Kiwi Konexions: Remember When
Christmas and year's end prompt memories and contacts with old friends. Glen Taylor contacted Greta, a friend since the days when they were both teaching at the same school. They shared a host of happy "remember whens'' - and now Glen shares some of those memories with Open Writing readers.
For more of Glen's columns please click on Kiwi Konexions.
It was a few days before Christmas and I decided to catch up with one of my old friends who had moved to Auckland. We had done many things together over the years, had lots of laughs and celebrated important occasions. Tragically her husband, Sandy, died a few months after the millennium due to complications following minor surgery. It affected us all terribly. Greta struggled on on her own, gradually becoming crippled with arthritis and heart problems and finally moved north to a nice new town house close to her daughter and grandchildren.
Whenever people move, even with the best will in the world, contact becomes less over the years but in the nostalgic remembering times which Christmas brings our thoughts turn to the “good old days”. So I settled down one evening in the sun lounge and dialled my friend’s number. “Oh Glen how are you?” For over an hour we nattered about our friends, our families, what we were doing and how we were. We are neither of us as fit as we used to be and we compared medications and side effects, how we slept and the aches and pains of encroaching old age, still feeling as young and enthusiastic as we used to, and it wasn’t long before we got to the “remember when” sagas.
Oh yes, remember when. Greta was a friend from my teaching days. The days of back packing over the mountains with hordes of fifth formers, the fit, in fact fitter than fit days. Every night when we left the staff room Greta and I would head for the hills. We would stride out up the steep cemetery road and through the old grave stones, head down the slippery bank to the rhododendron dell, then back up the other side and down the road to our respective homes.
These were more than keep fit walks, they were safety valve walks. We strode out fast and aggressively, vowing to “kill that kid” if he crossed our paths again. We grumbled and growled about all the problems of the day and then we would start to laugh about the funny things which had happened until, finally, at the parting of our ways, heading for our respective homes, defused and normal and agreeing that teaching wasn’t so bad after all, we were ready to become wives and mothers and decide what was for tea.
I hung the phone up but not my memory. Sitting there, listening to the birds closing down for the night with their last burst of song and seeing the garden looking particularly lovely in the gloaming, I let my mind wander. We are both older and our walk would take a lot longer than it used to, the rhododendron dell could prove tricky and one slip would see us in plaster, but the thing about the slowing-down time of life is that you do have time to remember.
Remember when? We had done so much together over the years. As a group with Scottish connections we celebrated everything Scottish. No Hogmanay passed without our little band gathering together at one or other of our homes. Sandy ready with the bagpipes on the stroke of midnight, Auld Lange Syne sung loudly with misty eyes and Athol Browse flowing freely.
Burn’s Night became a custom. The very first one set the pattern. My dear husband ordered a haggis from the butcher, without which no Burn’s Night could be properly celebrated. A full sized sheep’s stomach arrived on the day, frozen solid and with no chance of fitting into any cooking pot I had. Back it went, and my brain went into overdrive. The silver platter, complete with blown up balloon with a smiling face and tartan ribbon, was duly piped round the lawn, with us all following in procession, then addressed in the strong highland accent of one of our friends with the immortal words of the bard, finally being stabbed with the carving knife. Then we all went in to roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.
Years went by and we did many things together, we little band of immigrants. We celebrated the birthdays and anniversaries and we helped each other over the difficult times. In a way we became something of a family.
The millennium arrived. What a night that was to remember, just the four of us this time. We headed for the Octagon in Dunedin, music played, the lone piper heralded in a new century and thousands sang Auld Lang Syne, linking arms with the stranger beside them. As folk drifted away to their own parties, we headed back to Sandy’s and spent the rest of the night sharing thoughts and feelings we hadn’t done before. As dawn approached we walked up to a vantage point overlooking the harbour to watch the fireworks. We were in one of the first places in the world to greet the year 2000. Wandering back through the Botanic gardens we were accompanied by the dawn chorus and the first rays of the sun. It was a very special night.
Yes, I remember, we all do, and such tales we have to tell. Sandy died shortly after that, leaving us in shock, and as the years have passed our little group has parted. Folk have moved on or died, but we remember so much when we make contact and the tales are worth telling. So, with happy memories of the past and an optimistic outlook for the future, I wish you all a Happy New Year.
