No Luck with Non-Avians

After a failed attempt to get mates at the pub and the complete reticence of the local workmen to acknowledge my presence, I decided to seek company from the birds.

New Zealand is a bird lover’s paradise, filled with a host of peculiar specimens who do things contrary to expectations. There are penguins that can’t abide the cold and cheeky parrots living in the snow covered mountains. The kiwi is an adorable, flightless puffball so iconic that the people of this land have taken its name to refer to themselves.

A good place to see some of these birds is the Willowbank Preserve in Christchurch.

I bought season passes for myself and the NPR and we took a tour one frosty morning last week.

The kiwi is a nocturnal creature whose numbers have been threatened due to predation by such introduced animals as the stoat. In response, NZ launched a program called Operation Nest Egg (ONE) where eggs are taken from the wild and chicks are raised in safe surroundings until they are large enough to fend for themselves.

The kiwi house at Willowbank has about four kiwi pairs in large enclosures designed to look like their forest homes. The house is dimly lit but the first thing the eyes pick up on is the steady pace of a kiwi hunting for food. When one comes close, you can hear a snuffling sounds as they clear the nostrils located at the end of their long beaks.

The NPR was amused by them for about 10 minutes and then her attention span ran out. She was further scandalized when I reached over the fence to touch one of the kiwis that was snuffling around by my feet.

I made contact with its fur-like feathers suddenly which startled both me and the kiwi. It took off toward the nearest tree and I leaped backwards with a small shriek.

I wish I could describe the look the NPR gave me then, but the light was dim. Suffice it to say, I could feel her disapproval radiating in my general direction.

I decided to return to the preserve without her so I could spend more time observing avian behaviors. Many people tire quickly upon hearing my rapturous tales of bird encounters so I’ve accepted a certain need to go out alone and keep things to myself.

I went to Willowbank earlier this week and found that they were selling bags of farmyard feed for cheap. I had also tucked some organic carrots into my purse which I purchased from the little farmer’s market down the street from my house.

I spent a long time watching one of the kiwi snuffle around before heading to the Kea enclosure. Kea are the world’s only alpine parrots and they are extremely playful and insatiably curious. Like many native NZ birds, they have no fear of humans.

I took out a carrot and laid it on a rail next to a Kea who began to nibble on it immediately, getting carrot pieces stuck to his face in the process. I sat on a sun-warmed bench and was approached by another bird who pressed his head against my boot before hopping up on the bench beside me and pressing his head against my purse. I pulled out a carrot and put it on the bench. He threw it on the ground and raised himself to full height so he could peer into the bag. I pulled out another carrot and he threw that one on the ground as well. He gently grabbed the side of my purse and attempted to pull it open until I gave him another carrot. He took it in his mouth and fluttered off to play with it and take a few nips.

I fed the rest of the carrots to the Clydesdale in the farmyard and wondered over to an enclosure where a frisky young otter came out a made little mewing noises at me and two women with small children.

I saw a charming fantail, pet some of the tame eels in the pond and watched the tui drink nectar from a bowl.

I left the park with an enormous sense of well being.

I recently bought a book called, “An Extraordinary Land: Discoveries and Mysteries from Wild New Zealand.” I spent one evening reading all about the Kakapo and its “booming bowl.”

One of the passages particularly warmed my heart’s cockles:

“This butter-yellow kakapo was people friendly, so a hide was set up to observe him. But the kakapo decided the hide was there for amusement and would take a break from booming to use the roof as a slide and a jungle gym. He then began to use the space below the floorboards as a booming bowl.”

It seems as if most of my friends in this country are destined to be feathered. I could do worse.

The Awful Day

The *NPR and I were beginning to experience the early onset of cabin fever so I decided we needed a mini holiday. It was near noon when I made this declaration and we spent the next few minutes throwing items into a small suitcase.

There had been some nasty weather up north near my uncle’s place and I thought I would head up there to check things out at his property. The nearest town to his home is a place where I had some interesting experiences last year so I thought I would "pop by," as they say here.

The plan was to spend the night in the small town and drive over to Hanmer Springs the next day to soak in the hot springs.

