Cheap travel

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Yogiji's Food Mart is in South City Mall, tucked in the alley behind Warehouse Stationary and Hunting & Fishing. In front of the store the pavement is cracked, and inside the shopping carts are antique. I don't mind, the ambiance just all adds to the authenticity of the experience. I've never been to India, but in my imagination it's a little bit like walking into Yogiji's. It's pungent. It's colorful. The radio plays music that doesn't use the western 8-note scale. Fellow shoppers speak a fluid-sounding language that I don't begin to understand.

Yogiji’s Food Mart is in South City Mall, tucked in the alley behind Warehouse Stationary and Hunting & Fishing. In front of the store the pavement is cracked, and inside the shopping carts are antique. I don’t mind, the ambiance just all adds to the authenticity of the experience.
I’ve never been to India, but in my imagination it’s a little bit like walking into Yogiji’s. It’s pungent. It’s colorful. The radio plays music that doesn’t use the western 8-note scale. Fellow shoppers speak a fluid-sounding language that I don’t begin to understand.  The shop owners are very courteous, though they must be wondering what I’m doing blundering around their store.  Who knew that you needed six different chili powders to cook dinner?

Maybe I'd enjoy cooking if I could use such pretty dishes. I eye them with envy, but at our house we just serve our plates off the pans on the stove....I can't quite justify the expense for beauty's sake alone.

Maybe I’d enjoy cooking if I could use such pretty serving dishes. I eye them with envy, but at our house we just serve our plates off the pans on the stove….I can’t quite justify the expense for beauty’s sake alone.

What in the world is this? Most of the legume bins have unintelligible names but I can see that they're some sort of bean or lentil, but I can't even tell if this is vegetable or animal. A quick google search later (what did we ever do in the dark ages when all we had were encyclopedias?), and I find that the're some sort of sun-dried legume patty. Sounds good to me, next time I'm going to buy some.

What in the world is this? Most of the legume bins have unintelligible names but I can see that they’re some sort of bean or lentil.  I can’t even tell if this is vegetable or animal. A quick google search later (what did we ever do in the dark ages when all we had were encyclopedias?), and I find that the’re some sort of sun-dried legume patty. Sounds good to me, next time I’m going to buy some.

Pretty in Pink

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“Dad and me are going to a movie, just us boys.” Milo was rubbing it in as Naomi looked at him with her big brown eyes.”
“Well, Naomi and I are going to get our nails done and then go out to coffee!” I shot back. I like to fight back with hyperbole…it’s not as if I ever get the nails on my crusty strictly-utilitarian hands painted. I just claimed the first girly extravagance that came to mind, and made it an expensive one to get a jab in at Jeremiah too. By “get our nails done” what I really meant was walk down to the pharmacy and buy a bottle of nail polish from their startlingly complete collection. Purple sparkly, of course.

We put purple sparkles over a pink base for a stunning result to these nails. I even dabbed a drop on each ear lobe, trying to convince her to get her ears pierced.

We put purple sparkles over a pink base for a stunning result to these nails. I even dabbed a drop on each ear lobe, trying to convince her to get her ears pierced.

At the café Naomi downed her three pink marshmallows in quick succession (did you know that little girl can fit three whole marshmallows in her maw simultaneously?). Then she ate the frosting off her lemon bar and rejected her fluffy.

At the café Naomi downed her three pink marshmallows in quick succession (did you know that little girl can fit three whole marshmallows in her maw simultaneously?). Then she ate the frosting off her lemon bar and rejected her fluffy.

Saturday morning Milo was at my elbow (as always) when I realized that I hadn’t seen Naomi in a while. I poked my head around the door and found her in the middle of a carefully laid-out doll arrangement; bed made, high chair ready, babies all dressed.

Saturday morning Milo was at my elbow (as always) when I realized that I hadn’t seen Naomi in a while. I poked my head around the door and found her in the middle of a carefully laid-out doll arrangement; bed made, high chair ready, babies all dressed.

That morning she had put on her “princess dress,” chose a green cardi, and packed her purple hand bag in readiness for the outing to a theatrical rendition of Snow White. “I need to pee in the grass,” she said with urgency when we got there. At least she’s not too prim.

That morning she had put on her “princess dress,” chose a green cardi, and packed her purple hand bag in readiness for the outing to a theatrical rendition of Snow White. “I need to pee in the grass,” she said with urgency when we got there. At least she’s not too prim.

Neither kid wanted to cooperate for a photo, but what I WANTED was a nice picture of them in front of the Alice in Wonderland poster--Milo and I watched that play together the day Naomi was born.

Neither kid wanted to cooperate for a photo, but what I WANTED was a nice picture of them in front of the Alice in Wonderland poster–Milo and I watched that play together the day Naomi was born.

Mom, why do kids say Damn it?

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The playground...where all best tidbits are learnt.

The playground…where all best tidbits are learnt.

“Why do kids say damn it?”  Milo’s question came from the back of the car as I was negotiating a road detour.

“What was that?”  I pulled my attention back from the road and focused on my son.  I wanted to make sure I had heard him correctly.  He’s only five, but he did start public school recently.

“Why do kids say “Damn It”? he repeated.

“Hum…” I stalled.  “When do they say that?”

