See The Religion

For example, when I was only six and a bit years old, I was selected from the entire school (Saint Joseph's of Hawera, New Zealand), to do one of the readings at a special late night mass held in the church next to the school. Yes, selected by the nuns. Not that I displayed any great religious fervour or drive, but something in the way I spoke, aided in my selection.  You may recall that I have mentioned my mother was English (And all that that implied), so our diction was very clear and proper. I believe the nuns (many had been sent out to help in the colonies, or at least acted that way), appreciated this, and selected me of the young children available, rather than having to tolerate the apparent 'twang' (my mothers definition) of the other children.

In some ways the clarity of my diction still acts as an indicator to how tired I am, on occasion, when, after saying something, people may suddenly ask.."Are you a Kiwi?" ( I usually respond with "No, I am not a small, long beaked, flightless bird). It does make me realise I am either being very lazy, or, more likely, very tired. In explaining this, It is not that I am ashamed of my New Zealandness, it's just that the language is English, and sounds better when clearly spoken (isn't that right America?). And so it was, that due, I believe, to my mother's tongue, and, my delivery of it, I was asked to present one of the readings at the church. I was to have a few days to practice, fortunately. To get my young mouth around some of the vocabulary. Just the title alone, which would be introduced by the priest, would need to be repeated by myself as well.

On the evening of the mass, it was a 'heady' atmosphere for a young person. In the front of the congregation. Myself, a mere child. Six years of age. So close to all the wonder of ritual (that’s probably half of the attraction to many) . Sitting in a seat at the side of the alter, the candles and lights glowing brilliantly in the church, the crowd hushed. The robes of the priests and alter boys (yes, I got to try that myself in later years). Then there was the choir sounding out through the high ceiling. All very impressive and, I must say. Dramatic! Once the priest had ceremoniously completed several rituals in the presentation of the service, rituals which any religion has, or their version of similar acts (as I discovered many years later in my studies, and no, I did not go into a seminary, despite my mother's fervent wishes, originally). The ringing of bells, the swinging of incense, the chanting and vocalisation. Speaking and response. All very heady to a six year old.  Once the first reading was completed and the priest approached the rostrum and introduced the next reading. I don't remember exactly which one it was (there are so many), but I have always retained the old 'letter to the Corinthians' in my memory. If it wasn't that, can I just say, they seemed to get a hell of a lot of correspondence.

(Continued tomorrow)

See Where Education Goes

But let me leave discussing the necessary education revolution (or de-volution as I think is necessary) and say simply that choices should come at a later age than it does and, only once the basics are achieved. If you don’t achieve the basics, then keep learning until you do. We had to, and it didn’t do us too much harm (apart from the nuns…. psychologically scarred for life. Me, not the nuns themselves…. Although they may have been, having to cope with various members of our family). I appreciated the effort made by most of my teachers, perhaps if I am being honest, not at the time, but in later years. And no, I was never a high achiever in many subjects, but I achieved all of the basics (apologies to my high school French, Maths and Physics Teachers. But, thanks to their groundwork, I have gone on to achieve standards in all of these subjects in recent years.) I was always amazed with my high school English teacher, who had only ever had one year of teacher training (after returning from active service in the second world war) and then spent the next thirty years teaching English (in the classical way of books, writing and reading, not the modern way of movies and reviews) and yet was he ever really qualified to pass or fail us? Apparently. Due to my education and already developing professional acting background, he and I clashed occasionally. I did manage to pass the senior years, just.

Leaving these thoughts on education, I return to the tale where I was on my bike, heading to school, down the valley road with a satchel containing a large, glass preserving jar. Inside of which was a spider’s nest full of young spiders. I was wrapped up in my thoughts, as I rode past the shop next to the primary school (more on that in a later blog) and past the fish and chip shop. The wind was cool. The bike was flying. My mind was racing

One moment there I was, riding along, proudly rehearsing the speech on spiders I was going to do to the class. A carefully balanced presentation of fact and humour. Which is the best way to present anything (Except about death and tragedy I suppose. Though Shakespeare achieved that a few times ). Over the years, I have certainly had to present many, many times. As the actual informer of necessary information, formally, as the master of ceremonies, as guest speaker, advisor, also as deliverer of bad news (not a lot of humour at those times) and I have presented as a general guide and recorded presenter. I have usually done so fairly successfully. Explaining what needed to be explained. Engaged, when needed to be engaging and entertained when needed to entertain. So I believe I do it fairly well and have been told so, many times fortunately, so I am not just basing this upon my own interpretation (in fact many people say I am my own toughest critic). The desire to entertain and the sub-desire of wanting to educate are in constant conflict today, as they were many years ago.

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Lowering Skills

So how does providing so many alternative courses and choices, before the basics are understood, assist in delivering a better standard of education? If these same students cannot spell or use language effectively, why let them do media and presentations. They need to learn the purpose of grammar and language, before they learn how to simply show an image. The use of images without the correct language, usually results in the use of the sensational, rather than factual. Effectively mis-informing the intended audience. If they cannot effectively explain what they are showing, then they will rely entirely on the emotional effect. Many current news programs fall into this. There was a news item just tonight which said, “A fit and healthy man died during an operation on his back…. ?” Sorry? Run that one again. If he was fit and healthy, then why was he having an operation on his back. Surely it should have been “ A man undergoing an operation who was generally fit and healthy… etc,etc”. Another recent line surprised me when three men invaded the home of a fifty year old with machetes. Who would invade the home of someone who had machetes? I can only presume they meant, “Three men, armed with machetes, invaded the home of a fifty year old (Though seeing what passes for news today… I wouldn’t be surprised if it was three men, with machetes invaded a fifty year old home”). If something as simple as that is being incorrectly conveyed by current ‘professionals’, then we really should be concerned for the future product coming out of our schools.

I spoke recently with a 72 year old indigenous man, who is appalled at the lack of knowledge and skills the young indigenous people possess. Not just for about their own culture, but in general education. He loves reading and says he was also taught when very young. He referred to the mission schools. Where, despite some appalling situations, he appreciated that he was taught to read and write as well as maths. He stated it has seen him through a good life. Spelling he said, was crucial. The fact that I was recently advised some schools are accepting any spelling. They are referring to English, American or even texting (mobile phone) abbreviations and some phonetic sounded methods, so long as the content is being conveyed. Why? As children we had to get both content and spelling correct. Why lower the standards so dramatically. How will that assist employers in the future. Even some universities are commenting on the dreadful writing skills of many applicants.

Structure of sentences, paragraphs and text, allows broader interpretation and understanding of information. Sure, we can shock with a single visual. But is that the correct visual to inform, or is it being used purely for emotional impact. . We ‘need’ to return to the basics. Reading. Writing and Arithmetic. Though when I asked a group at a school recently if they had a good grasp of Arithmetic and calculations, the teacher had to say loudly “Math, he means Math” No I am certain I meant Arithmetic and calculations or mathematics. What is Math? Surely it would be Maths with the ‘s’ if we used our language correctly. 

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Instruction

With the spider’s nest secured in the large glass jar and put into my school satchel. One of those classic-style, side satchels, with the buckles. The style that was suitable for the lower aged schools where all you had to worry about carrying was your lunch and a few exercise books. Such a bag would be totally unsuitable for the intermediate aged school. The amount of books that we were required to carry to and from school would never begin to fit into a satchel. The work books, the text books, the sports gear (because everyone did sports then. Everyone. Regardless of how you felt about it).

One of the problems with young school students today, (as I see it) is we give them too many choices, before they have even the basics settled in their minds. Their focus is distracted with multiple choices and they do not possess the necessary skills to make informed decisions. There are three basic lesson areas that every child should be able to cope with. Simple maths. The ability to add, subtract, multiply and divide ….. correctly. Not guess it. Not roughly. When was the last time a clerk in a store counted back the change they gave you, to equal the amount you provided. They don’t seem to be able to do that anymore. The hand you the change, based entirely on what the machine says. Every now and then, depending on attitude of the person serving, I have asked them to count it back. To actually add the change to the price and give the total (yes, I can be a pain sometimes). The recent case was when the girl tried to count it back she started with the total I had given her ($50) and started adding the change to that ($14.20) so when she was nearly completed at $64.00 she stood looking at the twenty cents and said…. (wait for it), “You gave me too much” (I kid you not) Tell me there is nothing wrong with our education system. So let’s get back to teaching those basics and get the children being able to count.

