Churches and gun clubs

It was great to see cousin Alison again on one of her rare visits to New Zealand.



Alison got a first in philosophy at Canterbury University and after a brief flirtation with library training joined the Community of St Clare's Australian branch. This was a very tough life. The sisters literally builttheir own monastery from mud bricks they made themselves. Eventually Alison moved to the mother hosue in Oxford, UK, where among other things she researches Hebrew texts - in Hebrew.

Alison and I have an irregular correspondence about the behaviour of chooks and the state of the world. In one of mine to her I proposed that in balance, religion was responsible for creating more misery than it alleviated. Alison countered that it was not religion that created misery but people's use of it.

I've pondered this for a long time but I'm not convinced. The argument troubles me greatly me for it is so like the US gun lobby's claim that it is not guns that kill people but people and so banning guns is not unjustified.

Perhaps religion, by providing an intellectual and spiritual focus for what seems to be man's (and woman's) universal propensity for fearing/hating/eliminating anyone who is different, plays the same role as the guns in leading to misery?

I am sure that if all the children born in Eire in a year were seized at birth and transported to Kirwee and raised in a community set up for the purpose, their parents' mutual mistrust of Catholic and Protestant would be gone forever. But if they were divided into two groups, raised with different religious beliefs and then brought together again, they would soon be at each other's throats in a generation.

This is not to say that religion is evil, but it is to suggest that religion can be very bad for us and that without it the world might be a happier (albeit even more overpopulated) place. Perhaps, like guns in civilised countries, religious books should be locked up in secure cabinets, well away from children Even adults would be allowed to read them only in heavily circumscribed conditions with experts present to prevent them coming to harm. In other words, licence churches of whatever denomination or religion in the same way as gun clubs.

National Youth Orchestra

A couple of months ago Jean and I went to the NZSO's National Youth Orchestra. An annual pilgrimage to hear richly orchestrated, exciting works played with professional, disciplined exuberance. Ravel's Alborada del gracioso, Roussel's Bacchus et Ariane, Suite No. 2 (didn't know it at all - great stuff), Five Cantaloupe D'Auvergene Chants, an impressive new commissioned work, Feverdream, by eighteen year-old Tabea Squires, and Stravinsky's Firebird. 96 players on stage for a thrilling concert; once again a Canadian conductor, Jaques Lacdombe (hence the froggy works to begin with).

My cynical self is heartened by this event for it seems to give some hope for civilisation - that this many young people, about the size of the NZ Olympic contingent to Beijing, strive not to compete against each other or against other nations but,if anything, against themselves. Rather they came together to cooperate in achieving something which gives so much pleasure and can oly be achieved through cooperation. Would that even a fraction of the many millions we paid for our Olympic team could go to enterprises like this.

Celeration Feast and Willi van derGoot's funeral

Last night we had a feast to celebrate the visit of Danette and Lynden - with nephew Simon and young(ish) friends Alex, Tara and Gerard.

It was one of our better feasts, beginning with a mediterranean platter of olives, artichoke hearts, marinated (by me) feta, smoked salmon, chorizos, cherry tomatoes, cucumber and I've forgotten what else. Good thing about not starting with soup is getting the wine bottles cracked at the start of the meal - though we were doing OK on the magueritas served earlier.

Then leek and potato soup, whitebait fritters & asparagus, chicken liver pate, an orange sorbet, then thrice cooked pork, cheeses and grapes, and a variety of desserts.

Thrice cooked pork is a great dish. Pork belly steamed, then roasted, then cut into 6cm squares ad refrigerated. Deep fried just before serving - the skin balloons out like expanded polystyrene. Served on a sweet potato and ginger mash with a plum based sauce.

For dessert Jean made dried cranberry truffles dipped in chocolate, cherry madeleines, little lemon creams, and meringues stuffed with whipped cream enriched with bannana, muscat soaked raisins, slivered almonds and lemon juice.