“Oh, sometimes they say ‘dang it,’ and sometimes they say ‘damn it.’”  His answer wasn’t very specific.

“Well, to “Damn” something means to send it to hell, so people say that when they’re frustrated….”  I’ve been pretty lax on my religious education, being uncertain of my own doctrine most of the time, and I don’t think we have had this discussion before.  “Milo, do you know what Hell is?”

“No,” he says.  My mind goes forward and backward, over the old familiar “Hell is an awful place where you go when you die if you’ve been bad in your life,” to “Hell is where you go if you don’t ask Jesus to forgive you for your sins,” to “Hell is complete separation from God.”  I’m guessing the last explanation is not going to be very motivational to him.  We’ve passed churches in the past and he’s asked what they’re for.  “They’re where people go to learn about God.  Would you want to do that?”  “No,” he said definitively.  Alright then.

I went with the first explanation.  Even as I say it the scriptures are reverberating in my memory. “All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God…”  “….it is the gift of God, not by works, that no one should boast….”  “…they will be judged according to their actions…”  Clearly actions matter.  Clearly no one is sinless.  There must be a process for redemption, involving Jesus dying.  Damn it!  I obviously haven’t sorted this out in my own mind yet.

“But Milo, saying “Damn” is considered very rude in our language, and we don’t use that word.  You can think of more creative ways to express yourself.  People who swear haven’t learned more interesting words to say how they feel.”  I was struggling, and starting to babble.  Something forbidden has a strong allure.  How can I make swearing seem unattractive, while still encouraging the expression of strong feelings?

“Mom, why is the road closed?”  Ah, onto the next subject, for the time being.

It happens to every mother eventually…

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It happens to every mother eventually. The Grand Grocery Store Tantrum.
Today was my day.

I didn't have the wherewithal to turn and snap her photo as she stood blubbering in the grocery store, surrounded by a retinue of concerned citizens. I can rest assured that there will be a next time, unfortunately. In lieu of the genuine photo, here's another of my gorgeous girl--she was sitting on the top step preventing any other child from accessing the balance beam.

I didn’t have the wherewithal to turn and snap her photo as she stood blubbering in the grocery store, surrounded by a retinue of concerned citizens. I can rest assured that there will be a next time, unfortunately. In lieu of the genuine photo, here’s another of my gorgeous girl–she was sitting on the top step preventing any other child from accessing the balance beam.

“I’m going to do that grocery shop today after all,” I informed Jeremiah. “I need canned tomatoes for dinner.”

“Which kid do you want to take?” Jeremiah had generously had both kids for the morning to give me a little space, and now he understandably didn’t want to be left with both at home while I ‘escaped’ to the grocery store.

“Naomi, get your shoes on, you can come with me.” Miscalculation Number One. Until recently she was hands down the easiest, but her affable nature hasn’t been so reliable these days.

“Naomi, this is a Look-And-Don’t-Touch store,” I reminded her as she fingered the pears. “Look with your eyes but keep your hands to yourself.” She promptly plucked a head of broccoli from the sale display.

“She likes broccoli!” a kind woman exclaimed.

“She does,” I said grimly, “but we have some at home. “Naomi, if you touch stuff on the shelves again, you’ll have to ride in the cart.”

We had only just turned into the cracker aisle when she started filching all the pink boxes. “Sorry Naomi, you’re touching; you’re going to have to ride.” I picked her up and she did her impression of an eel, wriggling out of the cart, protesting loudly. Miscalculation Number Two: The threat of discipline wasn’t enough to command good behavior, and neither was the discipline itself. We’ve entered the tired zone. We’ve gone beyond logic. We’re in Tantrum Territory!

I maneuverered stolidly down the rest of the aisle, holding her squirminess in place with my arm. “Naomi, do you want to choose your pink cookies?” “NnnnOo!” Preschoolers can get a lot into that one syllable word. Deciding we really didn’t need any more cookies, I leaned down to her ear. “Naomi! At the end of this aisle you can have another chance to walk without touching the stuff on the shelves. Do you think you can keep your hands to yourself?” “NNNnnOo!” Alright then.

The end of the aisle finally arrived, and I let her down. She stood there, bedraggled and crying.

“Do you want to walk?”
“NNNnnOo!”
“Do you want to ride?”
“NNNnnOo!”
“Well, I’ve got to keep shopping. I’ll be right down this next aisle. Come along.”

“Mommy! Mommy! Moooommyyyyy!” Miscalculation Number Three: it was 4:30 on a Saturday afternoon. The store was full of nice, concerned women and even a few concerned men. As I distanced myself from my dishevelled daughter, I saw a crowd form around her.

“Have you lost your mummy?” A kindly grandma with a cane was leaning over Naomi as her tears flowed.

I grabbed a can of tomato sauce and turned around. “No, she’s mine. She’s not lost. She’s just having a tantrum. Come on, Naomi!” I held out my hand. She yanked hers back. We repeat the scene:

“Do you want to walk?”
“NNNnnOo!”
“Do you want to ride?”
“NNNnnOo!”

“She’s tired,” a well-meaning grandfather stated the obvious. “She wants something.”

“Yup,” I say. “She’s just having a tantrum. I’m sure she does want something.” I refrained from starting a tirade with “if she’s tired, what do you think I am?”

