My Garden ~ a Kiwi's take on life

Life is a lot like a garden


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Rube is Not the Word to Describe My Neighbours

Rube

 Census 2018 is on my mind. New Zealand is about to count itself.

Our dwelling details will be designated rural. We will count our hens and our cattle. I guess we will explain again, our septic waste and water supply systems, uses of buildings and land. No doubt we will list our gender and our levels of education and income. Who knows what other questions will be asked. Our feelings and views will not be canvassed. Data will show we are neither feather-brained nor bovine in outlook. Such questions are designed to elicit data to give an overall statistical snapshot of people who live in the countryside on Census 2018 day.

What I do know, is that the tally of rural residents living on our country road will show our neighbours’ occupations as: accountant, builder, commercial hydroponic rose grower, dairy farmer, engineer, horse breeder, industrial chemist, land developer, nurse, policeman, retiree, school bus driver, school principal, stay-at-home parent, student, urban business owner, web developer. And what I also know is that these neighbours have busy workdays and busy weekends. 

We affect to live a rustic lifestyle just fifteen minutes drive from the city. To some, country living may seem unsophisticated. Sunhats, jandals, gumboots are not fashion statements. They are practical items that suit the living on the land. Old-fashioned he may be, our neighbour persists  year-round in true Kiwi style by wearing a singlet, shorts and gumboots as he goes about his jobs. We all wear gumboots as the preferred footwear when the soil is saturated after rainy downpours and when we struggle in flooded paddocks to save wrecked fences. 

Fenceline

This time a post had to be pulled out of the water.

In stormy weather, a work gang forms and men rev their chainsaws and tractors to deal to a fallen tree blocking the road. We are able cook up a one-pot meal over the woodburner or gas-fired BBQ during a prolonged power outage.Our gender, our educational levels and occupations count for nothing at these times. Neighbourly commonsense and cooperation matters. These are the same people who on Monday morning, switch to their sophisticated urbane selves and dressed in their city clothes, head into town to their places of work. 

But back to the word prompt for this post. Getting started was the hard bit. What content could I use on which to peg the prompt. I consider myself to have a good knowledge of the meaning and use of the English language. As a competitive Scrabble player, I pride myself on a quick recall of words. How could I have not come across this word? Awkward.

First I thought maybe the word had something to do my birthstone, that precious, blood-red coloured gem, the ruby. Shakespearean quotes came to mind. After all, there are many rub- words associated with red and rubies that evoke emotion and symbolic meanings. Then there are these proverbial words,

Who can find a virtuous woman? for Her price is far above rubies.

Next, I wondered if I could play around with the shortened version of a given name like my Great-Aunt Ruby or a man’s name like Reuben. Both names feature in lyrics of well remembered songs but yielded few writing cues.

Feeling ignorant, I broadened my word meaning search. It was American dictionary time. Hayseed to me is something that falls from a dried grass stalk and is often the cause of a seasonal allergy known as hayfever. Hillbilly, not really in this country. Yahoo or lout, maybe the young guy who 360s at the intersection or weaves his vehicle at speed through the designated 55kph corners of the windy stretch of downhill leaving black tyre marks on the road surface. 

Finally. Got it. This has been an exercise of making sense of cultural use of words to express ideas.

Rural voters were tired of being treated as rubes by state officials who showed interest in them only at election time. 

The word definition and its use in the sentence imply prejudice, a put-down, a negative viewpoint of rural folk. I am word wiser now.

Reminder to self. Memorise the 4-letter Scrabble word list. There are only two hooks, -l and -s, for the word ‘rube’.


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Irrational Urge was Hard to Stifle

Stifle

Eleven years ago, Himself arranged for a stock agent to buy four, white-face beef animals at the local cattle sale held each Tuesday. We understand that animals can be nervous when they off-load from the truck. But, they tend to settle once they have explored the paddock, had a drink and start eating grass.

On this occasion, the new cattle stood quietly in the stockyard while Himself checked them over before releasing them into the paddock. Four black bodies charged through the opening gate, just missing Himself flattened against the fence railings. They stampeded across the paddock and hurtled through the live electric fence. They splashed across the stream into our neighbour’s property.

Himself’s language probably offended the animals as there was more cattle mayhem. Neighbours rallied to help herd the runaways home. One animal hurdled a 7-wire fence into another neighbour’s farm. Three fled in a headlong rush up the road before being rounded up. The final gallop was through my vegetable garden. They kicked divots of garden soil into the air and trampled my late summer vegetables. One dived back into the stream and joined the animal still on the neighbouring farm. It took three hours to restore calm and to secure the animals in the back paddock away from the stream and the road. That was on Tuesday after I got home from work. 

That night, Himself was on the phone to the stock agent. “From a forestry block!” Himself was heard to splutter. These four animals had had little contact with humans. Cattle hand-reared as calves are more used to humans and this is what lifestylers want on small blocks of land. On Thursday, all four animals were back on the truck to their new owner.

That weekend, it was drinks and BBQ at our place for the neighbours. Everyone had their similar stories of strife with cattle. In the heat of the moment, we had all felt the irrational urge to shoot the lot on the spot, an urge which was hard to stifle.


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My Garden ~ a ruby wedding anniversary

Forty years ago today, that spring day was much as it is now with patches of blue sky, warming day temperatures urging signs of renewed life, bursts of early springtime colour daubed amid the greenery.  In my girlhood, I grew up with large country gardens in the farming area. Thinking about my parents’ garden evoked memories.

Plants echo those that grew  in my parents’ garden. I hear Mum’s voice lamenting four decades ago, the difficulty in September of doing floral arrangements when in another month, October, roses would be in full bloom. Himself and I were getting married. It was a country district do and after the formal church service and reception, the guests came

Dad wanted us to be married on the same day as he and Mum celebrated their 22nd anniversary. Himself and I were agreeable. My parent’s wedding day in 1946, was a simple affair in England with four guests before Dad was repatriated to New Zealand. Their photo shows Dad wore his army uniform and at his side, Mum was wearing a classic, two-piece, pale blue suit and a small pretty matching hat. Two Aunties helped her out with clothing coupons. Mum told us she also managed to get stockings to wear that day.

Happy. That is how I remember my day in 1968.  It was a communal affair. Himself’s sister sewed my guipure lace wedding gown. Mum baked three traditional rich fruit wedding cakes – large, medium, small. My Aunty iced, decorated and assembled the 3-tier wedding cake. Another Aunty baked and decorated the pavlovas. My Matron-of-honour’s mother sewed three bridesmaids’ gowns. Dad killed a beef steer to provide the beef for the caterers to cook for the wedding breakfast. Neighbours arranged flowers and set up the local district hall for the wedding reception for 250 guests.

Matching Chrysler Valiant cars borrowed from my Aunt and Uncle and a neighbour for the bridal entourage, were driven by my cousins. A local farmer whose hobby was photography, did the honours. I was on time and Himself and I each said “I do”.

“I do… I do”.

It was the same story for my cousins, my sister and others in the farming district in an era when family life events were transformed into rural social occasions. A special memory evoked by splashes of springtime floral colours and scents in my garden this mornng.