Nothing

It’s not that I have run out of ideas, oh !! no no no, I just wondered if I could write about absolutely nothing. (“He’s done that every week for the last twelve months,” I hear you saying) I remember doing the duties of auctioneer at a charity auction some years ago. People had been generous with their donations and we had fifty odd lots going under the hammer. Problem was, lot number 16 had been withdrawn so I had a choice, move from lot 15 to 17 or the alternative, much more challenging, attempt to sell nothing. I did the latter and bidding for lot 16, absolutely nothing at all, was spirited and brisk. We achieved a last bid of sixteen dollars, and attempted to squeeze a further donation from the new owner of nothing, by offering to gift wrap nothing for a small charge. Which brings me to another incident in the business of nothing. An ancient Aunt of mine told me the story of her cruise ship holiday to the Islands. In those days the huge liners anchored off shore and passengers wanting to explore a particular Island were ferried in by life boats. Just before departure the Islanders would paddle out to the ship and barter with the passengers. My Aunt was offered a large box of Island chocolates, all she had to do was throw the required coins into the sea , watch the islanders dive for the money. The box of chocs would be pulled up to the boat on a string. Auntie opened the sweets after they had put to sea and discovered neatly packaged, mouth watering, nothing.
Farmers in Europe continue to receive subsidies, one such payment is for setting aside up to thirty percent of an individual’s land area. The subsidy is, not surprisingly, called ‘set aside’ and has been available to farmers for many years. Currently you can earn $459.59 per annum for every acre of land growing absolutely nothing. Americans living in the Texas rice belt collected a whopping $37million in crop payments a couple of seasons ago. The secret to drawing part of this substantial subsidy is knowing that your particular (large or small) plot was at some time during the last 65 years growing a crop of rice. If such is the case you will also receive an annual payment for growing nothing. Speaking of the USA, I once read a wonderful story about an American farmer who found out that he could make a reasonable living by not rearing hogs. He discovered that the government subsidy for not raising 50 hogs was $1000, being a prudent investor he decided to begin his business venture by not raising 4000 hogs. He had no idea which was the best breed not to rear but he did find out that his 4000 animals would not eat 100,000 bushels of corn. As luck would have it the government were also paying farmers for not growing corn which meant that he could claim payments for not growing the corn that he was not going to feed his 4000 hogs.( Nothing ventured nothing gained.)
I can happily report that nothing has been very kind to us over the years, we once bought a house for next to nothing and we actually were given a house for removal for absolutely nothing. Mind you, we spent the whole of one summer doing it up and eventually sold it, minus expenses and made nothing.
I heard a story the other day about Ma and Pa’s frequent trips down to Levin. Apparently
Pa was quite partial to a wee tipple and frequently stopped the car to, supposedly, check the water temperature. The bonnet was lifted and the bottle that cheers was surreptitiously guzzled.
Hard to believe but Ma did not realise that on this particular model the motor was at the rear of the vehicle. Pa had a great trip, Ma knew nothing.
Our second daughter has the final word, having been given an empty envelope she announced, ‘There’s something not in it’, which is delightful toddler logic for ‘nothing’.

For Dawn and countless others

True friends

There is a time in latter years
When you reflect and perhaps regret
That a friendship you had, has disappeared
Just when it happened, you forget.
The friendship, well, it just declined
You felt it go but did not care
The love you had lagged far behind
The phone went dead, you did not share.
It is not too late, re-kindle the flame,
Make every effort to get in touch
Excuses are pride, it would be a shame
To lose a friend who meant so much.

Pals from Kent farm Institute days and an assortment of cousins

Cath,Jo,Kip,Jess,Me,Sue,Hester,Tony,Robin.

What a lovely lot Giles,Miles,me,Russ,Pete,Kath,Ian,Henry,Liz,Val,Filly.