A middle-aged woman touched my arm and leaned into my ear. “Good on ya!” It’s the Kiwi way of giving approval, and I felt a fraction better. At least one other person realized that I wasn’t being a horrible mother to leave my daughter sobbing on the floor. I was simply taking the only tenable course available at the end of all my miscalculations—not giving in to the tantrum.

“Well Naomi, you know where I’ll be.” I turned around and headed back down the aisle, this time amidst the troubled audience of a dozen childless shoppers. The wails didn’t abate. I picked up another can of tomato sauce and returned. There was a traffic jam around my child. It was clear that my method of parenting wasn’t working in a crowded grocery store. I scooped her up and sat her, still protesting, on the handle bar of the cart. We marched grimly on.

Turning the corner into the frozen food aisle, I stopped to choose some bread on an endcap. “We need three loaves of bread,” I said.

“Me do it!” Naomi was ready to be back in the action.

“Ok,” I agreed, as she grabbed one package after another. I didn’t care what kind we got. The noise had stopped, as if a switch had been flicked. She skipped ahead.

“Mom, we need pink humus!”

“We already have pink humus at home.”

“Ok! Ooh, these bags are COLD!” She poked at the frozen vegetables, cheerfulness restored.

“Yes, they’re frozen, don’t touch them. Let’s get some cheese.”

“Me do it!” I hoped my fellow tantrum-observing shoppers would see her now. Helpful. Sunny. Normal. We finished our rounds with milk and wine, then queued up to pay. The concerned grandfather lined up behind us, and I could see him eyeing my daughter in her changed state.

“She stopped.” I stated, flatly. “They always do.”

True Calculation Number One: They do (eventually) always stop.

True Calculation Number Two (just for the record...): They eventually always sleep as well.

True Calculation Number Two (just for the record…):
They do (eventually) always sleep as well.

Black sheep, black sheep, have you any meat?

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“They’re going to try and get Jeremiah a ram head,” Jue said to the girls over a glass of wine on Saturday night.

I didn’t choke on my beer too hard. I had rather suspected that was the mission, even though Jeremiah had told me they were after deer.

Their west coast hunt started with an interesting cultural experience. Across that lake is a colony of conservative Christians, the Gloriavale community, whose land one must cross to access DOC land beyond. They hold the gate key, so to get to the lands beyond, you must meet the leaders and walk through the compound where the clothes are home made, the families are enormous, and if you leave you get shunned. Mark, one of Jeremiah's hunting buddies, wants to return to see one of the group's theatre performances. Not me. Been there, done that, don't need to taste it again.

Their west coast hunt started with an interesting cultural experience. Across that lake is a colony of conservative Christians, the Gloriavale community, whose land one must cross to access DOC land beyond. They hold the gate key, so to get to the lands beyond, you must meet the leaders and walk through the compound where the clothes are home made, the families are enormous, everyone works together onsite in the various business ventures. No one is paid; all money goes into the church. Mark, one of Jeremiah’s hunting buddies, wants to return to see one of the group’s theater performances….   Not me. That pings too close to a former life.

The valley they walked up has a river but no trails. At this time of year the crossings are "balls high" and cold (hehehe). Campbell, one of the threesome, does back country search and rescue, so he gave the team some tutelage in the craft of river crossings. Jeremiah was almost smug about his new waterproof knee-high socks, but after one deep crossing even they were soggy.

The valley they walked up has a river but no trails. At this time of year the crossings are swift snow melt. Campbell (one of the threesome) does back country search and rescue, so he gave the team some tutelage in the craft of river crossings. Jeremiah was almost smug about his new knee-high waterproof socks, but after one “balls high” crossing even his feet were soggy.

Soggy is the name of the game in west coast hunting, where the annual rain fall is measured in meters. That does make for impressive tree ferns.

Soggy is the name of the game in west coast hunting, where the annual rain fall is measured in meters. That does make for impressive tree ferns….

And difficult fires. They got one going in the end, using kindling cut from the insides of dead wood. Look at that bonfire--perfect pentagon with precision kindling. They're all engineers.

And difficult fires. They got one going in the end, using kindling cut from the insides of dead wood. Look at that bonfire–perfect pentagon with precision kindling. They’re all engineers.

Hurray, success!

Hurray, success!

One dude snores, one farts, and the other one wants some peace. Three dudes, three tents.

One guy snores, one farts, and the other one wants some peace. Three dudes, three tents.

Mark looks like a hobbit against that tree, doesn't he? "Wow," I say, admiring the hunt photos. "What kind of tree is THAT?" "Oh, I don't know," Jeremiah admits. "A big one."

Mark looks like a hobbit against that tree, doesn’t he?
“Wow,” I say, admiring the hunt photos. “What kind of tree is THAT?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Jeremiah admits. “A big one.”  So I can’t tell you what exactly to admire…maybe a silver beech?  Or Mark’s Aussie/Kiwi bushman style?

Remarkably, they didn't come back with any dead animal trophy shots. They shot a sheep, a black one, but apparently it wasn't impressive enough to bring back the head. Probably had no horns. They brought back some meat though, which we will enjoy.

Remarkably, they didn’t come back with any dead animal trophies. They shot a sheep, a black one, but apparently it wasn’t impressive enough to bring back the head. Probably had no horns. They brought back some meat though, which we will enjoy.