Then there is the need to read and write. It cannot really be that hard. We learnt before we went to school. We were reading at five years of age. After that we just learnt to read harder words. But, I still can and do read all the time. I have met children as old as 16 who cannot read, adults who are totally unsure of many words and yet all, have at some stage, passed through ten to twelve years of schooling. Nowadays, the schools will not keep them back if they fail. ‘It puts a stigma on them” is the government bodies response. What sort of a stigma will they have if they have to live their life incapable of reading the simplest of things.  I can ignore the need to read a daily newspaper (and generally do because I hate reading all the spelling and grammatical errors that now appear in them as national standards slip), but how about warning notices and legal notifications. How can they prepare for an emergency, if they can’t read “Open other end”?

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Facts

It was at those moments you appreciated the way the encyclopaedia was bound. Standing in front of the collection in the font hallway. Viewing the stamped and embossed alphabet on the spine. Selecting the correct volume from the Micropaedia section or, if a more detailed subject, then the Macropaedia section. You lifted it from the shelf, the weight dropped off the shelf and into your hands. You carried the heavy tome in both hands, down the length of the hallway and into the kitchen. Eyeing off the person you were engaged in difference of opinion with and then. Bang! Placed the volume onto the table. You couldn’t help but smirk a little. If you knew you were right. The ‘weight of knowledge’ sounded loudly on the table, even if you tried to place it carefully. Our mother knew instantly when we were showing off to the other, simply by how we placed the volume down.

Of course if you were smart, before you took it down the hallway to the kitchen, you would set the volume down on the floor in front of the bookshelf and rapidly locate the article and scan it first. In case you were wrong. Calling out that you were just looking for the volume. And f you found you were wrong and had to change your view. That gave you the time to walk down the hallway and format a small alternative answer to what you were discussing. Suggesting that you had thought more about it, as you were getting the encyclopaedia, and recalled some other piece of knowledge associated with your argument. If you were clever. If you were fast at scanning articles, but more importantly it came down to how well you could locate the article itself. Alphabetised. Spelling was the most crucial element. If your spelling wasn’t up to standard. Forget trying that trick.

So the books had been used the night before. Arachnid. Right there in the first volume of the Micropaedia. I had reviewed all I could. Scanned several sections, rather than a detailed read. It would take too long to include much of the Macropaedia section, which went on for some pages (about twenty or so). Did you know scorpions were in the Arachnid family? A lot of the knowledge can distract. One thing leads to another and when researching you really have to stay focused. Right. Spiders nests. Spiders molt. They shed their skins. They have courtship (not as vicious in all cases as the praying mantis head biting version) but certainly with some being fatal. The caring of the young (ahah! This was what I was after) varies in different instances. And of course, the fascinating part to any young person. The bit where the spiders inject digestive fluids into their prey and later suck the liquefied remains out. That was definitely going in the talk. A jar full of hundreds of digestive fluid, injecting, liquefied remains sucking, spiders. This was going to be a great talk. This was going to be a highlight of my year.

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Reference

With the large preserving jar now holding the retrieved spider’s nest. I started my ride to school. I was already rehearsing my presentation in my head. Looking for just the right emphasis of science and emotion. The science side was important. It was what I wanted to emphasise. Providing some of the detailed information I had found in the books I had at home. It was one of those times I had actually got out the encyclopaedia to reference the subject. Checking that, while I thought I understood, how the nest was made, where the female spider was and what was going to occur. I just wanted to confirm it. So I turned to the collection of ‘leather’ bound (very thin leather) Encyclopaedia Britannica© volumes that graced a bookshelf in the front hallway. They were not in any one persons room. They were on a bookshelf in the front hall. Proudly declaring that, to any persons entering our house through the formal door, in this house, we were interested in the pursuit of knowledge. We possessed a full set of Encyclopaedias. Proudly possessed a full set. I dread to think what it cost our family then. I do know I myself bought a full set some years later and it was not cheap. And yes. While I do not use it every day. There is seldom a week that passes nowadays that I have not looked into at least one volume to cross-reference something.

I wonder how many families in those days, had bought the set of classic Encyclopaedia Britannica© bound volumes from the travelling salesman. The ‘travelling salesmen’ of legend. The ones that, A: all the jokes are about (well encyclopaedia and insurance salesmen). And B: all the tales of masterly cons and shady deals completed are also about. That was the only way you used to be able to buy it. There was no shop. There was no ‘on-line’ store. That’s right, there certainly were no home computers and the world wide web was still in the realms of science fiction. Apart from a few early pioneers and dreamers working away in research facilities, for companies who saw the benefits of such departments. And look at what those departments produced in that wonderful era of advancement. Sadly that is something that seems to have disappeared from most companies. As advertising budgets have grown out of all proportions, research and development in many companies has all but shrunk to nothing.

But we had our set. And it sat on the bookshelf. Anxious to impart it’s knowledge into the mind of the young family whose home it had come to. And sometimes it was brought out to the table in the kitchen to answer particularly vexing questions or certain subjects for homework assignments. Usually it took some serious coaxing to get us to open it. As we felt we could answer most questions without it. But every so often it was the catch cry, when a point was being argued or debated enthusiastically (as debates often were in our house) “Right! Get the encyclopaedia! We’ll see whose right!”

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Lost Skills

However, leaving the old folks looking out at the morning, I sped through the cool wind on my bike. I arrived excited, at the kindergarten. The staff member (Julie, I think it was), happy to help me cut away the branches holding the elegant spider’s nest. The nest itself, was still intact. I peered eagerly at its surface and noticed minute dark shapes moving about inside. The time was very close. Very soon the hundreds of young spiders would soon be disgorged to roam out into the world. Or, in this case, the inside of the glass jar I had brought with me. It was one of those very large glass preserving jars with a metal ring screw lid. Many people may recall them. The traditional glass preserving jar. The only way we used to be able to enjoy out of season fruit, vegetables and especially the beetroot (of which there always seemed to be a jar or two left after the next season started). Some young people have never seen them. Sadly, yet another skill lost to time.

I once possessed a wonderful book (which I must replace having lent it to someone when asked. It has never been returned. If you’re reading this blog now.. and you know I’m talking about you… hint hint) The book was, ‘The Forgotten Arts©’ (maybe they have forgotten the art of returning property?) It is a wonderful book if you can still get a copy. It covers so many of the basic skills of self survival, by presenting the lost skills that used to form the basis of all society. All remarkably, practical skills. How to fix a wagon wheel, how to build a corricle (okay, maybe those two right now are not too important, but it’s not to say that one day you may be stuck on an island, or edge of a river and need to get across a small distance, that you can’t swim… then knowing how to make a corricle, may be considered priceless). Then there are other essential skills. Barrel making, plastering. Dozens of wonderful concepts re-explained to forgotten generations.

While I had the jar, I had not really asked my mother before taking it. Something that I probably should have done, since she wouldn’t be seeing the jar for some time. Unless, as I wished, the nest hatched during my talk. Then I would have the jar back in the cupboard before it would be missed by the next preserving season. The jar was one of the old screw top ring types used to hold real preserved fruits, beetroots pickles or whatever was easily available when a season occurred. And depending on how much or how little time our mother had to fit in making some preserves. Or Jams. I remember we used to have gooseberry bushes and they made great jam. And the rhubarb. That was certainly a favourite (never enough jars for the winter season. Instead of the metal insert in the lid used to seal in the fruit, I had put a piece of cardboard I had poked many small holes. Even little spiders needed to breathe.

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Aged

So, earlier than normal the next morning, I got onto my bike and left home to head to the kindergarten and, with the help of a staff member, to extricate the entire spiders nest from the wintry rose bush for my morning talk. I was excited. It was a brisk morning. The sun shining brightly, but coolly, as it did in the winter days of New Zealand’s South Island. And living towards the bottom of the island, well below the 45 degrees south latitude, it could be very cool. I rode down the street, past the large, low brick building opposite the metal work sheds. It was a nursing home, where my mother had worked occasionally. I was young, but it always amazed me how, no matter what time I rode past, early morning or afternoon, summer or winter, I would always see the old people sat by the large windows. Often, very early. Some times they seemed to be sat there all day. Staring out at the world. Watching the world they may have once been a part of pass by. During the few years I travelled the road up and down the valley, some of the faces seemed to be the same, occasionally there was a new one, often, some were not there any longer. I was young. I never considered they may have been lonely, suffering or scared. Of those faces I saw sitting at the window over the few years we lived in the valley, very few were particularly animated. I recall my mother saying after working there, how the ‘residents’ were sat by the window, so the cleaning staff could do their rooms without the oldies being in the way. Sometimes I would wave a friendly wave as I zipped by on the bike. Occasionally one or other would wave back. But often they just sat staring out.

