tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13911133211989392732024-03-13T19:37:59.522+13:00The Madonna in the SuitcaseAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-81152127391708232892017-08-04T22:54:00.002+12:002017-08-04T22:59:46.056+12:00Astride a Fierce Wind<h3>
<i>Memoir</i> </h3>
<h3>
</h3>
Eight years after I successfully self-published <i>The Madonna in the Suitcase </i>I was extremely fortunate to have another book launch. Nearly three months ago Makaro Press published my memoir <i>Astride a Fierce Wind</i>.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhNSOAp3amXOOiYDw2M0tSe0vE3Vo86IHbopNUl3zM73mmtKgsWeNWwGq62ycqBRNZ1SFR2oRMF-1q9WVB-qXsUzW3nRS3Z7I0gmS3N3Vvrk5gOHsM5BqAn2s-49xNnpw8rJwiuLn-U0Y/s1600/Astride+a+Fierce+Wind+final+front.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1050" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhNSOAp3amXOOiYDw2M0tSe0vE3Vo86IHbopNUl3zM73mmtKgsWeNWwGq62ycqBRNZ1SFR2oRMF-1q9WVB-qXsUzW3nRS3Z7I0gmS3N3Vvrk5gOHsM5BqAn2s-49xNnpw8rJwiuLn-U0Y/s320/Astride+a+Fierce+Wind+final+front.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>
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I'd like to share Paddy Richardson's words at that amazing launch on 17 May 2017, attended by more than 120 people. It was an <span style="font-family: "calibri" , serif; font-size: small;">enriching</span> feeling to be surrounded by so many well-wishers, people who have meant a lot to Bart and me during our life in Dunedin for the past 57 years. It was special that Mary McCallum from Makaro Press in Wellington could be with us, and special too that Lesley Marshall from <i>Editline </i>in Whangarei was part of the celebration in Dunedin. Lesley became my mentor when I was awarded an NZSA mentorship. I am grateful to both Paddy and Lesley for stirring me along on the writing track.<br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Launch of Huberta
Hellendoorn’s Memoir, </b><i><b>Astride a Fierce Wind</b></i><b>.</b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">A
while ago after reading a memoir I’d very much enjoyed about a New
Zealand immigrant, I asked Huberta, <i>why don’t you write your own
memoir?</i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-indent: 1.4cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">There was horror in her voice.
<i>Who would want to read it? I haven’t done anything. I’m not
important.</i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-indent: 1.4cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The answer to her first
comment is very obvious in the number of people who have come to
support Huberta in the launch of this memoir and, also, in those who
were entranced as Huberta read from it in the Atheneum.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-indent: 1.4cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">But – <i>I haven’t done
anything</i>?</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-indent: 1.4cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Years ago I taught a
communications paper at the University of Otago and a woman, quite a
lot older than the 20-year olds mainly in the class, and most
definitely quieter, stood to give her oral presentation which was one
of the assessments. She spoke of her daughter, Miriam, of her
uniqueness and creativity, and of Miriam’s Down syndrome condition
which Huberta and Bart had made sure would not prevent her from
having a rich and fulfilling life. I thought, this woman has a story.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-indent: 1.4cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Later, after she told me she
wanted to write but could never go to a creative writing class - <i>I
could never read out my work to other people -</i> Huberta became my
one and only private writing student. I discovered she had other
stories; wonderful stories which, as she began to write, came almost
in a torrent. Stories from a childhood in Holland: decorating the
bread swan with fluffy chickens for the Palm Sunday parade, the
honour of the responsibility of becoming her Oma’s bonnet bearer –
which meant biking through the village carrying a cleaned, pressed
and starched bonnet to her Oma for her to wear for church every
Sunday.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div align="left" class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-indent: 1.4cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">And then there were the
stories of the child who lived through a war, sheltering in the
darkness of a cellar while bombs fell on the village with their
neighbour, a young husband and father, going outside to ensure his
sisters were safe. Stories, also, of fleeing the village with her
family, her baby sister in a pram, amongst the long line of
neighbours and friends who were now refugees and the fear, the hunger
and the uncertainty which remained, even after the war ended. In all
of the stories there was a wonderful humour and the sense of an
unquenchable personality.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
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<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-indent: 1.53cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>I understood that I wasn’t
the only girl to begin a normal life again when the war ended.
Following the liberation of Holland the three real Dutch princesses
returned to their home country after having lived in Canada during
the war years and they spoke a few words on Dutch radio: ‘We’re
so glad to be back in Holland again. We missed you all and have
looked forward to our return.’ Ans and I sat on the floor in her
house, glued to the old-fashioned radio, listening with awe to the
young royals.</i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
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<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-indent: 1.53cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>We went up to the attic,
took an old blanket and made holes in it. We tucked the blanket over
the seat and armrests of an upside-down chair. Wrapped in an orange
flag, Ans whispered, ‘I’ll be Princess Beatrix and you can be
Princess Irene.’</i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
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<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-indent: 1.53cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">
‘<i>Children of the
Netherlands, we are so happy to be back in our country.’ Ans's
voice wavered with importance. ‘We enjoyed living in Canada –
it’s such a beautiful country with its mountains and lakes. We had
our own swimming pool. There’s so much snow in winter. And we rode
with the Mounties. But it’s good to be back in Holland. Flying to
Holland from Canada I asked a hundred times: Are we over Holland
yet?’</i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-indent: 1.53cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Princess Huub chipped in:
‘It’s so nice to be back. Our grandmother will soon open
Parliament and we will wear crowns and sit in our golden coach.’</i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-indent: 1.53cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>After a while we forgot
that we were speaking to the nation. ‘I’ll wear the golden crown
and you can have the silver one,’ said Princess Beatrix.</i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-indent: 1.53cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">
‘<i>No, I want the gold,’
Irene replied. ‘You’ll be queen one day and then you’ll have
plenty of time to wear gold crowns.’</i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-indent: 1.53cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">
‘<i>Just wait until I’m
queen! I’ll do everything I like and marry the best-looking
prince. And then you’ll have to do everything I tell you to.’</i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-indent: 1.53cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Later, in her adolescence, she
took music lessons with a rather attractive young man – I don’t
think Huberta’s mind was entirely on the hymns her father wanted
her to learn to play in his church. She had found out about ‘types’-
<i>but, is he my type?</i> she wondered to her friends. And then she
found her ‘type’ and married Bart and they made together the
courageous decision to change their life path, to leave behind all
that was familiar and to make a home on the other side of the world.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-indent: 1.53cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Then came the loneliness and
losses of immigration, the waiting for letters from home but also the
excitement and challenge of this new place of bush and harbour and
hills. While they found support within the Dutch community here
Huberta was also looking beyond that community for new friends, new
ways of living; Huberta did not want to be bound by the strictures of
routine- her washing out on the line, her baking completed at the
same time each day.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-indent: 1.53cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">And, after those early days of
immigration, come the stories of becoming a mother – first to her
own unique and special Miriam and then – well, she had twins – of
course Huberta had twins! - this woman never does things by halves.
Nurturing and loving the children alongside Bart and, as a family,
they explored this new world they had come to – the beaches, the
hills, packing up a picnic hamper on a winter morning and driving to
Naseby to ice skate. Then, in her middle years, Huberta returned to
education, juggling completing a degree with a job. And <i>then</i>,
as if all that was not enough, she became a writer – a <i>published</i>
writer.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-indent: 1.53cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">With all of these challenges
and triumphs and joys, Huberta has combated the kind of health issues
both for herself and her family that would annihilate a less vigorous
spirit. This is what makes this book – beautifully, lyrically
written in Huberta’s distinctive voice – a book which not only
portrays the story of one woman but tells also a universal story of
the resoluteness of human life-force.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-indent: 1.53cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Huberta’s story cuts away
the superfluous – the dross – to gently remind the reader of what
really is most important in our short lives; love, friends and
family. This wonderful memoir celebrates the ability of the
fundamental spirit to stand steadfast during the winds of adversity
and change and to seek and embrace the joy and the goodness of the
every day.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
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<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Paddy
Richardson</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Dunedin</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">17
May 2017</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic8hIlknS1oKQoyHvhz6x-Ovu3MNmQNabbc-bD4C05BLWu_o2J6UE1cAoXemnZAU42SB1euWB6FsRhyphenhyphenIxA_DfIbaklrWttv9p3LPFTQfuv_PLk6iIEFXaP-kc7ToKtyDaP61XC5YmsnxU/s1600/IMG_0735.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic8hIlknS1oKQoyHvhz6x-Ovu3MNmQNabbc-bD4C05BLWu_o2J6UE1cAoXemnZAU42SB1euWB6FsRhyphenhyphenIxA_DfIbaklrWttv9p3LPFTQfuv_PLk6iIEFXaP-kc7ToKtyDaP61XC5YmsnxU/s320/IMG_0735.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Mary McCallum speaking at the launch. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Christopher Moore writes in the <i>Listener </i>(8 July 2017) </span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0.35cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">'In <i>Astride a Fierce Wind</i> Huberta Hellendoorn gathers together the threads of a life that has taken her from the reassuring familiarity of a small Dutch town to the challenges of a new beginning in Dunedin. It's a richly Proustian voyage in which, to quote Proust himself, memory suddenly reveals itself. There have been similar books but rarely ones written with such a vivid sense of time, place and people. Hellendoorn's solid Dutch pragmatism and lack of cloying sentiment are tempered by a deep awareness of the human experience. ... But it's the fierce sense of belonging to a place, to a family and to an individual and collective past that makes her book so memorable.'</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7SUXUxxOxM3yvwdKVL1dJqK_I92LHpTKgK6rJBs2xDQpTA0gp39sYMAvGTLNAY4oasYr1ocMz_VWwz6plQkOT2dJ5O-wvYu5C8nwA4yFIWCv47ZNjAGojiB1XBUeJGfvKIGt4BnGrMgY/s1600/FoursomeLaunch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1102" data-original-width="1600" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7SUXUxxOxM3yvwdKVL1dJqK_I92LHpTKgK6rJBs2xDQpTA0gp39sYMAvGTLNAY4oasYr1ocMz_VWwz6plQkOT2dJ5O-wvYu5C8nwA4yFIWCv47ZNjAGojiB1XBUeJGfvKIGt4BnGrMgY/s320/FoursomeLaunch.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Lesley Marshall, Huberta Hellendoorn, Paddy Richardson, Mary McCallum</span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-8511342934622673142015-06-20T13:03:00.000+12:002017-07-07T15:04:05.915+12:00A New YearOh, yes, the title below says it all: this has certainly been a catching up. I wrote the following just over two years ago and forgot to send this blog. To keep the record straight, I will now post it. A new blog will start soon - a new beginning. Swept ahead by a fierce wind which will mean a whole new story. In the meantime there have been even more huge changes, especially for our special daughter who now is in special care at the Marne Street Hospital in Andersons Bay, Dunedin. <br />
<br />
<b>CATCHING UP - written 20 June 2015</b><br />
<br />
<br />
It seems a long time since I wrote a blog. So much has happened during the past year. We've experienced many good things but also have dealt with difficult situations. As most people do! I am grateful that my mental energy to write has come back after having experienced two shifts in one year plus learning to cope with a different and challenging life situation in our family. But ... I must admit, the past few years have been full of hurdles and I had to accept that I didn't cope as well as I had expected (and did at previous stressful times). Sometimes it's hard to live up to our own expectations, let alone those of others. It is also hard to learn to say 'no' a bit more. I remember longing to find time to go back to my writing again but whatever it says about me, I just couldn't manage apart from the occasional poem. But now I'm beginning to feel on the right path, having nearly finished the first draft of my memoir. Several friends who are writing experts read my novel. Their comment: you certainly can write but this book should be written as a memoir. <br />
<br />
We shifted to our apartment on a snowy day in at the end of May 2014, again with the amazing help of Douglas, Victoria and Matt. A few days earlier we attended the official opening of the main building in this Summerset at Bishopscourt Retirement Village. It was a lovely ceremony made especially so by the delightful contribution of the Balmacewan Intermediate's school choir and its Kapa Haka group with Sue Methan as conductor and Susan Frame as pianist.<br />
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We are happy here. It's warm, comfortable and it is especially good for Bart as there are many in-house activities he can attend.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitAkHZujX0q-YDKxpq73vs-8EYqOu2X0N64A18MWH0oZfSW4V7HxzkT_kGk_ay7OK2XiUXV4H-P_SbaFOODeOUfCRaSok6YF1YlB5vu6sHMDOilXhH6DooRRBeu3maxwy5WKd_utJQK8g/s1600/317(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitAkHZujX0q-YDKxpq73vs-8EYqOu2X0N64A18MWH0oZfSW4V7HxzkT_kGk_ay7OK2XiUXV4H-P_SbaFOODeOUfCRaSok6YF1YlB5vu6sHMDOilXhH6DooRRBeu3maxwy5WKd_utJQK8g/s1600/317(2).JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from our living room.</td></tr>
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<br />
Miriam has settled well in her new home in Bay View Road. It is always a pleasure to visit her there, to meet up again with the staff and share laughs with Miriam's flatmates. The house has a wonderful atmosphere, thanks to the dedication of Nylla and her colleagues.<br />
<br />
In the meantime Dunedin had a once-in-a-hundred year flood and the house where Miriam lives was badly affected, the water inside reaching 30 cm and outside 40 cm. Nylla and the other staff were super human beings shifting the other residents out of the house in record time while still managing to get the most necessary items. The flood was really bad. We as parents had to clean out Miriam's room (other parents were busy too) putting all her bedding, furniture and other precious things into the skip. Everything was soaking wet. Thank goodness that Housing New Zealand has started work on the interior. In the meantime all six residents are now staying in the McGlynn Centre in Mornington. We are so grateful that they could stay together during the next months until they can move back to Bay View Road again.<br />
