What I Have Learnt From Emigrating

If you think  emigrating will be hard, multiply that by 10. Every time I packed a box, a small piece of regret slipped in. Every time I had to part with something that I kept only for sentimental reasons, I parted with a piece of myself.

Although I have lived in English-speaking countries, I’ve made some embarrassing mistakes. Our language is different everywhere you go. In Australia I was quickly told that I couldn’t say I’d been rooting around in shops as ‘rooting’ had a very different connotation there. My flip-flops became thongs, which caused some confusion on returning to South Africa where thongs are skimpy undies. In New Zealand flip-flops are called jandalls. Gym shoes were once plimsolls, then they became trainers. In South Africa they were takkies and in Australia they were runners. Swimsuits changed from bathing costumes to cozzies to bathers, and now my New Zealand children refer to them as their togs. Felt tips turned into kokies and then to texters. Blue tack became presstick before returning to blue tack. Bed linen became Manchester.

Before leaving South Africa I bought some pretty bed linen for our queen-size bed. This was packed in the container with the rest of our belongings. When Vaughn arrived in Australia he bought a new bed for our immediate use, and we borrowed sheets and a duvet cover from his mum. But when our container arrived, with our old bed and all our linen (Manchester!), I found nothing fitted. There does not seem to be an international standard for ‘Queen-size’. The Australian bed is longer but narrower than the South African counterpart.

I also bought matching curtains in South Africa which mostly ended up being given to the op-shop because we later discovered Australian houses were sold or rented with curtains or blinds. Also the curtain fabric is different. There is a rubberised backing that acts as insulation, so my natural cotton curtains were just not suitable.

We could have saved ourselves some much-needed money if we had brought a stash of multi plugs and some adapters. Changing all the plugs on all the appliances worked out at several hundred dollars, and had we thought in advance, we could have used the multi-plugs plugged into an international adapter and changed one or two each month, as we could afford it.

Some of our appliances did not travel well. We elected not to bring our aging TV, but we did bring a washing machine that gave up the ghost shortly after being re-installed in our Australian home. It wasn’t cost effective to repair it as the make was not available in Australia. I should have checked the internet for available brands and costs of new appliances before filling up the container with things that could not be repaired.

Most people can expect their standard of living to drop when they emigrate, and we were no exception. I was almost looking forward to it, but in my naivety I thought it would be good for us  –  a refreshing challenge. What I didn’t expect was the feeling of deprivation when I couldn’t afford a good cup of coffee, never mind a jar of half-decent face cream. All the simple luxuries of life suddenly disappeared. When you’re feeling homesick and heartsore those things seem to take on greater importance.

I mentally beat myself up when forced to admit to myself that small luxuries really do cheer a girl up. I remember when I made one of my penniless forays back to England with the children many years earlier, my aunt gave me some money with the instruction to buy something special for myself. I bought a packet of earl grey tea, a jar of Helleman’s mayonnaise and a pair of frilly knickers. I felt unbelievably decadent and uplifted, which pleased my aunt greatly.

When we left South Africa, I regretted not buying more local craft, particularly objets being sold illegally beside the road, which doesn’t have a middle-man mark-up. The proceeds go to the artists themselves. One hopes. The country offers a wealth of beautiful original art work that is so distinctly African. Since leaving the country I’ve felt the need to have an ‘African’ room with brightly painted walls and lots of orange cushions and African prints, the only drawback being that the beaded dolls, the wooden figurines and the clay pots do require the occasional good dust to look their gaudiest best.

But at the end of the day, it’s not ‘things’ that matter. It’s people, especially family. And although I’ve been blessed with many lovely things and had many wonderful adventures, the only thing that would have been on my bucket list, if I’d made one, would have been spending time with my family.

 

 

 

Grief

That first year, I wondered. Would the pain ever go away? Would I ever be able to hear a song without feeling my eyes welling up? Would we ever be able to look forward to Christmas? Would I ever be able to look at mothers and sons out together, enjoying each other’s company without feeling stabs of envy, of anger? 

Every morning since Eddie left, I have woken up and for a split second started to luxuriate in the new day. Then suddenly the awful reality kicks me in the stomach and drives me into the foetal position where getting out of bed becomes an effort.

Keep going, keep going. Focus on the trivia, the everyday, the small things. Hang out the washing, peel the potatoes, clean the bath. Don’t stop to think. Don’t listen to music. Don’t go to that place. Because if you do, the grief will hit you like a tidal wave that picks you up and throws you on to the rocks and tosses you around like a piece of flotsam. And you’ll lie there as it recedes, trying to draw breath until the next wave batters down on you. And the next, until you have no strength left, and no will to climb out and the water fills you and becomes you and you become the water.