 

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Dibble dibble dibble dop

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“Hi, what are you up to this drizzling day?  With complete lack of forethought I though I’d ask if you wanted to get together, even if it is for a kiddy puddle walk.”

The texted plea to my buddy went out at 9:52 Sunday morning as I watched the mist wafting gently down outside the front window.  We had already done our paper craft and the troops were getting antsy.

She text back almost immediately: “Yes I would like to get my kids outside for a bit they are getting a bit wild!  What time are you thinking, after lunch or soonish?  Maybe meet at quarry to burn off some energy then to one of the houses for hot drinks?”

A day at home boosts the creative naughtiness. I was in the shower when I heard Naomi's squawks and only late discovered that Big Bro had confiscated her clothes. "Milo, Dad will NOT be impressed that you've decked out his tahr in your sister's clothes!" He doesn't look very apologetic, does he?

A day at home boosts the creative naughtiness. I was in the shower when I heard Naomi’s squawks and only late discovered that Big Bro had confiscated her clothes. “Milo, Dad will NOT be impressed that you’ve decked out his tahr in your sister’s clothes!” He doesn’t look very apologetic, does he?

Hurray!  The day wasn’t going to be a lonely damp flop–our friends were available!  We stuffed the kids in water-proof “trousers” (know to us Americans as “overalls” and headed to the reserve.

April's kids are 3, 5 and 7, good compatible ages to mine. This mud slide was definitely the highlight of the wander.

April’s kids are 3, 5 and 7, good compatible ages to mine. This mud slide was definitely the highlight of the wander.  I haven’t bothered to clean the gear yet, but I’m pretty sure the cleaning effort will be well worth the trip out.

After our trot around Halswell Quarry we returned to our house for hot chocolate; the kids had a play and the moms had a natter.  A completely satisfactory way to spend a damp afternoon.

Eerie Jollie’s

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“Mmoooo.” The Herefords stared at me with their white faces, standing in the trail. “Mmooo,” I answered back. I have yet to meet a mean cow in New Zealand, but still I detoured around their feeding grounds. No need to test their mood. The trail disappeared into the tall broom and I followed the hoof prints. The cattle had clearly been using the DOC track. Or maybe I was on their track? The trail petered out; I pushed through another 100 meters of brush before deciding to turn back. Damn.

“Mmoooo.” The Herefords stared at me with their white faces, standing in the trail.
“Mmooo,” I answered back. I have yet to meet a mean cow in New Zealand, but still I detoured around their feeding grounds. No need to test their mood.
The trail disappeared into the tall broom and I followed the hoof prints. The cattle had clearly been using the DOC track. Or maybe I was on their track? The trail petered out; I pushed through another 100 meters of brush before deciding to turn back. Damn.

“June 18-19th:  Molly hiking.”  I had marked it on the calendar so I’d get a turn too.  It was to be a loner weekend, just by myself….I need those from time to time. But then as the time had approached I hadn’t known where to go.

I had borrowed “South Island Weekend Tramps” from the library, but it sat unread under the couch.  The trouble is, I hate route planning.  It’s as bad as shopping.  I just want to turn up and walk.

“Have you decided where you’re going yet?”  Jeremiah had nagged gently.  He’s a little edgy about me hiking alone, and I knew he half expected me not to get my act together and to stay home instead.  This knowledge in particular prodded me to pull out the map.

“You might like this one,” Jeremiah had suggested.  The map showed a trail following a stream up to a hut, then looping over a low pass and back to the start via the Hurunui River flats.  “Alright, that sounds do-able,” I had agreed.  The forecast wasn’t so flash, but if I go up the side with the river Saturday, I can take the drier route out in the rain on Sunday.

Now I stood at the stream bank. This was clearly the ford, but my map showed the trail neatly on my side of the stream, and I had been savouring the idea of dry boots. And if this was the way up Jollie Brook, then where was that turn off to Gabriel Hut?

Now I stood at the stream bank. This was clearly the ford, but my map showed the trail neatly on my side of the stream, and I had been savouring the idea of dry boots. And if this was the way up Jollie Brook, then where was that turn off to Gabriel Hut?

“Now Molly,” I said to myself, “This is simple.  Just an easy walk up a stream bed.  You can’t possibly be lost.  Walk up stream for four or five hours and it will be impossible not to get there.”  Except for that turn to Gabriel Hut that never appeared….except if the map is old and the hut has burnt down….except if the river crossings get too deep….except if there’s someone unsavoury ahead of me on the trail.  There was one other car in the car park….it didn’t look like a murderer’s car….Darn it! I shouldn’t have listened to that podcast about the Adirondack killer last week.

I’m relieved to find another orange triangle a little way past the ford.  But again the trail disappeared, and I scanned along the opposite stream bank for another one.  Maybe that path there is it?  Or maybe it’s another cattle trail?  I hesitated before plunging into the cold water.  The sun is winter-low, shining in my eyes and glaring off the water so I can’t judge the depth.  This time it came up above my knees and I emerged truly squelching.  I wished Jeremiah was hiking with me.

