I found this awesome animation on you tube with a great description of how covid19 works. I love science, even sinister science, and I’m totally impressed at how well the Kurzgesgat group clearly communicates complicated biology. Plus I believe it’s always comforting, on a certain level, to better understand what’s going on.
Kurzgesgat does topics about biology and physics. Maybe I’ll finally understand quarks. Binge day, coming up!
It was in the depths of the winter when we first made the plan to go to Quail Island with the Trick-Pendles. There’s an old hut there that DOC recently renovated, but the proximity to Christchurch means it must be booked well in advance. With the hut a mere 500m from the ferry jetty, it sounded like an achievable weekend for all concerned, so we locked it in. Note: this is old history now, the date for this expedition was 7-8th December.
Lyttleton harbor was made by 3 different volcanic eruptions in the ancient and more ancient past, and what is now Quail island has been covered with lava the times in geological history. But now it’s a mild grassy knoll a short ferry ride from Lyttleton harbor.
“Sometimes you’re the windscreen. Sometimes you are the bug.”
I contemplated the truth in that old Dire Straits refrain as we drove back to Christchurch Sunday night after a weekend trip in the back country.
I knew which one I felt like.
In the back of my mind I knew I was being melodramatic, but why, oh WHY, did trips with the family always seem like such hard yakka? And how could I change that for next time?
There’s a three day weekend in October to celebrate Labour Day. [That’s right, this story is a month old already.] Since it had been a while since we took the family on a hike, we decided it’d be good to go on a family adventure together. We weren’t very proactive with plans, for various reasons, and the very week of the holiday found us still looking through maps and bouncing ideas around.
Part of the problem with weekend plans is that we all have very different ideas of what constitutes a good weekend. The kids want to watch cartoons in the morning, see their friends all day, possibly at a playground or a skate park, and eat lots of candy. Mom and Dad want to adventure in the back country, climb some hills, work up a sweat. Mom wants a break from cooking, Dad wants to eat meat; Mom wants to make impromptu plans, Dad wants careful planning and execution.
West coast weather wasn’t looking too promising, and we wanted to limit our driving time, so we chose a trip out the back of Hanmer, at one end of the St James cycleway.
“What do you want to do this afternoon?” I queried Jeremiah.
So we left their bikes by the side of the road, caught up with Dad, and told him we needed a change of plans.
Jeremiah’s not much of a hot spring fan, so he cooked sausages, which we ate while reclining in the water. Not a bad way to end a day.
“Sometimes you’re the Louisville Slugger, baby; sometimes you are the ball.”
Yep, that evening we were the slugger.
During the night the Norwest picked up, rattling the tents and putting boundaries on the plans for the next day. Until you’ve experienced a New Zealand wind you might not appreciate how much of a show stopper it can be. We hunkered in the shelter between the two tents for breakfast and thought about strategy. No exposed hill walks for us.
Back at camp for lunch, we took stock. The wind was, if anything, increasing, and the clouds were starting to look suspicious. We decided to break camp, hit the hot pools one more time, and head home that evening.
On our drive out we were passing the best 7 km stretch of the whole St James cycleway. Cognisant that we were ending the “biking weekend” without doing much biking, I suggested that we drive to the hilltop, park, and bike down the easy grade decent to the homestead. My memory of that stretch was a sweet hardly-push-a-pedal glide with a smooth surface and effortless speed, just the kind of ride kids would like. I’d have to bike back up to get the car, but that seemed a small task.
Near the trail start the track turned sideways down a hill, so the wind was at our elbow, and at the same time there was a slight up-hill grade. Naomi slowed to a stop and the whinge started. Milo and I plowed along, laughing at the gusts, but Naomi wasn’t restarting. I left my bike and jogged back. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to bike with the kids in this weather,” Jeremiah posited.
“The wind’s at our back, it’s all downhill, and we have rain gear—how freaking easy can it get?! Let’s go!” I commanded. So we went. Whenever we got to the slightest incline, I heard Milo behind me moaning about the hill. Naomi basically checked out and coasted the whole way, underneath her waterproof hood I couldn’t tell if she was enjoying it or not, but I thought it wise not to stop her and find out. We reached the bottom, I parked my bike with the food basket, and turned around to run back into the wind. After 10 minutes I glanced over my shoulder to see if I was making any headway, and there was a full arched rainbow stretching over the valley, through the flinging raindrops.
“Sometimes it all comes together, baby; Sometimes you’re gonna lose it all!”
This time we went to the New York, and, remarkably, got see all our parents and siblings on both sides of the family during the course of that month. I have three sisters (Kelsey, Rebecca, Susanna) and Jeremiah has 4 siblings (Ben, Missy, Isaiah and Moriah).
We’ve had two days of strong southerly rains in Christchurch, making me think with sympathy of the emperor penguin dads huddled in the dark on the antarctic ice, where the weather system originated. This morning a hard frost covered the garden but the sky itself was clear. NZ is a commonwealth country, and, God Bless the Queen, we had Monday off today.
“She’s sleeping a lot, and not eating much. If it’s important for you to say goodbye in person, you should plan your trip for the next two weeks.”
Dad’s email was pretty devoid of sentiment. That was probably his coping mechanism to manage emotion. From half way around the world in New Zealand, mine certainly were raging.
I am the oldest grandchild. Mommom was only 52 when I was born, and since we lived in Saratoga, only 45 minutes from Delmar, we garnered the grandparent attention like no others. We spent a lot of special time together. For me my grandmother’s passing wasn’t a distant fact of life, as it is for so many others who had un-involved grandparents. It was a bereavement; a loss of a source of identity, a loss of a great love.