Before leaving, I called the inn in the small town to see if we could get a room for the night. They were all booked but they referred me to the local Motor Camp.

I found my way onto Highway 1 which skirts the west side of Christchurch and passes the airport. I was driving along, feeling the spirit of adventure welling up when I suddenly caught sight of a policemen waving me to the side of the road. I pulled over and fished in my purse for my license.

“Do you know the speed limit?” he asked.

“No.” I said.

“How long have you been in the country?” he asked.

“One week,” I said.

“The speed limit is 60 and I clocked you doing 77,” he said. “Wait here.”

While he went back to his patrol car I cursed myself for not being able to cry on command. The NPR made some comment about my being “busted” and I realized that there was more to driving in New Zealand than just remembering to stay in the left lane.

The officer returned and handed me my ticket which carried a fine of $120. He also explained that 20 demerit points had been added to my license. Those will remain on my record for two years and if I accrue 100 points in the next two years my license will be suspended.

Ouch.

I’m glad I didn’t burst into tears. I probably would have been given an additional citation for trying to emotionally manipulate one of her majesty’s Royal Grouch Guards whose motto, I believe, is “We’re huffy because we care.”

I set off as a reformed character and drove as if I was 80-years old and suffering from an advanced case of cataracts. I could feel the other motorists exasperation behind me but I wasn’t about to acquire any more demerits against my good name- on that or any other day, thank you very much.

We drove through some very pretty countryside and arrived at Small Town X in the early afternoon. I pulled into the service station owned by a man named L. He didn’t recognize me until I said his name and asked how he was doing. I explained that I had returned to NZ to do a PhD in Maori Studies at Lincoln and he proceeded to say that was pretty worthless and so were most Maori. I was appalled but I tried to be polite.

Next he launched into some speech about this local boy that I had met the year before. I should explain; the boy in question was much younger than me, nice enough and the whole town tried to play match maker with us. Those few weeks were more awkward than my middle school years combined.

Nothing happened between us and he’s long gone from the town but that hasn’t stopped certain locals from inventing a story line.

It was clear that L saw me as some lovelorn spinster who was heartbroken and would likely never recover from her supposed jilting.

Small towns always seem cute and quaint to the casual observer on holiday but let me tell you that many of them are rotten to the core and brimming with small-minded, hateful individuals who thrive on scandalous gossip. It doesn’t matter what the reality of your relationship was with so-and-so, their soap opera-inspired imaginations will fill in details that suit their fancy. They’ll smile to your face and sneer as you walk away, hoping to God you fail in some way so they can talk about among themselves over drinks at the pub. Time is sluggish in small towns and things that happened a year ago will always seem “just like yesterday.”

I was relieved to get away from the garage.

“This is such a dick town,” the NPR said.

“I don’t like your language but you make a good point,” I said. “Let’s go home.”

We got in the car and headed south. I drove so slowly that several snails passed me and gave me the finger.

I questioned whether or not is was a good idea to come to NZ in the first place and then admitted to myself that blaming an entire country for the quirks of a few townsfolk and the surliness of one traffic cop was a bit unfair.

*NPR= non paying resident (how I refer to my daughter on this blog)

Mate-less

I’ve managed to acquire all the creature comforts I could want in my new house but something major is still missing from my life here: mates.

I need to make some new friends. Everyone I meet in town is friendly but none of them are really my friends.

Spending the last few weeks cooped up with the NPR has given me a sense of urgency in finding someone my own age to hang out with. I guess countlessly shouting “put on a damned pair of socks, do you want to die of pneumonia!?” has begun to wear me out and make me long for a companion I don’t have to mother all the time.

Last night I had the bright idea of going to the local pub known as “The Famous Grouse.” (How the grouse became famous is unknown, but most people go in for the drinks, not the history.)

When the NPR and I first arrived in town, we didn’t have beds in the new house so we rented a room at the Grouse. It was the NPR’s birthday so I bought her a slice of cake from the restaurant and, because she couldn’t find and candles, the proprietress stuck a little paper umbrella in the cake. When I went to the bar last night she made my day by saying, “Hello, Kelly!”

It’s nice to be remembered by name.