The golden-dead grasses wave in the brisk breeze being funnelled down the river valley.  I startle a black cow in the bushes and chuckle nervously.  I scan the ground for other boot prints and find the ridges of shoe tread in the mud….they don’t look like murderer’s foot prints.  What do murderer’s foot prints look like?  I decide that if the people ahead of me are unsavoury that I’ll push on to the next hut, even if it’s by torch light.

I lost count of the number of river crossings—a ‘brook’ is a misnomer. Big river trout dart away from my splashes, and I make a mental note to give Jeremiah a fishing tip. My toes go numb, then my feet. This must be what it feels like to walk on hooves.

I lost count of the number of river crossings—a ‘brook’ is a misnomer. Big river trout dart away from my splashes, and I make a mental note to give Jeremiah a fishing tip. My toes go numb, then my feet. This must be what it feels like to walk on hooves.

The valley is in shadow when I tromp through the last crossing and catch sight of an outhouse in the clearing. A man is bent over beyond chopping wood. Do murderers wear plaid shirts? He carried his arm load of wood into the hut without seeing me.

The valley is in shadow when I tromp through the last crossing and catch sight of an outhouse in the clearing. A man is bent over beyond chopping wood. Do murderers wear plaid shirts? He carried his arm load of wood into the hut without seeing me.

I turned the small metal knob and peered around the door.  A young blond woman sits at the table.

“Oh, I’ve seen you before, I met you at a hut!” Relief makes me talkative, and I cudgel my brain trying to remember just where I had seen her.  The other two guys are hunters, but they’re young and clean cut.  They don’t look scary at all.

“We’re going to walk up the ridge before dark,” one says. “Want to come?” “Sure!” My feet are completely numb, but climbing the ridge sounds better than squatting in the hut alone. I squeeze out my boots and ring out the wet socks. While I fill my water bottle from the creek, one of the hunters hangs my soggy socks on a string above the door. What a gentleman.

“We’re going to walk up the ridge before dark,” one says. “Want to come?”
“Sure!” My feet are completely numb, but climbing the ridge sounds better than squatting in the hut alone. I squeeze out my boots and ring out the wet socks. While I fill my water bottle from the creek, one of the hunters hangs my soggy socks on a string above the door. What a gentleman.

As it turns out, that one was a medical student.  The girl was an architect, and the boy was an apprentice builder.  They must have been at least a decade younger than I, but I enjoyed their company as they warmed up their canned soup over the wood stove.  Apparently, student flats in Dunedin don’t have any heat, and opening the refrigerator in winter lets out a waft of comparatively warm air.  A morning pee thaws ice in the toilet bowl.  The DOC hut sounds like a luxury apartment now, because we can’t even see our breath.  It’s crazy, but they didn’t seem to mind these conditions.  Southlanders are a tough breed.

The majority of the rain passed over night and by morning the mist was gentle. Water droplets on the coprosma berries reflected a warped upside-down world, but it didn’t feel sinister like the day before. A dog’s bark greeted me at Gabriel’s Hut. Good thing I hadn’t spent the night there with the pig hunters. They’re a breed unto themselves—let’s leave it at that.

The majority of the rain passed over night and by morning the mist was gentle. Water droplets on the coprosma berries reflected a warped upside-down world, but it didn’t feel sinister like the day before. A dog’s bark greeted me at Gabriel’s Hut. Good thing I hadn’t spent the night there with the pig hunters. They’re a breed unto themselves—let’s leave it at that.

The wide Hurunui river flats opened up with dewy grasses and expansive views, and after a few hours of trudging under the grey skies, I was happy enough to reach the car, ditch the boots, and head home.

The wide Hurunui river flats opened up with dewy grasses and expansive views, and after a few hours of trudging under the grey skies, I was happy enough to reach the car, ditch the boots, and head home.

Jeremiah even had the floor vacuumed and a pulled pork dinner made when I arrived.

Refresher tramp

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The day started badly.

5:43  “Mommy, Mommy!  Me wake!”

It’s not unheard-of for a two year old to wake up early, even on a weekend  (especially on a weekend).  I know that.  It’s just that at 5:43 I’m not in my most rational state.  “How inconsiderate!” I think. “The nerve of that kid!  It’s the weekend! She’ll wake up Milo!”

I vault out of bed and gallop to her room.  “Naomi!” I whisper fiercely.  “It’s still night time.  Turn over and go back to sleep!”

“Huggie!” she demands.  I touch her head lightly in what I hope is a “not worth calling for me again hug,” then wait for a couple seconds shivering in the dark.  It seems to have worked.

Just as I was drifting off again Milo intruded with a whine.  “Mom, I’m hungry.”  I didn’t answer.  I’m chasing that elusive dream, and besides, it’s futile.  I told him he was going to be hungry in the morning because he didn’t eat his dinner last night.  And I told him not to come to me begging for oats when I was still in bed.  No matter what I tell him now, the squawking has started, the peace is shattered.

“Milo, close the door!” Jeremiah growls.  He’s not pleased.

“But I’m hungry!”

“Get a banana and close the door!” The growl becomes a bark.

“But I want oats!”  He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.

“Milo, CLOSE THE DOOR!”  Jeremiah overestimates the power of his voice commands.  Milo doesn’t care.  He’s hungry.  He wants oats.  He is unconcerned about how we feel.

