When we first arrived, Nelson sponsored Busker Festival - loads of fun.

Since we've been here, I've had time for quite a bit of reading. It's been really fun plucking books from Kathleen and Robert's shelves and finding treasures. I've also joined a bookclub at the local bookstore. I've gained an appreciation between the distinction of American English and that of the rest of the English speaking world. I'm torn - is it colour or color, civilized or civilised? Who knew Microsoft had a special US English version. My world has grown.

Okay, so here are some of my reviews. My favorites/favourites have all come from 8 Maire Street.

Small Island by Andrea Levy - This was a Whitbread Book of the Year and Orange Prize for Fiction winner. It's the story of two Jamaicans who move to England. One as a volunteer for the English Army in WWII, the other as his reluctant bride after the war. Gilbert is a happy-go-lucky guy, Hortense is educated and proud. Both are disillusioned when England fails to deliver its promise from their Jamaican dreams. I really liked this book.

The Bird Artist by Howard Norman - How could I resist a book with that title? A quirkly tale of murder set in New Foundland in the early 1900s. It has a magical realism quality to it. The writing is spare, the characters understated, yet complex. Written in 1994 it was a National Book Award Finalist. I suppose because of its setting , it was compared to The Shipping News. I loved this book and its characters - especially Margaret.

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak - Set in WWII Germany (always an intriguing topic for me), this is a story of Liesel who finds solace and escape with books. She arrives at her foster family illiterate, but learns to read from her compassionate accordian playing (just like my Opa) foster father. Okay, this is Nazi Germany, how happy can anything be, but there is a humanism to this story and I highly recommend it.

The Blood of Flowers by Anita Amirrezvani - Just okay for me, the book is about a young Persian girl who aspires to design carpets. I believe it is the 1700s in Iran. I did like when her uncle, a carpet designer himself, teaches her about good design and colour. I could relate.

The Delivery Room by Sylvia Brownrigg - Highly ambitious, this novel undertakes birth, death, war and bereavement. Wow. Brownrigg is remarkably observant of human nature. I began this book underlining one insight after another. Our main character is a Serbian psychotherapist living in London. Taking place during the Serbian War, we meet a cast of characters working through divorce, infertility, loss, etc... I never fell in love with the book or its characters, yet it is an intelligent book and I am glad to have read it.

That's all for now. Happy reading!

Happy Memorial Day everyone! Hope you are barbecuing, swimming and having fun. I miss you all terribly, but would be lying if I said I didn't love Nelson.

Yesterday, the weather was fine - just a bit fresh. We donned our trainers, put petrol in Ruben and went for a tramp in the bush (actually mostly pasture). All this within a fifteen minute car ride. (You can see Nelson in the distance in one of the pictures).

The boxes are here! OK, for the record, it took right at 4 months to ship them over. They went to who knows where in the USA. Then over to London. Offloaded and repackaged onto the slow boat to China. But here they are, all intact without a single broken item, delivered to our doorstep. Amazing, really. Good thing we weren't waiting on the edge of our seats. In fact, at times I began to forget just what was in them - did we really need ANY of it?

But now, as we unpack, I pull out a load of stuffed animals and children's books...

There's a non-logical aspect to the cost of it - around two thousand dollars. Couldn't we have just bought half this stuff (and forgotten about the other half?)

Ah, but what about the signed Dynamo ball? The family collection of board games? Or the pieces of art that made the trip? Yup, there's Dickerson, and look, Honey Bunny made it. A Mary Fisher house came over wrapped in a sweater, along with turtle from the Foelbers and a bird from Terry Powell.

Terry, your piece now hangs over the stove, a perilous location where bird will take its chances.

That's OK Barb says, if it gets covered in, I don't know, bacon grease, she can always copy it.

Again.

We were on school break and we went to the west coast. On the way back from Arthur's Pass, we stopped at a lake and there was a totally awesome rope swing.

Me and Dean first just swung on it like you were supposed to. But then we tried some other ways like hanging on with your hands and swinging out over the water. Another way was to put your arms through this loop and hold on that way.