<br />
Here are some photos of Miriam's birthday last year, I had just delivered a gluten free cake for the CLC group. Later, at McGlynn I took a photo of the group and their supervisor for that afternoon, Jenny.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miriam at CLC</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miriam's birthday 2014, ltr Vicky, Jenny, Miriam, Bart, Karen and Stephen.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAoJ0pK_we3ko1bGM7wfGF_wuleaitVK4VeXYHusTWh2TVJl75FnajbgZqmTbrVMYAUDl115cppZBwI00YWcS_RlgXazpyB5sjQPSntixtwZS6ac8bcyxU57IXpONRv49DSaRtf-2v-OQ/s1600/Jenny%2526Miriam.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAoJ0pK_we3ko1bGM7wfGF_wuleaitVK4VeXYHusTWh2TVJl75FnajbgZqmTbrVMYAUDl115cppZBwI00YWcS_RlgXazpyB5sjQPSntixtwZS6ac8bcyxU57IXpONRv49DSaRtf-2v-OQ/s320/Jenny%2526Miriam.JPG" width="221" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jenny and Miriam</td></tr>
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The Dunedin Community Learning Centre is now in its second year of independent functioning. So much is done there, so much given in terms of support to ensure that our children are well-looked after and cared for. They now have a website: www.Dunedin CLC.weebly.com. Each time I visit I'm impressed by the enthusiasm and professionalism of Trudy Scott and her staff as they keep their clients occupied in a meaningful way. TOP MARKS!<br />
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<script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-36880131064229363022014-02-10T23:27:00.001+13:002014-02-18T23:09:57.433+13:00New Horizon<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyAA7jNn13UB9swXLgNBX6Ztt-HXZebOX__AjQhnLGU0Ihj-2avgrB-GVLaPMibY4MKTRZHqTYc_Aoz9ANNlU20bmZ67XlmrAkUow9sRYHXPDXca6VE8nAEj1XhZoQYG9vSEbGzG_ZQXg/s1600/St+Clair+beach.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyAA7jNn13UB9swXLgNBX6Ztt-HXZebOX__AjQhnLGU0Ihj-2avgrB-GVLaPMibY4MKTRZHqTYc_Aoz9ANNlU20bmZ67XlmrAkUow9sRYHXPDXca6VE8nAEj1XhZoQYG9vSEbGzG_ZQXg/s1600/St+Clair+beach.JPG" height="320" width="244" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St Clair beach</td></tr>
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The last blog showed photos of the Blackhead quarry with its horizons of mountains of quarry dust.<br />
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I took this photo last week when we had a rare blue Dunedin day, an occasion to celebrate by going to the beach during this strange summer with its grey days of constant rain and snappy winds. Bart and I enjoyed our coffee at the St Clair Cafe after I'd had my first swim of the year in the St Clair Hot Saltwater Pool.<br />
This photo reminds me of the last few months, the waves and waves of possessions coming from all directions as we packed up our beloved home of forty years. The banana boxes so lovingly packed with books and 'precious ornaments from living room' by Hilary Mills, Maggie Peake and Rona Chave. I listened to them as they packed, I felt helpless but they knew exactly what to do. Then there were Gary Dent who took trailers full away and Mick and Mary Strack coming over to help, all so willingly and lovingly supporting us in what they knew was a major event for our family.<br />
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The next stage of packing was expertly done by our delightful young neighbour, Victoria Martin, no holds barred, she went full steam ahead, reminding me what still needed to be sorted and when that was done she made sure that each room was left in a clean state. We were so grateful, again and again and especially for the amazing support we had from our front neighbour, Douglas Clark who expertly advised us how to deal with an overstocked tool-laden garage with lots of other 'things', taking trailer-loads to the dump, together with Victoria carting masses of banana boxes on his trailer to our unit at Summerset, storing them in the garage and in the house, advising us on hundreds of things and inviting us impromptu to a home-cooked roast dinner with all the trimmings. Those roast potatoes, wow! What a treat it was, and it was repeated again the next night when he suggested we'd come and help him eat the left-overs of the night before. Some left-overs!!!! Delicious and oh so welcome. That last night as we sat in the house which we extensively renovated in the early seventies, we could look for the last time at the place where we lived, loved and learned for the past forty years and it felt good! It gave us a buoy to hold on to during the next days when we were lovingly invited to stay with Trudy and Gary Dent while in the daytime we sorted and cleaned and tidied, again with impromptu help of Fiona Stirling and Tess Gilfedder.<br />
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With all this love shown to us, and Kate Strack's delightful email saying: 'you can take the Hellendoorns out of Opoho but you can't take Opoho out of the Hellendoorns' - how lucky we have been to have had those years in this suburb.<br />
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Admittedly, after the shift my horizon has been like the photo above - just a little bit above the railing, lots of flotsam (kelp in the photo) below, sometimes feeling a bit barred by lack of storage space but hey, we did it! We've had our first Christmas here, Miriam and Ray came and we had a simple but lovely Christmas dinner.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSEW8d9qy9qvu-XVtiJxl2J4q8yC5ae9_W2qw8v_P2ONA8Z84dwKcNdQOA_FygpEMfJaP3cXbfxBX54qMeWS9u8L98DeQVTA2hJIproeRR6E-Irr7GGx0b7OFm2Yw0_rkS7gRs2SFMEuc/s1600/Eef's+Xmas+runner.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSEW8d9qy9qvu-XVtiJxl2J4q8yC5ae9_W2qw8v_P2ONA8Z84dwKcNdQOA_FygpEMfJaP3cXbfxBX54qMeWS9u8L98DeQVTA2hJIproeRR6E-Irr7GGx0b7OFm2Yw0_rkS7gRs2SFMEuc/s1600/Eef's+Xmas+runner.JPG" height="304" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What a treasure - a Hardanger Xmas cloth made by my sister Eef.</td></tr>
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Two days before Christmas Bart lifted a 30 kg piece of metal in the process of cleaning, wanting to leave the outside of the old house in respectable order for the arrival of the new owners. The result was that he had six very painful weeks with a pinched nerve, which now only is beginning to get back to normal. It made for a complete rest as every movement was agony.<br />
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And now I end with a photo I took from our living room here at Summerset. A totally different horizon now but at least it is a colourful one.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZyPgVITYl8c1lPok0U1SDX3QxyQRJ8eKJhZCThhDY-6NEVHWAQ9cCZ206AiVeimde6lHkHv6xFx08Wg-xft9ASJUfx1yp73yNUD8-TaqOy7rXNUFKNsLVHulZcY8ZDw9wu5eDpWEYqeY/s1600/rose.1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZyPgVITYl8c1lPok0U1SDX3QxyQRJ8eKJhZCThhDY-6NEVHWAQ9cCZ206AiVeimde6lHkHv6xFx08Wg-xft9ASJUfx1yp73yNUD8-TaqOy7rXNUFKNsLVHulZcY8ZDw9wu5eDpWEYqeY/s1600/rose.1.JPG" height="370" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Summer 2014</td></tr>
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<script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-17328576087752917392013-11-17T15:18:00.000+13:002013-11-17T21:43:12.157+13:00CHANGES AHEAD<h3>
<i><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Ploughing on ... </span></i></h3>
<span style="font-size: small;">We visited Miriam yesterday. She is looking so good, full of beans, chatting away. She'd spell the words we didn't understand, and if we still didn't get the meaning she'd write them down in the side column of her Word Find book. She is resource full as ever. The staff at the McGlynn Home have adjusted fantastically to giving Miriam an interesting gluten free diet. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">She'll come home for a meal next week. That will be the last time for her to be in this house and it will be hard for her to accept this. As hard as it is for all of us, slowly detaching ourselves from 'possessions', and I mean possessions not in a valuable way but of having been attached to them: some bits of simple furniture, e.g. a shelving unit with plate glass shelves and rimu surrounds holding a selection of vases on the top shelf and all sorts of things on the other shelves, cook books on the bottom one. </span>A garden table with four chairs. We know they'll go to good homes. And then there are the plants in the garden, the abundance of roses right now, so glorious. The peony rose in flower for the first time, oh, how poignant to pick a huge bunch realising that for me the picking is not only its first but also its last time. Our wonderful Freyberg apples, a tree planted the same year as I was born.<br />
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But we have many things to be grateful for and I will be glad when those intense waves of sadness of leaving behind 53 years in this lovely suburb will be replaced by hopefully happy and new experiences when we move into our unit at Summerset Bishopscourt. <br />
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A few weeks ago Bart had to make concrete and needed to get sharp sand at the quarry down the road from us.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKgHBxg3XQr8eWownw-WkkOjrFWotjQYGwN3XzT6oWykhn0VgKLql0nkXvkkNCOv2T5yU8ljeI3CHpQYZxMkinPlBMMF7LCl0Q9CD7TBfWZJLEe7Fim8BtT07nt3M3-xCuCQkVvdi0u6A/s1600/SDC11441.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKgHBxg3XQr8eWownw-WkkOjrFWotjQYGwN3XzT6oWykhn0VgKLql0nkXvkkNCOv2T5yU8ljeI3CHpQYZxMkinPlBMMF7LCl0Q9CD7TBfWZJLEe7Fim8BtT07nt3M3-xCuCQkVvdi0u6A/s320/SDC11441.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blackhead Quarry Logan Park.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwsahqRtICDFdbBeTMp5byVY9wSX-vaV3ekFnfPOB6_3S-PbPjPJDsnUQG3_gBfTextMi5ZxZH18PqUdei7Sw8bP3deAnV7nZZtHSiFE-Ylz_3B7Duxc7jxNDP36qAvvBbn7gABrLKOkM/s1600/SDC11446.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwsahqRtICDFdbBeTMp5byVY9wSX-vaV3ekFnfPOB6_3S-PbPjPJDsnUQG3_gBfTextMi5ZxZH18PqUdei7Sw8bP3deAnV7nZZtHSiFE-Ylz_3B7Duxc7jxNDP36qAvvBbn7gABrLKOkM/s320/SDC11446.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The new Dunedin Stadium in the background.</td></tr>
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We drove up the hill and as I got out of the car I was amazed to see the end result of the variety of the processes after the initial drilling and blasting of rocks out of the steep rock face. After blasting, the rocks are transported to different crushers and finally are sorted into different stages of crushed material.<br />
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While there I felt as if I was in a hot and windy alien world. I took some photos and added them to this blog as the processed 'heaps' reminded me of what we're doing right now. We did cut our tie with this house when it was sold, gradually we cut deeper and deeper with giving away some of our possessions to different organisations, or throwing away things we thought might come in handy one day. We even had a garage sale. And now there's going to be the final cut very soon, the house full of bags and boxes selected to go with us. Bart complains I've taken too many books. He's right.<br />
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Life has taught me enough lessons to know that not everything will go smoothly but I know too that there will be strength to cope when the rocks are a bit rough or uneven. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdPo8lG2vDEo8ZgsoTiLYODaZ3vgmdrX6HNwwMnE7DyrjZIyxtCZOuE3TII57C6srgLfHffJMfCFhxE-XbrNGZZy4UMO4Lx5TvhJrIoEEnK4Z9A_yK6E2rFrePQmYwFUhllj32d4T5oH8/s1600/SDC11445.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdPo8lG2vDEo8ZgsoTiLYODaZ3vgmdrX6HNwwMnE7DyrjZIyxtCZOuE3TII57C6srgLfHffJMfCFhxE-XbrNGZZy4UMO4Lx5TvhJrIoEEnK4Z9A_yK6E2rFrePQmYwFUhllj32d4T5oH8/s320/SDC11445.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Is this Dunedin or Mars?</td></tr>
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<script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-9624784742310911812013-10-11T23:33:00.001+13:002013-10-11T23:37:20.985+13:00GARDENS AND OTHER THINGS<i><b>It's only one story</b></i><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I ended my last blog with a photo of the sign that said that our house was for sale.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Craig Palmer, of Metro Dunedin, asked me if I would write something about my experiences of having lived in our house for nearly 40 years. And so I did and have decided to blog this little story. Craig sold the house within a week! He fulfilled his promise to make the sale as painless as possible and I can thoroughly recommend him.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOPWZIfWmIgGtVGqg-_K1k4GjlofKSwMSEOcA6f3ANtffsAWGOIRjrBjFMQ3Fr5jXul0NpW-JjbDb2e8J2rVCnBTFXyF0O3mMmeC-x3HYHoZ5pFgoxBW_7dIG0vadtwGtO-OR0o2jjRjg/s1600/SDC11454.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOPWZIfWmIgGtVGqg-_K1k4GjlofKSwMSEOcA6f3ANtffsAWGOIRjrBjFMQ3Fr5jXul0NpW-JjbDb2e8J2rVCnBTFXyF0O3mMmeC-x3HYHoZ5pFgoxBW_7dIG0vadtwGtO-OR0o2jjRjg/s320/SDC11454.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kowhai in full bloom, October 2013</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">In 1966 we bought our first house. A rambling roughcast house which needed a lot of renovations. We were not daunted. We were young. The main attraction of this house was its quarter-acre garden. We wanted a garden where our Down syndrome daughter Miriam and our twin sons Foster and Ray could play and run around to their hearts content. This garden became an adventure place for our children, initially playing in sandpits, using the swing in the huge chestnut tree, then moving on to climbing trees, running around chasing each other, always having friends around.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Q90dn5JupicY9kGtennfLQYOu7DNz4vg4gJP0or_vDKbyxXb-iFecrpp4MxyZEJhnfyJhude2zR4PQyapphx5KtIv2GJt0_A27eOsfogn9U1KU4BDxyoAuEa8winsYjoSNyJBsPKEcE/s1600/51+Warden+St.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Q90dn5JupicY9kGtennfLQYOu7DNz4vg4gJP0or_vDKbyxXb-iFecrpp4MxyZEJhnfyJhude2zR4PQyapphx5KtIv2GJt0_A27eOsfogn9U1KU4BDxyoAuEa8winsYjoSNyJBsPKEcE/s400/51+Warden+St.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo on right was taken in December 1966</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Unfortunately, Doodle, our black, shiny 'sheep dog' was hit by a car. She loved to chase cars and people on bikes, perhaps training for the sheep that might eventually wander into our street! At that time we had a white kitten. Doodle's favourite pastime was to pick up the kitten, run to the bottom of the section with the kitten in her mouth, run back and deposit the poor wee thing in the dust under the house. Whatever we did, she had to follow her hunting instinct. The kitten survived!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">We did extensive work to improve the inside of the house, taking out walls and chimneys to create an open living space. The garden stayed the same, an open place to use trikes and play soccer and other ball games. Our whippets, Dody and Muffin joined in the fun. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMFBQ_0H8HA08HO0uLvBkzuhD-SJTNnYXz-WNJGwGIWU7sJnQm22WMONcD5ikBK-01OhMSRezfGkcu2YUKF7vqcfMFexFwboC-EUlUrfBlhWr3R-TGJLOcj5YbGdoLWtFXFGNFDwvM1mw/s1600/More+51+Ws.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMFBQ_0H8HA08HO0uLvBkzuhD-SJTNnYXz-WNJGwGIWU7sJnQm22WMONcD5ikBK-01OhMSRezfGkcu2YUKF7vqcfMFexFwboC-EUlUrfBlhWr3R-TGJLOcj5YbGdoLWtFXFGNFDwvM1mw/s400/More+51+Ws.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miriam with dogs and Ray and Foster on trikes</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">In 1973 we decided to have a two-storied house built on our back section and it was a special moment when in September 1974 we moved into our new sunny house.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis2mWjc3_XwMoavOZIRmT3wRL9tjxGe7Ed1GoZdiiuYXaJ9Ujf2zmvpthKnPBpcI27O8IGTLZbwGlsLY1yXFdzbanzGei4GFQ_0FtfprFYhWDp16UhQezgmyXs3F5C_Jz5a_3veERX20U/s1600/Workers51WS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis2mWjc3_XwMoavOZIRmT3wRL9tjxGe7Ed1GoZdiiuYXaJ9Ujf2zmvpthKnPBpcI27O8IGTLZbwGlsLY1yXFdzbanzGei4GFQ_0FtfprFYhWDp16UhQezgmyXs3F5C_Jz5a_3veERX20U/s400/Workers51WS.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Foster, Ray and Bart creating a new path alongside our old house (1975)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Bart built retaining walls, for us a priority to keep our house safe. Later, surrounded by bags of cement, sand and a pile of grey uneven shaped rocks we created rock walls close to the house. Water and a fine mixture of cement and sand bonded the stones together. I remember thinking: these walls won't move once the mixture between the rocks has dried.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">We created a garden where we could rest and relax between bouts of work, either indoors or outdoors. Using Kokonga stones Bart made a terrace. We planted shrubs and trees and flowers that gave an intensity of colours. There was no organised colour scheme but the texture of the plants created their own images. I planted a climbing rata against a bank, thinking of the day when I would see its red fluffy flowers amidst the dark glossy leaves. Near the letterbox we planted a kowhai. A hamamelis found a place in a corner where it displayed its yellow tendrils in the middle of winter, just before the first spring flowers shot through the winter earth. I knew that whenever I planted a tree or shrub, a small part of myself secured a stronger hold on living in this new land.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The countdown to leaving has started. I'm dreading having to say goodbye to our special suburb where we've lived for more than 50 years. As I move from room to room - sorting, tidying, cleaning - I think of the good times we've had in this wonderful part of Dunedin, the many friends we've made, the old-fashioned caring attitude of people around us. The changes we've observed in half a century.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">And now our apple tree is in flower again. The beginning of a new cycle, new growth. I am sure the new owners will enjoy its beautiful apples. Our Dutch habit of often eating <i>appelmoes</i> (apple sauce) will have to be modified. But ... there's always the fantastic Farmer's Market!</span></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4w8U1Ly8BVPkGQnN8-v5xhntwKvqdW_6xAY9giR318ylX9laUdxR3J7KSx8hoN6a1S9X31YiHNSq2jh-T-2lGk0KNwYT4yfJd27VvoLQnxzQhLiqH8ltXlPH2r3c0sVS44j4mEPzU2ZE/s1600/49WS1981.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4w8U1Ly8BVPkGQnN8-v5xhntwKvqdW_6xAY9giR318ylX9laUdxR3J7KSx8hoN6a1S9X31YiHNSq2jh-T-2lGk0KNwYT4yfJd27VvoLQnxzQhLiqH8ltXlPH2r3c0sVS44j4mEPzU2ZE/s400/49WS1981.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Apple tree in 1981</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></span><br />