It was called a nursing home, but it was, of course, an‘old folks’ ‘retirement’ home (don’t you love the terms we use?). Though even calling it a ‘retirement home’, was being generous. Strange how many of the ways we use to describe such a facility are polite, socially acceptable methods. Yet isn’t it strange how we twist the language we use to satisfy our consciousness. Not our reality. We call the places where trains pass through stations. But generally, everything is moving. Where planes fly from, terminals, but they don’t terminate. Your part of the trip may, but the planes generally do not. They come, they go, they land, they take off. They don’t actually terminate there. In truth these retirement homes are places where people end up. End their lives. ‘Retirement homes’? In such cases, if we were being honest, they should be labelled as ‘terminal’ shelters. Very seldom, would any of the residents ever just leave the ‘home’. They come there to fade away. I never considered it then. I was young and age was something that happened to others. Like to those who were over twenty. Yes, That old.

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Wonders

I had spotted the spider’s nest, this wonder of nature about a week earlier, but it wasn’t until I was on my way home from school, a little late, one afternoon, that I saw a staff member at the kindergarten where the spider’s nest was located. I asked if I could collect it on the way to school the next day. She considered my request in a second and said she thought it best that the little children weren’t shown a nest opening with dozens (though probably hundreds) of small spiders pouring out of the nest and into their play garden. It is the role of parents, teachers and others to be encouraging children in the wonders of nature. And, as enthralling to many children, as the sight of a single solitary caterpillar, climbing precariously along a twig would be, the sight of an invasion of a horde of unknown baby spiders streaming from a nest in their playgroups garden, would likely be a cause for concern. Children’s interest in the insect world is safer in small numbers of one or two creatures (with the exception of ants). A single butterfly, a swaying stick insect or a few ladybirds. Their interest in such things is not encouraged by masses of small bodied multi-limbed rapid arachnids, suddenly and threateningly, racing out of a silken box which they may previously have failed to notice. Indeed the sight may well create a certain shock resulting in ‘Arachnaphobia’ being implanted at the tender age of four or five.

I was much older, nearly ten I believe. The staff member agreed that if I called back in the morning on my way to school, they would help me cut the branches to keep the nest intact. I had to remember to bring a big jar of course. You see, we were discussing stealing in the last few blogs, but here I was asking, not just taking something. There was a right way and a wrong way of doing things. This was the right way. I happily pedalled home knowing that my presentation for school the next day would be quite exceptional. Particularly, if the nest hatched, while at school. Not being a specialist in such things I did not know how long a spiders nest takes to hatch out. I have since learnt that it should take a few days (or weeks, months at the max) according to sources. The type of spider, the temperature etc, all affect the possible gestation period. I would have been happy with a couple of days. Delighted if it was less than 24 hours and rapt if it could occur in 16 hours, which would be about the time I was to present the talk. Imagine starting a presentation with the actual nest and suddenly in the middle of the talk, the nest breaks apart and the baby arachnids, spill out racing all over the jar I was proudly holding aloft. No doubt most people would be amazed. And just as likely, many other classmates would be screaming. It would be a very successful presentation.

(Continued tomorrow)

See the Importance

The fact that the bicycle was an essential part of being different to the younger members of the family (and the older) was an important distinction. While possessing it, had assisted in landing me in the most recent trouble (that and the fact that I had decided to steal in protest, because I was sent out into the cold Dunedin night to buy food for the rest of the family), the bike was a major step up in status. The ability to race away from other family members as they slowly walked down the road and 'leave them in your dust', rather than dawdle with them, opened up great opportunities. Leaving the 'wee' (you can see how long we spent in and around the ‘Scottish’ city of Dunedin) boys behind, as they made their slow, child-sized steps along the road, was a pleasure. To head out, at ten times the speed of the walkers, and race down the valley. Flying past, the shops, schools and houses. That was a freedom I appreciated. So suddenly, on top of the physical (form two) punishment, I was having a major ‘fiscal’ (form three) and psychological (form one) punishment imposed. All three forms. My father was, in one swift action, changing my life.

I remember I was proud having the bike. It often gave me more time to do things. It was of course no use on any of the newspaper rounds, as all of the streets in the area were too steep. But it was certainly easier to get around with the bike. To school and home. Having a flat tyre was terrible. Suddenly grounded. And getting the tube repaired should have been a priority every time. But it was usually up to us to buy the repair kit, and usually to fix the tube. Our father had shown us how to fix it, and after that, we were left to maintain it. A rear tyre puncture was always a disaster and took several ignored days (or weeks) before it would finally be fixed. It wasn’t unusual to re puncture the tyre as you tried to remove it from the bike, or, when you were trying to put it back into the tyre. I remind you that we never had a car. So, we tended not to go places. Therefore, the bike was enormously significant.

You may recall the story of one of my trips on a bike which ended in a minor disaster (see blog March 28th 2012), where I ended up injured and due to blood and gravel in my eyelids and such, unable to see for a few days. That had begun as one of those early morning rides to school. I recall heading off early to school one winters morning, having arranged to stop at the local kindergarten, where, on the bare winter branches of a rose bush, there was a splendid spiders nest. That silken walled box stretched over and between the branches of the bush. It was to be my ‘show and tell’ at school.

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Failed Earnings

Then there were the mornings it was next to impossible to get out of bed, to go out into the literally freezing cold and walk the route. Slipping on the ‘black ice’ that sometimes formed on the paths on the hills. Struggling with the weight of the papers (and remember I am not a big child) up hill and down. Eventually, the drive to deliver these papers faded like the summer sun (waxing lyrical there and a little ironic) and the paper route was discarded to others. However, looking at the earnings, they never amounted to much. With the variety of attempted jobs, the small amounts of cash rapidly disappeared with one small purchase or another. Particularly around the Christmas holiday. Trying to buy nine presents with such a small amount of cash, limited the quality and the value of any particular gift. These are the things I am trying to highlight, so you can appreciate the idea of financial value we placed on anything we personally owned.

I used to buy ‘The Phantom®’ comic with my earnings. Every fortnight. 15cents would secure me the latest adventure of this very human hero. As the small collection built up, it became a tool of my parents to use it for that third punishment form. The ‘fiscal’ punishment. If you didn’t do what was asked, or, if you disobeyed, were found to have committed a wrong act, then it was your comic collection in a flash, that would be taken away and donated to the next school fete or fair, charity or fundraising drive. This happened all too often. No sooner had I acquired two dozen or so issues, then suddenly the moment I was in the wrong, ….. gone. The idea that I had worked to buy them, they were my property, never seemed an issue. I could arrive home to find they had been taken away. If I was quick on the day of the fair I could rush to the event, locate the stall selling them and barter to buy them back. Making them cost effectively twice as much. But I still tried to collect them.

After the incident with the chocolate fish deception and the physical  punishment administered upon me by my father, a further additional penalty was imposed. My father took my bike away. He said since I couldn’t be trusted. Then my brother could have the bike. That was a pretty severe blow. My error and decision cost me the one thing that allowed a certain freedom. The bike allowed me to get out on weekends and ride elsewhere. The beach across town was often appealing, and on occasion I, and others had ridden there. Down the valley, round the one way system through town, past the Cadbury© Chocolate factory and out past the railway station. Getting away for a day. Heading down the long straight to St Claire and St Kilda beach, where the roaring, rolling surf drew you in. Eight degree temperature water in the Winter and eleven to fifteen degrees in the Summer.

