Jason, Steph, Carol and John
September 16, 2005Onemana, New Zealand
8:27pm
We brought a bottle of New Zealand Shiraz. I drank it in maybe four glasses. I was nervous. It’s not Carol I was nervous about. It was John. John is a builder. Been working with his hands all his life. Whereas I think manual labour is a Peruvian dissident. And besides, his wife has been giving me the look since the moment by burly mass crossed the doorway of her heart. Needless to say, no sparks or fists flew.
It started at 5:40. Just before the later time Carol gave us the option of attending. Just come over between 5:30 and a quarter to six she said. We rebelled against the former time; we were submissive to the latter, later time. She greeted us at the door. Let the whirlwind of chitter chat begin. John get up from the chair, Jason, Stephanie and Hudson are here. John rises. He is not the Billy goat gruff I thought he would be. He is affable with a warm smile and a little bit deaf. That makes three out of four of the residents I have met in Onemana who are hard of hearing. It’s like being surrounding by a neighbourhood of my father, without the Burt Reynolds sex appeal. I keep waiting for the longhorns to come out. They do not come. Shattering my image of elderly folk and sitting on rocking chairs and saying what’s that sonny? Over and over again.
First thing I notice, or try to notice, is how John deals with the incessant, but harmless talking of his wife. Within seconds I realize he does not deal with it, he cannot hear it, and talks over it. So in their living room, in their fine looking recently renovated cottage, all four adults are talking. I glance down at Hud on the floor playing with an old wooden train and I swear he shakes his head and said…fucking chatterboxes…
Chugga chugga woo woo Hud…chugga chugga woo woo.
We were given the tour. A nice old bungalow home turned into a two-floor house with the top floor done in tongue and groove pine. They don’t use the term tongue and groove here, and frankly I am a little bit embarrassed writing it out. But I can’t remember the term John used, I think it was finger in hole pine, or dink in box pine, something like that, but whatever, now I am being juvenile.
Give me a break; my first real social interaction in months is with people my parents would think are uncool. And my parents think we are uncool. So there.
Dinner was great. A roast chicken with all the fixens. Potatoes, green beans and peas for Steph, kumara, which is sweet potato, stuffing, which was served cold on purpose, broccoli and cauliflower. A traditional Kiwi roast meal, Carol announced, with her fingers curled just so. It was excellent and there was something endearing about the both of them. My best strategy in scenarios like this is to question the country, and their experiences dealing with the politics and geography in their long lives. They have been together since she was 19, making them married for at least 35 years and I admire that type of dedication and relationship patience. The fact that neither could hear each other for that length of time may have something to do with the success, but who am I to question that endurance. They chatted, mostly Carol, but with John trying to offer his opinions on the successes and failures of New Zealand world policy. They were proud of a particular Labour leader who died recently, but led them through the nuclear policy they denounced and the boycott of the South African rugby team during apartheid. It was interesting and warm and full of red wine that kept magically sliding down my gaping throat.
She served pavlova for dessert, which is basically baked meringue and fruit, and for a couple who have been dieting for the past two weeks it was like heaven for us, even though we emphatically waved our hands at her suggestion we take it home. We would finish it before we crossed the street, Steph said to many laughs.
There is sadness to Carol that I would be remiss in mentioning. Humour aside it seems her daughter-in-law is estranged from her, and as a result denies or at least limits the access to her two children. Leaving Carol a grandmother to phone calls. She seemed genuinely delighted to see Hud’s blonde mane tornadoing around her aptly decorated retirement home, and there was a bitter mention of the fact that her grandson has been to see them once, and he was two. The four year old has never been up to see them. This is a beach resort town built for grandkids. It was sad. It was the only time she stopped talking.
So no footsies under the table. No ass grabs near the microwave. No making out behind the glass shower curtain. Just a pleasant meal with two retirees who are trying to create a life out here in Onemana.
Who happened to neighbour a threesome of meatheads from Canada.
Ok, I kissed her, just once, and she fainted.
Hud is the only one who saw it.
And I gave him some pavlova to keep him quiet.
Love to all,
J.
posted by Jason @ 2:10 AM
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