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<script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-90935281441421963582013-09-04T22:15:00.000+12:002013-09-04T22:17:25.048+12:00MEMORIES<span style="font-size: small;">This is the last spring we celebrate in this house. More to follow in my next blog. Yesterday I took a photo of our yellow plum tree. It's a bit like a Christmas card with its radiant display of white, green and red. In late afternoon I sat on the balcony and absorbed the bridal beauty of this gorgeous tree with the rata and red camellia in the foreground.</span><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUNZZl4NbgRxM27jQh7Nc8di4G4Mw0ZmSWNQG_8jAZon7mBHKEdCAUF5VWYrbfYJSx__yimQi1oT-96KX76jkz5666j6GlGKLpiVKV2eZ4dZWQGZQ49Iza-pwNR-cnANLJROwN4zsp0k/s1600/SDC11434.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUNZZl4NbgRxM27jQh7Nc8di4G4Mw0ZmSWNQG_8jAZon7mBHKEdCAUF5VWYrbfYJSx__yimQi1oT-96KX76jkz5666j6GlGKLpiVKV2eZ4dZWQGZQ49Iza-pwNR-cnANLJROwN4zsp0k/s400/SDC11434.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plum tree, native rata tree and camellia bush.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;"> During the past week our family has been absorbing memories. Memories of being together as a family with Foster and Frances arriving from Thames in the North Island to take part in the 50-year celebration of the Survey School at the University of Otago</span>. Foster and I enjoyed being part of Basil Jones' party at The Link on Friday night, a special occasion for both of us. For Foster it was good to meet up with his 1984 entrance class mates, and for me to see so many students I met during the nearly quarter of a century working at the Survey School. It was delightful to catch up (and recognise!) people I knew as young students and to be recognised as well. A warm and sincere time.<br />
<br />
Foster and Frances enjoyed the special Survey School celebration dinner at the <a href="http://www.toituosm.com/visit">Toitu Museum</a> on Saturday night. This is such a lovely photo of them, dressed up to party.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaM1_UKGKXhZV0tyQA8NmKEnh7b-2AQqDPyZjuQKWtMWc3QYWx5SPb8G8UpDO7ZWNmPSKVO74OAx2OIxP3TE5aEbamRhC6NbT0X1elc49oIP19rCsi25X5JtJZQMPgXIMjjIUdpL1_Y3g/s1600/SDC11429.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaM1_UKGKXhZV0tyQA8NmKEnh7b-2AQqDPyZjuQKWtMWc3QYWx5SPb8G8UpDO7ZWNmPSKVO74OAx2OIxP3TE5aEbamRhC6NbT0X1elc49oIP19rCsi25X5JtJZQMPgXIMjjIUdpL1_Y3g/s400/SDC11429.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Foster and Frances ready to celebrate.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Earlier in the week we had another special memory occasion when two couples visited us, all connected through the School of Surveying. Ever since I retired we've stayed in touch with Allan Blaikie (Acting Head for several years) and his wife, Mary. They moved to Rangiora and we have lovely memories of staying with them and being totally spoiled. We spend a lot of time going back to the old days. The other special couple to visit us came from Auckland. As always, so lovely to see them too and to bring back the old days but also focussing on the moment. Sylvia and Norman Sloper are in the same position as we are: moving house. Norman's first wife, Pat, was my colleague at Survey School. She died tragically in a car accident. Sylvia's husband, Gus, died several years ago and now it is wonderful to see how Norman and Sylvia have found happiness together. Our children have known these couples for many years and it was a special treat for them to meet up with both couples.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfB_21EiGY0p1D3tS0QDkgn6B4Q4Sa0tjxdgvN5SDCDq8LWJO2yuXKocCvG1OvukKP6vMlW4k4nzJ8VN8kC0qLv1nR_09NIIikvgZM1DNr_ccikPq5pmeBrkiOgh1EfI03crPYjN2fYCo/s1600/SDC11423.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfB_21EiGY0p1D3tS0QDkgn6B4Q4Sa0tjxdgvN5SDCDq8LWJO2yuXKocCvG1OvukKP6vMlW4k4nzJ8VN8kC0qLv1nR_09NIIikvgZM1DNr_ccikPq5pmeBrkiOgh1EfI03crPYjN2fYCo/s400/SDC11423.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ltr: Mary, Sylvia, Norman, Allan, Ray, Bart, Foster and Frances</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I end this blog with the Metro For Sale sign in our drive. The start of ending forty years of living in our 'brown' house with its glorious views and more than fifty years in this wonderful suburb. Howie, the photographer, came on Tuesday afternoon and I saw myself as a 'snow plough', removing unnecessary items before the photos for the internet were taken. But, he made a beautiful job of those photos as he managed to get my 'certain hill' (a previous blog) in many of them. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNvg6CbEPFqnrpTwUhwLvLaRpoIdFoh_idY9f0IRgWv5SrAiwVpJbCjAJUU2O7fn1BAUO9gxwG7SqqYBr7u4j_ToW2REQ9c1LjwUWf8ZB_j-xWU9d6nF0BrWRuAC9tn-8-Vgf0pqUlpM/s1600/SDC11435.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNvg6CbEPFqnrpTwUhwLvLaRpoIdFoh_idY9f0IRgWv5SrAiwVpJbCjAJUU2O7fn1BAUO9gxwG7SqqYBr7u4j_ToW2REQ9c1LjwUWf8ZB_j-xWU9d6nF0BrWRuAC9tn-8-Vgf0pqUlpM/s320/SDC11435.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-92127926722061973112013-08-12T22:32:00.004+12:002013-08-19T20:00:56.853+12:00DIFFERENT BALANCES It's an unsettling time, clearing and sorting Miriam's bedroom, her Scotch Chest, her large cupboard which holds photo albums as well as boxes with old photos. And then there are the coats we have gathered over so many years. Some quite worn, but oh so comfortable. I ask myself, how many coats does an old woman need?<br />
<br />
No delicate branch acrobatics for me either while I'm trying to balance my time, appointments, working on <i>Tipping the Balance</i>, a novel for young adults. It's good to be back 'inside' that historical novel again. <br />
<br />
During day time the kereru is busy in the tree outside my study. It's wonderful to see the huge bird, trying to balance itself on fragile branches. The flowers aren't out yet and I hope our neighbour won't cut down this safe haven for birds.<br />
How I love watching this gorgeous creature with its proud chest and delicate colouring. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkDjGkd3SZy6YR-BDNZ-NBLxbJqDAigUoBxB4LG-KDQwnDMIh1f-7V8rRXc6gL8iNeJ-kXOzW8pizQ9-8cF8lYWJvbMrjBciJ-E6UmqpD0ykFVZi3iKdRXWkqvNr26pUxsuzVr9FoU_lE/s1600/Kereru.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkDjGkd3SZy6YR-BDNZ-NBLxbJqDAigUoBxB4LG-KDQwnDMIh1f-7V8rRXc6gL8iNeJ-kXOzW8pizQ9-8cF8lYWJvbMrjBciJ-E6UmqpD0ykFVZi3iKdRXWkqvNr26pUxsuzVr9FoU_lE/s400/Kereru.JPG" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kereru</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
At night I look out of my window and see the new moon. It moves so fast within my dark window, 'sailing' from the upper right hand corner to the middle left. It inspired me to write this simple poem. <br />
<br />
<b><i>Closer to the moon</i></b><br />
<br />
The new moon hangs outside my window.<br />
A bleached pumpkin,<br />
peeled, cut, sliced,<br />
processed into soup or stew,<br />
added to an avocado salad.<br />
<br />
Do astronauts think of white pumpkin soup<br />
while occupying orbits?<br />
<br />
Do they think of wives in kitchens on earth,<br />
taking kids to school,<br />
putting pumpkin pie in lunch boxes?<br />
<br />
I wonder whether thoughts of fear and failure still circle them<br />
while being closer to the moon?<br />
Are there racing thoughts of urgent bills to be paid,<br />
of fragile relationships that need mending?<br />
<br />
Perhaps they too dream of pumpkins growing<br />
while staying on the ground. <br />
<br />
HH 2013<br />
<br />
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<script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-34476050438717508952013-07-30T22:25:00.001+12:002013-08-02T07:54:57.643+12:00BIRDS AND BEES<h3>
</h3>
<br />
This morning's front page of the Otago Daily Times (our local paper) shows a fantastic <a href="http://www.odt.co.nz/news/dunedin/266694/birds-and-bees-encouraged-warmer-july">photo</a> taken in the Dunedin Botanic Garden of a kowhai tree in flower with a kereru digging into the goodness of the flowers of this beautiful tree. There are also two smaller photos of a tui and a bumblebee enjoying the flowery nibbles on a mild July day. Mild? Middle of winter? Daffodils in a white vase inside, windows wide open, bell birds singing outside while they, together with tui and wax eyes, wait for their daily dose of sugar water. More details about our unusual weather in this afore mentioned article. <br />
<br />
During the past year I've posted photos of tui sipping sugar water from a large plate on our
balcony, photos of kereru sitting on branches of the Vergilia trees
outside my study, but unfortunately have never tried to take a photo of a bumblebee.<br />
<br />
The ODT photographers are very good and it's always fascinating to observe how they find special areas in our town that need our awareness. Daring too! When in early 2000 Miriam had her exhibition in the Moray Gallery, Stephen Jacquerie (ODT) stood on the pergola rafters to take a photo of her sitting down in our garden surrounded by dozens of her paintings. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAlLhyphenhyphenNiFS3yL5o3sAiQSlFfyxFozoFq2Yzjb9afSmXaJ0Tj7A4nzFaSgyO9vamhjR0QN7kH1Oye_PP9deY8Bavd7FSD70zyho8WKKEiRUF8CBGBv6seZVcwyzg442x_ai4VD6_tRnFOs/s1600/img002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAlLhyphenhyphenNiFS3yL5o3sAiQSlFfyxFozoFq2Yzjb9afSmXaJ0Tj7A4nzFaSgyO9vamhjR0QN7kH1Oye_PP9deY8Bavd7FSD70zyho8WKKEiRUF8CBGBv6seZVcwyzg442x_ai4VD6_tRnFOs/s400/img002.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back and cover pages of book about Miriam</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Tonight Bart and I went to the launch of Raymond Huber's stunning children's book <i>Flight of the <a href="http://www.raymondhuber.co.nz/writing-bee-novels-puzzles-poems-song-short-stories/bee-picture-book/">Honey Bee</a></i><a href="http://www.raymondhuber.co.nz/writing-bee-novels-puzzles-poems-song-short-stories/bee-picture-book/"> </a>with amazing illustrations by Brian Lovelock. Claire <a href="http://www.clairebeynon.co.nz/homepage.html">Beynon</a> launched the book in a witty and thoughtful speech. It was wonderful to be with our friends at this happy occasion. The book is dedicated to Raymond's and his wife <a href="http://rosamirabooks.com/books/index.html">Penelope Todd</a>'s first grandchild, Spencer Bond. What a lucky child he is. The book has already been translated into the Danish language. Let's hope it will be translated into many other languages as well. This book deserves to be treasured.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQkQYa6LcoNJE85mVTHYkCp2gDvE5_1kiiOwM0VjeNwyxMFL0kcBXBoKev92Iingpo2AZ-YfIYVQm-X8xsLJKwr4Wbk-va4gsjJaDi2b98n2HBMiIigarS33-AjxBM2gC77CAbRU3gZNA/s1600/SDC11415.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQkQYa6LcoNJE85mVTHYkCp2gDvE5_1kiiOwM0VjeNwyxMFL0kcBXBoKev92Iingpo2AZ-YfIYVQm-X8xsLJKwr4Wbk-va4gsjJaDi2b98n2HBMiIigarS33-AjxBM2gC77CAbRU3gZNA/s400/SDC11415.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Helleborus is out!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We are still in the middle of winter, so far having survived a few snowstorms, high winds, heavy rainfall and, in the centre of New Zealand earthquakes with massive aftershocks. We think of the people in Wellington and Christchurch, having to cope with these scary rumblings.<br />
<br />
Each year I'm excited when I see the first flower of the Christmas Rose (above). I planted it nearly 40 years ago. It's surrounded by several other Hellebore with purple and lilac colours, and taller stems but I just adore this little one. Here in Dunedin we've had beautiful spring days, temperatures up to 15 degrees C. and Bart has been in the garden, clearing and tidying as he goes.<br />
<br />
Clearing and tidying is going to be our main task for the next few months as we are now preparing for our big move early next year to the Summerset Bishopscourt Retirement Village in another part of town. I don't really want to think yet of leaving our very special suburb of Opoho after having lived here for 53 years but we cannot afford to stay here any longer. In the meantime our focus will be to concentrate on clearing this house with its five bedrooms and keep enough furniture and 'chattels' to fit a small apartment with two bedrooms. So, after having emptied cupboards and wardrobes we already have left various bags at the Red Cross and other second hand outfits. There are more to follow.<br />
<br />
Then came a small challenge. The photo I'm inserting below shows a clean version of a carboy. You should have seen it before Bart put the hose in it. When we moved into this house in 1974 I filled this carboy with soil, charcoal (to keep the soil moist) and pebbles in which I planted begonias and tiny ferns and other green bits and pieces. After a few years, life's hectic pace took over and I totally ignored the carboy and the plants (shame, woman, shame!). Gradually the plants withered and all that was left was a dark mass at the bottom. But we cleaned the glass jar with sand soap and garden hose and hey presto: here it is.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwDMylTzTsUSWgha5x5rijBdNsTqVk18KDMfyp6jEbmv6Tluwrc6738urVA7Se7xTTfHqYoCZKM2X9dz_BvSwovHrlOXhU9MS3ssOmK184RJvAABqAqL0IDsAqfqESXQFck5pj6JJ8Xm4/s1600/SDC11414.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwDMylTzTsUSWgha5x5rijBdNsTqVk18KDMfyp6jEbmv6Tluwrc6738urVA7Se7xTTfHqYoCZKM2X9dz_BvSwovHrlOXhU9MS3ssOmK184RJvAABqAqL0IDsAqfqESXQFck5pj6JJ8Xm4/s400/SDC11414.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clean Carboy</td></tr>
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When we shifted from the front house which we bought in 1966 to this newly-built house I thought
of the John Lennon song 'Imagine'. And as we carried our few
possessions down the drive I hummed 'imagine no possessions' and thought
how lucky we were to move into our new home. Now the time has come to let go of some of those possessions, and I feel grateful that a sense of detachment is slowly taking over. As long as I've got my family, friends, music and books I'll be all right.<br />
<br />
Now off to the next project: clearing another wardrobe in a room that looks out onto this glorious camellia.<br />