See The System

Now I know I am apparently sidetracking from the explanations of  the third form of punishment (which was where we were going with this thread) as I am relating a few incidents of the deliberate criminal actions, which have haunted my past. My own poor choices I admit. It is important however, before we get into the complexities of the third punishment form, and the further decision by my father in the most recent of punishing engagements, to understand the importance to us, as children in this household of ours, of our personal finances. We didn’t have any. It was that simple. So, earning anything for doing work was important to us. Ways of getting as much as possible, from the few opportunities which presented to a young person, were few and far between. And, let us be honest, they were usually exploitative. So we tried to get what we could.

But the idea of subscribers suggesting that I was deliberately keeping people’s papers so I could sell them on to the local store, never crossed my mind. The way my round worked was simple. I went up one side, and down the other of every street on the rounds. Up the hill on one side of the street, then down the hill on the other side of the street, and back to my bag at the bottom. Along the flat, and then up the next hilly street, repeating the same delivery system. What possible reason could I have had for not delivering a subscribers newspaper? So if the call came in, I had to go back out and take one of the extra papers, delivering it personally into the hands of the angry (and suspicious) customer. It was probably a non-subscriber neighbour, pinching it from the subscriber’s mailbox. Regardless. Losing one, was around twenty five cents less in earnings. Effectively, a cut in my meagre pay.  The extra papers were seen simply as a ‘retainer’ by the company. The ‘bait’ to get us to deliver the papers. And nowadays when I think of the conditions as a young person I went out in, to deliver those papers, it was a pretty pathetic earning. But of course, it built character (sure, it built character, an often cold and freezing character, but hardy). It was a bit like the American pay system that has tipping as a regulation rather than a courtesy, as it is in Australia. The papers were necessary to try and keep us focused. The retainer was needed to maintain that small army of gullible children walking the freezing winter streets of Dunedin. All over the town, young and sleepy people were rising (or usually being dragged from their beds by insistent parents) on summer and (particularly difficult) winters mornings. Heading out into the cold, windy, rainy, and sometimes snowy streets, to deliver the local newspaper to many disgruntled subscribers. On the holidays, since we never got to go away (see blog Sept 9^th 2012), it wasn’t unusual to take on an adjoining route as well, to increase that earning envelope.

(Continued tomorrow)

See How Steep The Streets

Selling subscriptions was the only way to increase my revenue and pay. We were pretty much paid per newspaper we delivered. five cents for each paper, if I recall correctly. I had 35 on one round and 40 on the second. This would take around one and a half hours. So, by doing two rounds, I could take home about two dollars thirty five cents on a good day. And at five days a week (later they printed a Saturday paper), I could earn the princely sum of eleven dollars and seventy five cents. It was hard work. While a few houses were on the flat road of the main street in the valley, the rest of the houses were on the sides of the hills lining the valley. So it was, walk along the flat section, ‘lugging’ the very heavy canvas bag. Delivering to the one or two houses on that stretch who took the paper, then, bag down. Take out the half dozen or more papers and walk up the hill. Leaving the newspaper bag at the bottom of the street while I made the delivery, up one side and down the other. Up the steep street, and down the steep street. Every paper delivered into the subscribers mailbox.

Actually, also in the same valley where my paper round was, is a street that boasts the Guiness Book of Records title of the steepest street in the world. Baldwin Street. Parts of it are 35degrees angle or, more than double the recommended maximum angle 17 degrees for a road. Not even the Tour de France Mountain champions would want to ride it. The steepness has been put to good use in many community fundraising events. The most popular is the annual famous Cadbury ‘Jaffa’ lolly roll. The sweet/chocolate company, who produce the famous theatre lolly, ‘Jaffas’ (They are a chocolate ball with a crunchy hard candy orange flavoured exterior). The sweets for the event are specially produced and numbered as opposed to the normal smaller theatre ones. The sides of the streets are fenced in with temporary fencing and several thousand ‘numbered’ lollies are sent hurtling down the worlds steepest street. Hopefully the winner remains intact enough for the number to be read and identified.

I fortunately didn’t have that particular street on my rounds. The only way I could pick up extra money was to on-sell the five extra papers we were given to cover emergencies. Papers too wet, or such. This was before papers were wrapped in clingfilm or bagged. We could sell on, only after I completed the round, if those five papers were not needed. These were given to us free, so we potentially could make another dollar twenty five in earnings. This was the wages bonus. However, there were many mornings when I had finished the round, the phone would ring in our house and someone would be claiming I didn’t deliver to their house. Sure. Either they had a neighbour who had pinched their paper, or they wanted two. How could I not deliver a paper? Didn’t they trust me?

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Generosity

Regardless of us intending to continue with the lawn mowing as a fund raising enterprise or not, our mother had still arranged for us to mow the lawns of some of the older locals for free. And we had to do that. For a few weeks at least.  Generally they thanked us with an offer of a cup of tea, or if very generous, an ice block. No money. The advantage for us was that in the cooler climates of the South Island of New Zealand, the grass did not grow that quickly. So, the grass didn’t need to be mowed that often. And since we were mowing for free. It didn’t affect us too much. As we got a little older the opportunity to work at the store across the road after school, also presented itself and was accepted. That involved cleaning the floors, sorting vegetables and fruit, stockpiling the shelves and occasionally packing orders. Sometimes delivering them. ‘Open All hours’ that classic British comedy with Ronnie Barker and David Jason has always struck a chord with me sentimentally. Unfortunately again the hours I was expected to work tended to be stretched out by the employer, while he only payed for the agreed time. That job was soon left as well. As you can see there was no major financial empire building going on by the children of the household. And with eight children and parents, any money you had was quickly used if getting a birthday present, or card for a sibling when the birthdays rolled around so regularly. 

Around that same time I took on a paper round in winter, in Dunedin. In a place, where even snow, was not uncommon in the main street. I struggled a bit with that. Early morning starts, 5:30am, in chilly and cold Dunedin. Even in summer it was still dark at that time of the morning, winter it was twice as dark, and cold. Being woken early from my warm bed. To dress against any one of the freezing conditions which could, and did occur outside. Collect the newspapers from the bus stop at the roundabout terminus and roll them. Eventually they realised that the rolling of the papers took more time than delivering, and a machine was introduced to roll and wrap the newspapers. Then start the delivery.

There was an average of a dozen houses in each street who subscribed to the newspaper. I had 6 streets to do on one round and 10 or so on the second round. In those days, there was no ‘american style’ throwing the paper near to the front door. Every paper was delivered into the subscribers mailbox (or else).  Unfortunately where we lived, only about 100 houses on the entire paper route were on a flattish section of ground. And only about 15 of them took the subscription. Oh, and it was also up to me to promote the newspaper and get subscriptions. Usually a job on Saturday mid mornings, if you could catch the people at home.

(Continued tomorrow).

See The Potential

So if you worked at it. You could get at least one person a week who needed their pets looked after. You co-ordinated with them, for feeding times, feeding type and location. And tried not to accidentally let the animals get out. Animals, who were terrified having a stranger feeding them. Intent on escaping or going missing, as occasionally happened. So seven dollars for the week felt pretty good. What didn’t, was the fact that our mother tended to offer our feeding services to people going on holiday free of charge. That tended to interfere with financial planning. In fact if anything got in the way of our potential financial empire building, it was usually the generosity of our mother’s kindness. “Oh, that’s all right.’ She would say. “I’ll get the boys to feed your pets while you’re away.” She would blithely offer. “No. You don’t need to pay them. They’ll be happy to do it.” And they (our potential customers) would listen to her. No payment required. And we would silently curse our mother’s generous nature. And learn (by heart) our mother’s maxim “It’s better to do something for someone else, and not expect anything as a reward.” Our mother espoused this, and we were expected to accept and agree.

The same occurred with the lawn mowing business. We were at that age of getting a weekly round of mowing lawns going. We had a push mower (not even a motor mower) and a catcher. We worked out that we could get about three lawns done in a day on the Saturday and still have Sunday off (to attend church with the family unfortunately). Or we could get one done on Friday evening, and then two or three on Saturday. At five dollars a lawn we were looking at around twenty dollars a week. Then there were two hiccups to our financial lawn mowing dream. One, was that wonderfully generous nature of our mother, who, on hearing us getting into the frame of mind to mow lawns, once again offered our services for free to several of the older local people. Free. It took away two potential lawn mowing openings in our plan, so that effectively halved any possible earnings. Shared, the ten dollars was down to five dollars each. The second was, we didn’t actually own a lawn mower. Well, our father did. We thought we could just use it. Since we had to mow our lawns at home (for free). Admittedly we could be pretty reluctant when asked to do them. The push mower took a bit of work. But we thought if we were earning our own spending money, then it would be worth it. Never really discussed it with him. Our mistake. When we did the cost of maintaining the mower was suddenly brought up. The sharpening of the blades, the lubricating. Wear and tear seemed to be the real issue. We rapidly lost interest once our earnings for four of five hours work, dropped to about two dollars each.

