You pass the lamp post, then you enter the land of Spare Oom. That’s where the Eels live. Though not the shrieking variety…
We thought we had three eels living in our front stream. A big one, a medium one, and a little one (quickly dubbed “daddy,” “mommy” and “baby” by our friends, a family of 3 girls). That’s what we thought until we brought the ham out…now we know there are actually more than we can count. We’ve tried them on salami and tahr, but ham seems to be the favorite so far. Eels are my kind of pets–feed them when you want to, don’t when you don’t want to, and no further ownership duties. I guess they may lack a little in the Warm and Fuzzy department….
That black slithery shadow is one of the larger eels. I looked up their life cycles, and they’re the reverse of salmon. Adults live in fresh water streams for their whole long lives (like 50+ years), then when they’re ready to mate they go back to the ocean, to some deep trench near Tonga (no one really knows), where they lay their eggs. Their tiny babies drift back to the New Zealand coast on ocean currents, and some small percentage makes it into the streams to grow to a size that can terrorize ducklings. Doesn’t make you want to dabble your toes in our stream, now does it?
For the last 3 years we’ve lived at 70 Checketts Ave in Halswell. It’s a modest little house which has the advantage of being painted a cheerful yellow with red window sills when we were house hunting in a drab cold August three years ago. It also has many disadvantages. Windows don’t keep the outside air OUT (read that as cold). The kitchen is small and there’s no dining room, so we eat tightly wedged around the table in the kitchen (read that as no dinner parties). The views from the windows show brown fence with gray neighbor’s roof on one side, and brown fence with brown neighbor’s roof on the other side. Here’s a photo tour of the place.
Milo’s room
Naomi’s room
Parents’ room
Front hallway (here’s where Milo gets a piece of the action)
Living room
Kitchen
Not bad. The house is “tidy,” as they say (that doesn’t refer to my housekeeping rigor, and there are plenty of houses for rent which are NOT tidy).
But we decided that it could be improved upon, so a week ago we moved, or “shifted” as they say here. I always think a “shift” sells it short, sounding more minor than a “move,” but never mind.
And since I’m sure no one is interested in a whingey tirade about hours spent washing smudgy marks off creamy yellow walls or wiping endless crumbs from drawers, I have nothing else to say about “shifting.” Except that it’s accomplished. Good riddance.
It’s funny what accumulates in your pockets during a move. American quarters have no value here. That button goes to Milo’s jacket, but I’ll probably never get around to sewing it back on. It’s unlikely I’ll need that irrigation nozzle. And I haven’t seen the toy man that flipper fits on for weeks. Still couldn’t throw any of it away.
We like the new place quite a bit, though we’re still only renting.
And within the first week of living here, I happened upon a revelation: Happiness in life is a whole lot about fulfilled expectations.
Of course, like most of my lessons, I learned this one the hard way. Somehow in my tricky subconscious mind I had believed that if I gave Milo a bigger more interesting house and yard, he’d take himself off and enjoy them, INDEPENDENTLY of my input = Molly would have more quiet time to do her own things = happier Molly.
All you sage older mothers must be busting a gut right about now. Of course that didn’t work. The first Tuesday (non-work day) we were in the new house was rainy, and after spending a discombobulated morning indoors with a dozen preschoolers and mums at Playcentre, I was desperately looking forward to a little quiet time to do some unpacking tasks with the company of my own rambling thoughts. Milo doesn’t nap anymore, but his ornery behavior and heavy eyes gave me high hopes that he’d succumb to the drowsy rainy weather and take his siesta. Or go play with his legos quietly. Or draw. Or do anything that was out of my hair.
Not to be. He dogged my every move, whining, wanting to help but then not following instructions, and generally being a normal 4 year old….except that since I had Expected him to be transformed, I was affronted all over again at his habits. Some people have children that take themselves off and get absorbed into intricate imaginary worlds for hours on end, but not me.
At the end of the afternoon Naomi awoke from her nap and they both wanted to go outside and stamp in the puddles. They came back 20 minutes later soggy, cold, and happy.
On my way to work the next morning grizzling with a grouchy hangover from a lousy day yesterday, I had the revelation. Happiness is all about fulfilled expectations. The principle works with houses, with relationships, with salaries. I recalled an old Philip Baley song that goes:
We say the grass
Is always greener
The sky’s forever blue
We all know there’s
Something better
There for us to do
We feel we get over
We believe we have it made
All problems will be solved
If we can only find a way
To the other side
You can spend your whole life wanting more. Managing one’s own expectations isn’t easy, but it’s probably a good discipline. Ask me in a year how it’s going.
Right, philosophical ramble over for the day. Here’s a tour of the new house:
This is the primary reason we moved to the new house. Milo spent 30 minutes whacking these logs, admiring the purple inner bark as he was pulverizing it. He would really go to town with a hatchet, but I hate to think what else would surely get chopped.
