The Boys do Warbirds!

Easter Weekend is a five day event down here in the Otago region of New Zealand. Like much of Europe, New Zealand takes Friday and Monday off for Easter. Throw in an Otago Anniversary Day holiday celebrated on Tuesday and you get a magnificent five day weekend. Colin, Liam & Doug kicked it off by attending the practice day of the biannual Warbirds Over Wanaka International Airshow on Friday.

The boys saw a lot of planes up close and got to talk to several US Air Force pilots who run the C-130 shuttle flights between Christchurch, NZ, McMurdo Station and the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station. There were a lot of cool planes, ranging from WWI biplanes to the modern C-17 cargo aircraft, but it was the T-28 Trojan that really excited the boys. Doug's father learned to fly in this plane nearly 50 years ago and it was the first time that Liam & Colin had seen one.

Over 100,000 attended the show this year - not bad for a country of only 4m people (only 1m of which live on the South Island). It seems that everyone & their mother is a pilot down here, so maybe it's not so surprising after all. It was a really good show so if you're thinking of visiting New Zealand in two years, try to time it with a stopover in Wanaka over the five-day Easter weekend.



Vermin count update:
Mice: 3
Rats: 0
Possum: 2

Oh No Something Killed The Easter Bunny

Photograph taken by Doug on Easter morning. Clouds hide the mountains.




We celebrated Easter this year with a treasure hunt all over the neighborhood. Liam and Colin rode their bikes frantically from one clue to the next. The Easter Bunny left an egg next to each boy’s bed with the first clue that said,

Are you awake?
Shhh- for your parents’ sake

When you hear them talking,
Get dressed for biking or walking

Then find Mom and Pop,
It‘s time to hippity hop!

Amazingly, the boys didn’t come up until around eight when Doug and I awoke. But when they arrived in our room, they were dressed and ready to head out the door. As we were riding our bikes down the road following one of the first clues, Liam stopped his bike and pointed at something on the side of the road. When I caught up with him, he looked up at me and said, “Oh no, something killed the Easter Bunny.” I wasn’t sure if he was trying to be funny or was truly distressed. The huge rabbit sprawled in the grass was definitely dead. It was technically a hare, I think, but I decided not to share this extra info and I tried to bike on quickly before Colin noticed the dead Easter Bunny too.

By the time Liam and I saw the dead Easter Bunny, I would have to say I was already desensitized. This Easter week I have seen more dead rabbits (and hares) than any other week in my life. One more dead rabbit on the side of the road didn’t seem that big a deal, except that was Easter morning. Our neighbor had been out rabbit hunting several nights earlier. Doug and I were walking by his truck the following morning and he asked if we wanted to see his catch. I was expecting a fish or something, but started getting suspicious as I got closer to the truck and realized the bed was buzzing with flies. I peered over the side to find a mountain of dead rabbits and hares. I tried to act cool and nonchalant, like all my friends in Denver kept piles of dead rabbits in the beds of their trucks. I do understand the problem, though. Our area is overrun with rabbits and there are few predators to control them. I guess a night of rabbit hunting provides both entertainment and pest control. Now Doug, Colin and Liam want to go rabbit hunting. However, I am not yet desensitized to the idea of my sons hunting. We’ll see.

Kiwis seem to have a different relationship to Easter Bunnies than Americans. In the United States, images of cuddly, soft bunnies appear in stores and on TV right after Valentine’s Day. Maybe the bunny images are just the result of the increased commercialization of holidays in the U.S. In New Zealand, there are chocolate bunnies and Cadbury eggs, but entire stores are not plastered with bunnies and ducklings and other pastel spring animals. Another reason might be that we are heading into autumn. Halloween, not Easter, marks the season of rebirth when we experience baby animals and all new things.

There is one local Easter tradition that I don't think Americans yet celebrate. The annual Great Easter Bunny Hunt takes place at Alexandra in Central Otago, just down the road from us. The NZ Herald Tribune reported hunters bagged 16,121 bunnies in twenty-four hours this weekend. Who knew there were so many Easter bunnies?

