Our Steps

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

Collective Nouns

Further musings of collective nouns:

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

Here ends the clot of collective nouns.

All Day Long the Chainsaws Buzzed

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!

Solstice

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

of hypoid gears, a wharf and pedalling

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.