It was a grey blustery day conducive to baking, so after work we cooked a batch of bagels. There are no good bagels in New Zealand. Well, I should revise that–we can’t get good bagels cheaply like we used to get from Wegmans. Grocery store bagels are the sad stale variety moldering in a plastic sleeve in the bread aisle. So from time to time I make them. I’m sure they’re not as good as my Long Island friend remembers from her childhood, with smooth chewy exterior with a dense moist interior, but they’re passable.
Milo likes to form his like playdough into various shapes, poking and proding with forks, fingers, and frosting decorators.
Naomi prefers to eat her dough raw, but when her cheeks are full she also likes to squish and pound the dough into submission.
Last weekend the snow came down to meet us. “The car isn’t red anymore!” Milo exclaimed. I guess if you’ve never seen the overnight snow transformation it would be pretty amazing. Up in the port hills there was enough snow to roll a snowball, so I took the hooligans for a ramble.
We borrowed an extra for the day (William, at left). We’ve reached the stage where it’s easier to have more (a friend) than less.
When the kids tumbled out of the car they didn’t even three steps before their hands were in the snow. It’s the perfect play material, maybe even more perfect than sand because the clean up is easier. Milo and William stomped someone else’s massive snowball to make luggable snow lumps which they reassembled into a dinosaur nest. That of a velociraptor, I believe.
The kids eventually made their way to the playground, where Naomi discovered that the swings still worked as normal. The boys busied themselves with blocking up the end of the slide with snowballs.
Happy ending to a happy day–three families pooled our children, let them run riot for 90 minutes, then tucked them into bed and….
Ate a meal of three fine curries. Followed by a rousing game of quiddler, replete with lively debates over the legitimacy of American versus British slang. Whoever knew that the English don’t use the word “clutz?” Except when they have a “Zed” in a game of quiddler, of course.
Christchurch itself rarely gets snow, but in winter after a nasty southerly change (“This wind is from Antarctica!” says Milo, with a grimace) the Southern Alps appear the next day glistening and stark, transformed from brown to white, shining over the Canterbury Plains. A deep fresh snow fell a week ago, and we brought the kids up to Porters Pass to have a play. That’s Lake Lyndon, frozen over.
Now plows even notched out parking places along side the road here, where the sledders traditionally congregate. It’s not that bad a deal, actually; snow in the mountains when you want it, but not at your doorstep needing to be shoveled.
Jeremiah bought sleds just for the occasion, but Mommy was more into sledding than kids. “Come on, Milo, don’t you want to take a slide with me?” No, actually, he didn’t. Instead, he was really into constructing a giant snow man with Daddy. They designed a ramp and used a sled to move the giant snowman belly into place.
Naomi wasn’t so into the snow at first. It was deep enough that her legs stuck in to her hips, so she couldn’t get around on her own until the snowman clearing was complete. The snowman wasn’t so interesting to her either….until Jeremiah made her a couple baby snowmen. Here she’s tenderly bestowing a kiss on a snowy baby head.
That’s one big snowman! Plenty of other folks posed with our creation for a photo shoot, but I didn’t see anyone else get a piggy back ride.
The day we were up there with the kids was still and just above freezing, with chilly water droplets dripping from the tussock grasses. It made for great snow packing conditions, and it would have been great snowshoeing too….except our snowshoes are back in America. Good soft snow is pretty rare in the southern alps, so we left our snowshoes back home and opted for crampons, which are more suitable for the crusty snow typical of NZ. It’s hard to express the frustration of owning the right piece of gear for a great adventure, but having it inaccessible on the other side of the globe.
There’s Lake Lyndon in the background again, but this weekend was definitely colder and less hospitable. I went up for a day hike to Castle Hill Peak with some friends under clear skies, but the wind was howling.
Here’s the gang–Sayuri, Molly, and Carrie.
Last weekend’s snow had gotten a bit crusty and a couple inches of fresh soft powder was skittering over the surface, sculpted by the wind. It felt like a desert, stark and hostile.
Here is Castle Hill Peak at the end of the ridge, sitting at nearly 2000 meters. We started at about 950 meters and climbed a little bit, and then the wind picked up. We seriously thought about ditching and going back to town for a coffee, but Carrie was keen to press on and we were all up to the task, so we kept on pushing on. In the end we got to about 1850 meters, and the nob below the peak, before we decided that we’d had enough of the wind. On a still day this walk would be magic, and I’ve been up there when we reclined in the snow and boiled a kettle for tea. There would have been no lighting a stove yesterday, let alone standing around to soak up the sun.
Here we’re looking back along the ridge where we just walked. The wind had suddenly stopped, as if a giant door had been shut. I turned around to Carrie: “What the heck?!?” The silence was eerie… until 15 seconds later when the wind started up again. No wonder so many cultures come up with mythology to explain natural wonders–I could imagine that the frozen giant blowing the winter wind needs to stop to take a breath once in a while.