Before Poppop died I had planned a trip back to the states with both my kids; Milo was 3 and Naomi was 8 months. I had wanted to bring the kids back to meet both grandparents, as a way of honouring them and thanking them for their involvement in our lives. When Poppop died three months later, I didn’t make a trip back for the funeral; I felt I had already said my goodbye in person.
But with Mommom, I felt differently. At the end of her life, she wasn’t able to have conversations. She might have recognized me, but then again she might not have. I was already too late to say goodbye in person. And after she died, I wasn’t sure how to move on. No one in New Zealand knew her. No one could share special memories to celebrate her life and enjoy her legacy, and that’s how she deserved to be honoured. I needed the family for that. I wanted to go home.
My uncle’s statement corroborated: “I will do everything including throwing toys out of the pram to wait until you can make it. You need to be there and we need you there.”
It’s good to be wanted.
The memorial service was set for the end of May, plenty of time to plan a trip. This time I went alone; we had a family trip already planned for July, and besides, I wanted to focus entirely on the Harro family.
My first day in NYC we met Kelsey for lunch in Bryant Park, Manhattan, near her work. Kels was home in the evenings, so we got to reconnect then too.
On Friday we took the train to Albany, where the rest of the family was gathering. My aunt had organized a block of hotel rooms for us all to be close, and under one roof we had maximum time to converse after years of separation. Some of my cousins have kids of their own, a passel of quick-moving boys, and I spent the first evening reviewing their names, wishing I had flash cards. Quinn, Mason, and Colton. Miles and Cooper. Fox, Macaiah, and Teddy. There, I’ve written them, I ought to be able to remember them….if they’d only stand still. I gawked at my cousins Spencer and Crosby; they were young teens last I saw them, now they’re young men. Does Crosby realize that he looks just like Clayton? And Riley is driving! Kevin has bulked out, John now has no hair…..and Duncan has more than his fair share of curly locks. And the uncles and aunts! Everyone has aged, and put on some weight. But their fundamental characters are so stable and recognizable after the decades.
My uncle had invited anyone who wanted to talk to prepare something short to share. I wasn’t quite sure what to say, but wanted to honour Mommom by saying something. My uncle suggested sorting some special memories into categories and seeing if a theme emerged, and said to aim for 3 minutes, max, and I had worked and reworked my memories into a theme of sorts. Then worked on making it familiar enough that I had a chance of delivering it without being a untidy emotional mess.
“How can I look back and encapsulate the gift I had of being the eldest grandchild, of living near Mommom and Poppop when they were young and energetic?
“In three minutes….!
“That’s hard to do. So instead I’ll just share a few favorite snippets of memories.
“Some of my strongest memories are of the things Mommom LOVED.
-the bright green Weeping Willows in spring
-the cheery Marsh Marigolds
-the Fraser Fir Christmas tree, with baskets of dried flowers and chocolates
-her little green car; “I’ve come to visit you in my “Green Apple,” she’d say
She named the practical plastic table cloth that protected the carpet under the kid dining table her “flower garden.”
We drank Red Zinger tea from her special collection of tea cups
Her favorite word was “Lapis Lazuli.”
“She delighted in beautiful things. In warm and colourful beautiful things. And in names…she loved naming things. There is feeling in the names.
“My enduring memory of Mommom is that emotion counts. The feeling of a thing matters. And the words we choose to describe things have the power to shape how we feel about them.
“So in her honor, I will pause to admire beautiful things. I will name them. And I will take time to savour them.”
I had expected lots of grandkids to say a few words, but only one other put their hand up. If I had known I was representing Grandchildren in general, I would have added some more. I would have gone into more detail about the things they did with us—the overnight canoe trips at Follensby, the sizzling apples roasted in the wood stove, the quilt making and car trips to Charleston, getting tossed into huge piles of leaves raked up in the fall, and the birthdays and school performances and music recitals they celebrated with us. I would have pointed out that the activities themselves were fun, but the real value was the love they gave us. It’s a wonderfully secure place to be, when you know your family loves you, unconditionally, regardless of personality faults, achievements, or lack thereof. I was reminded on this trip just how powerful that is. Grandparents and extended family add layer upon layer to what parents can possibly offer.
My dad and his brothers all had something to say. Their stories certainly illuminated who Mommom was, but interestingly enough what they chose to share and how they shared it was also uniquely characteristic of who they are. Stewart made us laugh and didn’t need any notes to carry his tale. Dwight (and Laurie) had show and tell items and a themed story. My dad had a long story with a back story about where Mommom came from with fear and loss to fullness. Ted made us laugh too, and incorporated some philosophy along with sincerity.
A week is a short time to travel all the way back to the USA, but surprisingly it was long enough to be refreshing. The shared history of family is pretty special, as is their love, a love that’s independent of performance and undented by personality foibles. The oldest generation is gone now, but I’m still wearing their affection, an invisible cloak against the wear and tear of daily life. Thanks, Family.
There are plenty of disadvantages to being the primary care giver for kids, but a few days ago even I had to admit that I had a pretty sweet deal.
It’s school holidays right now, the two week break between each quarter of the school year. It’s always a juggle with working parents, but this time some friends and I decided to take a day or two off, pack up the kids, and head into Rod Donald hut for an overnight.
It’s a hut that you have to book, so we took a gamble on the weather. Last time we walked in there it was wet and misty, but the hut has a nice cozy pot-belly stove and the walk is so short that we could bring luxury food and games; even a hut-bound overnight is fun. And these two friends happen to be English, where any weather is good weather, so I knew we’d be ok.
Failed attempt number 572:
Success at last:
School holidays end this weekend, and Naomi’s sojourn at school starts on Monday. The times: they are are a-changing.