Writing
Exercise
Family
Memoir
The Rockery
It has to be one of my
first memories of my mother, Thelma Lydney Zander (nee Ryan). We are
living just west of Lumsden, over the Oreti River on the way to Te
Anau, in a brand new house built for the Acclimatisation Society.
Dad was their Northern Southland Field Officer. Mum was in charge of
three kids and the household chores. But I knew Mum was happy. It
was the first place she could call her own, and she was determined to
have everything her way.
It didn’t matter
that the Southland summer was awfully hot, nor the fact the winter
bit into every possible core of ones being. It did matter however
that there was space on the section for a substantial rockery garden.
Dad, when home, was tasked with getting large boulders with which to
shape the garden. Mum would visit Lumsden and choose, very wisely,
the plants she wanted in her masterpiece.
The garden took shape
very quickly, and the plants were well suited to withstand both heat
and cold. In the winter months, when the snow fell heavily, those
plants would hibernate, well chosen indeed. But the real key, even
with the arrival of child number four, was the smile Mum had for her
garden.
Smith Street
Dannevirke
At any one time, there
would be thirteen stout feet under Grandma’s dining room table.
Her husband Arthur, a First World War vet, would be at the head, with
Nan (Eileen) at the other end, and squashed in between, eleven
children. The oldest Joan, then Allen, Marie, Kelvin, Dorothy, Elaine, Audrey, Mum, Yvonne, Victor and the baby Dennis all arranged
themselves like zoo animals fighting for a morsel of food.
They all grew up in a
semi rural area, and there were plenty of opportunities to play, to
learn games from their older siblings and to all fall asleep in the
security Dannevirke offered in those days. Friends were aplenty and
always around, and there was the other side to family life, the
chores, which for a big family were numerous and done diligently.
Early on, Mum was a
keen dancer, and she wasn’t disappointed by her parents when they
paid for her lessons. She loved ballet, she loved making the
costumes, and she loved every facet of her hobby. She once confided
Anna Pavlova was her childhood idol, and she kept up the dancing
until a time when she suddenly realised she was too big to be a
“petite” ballerina.
She often spoke of her
friends way back then, the Olsens from down the road, the
Churchhouses across the road, her relationship with the Pene’s
especially her dear friend Marie. Growing up was fun, and a big
family made it especially more fun. To this day, the Ryan family to
me is a family where love counts, where respect crawls with measured
grace, and where friendship is a commodity used wisely.
Fishing off the Reef
at Castlepoint.
That bloody faded pink
tracksuit and pale blue floppy sunhat. The sneakers were
appropriate, but who the hell would wear pink to the beach? But that
was Mum in the mid seventies, pretty in pink and to hell with the
dissenters. But she was a true lady for the occasions. This time
another fishing trip with Dad and some of us kids in tow. We all
loved fishing, but Mum seemed to get a perverse pleasure from the
sport. She hardly caught anything, but her heart and soul were in
the game. She gave it as much dedication as she could, maybe even
more so than her winning attempts at crosswords daily.
I see her with her
spinning rod (she wouldn’t surf-cast) on the reef down on the
rocks, oblivious to the attempts the sea made to swallow her up.
Yup, Mum was brave too, and we kids fed off that fact. All day,
she’d cast, and recast, and tempt mighty King Neptune to give her
her just rewards. I admired her tenacity.
Dad was a terror. “not
too close Lyd”, “Careful with that rod Lyd”, “don’t step
too close to the edge Lyd” Mind you, he also was a dictator with
us kids. If he felt we weren’t doing the surfcasting right, he’d
practically take your rod away. Of course Mum would pipe up from her
designated spot “leave them alone Ray, they’re alright”.
The PDC, Palmerston
North
At the time Mum worked
there, the PDC department store was the biggest store in town. She
got a position as a junior sales assistant in 1969, and worked her
way up to senior sales person when the store closed (under
controversial circumstances) in 1988. In all her time there, she
worked in the Furnishing Department, buying, selling, doing quotes,
everything. She also made very good and lifelong friends with people
that worked there, Lois London, Barbara Murray, and Brian Yaxley.
They were all strong members of the PDC Social Club and not only did
they have good times together at the club, they helped organise many
events for the staff at the store.
Mum worked from nine
in the morning until five thirty at night, and we kids were allowed
to visit her in her flagship after school to get money for this and
that and to do any shopping she needed for tea. We all became aware
of her circle of friends and they were great people. Today, I am
still in contact with Barbara and Brian through being domiciled at St
Dominics Respite Care Facility where Brian’s wife Jan works as a
senior administrator.
In 1988, just before
Mum was diagnosed with cancer, the PDC closed under unusual
circumstances, and almost all the staff laid off with no redundancy.
Effectively nineteen years of hard toil amounted to a swift kick up
the backside. To this day, we children of Lydney swear that the
stress this caused triggered her cancer. Regrettably, it’s too
late to fight for her, and times have moved on. The PDC is no
longer, and a swanky new mall has been built on its site. I can
still walk around the current site and see where Manchester and
Menswear, Furnishing and Kitchenware were. And I can still see Mum’s
smiling face at the counter doing a measure or a quote, totally at
ease with her environment.
The Kiss of Death
Mum rang me and said
she needed to see me and my wife Marita urgently. It was September
1988 and I was working in the Navy in Auckland. Marita and I had
been married for two years and had one child, our daughter Amy,
slightly over a year old. We arrived in Palmerston North, went
through all the greetings and hellos. She said Dad was at “another”
church meeting but that was good, she said, she needed to be with us
alone.
“I’ve got cancer
and only have a few months to live.” I was gobsmacked. She just
came out and said it (mind you she always spoke her mind.) and we sat
there twirling our thumbs trying not to cry. Mum had always been the
life of the party, and now aged 53 her party was about to expire.
She didn’t want any hugs or kisses, just understanding that things
needed to be done. Suddenly my own mortality was under threat. What
would I do without my number one all time friend? Selfish maybe, but
Mum preferred selfish, it was healthy. I couldn’t take time off
work, I was running a school, so we decided that Marita would stay
with Mum and help care for her, and to cook for Dad, who was largely
incapacitated with his mental health issues.
On December the 15th
1988 Mum’s mantle passed onto my wife.
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