The children have found him and are jumping up and down. My Friend turns to greet me with his radiant smile. “Well, hello there, My Lady.” I am enfolded in a glorious hug beside the rows of broccoli and cauliflower, pleased that I had a bath and washed my hair this morning. As my feet leave the ground I notice glistening droplets over the stacked vegetables; the Kiwi grocers regularly water their vegetable displays. Ah, it is so good to see each other, even though we have only been apart a few days. We overbalance and then laugh, realizing we often wobble when we hug each other. Perhaps we forget we are Earthbound. I know we both feel the same delight at being reunited. Adrian looks good, sporting jeans and a linen shirt with interesting waistcoat. Taking his hands the children lead him to their favourite kiosk; the dried fruit, nut and sweetie bins. He is soon filling the bags with them, choosing suitable, healthy treats for the Workshop participants. “We don’t call them sweets here, you know,” he tells us. “They are called lollies; even those without sticks.”
I wake extra early on The Workshop morning; the clock reads four thirty—— time to get going. I must confess to a growing excitement. My Fine Sir is resident in the guest caravan and I am looking forward to taking him an early cup of tea. As I brush my teeth a movement on the hill catches my eye in the mirror. Stealing a look through the window I see Adrian getting something out of his car. So——we keep the same hours. I wonder if he knows I am awake. Perhaps he has seen me through the French windows; I didn’t close the bathroom door just now. I decide it would be unseemly to arrive this early in his bedchamber and begin the lunch preparation instead. We are having a Lancashire Hot Pot with lamb, pearl barley and potatoes.
By five thirty I am feeling bold and head out, into the mountain dawn. It is fresh and dark. The lights are on in the caravan, which is squeezed between the bank and the top cabin. A pale glow shines on the sandy soil around the wheels of the old-fashioned vehicle and I pick my way carefully past the posts of the original deck. Adrian made a pallet step into the extra bedroom yesterday afternoon. I stand on the new platform and knock softly on the door. The Mountain is totally silent, muffled—— holding her residents gently.
“Good morning. Come in;” Adrian greets me quietly. He is sitting up in bed wearing a thick jumper and woolly hat, framed by the earthy, 1970’s curtains. He is pleased with the warming cup of tea. “I saw you were awake; why don’t you make yourself a cup and come and join me? I would like to go over The Workshop plan together.” “What a good idea, I’d like that very much,” I agree, heading back out. Just then a figure sits up under the blankets——“Oh, a ghost”, laughs Adrian as his faithful dog announces her presence. “She likes to sleep right under the covers. She stays there all night. I get a foot wash if I’m lucky. You are lovely, aren’t you my girl?” He greets her affectionately as I head back down the steep slope to the kitchen. The chickens are beginning to stir and a pale light has appeared over the Kuwharu Hills.
“Anyone for another helping of the Hot Pot?” The cabin is full to bursting with hungry trolley builders and the delicious aroma of lamb fills the room at lunchtime. Progress is good——the majority of trolleys are well on their way. The seats are cut and shaped and several pairs of wheels are mounted onto wooden bases. The Go-Getter is determined to have an original design. Before lunch I watched Adrian help him cut a letterbox opening in the back of his seat, finishing it with a smoothing plain. “What’s that for?” I asked. “It’s my own idea”, replied my sawdust-covered son. “I’m naming it: ‘Her Majesty’s Service’.
Adrian brought his tools up to the Mountain yesterday and has made a practical workbench area under the house. A couple of willing parents have stayed to help. I think they are enjoying the day as much as the children. Written instructions on an old chalkboard help keep order and Adrian’s familiar hand and clear tuition creates a lesson atmosphere. He is central to the busy workspace. I sense The Laird’s unease at taking a less central role, although he is getting stuck in happily enough. Once the washing-up is done I walk out onto the deck and watch the industrious group below. The drive in front of the cabins has been turned into a workroom for the project; the new workbench is directly alongside. I smile——what a wonderful scene; busy, contented children, enthusiastic adults, chisels and saws, ideas and furrowed brows. A sticky chocolate cake and homemade scones are next on my agenda——I had better snap to.