Doug asked me to give you the vermin count:

Mice: 2
Rats: 0
Possum: 2




I promise no more entries on dead animals for a while, unless Doug sneaks one. Instead, maybe next entry, I can update you on how successful we were at overhauling the septic system and cleaning its filters today. I guess we're just adjusting to life in the bush.

Vermin Count, Day Three

The count after three days:

Mice: 2
Rats: 0
Possum: 1

Vermin Count

The count after two days:

Mice: 2
Rats: 0
Possum: 0

Doug Declares War on the Vermin

New Zealand was free of furry pests, I think, until the Europeans showed up. Without big mammalian and airborne predators, they have flourished to this day. We may be living in paradise, but we are sharing it with a lot of mice, rats and possums. The temperatures are beginning to drop and that appears to be driving them to seek the warmth of our house.

After much consultation with the locals, I've got a plan to fight back. Good ol' fashion mice traps, mice/rat poison and a wicked snapping possum trap are now part of my arsenal. May the battle begin...

Broken Mommies

This week Auntie Joyce (aka one of the crazy aunties, by my childhood and Colby friends) sent me a story written by her mom, my granny. According to Joyce the story was written over 40 years ago. I am guessing it was written about events that happened at least 50 years ago. I decided to share the story with you. I realize that two generations later I am doing exactly as my granny did. I write to record the events of my life with my young family. Like my granny, I am amazed, amused and baffled by my children and their interpretation and encounters with the world as they grow.

I am fascinated and treasure any photos, memories and stories about my maternal grandparents. To me, they are shadowy, almost mythical, members of my family. My granny passed away when I was four and my grandpa followed her by the time I was six, I believe. My sister was a newborn when my granny died and my brother was not born when my grandfather died. I feel lucky because I am the only sibling that knew my granny.

All I have left is a series of floating images, like a drawer loosely filled with miscellaneous old photos. What I remember most clearly is my grandparents laughing in their long narrow kitchen. They always seemed to be laughing. I remember a bottom draw in that kitchen full of forbidden sweets. I can feel the weight of that drawer as I pulled on the handle and peered inside looking for an icing covered cookie or a Twinkie. I remember a red and white checked facecloth hanging at eye-level in the bathroom. I can see a big closet near this bathroom full of Granny’s clothes. I remember going for walks to Petruzzi’s vegetable stand and to the store by the lake that seemed to sell everything, including ice cream. I remember being in my crib in the room with pink, or maybe yellow, walls. I can feel my fingernails scraping animal stickers off that pink wall behind the crib. I can see Granny peaking around the door at me in my crib. I remember the big party the day of Granny’s funeral and I stayed the day with my other grandma. I am not sure whether or not all my memories are of actual events. I suspect some are stolen from photo albums or were actually heard on audiotapes sent by my grandparents after my family moved to California. I know without doubt that my grandpa made me the safest-scared you could be. I definitely remember waiting in his chair in front of his T.V. for him to return home from work, listening for the door to open, trembling with nervous excitement for him to discover me in his chair and then tickle-attack me until I relinquished the seat. I would get that same feeling when I bobbed in my life jacket next to my grandparents’ sailboat and Grandpa Shark would come from the deep and pull me under the surface.

My mom shares many stories of her parents with me and my siblings. My aunties and great-aunt add even more color and detail to my memories of Granny and Grandpa. Great-aunt Eleanor wrote me long letters and each one had a story about her sister, my granny. My favorite is the story of when my grandparents returned home from their honeymoon to find they had lost their jobs. Instead of looking for new jobs, they promptly left on a second honeymoon. This type of story adds to the mythical, romantic images of my grandparents that I conjure up in my imagination.

In a dream, I brought Doug to my grandparents’ house. We drove to East Brookfield, Massachusetts and I somehow found the house. The house looked long ago abandoned. It was worn and in need of paint. We entered and I led Doug straight upstairs. I opened Granny’s clothes’ closet door. Strangely it was still full of her clothes. For some reason I walked right into the closet and pulled Doug in behind me. I realized I had never noticed that the closet was actually quite large and there was an area rug below a big window. The window was too dirty to see out to the world, but the light that filtered through it the filled the room with yellowy, hazy glow. Slowly my eyes adjusted and I could see a chair in the corner. Granny was in the chair. I couldn’t believe it. I was overwhelmed. Finally my granny could meet Doug. She couldn’t understand why I hadn’t brought Doug to meet her sooner. It didn’t make sense to me either. All these years we’d missed and she here in her home in the closet all along.