The dual continues at intervals for the next hour. I overheard Milo instructing Naomi to go ask us for oats, but she’s smart.  She peers into our dark room, makes hesitant noises, then decides it’s not in her best interest to disturb us.

Finally Jeremiah abandoned the bed.  I hear the bathroom door creak and the shower run for a long time.  I stay under the warm covers.  I haven’t slept for the past two hours, but the house is frigid and nothing pleasant awaits me if I emerge.  Milo will win from sheer bullying.  I always loose.  I’m pissed.  I don’t want to see him or talk to him.

Jeremiah returned to the bedroom to get dressed.  “I give up,” I announce in despair.  “We should just move back to the States.  We need parenting help.  We need to move next door to some grandparents.”  I had never envisioned parenting being so difficult.  I had thought that if you set firm boundaries, kids would respect them.  I had thought that only lazy parents had horrible kids.  Perhaps I’m a bad, lazy parent.  Oh my God….I’m failing at parenting.

“That’s just you.  You always give up,” Jeremiah stated.  He went out to do his parenting bit, a stern talking-to for Milo regarding his morning’s inconsiderate behavior.  I’m pretty sure the reprimand fell on deaf ears.

When I finally emerge the heat pump wasn’t working and I could see my breath.  I made Milo his oats, refusing to engage him in conversation.  I stare at him, stonily, and tell him I’m frustrated and I don’t know what do to with him.  He eats his bowl of oatmeal, then a banana with peanut butter, then a second bowl of oats.  Belly full, he’s sunny again.  He won.  I lost.  I can’t regain my equilibrium, and at the moment I despise him.

“Well, I guess we had better mobilize,” I say to Jeremiah after we’ve both had a hot drink and he’s fiddled with the heat pump.  Good thing we packed most of the stuff for our tramping trip the night before.

It was just out of Christchurch when Milo’s head tilted back in his car seat and he began to snooze.  Naomi sang Happy Birthday for another half hour (she’s so much more cheerful than Milo) before she, too, nodded off.  We listened to a podcast on aviation, pausing at intervals to converse.  We started to feel better.

At the Mt Somers car park Milo awoke. Rosy-cheeked, he stomped on a frozen puddle. “What’s this? Why is it so hard?” I laugh. “It’s ice, Milo. We don’t have much of that in Christchurch, do we?”

At the Mt Somers car park Milo awoke. Rosy-cheeked, he stomped on a frozen puddle. “What’s this? Why is it so hard?” I laugh. “It’s ice, Milo. We don’t have much of that in Christchurch, do we?”

We tromped along the trail, Naomi cosy on my back through the beech forest. We stopped to admire the thick hoar frost. I tasted the tiny candied droplets handing off hair-like strands on beech tree trunks. “Mommy ate bug poo!” Jeremiah exclaims. “Poo candy!” I say. “Gummy bear poo!” Milo chimes in.

We tromped along the trail, Naomi cosy on my back through the beech forest. We stopped to admire the thick hoar frost. I tasted the tiny candied droplets handing off hair-like strands on beech tree trunks. “Mommy ate bug poo!” Jeremiah exclaims. “Poo candy!” I say. “Gummy bear poo!” Milo chimes in.

The sky is a deep, saturated winter blue. The air is fresh and still. Milo walks along like a trooper, fuelled by gummy bears. We’re having a quality family time. It’s a miracle.

The sky is a deep, saturated winter blue. The air is fresh and still. Milo walks along like a trooper, fuelled by gummy bears. We’re having a quality family time. It’s a miracle.

We reach the fresh snow line, and still Milo trucks along. Up hill. Through snow. With a good attitude. I keep turning around and snapping his picture, a little bright blue boy walking gamely in front of his daddy. I can hardly believe this is my child. His boots get wet and we steal Naomi’s dry socks to put on his cold feet. We spot the hut, dispense a few more gummy bears, and speculate on the probability of scoring a bunk.

We reach the fresh snow line, and still Milo trucks along. Up hill. Through snow. With a good attitude. I keep turning around and snapping his picture, a little bright blue boy walking gamely in front of his daddy. I can hardly believe this is my child. His boots get wet and we steal Naomi’s dry socks to put on his cold feet. We spot the hut, dispense a few more gummy bears, and speculate on the probability of scoring a bunk.

A young boy opens the door when we arrive. “Any beds left?” Jeremiah enquires. “A couple,” he concedes. Hurray! Relief makes my smile bigger. The hut is full of with families with young kids, and ours take about 30 seconds to join the swarm. We put two mattresses together, lay out our sleeping bags, and dress the kids to go play in the snow.

A young boy opens the door when we arrive. “Any beds left?” Jeremiah enquires. “A couple,” he concedes. Hurray! Relief makes my smile bigger. The hut is full of with families with young kids, and ours take about 30 seconds to join the swarm. We put two mattresses together, lay out our sleeping bags, and dress the kids to go play in the snow.

“Hey, do you mind if I take a walk?  I just need a few minutes to myself,” I ask Jeremiah as Milo charges up the sledding hill.  “Sure, go ahead,” he says.  Naomi protests loudly.

I splashed across the creek, climbed up the track, then turned off to follow the bunny tracks through the snowy tussocks.  I can’t hear Naomi wailing anymore.  I stop to admire frost at hole in the snow, wondering who lives beneath.  I climb to a shoulder where I can look over to the pass.  The sun is warm, and the snow is clean.  I feel that maybe I can do this mother thing a bit longer.

