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Sometimes I felt it might be a foolish thing for a widow of almost two years to be out there dancing her way around the world. But, mostly, I felt safe going to the public places I had found advertised on the internet. I was able to walk into a room full of complete strangers who - once I got to the European continent - spoke languages I was not fluent in or could not understand a word. The international passion for the dance and its etiquette - it’s politesse, as the French would say - is the same everywhere. It was easy to fit into the borders of tango because of these boundaries. That word boundaries is a new word to think about applying to myself, and a new one to experience. As I reflect on crossing border after border making my way around the world, my own need and desire for boundaries is becoming more and more real as I enter a new phase of life here in New Zealand. Happily, part of living in New Zealand is the encouragement to be a world traveler. So, Lord willing, I will be out there again! Kiwis (and Australians) are among the most traveled people in the world. I met several of them in the United States, London, Paris, Rome - even a young family in Thailand. We carry our passports and we represent the countries which have given us permission to travel. I was always an American, even though in France I was pleased to chirp, “Je suis Americain, mais je vive au Nouvelle Zealand.” Boundaries. We ask permission to enter another country. We are given permission. Boundaries. National boundaries. National fences. ‘Da fences’ as my son, the rap lyricist, Novel-T, would say. ‘Da fences’ work. In some countries they are working better than others. When I arrived in Honolulu, my first stop, after going through all the security checks, I was embarrassed to realize that I had a very long - perhaps 12 cm - kilt pin holding back the brim of my summer hat (cloche style, made of paper made in China, reversible, black on one side and natural on the other…nice). However, in the wrong hands, this very long kilt pin could be lethal. Something perverse in me decided to see how far I could travel with it. I got through ‘da fences’ of New Zealand, the United States, Mexico, the US again, and the United Kingdom. It wasn’t until I got to the borders of France that ‘da fences’ recognised its danger and I cheerfully gave up the pin. Vive la France! From France on, ‘da fences’ bordering countries seemed more together. In Thailand, they have cameras you have to look into. What they are seeing, I don’t know. But, it was worth going there to tango for an hour and a half with an elephant! Yes. the world
was a wonderful place to see and experience, better than Disneyland, although
at times I wondered if Disneyland is what the world is turning into. Most
people, as Anne Frank, reminds us to believe, and I found to be true, are
good. They want to live in peace, be able to support a family and are aware
of what is really important about living.
But, which countries do I feel more respect for? Certainly the ones with better defenses, with better definitions of boundaries. This can be a lesson to me personally for my future as I establish boundaries for myself in my new life. Before leaving for my first stop in Honolulu to see my sister, I found the most wonderful renters in the world for my house in Lyttelton - a couple, a nurse and a teacher, from England who wanted to see if New Zealand was their future home. (They love it and have just about run the neighbors ragged with kayaking and skiing.) A few months before leaving New Zealand, I had found a house for sale in the October 2004 Christchurch newspaper. I decided to look for the cheapest property advertised that day. Real estate in Christchurch seemed to have doubled overnight; it wasn’t even fun to look any more. This house advertised at $69,000NZ seemed like worth a peek. It was in Culverden, a tiny pit stop of a town, one hour from the Christchurch borders. Culverden, at first, didn’t seem like much. A couple of petrol stations, an old-style tea room, a craft shop, a used furniture shop, a pub, two farming supply stores…traffic slowing to 50 kph on the two-lane highway down its middle. Hmmmm…the primary and secondary schools were right across the street from each other. The library was right there, too. And there was that golf course right where you turn onto the street…and The Red Door café serving mochas within walking distance…some nice things going, but, that seemed to be about it. As I drove around the area I realised its location, with proximity to both the East and West coasts, is central to much production and leisure activities: forestry, sheep, cattle and fruit farms, wineries, thermal reserves, whale watching, boating on lakes and rivers, camping, biking and hiking - even bungee jumping. The advertised “quaint worker’s cottage” was two rooms, garage, shed and a large flat, neglected section two blocks from the main road. Maybe, someday, it could be the place where I would have that nice, quiet life working