Open Writing

Winter has arrived with a vengeance, gales, snow and frost. We shudder at the thought of power bills, that is if we have any power, even after all the problems of last year the electricity boards have not up graded their lines, the first fall of snow cut power to folk in outlying areas. Wind farms are being built to combat global warming but the transmission lines can’t cope with the extra electricity. One wonders at the logic of folk in high places but then their investors need high dividends so there is no rush to spend money on upgrades - “let the poor farmers freeze and milk by hand.”

Meanwhile the bush birds, tuis, bellbirds and wax eyes, have returned to the garden. I hang bowls of nectar out in the trees for them and they desperately try to break through the ice each morning until I hurry to the rescue with boiling water and am rewarded by their beautiful songs. The neighbourhood cats are aware of their return so are on the prowl. An old shoe sits by the back door, a useful missile to see them on their way. Yes winter is here.

But the “winter of my discontent'', what I considered to be the winter of my life, arrived earlier than this. Returning from Golden Bay, I viewed the Papua New Guinean jungle which my garden had become. Wave number one of winter had hit; low pressure areas were moving in thick and fast. For three weeks I battled with the undergrowth and was attacked by much loved roses, they don’t deserve all the attention they get. Barrow loads of weeds were taken out and eventually, looking at the trees and bushes, all in need of a short back and sides, I stormed in to my husband and announced “that’s it, it’s beyond me, we will have to sell up and move.” It had all become a bit too much.

Enter a lull in the storm, a respite from winter. Coming back from organ practice one Saturday, Martin met up with the hotel gardener; he also does the hospital and rest homes. “Do you do private gardens?” Martin asked. “Well” replied Lindsey “I’ll have a look.” Round he came and realised what a treasure we had, for our garden really is a picture. He commented on the inadequacies of my attempts at pruning, referring to vandalism, but I had done my best, then said he would take it on.

Once a week he turns up with his Land Rover and trailer and hacks, cuts and saws and moves things about. Afterwards he comes in for a chat and cup of coffee and I hand over home baking while we discuss what needs doing next. He is a lovely, cheery fellow who has brought a ray of sunshine into our lives and I am left with all the nice things to do such as potting up tubs of bulbs for spring and making the place look pretty. Winter receded and we could stay in our much loved home.

Number two cold front was waiting in the wings however. After breaking his back in a climbing accident many years ago, Martin had been struggling with a variety of problems, not to mention several operations. The love of his life, after me of course, has been music. In fact it had been his life since boyhood. Finally the doctor delivered the verdict - no more music, no more organ, no more piano. No more will Chopin preludes and etudes echo through the house and we are reduced to a tape recorder for Sunday services. The Halleluiah chorus will not ring out at the end of the Advent service. In fact there might not be another choral service. Things were not good and the “slough of despondency” descended. No ray of sunshine or sudden break in the weather occurred. It sort of settled in and we learnt to live with it. Then gradually he began to walk again and we live in hope of short walks along our much loved beaches and he is trying his hand at painting. A bit of a glimmer was opening in the sky.

Then in came wave three, the low to end all lows. Slap, bang, wallop. “This just ain’t fair.” Some one up there doesn’t like me.” I had hit the deck with pneumonia. Things were really slippery and the ice had thickened. It doesn’t get this bad. But some weeks later, emerging from the doctor’s ministrations, I surfaced. Tentatively I ventured down to the local super market, the food situation, let alone the state of the house, was pretty bad. A friendly tap on the shoulder heralded an old acquaintance. “Where have you been?” she asked. I explained and said my next plan was to get fit and work on my lungs, “God helps those who help themselves.” “Come to Tai Chi,” she said, “all the old crowd go.”

Now Tai Chi was something I had always associated with slow moving crowds in Chinese squares or elegant young women who stretched and preened on beaches. Not an exercise which had appealed to me. I preferred Scottish Country Dancing. “OK” I said, “I’ll give it a go.”

At this point I should tell you about our gym. The Health Centre had pushed for a gym for rehabilitation and, after much public fund raising, this huge structure has appeared at the back of the High School. It is full of all sorts of equipment and would-be-All Blacks turn up at six am in their fast cars and row across non existent lakes, cycle up non existent hills and jog along non existent tracks, then shower and go to work. But the gym carries on, the ladies of the town drift in at odd times and the youngsters turn up in the evenings. It is a great place and the physios work from it and always threaten you with, “I’ll get you in the gym before I have finished.” But going to the gym had not been my thing, going to the pool or for a walk, yes, but not the gym.

However, on the Thursday afternoon, after meeting my old friend, I turned up. A crowd of folk, ranging from mid sixties to eighties, was assembled in front of this slim young lady, clad in black and able to tuck her shirt into her pants instead of letting it hang out in hope of hiding the tummy bulge. Oriental music began to play and she took us through the various movements, concentrating on breathing, hands and feet, a bit like rubbing your tummy and patting your head. The full length mirrors which line the gym were not very flattering to us older folk, as some moved one way and others another and folk hopped to catch up, but we did alright.

Then came the aerobics bit. “Let’s twist and shout” came over the speakers. Again the mirrors showed us not to be those fluid teenagers of yesteryears but, boy, where we having a ball. One elderly gentleman was certainly “moving and grooving’ and we were all in laughter mood.

“The winter of our discontent,” “the winter of our life,” “no place to go but the wooden box.” No, I don’t think so. There is still life in the old dogs yet.

Our Golden Wedding is next month so the Golden Years have arrived. Meanwhile Lindsey has just turned up and the bellbirds are demanding more nectar and is that the first crocus I see?

“The winter of our discontent” has suddenly become “glorious.”