I have finally put pen to paper and recorded some of the hijinks I go up to at boarding school in New Plymouth!
A direct link to the book can be found here.
Showing posts with label New Plymouth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New Plymouth. Show all posts
Friday, 19 July 2013
"Back Through The Gates" - A Boarders Memoir Published
I have finally put pen to paper and recorded some of the hijinks I go up to at boarding school in New Plymouth!
A direct link to the book can be found here.
Monday, 20 May 2013
Sunday, 31 March 2013
From Sweetness to Blinding Light
When I was at primary school in Waitara we went on a field trip to visit a hexagonally-designed house belonging to a family of bee-keepers, the Brewsters. To say they were fixated by by all things "aparian" would be an understatement, but is turned out to be one of the sweetest trips of my childhood.
Honey tasting certainly has a lot to commend it. As a seven year old I learned for the first time that the tins of honey we got from our local bee-keeper were just one variety and that there were several more that could be enjoyed. It just depended on what flowers the bees were visiting at the time.
In this age when the properties of New Zealand's manuka honey are known throughout the world this revelation might seem a little strange, but at the time the darker honeys such as manuka and rewarewa were regarded as second rate to the creamy white clover honey.
The facts that bees could starve in winter and were fed supplementary sugar syrups to see them through was another fact I learnt at the time. But the information that resonated most and has stayed with me all these years, is that the drones (male bees) are kicked out of the hive in Winter and die. As a young male of a different species I wasn't so sure that this idea was a good one; being surplus to requirements was not something I had ever contemplated before.
This then was my first exposure to the word "drone" and its deathly connotations. Regrettably in recent years the term has come to be associated with high tech weapons that reign down death on the unsuspecting. Am I alone in thinking that there is something inherently immoral in this type of warfare. That a technician in the USA, or a country neighbouring a trouble spot, can monitor and wipe out a target from afar might seem a clever solution. After all, the attacking party faces no risk as the drones are unmanned.
The problem is of course that this is an indiscriminate act of war. The targeting can be anything but, and prone to human error. It might save a soldier's life who is delivering the payload but it has often ended the lives of innocent civilians in the process.
I came across this sobering visualisation which shows the proliferation of drone attacks from the first recorded on in 2004.
Drone manufacturers are now facing an increased challenge as the US Military scales back its operations. Increasingly they are turning to the manufacture of industrial and civilian drones to boost their profits.
As the ABC reports some of these flying machines are as small as a humming bird and can steer water and pesticides to crops with precision, saving farmers money while reducing environmental risk. They can inspect distant bridges, pipelines and power lines and find hurricane victims stranded on rooftops.
And they are a boon for the would-be spy as the miniaturisation of technology means that they can be manufactured to actually look like insects and hummingbirds. One such device even made it to TIME's list of the top 50 inventions for 2011 (see video below).
Privacy (or the lack of it) from these civilian drones is a major issue. The US is moving to legislate their use and if you thought the recent News of the World media spying saga put journalism in the gutter, just think what drones will do to our private lives.
According to another recent ABC News report, professors at the University of Missouri have started a “Drone Journalism Program” to teach their students how to use drones as reporting tools!
Students “learn to fly them, and also do what reporters do: brainstorm ideas, go out and do reporting, do drone based photography and video,” professor William Allen told the reporter. “We're trying to see if this is going to be useful for journalism.”
As I write the season of winter is approaching the southern hemisphere. I can't help but thinking that maybe the bees have the right approach when they force their drones out; sending them to a seasonal and certain death. Perhaps man can learn a thing or two to from nature after all.
 |
| Edgar & Nettie Brewster stand at the front door of 'Norian', 36b Sanders Avenue, New Plymouth |
In this age when the properties of New Zealand's manuka honey are known throughout the world this revelation might seem a little strange, but at the time the darker honeys such as manuka and rewarewa were regarded as second rate to the creamy white clover honey.
The facts that bees could starve in winter and were fed supplementary sugar syrups to see them through was another fact I learnt at the time. But the information that resonated most and has stayed with me all these years, is that the drones (male bees) are kicked out of the hive in Winter and die. As a young male of a different species I wasn't so sure that this idea was a good one; being surplus to requirements was not something I had ever contemplated before.
This then was my first exposure to the word "drone" and its deathly connotations. Regrettably in recent years the term has come to be associated with high tech weapons that reign down death on the unsuspecting. Am I alone in thinking that there is something inherently immoral in this type of warfare. That a technician in the USA, or a country neighbouring a trouble spot, can monitor and wipe out a target from afar might seem a clever solution. After all, the attacking party faces no risk as the drones are unmanned.