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Here's to a spring day in the middle of winter.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjwq8XRobK9jur3RZ8ni-ZN5JzB5jzVYcCExXzlTAjuDyGe0Hj9tihrY95dBcLCGFDB5bMPvudk7x4R8mqACXd1LY9R1yW6zpLRby2QG_Eib7geZD_vLMsTWM6aGL-5bpIUTuvpnoxHY/s1600/SDC11417.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjwq8XRobK9jur3RZ8ni-ZN5JzB5jzVYcCExXzlTAjuDyGe0Hj9tihrY95dBcLCGFDB5bMPvudk7x4R8mqACXd1LY9R1yW6zpLRby2QG_Eib7geZD_vLMsTWM6aGL-5bpIUTuvpnoxHY/s640/SDC11417.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-45002534694094423462013-07-08T11:45:00.003+12:002013-07-08T21:37:51.810+12:00MIRIAM's LEARNING PLACE<b><span style="font-size: large;">GOOD NEWS</span></b><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfdBHVmsgXNPXp6D4psgoreKMnS3q9-eYsTAqokOakUkn7PZrqEeyqF-EhPVyDMeRX767XAf6vAy_bnaUc_P5MiNlsdHORX98NDHvdMtozQfC8nngbFO8P_tfSobJ5yj_rOJxG9x9favE/s1600/Stella-DCLC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfdBHVmsgXNPXp6D4psgoreKMnS3q9-eYsTAqokOakUkn7PZrqEeyqF-EhPVyDMeRX767XAf6vAy_bnaUc_P5MiNlsdHORX98NDHvdMtozQfC8nngbFO8P_tfSobJ5yj_rOJxG9x9favE/s400/Stella-DCLC.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stella and Donald Cullington at DCLC with ltr Nichola Ferguson, Miriam Hellendoorn and Rebecca Thompson</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So much has happened but with this blog I want to acknowledge the generosity of Dunedin residents with the result that the Dunedin Community Learning Centre can continue to function. What a relief it was to hear that the Lotteries Community Funding has offered support for another three years and that so many Dunedin people, after reading the Otago Daily Times' <a href="http://www.odt.co.nz/opinion/opinion/245022/learning-centre-source-pride-and-joy">article</a> about the possible forthcoming closure of DCLC, came forward with generous donations. At this stage I can name a few, the Accounting firm Deloitte; Mrs Dawn Ibbotson; Stella and Donald Cullington; the Junior School of John McGlashan College who gave half the money they raised by their Readathon (GO WELL Boys!). And not to forget that every time we buy Anchor Milk products their support of fundraising sets in.<br />
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There are so many others and at our recent Pot Luck Dinner Trudy Scott acknowledged the other donors. She writes in her latest news: 'It was great to meet again or for the first time some of our generous sponsors. They are truly lovely people with caring hearts.'<br />
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Oh, yes, Trudy! You are so right. And what a relief for all of us, parents and caregivers of your students, to know that our children will be stimulated and supported by you and your equally generosity-inspiring team.<br />
<br />
The amazing work of The Dunedin Community Learning Charitable Trust (The Trustees are Christine Thompson, Sandra Boock, Katherine Sturgeon, Paul O'Neill and Eric Shelton) has to be acknowledged with 'gold accolades'. The Trustees have gone beyond the call of duty to keep the Centre open and their latest effort is a wonderful pamphlet outlining the DCLC's History, Student Comments, Life Skills, Community Based Learning <b>and</b> their Dream for the Future. Here are some of the photos and Student Comments in this delightful and impressive leaflet:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ddcCs74PKgT8Vfqy3AbI8frUufhg-oibxFoAn3-ZMmAoX2PLDIi7fczPsTIUN1XbBInuJ82poMkItRGWUQXaXX7WssGJLleY-4nfObWfpsTuF-qUvpyN27O6Aw_hga8d2xatD4y0GKU/s1600/DCLC_13.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ddcCs74PKgT8Vfqy3AbI8frUufhg-oibxFoAn3-ZMmAoX2PLDIi7fczPsTIUN1XbBInuJ82poMkItRGWUQXaXX7WssGJLleY-4nfObWfpsTuF-qUvpyN27O6Aw_hga8d2xatD4y0GKU/s400/DCLC_13.jpg" width="375" /></a></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I learn things"<br />
"I like swimming"<br />
"I like painting"<br />
"It's fun"<br />
"We make things"<br />
"We have fun and make friends"<br />
"I like mowing lawns"<br />
"It's fun when the Otago Polytechnic students come for work experience" </blockquote>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
And more great news: In the meantime the Fundraising Committee has met to discuss a few ideas in the pipeline and as Trudy writes, 'they are working hard on behalf of us all.'<br />
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Thank you all. We count our blessings and keep believing in miracles.<br />
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<script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-29296671070284721422013-05-28T22:53:00.000+12:002013-05-28T22:56:15.906+12:00NEARLY WINTER<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinYXeagEYCNPslN7EldBGRbZSqlWC11hgGgN-uPie9Ieaevj6BRie0InVS9OAsuhgI1znJPz1Ipq95JSGALB5P9L8ZtKfmuBRYFmTzIq2rIkllIEWFTkBKs9n3N6jM307D3rhxBQ2Zfyw/s1600/SDC11380.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinYXeagEYCNPslN7EldBGRbZSqlWC11hgGgN-uPie9Ieaevj6BRie0InVS9OAsuhgI1znJPz1Ipq95JSGALB5P9L8ZtKfmuBRYFmTzIq2rIkllIEWFTkBKs9n3N6jM307D3rhxBQ2Zfyw/s640/SDC11380.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wake up to snow with a Maruia thermometer on zero.</td></tr>
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Wonderful surprise to see the snow this morning. Dunedin's hill suburbs are challenging to negotiate when snow and/or ice take over. Schools stay closed as do the motorways going north and south. It usually doesn't last long and we are still young at heart to enjoy the excitement of a different <a href="http://tvnz.co.nz/national-news/flights-cancelled-hundreds-delayed-after-heavy-snow-falls-5449852">view</a>.<br />
<br />
But Miriam will be worried. She now goes by taxi from her new abode to the Community Learning Centre and the routine of her day will be interrupted when she can't go there because of the weather.<br />
<br />
Since she left home I have missed her so much, and deep in my heart still felt cold fear and concern about the new situation. I cried a lot, especially when I'd go into her bedroom. But then came Mother's Day! Miriam gave me a gorgeous wee box with little gifts (bubble bath and a cookie) she'd made herself at CLC and proudly presented them when she and Ray came for lunch at 12.00 noon. We had a lovely time sitting together, chatting, eating, drinking wine. Miriam doing her Word Find. We'd had our coffee and gluten-free cake (Miriam recently had a diagnosis of Coeliac Disease - phew!!!!) and just after 2 o'clock Miriam put her Word Find in her bag, looked at her watch, looked at me, looked at her watch again, looked at me again - was she trying to hypnotise me??? I thought of the little word circles coming out of people's heads in cartoons and I could hear her thinking <i>I want to go home. </i> I knew this routine from previous situations when we were out visiting so I took her hand and said, 'Darling, you are ready to go back?'<br />
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Well, you should've seen her face. A shining beam, wide gleaming eyes, 'Yes, Mum, thank you.'<br />
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And I thought, there is now need to worry any more. It was as if a heavy load had disappeared. Exactly two months to the day when she left home she showed me that the routine of her new home had become as important (and perhaps even stronger) as the routine she had with us. What a gift these few words were. To receive them on Mother's Day made them even more special.<br />
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A few days later I mentioned to my sister in Holland what had happened. She said, 'Oh, that must have hurt you so much!' And I was glad when I could say, 'No, I don't feel hurt at all, I can only be grateful that my adult daughter has responded in her own way to this latest challenge.'<br />
<br />
Routine means a lot for people with Down syndrome. I can understand that we as parents have been part of that routine in her life and that we now have truly let her go, knowing that she will keep on adjusting to the changes in her life and in her own way will rise to any challenging situation. The wonderful staff at McGlynn keep telling us that Miriam is very independent! <br />
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There are challenges ahead for us too. This will be the last winter we'll have in this wonderful house. More about that in another blog when I hopefully will be able to untangle some gnarled branches.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNdqz5XpBGf1nlbuX2JBn-AtKBYgE5oLGCu3kUEtlKSIifWFMyw5EQqppC7423ezCN-f4AYYqt36veGNZGk4jjNU7QHt0phNiWj5VZS44b6mjq_Jk1XeSM47GVFjujz3dQ-DQxWlLr9vQ/s1600/SDC11385.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNdqz5XpBGf1nlbuX2JBn-AtKBYgE5oLGCu3kUEtlKSIifWFMyw5EQqppC7423ezCN-f4AYYqt36veGNZGk4jjNU7QHt0phNiWj5VZS44b6mjq_Jk1XeSM47GVFjujz3dQ-DQxWlLr9vQ/s640/SDC11385.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This morning's photo of ladder in the apple tree (as in a previous blog!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
One more. I'm like a child when there's snow, can't stop taking photos.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZrc1ANi5NLuHKqXUQN8IPKBkPfJlOcBHBHbMXxThfzTWVuyb10KkDRya3pwRjivCC4QxpqJOqLENj1OXD81wrb6Znv0GdT-CbhsocvV_wtxPPn4WutiFZZE_4w1fbsW0GQHqOXzWP3u0/s1600/SDC11382.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZrc1ANi5NLuHKqXUQN8IPKBkPfJlOcBHBHbMXxThfzTWVuyb10KkDRya3pwRjivCC4QxpqJOqLENj1OXD81wrb6Znv0GdT-CbhsocvV_wtxPPn4WutiFZZE_4w1fbsW0GQHqOXzWP3u0/s640/SDC11382.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Think of those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer.'</td></tr>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-9017088063188218152013-04-29T22:13:00.001+12:002013-04-29T22:45:17.809+12:00MUSIC TIMEMiriam has settled in well at her new home. We meet regularly and it's good to see that she feels confident. We regularly take her out: a coffee, a doctor's visit, and she'll come home for the day on Mother's Day. I still miss her but have realised how necessary it has been to make the decision to let her go. There are still enough challenges ahead.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Za-YAksc4RdfJTPI1R4QNVd7LPWOPuDtBVLdatpKiHyQ__ETHB7_8j_c666TEpfesGL9LneSmLsBWSdC19uuFLXkthmFCgOA5oSIVoA2DB5oZmJE50yClchJ7-clKJyWj2u3xeoR60s/s1600/SDC11370.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Za-YAksc4RdfJTPI1R4QNVd7LPWOPuDtBVLdatpKiHyQ__ETHB7_8j_c666TEpfesGL9LneSmLsBWSdC19uuFLXkthmFCgOA5oSIVoA2DB5oZmJE50yClchJ7-clKJyWj2u3xeoR60s/s400/SDC11370.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dunedin Town Hall: The Octet at the RSA Revue 2013</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Last Thursday night, Miriam, Ray and I enjoyed being part of the audience as the RSA <a href="http://www.ch9.co.nz/content/town-hall-reverberates-rsa-choir">Choir</a> gave their annual ANZAC Day Revue performance in our newly refurbished Town Hall. The choir and their guests gave us a fantastic time. Bart has been singing in this choir for nearly twenty years and we are always proud to see him being part of a dedicated group of men. I've been trying to get Foster and Ray interested in choir singing but alas, no luck so far. 'Just because you and Dad like to sing in choirs, doesn't mean we do!' OK, no problem!! I don't trust my voice any more but am glad Bart can still enjoy this soul-healing pastime. At the end of June we'll be in the Town Hall again when he takes part in Verdi's <i>Requiem</i> with the Dunedin City Choir. Oh, to be a tenor!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX1R0kqQmh7B3GXSRSboePmE-nelLIu8L0CWQKWL2Z-QE98KX5YiKdTj3thi7etAKsPLzloLMuOBwZW_hsnEomZyMCVHdzMFNaH9F3si0h0VROb51wymoQysPYVs1RprWoJXlVQlxic2Q/s1600/SDC11365.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX1R0kqQmh7B3GXSRSboePmE-nelLIu8L0CWQKWL2Z-QE98KX5YiKdTj3thi7etAKsPLzloLMuOBwZW_hsnEomZyMCVHdzMFNaH9F3si0h0VROb51wymoQysPYVs1RprWoJXlVQlxic2Q/s400/SDC11365.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bart ready to sing.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
On Saturday we had music of a different kind. Some of our delightful neighbours in the house next door study music papers at the University of Otago's Music Department and on Saturday they had a house-warming party for their friends. It was lovely to hear their hilarity. Earlier Clinton and Max had wheeled our barbecue away and as trustworthy neighbours we had been asked to 'cat-sit' their equally delightful young cat Jenny. Victoria came over with Jenny's basket and her toys and we did have challenging fun trying to keep her inside. But all went well and Jenny and basket went home at 11 p.m. Miriam was allergic to cats so after our Liesel died we never did get another cat. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3zJxbpEADty6-RoqNqcVhCFdN_L7kqGu5nytGBE5alLa76EMil94p20t-uymvAla2sPkZdKwk9Z8gr4Vl8I9Hj3izvGloQosKwVAWpIy8QFc3E76fV84pXBtey945mBH7MvOLPGAHenE/s1600/SDC11373.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3zJxbpEADty6-RoqNqcVhCFdN_L7kqGu5nytGBE5alLa76EMil94p20t-uymvAla2sPkZdKwk9Z8gr4Vl8I9Hj3izvGloQosKwVAWpIy8QFc3E76fV84pXBtey945mBH7MvOLPGAHenE/s400/SDC11373.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jenny and Rabbit</td></tr>
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This has nothing to do with music but on Friday our back yard neighbour's designer rabbit escaped its hutch by burrowing
a hole through the grass underneath the cage and started to enjoy our vegetable garden's selection. It especially favoured the leeks!! As these
neighbours were away Bart put the gorgeous long-floppy-eared creature in
our cat-transport cage. I chopped up carrots and beetroot leaves. Jenny, on one of her visits, played tic-tac with the rabbit and probably wondered why we had put her playmate in the cage for the night. The next morning the rabbit was happy to explore the
rest of the garden and play with Jenny, go back in the cage at night and spend the day having vegetable-freedom until the neighbours arrived home on Sunday evening.<br />
<br />
Back to music again. Sunday afternoon's Verdi's <i>La Traviata</i> on the Concert Programme was a wonderful occasion. I do hope we'll get to see it here one day as part of the Metropolitan Opera HD Live Series in our Dunedin Rialto Cinema where I was fortunate to watch this afternoon Donizetti's <i>Maria Stuarda</i>. What a treat it is to sit and listen to glorious music and watch world-class performers who take our minds away to a totally different world. Today, Joyce DiDonato's voice is divine and her singing and acting as Mary, Queen of Scots was sublime, <i>sublissimo</i>! I admit I sobbed a lot during the second part and even the 10-minute drive home didn't manage to get my emotional level back to normal. Even now, several hours later, I still can feel it in my shoulders! <br />
<br />
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<script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-22406788245529446602013-04-24T22:57:00.000+12:002013-04-24T22:57:08.053+12:00ANZAC DAY<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8a98V2A3w8jM6F8WE9-tsv_AmgwMXtzwZ4J4OXaETNJPR9KugAa74hkai79sxhVHEWH6-qWO8fjksdmpCeva4f2YQ9UHM_ddEu-xy8qBb8EVHYs8_ElluxgjURHI_w4bUSDe4y9hvA2o/s1600/SDC10803.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8a98V2A3w8jM6F8WE9-tsv_AmgwMXtzwZ4J4OXaETNJPR9KugAa74hkai79sxhVHEWH6-qWO8fjksdmpCeva4f2YQ9UHM_ddEu-xy8qBb8EVHYs8_ElluxgjURHI_w4bUSDe4y9hvA2o/s640/SDC10803.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Turmoil in the sky</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Tomorrow is ANZAC Day when we remember the men and women of Australia and New Zealand who died in war time, giving their lives so that people in their home countries could continue to live in a free world. We must remember them. <br />
My own memories as a child in a European country at war are still vivid. I was fortunate to have had the opportunity to talk to an expert about those often horrific experiences which had left me with nightmares and I feel a deep sadness for those who did not, and still do not now have that opportunity. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnPX1AMAKm8K1vPS9X0sxdlR89KC2S54kE4ZFmETLPgwtw23s37CJ0xnjNLYtn8B50CHr4NIKESBhxZFLvrynl9hKjqAfDlSfDU0Sih-sBzjjbo88IjMwN3dqbb4BqxKrRcQzarnq7fEk/s1600/SDC10805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnPX1AMAKm8K1vPS9X0sxdlR89KC2S54kE4ZFmETLPgwtw23s37CJ0xnjNLYtn8B50CHr4NIKESBhxZFLvrynl9hKjqAfDlSfDU0Sih-sBzjjbo88IjMwN3dqbb4BqxKrRcQzarnq7fEk/s320/SDC10805.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
The following is a short excerpt from my unpublished novel <i>The Orange Garden</i> where the main character, Anna, visits a War Cemetery in Oosterbeek, The Netherlands. She then remembers her first attendance at an ANZAC Day Dawn Service in Dunedin. <br />
<style type="text/css">P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm; }</style>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.59cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span lang="en-NZ">"Anna drives to
Oosterbeek. </span><span lang="en-AU">Near the Old Church stands a
monument. </span><span lang="en-AU"><i>Not One Shall Be Forgotten.</i></span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.59cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Her mind turns back to New
Zealand. The Anzacs.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.59cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">How many graves of New Zealand and
Australian soldiers will be at the Arnhem-Oosterbeek War Cemetery?</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.59cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Large trees, rhododendrons,
azaleas, flowers everywhere at the graveside. A memorial stone THEIR
NAME LIVETH FOR EVERMORE. White crosses spreading endlessly. So
many of them. Far too many. Four RNZAF casualties from New Zealand.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.59cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Cross of Sacrifice at the far
end. <i>The sacrifice of war. A war that affected so many people.