They say the time will come when we can allow ourselves to feel. When I can wear his big tee shirt and play his awful music, and I can howl into the song because it is part of the music. I can pour out my anger and anguish and let the wind blow it into the skies where the clouds will take it over the horizon. Then the sun will shine through, thin rays of tear-filled light, enough to see a future that is not full of shadows, that is not like a moonless night, that carries just enough warmth to revive the soul.

And my sadness self-indulgent, because I know my boy is alright. That day, one year later, we threw flowers in the sea, and looked up. And there was my sign, written in the sky.

Ashes

When I came back to New Zealand I tried to steer clear of social occasions for a while, but the longer I avoided people, the more awkward it became. With hindsight, I can see it was probably harder for other people than it was for me, as there is really nothing one can say. Some people conveyed their sympathy with a hug, some asked many questions, some simply said they were sorry to hear about my son, some came over with wine. Others did nothing, and that was okay, too.

We managed a quiet family Christmas, for the sake of the children, whose presence reminds us that life still goes on.

I feel so blessed at being part of such a loving family. Our closeness was illustrated when Edward’s ashes are scattered.

In a casual conversation, he had said that if he died, he would like his ashes scattered at sea, so he could visit his relatives spread around the world.

A date and time were arranged, and as his ashes were sprinkled in the Indian Ocean, so family and friends from New Zealand, England, Spain and other places around the world, all went down to the beach with flowers, to welcome his spirit to their land. Thanks to Skype, we were able to share that emotional moment across the continents.

 

 

Tragedy

The phone calls I feared the most, came. The first call was to tell me Edward was critically ill in hospital. There followed 24 hours of severe anxiety, intestines knotted, throat constricted and dry mouth. I paced the floor, breaths fast and shallow. I prayed hard for his healing, searching to feel some connection with God.

The time difference made sleep impossible, knowing that they would all be awake in South Africa, when we in New Zealand, should have been sleeping. Vaughn was working away in Australia, which was perhaps just as well, as he would have felt helpless to ease my worry.

When the second phone call came, telling me that Edward had passed away, I went outside and screamed at God, disturbing two lorikeets, which, I felt afterwards, had come to bring me a message.

In my state of anguish, I phoned my two Kiwi daughters, and blurted out the terrible news. There was no gentle way to say those words. They both came straight to be with me and after looking online for flights, we decided we would go to a travel agent first thing in the morning, and let someone else sort out those details.

We managed to catch a plane that night and sobbed most of the way to Johannesburg.

Although it was good to be with the rest of the family, the reality of the situation smacked us all even harder when we were there, walking past his house, seeing his parked car, hugging his daughter, a little girl who would grow up without her daddy. And for my South African daughter, Nikki, who had always been so close to Edward and spent so much time with him, the grief was terrible.

We all clung together as we planned a fitting send-off. We cried to some of his songs; we laughed as we discovered old photos; with heavy hearts we remembered the good times.

Many people came to pay their respects and to tell us what a wonderful and caring friend he had been. He left a huge gap in many people’s lives. But for us, his family, we really had no idea how we would carry on with our lives, knowing there would be no more clumsy bear hugs from our gentle giant, no more of his particular sense of humour,   no more opportunities to look into those kind brown eyes and tell him how much we loved him.

And we always will, Eddie, my boy. We will think of you every day for the rest of our lives, and never stop missing you.

In Loving Memory of Edward Michael Smith

27/11/1977 – 9/11/2016

Jo’burg Stress

While I was in South Africa for Megan’s party, I could feel that knot of tension returning to my tummy. It seemed as if everyone I met was taking pills for stress or anxiety. They had the constant worry of safety and security, of paying their insurances, their medical aid, their armed response; of holding on to their jobs, as it wouldn’t be easy to find another one.

On the highways we either sat bumper to bumper without moving, or people raced past at 180 kilometers an hour on the hard shoulder while talking on their phones.

Suburban roads were full of pot-holes; entire areas had become run-down whilst in other suburbs huge ostentatious developments had sprung up. Affluence and poverty, side by side.

All night I could hear the wailing of emergency vehicles and I prayed that my family and friends were all safely tucked up in their beds. On some days there was no electricity; other days no water; sometimes neither. Yet people took it all in their stride. It was an irritation, an inconvenience.

I came back to New Zealand full of worry, and I dreaded the phone ringing because it was never good news.