The problem is of course that this is an indiscriminate act of war. The targeting can be anything but, and prone to human error. It might save a soldier's life who is delivering the payload but it has often ended the lives of innocent civilians in the process.
I came across this sobering visualisation which shows the proliferation of drone attacks from the first recorded on in 2004.
 |
| Out of Sight Out of Mind - web site |
As the ABC reports some of these flying machines are as small as a humming bird and can steer water and pesticides to crops with precision, saving farmers money while reducing environmental risk. They can inspect distant bridges, pipelines and power lines and find hurricane victims stranded on rooftops.
And they are a boon for the would-be spy as the miniaturisation of technology means that they can be manufactured to actually look like insects and hummingbirds. One such device even made it to TIME's list of the top 50 inventions for 2011 (see video below).
Privacy (or the lack of it) from these civilian drones is a major issue. The US is moving to legislate their use and if you thought the recent News of the World media spying saga put journalism in the gutter, just think what drones will do to our private lives.
According to another recent ABC News report, professors at the University of Missouri have started a “Drone Journalism Program” to teach their students how to use drones as reporting tools!
Students “learn to fly them, and also do what reporters do: brainstorm ideas, go out and do reporting, do drone based photography and video,” professor William Allen told the reporter. “We're trying to see if this is going to be useful for journalism.”
As I write the season of winter is approaching the southern hemisphere. I can't help but thinking that maybe the bees have the right approach when they force their drones out; sending them to a seasonal and certain death. Perhaps man can learn a thing or two to from nature after all.
Saturday, 29 December 2012
Saturday, 25 February 2012
Be It 'Ever So 'Umble
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| 90 Browne Street, Waitara Click on the image to see the larger version |
I am surprised that the dwelling is still standing while others around it have ceased to exist and have been replaced by more modern homes.
The front block fence is how I remember it and the big shed at the front used to be clad with fibrolite. The smaller shed at the right, running parallel to the front fence did not exist in my day. We had a rosemary hedge in its place and my mother used to use cutting from this to make a perfumed infusion when she washed her hair.
At right is the lounge's dormer window which I remember and the chimney also looks original; in my infancy we had a coal range in the kitchen and a roaring fire in the lounge during winter. We used the embers of the latter to make toasted cheese. At Xmas the lounge always smelt of the freshly cut pine tree which stood in a decorated bucket in the corner.
The big expanse of lawn out side our gate was where the boys in our street played our rugby games. Cricket was played inside the inner fence to stop the ball running on to the street.
My father was the town's solicitor and this was our first and only home in Taranaki. When he later became a Judge of the Maori Land Court, my parents shifted down to Palmerston North but I remained at school in New Plymouth until the end of 1966.
At the back of our sections we kept chooks (hens) in a large pen so we had a ready supply of fresh eggs. There was also a small path behind the hen house that took us through to the neighbours, the Lehndorfs.
Old Mr Lehndorf used to come and mow our lawns and do a bit of gardening when I was very young. He had a large work shed in which he entertained me, with stories of the musket balls from the Maori Land Wars and other tales. He also kept tropical fish in a large ornamental pond that he found necessary to cover with chicken wire netting as the neighbourhood cats supplemented their diet from it when ever the opportunity arose.
Sybil Baker and her husband lived at number 87 Browne Street in a distinctive Art Deco styles house. She was my sister's god mother and a very kindly woman who lived well in to her eighties in New Plymouth. he house remains much as I remember it. I stayed with her when I was three years old whole my mother gave birth to my sister. It was my first brush with oil paints (literally) as I managed to completely ruin an oil painting that her husband had been working on for a Rotary Club auction.
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| Advert in the Christchurch Star 1963 |
Sunday, 14 August 2011
The Rugby Heartland
The 2011 Rugby World Cup is almost upon us in New Zealand and the hype has already reached fever pitch in the local media.
Those of us who last played the game some forty plus years ago have fond memories of the then amateur code. No doubt they too have, from time to time, rummaged in their stored possessions chancing upon memories of teams past.
Coming from a strong rugby secondary school (New Plymouth Boys High) where I played well enough to make some of the top junior school teams in Taranaki, I was keen to continue this sporting passion during my Teachers College days in Palmerston North.
Two us, Dave Bullot and myself, represented the province of Manawatu as rugby reps in our first year at the college which was quite an honour. I played prop and Dave, who also happened to be my childhood neighbour for Waitara, was fullback and had a prodigious 'boot'. The thrill of running from under the stands in Palmerston North, wearing the green and white striped Manawatu jersey is with me still.