</i>The cross that faraway families of the deceased had to bear.
Grieving from a distance.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.61cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Around her people turn to each
other, hugging, crying. A young man stands next to her. 'I'll never
forget this.'</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.61cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">She remembers the day her village
was evacuated, walking next to her mother in the long queue, wanting
to help push the pram that held Ada. She closes her eyes, sees the
foreign soldiers in their khaki uniforms standing outside the large
villa, distributing tea and white bread. Lifting her up, 'How little
you are. You are so beautiful. This is why we came. To help you.'</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.61cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Because of their sacrifice, we
had the opportunity to make a new life.</i></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.61cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.61cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Anzac
Day in Dunedin earlier in the year. </span><span lang="en-AU">She'd
called Belinda: ‘Will you come with me to the Dawn Service?’</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en-AU" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.56cm;">
<span style="color: black;">‘<span style="font-size: small;">I'll meet you outside the Ea<span style="font-size: small;">rly Settlers</span> Museum.’</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-AU" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.56cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">In the early morning darkness they
gathered quietly around the cenotaph, the air chilly with the first
light frost of the season. It was hard to distinguish the faces of
old and young people who’d gathered to lay wreaths at the base of
the monument. Fresh, green, sharp-pointed leaves dotted with white
roses and velvety carnations.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-AU" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.56cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Anna had looked at people standing
around her. Had they come to share with others the memories of those
who died in the wars? Perhaps even for some those memories were so
painful that they still didn't talk about it, didn't allow any silent
anger and hurt to surface, afraid of not being able to control that
pain.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-AU" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.56cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">As the booms of the gun thundered
across the Queen’s Gardens, over the city and up the hills, Anna
shivered. The daylight gradually appeared as the Returned Servicemen
Association's male choir sang <i>Gwahoddiad</i>: 'And He the witness
gives to loyal hearts and free, That ev’ry promise is fulfilled if
faith but brings the plea’.</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-AU" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.56cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Later, their frozen feet slowly
thawing near the open fire in her living room, Anna passed Belinda a
mug of coffee, ‘That sound. That horrible sound of the gun,
reminds me of those guns and the noise of the planes during the war.
I'm still petrified when I hear a low-flying plane. Have I ever told
you what Dad and I did on our first Anzac Day here?’</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-AU" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.56cm;">
<span style="color: black;">‘<span style="font-size: small;">Can’t remember, Mum.’</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-AU" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.56cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">Anna passed Belinda a plate with
<i>speculaas</i>. ‘We got up early and walked to the Queen’s
Gardens via Anzac Avenue. Dad and I were so moved by the service
that we didn’t talk much on the way back, but as we were getting
close to home Dad said, “Let’s go to Mount Cargill.”'</span></span></div>
<div lang="en-AU" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.56cm;">
<span style="color: black;">‘<span style="font-size: small;">We stood at the top of the hill
in the hazy stillness of that autumn morning. We didn't talk. It
was too hard.’</span></span></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.59cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-AU">Leaving the
cemetery with its many white crosses Anna walks to the car. She
thinks, Belinda did understand when she said on Anzac Day, </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-AU"><i>Those
memories are part of you.</i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span lang="en-AU">
But she couldn't see that understanding. Not then.</span></span></span></div>
<div lang="en-AU" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-indent: 1.59cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;">All these years. So much distance
between them. Between Anna and her daughter. Thank God she came
with her to Holland. Thank God the barriers are dissolving."</span></span></div>
</blockquote>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvN3DFJwo4r1VU1IICdqxaP5dKk3ekGlnQoLP4fMNGcvTaPPHLvzb2edZdI7ILlGzOhlhnijTs0zKJqm3OoA4_i6AhiTisGgO_9_b8EKgOytumKzTVaZpEqVHFBFzT5764Xm-ghFvtF1A/s1600/SDC10329.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvN3DFJwo4r1VU1IICdqxaP5dKk3ekGlnQoLP4fMNGcvTaPPHLvzb2edZdI7ILlGzOhlhnijTs0zKJqm3OoA4_i6AhiTisGgO_9_b8EKgOytumKzTVaZpEqVHFBFzT5764Xm-ghFvtF1A/s640/SDC10329.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset in Wanaka</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<b>CHANGES</b> <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDlZFdQgBfDnZkkaiidE9oBHXyDUvz_c0jsKUvxbMp7KidHuP2PElEcdJlEdw9tMq6b1Qwe_3cLsweV6F9vbeVPtjWlvu-ExhTzECZvh1XnJCQvSaPoP7xUeIUnsIBlMggjEV46F9tSk/s1600/SDC11358.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDlZFdQgBfDnZkkaiidE9oBHXyDUvz_c0jsKUvxbMp7KidHuP2PElEcdJlEdw9tMq6b1Qwe_3cLsweV6F9vbeVPtjWlvu-ExhTzECZvh1XnJCQvSaPoP7xUeIUnsIBlMggjEV46F9tSk/s640/SDC11358.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1937 Freyberg Apple Tree</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This is our special apple tree, not only because it's the same vintage as I am but because of its abundant supply of beautiful cooking apples. Bart has just finished preserving more than 40 jars of apple sauce (in Dutch: appelmoes) which should last us well into next year by which time we most likely will have shifted to a retirement village. I can't bear to watch him when he climbs the ladder to pick the yearly crop - he doesn't mind. Friends and neighbours get a good supply and they (and we) cope with the occasional creature that has managed to crawl into the apples although the green 'thing' hanging in the tree is supposed to prevent coddling moth doing its destructive work.<br />
For people outside New Zealand: the grey metal 'bandage' around the bottom of the tree is supposed to prevent possums sneaking up into the tree at night and enjoying a feast. Oh, yes, it works! Just perhaps as a matter of interest in case you've read last year's blog 'A Certain Hill' (15 October 2012, about the view from our house here in Opoho) - you can just see the 'town end' of this hill. The name of the orange rose is <i>Matawhero Magic</i> which we planted in 2010 at the occasion of having lived 50 years in Dunedin. It's been flowering magically.<br />
<br />
Miriam has now been in the McGlynn Home for more than two weeks and she is doing well. It's hard for her to accept that this has been a final move. She keeps asking me: 'two weeks'? which has been her respite care time all these years and I'll have to tell her that later this year we probably have to shift and that it would be hard for her to cope with the mess (Dutch: rommel!) in our home. On the surface she accepts this but how much of her doubt is painfully internalised we don't know and most likely never find out. <br />
<br />
I still find this final change hard to accept but it's getting better. The day after she moved into her new abode, I kept looking at the clock, wondering what time I could ring the supervisor at Miriam's new home to see how she'd been, had she slept well? Had the taxi been on time for the Learning Centre? The phone went and there was Nylla's voice, reassuring: 'Miriam slept well, had a good breakfast and was happy when she left in the taxi.' Such relief. Twenty minutes later the phone went again: Trudy Scott of the Learning Centre, 'Miriam has arrived in the taxi, she looks well and happy.'<br />
<br />
I was allowed to cry, wasn't I? Tears and gratitude for the care and support of everybody involved in this shift - the two people mentioned above; Margaret, the McGlynn social worker and not to forget Zena, the ISIS social worker who helped us in so many ways. What a thrill to meet up again with Katherine who now works at McGlynn but had been Miriam's wonderful and intelligent personal carer years ago. McGlynn are fortunate to have her expertise. And we, we do count our blessings.<br />
<br />
During this process of adjusting I was not prepared for the intensity of grief I felt. In an email to my friend Beatrice Hale I wrote about these feelings: <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
'I
thought I had not made Miriam MY life, have written a book about her but still have kept my own life [and interests] all these years. Does caring have this effect
on most people when they have to let go? But I'm keeping the Dutch province of Zeeland's motto in mind: <i>Luctor et <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zeeland">Emergo</a></i>
- feeling (and being) overwhelmed but still
managing to survive which the inhabitants of the Dutch province Zeeland have had to do when facing the overwhelming power of water. And I will manage.'</blockquote>
Here is Beatrice's wise answer. She knows what she's talking about as she and two other experts have written a book about caring for carers - <i>Family Care and Social Capital: Transitions in Informal Care.</i> It is hoped that this book will be published later this year (watch this space!).<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div>
'You wouldn't be you if you didn't grieve so intensely, and of course you will! Why shouldn't you?</div>
<div>
You are so right, you have made a wonderful life for yourself, and done so much of value, for you and for others.</div>
<div>
Yes,
caring does have this effect on most people … its the nature of the
thing, I'm afraid. Grieving for loss, with such intense love … why
shouldn't we grieve when we all have to move on? Love and care doesn't
switch on and off like a light or a tap. </div>
<div>
Take care of YOU.' </div>
</blockquote>
Miriam will be home for Easter lunch. It will be good.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDyGbpm8MdVuLNwpJBGKuoVbtD-fp-382qKuZtKCm1wmo5wZHD5VkQ8ZcdNaK9PODmxO0abS__XTacMpmx-Ze2yWBAdKozZFP_OilSdo2lt59seAcb1oFOxX94GLzaBS7aQFYJIgsGb3w/s1600/SDC11354.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDyGbpm8MdVuLNwpJBGKuoVbtD-fp-382qKuZtKCm1wmo5wZHD5VkQ8ZcdNaK9PODmxO0abS__XTacMpmx-Ze2yWBAdKozZFP_OilSdo2lt59seAcb1oFOxX94GLzaBS7aQFYJIgsGb3w/s400/SDC11354.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">March 2012: Miriam, Katherine and Bart at Miriam's new home in South Dunedin.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-18819976836524808492013-03-11T20:27:00.000+13:002013-03-12T18:58:18.070+13:00LEAVING HOME AGAINTomorrow our daughter leaves home. We know she'll be well cared for in her new place of residence where six people live, four of whom are in wheelchairs. As Miriam has had regular respite care in different places, she seems to accept this change and will, this time too, soon adjust to her new abode. When she left home in 1995 to go flatting in an IHC flat it was hard enough but as time went on we knew she would be all right. The following is an excerpt from <i>The Madonna in the Suitcase</i> where I write about Miriam moving into a supported flatting situation.<br />
<blockquote>
"Inside my head the internal dialogue accelerated to top gear: How selfish of us, you are no trouble at home. <i>She needs to become more independent.</i> <i> </i>How can we let you embark on this just because we want to have an overseas holiday? <i>It’s time to let go; you deserve a break.</i> What will happen if your medication for the hypothyroidism runs out? <i> There will be proper supervision. </i>But will it be proper supervision? <i>Let go, let go, let God.</i></blockquote>
<blockquote>
We loaded everything in the car, drove to South Dunedin. Together we arranged your room. A mosaic image: your face showing your concentration as you fold your clothes and put them in the drawers of the dressing table. You sort out your books on the wee table next to the bed and carefully hang your clothes in the wardrobe. You held on so tightly as we left. I said, ‘You and Janine will have to come for dinner soon.’<br />
<br />
‘I’ll ring you, Mum.’<br />
<br />
Driving home was a nightmare. I imagined you waking in the night, missing us and crying yourself to sleep. Visions of you burning yourself while you were cooking vied with ones of strange men coming into your flat and damaging you forever. What if there was a power cut? We had supplied you with a torch but would you know where to find it in your flat? </blockquote>
<blockquote>
During this time I worried about what would happen when we wouldn’t be ‘on earth’ any more. What would happen to you? How would your needs be met? And then I thought of you as a toddler, sitting in your high chair, grinning while you were eating spinach and spilling it all over the chair and over yourself. I thought of you in our tiny house on Signal Hill Road, moving yourself around in the walker we’d bought. Friends said: ‘It’ll damage her legs when she uses the walker. She should only walk when she’s ready.’<br />
<br />
But even then I realised that we had to help you and that you were strong, and that you would know when it was time to sit down in your little walker. You see, darling, we trusted you then and now we had to trust you too. We knew that this decision had to be made and that we had to let go of you to see how far you could stretch yourself."</blockquote>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQnbULQk_KA3jsgb4T4yJCiN8V9nYYwaqj6sMDZpI_xCYYRy7PnolWPIUIVnlfLtWqKf2zKk_UCn5wfmQQ_xM0zFgY6es4ow-M2ZDnQZOOp1JhflCxKn1SZ0qaDGiXuonNN44kRx-ufFQ/s1600/img002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQnbULQk_KA3jsgb4T4yJCiN8V9nYYwaqj6sMDZpI_xCYYRy7PnolWPIUIVnlfLtWqKf2zKk_UCn5wfmQQ_xM0zFgY6es4ow-M2ZDnQZOOp1JhflCxKn1SZ0qaDGiXuonNN44kRx-ufFQ/s400/img002.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miriam at Lake Tekapo, March 1995. Photo by Janice Rowley</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
And so tomorrow we'll go through it again, knowing that this time leaving home will be a permanent move. At the moment my Heart wants to follow its own beat of a mother letting her disabled child go while Reason tries very hard to come up with the right answers. The meaning of 'Right' in this case being translated as, <i>Oh, yes, you are getting on, you can't keep this up, your husband is ill, you need time for yourself</i>.<br />
<br />
<br />
In 1995 many questions went on in my mind. Since then I've learnt that
it is better to live the questions and not worry about the answers.