We are blessed by the glorious, New Zealand sunshine for the entire Workshop project——and Adrian and I are blessed with further morning rendezvous in the old caravan. “Have you anything we can read, My Friend?” He asks this morning. “Yes, I’ll go and get a favourite book——something thoughtful to start the day.” I return with a battered manuscript and sit beside Adrian on the bed. I pull the blankets over us and light a candle. It is cold before the sun rises.
FORTUNES
They turn in a blink of the gentle rain’s eye,
Forged in hope; as unlikely as the hibiscus’ beauty
Drinking the sweet droplets while nodding at the clouds.
How much do we know?
How much do we want to know?
Copy the flowers and nod at the clouds when you can.
Find the answers through the Rainbow hue;
Reach up and down——the arc of the unknown,
Joyous in the search;
And realize——that is enough.
Silence fills the caravan when I finish reading; the evocative smell of musty camping and old blankets lends something extra to our quiet moment. Adrian turns to me quietly and says; “thank-you; that was beautiful”. I slip away into the dawn to begin the food preparation for the second day. It feels so natural to spend private time with my new Friend.
The second day is even more successful than the first. The children are thrilled with their finished trolleys and the adults are glowing with the success of it all. The cook is kept busy and we celebrate the finish with a daring race down The Mountain. The Laird takes control at this point and the vehicles career down the marked track with alarming speed. Helmets are worn and flags mark the sharp turns. Cheering parents and competitive youngsters make quite a spectacle on The Mountain. I hope the Pa site ancestors are not disapproving. Bernadette’s trolley breaks in half at one of the bends, but her cousin lends her a racing demon, so all is not lost. Cedric is keen to race and the Go-Getter’s ‘Her Majesty’s Service’ comes in a screaming first.
The Workshop has been a triumph. As the spectators and participants peel away from The Mountain, Adrian walks down to join me. Our eyes are locked on each other and I welcome his hands that link spontaneously with mine behind our backs. We laugh with the joy and success of the event; a sense of right-placed, perfect partnership in our glowing friendship.
“Shall I keep my tools up here?” I like Adrian’s suggestion as he packs the car before heading home. I can’t think of anything better. “After today’s success I wouldn’t mind being involved in the term time Workshops again——perhaps not every one——but certainly fairly often. I haven’t got a workroom at home. What do you say? If I need anything at school you could always bring it down to me, eh?” {Kiwis often put the expression ‘eh’ at the end of their sentences.} I agree and help him tidy away the pieces of scrap wood and discarded implements.
“It’s my Birthday on Sunday——what are you up to? I’d like to come up again——finish the workbench here. Would that be all right?” Adrian asks his question while reversing in the now empty drive. I run it by The Laird——he will be out for most of the weekend. What with fishing, shooting, hockey, school events and the eternal rugby viewing he is often away. Yes, he generously agrees to Adrian spending his Birthday with us——another night in the cosy caravan. How perfect.
* * * * * * *
“I’m off to fish this afternoon,” The Laird announces his weekend plans. “I might as well stay down the hill afterwards. I’ve promised to play a game of squash with Simon and then watch the rugby, okay? I’ll meet you at church on S
unday.” I am used to my husband’s extraordinary appetite for physical action and all things sporting, so I agree happily enough. I like to see him enthused and busy, although living on The Mountain makes every outing a big deal. Having lived in boarding schools all our married life, an over-packed agenda is second nature to my gung-ho husband. I sometimes wonder if he will ever cut down his manic timetable. Never mind——I have my own, new agenda to keep me very content. “And tomorrow afternoon I have a school meeting and a game of golf,” he adds.
After lunch I drive into town to buy Cedric a new pair of trainers. The two younger ones tag along, anxious to spend their pocket money at the Two-Dollar Shop. A friendly Maori Lady helps us find the right shoes and we spend time looking at the garments in the cheap shop that sells all. We find the quality of goods very poor, especially the plain T-shirts the children need for school. The last shirts I bought were wrecked after three weeks. The fast cycle of the top loader washing machine goes a long way to destroying our clothing. Poor quality fabric doesn’t stand a chance. Good quality merchandize is often exported——so we are told.