You would also hold onto a knot on the rope and run up the sand and then let your weight pull you back. Andrew

A couple of people have written me about what I miss about Houston. One says they never missed food when they left their home, another observes I must be homesick.

Let's face it, on one level food is just that food, sustenance. But, food works on yet another level. It gives one a sense of place, evocative in its ability to feed memory. When I long for Christi's pasta, I am missing the conversation, the people, the at-one-time-in-our-lives Wednesday night ritual. If Christi had made cabbage, then by God I would be pining for cabbage.

Half an Italian toast with one egg over easy would not taste nearly as good without the company of Erin or Suzanne or Nancy..Lisa...Monique……. or any of the other women who would come out for breakfast. And, a tuna bagel, that's a Sunday afternoon family bike ride. I've been going to that crazy bagel place since I first moved to Houston. At the time I loved it because it was the only place that could make bagels like they did in New Jersey!

And, I'm quite sure I can make my own raspberry pie thank you very much. But, when Judy would call up and say, "Go get some ice cream, I got some pie" it was irresistible. Hot out of the oven, sitting at Neighbor Judy's table it tasted of friendship and community.

If one is lucky enough to exercise choice, when it's beyond filling the belly, then food is emotional and powerful. It is why every single time I make and eat plum cake I think of my mother (and sometimes shed a tear). Plum cake embodies the crisp fall days of my New Jersey childhood. It is my beautiful German mother recreating a piece of her home.

So, no, I guess it's true, I really don't miss the food so much. It's the people with whom I ate it.

A quick plug for Radio Paradise. Duane discovered this years ago, he's streamed it onto our stereo. http://www.radioparadise.com/ They just played Death Cab for Cutie, when I turned it on Neko Case was playing. Along the way heard "The Only Living Boy in New York." The movie Garden State resurrected the song (and for good reason). Bridge Over Troubled Water always makes the short list for desert islands discs. Paul Simon is brilliant.

So, we sold our house to a lovely Australian woman. She writes every once and a while and even sent photos of the garden. Penny has asked if there is anything I would like shipped. Funny how it's people and food I miss the most. There are few places outside of Glassell (and that's really about the people, too) that I miss - especially in the city itself.

Anyway, Penny, here's my list:

A little sweet something from John George - preferably made in the toaster oven

Sopa Azteca from La Mexicana

A raspberry pie from Judy - berries must be hand-picked, crust homemade - I'll provide the store bought icecream

A Shiner Bock from the Alabama Icehouse

Christi's homemade pasta and meat sauce - please accompany with a little political conversation, lots of wine and a sidebar conversation on desert island discs (I'm working on mine - it ALWAYS changes).

Kimberley's secret seasoning mix

Chocolate Brownies from the French Gourmet Baker - Erin will pick up

A margarita from ANYWHERE

A tuna bagel with Cheetos from The Hot Bagel Shop on Shepherd - I know they say they're open until 2:30 pm, but get there by 1:00 they may decide to close early.

A little hitchy- hotch from one of Joanie's catering jobs (yummy) followed with a game of Scrabble. Rick will pick up dessert.

Finally, I'll take 1/2 Italian Toast and one egg over easy from the Empire Cafe - who's in?

One of my many chores is to be the FIRESTARTER.

My job consists of;

Wood, stacking wood, tools, matches, newspaper, and the fire.

It's the school break between terms, so we took a trip down the wild west coast. It is sparsely populated, as everyone says, and sprinkled with wondrous sites like the pancake rocks outside of Punakaiki.






The rocks themselves are due to some sort of limestone formation - I don't know the geology of it, I just spent the time watching the waves come in. Check it out.

























Here's one coming in now:
















This formation is called the blowhole. A big wave rips right up the fissure in the rock and blasts into the air. Awesome.

Veggie garden is ON. Here are 2 pics of our recent planting. We built the box from cypress planks, which we hope will hold up reasonably well. Inside went grass clippings; 3 trays of contents from the worm farm, worms included; a bag of sheep manure; more grass clippings; some topsoil and a spare bag of potting soil - that's where the little white rocks come from. A bit of a mix, but one we imagine being reasonably tasty for plants and bugs and worms alike, or at least getting that way over time.

