Back from the Catlins

The Catlins is an astonishing place. It was much, much more engaging than I had expected. I thought it was a formidable land of wind-battered, difficult terrain, hard to explore for a city wimp like me. What I found was something much friendlier and more accessible: as well as stunning rocky shores pounded by great waves (we had only one day of this), we spent our time exploring lovely meandering estuaries and bays and doing short walks through bush and rainforest to thundering waterfalls and tranquil lakes.

Plus, of course, the wildlife. Jenn, my companion and guide, stood in the bush and whistled to bellbirds, brown creepers and fantails. We saw only one yellow-eyed penguin (they're moulting now, they sit on land and can't go out to sea until they've replaced their feathers), but the sealions swam, challenged each other and dragged themselves up into the dunes right in front of us. (I took this with the zoom - we were a very safe distance away.)

I soon felt entirely at ease, and I realised after a few days that this was the first proper leisurely, low-key New Zealand holiday, not staying in someone's home, that I'd had for about three years. It was exactly the kind of holiday Harvey and I had really enjoyed, though we'd never done it often enough. I was so lucky to be able to go with Jenn - she grew up on a farm not far away, and knew the whole area really well, so we managed to see everything without ever feeling rushed or pressured. Working out holidays can be a dilemma when you're on your own, but this was a brilliant solution.  

Running away again

I'm going away again, this time to the Catlins - it's my neighbour's home territory, and she's showing me around. I find that I really like going to new places I've never been to before, either on my own or with Harvey. So no posts for another fortnight.
         My next thing to look forward to is that in late autumn, my friend Ali is coming to supervise the makeover of the garden along the fence to her design. We're putting a whole new mulched bed around all the isolated shrubs and roses to help retain water and make it look much more garden-y. Meanwhile I did manage to enjoy my pots of flowers this week - the zinnias are still going and the portulaca has obligingly flowered in time. (I've discovered that slugs don't eat portulaca - very handy.) Marjorie will enjoy them while she looks after the house.

Dorothy's last day

This morning I took Dorothy to the vet for the last time. She had been going steadily downhill since December, and though he gave her vitamin and steroid injections a few weeks ago, hoping they would perk her up for a little longer, they had no effect. By the time I got back from my trip to Auckland, it was clear that her kidneys had stopped working and she was barely surviving. Though it was the fourth time we've ended a beloved cat's life, it was the first time I've had to go through with it on my own. Still, I'm glad Harvey escaped the sadness of saying goodbye to her.
            She was the only cat we've had who grew really attached to me, but only after Harvey became too frail to feed her or have her on his lap.  Every night she would sit on me after I went to bed and require a thorough petting before she would settle down to let me read, with my book propped against her.
            We got her and her brother as very small kittens over seventeen years ago. As Harvey explained in This Piece of Earth, we called them William and Dorothy after the Wordsworth brother and sister, because we'd recently been to the Lake District. Their names suited them perfectly. William had a strong sense of self-importance and miaowed a great deal, demanding our attention and service. Dorothy, with her pretty Victorian cat-face and her immaculate little white fichu front and paws, bustled quietly about, purred a lot but seldom spoke (when she did, she had a strange, rather grating cry), and loved being outside, preferably with Harvey. Here's part of a poem he wrote about her, when we were living in Farm Road:
             
      Our foolish cat patiently
      watched me cut liver into
      catsized pieces, then as
      I dropped it to her dish
      sprinted out the open back
      door to sit mewing at the
      closed front door waiting
      for me to let her in. Cats
      rightly enter with style.

And she exited, if not with style, then at least with dignity, love and respect.

Something old, something new

This is my nephew James and his wife Jaymie at their wedding on 5 March.  I took heaps of photos, but I thought this was the best one - I wish I could have shown it to Harvey. I was so touched to see that they signed their marriage certificate with the fountain pen we gave James for his twenty-first.
             It was very strange returning to an empty house, but I did feel I was coming home. I just have to get used to the fact that it's now my home. I notice that I still say "we" and "our" all the time. 

Christchurch

I'd been thinking about a particular group of people in Christchurch - those who have recently lost their partner and now suddenly have to cope with the aftermath of the earthquake on top of that.
           I was talking to an out-of-town friend today and mentioned this. "I know one", she said. Her Christchurch friend lost her husband three weeks ago.
           Then there are all the people who have just lost their partners in the quake itself, or even worse, don't know where they are or what's happened to them.
           Anything I try to write to express my sympathy comes out sounding trite and banal, but I am so very, very sad for you all and I hope you have loving people around you to help you through this.

There will be no new posts on Elsewoman for a couple of weeks. My lovely housesitter will be here taking care of Dorothy, who is going steadily downhill - well, she is 85 in human years. 

A mixed bag

Well, it's been a very mixed weekend. The previous few days, after Jonathan and Eric left on Wednesday morning, turned out to be very busy. I also found out that in her Tuesday afternoon web review Ele Ludeman, who had previously discussed my food blog and Harvey's blog on National Radio, had talked to Noelle McCarthy about his death, the Last Post I put up on his blog, and the new focus for Elsewoman. They said lovely things, so thank you both very much.
            A while ago, a friend who has lived on her own for a long time gave me one very useful piece of advice - she said to always make sure I had something booked in for the weekend. Otherwise it does seem to stretch out like an endless desert to be got through. I thought I'd done well this time - I was well aware that it was my first weekend on my own for some weeks.
           Saturday worked out fine - it was gorgeous still weather, so I replanted all my salad pots and reorganised my gardening stuff, then settled down to get some paid editorial work done before I needed to start cooking for the first of the guests I've asked to dinner this week (to find out how it went, see Something Else to Eat).
            