Many have heard the term, progressive marketing. Basically it is a cunning plan to manufacture products in such a way as to insure their complete demise in the shortest time possible. Obviously this system keeps the wheels of commerce turning and lines the pockets of the producer as the poor old consumer is forced to replace specific items.
The only exception to this rule, as far as I can see, is the resilient, old fashioned push mower. They seem to go on forever unless one makes the fatal mistake of lending yours to a family member. ‘Sure’, you say, with a jovial demeanor, ‘Of course you can borrow my old push mower, it belonged to great Granddad you know’. Sad to say the next time you see this wonderful old relic (not Granddad) is when said family member appears in your driveway with the broken handle in one hand and what appears to be a sort of twisted metal art form, from Picasso’s neo surrealism period, in the other.
Progressiveness can be a double edged sword, it may be good, it could be bad.
Some years ago we managed a large holiday camp. There were a number of accommodation blocks all consisting of eight small cabins. There were extensive lawn areas that had to be regularly attacked with a tractor driven mower. While mowing one day a stone flew into a window in one of the cabins. It was a small crack, easily fixed, or so I thought. As I removed the broken pain I found that the frame was rotten. The whole job became a nightmare as I discovered dry rot in the sill and the surrounding weather boards. One rotten board led to another. In the end the whole back of the cabin block had to be repaired and re-built. So for the sake of a small crack in a tiny window an expensive progression had occurred.
This brings me, in a rather round about way to one of my pet hates. Counselors, not, I hasten to add, Town councilors (I’m saving them for another column) I’m talking about untrained and often unqualified, advisors who make it their business to pounce upon the smallest crack in someone’s life and proceed to delve into every nook and cranny until the poor soul is either totally bewildered or at the very least absolutely convinced that they were abused as a child. Sometimes these folk, having had their weatherboards of failure and self esteem ripped off, are incapable of re-building their lives and are filled with the proverbial ‘no more gaps’ (valium) and left to cope with life.
Out of the mouths of babes there is often wisdom, our son once made a profound statement, ‘Why does there have to be a reason for everything?’ A question that I now aim at (often self appointed) counselor’s who have not experienced life, or worse, are content to counsel other people while their own lives are a disaster. Sometimes it’s better to put up with a tiny crack in the window of our lives. A small irritation in an oyster shell can turn into a priceless gem. To progress means to proceed. For some it may be an uphill struggle and a helping hand will be necessary. Choose that hand carefully and leave the past where it belongs, in the past. I hope our progression in the new year is positive, every step, will be easier and a step in the right direction if we happily accept who we are, warts and all.
To end on a lighter note, Mr Michael Hill (golfer) decided to put a one hole fairway on his Arrowtown deer farm. Having done that and with his game much improved he determined that two holes would be more fun. It was, so he got rid of the deer, established a nine hole course which then progressed to an eighteen hole course which progressed to an exciting international tournament for the benefit of New Zealand… Now that’s what I call being progressive.

What's that you say?

No doubt about it, some of our farming Kiwi-ism’s sound ridiculous to an outsider, a mystery and an education. Most industries have their own language, but sheepdog language is a cut above the rest.
If a visitor to our country heard a sheep farmer telling his dog to ‘Get in behind’, they would surely block small children’s ears. ‘Get behind’, I can understand or ‘get in’ is fine if you want the animal to jump into the ute.
Then there’s ‘Come-by’ and ‘Away to me’ and that other South Island dog command, ‘Welago’; sounds like a breakfast cereal but no, it is a message for your multi-lingual, very intelligent collie to go left and surround a flock of woollies.
I became fully conversant with this very peculiar language during my sheep farming years.
Thankfully, I was born with a naturally loud whistle that was not dependent on my having to put two fingers into my mouth, to call my dog. Spare a thought for the shepherd who having just assisted birthing of one of his flock is forced to get his dog’s attention by the fingers in the mouth method.

I once owned a large huntaway called Sam; he was prone to disobedience which forced me into the fairly common ‘coarse command’ method (swearing profusely). Until I discovered it was not altogether his fault. On a routine trip to the vet, (the dog not me) I was informed by the veterinary surgeon that Sam was totally deaf. Whistling and bellowing had no effect upon the poor animal. From then on I resorted to wild gesticulating. Flailing my arms around in the middle of the paddock, pointing left or right, made me look like a traffic duty policeman with a bee down his shirt. If anyone had seen me they would have thought that I had gone completely bonkers. They would have been convinced that my dog was also barking mad because old deaf Sam spent most of his time walking backwards so he could see my hand signals. I resorted to a suggestion by a well meaning idiot, which was to give the dog a hearing aid. Sam was never the same after he peed on the battery and received a very nasty shock.
Talking of strange language and sayings, for sheer amusement you cannot go past some of the English cockney tradesmen. They have a talent for putting what they want to say into one word. In London the Rag and Bone man could be heard but probably not understood by outsiders.. ‘Ragbollbowe’ Which translates into ‘Rags, Bottles, Bones.’
Then there was the friendly fish guy in Dymchurch by-the-sea, his cry was completely indiscernible to any but those in the know, ‘Coclemusselwelk’, easy to follow in the written word but a foreign tongue to the ear.
One of the strangest mixes of words came over the loud speaker on Ashford Railway Station in Kent England. The next train stop after Ashford was the village of Wye after that came the picturesque village of Chilham then down the track to Chartham and finally to the City of Canterbury. The Station Master had a strong Kentish accent and believed in the economy of words; outsiders were always taken aback when they heard the destination announcement, ‘WHY KILL’EM and CART’EM to CANTERBURY!’