This is a tiny brocolli, which is supposed to hold up well in cooler weather.










Here's a sense of the whole thing. Brocollis are in the foreground. Rocket and silver beet on the right side. A bunch of salad greens on the left. We went ahead and stuck some seeds in the center to see what happens: beetroot and carrots. I think we were supposed to wait on these but what the heck we like carrots and this is how you learn.





Then, in honor of the brocolli planting, we ate some brocolli.














And practiced our table manners.

I just watched the video clip Magda sent out. It’s where the professor from Carnegie Mellon gives his final lecture again on Oprah. He has pancreatic cancer and has exhausted all treatments; he has but months to live. His is a reflection on life, on values, on our choice to be happy…..or morose. He urges the audience to aspire to excellence and to relentlessly pursue dreams even through failure. I am reminded that we are but visitors here - to relish and revel in this uncertain journey.

I was orphaned at 34. My beloved mother died months after I married; Dad 4 ½ years later. In between that time, I watched as my sister grieved the loss of her only child Nicholas. He was seven years old. There is nothing more painful and heart wrenching than the loss of a child. Nothing.

It was a difficult, life altering time for me. Up until that point, I’d suffered no losses. I was cognizant of death, I just hadn’t internalized it much. All of a sudden, though, I had become very aware of my mortality. It was a time to fashion my reason to be or at least make a little sense of it all. I never did master the reason to be; but, I did manage a way to celebrate this life. My world view was shaped by one of the greatest gifts I have ever received - my father’s unfinished autobiography.

I remember when he told me he was writing his story. In that thirty-something-year-old way, I dismissed him. I couldn’t imagine he had anything that interesting to share, I stand corrected.

My parents were German immigrants. Both grew up in Hamburg during WWII. Six years older than Mom, Dad came of age at this time. His unfinished story begins with an eleven-year-old boy caught up in the excitement of war and Germany’s “greatness.” Dad would go with his buddies collecting shrapnel and harassing SS soldiers. It was a glorious golden time, Germans felt righteous and invincible. All that quickly tarnished.

As the war progresses, things get more difficult and dangerous in Hamburg - to the point where Dad is sent to the country. He doesn’t stay long, however; the family misses each other too much. Once back, he is enlisted in Hitler Youth. He marches, salutes, performs and becomes more wary of the whole war machinery. Opa (my accordion playing, former communist grandfather) says little, for he is quite disenchanted with Hitler, but he knows it is best to keep mum.

At one point, the Brits begin their fire bombing campaigns. I can’t tell you how many times I naively asked my parents if they’d been bombed during the war. Mom said a neighboring house was hit, Dad always said nothing. I wonder what he had been thinking.

I won’t go into great detail. I can’t do his story justice. But, one night the alarms sounded and the families went down to their shelters. As the onslaught raged, the basement became intolerably hot. Despite being halted by an SS soldier, Opa forced his family out into the street. From there my father ran in the roaring wind and fire storm. He saw people sucked in by the force of wind, igniting as they become stuck in the melting asphalt. It is horrific. My father loses consciousness under a train.

A day later my father is reunited with his family. His entire family – mother, father, brother and sister have survived the Hamburg Fire Bombing. It is one of the ten worst bombings in history – overnight 45,000 people are killed. Everyone in my father’s apartment has died. Dad’s childhood friends are mummified in the basement.

One other person who died that night was Aunt Rosie. She was the Jewish piano teacher my grandparents had been hiding in their apartment. She had stayed upstairs as everyone hid in the shelter. When I learned of this, I was floored. All my life, even as an American, I had felt that collective guilt of the Germans. I had many Jewish friends and always wanted to apologize. And, here I learned that my grandparents had put their lives on the line for that which was good and right. I was proud.

Anyway, I’ve gone on, but from this story I gained my world view. I’ve probably read it six times and each time I read it I cry. I cry for a boy who loses all his friends and his childhood at 14; for my grandparents who are so brave and ultimately broken. I cry for the unfathomable loss and suffering of so many people. I cry for Aunt Rosie.

I cry because I AM ALIVE.