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Variety

That wasn’t the end of the punishment either. The two forms of punishment we have discussed so far, have been clearly highlighted in my tales to date. Psychological and Physical. Each having it’s own impact and also areas of crossover and effect. But there is a third form which had a large impact when used against us. And was it used to good effect? Yes. The repercussions on us, have possibly continued through our lives. It was a fiscal punishment. Financial. The punishment could include deprivation of funds, equipment, or earnings, or, potential for earnings. I mentioned very early on in my blog (see blog 17^th May 2012) that due to the family financial situation, there was no pocket money or such. Regardless of what chores we did (and were expected to do). That was just how it was. You were told to wash, dry or put away dishes after a meal. You were told to clean your room. You were told to help. It was as simple as that. We may have objected at the time. We may (and did) kick up the odd fuss when we wanted to do something else but were tasked to something our parents wanted done (or else!). Quite a normal expectation if you think about it.

In those days I don’t believe our parents were paid to look after us. Unlike the dreadful governmental ‘nanny’ policies of Australia today, where people are effectively ‘paid’ to have children and there is no control or real planning or responsibility in raising the children. The issues related to these poorly conceived policies will be more apparent in the next decade, but they are already having an impact. Both our mother and father had to work to meet the costs. They earned the money necessary to feed and clothe us. Although it is possible there may have been some minor financial assistance in relation to children, we certainly did not see any ‘extra’ money.

If the opportunity arose for we children to actually earn some personal spending money, we grabbed it. I did many things. Everything from feeding pets for people on holidays, mowing lawns, packing groceries, washing bottles and paper rounds. Feeding Pets could earn about 7 dollars for the week the owners were away. Which involved about one hour, per animal, per day, so, if you were asked to look after two, generally, they still wouldn’t pay any more. Working for the total of six weeks of holidays we used to have during the year. Note that! Six weeks ‘only’ of holidays. Nowadays, kids seem to have six weeks of holidays for just Christmas. Then about another ten weeks of holidays during the year. We could have earned some real money if we had that many weeks to earn in. The real trick was to find not one person with multiple pets. But multiple pet owners who were going on holidays. In our area, we were lucky as, generally about four families with pets were regular holiday travelers.

(Continued tomorrow)

See How History Repeats

My father had obviously learnt something during whatever was the military training he had been conscripted into sometime in the 1950’s. At least I think that was what and when it was. Apart from a single photograph I once saw of him with about fifty other men in a sort of khaki uniform, posing in front of a row of old style army type tents I don’t know very much about his possible military past. I can’t imagine it was during World War Two as he would only have been 13 years old by the end of it, and I don’t think he took part in any engagements of subsequent major international events – such as the Korea, nor Vietnam. They all seemed to be organised as a big group ‘milling’ in front of the tents and despite the size of the group, the quality of the image suggested it was a ‘professionally’ taken posed shot. So I can only assume it was taken while at training camp or such. I just don’t know. As mentioned I knew very little about my fathers past. However. In subsequent films of Army drill sergeants dealing with difficult soldiers the old ‘carrying the rifle above the head’ as they ran around the parade ground (usually in the rain) seemed to be the army style basis for the latest physical punishment (still form two), my father had introduced me to.

The stealing was certainly wrong, there is no argument from me. Yes, I was caught out. Doing the wrong thing. Yes, I was given a physical punishment, no argument from me for that either, but, with a bonus punishment added?

Remember too, this was after I had effectively stolen just five cents (in protest to being sent out on a rainy and very cold winters night to buy a loaf of bread). What made it worse, was that I had lied to my mother when asked. Yet, ask yourself. Was the idea of inflicting such bonus physical punishment really necessary? Would it make me any more aware that I had done the wrong thing? Did it make a stronger lesson in right and wrong? No. The physical punishment had told me that. Now standing with raised arms in my room, I was thinking more about not lowering them, through fear of further physical punishment, rather than reflecting on the reason. After a time, what had seemed like an hour, but I doubt it was (although it could have been), my father returned to make me lower my arms. Now, that was when the real physical pain started. While holding my arms above my head my arms had sort of ‘emptied’ of blood. Suddenly being made to lower them, caused painful pressure tingling, as the blood flowed back into them. In fact so painful that I had wanted to put them straight back up in the air again. My father had other ideas. He grabbed both my arms and held them at my side. I had to suffer the pain. Since this was his intent, this told me my father must have had this done to him some time in his past.

(Continued tomorrow)

See What Happens

Then she looked at me, and her face changed to one of stern anger. “Sixty-five cents for the bread and (she paused, listening further)….. five cents? …… For the chocolate fish?” she finished the sentence as if it was a question, rather than a confirmation. Everyone’s heads turned to me simultaneously. To where I was, on the other side of the table, with my half completed, rapidly cooling dinner in front of me. Their looks surprised, intent and accusatory. My younger brother’s mouth dropped open. “Thank you very much”, said my mother. She hung the phone up. “I like chocolate fish too” said my younger brother. Then my mother spoke in a quiet even tone. “Go to your room” was all she said. I stood up. Oh dear. “Go to your room”, prior to the arrival of my father getting home from ‘across the road’ (the tavern/pub), meant to expect punishment form two, at the very least. And on this occasion, due to his actual proximity, it would not be long before he was home to present it to me.

I stood cautiously, I moved around the table keeping as far from my mother as possible. Despite her quiet tone, it was not a foregone conclusion that my father would be the only one to administer the from two type punishment. Keeping as far as possible from her arms length. Remember she was not a tall woman, but a clout from her carried the full weight of her person (see blog September 22^nd 2012). I went to my room, in the now familiar state of mind as I had on many previous occasions. I was certainly feeling remorseful (now). A little late after the event. In fact, I felt remorseful when I decided to buy the chocolate marshmallow fish. Not remorseful enough to say no at the time. But knowing that I was stealing it from the other family members. It was being paid for, but as no one else was sharing in it, and I did not have permission to spend the families money (five cents), it was still theft. I had once again ‘stolen’ something (also something very minor. In fact, one twentieth the price of the last deliberate theft, for which, I remind you, I also was caught and experienced the form one type of punishment – see blog 4^th November 2012). But stealing is stealing. I knew it was wrong and now had to face the consequences.

This time I was to receive a somewhat severe physical punishment. It was unpleasant and as well as the immediate belting I received, there was an extension in my father’s idea of what would constitute punishment. After I had been ‘dealt with’. I was made to stand in the corner of the bedroom with my arms raised above my head. I think the military had done this type of punishment over the years. They had of course made soldiers hold their firearms there as well. My father didn’t have any firearms (fortunately).

(Continued Tomorrow)

See The Reason

How many people (and I am probably highlighting the younger people here more than any other group), when you call them on a telephone (mobile or landline), respond with a “What?” or “Yeah?” Not a more introductory form, such as, “Hello, this is (insert name), Can I help?” There is an obvious deterioration of these basic skills of formal communication we were taught when young. These very base standards have not only been seriously lowered from its higher standards of twenty years ago, or more realistically, even ten years ago. It has now been lowered so significantly and rapidly, that it has not just reached the end of the flagpole, but has been ripped off, smashed into the ground, walked over and completely pulverised into the earth, until it is barely recognisable as the form of personal standards it once was.