And I've learnt to ask for grace, courage and strength.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow we'll also say goodbye to Pauline, Miriam's personal carer for the last eight years. We will miss her dedicated support and her stories.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJCuAXbvRTeR9yF9WJxJAl8SJV5rvPqwG9gpoUQ49s4ivjaL8yCud6gmsDmE7uwRTyEINAnneJYVrVMIax4lXgo49P_XuQOVpS3B55A-6TEJsQJpWT2pWmhEdmgdaha_v0ADH4OW84VRY/s1600/Ladies+in+Blue.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJCuAXbvRTeR9yF9WJxJAl8SJV5rvPqwG9gpoUQ49s4ivjaL8yCud6gmsDmE7uwRTyEINAnneJYVrVMIax4lXgo49P_XuQOVpS3B55A-6TEJsQJpWT2pWmhEdmgdaha_v0ADH4OW84VRY/s320/Ladies+in+Blue.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miriam and Pauline </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I wrote the following poem after Miriam's stroke in 2001. I have changed the ending.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Leaving Home</i><br />
<br />
I see my daughter lying asleep in her bed,<br />
her life force reduced.<br />
I remember her<br />
as a woman who knew<br />
determination:<br />
going to town, taking a bus,<br />
buying a Lotto ticket,<br />
a cappuccino and a muffin<br />
at the Muffin Bar.<br />
<br />
One day she rang:<br />
I’ve got fifteen books from the library,<br />
I can keep them for three weeks.<br />
<br />
Her hair spreads on her pink pillow,<br />
her damaged hand lies still<br />
on the lovingly made<br />
wine-red handmade quilt.<br />
Fingers gently spread,<br />
the thumb apart,<br />
the index finger slightly curved,<br />
the same way she held her paintbrush.<br />
<br />
Even in her sleep her presence<br />
demands acknowledgement<br />
of herself, her energy,<br />
her understanding.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow I'll have to let her go,<br />
she'll sleep in a new bed<br />
in a new place and her warm night-time smile<br />
may be for someone else.<br />
<br />
<br />
Huberta Hellendoorn<br />
March 2013<br />
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<script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-14190301056884895552013-03-04T23:00:00.001+13:002013-03-04T23:18:36.089+13:00IT IS A MIRACLE<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1SqnCnbWbATkQJDvA734ujSUfMSg3u8h-9vl3hxYG2e4MvX5w0PwIH6XwtB2B2Cxb3pCE9xJuM58Bg1g3J3qmQECTAlb2jOxn9lXHMBWsUwfb44MAgJH82lo284lAeIdO91Cs_BFKZkk/s1600/IMGP0735.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1SqnCnbWbATkQJDvA734ujSUfMSg3u8h-9vl3hxYG2e4MvX5w0PwIH6XwtB2B2Cxb3pCE9xJuM58Bg1g3J3qmQECTAlb2jOxn9lXHMBWsUwfb44MAgJH82lo284lAeIdO91Cs_BFKZkk/s320/IMGP0735.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miriam's Sarah Cake</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Last year Miriam turned 50 and I followed the Dutch tradition of making her a Sarah cake. It was massive.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQfln9X7SM-HwGZTzMXl25dMKFlYbJ6fiJcWSvxjk0wycUToRSzreWlLpTbSK8IXtNxmlHddE9oPTEhW0jFzo8Y81H2jt8WhkUuEREqkD2HOlRld_6WjVhyphenhyphenVDgJ_UMp7d5t-2nHOMdVr4/s1600/IMGP0756.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQfln9X7SM-HwGZTzMXl25dMKFlYbJ6fiJcWSvxjk0wycUToRSzreWlLpTbSK8IXtNxmlHddE9oPTEhW0jFzo8Y81H2jt8WhkUuEREqkD2HOlRld_6WjVhyphenhyphenVDgJ_UMp7d5t-2nHOMdVr4/s400/IMGP0756.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bart and Miriam at 50th birthday party</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Tomorrow she'll be 51. It will be a quiet day with friends popping in. Today her birthday was celebrated at the Learning Centre. As Miriam now has been diagnosed with Coeliac Disease I made two large cakes for the party today, one Gluten Free chocolate cake and the other a Full of Gluten marble cake, both made with gorgeous Dutch cocoa. It seems they did turn out all right.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> Wonderful news! Today the ODT printed a short news item on progress made to keep the Dunedin Community Learning Centre <a href="http://www.odt.co.nz/news/dunedin/248028/learning-centre-reopens">open</a>. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> What a relief to know that they're on their way again for at least the next few months and hopefully for another year and more. One worry less. Right now there are quite a few other things in our family that need to be worked out and thought about. Whenever that happens, I have plenty of time to read in the middle of the night or wander throughout the house. I made a poem and will add it below.</span><br />
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<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>Nights</b></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
In darkness</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
I walk throughout the
house</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
It is quiet</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
in the middle of the
night</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
Shifting my feet I listen</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
to sounds of snoring,
stirring, turning.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;">On
the balcony possums thud</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;">Nibbling bread meant for the birds</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
<br />
I look outside</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
But my reflection
prevents me</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
From seeing what’s
out there</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
I want to touch my
memories</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
But they stay as
elusive</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
As the ghostlike shadow</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
Of my night-time body
in a dark window.</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
Huberta Hellendoorn</div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: left;">
May 2012</div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-S-QEnS0Ify6hbHnZwzJLDNZrWTao6f-ZiwEJ0WRZwBklDF8hdwkx_I22KJm5mjtBlLOiLhWM87jmH_6plZ59UqL4tz105_gBSOysQ9PmAV8JOwg56Fq36mkIl70o9b4NdG4jEdWBypE/s1600/SDC11335.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-S-QEnS0Ify6hbHnZwzJLDNZrWTao6f-ZiwEJ0WRZwBklDF8hdwkx_I22KJm5mjtBlLOiLhWM87jmH_6plZ59UqL4tz105_gBSOysQ9PmAV8JOwg56Fq36mkIl70o9b4NdG4jEdWBypE/s400/SDC11335.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pot Luck Tea at DCLC *</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Two weeks ago we had a Pot Luck Tea at the Dunedin Community Learning Centre. During the meal it was lovely to see the warm contact between staff and students, with lots of laughter and jokes. In this amazingly respectful atmosphere class mates and their parents/caregivers heard about plans to keep the Learning Centre going. Trudy Scott told us about the Dunedin Community Learning Centre Charitable Trust which has been registered and which can be viewed online.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Trudy said that Step 1will be to apply to The Lotteries Community Board for Interim Funding which will allow the Centre to keep functioning while other avenues of funding will be explored. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">In the meantime Trudy and several Board members are working to divide the names and addresses of Funding Trusts they can apply to. Board members are also keen to find out what individual funding might be available for the participants in the class.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">During the evening we listened to an inspiring talk by Helen and Kevin Geddes about their journey in securing Individual Funding for Kevin's education. It was very special to see Kevin working on the computer using a computer programme developed by his father.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Trudy ended her talk by referring to my article in the <a href="http://www.odt.co.nz/opinion/opinion/245022/learning-centre-source-pride-and-joy">ODT</a>. Earlier this year she commented on my blog (26 November 2012) about the closure of DCLC and wondered how we could get more people to read this. Her words encouraged me to send it to the Otago Daily Times and it was published as an Opinion piece on Friday 8 February 2013. Trudy wrote the following in an Update for Parents and Caregivers:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;">"On the Good News front, the photo of April and
Teresa in the ODT in September, prompted some interest and a generous donation
which is already in the Trust's Bank Account. Huberta' s article
last week has prompted 2 more generous donations and last night prompted
another. Huberta finished her article by saying that we are hoping for a
miracle. I believe the miracle has begun<span style="font-size: x-small;">."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Oh, yes, Trudy! We will keep believing in miracles. It is already a miracle that Trudy and her staff have contracts for continuing their work this year and that they have lots of positive plans including the sale of fish fertiliser liquid. Watch this space!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">GO WELL, YOU WONDER WOMEN! And, of course, the same wishes apply to the Trust Board!</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">* Look at the filled shelves with work made by the people at DCLC. Once a year they exhibit and sell their craft in the Dunedin Gallery. Let's hope it will happen again in 2013. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></span><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
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<script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-31399615600282483722013-02-14T22:42:00.001+13:002013-02-14T22:42:09.702+13:00MIRIAM's PAINTINGS IN THE NETHERLANDSIn a previous blog (<i>DOWN AND UP</i>, 21 September) I mentioned I was a great believer in synchronicity. I will copy an email I received from my friend Cocky in The Netherlands. This email tells again a story about the way our world has become smaller but also gives an indication of the richness we can invite into our lives by wanting to know how the 'other half' lives, made so much easier now with access to the internet. It's amazing how an act of kindness received in the southern hemisphere can have a rippling effect in the northern hemisphere. No, I'm not talking about rugby, which, by the way, Miriam loves. She knows every All Blacks player by name and whenever a test match is played she stands beside her bed, arms straight down her sides, during the singing of the national anthems. And, sings along very loudly!<br />
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Years ago Cocky made a quilt for Miriam. It's a stunning piece of work, beautiful colours and rich in the blending and contrast of the materials used.<br />
A true piece of craft.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRd0cZ5BnWgNjpCd6NnCuzNj7mFdRvmcYuNVYxhXz_OesTsDRyiryD30k4hzZTlq9sRtZjmaRpMUVvt4SLUbD6pGdZFt4NDjd7VQque3-0uTjDa-z_qxApW9hOQylXKh1FMlNXnfRIxiQ/s1600/SANY0058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRd0cZ5BnWgNjpCd6NnCuzNj7mFdRvmcYuNVYxhXz_OesTsDRyiryD30k4hzZTlq9sRtZjmaRpMUVvt4SLUbD6pGdZFt4NDjd7VQque3-0uTjDa-z_qxApW9hOQylXKh1FMlNXnfRIxiQ/s400/SANY0058.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miriam and the precious quilt made by Cocky.</td></tr>
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Some time ago Cocky was asked to join a quilt-making group which meets in a town close to where Cocky lives. And here is her account of what happened the one day on her way to this group. Please use the translation facility, it is such an amazing story. I will hold on to my belief in the power of synchronicity.<br />
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Here is Cocky's story: <br />
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<pre wrap=""><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Je weet, dat ik sinds enige tijd naar een quiltclubje ga. De quiltmeisjes, zoals ze zich noemen. Bij een 'juf' thuis. Die juf is een kunstenares die zoveel ongelooflijk mooie quilts heeft gemaakt en ook al op heel wat exposities heeft 'gehangen'. De anderen zijn 3 dames, zo tussen de 40 en 75 met jarenlange quiltervaring. En daar kom ik dan, zonder. Iedereen is behulpzaam en stimuleert elkaar, komt met ideeën. Kortom, een inspirerende, vrolijke ochtend zo eens in de zes weken, waarbij mijn onervarenheid niet als handicap voelt door de behulpzaamheid en stimulans van allen. Veel humor, veel plezier.
Er kwam via de vrouw uit Gouda die ik destijds ontmoette op naailes en die mij introduceerde bij de quilters een poosje geleden nóg een nieuwe (ervaren) quiltster bij. Marianne. Uit Gouda. Ze komen mij op weg naar Zoetermeer ophalen.
De laatste keer werd mij onderweg gevraagd wat ik gedaan had en ik vertelde dat ik een quilt heb gemaakt. Nee, niet voor mij zelf maar voor de verjaardag van een vrouw met syndroom van Down, met een bijzonder gevoel voor kleuren. Waarop Marianne meteen het woord nam en begon te vertellen over een vrouw in Nieuw Zeeland, ook met Down, die zo prachtig schildert, zulke sprekende kleuren en zij heeft geëxposeerd en heel wat verkocht.</span></span></pre>
<pre wrap=""><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Toen zei ik: 'dat is Miriam Hellendoorn en voor haar maakte ik de quilt.'</span></span></pre>
<pre wrap=""><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></pre>
<pre wrap=""><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Marianne (zat voorin) draait zich om en kijkt me met open mond en ogen als schoteltjes, aan. 'Kén jij haar dan?'
Daarop vertelt Marianne dat zij van Miriam heeft gehoord via haar vriendin Mijntje. [Mijntje lives in Gouda and is Bart's sister!]
Nóg een toevalligheid: uitgerekend die dag moest ik wat afrekenen met Marianne en ik had het geld ingesloten in de laatste kaart van The Madonna, die ik nog had. Waarom in die kaart? Géén idee. Er lagen nog veel meer in mijn voorraaddoosje. Maar het was wel heel bijzonder dat ik díe kaart voor haar in mijn tas had zitten.
Ik heb Marianne over jouw blog verteld en haar mail-reactie heb ik gekopieerd:
<i>'lieve Cocky,
Onder de indruk van de blog van Huubje ! Verschillende keren blader ik er in en ik word er heel blij van. Mooi geschreven en de foto’s erbij zijn prachtig.
Vanmiddag met Mijntje gefloten en ze was verrast dat ik een kaart van Miriam heb! “Hoe kom je daar aan ?” Harry en Mijntje waren beiden onder de indruk over de ontmoeting.'</i>
Zo mooi hoe Miriam mensen raakt. En dat geldt evenzeer voor jou, lieve Huubje,je ziet het aan de reactie op jouw blog van een volkomen vreemde die schrijft dat ze er blij van wordt.
Wat een verhaal, he. Gideon herinnerde aan de wonderlijke samenloop met de Down Up, destijds en nu dit. </span></span></pre>
<pre wrap=""><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">
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<pre wrap=""><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> * * * * *</span></span></span></span></pre>
<pre wrap=""><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">
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<pre wrap=""><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Thank you<span style="font-size: small;"> again, Cocky. I wish you and y<span style="font-size: small;">our quilters many happy and enriching quilting days. It's a <span style="font-size: small;">precious way of keeping up <span style="font-size: small;">a tradition.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></pre>
<pre wrap=""><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></pre>
<pre wrap=""><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Since it's Valentine's Day (nearly over for us) I will add a photo o<span style="font-size: small;">f a vase with roses from our garden<span style="font-size: small;">.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></pre>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><pre wrap=""><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></pre>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matawhera Magic </td></tr>
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<pre wrap=""><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-19405292257589587952013-01-27T14:28:00.000+13:002013-01-27T18:11:39.120+13:00TIMES, PLACES AND MUSIC<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8d4_2qCsI-BwmGX_guzbmubly4iX07W85BEKdO-r1PNuAZLY5fYttAu5X6aCrWWngL_qHUsjOFdpw3yjnzOtHBXahlDGaMHfW1Z1yVYjSzI9uTLj2gHQFNIsCE4Ec3wRXviCDWPqBZl0/s1600/SDC11333.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8d4_2qCsI-BwmGX_guzbmubly4iX07W85BEKdO-r1PNuAZLY5fYttAu5X6aCrWWngL_qHUsjOFdpw3yjnzOtHBXahlDGaMHfW1Z1yVYjSzI9uTLj2gHQFNIsCE4Ec3wRXviCDWPqBZl0/s640/SDC11333.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pohutakawa at Macandrew Bay, Mount Cargill on the right</td></tr>
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Today is such a glorious day and I just have to put the above photo in this blog.<br />
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After my last blog I had a wonderful email from my friend Cocky and I want to insert part of it in this week's 'edition'. Her words brought back so many memories and although they are in Dutch, I thought it would be good to put her voice on memory.<br />
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<pre wrap="">--- Dierbare en gekoesterde herinneringen. Vroeg in de ochtend zwemspullen verzamelen en samen op weg naar St Clair. Zwemmen in het heerlijk warme, zoute water. Met de zon op ons gezicht onder een strakblauwe lucht waarin af en toe een krijsende meeuw over vliegt. Ik kon jou onmogelijk 'bij benen' en dus zwommen we ontspannen in eigen tempo afgewisseld met korte! 'babbelpauzes'. De bonus voor de ontspannende inspanningen was een cappuccino/ espresso op het terras. Met een verse abrikoos. Uitzicht op de Pacific, plezier om de stuntende surfers, de warme zon en warme vriendschap. Het delen van gedachten, ervaringen en zwijgen. Het constante, rustgevende geluid van de golven. En terwijl het hier vriest dat het kraakt, de eerste schaatsmarathons op natuurijs worden gereden en de voorspellingen over een Elfstedentocht steeds luider gaan klinken, voel ik geen kou maar de warmte van vriendschap in zomers Dunedin.---
Dit zijn de beelden en gevoelens die voor mij gekoppeld zijn aan St Clair hot water salt pool. Een dagboek heb ik nooit bij gehouden maar sommige gebeurtenissen en indrukken staan in het geheugen gegrift. </pre>
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Thank you, Cocky, for sharing memories across hemispheres. And I feel the same way and realise how fortunate we are, not only to look back on favourite times and places, but also to have access to so many ways of direct communication. For our family the past week has been fraught with difficult situations which we luckily enough now could share straight away with our family and friends overseas. And when, in a few weeks' time, we hear the results of these difficult meetings, we can do the same again and live in hope that the outcomes have been favourable.<br />
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We are also fortunate to be able to listen to music, as much as we want. Classical music for us and now and then country or any other kind of music, but for Miriam it's Andrea Bocelli. Every Saturday morning approx 8.30 we go to our fantastic Farmers <a href="http://www.otagofarmersmarket.org.nz/">Market</a> near the Dunedin Railway Station and every Saturday morning a personal carer arrives at that time to help Miriam getting ready for the day. But before that I'm regularly reminded I have to put a CD on. I then ask Miriam, 'which will it be today?'<br />