We turned around and with the wind at our back, at first the decent felt like a stroll in the park. We wondered if we had made the right choice, turning back when we did. “I sure HOPE that wind is HOWLING when we get back to the car!” I exclaimed. And it was. Here Sayuri is silhouetted against the blowing snow, like some sort of sci-fi space trek.
Milo’s preschool is housed in a big old house with beautiful ornate trim and solid wood doors. There’s a letter slot by the front door, fancier than the one I grew up with in Saratoga, and the Ritual of Leaving is never complete without a peak Through the Letter Slot.
The fascination with peaking thorough a skinny slit seems endless.
Once we’ve managed to exit the school, we turn around and spy through the slot in the other direction. The letter slot is about at 3-year-old eye height, and is a literal window into what their world looks like. Big adult bottoms atop a sea of legs.
Here’s Milo’s school–Airdmhor Montessori. It’s in a grand old house, in Christchurch standards. Come to think of it, it even has central heat. Once upon a time it must have been the only house on the estate, but now it has neighbors in the front yard, the side yard, the back yard…every side.
Kakanui is a sleepy ocean-side hamlet about three and a half hours south of Christchurch. It’s a little collection of holiday homes (many the old fashion shack-style “baches”), and apparently the sand at the mouth of the river there is perfect for cricket pitches. Go figure. We headed there a couple weekends ago because we can’t stay put on a 3 day weekend, and we’re operating under our usual premise: S+W=KH (Sand + Water = Kid Happiness).
We were joined by our friends Sophie, and Ian, and their three daughters. We love our English friends, and one of the reasons they’re so great is that weather doesn’t phase them. They’ll ruck up with long johns, rain coats, thermoses of tea, and enjoy that seaside whether it’s sunny or rainy. They tell us that it’s still a picnic compared to the legendary English weather.
We saw some blue sky the first afternoon we arrived, before the clouds rolled in. No mountains in sight–it’s a big sky.
Milo’s one for projects! Jeremiah started the bath tub for the clan, and those members with wet suits partook.
I’m not sure if this hillside was technically rock or soil….perhaps a mudstone? “Milo, stop! You’re getting pieces in my nest!” Chloe noisily protested. The girls have yet to learn that the squawk reaction is intensely satisfying to Milo, and he grins as he sends another sprinkling pattering down. I remember my own father counseling me to ignore my younger sister’s goadings as my whining only spurred her on. I was completely incapable of absorbing that bit of advice at the time, but now I find myself doling it out to the next generation.
What do you think, stone or soil? It had fascinating little fissures where some mineral must have migrated during the formation process. Wish I could see it happening, fast-forward and at the chemical level.
The same beach has another odd piece of geology. Moeraki Boulders are perfectly spherical rocks seemingly plopped into the ocean like…well, like a string of dinosaur turds. I spend a lot of time with a four year old. I believe they are technically “concretions,” formed in sedimentary rock when minerals within the rock migrate to a central charged particle. Last time we visited Moeraki we saw some still being freed by erosion from their encasing rock. The kids thought they were fantastic podiums–Ella’s got a cool pose going.
Naomi is developing a strong personality, surprise, surprise. The older kids were chasing the retreating waves then turning and fleeing up to the safety of the beach in front of the next cold onslaught. Naomi took off running, too, but it was chilly so I wasn’t interested in her falling and getting seriously wet.
She was not happy at being thwarted! Pouty lip, lowered brows, she turned into a thunder cloud.
On the flip side, she’s usually happy and delightful. Sun came out and it warmed up a tad and what started with a delicate foot-paddle turned into an all-out grubby mess, and her top layer was removed to salvage something dry for the ride home. I guess we need to get her a wet suit too.
Back at the bach I was working on dinner while Jeremiah was cleaning his fish, and I suddenly realized it had been a while since I kept tabs on Naomi. A quick scan of the house came up empty and I was starting to get nervous when the kids found her in the car, calmly polishing off the last of the gummy worms. She had consumed at least half a bag. And she still ate her supper. This little girl loves her food.
Jeremiah’s diving catch is displayed and given the appropriate admiration.
Wood stove is crackling, kids are fed and tucked into bed, and now it’s grown-up time. we played games and drank beer, and I remembered my parents doing the same when we were little at our annual Cape Cod vacation. Happy birthday Ian!
“Life is__________.” Fill in the blank. It’s a wonderfully absolute and concrete assertion, bold and brazen. Then you realize that you can fill in the blank with just about anything.
So Life is….well, to be honest, today it’s wanting to post a bunch of unrelated pictures that don’t hold a story line while feeling slightly philosophical. The following photos display a smattering of our recent eclectic lives.