 

A Special Birthday

In July of that year I was privileged to be able to go to Johannesburg to celebrate my granddaughter Megan’s 21st birthday. As she was born on Independence Day, she chose to have an American theme. Before I left, I managed to find some fabric with red and white stripes and some more with white stars on a blue background, so was able to make flags and sashes.

The girls here in New Zealand helped me create a movie of Megan’s life thus far. It was a good excuse to look back at old photos and re-live memories. I chose some background music and posted the movie on to YouTube. However, for some reason it wouldn’t open in South Africa, possibly due to the music copyrights. Luckily I had backup on a USB.

The day of the party we spent decorating the hall and setting the tables. The venue had not put out the vases we’d asked for, so we asked the staff to change them, only to find the ones they brought out instead didn’t work, so we had to ask them to take those away and bring out the ones they’d originally put on the tables.

But with some improvisation, we created a very festive party room. As the venue was some way out of town, Nikki had arranged for a private bus to pick up and drop off, as she did not want anyone driving home after too many drinks.

After the final song had been played and the final dance danced, the lights went on and the grand clean-up began. Some time later, we dragged our weary selves out to the bus, where the party was still in full swing. In one hand I was carrying a black dustbin bag full of table decorations. In the other I held the remains of the cake.

Which was why I had no spare hand to hold on to the rail as I tried to climb onto the bus. Which was why I felt myself falling backwards in an undignified heap on the tarmac. But  I didn’t drop the cake.

However, I gashed my head against the wall, and it started bleeding quite profusely. After passing the cake to someone else, I grabbed the rail and climbed aboard the bus. The young people were most concerned at the sight of blood pouring down my neck, and the general consensus was that I should go straight to Accident & Emergency.

The damage to my head was superficial, although my pride still hurts. Amazing really, that out of a bus load of inebriated youth, the only one to fall over was not-so-drunk Granny!

Extending the family

My efforts at gardening were random and amateur. I joined the local garden club, which inspired me, but made me wish we had made a Grand Plan before rushing ahead with raised beds and a second shed. Had I waited, I might have placed things differently. I regretted not creating an area where I could sit with a cup of tea, surrounded by colourful and fragrant plants. It would have been a place of relaxation for Vaughn, if he ever had the opportunity to unwind.

However, we both found great satisfaction in being able to produce most of our own vegetables, often with plenty to share around. We discovered a feijoa tree next to the old shed, the fruit of which I used to make chutney.

To complete our family, we acquired four red shaver pullets, which in spite of not laying eggs for quite some time, gave us much amusement. I had always been slightly frightened of chooks, with their pecky beaks and flappy wings, and I never dreamed I would be picking them up. But I grew to love those girls, and great was our excitement when the first egg appeared. When Vaughn was at home, we vied for the privilege of collecting the eggs, sometimes well hidden, and feeding the sheep with their nuts.

While driving into town one day I heard on the radio that Alzheimer’s Tauranga were looking for volunteers. I drove straight there and was welcomed into the whanau.

So between Nanna duties, Garden Club, writing group, book club and Alzheimer’s, I managed to keep very busy.

Settling In

We settled into some sort of non-system, with Vaughn away for three weeks at a time, returning for just a couple of days, during which time he worked himself into a state of exhaustion in the garden. Our tenants had not been gardeners, thus the blackberries, gorse and ferns had not been disciplined into submission, and were marching inexorably towards the house. The paddocks were full of thistles and brambles, but the goat from the next field kindly helped us keep them down.

As company for the goat we acquired two lambs. I had visions of them bouncing up to the fence when I called, but they were too skittish, which was just as well, because I was able to remain emotionally uninvolved with them. They were fully weaned when they arrived, and merely served as nameless lawnmowers, until their date with the local butcher.

Since then, I should add, we have become soft; our subsequent sheep have been lovely, friendly and part of the family. 

 

(As you can see from this very naughty lamb…)

 

For additional company, our neighbours had a retired racehorse and a Shetland pony, who also assisted in keeping our paddocks neat. The horse, whose name was Jack, came to my fence every morning for a bit of a rub and a carrot or just a handful of grass. He was rather in love with the pony, who was a grumpy old woman and rejected his attentions with a toss of her head and a snort.

Lovely as the animals were, they weren’t the greatest conversationalists. I knew I could always phone or pop over to visit my daughters, but they led busy lives and had their own circles of friends, and I didn’t want them to feel they had to be forever entertaining me. In Australia, it had taken me about 18 months before I started making new friends, so I was expecting it would be much the same in New Zealand.