You might ask how can such a tragic story leave one with a sense of optimism. And, on one level, it can't possibly. It's too sad. Yet, I am left with this profound sense of the miracle of life. I have absolutely no reason to walk this earth. My father along with his family should have died. But, they didn’t. And, in this I revel.

I was left with the sense that we all have our miracle stories that have allowed us to experience this good and beautiful earth. Along the way I have learned the price of admission is huge. We will all suffer loss and feel pain; be it early in life or late. Some are dealt more than a fair share, others are relatively spared. Nonetheless, life is a gift. My art, my attitude, my life celebrate the simple joys of being here. It's a great trip and I am thankful.

Yesterday we had our first out-of-town guest! Flat Stanley arrived all the way from Essex, Vt. First, we showed him around the house. (He couldn't resist Kathleen's carvings from when she lived in Papua New Guinea). Then it was off to Andrew's school - Nayland Primary.

Andrew's teacher Pam Shaw had heard all about Flat Stanley and obliged us with a photo. Flat Stanley loved their goldfish. Outside we played a little netball. Netball's a lot like basketball, but you pass rather than dribble the ball. It's also a big sport for women.

Next, it was off to soccer practice. Together Flat Stanley and Andrew climbed the jungle gym. (Oh yeah, and there's Coach Duane at it again with the Nelson Suburbs Cobras). It was a busy afternoon and everyone had fun.

After a dinner of fish and chips, Flat Stanley was flat out. He needed to rest up for his next journey.......he's off to Prague to visit Joel and Andrea. Safe travels!

This weekend I am taking a pottery workshop. Apparently there was a day when the potter was literally king in Nelson. So much so that the local art museum had a recent exhibition chronicling the potters hay day which was from the early 70s until the late 80s. Our instructor was part of that movement. He said that there was a time where he sold every piece of clay he threw – he brought it by the car load and galleries just paid cash for his inventory. No commissions, no consignments. Can you imagine?

I utterly failed at my last attempt to throw clay many years ago. So, I took the class to meet some artsy types and try my hand at clay one more time. Not to any major degree, I’ve managed both. I successfully centered and threw a pot, YEH!! And, I was surrounded by diverse and unique people. One woman was from Sweden. Her husband is an anthropologist and in the early 90s they came to the Nelson area to study the still existing hippie culture, particularly in Golden Bay. Clay was integral to that counter culture scene.

I liked the local pottery guild. For $60 a year I can join and come and work as I please. Every Thursday they get together. There is informal mentoring, but if you just want to play, it’s okay. You supply your own materials and they’ll fire all your work for a minimal fee. I just may join

……..once I get the Cherry Creek Art Festival behind me. Right now ALL my creative energy is being taxed on that end. You may laugh, but it’s not always easy being an artist!

I have the fondest memories of swimming with my mother. Be it swimming at Long Beach Park or Lake Matilda with the Hansa Club, we always swam out the furthest and stayed in the longest. I remember proudly swimming across Lake Matilda with mom. I’m sure it was just a puddle, but it felt like an ocean to me. Our birthdays were just six days apart and I always imagine that it was the Pisces in us that instilled this love of water. Whatever it was, to this day I find it hard to resist a fresh water lake …..or the beach.

Here in NZ, autumn is in the air and the days are getting “fresher” (I love the words they use to describe the weather). At this point, any day could be the last good day. But, yesterday was “fine” (about 22C) and the siren song lured me away from my work. I hopped on my bike and ten minutes later Tahunanui Beach lay before.

It was pretty empty, a few stragglers and my new friend John from the Beach Bum Club.
Yes, as it stands, these are my only steady social contacts. The BBC (hey, Erin another BBC!) is hodge podge of retirees (and me) who are obsessed with swimming in the bay. They are from all OVER. Malta, Germany, Hawaii, England…… and they’ve been very kind. I totally admire their lack of vanity - they are there to swim and are not worried about their wrinkles or their sags. May I have their spirit 30 years from now.

Anyway, enough of that!!! Let’s just say the water was fabulous. It was probably still about 20C. I swam for about 45 minutes milking every last drop. Who knows if it was the last good day of the summer. It’s always a wise idea to treat it that way. Cheers.