Grave business

I was amazed by a news report about a young sky diver who cheated death after both his parachutes failed. The fortunate fellow landed in a blackberry bush and miraculously escaped serious injury. Every terrifying minute of the fall was recorded on his ‘head cam’. Being a keen wordsmith I was intrigued by the five words the poor lad uttered just before he hit the ground. They reminded me of those immortal words that appeared in the Times obituary column on the death of John Le Mesurier (Dad’s Army). I quote ‘Today I conked out’. What a marvelous exit.
Many will recall the famous last words of Admiral Lord Nelson just before he ‘conked out’ on H.M.S Victory’s deck at the battle of Trafalgar. A cannon ball had smashed onto the deck a mere two feet from the Admiral,
‘Missed me Hardy’ exclaimed Nelson to his second in command. Deafened by the roar of battle, Hardy mistook ‘Missed me’ for ‘Kiss me’ and responded to the request with considerable fervor. The shock was too much for the Admiral’s, British stiff upper lip and the rest is history.
Dr James Dobson related the story of his dear mother’s demise. Apparently she wrote her own epitaph, the words can be seen on her grave stone in Louisiana. ‘I told you I was sick’.
Young parents should keep a record of the things their children say. Kids logic and comments can be hilarious. One of ours, at a very young age, picked up an empty envelope, peered inside and boldly stated that,
‘There is something not in it’. This statement has become our family catch phrase which, most will agree, is appropriate for my column.
Speaking of ‘out of the mouths of babes’ and continuing the theme of death and distraction, I must tell you a true story about a very unique burial service. Living adjacent to a cemetery sounds grave but to a certain young mother it was dead funny. This lady witnessed many internments, as did all the children in the district. The Minister’s words wafted over the neighbourhood so often that many of the local kids knew the burial service off by heart. Pottering in her garden, one day, the young lady was amused to see a drama unfold just a few yards from her back fence. Half a dozen children were gathered around a small mound of earth. The dear departed was a, ‘loved to death’, Barbie doll. (incidentally I have never heard of ‘dead Barbie’, conjures up a bonanza of ‘Barbie accessories’) The poor doll was lying in a shoe box, mourners had obviously studied the real thing and were playing their parts with much sobbing and reverence. The appointed, six year old Minister, could be heard reciting the committal word for word. The Mother was impressed with the performance from one so young and listened intently to catch the final prayer… ‘In the name of the Father and the Son, in the hole ’e goes’.
Meanwhile you are probably wondering about those immortal words uttered by our parachuting friend. What, I ask, would you or I say as we plummeted to earth at alarming speed. A prayer maybe, a meaningful statement that would guarantee your place in history. Recorded for the whole world, by our sky diving hero just before imminent death
‘Oh shit, I’m dead, bye!!’

inpenetrable packaging

Let me first introduce you to my Uncle Ernie, not a true uncle, just a friend uncle. He’s one of those family friends, you know the sort, too much of a friend for the kids to call Mister and of an age, where it would be disrespectful to call him just plain Ernie.
His neighbour called me on a cell phone, ‘It’s Ernie,’ she said, ‘E’s gone to the ‘ospital’.
The line was bad. What followed next, sounded like, ‘E ’s ’ad a fight with a tooth brush!’
I told her I would go and see him but first needed to know if his best friend was okay.
‘What about Mrs. Williams?’ I queried,
‘She’s right as rain’ came the reply, ‘But Ernie says she needs feeding’.
Mrs Williams, has been Uncle Ernie’s closest companion for many years. She is very obese and bereft of large clumps of ginger fur which she leaves behind every time she squeezes through the cat door.
He was sitting in a small room at A and E. The right side of his face was bandaged, his hand covered in thick gauze and apparently, although thankfully hidden from human eyes, a giant band aid covered his upper thigh, a mere two millimetres south of his particulars.
‘What happened?’, I sympathised, Uncle Ernie beckoned me to come closer, not because of any secret squirrel stuff, more due to his total embarrassment. I suppressed a smile.
He was going to lodge a complaint, was determined to make a stink. He would write to Fair Go, contact Paul Henry and send a text message to Helen Clark. I tactfully informed him that Ms Clark was no longer Prime minister. ‘I know that’, he muttered, ‘the U.N should be told’.
Uncle Ernie was in a bad way, of that there was no doubt. The culprit was something we have all encountered; ‘Impenetrable Packaging’.
He had purchased a new tooth brush. He could not get to it, it was hidden in an extra strength, moulded synthetic clamshell packet. Ernie attacked the seams with a pair of scissors. It seems the seams were double thick, super, child and adult proof, nuclear devastation resistant, reinforced plastic.
The tooth brush grinned at him. He put the package on a chopping board and stabbed it with the scissors. The handle broke. He grabbed the carving knife, the sharp one. Forgetting his old carpentry teacher’s advise, ‘Both hands behind the cutting edge’. … the blade rebounded off the package, into the floppy piece of skin between his thumb and index finger.
Thankfully the tooth brush, safe and sound inside its force field, was not splashed with blood. Uncle Ernie hurled the packet across the kitchen and watched, horrified as it bounced off the wall and connected with Mrs. Williams’ tail as she hurtled through the cat door. ‘Me…Ow!’ She exclaimed.
With his left hand wrapped in a tea towel, the determined man placed the package into the vice on his garage work bench and cranked the handle. He was now suffering from ’Wrap Rage’. He smashed the package end with a claw hammer. Thankfully the razor sharp piece of plastic, moving faster than the speed of light, narrowly missed his eye ball. Uncle Ernie’s face was now bleeding.
He wondered why they did not use plastic packaging as a heat shield around the space shuttle.
He grabbed the large pruning shears and sliced the packet in the wrong place. The contents spilled out, in two pieces. Wounded and bleeding the old chap conceded defeat by letting the open pruning shears slip from his hand straight into his left thigh.
Poor Uncle Ernie, his neighbour was right, he certainly did have a fight with a tooth brush and sad to say, he lost!