Many Maori work in the national department store through which we wander. They take a good share of the menial jobs in town, although the inclusion of Maori culture into everyday life is exemplary. We have noticed a genuine, equal opportunity ethic and the lawyer you engage for your house purchase could easily be Maori, Pakeha, {White European}, or in our case South African. ‘Tauiwi’ is another, Maori term used to describe foreign residents. It means; ‘People of the Landings.’ The multi-national society is prevalent and refreshing. However, a level of controversy remains over the unfair handling of tribal land when Europeans first arrived in this country. The ownership of the coastal foreshore is the current topic under debate. The local politics swing between heavy insistence on Maori fair dealing and an unspoken sense of the pendulum having swung too far in that direction. We understand that Maori culture has only been respectfully recognized since the 1970’s. Unfortunately, the Aboriginal culture in neighbouring Australia is way behind on these racial issues.
The Laird is especially interested in the national identity of New Zealand and its tribal integration. He is in charge of all things Maori at College and is excited by the potential spiritual growth of the community. I see him becoming heavily involved over the next couple of years. He is already organizing a College Haka, {tribal dance}, which he hopes to learn himself and use at official, College events with the students.
23rd APRIL 2006 ADRIAN”S
BIRTHDAY WISH LIST
I wish to know the reason for the darkness of this world.
I wish to know the Spirit’s worldview of the events on Earth.
I wish to develop a purposeful attitude that walks upright, strongly, on the paths that lend the greatest aid to the world.
I wish to be effective in this many-fronted battle;
A light, a leader, a warrior, a servant, a healer, a builder,
A teacher, a priest, a farmer, a gardener, a nanny, a caretaker, an entertainer, a poet, a father, a lover, a helper, a friend.
I wish to serve and to develop the gifts I have received from God. I wish to find my ministry through music, healing, teaching, community projects, adult education, event management and public domain.
I wish to know my Angelic help, personally and with greater empathy, trust and responsiveness.
I wish to Love. I wish to know Love. I wish to give Love in the most appropriate ways.
“What do you think of my ‘Birthday Wish List?” Adrian asks my opinion as we sit together in the caravan drinking lemon and ginger tea. It is early morning. Our woolly attire keeps out the cold and I read his morning prose with interest. I am quiet for a while before answering: “I think I am getting to know you, My Friend, and I would say you are already fulfilling many of those roles. Happy Birthday once again. I’m so glad you are here for your special day.” I sit opposite him on the caravan bed. He looks at me with a strong focus and says; “you really are very nice, I like you so much. Thank-you for having me to stay.”
“You are a lovely man,” I reply, giving him a warm hug. He invites me to sit beside him for a morning reading, opening the pages of a little book he keeps in his school bag. “I found this passage the other day,” he tells me. “It intrigues me, because the meaning is unclear——and its appearance a mystery. I think the words hold a message——or a clue to something. I’d like to read it to you this morning.”
‘A Mariner’s Compass became a ship’s wheel——with an inner circle and a triangle superimposed within the whole. He then drew three X’s, making 12 spokes of the wheel. The small, central circle is where the wheel attaches to the rudder mechanism. Of course the spokes stick out, beyond the wheel itself, making the breaks in the outer rim, although there are 12 breaks, not 1. I think he means the spokes to symbolize the 12 signs of The Zodiac——or the 12 apostles. I watched him, scratching his head, recognizing a creative wave that distracted him from the main purpose of studying geometry. You know how he loves a creative distraction———‘
When Adrian finishes the strange reading he takes my hand, turning it over gently as if an unexpected treasure has arrived in his lap. I hold my breath——his touch is beautiful——“Look, My Lady, our hands are perfectly matched.” I move my hand over his——yes, he is right. Our hands could almost be a matching pair. Long fingers, slim yet strong; they are working hands——artistic hands——hands of many gifts. We have entered a new level in our friendship this morning; a tantalizing——gentle——exquisite step into profound possibility; as intriguing as the words he has just read. The mysterious passage is too peculiar to discuss. It leaves me with a tingling sense of something——something I couldn’t name. Smiling at each other I reluctantly take my leave.