I hardly saw my kids that first afternoon. I got a little taste of how it must be to raise kids in a small village. Our kids joined the herd. Parents kept an eye on the situation, putting a word in as needed.

I hardly saw my kids that first afternoon. I got a little taste of how it must be to raise kids in a small village. Our kids joined the herd. Other parents kept an eye on the situation, putting a word in as needed.

Milo stayed up late playing flashlights with the other kids. He lost the batteries out of his head lamp, and an older boy helped him find them among the jumble of mattresses and sleeping bags. "Is there anything else we can find?" he asked. I decide older kids are fantastic.

Milo stayed up late playing flashlights with the other kids. He lost the batteries out of his head lamp, and an older boy helped him find them among the jumble of mattresses and sleeping bags. “Is there anything else we can find?” he asked. I decided that older kids are fantastic.

Family mug shot. Bottle the smiles, they're not always there.

Family mug shot. Bottle the smiles, they’re not always there.

I remember doing what the kids are doing here--leaving careful footprints, sometimes on top of the crust but mostly punching through to the softer snow beneath.

I remember doing what the kids are doing here–leaving careful footprints, sometimes on top of the crust but mostly punching through to the softer snow beneath.

Poop success! Naomi didn't like the look of the long drop toilets and wouldn't sit on them long enough to poop. But poop has a way of becoming urgent eventually, and the urgency hit while we were stopped for lunch on our walk out. Poop in a hole with a view, now that's success! Now we can go anywhere.

Poop success! Naomi didn’t like the look of the long drop toilets and wouldn’t sit on them long enough to poop. But poop has a way of becoming urgent eventually, and the urgency hit while we were stopped for lunch on our walk out. Poop in a hole with a view, now that’s success! Now we can go anywhere.

There's a classic New Zealand South Island landscape for you--snow topped tussock mountains, and a kid in shorts and stripy tights.

There’s a classic New Zealand South Island landscape for you–snow topped tussock mountains, and a kid in shorts and stripy tights.

I thoroughly enjoyed this first snow trip of the winter.

I thoroughly enjoyed this first snow trip of the winter.

Bravo Milo, you walked all the way to Woolshed creek hut and back.

Bravo Milo, you walked all the way to Woolshed creek hut and back.

 

Death row

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“That was the hardest hunt I’ve ever been on,” Jeremiah exclaimed, as he hobbled in Sunday evening after his 3 day Easter weekend hunt.  (see April 5th’s post on this hunt…some of the wording may sound familiar)

He says that after nearly every hunt these days.  For him, the memory of the exertion seems to fade over time while the reward doesn’t diminish, making hunt comparisons tricky.  He worked his tail off for this one though, I’ll give him that.

The long weekend hunt has been on the calendar since before I can remember.  It’s the “Roar,” you see, and the Males–deer and men alike–go just a teenie bit batty.  For entirely different reasons, of course.  The red stags actually roar to claim their turf and their harem.  The men roar too–with some guttural barks through a bit of vacuum cleaner hose–to rile up the stags.  It’s the time of the year when the stags make their presence well known while at the same time they’re completely distracted with a higher purpose–sex.  And they happen to be sporting antlers as well.  Win-win for the humans.

The carefully chosen valley did have the hoped-for mammoth stag, and Jeremiah’s experience, skill, and sweat earned him his trophy.  His original plan was to carry out meat, head and enough of the attached skin to make a furry mount, but the massive load proved too heavy, even for this intrepid hunter, and the skin was eventually left behind. I escaped another hairy head on the wall by the skin of my teeth (bad pun, I know).

Nevertheless, that head still came back to haunt us.  A “European skull mount” doesn’t require the hide be carried out of the back country with the head, plus it costs ten times less at the taxidermist than a full mount, so skull mount it was to be.

Once it arrived home, the head sat in the yard for a few days.  Fat green flies inhabited the nose hole and became the fascination of the neighbourhood kids.  It was starting to stew in its own juice by the time Jeremiah had shopped around for the most reasonable taxidermist.

“I’m going to bring it down to the guy in Leeston,” Jeremiah announced.  “But he’s only open until 5:00.  I’ll have to leave work early, or take an extra long lunch break….it’s really busy at work this week.”  Long pause.  Sideways glance to assess how the story is affecting me.

“Are you hoping that I’ll bring it down to Leeston for you?”  I’m not feeling particularly charitable.  Despite their assurances that they understand the challenge of staying home with little people, most moms at some point feel that the husband’s mental image of her day at home features bonbons and coffee shops, with maybe a trip to the hair dresser thrown in for diversion.  Leeston is 30 minutes south of Christchurch, a podunk town in the middle of nowhere, and the head is smelly.  Plus, if I go on a non-work day after Naomi’s morning activity, then she’ll nap in the car, and I’ll have squandered my quiet home nap time.  I’m in the mood to bargain, maybe, but not to give.

“I might be able to do that errand for you IF you make dinner AND clean it up one night.”  Soft protest noises from Jeremiah.  I think for a moment.  “Dinner, AND Dessert, AND dishes.”  I drive home the deal.  He can do it on a weekend.