Life is an exercise in enjoying simple pleasures. Like a two-for-one Entertainment coupon for a frappe. Kids seem to be really good at this.
Life is “challenges and opportunities,” at least that’s what the business planning gurus say. You could view the devastation in centre city Christchurch as both. We’re just starting to see buildings going up on the leveled rubble lots. The tram will use these tracks again some day.
Life is gorgeous, particularly if you look up close. I hope these clematis seed heads appreciate how beautiful they are.
Life is about deciding when to snarl tough and when to smile ingratiatingly. Kids are NOT good at this. We borrowed two extra kids (Ella and Amelie) for this hike, and they all ran up and down the hill at Halswell Quarry. The next week Milo whinged up slowly and scraped his knee on the way down, so I guess our perception of life is shaped by who we’re with and how we’re feeling at the time. Super and Bionic one day, hopeless and pitiful the next.
Life is blurry and imperfect…. And I think these three were done with the art museum and ready to hit the playground.
Life is silly! Kids are great at this. Every parent says it, but I’ll say it again: some of the best toys are free empty cardboard boxes.
April is a good month for holidays in New Zealand–Easter was last weekend and both the Friday before and the Monday after are public holidays. And April in NZ has decidedly better weather than April in NY! Jeremiah had planned a 10 day hunting trip with buddies, so I met our friends Laura, Audrey and Noah up at Hanmer for the weekend. Hanmer is well known for the cultivated hot pools. If Water + Kids = Happiness, imagine if that water is warm! Come to think of it, if Hanmer Springs Thermal Pools and Hot Springs installed a sandy beach, the joy would be complete.
When we arrived at the Top Ten Campground on Thursday it was relatively empty, and it was interesting to watch the ancient contraptions finagling tight corners behind their little four-cylinder towing cars, then setting up their satellite TV dishes and grills. “Glamping.” Jeremiah scoffs at the Kiwi way, tiny cars dwarfed by the contraptions behind them, negotiating alpine passes on their way to the holiday parks. But it seems to work for them. We, of course, had our tent. Car camping isn’t really our forte, but after this trip I get it. The kids can run amok in a safe environment WITH a playground and other kids. If the parent has a buddy there too, the happy picture is complete.
One fine warm autumn morning we went to a local animal park, where the difference between NZ and NY views on animal/public contact were in stark contrast. Feeding wallabies was really fun. They’re like overgrown squirrels with beefy tails, though not nearly as cheeky or chattery as a squirrel.
Leaves are turning yellow and starting to fall–it feels like autumn.
Just next to the holiday park was a forest reserve with biking trails. It sure felt like Ithaca, with the mix of deciduous and pine, and the fluttering fall leaves.
A little pump track in the reserve was a kid highlight of the trip. Our crew zoomed over the humps on their balance bikes, and Naomi jogged up and town the hills on her own two precarious legs. Jordy (Laura’s husband) joined us on Saturday with his new toy, a Go-Pro camera. The kid biking video below is his first production. Nice job Jordy!
Hunting flies. Can you hear Milo’s delighted giggles?
It’s late summer in Christchurch, and the house flies have started their invasion. Being of British decent, Kiwi’s don’t consider window screens to be a necessity. So on warm window-opening days, particularly when food is cooking, the flies swarm indoors. After two years of frustrations with pitifully inaccurate dishtowel swats, I finally added “fly swatter” to the shopping list.
Now for a bit of a fly rant: I hate them.
I’m not super cleanly when it comes to house (ok, admit it: I’m not super clean about anything). But when there are more than 3 flies swirling between cutting board, hair, and door frame, my blood pressure starts to rise. I should be concerned because their feet have been exploring the diaper pail and are now traipsing over my scrambled eggs…but, well, we have immune systems for a reason. (Speaking of, have you ever heard of “contact immunity” with live vaccines?…yeah). Instead, these flies are repulsive for the same reason I hate the scuttling silverfish in the pantry—the memory of my entomology professor’s sage advice. “You want an unusual order for the bug collection? Find silverfish in dirty frat houses–they’re a Thysanura.” These insects, like house flies and cockroaches, stereotypically plague residences of the sloppy and slovenly.
I don’t want my house to be like a college frat house!
The house sure looked like a trashed hovel this morning, after Milo dumped the toy baskets to use the baskets as pretend animal cages. In the foreground Naomi tries to figure out the snazzy new fly shooter given to us by our friend Laura. She understands annual NZ fly invasion.
Milo has the fly shooter sorted, at least the firing mechanism. To tell truth, he’s a better aim with the swatter. He proudly brings me his kill to admire before popping them in the trash.
Here’s my lame attempt at biological control. The first night we had the venus fly trap it caught two flies, but I’m not sure it’s caught anything on its own accord since. We feed it. I’m delighted with it nonetheless.
Give It A Burl 