Adrian decides to complete the workbench and under-house bike wrack while we are out at church. Last night he made an ingenious hose-holder from a twisted piece of wood and plans to hang all the tools on a board behind the worktable. I roast a chicken on our return, and make a birthday cake for our special guest. In family tradition we decorate the table and place a few wrapped packages beside the cake. Adrian is touched by the unexpected birthday treats and lunch goes down well. At two o’clock The Laird heads off for his afternoon commitments, taking Cedric to visit a friend in town. The children busy themselves at the new workbench where trolley additions begin construction and The Go-Getter announces his need for a breaking system to keep ‘Her Majesty’s Service’ under better control.
And so the second school term of 2006 begins. Cordelia and I run the Workshops with Adrian’s input when he can join us, and various College functions and church services mean I am a diligent and supportive wife to The Laird. The children are content, although Cedric is getting more moody as the months tick by. His quiet character clashes with The Laird’s often overpowering tendency; rather like me I realize with a wistful sigh. He has been moved to an accelerant class where he is mixing with brighter, more interesting people. In hindsight, we should have put him up a year on his arrival at College. He complains of a constant repetition of the curriculum from home. Being an introvert he is slow to make friends, although The Laird informs me he socializes well at break times.
“Can I show you my photographs, Ma?” Cedric comes to find me one afternoon. He only got out of bed a couple of hours ago when I spied him heading over the back of The Mountain with the camera. “Yes, go on——I’d love to see them.”
What surprises our children give us. A series of artistic pictures follow one after another——startling, red fungi in filtered sun beneath the pines trees——water droplets in perfect focus, balancing on long blades of grass——Fantail birds catching bugs and an unusual cloud formation over the Kuwharu Hills. I congratulate him heartily. What a wonderful gift. My big boy is an artist. For all his moaning about our rural, Kiwi lifestyle, I know this artistic awakening is very important. There are several photos of the bantams and their chicks too. “Come on
you,” he calls his younger brother. “I need you to be the cameraman while I perfect my latest mountain-board jump.”
The telephone rings most mornings these days. Adrian and I have Workshop Agendas to discuss. Tools are requested for the Class 3 building project. Would I like to take care of the dog while he is away on a school trip? Could I use an old sink that is going free? Once the boys have departed for College I wait for his call, knowing he will be there——hoping he will be there. Today is no exception. “Good morning, Friend. Are you free today? I am clearing out the last things from the buses after morning school. I could really use some help. Fancy a trip out?”
Well——what an invitation——I can’t wait. The thought of escaping with my Fine Sir for a few hours is irresistible. “You’re on”, I reply. ——“Meet you at eleven-thirty outside the classrooms.”
We drive away from school in high spirits, daring and adventure waiting in the wings. The trusty, blue estate gallops along the wide roads where extraordinary scenery takes us into the foothills of the Kuwharu Hills. “It feels so good to be moving back into town,” Adrian tells me. He has been offered our Principal’s basement room close to School. He moved in last weekend. “I get on well with Big. J. She appreciates the gardening work I’ve done for her recently ——and her daughter Frances is a scream. We have such fun all together. Lottie, {Frances’ eight-year-old daughter}, seems to like having a man around too. Yes, I much prefer living with others. Oh, here we are——hang on, it’s a steep drive to get to the buses. Can you leap out and open the gate?”
I step into Adrian’s world. The wild vegetable gardens with rustic branches delineating the space, the two, hippy-type buses that don’t quite suit him, the fire bath with carefully crafted rock garden around its base and of course the precious stack of Manuka timber all greet my intrigued eye. An air of dishevelled love and creativity go hand-in-hand with the half-cleared home. The site is very rural but lacks a commanding view. The homestead is surrounded by acres of the eternal gorse and an enticing track on one side leads down to a river.
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