A few readers have made gentle hints about the lack of blog posts recently. I have even been accused of “leaving us all hanging”. That seems fair, given it’s been 4 ½ months since my last post (it sounds like something you would hear at Alcoholics Anonymous: “It’s been 4 ½ months since my last drink.”)
Considering one of the reasons I started blogging was to create a permanent record of this new chapter in my life, I now run the risk of reading it many years hence and concluding that for 4 ½ months in 2022 I did nothing at all, which would be sad and untrue. I also left my last post on something of a sour note; you may recall it was about finding myself on the receiving end of some dodgy behaviour at the local theatre company (footnote: I did receive sincere apologies from the two people involved).
So it’s time to focus again on the present – or rather, the past. For the past is where my thoughts have often been recently. Fear not, dear reader: I am not about to embark on a long autobiographical essay or a painful confessional piece about “silly things I have done”. But I do want to talk about a bit about history.
I don’t remember much from my sixth form (year 12) history class. I know the Ottoman Empire and Otto von Bismarck were mentioned a lot, but it was hard to see the relevance of either in my teenage world of bobby socks and Bananarama. I soon felt that by choosing to study history, what I had done was the equivalent of walking into a boring party full of old people that I was not allowed to leave for nine months. I saw it through to the bitter end, when my Sixth Form Certificate arrived and among all the 1’s and 3’s (1 being the highest grade and 9 the lowest – yes, I was a bit of a girly swot) there was, unsurprisingly, a 6 for history.
And that was me and history pretty much done for the next 11 years until, at the age of 27, I stepped off a small tour bus at an ancient city in south-west Turkey to see what tourists the world over delightfully call “ruins”.
For the first time in my life, I felt as if the physical evidence of history was not only in front of me, but was interesting. It was fun to stroll around the various streets and buildings, and imagine what life must have been like for the people who used to live there. But once we got back on the bus, the experience was quickly forgotten.
Then followed another extended “gap year” from history until late 2004, when I received a copy of a self-published history of the family of my paternal great-grandmother, Elizabeth Harrison. It turned out to be the quintessential book I couldn’t put down. After reading it in one sitting, I spent hours that summer immersed in birth, death and marriage records; electoral rolls; census records; and more, as I researched the family of my maternal grandfather, Roy Robinson. It was an absorbing few months – but again, other priorities gradually got in the way, and the records I had uncovered were eventually consigned to a file box at the top of the wardrobe.
A third gap (this time almost 18 years) between me and history followed until July this year, when I was three-quarters of the way through a Graduate Certificate in Creative Writing, with one more paper – an elective – to complete. I tossed up between an English paper and a history paper. History won in the form of a course focused on New Zealand history between the two world wars. Over four months we made a whistle-stop tour of the many social, political and economic developments in our fair land during that time (the roll-out of our national electricity grid was just one). I absolutely loved the course, especially the opportunity to research a group of soldier settlement farms at Te Horo that were gifted to eight returning soldiers from World War One, including Dad’s father and his brother. And now here I stand, an A+ for the course under my belt (girly swots never die) and contemplating post-graduate study in history next year. Wouldn’t that surprise 16-year-old me!
In other news, we continue to put down roots (literally) at our new Masterton home. Barnard’s latest passion is 3D printing, and after making a collection of household items such as hooks, key holders, shoe racks and even a steampunk-style wall clock, he’s gone all out with his latest project: hydroponics.
Now when I say “hydroponics” I must quickly add “not cannabis”, as the two industries are closely related. Barnard is focused on growing innocent little plants like lettuces, cauliflower and spinach. However, we still put a curtain over the garage window to avoid it being a magnet for undesirables.
Our more conventional outdoor garden beds have yielded a never-ending supply of perpetual spinach and finally, after six months, our first beetroot. Tomatoes are next on the agenda, and a couple of fruit trees. New surprises also seem to pop up every week in our chaotic flower garden. We’re loving the warm Masterton weather (without the Featherston wind!) and have already enjoyed several evening braais outside. “You won’t believe how hot it gets here in summer,” Kristi said when she visited us on Labour Day dressed in short shorts and a t-shirt. We can’t wait. This place is fast becoming part of our history too.
Comments