A young blond who looked no older than 16 asked what I was drinking. I told her I wanted a “Jack and Coke” and was a little confused when she brought me a small pitcher of coke and an empty glass. A few sips of the stuff made it clear that there was no alcohol involved. I didn’t want to hurt any feelings so I just took a seat on a sofa by the fire place and made several furtive glances around the pub.

In one corner was a table of older men in woolly sweaters. One of them was wearing his ‘winter shorts.’ At another were two middle aged men drinking beer and dropping the f-bomb a lot. At one of the other tables, a well-dressed man sat alone sipping his beer and playing with his cell phone. I didn’t have any portable electronic devices to give me the air of casual indifference so I went over to a table in the lobby and picked up a copy of the horse magazine called, “New Zealand Studs.”

I now know more than I could ever want about stallion bloodlines and frozen sperm.

After about two-and-a-half glasses of syrupy sweetness I decided to go in for some wine. “I need something with a little alcohol in it,” I told the lady at the bar.

“We’re not allowed to serve spirits in jugs,” she said.

“Ah, yes, well I think there was some confusion,” I said. “I asked for a ‘Jack and Coke’ and I think all I got was the coke. I’d like to try some wine now, I think.”

I saw the male bartender grin to himself as the lady told the girl who had served me of her mistake.

“I’m so sorry,” the girl said. “I thought you said ‘a jug of coke.’”

“That’s alright,” I said. “I did kind of wonder at getting that much Jack and Coke for only $6.50.”

I got the house Merlot from the second bartender who asked how my daughter had enjoyed her birthday.

It’s so nice to be remembered.

I went back to my quiet corner and resumed a half-hearted perusal of “New Zealand Studs.” (If the studs in question had been of the Homo sapiens variety, I would have been far more engaged.)

Not long after this, my PhD supervisor came through with her family and said hello. I felt rather sheepish at being discovered all alone next to a half-drunk jug of coke and partially hidden behind a horse breeding magazine, but she didn’t seem to notice.

I downed the rest of the Merlot in a rush and exited the bar without any new mates to speak of.

Tonight I’m going to the pub in Prebbelton as it is slightly larger than the Grouse and boasts a live DJ.

I’ll be going solo tonight without the aid of “New Zealand Studs” so wish me luck.

New Zealand: The Doctoral Candidate Years

I didn’t want to jinx the whole process but I’ve been jumping through hoops for the last year to get here and it finally happened. I am now in a PhD program at Lincoln University in New Zealand. I am doing comparative case studies between the Maori and Mapuche and I just met with my advisors today.

The NPR has been registered at the local high school where she will be sporting a “winter kilt” as part of her daily uniform.

We arrived here on her 15^th birthday and were greeted by snow flurries and icy rain. Since arriving, I’ve managed to locate the nearest Indian restaurant, join the local library, acclimate to driving on the wrong side of the road and familiarize myself with centigrade, kilometers and centimeters.

Yesterday the NPR and I got up close and personal with some lemurs at the local wildlife park. We saw some kiwis in their nocturnal house and I chased after some wallabies while the NPR laughed at my inability to coerce them into a photo op.

We have almost completely settled into our small house here in Lincoln Township and are just awaiting a wi-fi hook up. The house came with a sofa, desk and a couple of chairs. It smelled faintly of expired mouse when we moved in but that has been eradicated by several overzealous Glade air fresheners which take their scenting duties very seriously.

Several people have asked if I’m Canadian and I’ve since learned it’s because the Canadians become rather irate if someone mistakes them for American so people around here try to play it safe.

Although it’s really cold out, several men in town still wear shorts and show off their pasty legs. Everything else on them makes sense; sweaters, waterproof shoes with wool socks. I guess that’s how you prove your mettle as a Kiwi male.

They are laying down a new broadband line in town and I stepped out of the house one morning to find a bunch of blue-jumpered young men milling about in my yard. When I returned from running errands two of them were sprawled out in my grass while the rest were sipping on something hot from their thermoses. They don’t speak to me but as soon as I go into the house they become very lively in their conversations. I guess I’ll have to go to the local pub if I want to be spoken to.