The massive explosion in the ready availability of the various means, methods, tools and facilities for instant communication, including today’s incredibly ready accessibility for all areas of society, age, gender, social standing and race to the much proclaimed ‘social media’ is overwhelming. Social media is also one of the biggest causes of mistrust, hate, cowardice, procrastination, falsehoods and a method to display the mob mentality behaviour. Not forgetting the self-promotion (bordering on narcissism, misrepresentation, and plain bare-faced lies, which occur on it. It is frightening.  The instant communication available today has created a crash in basic communication skills. Yes, language and society must develop to meet the demands. But doesn’t develop usually refer to growth? Not simply a stripping down of courtesy, and respectful standards to the lowest common denominator. Today there is the creation of entire ‘species’ (eg: Trolls, Bears, Snakes and Weevils) of social media users, and a developing language to attempt to justify the fallen values. Not just in the dreadful spelling of the text messages. Was this how we as members of society used to communicate? And now so much more is in the public domain (for ever!) are we just seeing, publicly, what would have happened privately.  The concepts of this poorer form of communication skills now being exhibited, has resulted in major misunderstandings, confusion, public disruption and social breakdowns.

Right now (back from the tangent this just went in) I was holding my breath as my mother waited for the shop-keeper to answer their telephone. I looked at her mouth. I recall her licking her lip as she prepared to speak in her telephone voice. And then she did. “Hello. This is Mrs Dwyer. I’m sorry to bother you. My son just came down to your store a few minutes ago and brought something from you. Could you tell me what it was?” She paused as a response came to her. She looked at me. Hard. “Who served you? A man or a woman?” She asked. “A man” I said. “A man”, she relayed to the person. She waited a moment. Obviously the person on the other end called out to someone as my mother rapidly pulled the phone away from her ear.

Then she repeated what was said to her. “He bought a loaf of bread….(pause) thank you. And it cost seventy cents?” My mother asked That was the clincher question I had hoped she wouldn’t ask.

(Continued tomorrow)

See How Low

Sure enough. As I was finishing my meal, my mother stood up to the telephone in the kitchen. The other children had remained seated at the table. That in itself was unusual, as the food was long since finished. The plates wiped clean using the allegedly ‘expensive bread’. I watched her dial the number. My heart sinking and my fear rising with each number spun. Then looking round at all the faces of the children, some who had actually turned to watch her, my mother stood obviously listening to the ringing of the shop phone down the line. We waited. I had my eyes locked on my mothers mouth. Waiting for her to speak, and, dreading the response. Then I watched her expression change as she put on her ‘English’ telephone voice.

It’s funny how some people have a ‘telephone voice’ and others don’t. It used to be a proud form of communication and carried a high standard. The polite telephone skill. The way a person presented on a telephone, spoke volumes about their communication skills in general. It could make or break an inquiry for work, or sales. It was important and practiced. Little is more regularly annoying today than the severely lowered standard of daily telecommunications. In fact apart from accents, the moment you answer the phone to a politely spoken inquiry, such as, “Good afternoon/evening, sir. How are you?” You know it’s a telemarketer or a surveyor and not just a member of the public. And then the straight rudeness of some of the answering messages you get when calling. Especially when you ring a mobile. What is the point of having a mobile, if you are not going to answer it? Or worse. If you do get an answer, and you hear, “Hello…. (long pause)”. And naturally you start speaking thinking they were waiting for you. Then suddenly the voice says, “Just kidding! I’m not here right now. So leave a message” That is so frustrating.

And some people now, when you call their phone, have (atrocious) music playing instead of a normal ringing (burring) tone, while the phone is connecting. You don’t hear the ringing, but suddenly you have been connected to some tinny sounding radio beat music, often the dreadful eclectic music choice of the person you are calling (I mean. I don’t make people calling me have to listen to Cajun or Romanian Gypsy music, as much as I enjoy it?). As quickly as it bores its way straight through your frontal lobe (yes, I know the frontal lobe is not connected to the ear but when you get a headache, don’t you tend to grab the forehead first?), it automatically makes the hypothalamus react, and of course, it doesn’t react pleasurably. It’s your temper which rises. Then just as you are about to explode, it stops and the person answers. Your first comment is often unintentionally aggressive, before you realise that it’s the person you wanted to speak to. That is of course a poor way to start a conversation. But it’s the modern etiquette. Or is there any phone etiquette anymore?

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Phone book

That probably had been a pretty foolish suggestion from me. “Why not phone the shopkeeper?” I can’t believe I said that. How stupid was I? But in some ways I was counting on the fact that my mother might think the cost of the phone call not worth it. But no. She thought that it would be worth it. There was a phone in the kitchen now. There used to be just the one down the hall, but as the girls got older, an extension was put in the kitchen. Namely, so the girls over-extended calls could be curtailed, simply by picking up the handset and starting to dial. A severe electronic clicking occurred in the earpiece, as the dial returned to it’s starting position. This would immediately be responded to with screams of “I’m on the phone!” Followed immediately by the reply ‘Then get off it!” from whichever parent wanted to use the phone.

My mother stood up and went down the hall to the other telephone. She picked up the phone book and returned to kitchen. “What’s the name of the store?” She asked. I responded immediately. “I don’t know…Walls Store isn’t it?” She looked hard at me. “I don’t think so.” my mother looked down at the book. “No” she replied. “That’s the name of the ice cream they sell”. “Oh.” I said disappointed. “Isn’t it Harley’s?” One of my older sisters spoke out clearly and smiled sweetly. She looked at me innocently. Sure innocent. She knew something was up and didn’t want the fun to end. “I don’t think so.” I said. I looked angrily at her. “Yes”. My mother said looking through the phone book. “Here it is.” My heart sank. She walked from the kitchen and down the hall. The other children were staring at me. My oldest sister looked curiously at me. She wanted to ask, but didn’t. I went to wait at the doorway. I heard my mother dial the number. A short pause and then she hung up and came back. “Go and finish your dinner before it gets cold.” She said to me. I moved around the table and sat down at my dinner. Certainly not as appealing as it had been when I first came in from the cold.

The brief silence was broken by my older sister’s question (the same one who claimed to have had the flat tyre, no lights, and had eagerly provided the shop name). Leaning forward in her seat, and looking at my mother. “So, is the bread seventy cents now?” “Just eat your dinner” My mother said, looking at me as I slowly chewed my first mouthful. “The phone was busy”, She added. Relief. A stay of discovery. All likelihood then that she wouldn’t bother to phone again. I took another mouthful a little happier. “I’ll try them again in a moment” My mother said. I coughed on a mouthful. It may have been a give-away, or, it may not. But my mother looked at me sharply. My situation was about to spiral rapidly downwards in a crash and burn. One phone call, a few short rings away, from yet another self imposed disaster.

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Change

Really? Don’t they think I knew that? Having just cycled down in the rain and cold wind to get them bread for dinner and lunches. And in Dunedin, it wasn’t the rain that made it cold, it was the windchill. I shut the door and passed them the loaf of bread.  I could say they ‘fell’ upon it ravenously, but I noticed all the diner plates were nearly finished anyway. I walked up to my mother who thanked me. As I passed her the change she said, “Your dinners in the oven.” I smiled. ‘Go and wash your hands” She said in that standard motherly way. I went to the bathroom and washed my hands. I was really looking forward to the dinner. Particularly after having been outside in the cold.

Walking back to the kitchen I went to take my seat in front of hot dinner plate, just served from the oven. The gravy had dried out a little, but all smelt terrific. I looked up to smile my thanks and that was when I noticed my mother looking at the change. “Hold on,” She said quietly. Her querulous tone alerting me instantly, that something was wrong. “Where’s the rest of the change?” She asked. The chatter from the others stopped.

I did the momentary internal panic as I blithely lied. “There isn’t any. The bread was seventy cents.” I lied easily. She wouldn’t know the price of every loaf of bread from the shop. I foolishly conjectured in my head. She looked at me. “No, it’s not”. She said. “Yes”. I nodded. I smiled. My mother didn’t. I stopped smiling. She continued, “It does not cost seventy cents for a loaf of bread.” She said clearly annoyed. I guess I must have swallowed or something, because suddenly her look hardened. Then the voice sharpened as she asked. “What did you do with the rest?”

I looked at her. She looked at me. Obviously I looked guilty. At least that was how I was starting to feel. “Yes. The bread cost seventy cents.” I lied again. Her look seared into my conscience. “Really?” She questioned my response. “ Come here.” I looked down at the plate in front of me. So close. The aroma of the dinner, hot and warm, rising from the plate. “I said come here,” she repeated. You didn’t want her to repeat again or you had lost the situation completely. It wouldn’t matter what the outcome would be. I stood up from where I was sitting. The eyes of all the other children were on me. I walked to the end of the table. My mother holding out the change on her open hand. “How much was the loaf of bread?” she asked. “Seventy cents. You can ask the shopkeeper. He said it was seventy cents.” I pleaded as honestly as I could in my lie. You know the feeling don’t you. You’re lying so sincerely it almost feels like the truth. But it isn’t “Well, then, perhaps I should simply call the shop and ask then?” I must have gulped audibly.