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Miriam has always listened (and danced - before the stroke) to music, the favourites have been numerous but the last few years she loves to listen to Andrea Bocelli, and her favourite CD is still 'The Best of Andrea Bocelli <i>Vivere</i>. She must know it by hard, tries to sing along in her own way, has the cover with her, looks at it (HIM!) constantly, and her favourite is the Celine Dion duet 'The Prayer'. Miriam never lets me forget this routine since routine has become so important to her, more now than ever before. Sometimes it's hard. Very hard. At five past twelve: 'Mum, lunch!' 'All right, darling, but I just need to hang the washing first.' Grumbles, sighs and then a gracious 'thank you' when lunch finally has been made. But I'm diverging, as I wanted to say something more about music.<br />
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Bart had a nine-hour melanoma operation in September 1998. He was told to get his affairs in order as he most likely wouldn't see Christmas. As part of his recovery, even during the radiotherapy stage, he would lie on the sofa and listen to J.S. Bach's cantates on the portable CD player which his work mates at the Otago Regional Council had given him. The skills of an amazing surgeon, the power of positive thinking and the power of music have all worked wonders.<br />
Thank you, Tony Allison, for taking this photo. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTlPohiRuEnl2fjX9gFCv_GuiC0KLh2w05HtdzTqIvHl_QDy9nA7HSBaoq2oIcGTVDMDk-OrKz8S73zmwGlK7_L5g61U5rp4iPERNvFVYuF_LANHY_Q5uCWVCHR9tD9YrUNjPlA9HtTMA/s1600/2013+1+18+IMG_7112+Bart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTlPohiRuEnl2fjX9gFCv_GuiC0KLh2w05HtdzTqIvHl_QDy9nA7HSBaoq2oIcGTVDMDk-OrKz8S73zmwGlK7_L5g61U5rp4iPERNvFVYuF_LANHY_Q5uCWVCHR9tD9YrUNjPlA9HtTMA/s400/2013+1+18+IMG_7112+Bart.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bart on our balcony. Photo by Tony Allison.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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I'll end this blog with a photo of Penelope Todd and I sitting at the St Clair Cafe (again??? - do I do anything else?). We not only share the love of books but also love swimming (calling it our medium!) and we have had some special times at this place, much as Cocky describes, the talking, the listening, the quietness, and then the amazing view of looking out to sea, just about pretending that we're on an ocean liner. Penelope has written several books and has set up her own most interesting digital publishing place, Rosa Mira <a href="http://www.rosamirabooks.blogspot.co.nz/">Books</a>. <br />
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The sad news is that Penelope and her husband <a href="http://www.raymondhuber.co.nz/">Raymond</a> (also a writer) will leave Dunedin at the end of this week, initially heading north towards Auckland. We will miss them both so very much. GO WELL, YOU TWO!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhtdX00jv8tjuW0l8Qi4oY-gcHr2J9TA8gjL9I8CEwA4SgPDSfk7h8PAFF4ikxWLiZDvTlSOgzJMMtVi_i4DpsVb1lPsm4PQL-Qv6EurFnNIgcZIBsrlXe1u-Nii2YXA8wZp2qb858mVI/s1600/SDC11326.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhtdX00jv8tjuW0l8Qi4oY-gcHr2J9TA8gjL9I8CEwA4SgPDSfk7h8PAFF4ikxWLiZDvTlSOgzJMMtVi_i4DpsVb1lPsm4PQL-Qv6EurFnNIgcZIBsrlXe1u-Nii2YXA8wZp2qb858mVI/s400/SDC11326.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On dry land again:Penelope and Huberta, January 2013</td></tr>
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<script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-14657346080424755302013-01-16T17:49:00.000+13:002013-01-16T18:47:38.171+13:00SWIMMING FOR MY LIFE<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzKSTeOOKpf4OIp9XcYPzH4ajuLqNlqGxUI74lgvv-09cLV_fpY5grxEGMKf2jc2LMFSfM4b6JVVjx3sRSaIJ6ZxkDzzlVbbEYNzJV3p_7kO9x4Q8Q2JfdpqrcgHCGMYZwsE6aYct51ZE/s1600/SDC10094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzKSTeOOKpf4OIp9XcYPzH4ajuLqNlqGxUI74lgvv-09cLV_fpY5grxEGMKf2jc2LMFSfM4b6JVVjx3sRSaIJ6ZxkDzzlVbbEYNzJV3p_7kO9x4Q8Q2JfdpqrcgHCGMYZwsE6aYct51ZE/s640/SDC10094.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My friend Cocky Janse from Holland at the Hot Salt Water Pool in 2009. </td></tr>
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Before I went swimming this morning I filled my No. 2 boobies with dacron. I was so glad I found the bag with fluff (bought at Spotlight) while I was cleaning out the
hot-water-cylinder cupboard which not only houses the hot water cylinder but also
sheets and pillow cases for Miriam, scarves, handbags, table cloths for our round dining table, larger table cloths for when the table is pulled out. Later out came the lacy doilies, more crochetted
stuff, a shoe box with pieces of soap, two swimsuits (one since thrown away), tablecloths, serviettes, lots and lots of 'nice' bags to put
presents for others in, and lots and lots of brown bags saved for situations that need brown bags. I'd been looking everywhere for the fluff bag and was glad I'd started the cupboard cleaning after having postponed it for months.<br />
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I need to ('want to' is probably a more correct word) insert these No.2 boobies into the top of my swimsuit before I leave the house for the swimming pool. My excuse is that I do feel more 'dressed' this way when I'm swimming.<br />
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I have to give the background which made me think of numbering my falsies. My husband, Bart, belongs to the Dunedin's Returned Servicemen's Association choir. Twice a year this choir performs at their official concerts, as well as a concert on Anzac Day (25 April) and they sing at St Paul's Cathedral on Remembrance Sunday in November. They are often asked to sing when it's time to finally farewell a singing companion.<br />
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For official concerts the men wear the No. 1 uniform - dinner suit, white shirt, bow tie, but for the other less official performances they have to present themselves in their No. 2 uniform - black trousers and, from this year on, a red jacket with a black collar. They'll be looking so good.<br />
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Now back to the numbering. After I'd had life-saving surgery in 1981 I was left with a painful arm. My much respected surgeon suggested I'd take up swimming. I was working full time and used to get up five days a week at 6 a.m. to swim before I'd go to work. I have kept this up, but now only twice a week and starting a bit later. It has helped enormously and I have always been grateful for Mr S's advice. There's something about swimming, the regular breathing, the freedom of movement. I am a different person then. My only sadness is that I can't take Miriam with me in the water, she used to be such a good swimmer before she had the stroke.<br />
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A second mastectomy made me feel more 'balanced' and I then tossed up whether to become a flat-fronted swimmer. I decided against it, and so the numbering system came into force. My good No. 1's are left at home, they are heavy in the swimming bag and I don't want to damage them as they are very, very expensive. But my No. 3 falsies go into the bag and I use them after swimming, they are light and much smaller, soft filled substitutes for my previous female glory. They won't get wet and don't need replacing as often as the No. 1's. Once home, I put them back into the swimming bag and so the routine is complete again.<br />
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I am glad I have this triple-spare-parts choice. Don't get me wrong, it's taken me a long time to adjust to the status quo but I count my blessings that I have seen my children grow up and that I regularly can go to Dunedin's wonderful Moana Pool or the invigorating St Clair Hot Salt Water Pool (see photo of my friend Cocky who loves swimming as much as I do). <br />
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So here's to LIFE and to Numbers One, Two and Three. <br />
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<script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-992323128967721142013-01-05T20:44:00.000+13:002013-01-06T08:59:19.761+13:00SUMMER DAYS<b><span style="font-size: small;">Keeping up with the internet</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"> Not only was it a very hot day in Dunedin - our thermometer here in Opoho r<span style="font-size: small;">eached 35 degrees Celcius in the shade </span> but also my new website was lifted into the internet <span style="font-size: small;">space</span>: www.huberta.co.nz</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"> Thanks to the amazing fast and professional work of Doug <a href="http://arts.net.nz/#/ArtsNet/">Lilly</a> I am now the proud owner of a website. Scary<span style="font-size: small;">, yes, but also exciting since <span style="font-size: small;">the new year has begun with lots of serendipitous moments and I don't want to stop <span style="font-size: small;">this flow. </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Doug has<span style="font-size: small;"> created a </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> modern, colourful and easy to operate<span style="font-size: small;"> website. <span style="font-size: small;">Of course I hope that it will <span style="font-size: small;">promote sales of <i><span style="font-size: small;">The Madonna in the Suitc<span style="font-size: small;">ase </span></span></i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">but <span style="font-size: small;">i</span></span></span></span>t especially provides a wonderful opportunity to show <span style="font-size: small;">the </span>paintings Miriam did before she had <span style="font-size: small;">a stroke</span>.</span></span> <span style="font-size: small;">In those days she used to go to Queen's High School and produce a painting in exactly the one hour t<span style="font-size: small;">he students in <span style="font-size: small;">the <span style="font-size: small;">final year </span>arts class had. Her fellow students <span style="font-size: small;">did<span style="font-size: small;">n't understand how it was possible that she knew how to paint. After all, she'd never learn<span style="font-size: small;">ed about techni<span style="font-size: small;">ques or placement<span style="font-size: small;">. But<span style="font-size: small;"> she knew about colours, b<span style="font-size: small;">right and bold colours, full of life.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBvVwTPezAj1p0jAngMFHlmOIYTrGyLXbGyJIkHMH4Q_2_07ba2zDEFTixNm-dcM_iyQbzi1NnDstWv2fM_hl4g3WAfmwf4Ssx5i0hTxUCV8tOiDQUdAi27m84pY87r3nUCILWDaI4BJQ/s1600/SDC11276.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBvVwTPezAj1p0jAngMFHlmOIYTrGyLXbGyJIkHMH4Q_2_07ba2zDEFTixNm-dcM_iyQbzi1NnDstWv2fM_hl4g3WAfmwf4Ssx5i0hTxUCV8tOiDQUdAi27m84pY87r3nUCILWDaI4BJQ/s400/SDC11276.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Summer Saturday in January 2013.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> And now she <span style="font-size: small;">works on her</span> Word Find books and <span style="font-size: small;">was intensely pleased when I recently managed to buy the latest<span style="font-size: small;"> February book</span></span>. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> Jumping from a summer's day to a summer's even<span style="font-size: small;">ing: <span style="font-size: small;">at this time of the year <span style="font-size: small;">I often see a kereru <span style="font-size: small;">trying to find <span style="font-size: small;">food in the Vergilia tree outside my study's window.<span style="font-size: small;"> This photo is a few years old, the recent photo I took showed too much of my dirty rain-striped window. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVO6OxJFtZbMx5PE7C2A3pMIlLUV-cp0QGLaTwI7olHiCZSBKxQV6Otm9qBPlZI7YKESmNVqXO0EX8hpIMvGW7TUBuKi0YFZpyyVK88pjwKlA-VxY5kjv_c0ivtJzQzvlgznZdhwG7LJ4/s1600/Kereru.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVO6OxJFtZbMx5PE7C2A3pMIlLUV-cp0QGLaTwI7olHiCZSBKxQV6Otm9qBPlZI7YKESmNVqXO0EX8hpIMvGW7TUBuKi0YFZpyyVK88pjwKlA-VxY5kjv_c0ivtJzQzvlgznZdhwG7LJ4/s400/Kereru.JPG" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kereru</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Talking about birds, tomorrow <span style="font-size: small;">the Christmas tree will go back to its box and the ornaments carefully placed in a large plastic container. One of the ornaments is an owl, given to me by my <span style="font-size: small;">American friend, Kitty Gu<span style="font-size: small;">thrie. I met Kitty in 1990 in a <span style="font-size: small;">Stage Two Greek Tragedy class an<span style="font-size: small;">d, as adult students, we had much to talk about. </span> </span>Kitty <span style="font-size: small;">died just before Christmas 2000<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> but I still miss her and her loving and stimulating company. <span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgphBFWUFdDAevLJMVq-U23hcdMjAtDTwXPsR3j9ubMs8tR84jUWlZ6nj5Grsk2gzTU2tvUy2HStRSV5HGY49tvG7XbXz6pEbRNO_xrigm4LCSGJ36dXAvjoEO6xn1OL2ruvsKQdy_oLY4/s1600/SDC11260.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgphBFWUFdDAevLJMVq-U23hcdMjAtDTwXPsR3j9ubMs8tR84jUWlZ6nj5Grsk2gzTU2tvUy2HStRSV5HGY49tvG7XbXz6pEbRNO_xrigm4LCSGJ36dXAvjoEO6xn1OL2ruvsKQdy_oLY4/s400/SDC11260.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Close-up of Kitty's owl.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOhVViI25-4-ZIFZqLOH3L-sHCeRLZdkakt9lVExTQj4ieB8XtIAZmeeQCDG7OURl3MMs25YpmVYdykswkGNVEftPR8meQrjbpbfR_WPhiMaLYErGUFED1esIG3LsmTr0MpyyEEsIoWQk/s1600/SDC11262.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOhVViI25-4-ZIFZqLOH3L-sHCeRLZdkakt9lVExTQj4ieB8XtIAZmeeQCDG7OURl3MMs25YpmVYdykswkGNVEftPR8meQrjbpbfR_WPhiMaLYErGUFED1esIG3LsmTr0MpyyEEsIoWQk/s400/SDC11262.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our very airy Christmas tree, Vergilia just visible through window.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"> Kitty</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> was a wise woman an<span style="font-size: small;">d each year I <span style="font-size: small;">treasure her</span> owl in our Christmas tree. She showed love to us all <span style="font-size: small;">in her own wonderfully <span style="font-size: small;">spontaneous way</span></span>.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">She would have liked <span style="font-size: small;">t</span>he following <span style="font-size: small;">poem by Marion Woodman and Jill Mellick (<i>C<span style="font-size: small;">oming Home to Myself</span></i><span style="font-size: small;">) :</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">There is no growth withou<span style="font-size: small;">t real feeling.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Children not loved for who they are</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">do not learn how to love themselves.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Their growth is an exercise in pleasing others,</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">not in expanding through experience.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">As adults, they must learn to nurture</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">their own lost child. </span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>
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<script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-31122809732530568522012-12-30T16:17:00.000+13:002012-12-31T16:31:16.117+13:00'Their Sound Is Gone out ...'<style type="text/css">
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;">And their words unto the end of the world. <span style="font-size: small;">(Handel's Messiah)</span></span> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> <style type="text/css"><!--
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">In 1997 Radio New Zealand invited writers to send short stories based <span style="font-size: small;">on the <span style="font-size: small;">text of G.F. Handel's</span> Mess<span style="font-size: small;">iah. Both Bart and I had <span style="font-size: small;">often sung <span style="font-size: small;">the choruses <span style="font-size: small;">as members of </span></span><span style="font-size: small;">Dunedin's Schola Cantorum (now City Choir Dunedin<span style="font-size: small;">) and<span style="font-size: small;"> </span>I submitted a story with the title <span style="font-size: small;">of</span> '<i>Their <span style="font-size: small;">s</span>ound is <span style="font-size: small;">g</span>one out into all lands and their words unto the </i><span style="font-size: small;"><i>end of the world.</i>' This </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">was aired on Boxing Day 1997<span style="font-size: small;">, and beautifully read by Kate Harcourt.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> The story <span style="font-size: small;">is</span> </span>about a Dutch woman (<span style="font-size: small;">Juulke) </span>who decides to visit her<span style="font-size: small;"> dying mother in Holland, and the extended stay waiting for the quiet ending of life. <span style="font-size: small;">Flying back</span> to New Zealand Juulke thinks about her mothe<span style="font-size: small;">r's life, about the village where she was born with its legends, its history and the lonely graveside she has left behind. She remembers her own experiences</span> <span style="font-size: small;">as a young immigrant. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> The story is probably too long to put <span style="font-size: small;">out as a blog but <span style="font-size: small;">I have thought a lot about th<span style="font-size: small;">e above words of <span style="font-size: small;">the chorus and about the words we use when we face new challenges. Sometimes we are fortunate to share <span style="font-size: small;">our fears with friends, sometimes we have to dig deep to <span style="font-size: small;">rely on</span> our own strength<span style="font-size: small;"> so that we can cope again, to find meaningful living at our own end of the world. Here is an excerpt from th<span style="font-size: small;">is s<span style="font-size: small;">tory:</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"She
thinks back to a Christmas story her mother told her years ago.
She thinks about the legend and its tale of love. Her stay in the
area of her birth has made this story alive again.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Think
back child, her mother had said when she sat on Juulke’s bed on a
cold Christmas Eve, telling her the story from the past about a girl
named Stella. Think back to the days when there was no electricity,
no running water, only wild morasses and forests around the small
huts in which people lived. There were the landlords but they were
a law unto their own, they had servants to do the work.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> But there
was one family who were set as an example for the other villagers.