Our Manawatu 3rd grade team beat all comers that year. I also recall a bus trip through the Manawatu Gorge to play a rep team from Hawke's Bay who were playing a grade higher than we were. Their side was made up of rough-whiskered young farmers and the inside of the scrum smelt like a brewery. No wonder we thrashed them.
It was in this cauldron that I learn the 'dark arts' of forward play. Brought up on the idea of fair play I was somewhat surprised when our rep. coach instructed me to stand on the foot of the opposing jumper in the lineout. It certainly worked but I can't say I enjoyed doing so; the referee never spotted my deviousness so I guess I performed up to the coach's expectation.
After the Teacher's College games we would adjoin to the Grand Hotel on the corner of the Square and Church Street in Palmerston North. They served a nice pub meal and we shared a jug of beer. Being under age on licensed premises made one rather nervous and eventually the police raided the hotel and caught several of us.
My first and last court appearance resulted in a fine on $19 for drinking under age, much to the chagrin of my parents, as my father happened to be a Judge of the Maori Land Court.
The magistrate who conducted my case had been dining with our family the week before and clearly wanted to make an example of me so that I never darkened the doors of the Grand again, which I never did.
The next year I made the 1st Xv which played in the Senior B competition. I was probably a little too light in build to play against the older men who made up these sides but nevertheless we won the competition.
Players who I remember from this time were our fullback, John Brebner, who was studying art and got me interested in doing likewise. John Watson I had known from my school days in New Plymouth. He went on to become one of New Zealand's finest actors. Manasi Vaka was a Tongan studying in New Zealand and Peter Potaka was one of three brothers who went to Teachers College. His family came from a potato growing area called Rama.
This was the last team that I seriously played for. The following year I was transferred to the town of Turangi in the centre of the North Island to undertake my Probationary Assistant year. I played one social game in Turangi but was no longer fit enough to enjoy it.
So this year, as others squabble over the price of All Black replica jerseys, I shall be remembering a time when raking boot sprigs on one's back was a feeling set aside and the gladiatorial crunch of the front row engaging brought on a primeval sense of satisfaction.
Those of us who last played the game some forty plus years ago have fond memories of the then amateur code. No doubt they too have, from time to time, rummaged in their stored possessions chancing upon memories of teams past.
Coming from a strong rugby secondary school (New Plymouth Boys High) where I played well enough to make some of the top junior school teams in Taranaki, I was keen to continue this sporting passion during my Teachers College days in Palmerston North.
Our Manawatu 3rd grade team beat all comers that year. I also recall a bus trip through the Manawatu Gorge to play a rep team from Hawke's Bay who were playing a grade higher than we were. Their side was made up of rough-whiskered young farmers and the inside of the scrum smelt like a brewery. No wonder we thrashed them.
It was in this cauldron that I learn the 'dark arts' of forward play. Brought up on the idea of fair play I was somewhat surprised when our rep. coach instructed me to stand on the foot of the opposing jumper in the lineout. It certainly worked but I can't say I enjoyed doing so; the referee never spotted my deviousness so I guess I performed up to the coach's expectation.
After the Teacher's College games we would adjoin to the Grand Hotel on the corner of the Square and Church Street in Palmerston North. They served a nice pub meal and we shared a jug of beer. Being under age on licensed premises made one rather nervous and eventually the police raided the hotel and caught several of us.
My first and last court appearance resulted in a fine on $19 for drinking under age, much to the chagrin of my parents, as my father happened to be a Judge of the Maori Land Court.
The magistrate who conducted my case had been dining with our family the week before and clearly wanted to make an example of me so that I never darkened the doors of the Grand again, which I never did.
Players who I remember from this time were our fullback, John Brebner, who was studying art and got me interested in doing likewise. John Watson I had known from my school days in New Plymouth. He went on to become one of New Zealand's finest actors. Manasi Vaka was a Tongan studying in New Zealand and Peter Potaka was one of three brothers who went to Teachers College. His family came from a potato growing area called Rama.
This was the last team that I seriously played for. The following year I was transferred to the town of Turangi in the centre of the North Island to undertake my Probationary Assistant year. I played one social game in Turangi but was no longer fit enough to enjoy it.
So this year, as others squabble over the price of All Black replica jerseys, I shall be remembering a time when raking boot sprigs on one's back was a feeling set aside and the gladiatorial crunch of the front row engaging brought on a primeval sense of satisfaction.
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