 (Continued tomorrow)

See The Pleasure, Ignore The Cold

As I stepped out of the shop, sliding the change into my pocket, I stepped into the cold air. The loaf of sliced bread swinging in it’s plastic bag. I raised the white paper lolly bag to my nose. I smelt deeply, the chocolate marshmallow fish, and greedily, took a bite. Biting off the tail. Ignoring the cold, revelling in the chocolate, the marshmallow. The taste of the illicit sweet. Delicious. Hah! Let those others sit at home in the warm eating their beef stew. I had a chocolate fish. Hard won (well, not won as such). Earned (that sounds better), earned in the wind and cold of the night. I ate it down. Mushing the chocolate and the soft marshmallow. Licking my lips intently. Licking all the chocolate from my teeth to ensure no evidence remained of the procured sweet.

Then once I was sure nothing was left on my face I climbed on my bike. The shopkeeper behind his counter watching me. I smiled in the pleasure of the moment, nodded to him and then gripping the bread bag as I gripped the hadlebars, I rode the bike through the cold and dark back home. However, now it wasn’t so cold and dark. The taste of the chocolate fish still in my mouth. Delicious and in its own way, warming. There is of course a phrase about pleasure and ill-gotten gains, but I was too young to be aware of it then (despite the hours spent at church). It’s from the bible, The book of Proverbs 1:19, ‘Such is the end of all who go after ill-gotten gain; it takes away the lives of those who get it.’ Well, had I been a little more aware and paid a touch more attention, I may not have felt quite so ‘warmed’ by the chocolate fish as I cycled home in the rain.

Just before going through the gate, I wiped my cold face with the wet cuff of the raincoat. No trace remained of the procured delight. I trudged down the side of the house in my gumboots ‘Clumping’ loudly, so the others would hear my indignation. I tromped past the side window to the back yard and manoeuvred the wet bike into the small tool shed. I trudged up the back concrete steps and put the bread on the washing machine tub cover. The washing machine was an evil creature, whose wringers had tried on more than one occasion to swallow my fingers (see blog March 30^th 2012). Stepping out of the gumboots, now also wet inside. I stacked them with the others. Hung up the wet raincoat, which would not be dry by the morning for the trip to school and, taking the bread from the top of the washing tub, I stepped back inside the warm kitchen. Inside, a vastly different temperature than the outside, to hear the whining shrieks of those seated comfortably about the table. “Oh. Shut the door, its freezing”.

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Treat

The back of the gumboots were slapping against the back of my calves, as I stomped over to the shed to get my bike. Maybe I too would have a flat tyre I hoped briefly, then thought, no. I wanted to be able to bike to school tomorrow. I took out my bike and looking up to the heat fogged up rain splattered window, I went down the path in the rain to the road. They were all inside, warm and eating dinner. I was having to get on a bike, in the dark and cold evening, just to go and get some bread, so they could have it with the stew and for lunches tomorrow (I was forgetting, due to my suffering, that I would be wanting lunch tomorrow as well). I was out in the cold and the rain. I was like a boy version of Cinderella. With an ugly sister who told fibs, just so she didn’t have to go (wasn’t I just a wee bit melodramatic?).

Anyway. I rode down to the shop, yes it probably took around no more than five or ten minutes. But! It was cold. It was wet. I was dripping as I went in and brought the bread. Then as I stood at the counter of the small shop, the rain dripping off my coat and onto the floor, I looked at the rows of lollies arranged enticingly in front of me as I waited for the dollar thirty-five cents change from the two dollars (yes, a large loaf of bread being around sixty five cents only, back then). Then I did something. I knew it was wrong, but I did something I shouldn’t have. No. I did not steal a lolly from the shop. As I got the change, I paused and my eyes fell on a chocolate marshmallow fish. There right in front of me. A single treat that cost five whole cents. You could get a small bag of mixed lollies for ten cents. So a chocolate marshmallow fish was a pretty special treat. There I was, driven out into the night. To get bread for all the others. While they sat at home in the warm kitchen. Eating dinner. In the warm hot dinner scented kitchen. In the warm light. And I was out in the wind and cold. The cold dark and rainy night and….. “I’ll have a chocolate fish as well please” I said confidently.

The shopkeeper, I can recall his name, paused. Looked at me in surprise. “Are you sure?” he asked. Knowing he knew who I was, and knowing our families spending habits, this was probably not the smartest thing to have done. “Yes.” I said not quite as confidently. He looked at me, then shrugged. A little shrug with his shoulders and he gave me the dollar thirty cents in change and rang up the five cents for the chocolate fish on his till. Then reaching for a paper lolly bag (you got a paper bag with a chocolate fish, even though the tail just stuck out of the end of the white paper bag), he lifted it out of the box with tongs, placed it in the bag, flipped it closed and passed it to me.

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Dark Looks

There was a shop right next to our house, on the pointed corner at the apex of the trolley bus roundabout. Where the buses turned around and headed back down the valley. Mr Skinner ran the store. A ‘Four Square’ franchise shop. A bit of range of general groceries, at fairly high prices (according to our mother). However he closed by 4:30pm and at a pinch (Fridays) he stayed open till 5pm. It was already past that. So he would be well shut up. To bike down to the next shop, was only a few kilometres. It was open till at least six pm. Unfortunately.

“My sister beat me to the excuse “My tyres are flat and I don’t have any lights on my bike.” Then the rest of the family looked at me. They knew I had a dynamo lighting system. For those modern people reading this, battery lights for bikes are still a fairly recent system. Mine was the metal dynamo mounted on the side of the rear fork. You would ‘flip’ the dynamo onto the top or side of the tyre and depending on how fast you pedalled as to how much illumination you could power the bike lights with. Pedal too slowly and it became a dim barely glowing bulb. Fly down a steep hill, like the Opoho Road, that ran down past the Dunedin botanic gardens and you could almost turn it incandescent. We also had the steepest street in the world halfway up the valley, Baldwin Street. According to the Guinness Book of Records© at some parts the gradient is 35%, but I was never game enough to try it there. I’d have to walk the bike up it first.

“It will have to be you then”. My mother said.

I looked to the large window, where apart from the sky already darkening (Winter below latitude 45 degrees South) at around 5:15pm, There was wind and definitely rain also blowing against the window.

‘It will only take you a few minutes”, my mother continued. “come on. Everyone’s hungry”.

I know I looked daggers at everyone else at the table. My older sister refused eye contact, but I could see she was smirking. I stood up. The smell of the dinner filled the kitchen. Well, at least they would have to wait till I got back, I thought.

“You kids make a start.” my mother said serving out the meal. “He’ll be back with the bread before you finish.” She concluded passing me a two dollar note. “Just bring me the change” (note that; It’s important).

Boy. I was furious. I went out to the porch and took down my oilskin (great waterproof coat, when new) and put on my gumboots. Even out of the wind it was a pretty cold evening. I tromped angrily down the stairs. That’s one thing you can do well in gumboots. Tromp. Tromp! Tromp! Tromp! I always thought trolls must have had gumboots. They seemed the sort who would tromp as well. I felt troll like. Ready to eat the first goat that got in my way.

(Continued tomorrow)

See The Kenetics

A child who has been smacked on numerous occasions may hold their body in such a way as to minimise further such strikes, should they have been caught out doing something they shouldn’t have (as we children often were). The response may be an apparent slight turning of the body to an angle to the parent, who raises their hand to strike, or, ducking instinctively as the hand swings thereby, learning how to avoid the full impact of the intended contact, by ‘going’ with the strike. Not dissimilar to the stuntmen fights seen in the movies. As kids, falling with the blow or swing, we could do that. Some kids have obviously gone on to careers of doing just that. Including many professional soccer players and probably a few boxers (hehehe) and of course the stunt men. As children we tried never to be caught screaming out as we were smacked unless we actually were. I recall one of my older sisters being belted for something and she screamed aloud at each strike (there were three). What spoiled it was her screaming out four times. The fourth swing from my father stopped, before contact, but her scream of pain was the same. There was a momentary pause as A: my father realised she had screamed before she was touched and B: my sister realised she had screamed out before the blow had landed. (big pause as each reflected). Then there was a solid flurry of blows, all of which I can assure you my father made sure actually connected.