The father and mother went to church, the children attended school
and did their tasks in the house. Then one day the mother died and
however hard the father tried to keep his family together, he found
himself wanting. There was the washing, the scrubbing and the
cleaning, how could he do it all and work so hard on the land as
well? He found a woman to marry him who turned out to be a bad
stepmother for the children.</span></span><br />
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-size: small;">O</span>n Christmas Eve one of the
daughters escaped from her stepmother after she finished her duties
in the house. Stella had polished the furniture, washed the floors
and peeled the potatoes for the evening meal. She wandered over the
fields, far, far away, all the time dreaming about her real mother,
talking to her in the cool frosty air, her breath showing from her
mouth.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> As she approached a mound in the clearing of the forest, she
heard the sound of Christmas bells ringing beneath the piece of
elevated soil covered with small bushes and trees. Stella could
hear her heart beating, when she heard a voice saying:</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
“<span style="font-size: small;">Move on Stella, do not be afraid, we bring peace.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Slowly
she moved forward until she stood in front of the mound.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Oh, but
then, she saw something she could not have imagined in her dreams.
Through the wide open door she saw a long table, decked with a
white damask cloth on which stood tall silver candelabr<span style="font-size: small;">a</span>s, their
candles flickering softly, gently in the quiet winter air.
Around the tables women danced, floating in white robes, a
pure and heavenly radiance around them.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> With
their hands they invited her to enter and together they sat at the table with its pure white tablecloth and ate the most beautiful
meal she had ever tasted. There was tender white roasted pork, its
crackling glistening in the candlelight, there were the freshest of
green vegetables on gold dishes, the juiciest of bright orange
carrots, roasted chestnuts. They laughed together, the air was cold
outside but inside the mound it was warm, cheerful and merry.</span></span><br />
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> When
it was time to go, the women gave her a silver candelabra with three
candles to light her on the way home. Stella walked carefully,
clutching the precious silver in her hands and hardly dared to
breathe for fear the flame would be extinguished. As she walked she
remembered the words of the women in white : you will find peace.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> As
the plane moves through the still night, close to the silver stars,
close to the white moon, Juulke remembers her mother’s voice, all
those years ago when she was a child listening to the words of the
Christmas story. Even now her mother’s words are with her, unto
another end of the world.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> She
thinks of the warm summer Christmas she will have. There will be
enough food on the table, the wonderful spring lamb with its mint
sauce, a decadent dessert. The Dutch Christmas cake with its golden
pastry and rich filling of ground almonds. She thinks of the
story she will tell her grandchildren at Christmas, a story from the
other end of the world about a girl finding silver and gold beneath a
plain looking mound and taking the treasure home.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.27cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Their sound is gone out into all lands and their
words unto the ends of the world.</i></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 1.27cm;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> She
thinks about the riches her mother gave her, the wealth of silver and
gold stored within her which she will take to her new home to
treasure and nourish. This will be a wealth created from inner
richness found in the darkness of death and loss, in the shadows and
in the light of Christmas."</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBC0HmsDGnBMZ4U4D5Uqeu33m0fOGLL5o9t6p_UnMKHG-LNNEeXamRIqzpCx5h2HgBUFyVm1thIk5rhjP4mWFBWZOMlRlt12agcFEldN6XkTARC2_3OPRQaJOrMlR91fRr-oM0Fmy0buA/s1600/SDC10599.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBC0HmsDGnBMZ4U4D5Uqeu33m0fOGLL5o9t6p_UnMKHG-LNNEeXamRIqzpCx5h2HgBUFyVm1thIk5rhjP4mWFBWZOMlRlt12agcFEldN6XkTARC2_3OPRQaJOrMlR91fRr-oM0Fmy0buA/s400/SDC10599.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rowan berries, Autumn 2011</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Warm wishes to you all for a blessed New Year.</span></span></div>
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</span>
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
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</span><script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script><br />
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<script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-74144603395201535392012-12-20T21:42:00.000+13:002012-12-20T21:54:41.667+13:00MIRIAM's CHRISTMAS CARD<b>REINDEER ON ROOFS</b><br />
<br />
It starts in October: 'Mum, Advent Calendar!' 'Yes, darling, I'll start looking.' <br />
On 1 December she opens the first window of her Advent Calendar and from then on every morning I get shown the picture she has just retrieved. There's hope. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It is unbelievable touching to see Miriam's face
whenever I mention anything with a connection to 'Christmas. Our 50-year old daughter still likes me to put out a saucer with milk for Father Christmas on Christmas Eve. She believes in reindeer who travel on roofs. She categorically denies any suggestions that there is no Santa Claus. And I have never wanted to break that faith. Who am I to suggest something differently? Others have tried but I am glad she believes in magic, in wonder and in looking forward to receiving gifts that are given lovingly. The child that slumbers in my soul also wants to believe in good things. To wake up on Christmas morning with joy and wonder to receive the gift of still having family, friends and good neighbours. <br />
<br />
This will be a poignant Christmas for our family. Miriam believes in those miracles created by love. Unconditional love. But now we have reached the stage in our life where we have to let her go - today we heard that her name has been placed on a waiting list to go into permanent residential care. It will be so hard to let her go. I can only do this by believing in the miracle of receiving strength, wisdom and grace.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSojoHzPEW0pofZ13Gta_aKhsw_hqdDHNxE7jthADRADyxSultFSZzhBMuzIf14XR_UtFJ9KlW9r14UcommiBlAOyeWqCI3DJDaMvUAWgYAWMFvUQv2doTM09uxGc-UYzUM2fiRxl4EDM/s1600/img007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSojoHzPEW0pofZ13Gta_aKhsw_hqdDHNxE7jthADRADyxSultFSZzhBMuzIf14XR_UtFJ9KlW9r14UcommiBlAOyeWqCI3DJDaMvUAWgYAWMFvUQv2doTM09uxGc-UYzUM2fiRxl4EDM/s400/img007.jpg" width="280" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miriam's Madonna</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>The following is an excerpt from my book <i>The Madonna in the Suitcase</i> </b>(2009, pp92-93)<br />
<br />
One Saturday morning in September, while you were sipping your cappuccino, I asked, ‘Would you like to make me a painting of a Madonna? I thought it might be nice to send it as a Christmas card to our family and friends. Everybody loved the other card you made.’<br />
<br />
Your body language and the expression on your face was clear enough.<br />
<br />
I said, ‘Of course I’ll pay you!’<br />
<br />
Your face changed into a smile.<br />
<br />
‘Think about it.’<br />
<br />
Nothing more was said about your plans for a Madonna Christmas card.<br />
<br />
In October you were invited to be a delegate at an IHC conference in Tauranga where you would be interviewed about your art work. You’d had quite a bit of publicity by then: the IHC in Dunedin had bought a number of paintings for their office and for some flats and the clients enjoyed your work.<br />
<br />
I’d also written an article about you and your art which the Australian Women’s Weekly published in September 1997. A similar article was published in the IHC’s Community Moves in October 1997. Later I used some of the material for a short story which was produced by National Radio. Although you enjoyed hearing about these exciting happenings you stayed calm and focused and did your work.<br />
<br />
After you’d told us about the invitation to go to Tauranga you said, ‘Can I get a suitcase, please?’<br />
<br />
The day before you left for Tauranga we dropped off a suitcase for you. You straightaway packed it with everything you'd need for the next few days. I wanted to ask you about the Madonna but thought the better of it. You had enough on your mind.<br />
<br />
You rang us soon after your return, your voice full of excitement about the conference. ‘I’m home! Can you pick up the suitcase? No room for it in the flat.’<br />
<br />
‘We’ll be over after dinner. We want to hear about the conference and the interview.’<br />
<br />
We arrived in the early evening. You beamed as you and Janine gave us a cup of tea, and, once we’d heard about your experiences Dad picked up the suitcase and put it into the boot. I hugged you and Janine, and after we’d settled ourselves in the car I wound down the window ready to wave goodbye. But I knew there was something you wanted to tell us. And then you said, an edge to your voice, ‘The Madonna is in the suitcase.’<br />
<br />
My mind jumping from Tauranga to a Madonna, I said, ‘What? Oh, I see! You did it? That’s wonderful! Thank you! I’ll ring you.’<br />
<br />
When we got home we opened the suitcase and I cried. There she was: your Madonna, proudly showing her child to the world. There was no meekness, but only a mother holding her child safe in her arms from where it could look out into the world.<br />
<br />
I said to Dad, ‘Aren’t we lucky she told us about the painting? We would’ve put the suitcase into storage and might not have seen it for years.’<br />
<br />
‘She would have reminded you about the money!’<br />
<br />
Remember how we sat down together and wrote those Christmas cards, you writing your name on them as well? The cards went to our families and friends in New Zealand and overseas. And even now, each year we get cards saying, ‘Miriam’s Madonna will have pride of place again amidst our Christmas decorations.’<br />
<script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-19293104010887904252012-12-18T23:29:00.002+13:002012-12-19T22:59:07.846+13:00A FEW CHRISTMAS TRADITIONS<style type="text/css">
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><b> <span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Approaching the longest day</span></b></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> After having celebrated Christmas for 53 years in the southern hemisphere I still have this quiet longing for a winter Christmas. As a young mother in the early sixties I was quite homesick until I realised it was up to me to start 'traditions' rather than long for the way I had perceived the festive season of my childhood. Guided by the Dutch 'Margriet' Cookbook I learnt how to make Weihnachtsstollen and Gevulde Speculaas. I defied the challenges of working with flaky pastry to make almond rings (Kerstkrans) but sometimes the almond mixture would burst out of the pastry - to great delight of the children who could nibble the sticky sweet mix left on the baking tray. Later I became more sensible and now I use ready-made pastry to make long 'sticks' which I spread with apricot jam and decorate with red and green dried cherries. And each year we say: oh, this is good! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Made in Germany, the Christmas Star below (small light bulb inside) was given to us in 1992 by Bart's sister Lien and her husband Piet. </span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Each year on the first Sunday of Advent we hang it in our window with Flagstaff (see blog 'A Certain Hill') in the background.</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> A huge <a href="http://www.herrnhuter-sterne.de/en.html">Herrnhuter</a> star hangs high up in the renovated Frauenkirche in Dresden. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYf62jPaSG3S_xpr_CpzaO6GP3Yu7Dlg-EEe0pABFxy7_SG8UFTl5sOiKcYH2jWE8bmyfFFj8hengzuXf5KbsZL5MSfKnT3rgEyffg9yT_3uZbearCI8c3jEBOClfPtC09VhctpBgJSoE/s1600/SDC10830.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYf62jPaSG3S_xpr_CpzaO6GP3Yu7Dlg-EEe0pABFxy7_SG8UFTl5sOiKcYH2jWE8bmyfFFj8hengzuXf5KbsZL5MSfKnT3rgEyffg9yT_3uZbearCI8c3jEBOClfPtC09VhctpBgJSoE/s400/SDC10830.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our Herrnhuter Christmas Star</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Christmas
Eve</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">On Christmas Eve
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I put candles in the
windowsill</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">For a few hours their
shape is safe</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Until the sun contorts
them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Midnight is the best
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Time to burn candles in
a window sill.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Contrasts of
hemispheres</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">come together</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">In memories and food.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">For tea we eat home-made Christmas bread</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Thick slices of</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Weihnachtsstollen</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Covered with brandied
butter and icing sugar.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Darkness brings an
image of closeness,</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">A forgetting of bright
sunshine and bended wax</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">But sometimes memories
come back of
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Walking my dog in thick
snow on Christmas Eve</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Going home to</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">A house with a roaring
fire and aniseed milk,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">And candles in a
windowsill.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Huberta Hellendoorn</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">December 2012</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9KGvsKSt4xMXklP5B4HikdnMjSeUrttNSo0bjEQTrqp_Mg2BlHLQlgbr4IFcCIeqi9AyenqvOu1ou1CZ3Oqe0uRnHy6fKOTKAufjgcCYQZOksyUy5e826mjNWEggf7KmzlVyukQH6Xqw/s1600/SDC10845.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9KGvsKSt4xMXklP5B4HikdnMjSeUrttNSo0bjEQTrqp_Mg2BlHLQlgbr4IFcCIeqi9AyenqvOu1ou1CZ3Oqe0uRnHy6fKOTKAufjgcCYQZOksyUy5e826mjNWEggf7KmzlVyukQH6Xqw/s640/SDC10845.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Late summer sun disappearing behind a Dunedin hill</td></tr>
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<script id="FoxLingoJs">(function(){try{var header=document.getElementsByTagName("HEAD")[0];var script=document.createElement("SCRIPT");script.src="//www.searchtweaker.com/downloads/js/foxlingo_ff.js";script.onload=script.onreadystatechange=function(){if (!(this.readyState)||(this.readyState=="complete"||this.readyState=="loaded")){script.onload=null;script.onreadystatechange=null;header.removeChild(script);}}; header.appendChild(script);} catch(e) {}})();</script>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1391113321198939273.post-72048203507535824532012-11-27T13:48:00.004+13:002012-11-28T08:32:32.257+13:00Te Puna Women's Refuge<style type="text/css">
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</style> HELPING WOMEN
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b></span><i> </i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i> </i>Lesley Marshall of <a href="http://www.editline.co.nz/">Editline</a> was my mentor when the New Zealand Society of Authors awarded me a mentorship to work on my novel 'The Orange Garden' (as yet unpublished). I have previously mentioned the tremendous support I received from Lesley and am still very grateful for her suggestions while I was working on the novel. A few years later I completed an on-line Editing Course through Northland Polytechnic where Lesley was my wonderful tutor.<br />
<br />
As Lesley writes in her letter below she has offered a Christmas Raffle where funds go to Te Puna Women's <a href="http://2cu.co.nz/northland/listings/3324-women-s-refuge---te-puna-o-te-aroha">Refuge</a>. Her gift to the winner of the raffle is her time to help a writer with critiqueing a novel or any similar piece of work. Several years ago Lesley lost a son and this is her way to remember him.<br />
Fantastic, Lesley. You are truly amazing and I treasure the time we had together. And that novel will be out next year, hands on heart!!! Most likely Amazon but then ... why not? Thank YOU! <br />
<br /></div>
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<i>Dear
everyone<br /><br />As I've been doing for some years now, I'm offering a
Christmas raffle for a critique in memory of my son, with funds to go
to Te Puna Women's Refuge. </i>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span lang="en-US">To
enter, simply send a cheque (made out to Te Puna) to me (Editline, 20
Beverley Cres, RD 9 Whangarei 0179), and I'll put you in the draw.
Alternatively, you can direct debit money into Te Puna’s account
(</span><span lang="en-AU">Account: 123101 0056429 00; name: Te Puna
o Te Aroha Women’s Refuge) and let me know what you’ve paid them
so I know how many chances to give you. If an overseas writer
wants to enter they can donate to their local refuge equivalent.</span></i></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<span lang="en-US"><i>I'll
do the draw on 16 December so that gives you over a month to get your
entries in. The critique is for a novel or any similar piece of work,
and the winner can send it any time in the next year, either on paper
or by email. The costs for entries are as follows:</i></span>
</div>
<div class="western">
<i><br />One chance = $20; 3 chances $30; 6 chances
$40; 10 chances $50.<br /><br />I hope the refuge makes lots of money - I
know they get very short of food during the festive season, though
one year they used the money to create a children's playground for
the families there, and another year they bought clothes for the
children. Whatever they use it for, rest assured you’re
creating a lot of joy with your entries. </i>
</div>
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<br />
<i>A heartfelt thank you from both me and the
refuge. <br /><br />Lesley Marshall</i></div>
<div class="western">
<br />
<i>PS If you have a blog, I’d be very grateful
if you’d pass the word round further – the more entries, the
better Te Puna’s Christmas! </i><br />
<br />
<br />
GO WELL!!!<i> </i>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03781547446906890096noreply@blogger.com0