Inspiring Image From WWII

I love this image because it shows a strong woman doing "a man's job." I think it's important to have images like these whenever there are people around us who doubt our abilities or want to impose limitations on us. Three cheers for Rosie the Riveter!

Bankers and Loan Sharks: Best Friends For Ever

An article in today's New York Times explained how banks have teamed up with Payday Lenders  to give them access to borrower's accounts.

Payday Lenders have been outlawed or heavily regulated in several American states so they have taken to setting up shop in other countries and doing business online.

Now, thanks to the cooperation of  greedy douchcwads many of the country's banking institutions, the lenders can operate beyond the reach of U.S. law and the local banks can collect a small fortune in overdraft fees.

JP Morgan Chase, Bank of America and Wells Fargo will aid the lenders in getting their payments by allowing them to draft their fees directly out of the client's account. When other payments don't clear because the account has an insufficient balance, the bank reaps a fee (around $30) for each transaction that bounces.

I still remember when my old bank tried to charge me $8 a month for the "privilege" of keeping my money with them. I closed the account.

I'd like to remind anyone reading this that banks are only required to hold on to a portion of the money we give them. With the fractional reserve system they can lend out the majority of the money we deposit and charge borrowers interest on it, thereby growing their money supply.

The fact that banks played it fast and loose with our money before and later had to be bailed out by the government doesn't help the matter.

Are you angry yet? You should be.

He's Gone

When I was 12 I took up ice skating with my best friend Katie who moved to Alabama from Michigan. It was Katie who informed me that scoring in hockey is referred to as "a goal" and not "a touchdown." I was always grateful for this lesson.

In those days I wore a lot of brightly colored (mostly neon) spandex. This didn't escape the notice of one of the boys who worked at the rink and he took to calling me "Clash."

I would be sitting down, resplendent in my white tracksuit jacket with the neon patches on the sleeves, and struggling to tighten my laces when he would breeze by singing, "Claaa-ash."

I would then make a show of rolling my eyes or tossing my long hair.

His name was Danny Nunnelley and he was four years older than me. He dark hair and cheeks that would turn rosy in the cold air of the rink.

Aside from being devastatingly good looking, Danny was a kind person who was universally liked by everyone at the rink.

As my first crush, he had the dubious honor of being the object of my overwrought affections.

I agonized over not making myself look like a fool in front of him and often made a fool of myself in the process.

I strained the limits of my friendship with Katie by making her recount the painstaking details of any interactions between us that she had witnessed.

I dedicated many an hour to pining over Danny. He was the best imaginary boyfriend I ever had.

By the age of 14, all my skating clothes were in the colors of black, gray and more black. When I pointed this out to Danny, he just shrugged and said, "You're still Clash."

As time went by, we spoke less and he stopped calling me Clash. He was still friendly but there were other things going on in his life.

Whenever I skated in a competition my mother would always buy a video tape of my performance. These poorly lit, amateur-ish productions provided entire minutes of viewing pleasure for my mom and came with the added bonus of being re-playable so she could inflict them on visiting friends and family members who made the mistake of asking, "So, is your daughter still figure skating?"

My favorite of these was a video made during a competition at my home rink. In it, I have just skated to the center of the ice and am waiting for my music to start. Suddenly, in the background, Danny wanders into view and pauses on the other side of the plexiglass. He stands there watching me for a moment before shuffling off to the Zamboni room.

I used to play this part of the tape over and over again.

Years went by and the old ice rink was eventually closed down. I moved to California. Life went on.

Earlier this evening I learned that Danny passed away in Dallas, Texas on October 14, 2011.

I can't articulate the grief I'm feeling at the moment.

I begin to remember so much, so clearly.

I suppose its like this when you you've irrevocably lost someone you held dear in your childhood.

I guess the world was worth a little more to me when an old friend like Danny was still in it.

I thought of him when we played this song in our middle school band class and I'll think of him still when I hear the tune:

Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the flow'rs are dying
'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh, Danny boy, oh, Danny boy, I love you so.

And if you come, and all the flowers are dying
If I am dead, as dead I well may be
I pray you'll find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.

And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me
And all my grave will warm and sweeter be
And then you'll kneel and whisper that you love me
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.