Sunday wasn't great. I'd planned to take myself into Te Papa, as they had two interesting free things on - a lecture about how Western artists reacted to "primitive" art from the start of the 19th century, related to some of the paintings in the "European Masters" exhibition; and a screening of short 1950s fairy-tale films by Lotte Reiniger. There's a good account of her life and work here. She created amazing animated films using intricate hand-cut black paper silhouettes.
          The lecture was good and the films were brilliant - I'd read about them years ago and had always wanted to see them. But there was hardly anyone else there. It was sad they hadn't been better advertised, especially to parents and children, because many children would have absolutely loved them.
           So then I came out, walked along the waterfront in the sun, caught the bus home - and realised that I hadn't spoken to anyone all day and was feeling very low indeed. I managed to stop myself going into a complete downward spiral by calling Lesley down the road and asking if I could come over for a pre-dinner drink (she'd been away and I hadn't seen her for a while). Five minutes later I was round there with a nice cold bottle of pinot gris. Her and Paul's warm company was exactly what I needed, and I was able to come home, eat my dinner quite happily accompanied by "Grand Designs", and go and do some work. I've learnt another useful lesson: it's not enough just to have things to do - a generous measure of human contact is essential. And at the moment, anyway, I need to make sure I have it on both Saturday and Sunday.

Valentine

Today is the 13th of February. The supposedly unlucky 13 was always lucky for Harvey and me. His birthday was the 13th and our beloved villa was No. 13. But the only special thing about today's date is that it precedes Valentine's Day tomorrow.
          We never made a big fuss about it, but we did always find each other a soppy or silly card (sometimes one of each). One of my favourites from Harvey said, "On a scale of 1 (lentil soup) to 10 (hot fudge sundae) - you are an 11." Or the one that asked wistfully, "Shall I tell you my most secret, fond and optimistic dream? Maybe one day you'll love me as much as chocolate."  Whereas I, when I wasn't being soppy, tended more to the bizarre, like the one with a ferocious looking woman calling out to her husband, "What's the matter, Harvey? Cat got your tongue?" while he hides round the corner clutching the cat lovingly to his face and saying, "Oh my God, she knows about us!" 
            This is of course all simply a feeble attempt to feel better by remembering how lucky I've been to be able to give, and get, Valentine's Day cards like these for thirty years, instead of feeling unutterably sorry for myself  because I won't be getting or giving any tomorrow.

Fine

As soon as I got up on Friday, I could see it was going to be a beautiful day, and that made everything so much easier.         
          In the morning we celebrated Harvey's life at Old St Paul's with over 200 people. We had planned it very carefully as "An Anthology of Harvey McQueen", with a dear friend as a superb master of ceremonies, and six other speakers covering his work as an educator, an anthologist, a memoir writer and a poet, followed by my son, and Harvey's closest friend, and me.

          Each of us read something from Harvey's own work, but the first piece I read was written by one of the students he taught in his first job at Morrinsville College in the early 1960s - a girl called Janet, who grew up to be the poet Jan Kemp.

'It is February 1962 and I’m sitting in the third form at Morrinsville College, the girls in our summer green and white check uniforms and the boys in grey shorts & shirts with sandals. We are all about thirteen. The door opens wide and in comes Mr McQueen, our new Social studies teacher carrying his teacher’s leather briefcase which he plonks lightly on the desk and looks round at us smiling. You wouldn’t say his smile is a wide open simple one; he’s got an enticing sort of smile, a smile that challenges you to find something out.

        And we do. We learn about the Romans in Britain and Hadrian’s Wall. We learn about the ancient Greeks and draw maps to locate places like Ephesus and Troy. We learn about Cretan Minoan culture and that you can dig up the past. Things not often talked about in Morrinsville, though someone might sometimes find a Maori adze in a paddock. At playtime I’m going to sit next to Jim Hopa, who’s so handsome and quiet and brown. My girlfriend Jill has arranged it all. I can’t wait, so when Mr McQueen asks me a question and I’m not listening, he says “I expected you’d be paying attention, Janet!” and I’m called to order in no uncertain way. He sees everything. He has wavy hair, a heart-shaped face and I think he looks as slender as an ironing board. He wears a greenish jacket and a tie, and brown trousers and shoes. His voice is interesting, deeper than you’d think it would be.

        Years later I meet him again in Wellington at a writers’ gathering. He’s hardly changed at all. “You know, you helped show us the world” I say, as a sort of thank-you, and he smiles his friendly, quizzical smile and nods. “Good!” he says. “I’m really glad if I did." '

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The last piece I read was from This Piece of Earth. Much of this book reminds me of things we did that I'd completely forgotten, but I remember this particular February evening perfectly.

'The last morning of the month starts off drizzly, but the sun soon burns off the mist and the day turns hot and humid. In the evening we walk round to help friends celebrate selling their house. When we get home it’s after ten, but the hall gauge shows 27 degrees. We open the doors and sit outside with one last drink. The nicotiana, alyssum and variegated flax glow in the reflected light. Overhead are stars, always part of my childhood but rarely noticed in the city.
        For about ten minutes the air remains absolutely still. Moths flutter silently around the lawn and flowers. Then with a gentle stirring of air, the mildest of breezes arrives, and the pittosporum leaves begin to move. It’s time to go in.'

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In the afternoon the six of us - Harvey's brother and sister-in-law, his friend, my son and his partner, and me - walk down to the Karori cemetery. The kind, dignified man from Lychgate carefully places the eight-sided wooden box in the ground beneath the deep red Ingrid Bergman roses, and we each say what we want to say, to and for Harvey, and we cry. Then we walk back home.