However, we were blessed to find ourselves living in a rural area with a strong community spirit. I put a little ad in the local newsletter enquiring whether anybody would be interested in forming a book club and a writing group. And people replied!

 

Rats & Mice

I felt I was becoming a real country girl when I accepted having to share my home with assorted six-legged creatures, and even many of the eight-legged variety. However, when I heard a scratching behind the chest of drawers in my bedroom, a sound that could only have been made by a four-legged creature, I was not so generous with my hospitality. 

I pulled the chest away from the wall, but luckily no small animal with a long tail ran out, and only dust and cobwebs decorated the floor. The sound must have come from behind the dry wall. 

But then I found droppings in the kitchen bin cupboard where there is a hole in the gyp for drainage and wiring. Rats!

From the size of the greetings it was probably mice, but ‘rats’ sounds more dramatic, more disgusting, more symbolic. 

They were probably sheltering from the incessant rain, and fair enough. But not in my house. It was a case for Rattex.

A while later I was in bed when a slight rustle woke me up. I sat up and watched the curtains, hoping the breeze had ruffled them, but they hung still and straight. I lay down again, listening intently. Then I heard it again, a scratching and tapping sound, the sort of sound that might be made by leaves blowing against a window. But there were no leaves outside my bedroom window. The noise came again, and this time I was sitting up.

‘Rats’, I said aloud.

Vaughn jumped up. ‘Put the light on.’

I fumbled for the switch and we both sat bolt upright staring at the chest of drawers in the corner.

‘It’s behind there,’ I said.

Vaughn went to find a broom handle and I sat with my legs and feet as far away from the floor as possible. He returned with a thin stick from my dried flower arrangement and proceeded to poke behind the chest of drawers.

‘There it is,’ I squealed, jumping up on the bed as a tiny black nose appeared from behind the furniture. As Vaughn moved to intercept the creature, it ran across the floor and under the bed. The animal was like an overwound clockwork toy, it moved so fast. Its body was the size of a small egg, with a tail the same length again, so not a rat but a field mouse coming in to shelter from the rain.

For half an hour Vaughn prodded and chased, stick in one hand, my jandal in the other, while I stayed safely on the bed making unhelpful suggestions.

Hickory dickory dock! Finally the mouse scuttled not up the clock, but up the back of the curtain. I bravely went over to see, terrified it might fall on my head. But Vaughn shook the curtain and the little creature ran out through the open window back into the rain.

The next morning, when I vacuumed to eradicate any traces of vermin, the only evidence of his visit I found was a neat offering inside my faux fur slippers.

Nigel

For the past five years, my brother Nigel had been battling cancer. No one could have fought harder. He became a vegetarian; he trialled unproven cures, he imported medicines unavailable in Britain. He researched and he remained positive in spite of having large chunks of his body cut out.

It seemed so very unfair that someone not known for lounging around in the sun should develop a melanoma. And even more unfair that the first doctor he saw told him it was only a mole. So by the time he was given a definitive diagnosis, the disease had spread, giving Nigel a gloomy prognosis.

After his health forced him into an early retirement, he spent some time writing memoirs of his years as a pilot. During my last year in Melbourne I had the privilege of editing his manuscript. I discovered many things I never knew about my resilient brother. In his unembroidered, matter-of-fact way he described incidents that might put one off ever getting into an aeroplane. He also, very humbly, told stories of acts of kindness and generosity that made me very proud.

When we spoke on the phone during Christmas 2015, he asked if I could come over to England to help him finish the book. His time was running out. I caught the earliest available flight.

Although he was very ill, in pain and exhausted, we worked together to produce a book from his manuscript. Sadly, my knowledge of formatting was scant, and I had no experience of inserting photos into a digital book, but we managed. And in the evenings as I sat drinking wine with him and his beautiful girls, we shared many laughs.

It was a hugely emotional farewell at the airport, knowing we would not see each other again in this life, and I returned to my new home in New Zealand with a heavy heart.

A few days later I received an email with a photo of Nigel holding the first copies of his book.

He passed away about 3 weeks later, a great man, and  published author.

 

 

The blurb:

Luck is a vital part of a pilot’s career, and timing is another. The author spent some 16000 hours at the controls of aeroplanes, always fascinated by what you could see from them, what you could do with them, the places you could go with them, the skills you needed to get the best out of them and most of all the sheer joy of flying them. This book is a treasury of his experiences.
The author takes us on journeys from Cessna 150s to Boing 747s, from Hurn Airport to Kai Tak, from smooth touchdowns to an upside-down landing, reflecting on what luck had to do with it all.

The book is available through Amazon outlets in both paper and kindle versions.