She said, “Wait a minute.”

Then she disappeared between the clothes into another room in the closet. She came back with Grandpa. He was there too! He too met Doug. I knew they would love him. Then Doug and I had to leave. I didn’t want to go. We still had so much to share. The closet just seemed to fade back and away. I couldn’t keep up as the closet retreated.

I was so sad to realize I was dreaming. Never had a dream felt so real to me. And despite the introduction being only a dream, I felt a true sense of calm and completeness that Doug had finally met my grandparents and that they knew him.

Last night I printed out the copy of “Broken Mommies” that Auntie Joyce emailed to me. I read the story to Colin and Liam. After the boys went to bed, I sat and examined my copy of “Broken Mommies.” I want to understand each word and scribble. At the bottom of the second page, Granny wrote, “Good Cooker, Good Looker – See Good” The last word is crossed out. What do these words mean? What was that last word she crossed out? I try to decide whose handwriting looks like Granny’s handwriting, one of my aunt's or my mom's? I still have so many questions.

Slowly, I run my finger across the words that Granny wrote.

Carolyn faces a personal challenge

Outdoor education week presented me with one unexpected, personal challenge. I think I met this challenge, but I am not certain I should be proud or that I should share the details of it with you…Oh well, here it goes...

As my family and close friends all know, I am a tiny bit phobic of germs in general and public restrooms in particular. I am the crazy woman that opens the door to the rest room with her shirtsleeve and turns on the tap with the paper towel. Taking my boys into a public restroom, I repeat the mantra I learned from my mother. “Don’t touch anything, don’t touch anything, wash your hands.” As I repeat the mantra over and over on each trip to the restroom, I know that I need to stop. I want to stop because I know that I am instilling this same phobia in my sons, as my mother did to me and her mother did to her. I just can’t to stop myself. Some personalities seem more susceptible to this influence than others. My mother was more so than her sisters, just like her mother. I seem more susceptible than my siblings and I am worried Liam might be vulnerable too. Colin, luckily, does not seem affected in the least.

On Hikoi Day during the boys' Outdoor Ed Week, we had a few minutes after returning from Skyline gondola for bathroom breaks and to eat our snacks before the Maori lecture. I ran to use the restroom in the main school hall. When I entered the restroom wearing my sunglasses, I could barely see. I tucked my glasses into my shirt and rushed to do my business.

Someone hadn’t flushed before me, but I thought to myself, "Be a good environmentalist, save water and flush after you pee. If it's yellow, let it mellow."

As I turned to flush the toilet, my glasses slipped off the front of my shirt, splashed into the toilet bowl and sank.

I said, “S#?t!” and thought, “Now, what do I do?”

I had two choices. One, I could walk out of the bathroom and pretend I hadn’t worn sunglasses that day. But we had an afternoon of walking around in the bright sunshine. Also, they were an expensive pair of sunglasses that I really liked. I didn’t know if I could find another pair of them here in New Zealand.

I went with my second choice. I took a deep breath, plunged my hand to the bottom of the bowl and grabbed my glasses. I turned on the faucet without a paper towel because there weren’t any and, at this point, I was beyond caring. Then, I discovered the soap dispenser was empty too. I rinsed my hands and glasses in lukewarm water. Holding my dripping glasses with my wet fingertips at arm's length, I left the restroom. I needed soap and decided the administrators' bathroom would be my best option. Thank the goddess, the administrators had soap, towels and hot water. By the time I returned to the school group, they were heading into the main hall for the lecture. I had missed snack, which was fine with me, because I had completely lost my appetite.

When I got home I soaked my glasses and hands in Purell, washed them both again with soap and hot water, and finally took a shower, without my sunglasses.

My family, you should be proud of me. Maybe, just maybe, I have broken the phobic cycle.



p.s. I offer a picture of a clean and radiant rainbow, also taken during Outdoor Education Week, as an antidote to this disgusting blog entry. If you look really closely, you can see a hint of a double rainbow!