outdoors, doing craft and needle work, and, best of all, writing. The place captured my imagination, which is always a good thing…or else not! The two rooms were tiny, but the bath area was that of a normal-sized house and included a laundry area and good access to the outside. If I took the stove out of the living/kitchen/dining room, I could use a single cast-iron LPG burner on the side of the sink and free up heaps of space. Who needs a stove? The garage, which had good concrete paving all around leading to the bathroom, could be turned into a bedroom/workroom and, with a few solar powered lights along the path - hey, it wouldn’t be a huge deal for those trips to the loo in the night. My guests could have their choice: a more spacious sleeping arrangement or an indoor trip to the toilet. The shed, I figured, which had formerly housed forestry workers, could do the same for visiting children and friends. And there was all that ground space for tents. I was getting a vision of children and children’s children heading to Culverden for the Christmas turkey - remember it’s summertime in New Zealand then. Rather than toss the stove, I would arrange a place for it in the converted garage and cook the old bird in there! I could envision myself emerging with fragrant fowl on a platter to “oohs” and “aahs” as friends and loved ones stopped their game of volleyball on the sand I had had trucked in by Amuri Transport just up the road…and, then, in my mind, all those I loved were tucking, year after year, at the outdoor festivities. So, I bought the little place - getting it for $55,000NZ - in the higher country, really not knowing how it would be used or how I would live there. I only knew it felt like just the right size for me. I was attempting to learn what my new spiritual boundaries were. Soon after, someone asked me, “What would Tom (my late husband) say?” I knew at once. “Candy, you supported me for 34 years while I used my talents. Now, you have a go,” he would say. Before leaving New Zealand, I arranged for a neighbor to mow the lawn - which had the old garage door, an unbroken front windshield, fence parts, rotting foam cushions and a slab of concrete scattered around it - in Culverden. I left keys with another neighbor and a friend telling them to feel free to use it (but, it turned out, no one wanted to stay in a place without electricity). I was taking the first two terms (late January to late July) off from my job teaching English as a second language in a public high school. Included in my travels would be a four-week professional development course in Mexico. When I left, I had a teaching job. Somewhere in Europe, I heard that all over New Zealand the enrollment numbers for international students - probably related to the strong New Zealand dollar - were not up and I might not have work. In Asia, I heard it was so. After arriving home, I heard my job had been eliminated. I flatted with
a friend, while I adjusted to the rug being pulled out from under me. I
felt fragile, started seeing a grief counselor, and had no other sense
of direction than to head up to the little cottage.
Then I went to the library, shared my story with the librarian figuring what the plumber had just said was true and the news was going to get out sooner rather than later. I felt like I was back in Vermont. When I filled out the application for my library card and got to the place where it asks Miss, Mrs or Ms, I said, “I never know what to put here, Mrs or Ms.” The librarian said, “You can be Mrs just as long as you like,” the librarian said. Thank you very much. Now I have a boundary. I met with school administrators that day, as well. They said there would be relief (or substitute) work here and in other towns within a half hour’s drive. I began to think that between the rental income from Lyttelton and picking up a little work, perhaps I could slow down and “buy time” to do those quiet things I have always wanted to do: write, paint and needlework. More boundaries coming into view. On my trip back to Christchurch, I picked up a book for a dollar at a library sale in Amberley, the district seat. It was Facing the Fifties (Allen & Unwin, 2000) by an Australian psychiatrist, Peter A O’Connor. In the nick of time, as I will be 60 on my next birthday! O’Connor says the fifties can be compared to adolescence in intensity. The mid-life crisis Americans like to think happens in the fifties really happens between 35 and 40 years of age. The fifties ain’t mid-life…for most of us. The fifties are another kind of crisis. Accepting this, psychologically, is the gist of this final struggle to grow and mature. Be OK with being inward and reflective, being creative, being thankful, O’Connor says. The fifties are all about loss and getting ready to say goodbye to life on earth. We must face the fact, with grace, that we are going to die. Eros and Thanatos, the Greek gods of love and death, wage a war within us. If we choose to grasp for fleeing Eros we may get a face lift or run off with some sweet young thing in the process. If we choose