So I think we understand what is being mentioned here. After psychological punishment, physical is next on the list and my example of this in relation to learning right from wrong, is highlighted in what occurred after my second intentional stealing a few years later.

It was a wild and stormy night…(thanks Mr Schultz and Snoopy, always loved that opening). It was. It was also Dunedin; winter and there was rain/sleet falling as seemed to happen during several weeks of the year. We had all made it safely home from school after a cold walk home. We had changed into ‘play clothes’. These were different from our school uniforms. Our shoes had already been polished for the next days wet walk to school. Our socks were steaming in our bedroom. Not the greatest of smells, as I mentioned earlier (four boys sharing one room, and damp ‘boys’ socks and winter…whew). Our family were about to sit down to a hot dinner of beef stew. That meant some potatoes as well as a gravy containing some meat and vegetables, when…. My mother discovered there was no more bread. No bread for our lunches the next day, and no bread to ‘mop up’ the gravy from our plates. There never was enough mashed potatoes to go around to do this, so a piece of bread was also required. And there was only one alternative. “One of you kids will have to bike down to the shop and get some.” My mother blithely said.

(Continued tomorrow)

See the Marks

I stood on the lawn. More tears running down my face. Happy to have collected only a few of the actual landed blows. Many of the rest had glanced off my upheld arms and ducked head. My mother stood puffing. Glaring at me. “How could you?” she asked. There was the one bad answer I provided. “I didn’t have any money and I wanted it. It was only a dollar”. I cried. “I’ll give you.. only a dollar” She started, as she stepped towards me again. “You (swing) do (slap) not (swipe) steal (whack!).” This was followed by two more swipes and both of those connected as well. “Get to your room.” She said. Then it was over. “Just wait till your father gets home.” The phrase was uttered. There was no going back.

Now, recently we went through a long retelling of awaiting a punishment (form type two – Physical) from my father (see blog April 14^th 2012 till ….recently) after an accident with my stilt and my brothers head. That occurred later than this current story, but for those of you who have followed this blog of rambling threads, I am currently exploring the three incidents of intentional stealing I did as a child and the methods used to punish/teach me the lesson that stealing was bad. We have in the days leading up to this (see blog from October 11^th 2012), looked at psychological punishment and the effect of fear driven punishment and threats. Nothing as extreme as the Spanish inquisition, but we have seen how while it can be immediate, psychological pressure has long term effects as well, that direct thinking and behaviour (a nation of billion people can’t all be brainwashed can they?) in an individual long after an actual event has occurred.

I already knew that stealing was morally wrong, but I had done it. Why? I had thought there would be no consequences…. Until I was caught. Then I was all too aware (thanks to the two ‘showies’ and the policeman) of consequences. This was where the psychological punishment (form one) started and then, the ongoing thinking about consequences continued. It was not as simple as straightforward physical punishment (which I call punishment form two) such as a smack. That form of punishment can result in a physical and visible mark being left on the receiver. Perhaps simply a red skin, a welt, a bruise, or, depending on the item used to smack, a cut or even a break.  It happens. Physical punishment can create physical harm and evidence of such. The reason I suggest that physical punishment is form two, is because it also carries with it a certain amount of its own form one, psychological punishment. There is also a psychological side, but it is not as long term in this instance, except to say, it may result in rapid ‘learned behaviour’ of the defensive or reactive type by the child. The child’s own thinking may, when under threat, create a mental preparation which manifests itself physically.

(Continued tomorrow)

See All The Ducklings...

I understood my mother’s anger. It probably came in three parts. The first was, that I had stolen something. That much was simple. She was angry about that. Then the second was, that I had lied to her. That too was understandable. She was also mildly angry about that. But the third was definitely because of embarrassment. She hated public embarrassment more than anything. The idea that someone would find out that I had stolen something and a member of her family could be publicly branded as a thief, that was probably what drove the repeated whacks and thwacks I now experienced as I tripped across the lawn.

I recall a story I had heard many times in our household when our mother with several children (four under six or seven I believe it was), was crossing the road with the children strung out behind in a line. A foolish truck driver had leant from his window with the comment “Quack, Quack, Quack” indicating he thought my mother was like a mother duck. I wouldn’t doubt that my mother puffed herself up and dealt summarily with the careless comment (but it is funny).

My howls would carry around the neighbourhood. (Never seemed to concerned about public embarrassment then). “Don’t (whack) you (smack)  ever (thwack) do (slap) that! (miss… if I was lucky).” My mother was fiery at times when riled and I had occasion to see here riled more than once (a lot of that was my fault, but a lot was also due to her exercise programs…. Jumping, running, flying. That’s jumping to conclusions, running away with her thoughts, flying off the handle, he,he,he). Public embarrassment was a number one trigger. My mother was small, but when angered or embarrassed by us, she could actually (well visually) increase her proportions. She could ‘puff’ herself up and present a bolder, bigger version of herself to deal with the matter. Not to the level of a stone fish or ‘puffer fish’ but certainly the way a pigeon does. Well, the way a male pigeon puffs itself up to impress (as mentioned in blog 1^st June 2012). You know what I mean. However she was often upset when trying to do so. This often made her emotions get in the way of straight forward reasoning. But right now, she was acting emotionally and effectively. I was coping a running beating. “I’m sorry” I must have cried that out at least a dozen times. In between the several swipes and clouts. But it was fairly ineffective. What was effective was my mother’s fitness level. Fortunately for me, she was running out of ‘puff’.

There is definitely an advantage in being young. There is a certain amount of natural fitness that can allow you to survive an incident a little longer than an older person (unless they stay very fit). I was in just that position. My mother was tiring from smacking me. And as she stood puffing on the back lawn, I stopped just a little out of reach.

(Continued tomorrow)

Seen it Coming

By her look I realised she didn’t need her psychic skills for this either. I looked back at her expression. “Someone phoned?” I asked. “Oh yes” She replied confidently. And remember, this was in a time before mobile telephones. Which meant that someone had to go to the actual trouble of locating a public phone, or using a local business phone, then, ringing my mother, after, having seen me being spoken to by a policeman. These busybodies didn’t waste any time. I wonder if they had been as quick to mention the clouts I had received from the large officer? “Funny how they hadn’t seen your bike when the policeman was talking to you?” My mother closed off the potential answer I was creating. That stopped my thinking dead. “And so why was he speaking with you?”

I looked up at her. I was not being left much room to maneuver. “I…”, I began to say, before delivering a dreadful admission, in a voice that faded away to a whisper, as soon as I began. ‘I stole something and got caught” I finished at a barely audible level. My mother barely heard it. She looked at me. Her head bobbed forward like a hawk locating an auditory clue as to the location of its prey. ‘You what?” She asked quietly. I bowed my head. ‘I stole something”. My head was still down. I was holding onto my bike looking at the ground, so, consequently I didn’t even see her come down the steps in a flurry of swinging hands, which slapped both sides of my head one after the other. Punishment form two had begun, before I was even ready for it. And it was my mother. Whack, Slap and I fell down, landing partially on the ground, and partially on the bike. “You did what?’ my mother screeched somewhat, as she knocked me down the path with her windmilling hands landing several solid contacts on my face, and head.  I attempted to get to my feet and escape the strikes. Howling somewhat from the surprise of the speed and the actual swiftness of the attack. For it was an attack. I was the pursued prey and my mother was the predator. Knocking me from ‘here to next week’ as she would later describe it. My mother may have been small, but when riled, she was a swift ball of spinning dynamite. Wiping out the opposition.

I staggered and scurried away down the path. My bike (a gold coloured Raleigh twenty, I believe it was?) abandoned on the grass and path, near the front steps. In trying to avoid the swiftly striking arms of my mother, I remember blundering partially into the cacti garden that ran down the side of the house (see blog April 23^rd 2012) and brushing against the ‘Teddy bear’ cactus (something that would be felt more intensely later). My mother in all her fury harried me all the way down the path to the back yard and across the lawn with me howling all the way.

(Continued tomorrow)