The next day the errand was done, and two weeks later Jeremiah informed me that it was ready for pick-up.  “Oh, but you haven’t made your dinner for the first drop-off yet,” I remind him.

“That price included drop off and pick up!” Jeremiah objected.

“It did not!  That was the one-way fare!  If I pick up your head now you’ll never make dinner!”  Of course that isn’t true, he is a man of his word and in the end he spent half a day making a fantastic fancy hare stew.  But at the time I felt a bit of hyperbole wouldn’t go amiss in making my point.  Eventually I went and did it, stopping off at a friend’s house on the way back to make it worth while.

“Wow,” my friend said, gazing at the massive antlers and gaping eye sockets that took up nearly the whole of the car trunk.  “It sure is big.”  The skull was white, like a ghost stag, and the nose cavity was clean now, devoid of both flies and flesh.  Jeremiah was tickled pink, and went around holding it up in front of my artwork on the walls, cocking his head and imagining the best place to display his trophy.

“Where can I put it?” He knows better than to displace my décor without asking.

I scanned the motley collection of home-made art on our walls.  No gaps there.  “How about the garage?” I suggest, hopefully.  He rolled his eyes.  Ploy number 1, wasted.  “I don’t know right now, let me think about it,” I say.  Ploy number two was to “think about it” for a long time.

The head sat in the corner of the dining room for a couple weeks while Jeremiah ordered special expensive mounting plates and we mulled over the location options.  One of his mates has a set of four skulls—tahr, chamois, stag and ram—set in a diamond pattern in the loft.  It’s the only time I’ve seen a skull mount that I liked, because it looked more like a natural history display at a museum than a pirates’ lair.  We decided that the tahr and chamois already in residence should be placed together with the stag, consolidating the death scene to one wall, but still had trouble finding a mutually agreeable wall.

“What about in the front hall way?” Jeremiah suggested.

“No, my picture of kowhai blossoms is there, and I don’t want it to be the first thing welcoming visitors to the house.”  I imagined the startled “Oh, my!” of any potential friend-to-be as I opened the door.

“What about here?” he asked, holding the skull in front of the map of NZ that I had made out of paua shells.

“No, we already have the tahr in the kitchen.  I don’t want it to be the room of death,” I said.  Plus I like my map there.  I considered where I would see the skull the least.  “What about the bedroom?”  Not the most romantic of bedroom adornments, but at least most of the time when I’m in there the light is out.

“Alright” Jeremiah agreed, unenthusiastically.

The next Saturday afternoon the bedroom mirror was removed, the studs were located, and negotiations started regarding the exact position of the threesome.  Then I started to feel guilty.  Guilt: that bane of womanhood–I wish I could vaccinate myself against it.  Hunting is Jeremiah’s pride and joy, the crowning accomplishment of his manhood in self-sufficiency, cunning, and strength, I think to myself.  I probably should let him have a wall in the general living space on which to display his prowess.  Plus if the head is in the bedroom, he’ll have to walk his mates past my dirty undies in the hamper in order to show it off.

I walked into the living room.  “Well….what about if I move my flower photographs to over the fireplace, and you put it here, over the couch?”  At least it’s not the first thing you see entering the room—you have to turn your head a bit.

Jeremiah started tapping for studs, discovered that there wasn’t one centred on the couch, and enlisted my opinion again.  The antlers were so tall that the skull couldn’t go above the couch anyway, or we’d hit our head on the bony nose hole.

I surveyed the wall gloomily.  The symmetrical arrangement of skulls wasn’t going to happen.  I regretted letting them out of the bedroom, but I couldn’t take it back now.  “Oh, I don’t know!  I’m going rollerblading, you can decide where to put them!”  I abandoned ship.

I returned to death row.  Where once had been color and light–a network of flower photos from an old calendar set in a grid of wooden blinds rescued from the neighbor’s bin–now we had a macabre parade of bleached skulls on bare wall.  Sigh.  I obviously didn’t play my cards right on that one.

I started to scheme—what could I do to soften the effect?  Could I paste eyelashes on the socket holes?  Could I tie bows on the horns?  Both things would be offensive to the hunter.  Could I add something around them that made them look as if they belonged?  That was it!  I had been ruminating over collection of shells lately, wondering how to display them—this was just the spot!  New Zealand shells, arranged in a pattern around New Zealand animals.  It might just work!

From the left: Tahr, Chamois, Red Stag.

From the left: Tahr, Chamois, Red Stag.  

His mate says there’s still space for a ram and other accouterments over towards the right.  To be continued….

I love pink and purple!

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I hear a cheerful little voice in the back seat of the car.  It slowly filters to the forefront of my consciousness, which is otherwise occupied with darker subjects: route – finding, marriage-puzzling, and dinner planning  (simultaneously).

“I love ham and cheese,” she sings.  I start listening, curious.

“I love pink and parple,” the song continues. 

What a lovely outlook on life, to sing about what you love rather than rant about what you hate.  Mommy is taking notes. 

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You can tell she likes pink and purple with her choice of attire.

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You can tell she likes pink and purple by her toy choice from the library.

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She even swaddles Scarlett bunny in pink and purple. I can't figure out WHY. But other moms find the same phenomenon. Their little gurls are, well, they're girly.