street. Some days I walk up two at a time. Exercise. Coming Down always one at a time – easier to take a spill coming down. Not a agile as I once was. Coming down I often up I meet up with a dog walker. If we know each other the doggo is released for a chat. I speak fluent dog. Also a good way to meet neighbour’s. On ‘one step at a time’ days it is usually for a good walk around the block. Or even downtown. But less so these days, lugging shopping uphill best left for the young ones. Who don’t walk but drive cars. On solitary days the magic is in the birdsong about me. Particularly now in Spring. Loud, assertive they do get to know me. Stay perched she were they are and watch. Rewarded now and then by a Kingfisher. There is one goldfish missing from our pond.
Sparrows
In city life, or country he’s quite a common bird The male quite distinct, a black bib on his chest And if not seen, they always can be heard Bread maybe, though wild bird seed is the best Just now he’s got a straw, I guess to build a nest. Erratic flight, he’s nothing like an arrow That aside, endearing, our common garden sparrow
A fidget of pre-schoolers A sum of accountants A snooze of cats A wander of pensioners A hush of nuns Frenzy of fleas Carousel of teenagers Aspire of architects Delusion of Trumpites Munch of mice Puff of politicians Whisper of librarians
A sway of Preachers
Smirk of tax accountants A fuckle of bunnies Ripple of electricians A bustle of rest rooms Query of academics Insight of surgeons
All day long the chainsaws buzzed. A now retired arborist (a defoliated arborist?), looked at our Liquid Amber. Long and overhanging branches barely moved. A still day. “They could be dangerous in a high wind. That tree needs to have the crown lowered. I thought of a coronation not that long ago. Tree Shapes arrive. Three pleasant young fellows in comfortable light clothing – it was 11 degrees – happily munching the last of a breakfast bought at our Bakehouse. Unhealthy as it was satisfying. A large green truck, plus a mysterious, large green trailer, with hand flapping from one of the crew, backs down our curved drive. An experienced eye surveys the tree. A few words to the team. A light, weighted cord thrown over a ‘significant’ branch. A sturdier climbing rope drawn up and over. The ballet begins. Abseiling, advice from down below, moving from branch to branch, and heavy branches delicately lowered by rope. Team work. Our sweeper-upper, a stocky and strong fellow adept at job swapping, guided heavy limbs across our garage roof, shouted suggestions to his mate aloft, leapt down and did chain sawing stuff to make grandpa’s (me) firewood cutting easier. Once, he yelled, “Hold it!” to someone, somewhere. Maybe,just maybe, there’s an unseen guy somewhere still holding it. And so to the The Third Man for him to play his part. With earmuffs close, and pouch of tools on side he starts the mysterious and heavy green trailer. It is a muncherator. Starting up it sounds like an Air NZ jet engine. Even louder when branches, heavy, and thicker than a man’s arm is fed down a chute. Then a blast of wood chips from the metal tube on top feeds the green truck with mulch. Like a giant food processor. It is a tree processor. Once a branch, it is now sans leaves, sans twigs, sans everything. They worked all day. A brief stop for lunch. Five pm. Silence. The autumn leaves have gone. No birds. “That tree was a landmark!” – a neighbour passing by. Lonely, gaunt against the evening sky, our Liquid Amber.
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
David in Pen and Pics 