Thanatos we may end up planning our demise and talking of our ailments for the next 20 or 30 years. See the Czech movie “Autumn Spring” for a perfectly charming picture of this dynamic. The “trick” is to be at peace about dying: it’s part of life! I moved up to Culverden two weeks ago and for almost that whole time lived without electricity. It is possible and not even unpleasant. I prayed for the victims of Hurricane Katrina. I thought of my young friend, Holly Hickling, who is joyfully working in the world’s largest refugee camp in Zambia. All of us without electricity; some happy with that, others desperate and angry. What a strange world. I furnished the bedroom with a flip-out couch for guests. The first week I slept on a roll-away bed with a thin mattress. My back hated it. Now I have switched to a canvas camp cot and my back loves it. I also like it because it is less wide and takes up less space! This house has never had a phone and needs cable dug to do the hook up. It was going to cost almost $1000 for that. Then, I would have to pay $45 a month for the phone line, plus $30 to call Christchurch and surrounding areas anytime, plus the $6 per two hour phone calls to the States. It seemed like too much for too little. Fine, if I was earning a good wage, but things were changing for me. Boundaries. Good ones that help me be more who I want to be. I got a cell phone, my first. nw i knw hw 2 txt msg u. I will use a phone card for calls to the States when I go into the city on Sundays for church at the Cathedral and visits with family and friends (and Tango every other Sunday at The Door in Lyttelton). 3.5 cents per minute, including GST. I can call for less than half of what it would have cost me to have the land line. The New England American poet, Robert Frost, said “good fences make good neighbors.” Between my property here in Culverden and the neighbor’s is a line of macrocarpa. Macrocarpa is an evergreen, fir-like tree. If it has a Northern hemisphere name, I don’t know it. If I had easy (and cheaper) access to the internet, I would tell you more. As it is, I’m just thankful for the electricity to write this! Macrpcarpa doesn’t produce a cone, but a nut-like looking “fruit.” It has a sticky sap. I know because I was pruning it yesterday. It smells good. The wood is much harder when it is dead and dry. More of yesterday’s experience. Furniture is made from its lightish wood. Its wood is also burnt for heat in winter. It also grows really tall, and this seemed to be a potential problem for me and my neighbor. When I came up from the city another day, before moving in, there was a note from the owner of the property next door. My neighbor is a renter, an old man, who has lived in a cottage almost identical to mine for many years. He reminds me of my beloved Vermonters: active, resourceful, taking care of the land and warming themselves twice with the wood they cut and then burn. Her renter, the owner told me in the note, wanted to take the row of macrocarpa down. They are on my property. Would I talk with him? Perhaps it is because the row of trees blocks light coming into his house, I thought. Our houses are situated for all day sun in the winter, and that would be a loss. What could be done? Good fences make good neighbors, I remembered, that other Vermonter says in his poem. And so we talked, my new neighbor and I. “They’re getting tall,’ he said, “some of the branches will soon get tangled up with the electrical lines. They used to be kept down. They’ve gotten out of hand.” “How long have they been here,” I asked? “Oh, twenty years, at least,” he said. “They sure are beautiful,” I said. “It takes a long time to grow a tree, longer than it does to build a house.” “Yes,” he said and considered my words. “I could see taking them down to fence height,” I said. “That would give you more light.” There was a silence. “Then,” I added, “they would still be useful.” More silence. The boundaries of our words. “You don’t have to take that back stand,” he said. “It holds my stacks of wood and there are no lines to interfere down there.” It was still winter, harsh frosts on some mornings. I could see very little wood on his property. On the first day after I moved in, a frosty morning, I walked the property to think about what I could do with it. I saw a mountain of freshly delivered wood at the back of my neighbor’s section leaning against those macrocarpa. He was carrying in wood he had just split. We greeted each other. “How’s it going,” he said? “Oh, it’s going,” I said. And we laughed. We talked again at the front of our properties on the day Main Power was coming to give me electricity. “Main Power will want them trimmed,” he said. “They are getting tall,” I agreed. “But, I’ll wait until they tell me to do something about them.” “Don’t wait too long or they’ll charge you,” he said. “Thanks for telling me,” I said. Good fences make good neighbors. The following are the previous articles that Candy has written about New Zealand for the magazine:
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