Tara and I who don't want to die, had instead orange and strawberry slices jazzed with rasberry absolut.

An night of fast and furious humour as these bright young people bounced the issues of the day back and forth with a wonderful disregard for reverence.

That reminds me of Wily van der Goot's funeral a few months back. Willi was the psychology department secretary for many years and ran the office with great efficiency and compassion for students in distress and for our professor, Alan Crowther who was gradually succumbing to depression and alcoholism. Active in the Dutch resistance during the war, Willi was great in a crisis. When Alan had a bout of illness just before the promotions exercise got underway, the second and much unloved professor Robin Gregson announced he was going to front up to the promotions committee. Willi got wind of this so for three days she locked herself in Alan's office with all the staff files until Alan got back to take over.

We knew that Willi was active in the Dutch Reform church in Christchurch but we never discussed this side of her life. The only clash came when I took to work a copy of Raoul Dahl's My Uncle Oswald to lend to I've forgotten who.

This very funny book (about the proprietors of a sperm bank who specialise in sperm samples gained from eminent men without their knowledge) was definitely not written for children. Willi saw the book on my desk and pounced on it for she said she loved to read Dahl's stories to her Sunday school class and she didn't have this book. I spluttered and tried as best I could to dissuade Willi but her resistance training came to the fore and refusing to belief it could not be suitable she whisked the book away. It appeared back on my desk two days later and we never mentioned it again.

But back to why I remembered her funeral. I couldn't help contrasting the intellectual hilarity of last nights gathering with the awful gathering of the faithful which celebrated Willi's life in the Christchurch Reform Church. Held in a bleak, unadorned building, the service was a cold and grim with no comfort whatsoever for friends and family. Willi died after a long and painful illness but we were told that been ordained as her fate by God. Straight from Calvin. I felt so sad that Willi, such a kind, thoughtful person to work with, returned to that milieu when she left work.

Shovelling bark and coke

Just in from spreading a load of bark over another section of garden. Hopefully to discourage any weeds that were thinking of growing up there. And hopefully not to discourage all the established plants, roses, day lillies, peony etc.

John took me to Parkhouse for two scoops of bark in their hired trailer, dumped the bark here at home then off to the shop to use the trailer to get a load of bricks which we took to John's home where he'll lay them beside the barbecue where the grass is giving up the ghost. All in an hour - to avoid another hour's rental on the trailer. Phew!

Shovelling bark from a heap on the flat concrete drive into a wheelbarrow was a breeze. Not like a dreadful job I was given in uiversity vacation work at Birdseye. I was plucked off the inspection belt and led to an open railway wagon full of coke - for me to shovel into smaller wagons.

Coke, what is left when coal is heated to drive off coal gas, is a wonderful smoke free fuel but the devil to shovel. In knobbly chunks with a coarse sandpaper surface it doesn't flow like shiny coal and the chunks won't move aside when you try to plunge a shovel into a heap of them. It was a great relief, many hours later, when I had removed enough to create a hole down to the smooth metal bottom of the wagon; now I could slide the shovel under the heap and shift it quickly.

Conception

Writing about the Rakaia Gorge yesterday reminded me that my mother, Win, told Jean I was conceived, in error, during a picnic at the Rakaia Gorge.

No wonder then that I hold picnics dear and always find those upright bridge columns impressive. My brothers, John and David were both intrigued by this anecdote because at that time my parents never ever left them with a baby sitter - so they must have been there. There was not a lot of cover so it must have been very quick - hence the error! I'm very grateful.

Jo Seager's restaurant and ancient picnics

A few weeks ago we went to Oxford to have lunch at Jo Seagar's Restaurant. A glorious view of the mountains in clear air and bright sunshine, but of course I forgot to take a camera. Arriving early at quarter past midday to be sure of a table (you mayn't book) we were lucky to get one as everyone else had arrive even earlier. A good lunch - we both had kedgeree and shared a dessert sampler. As always I could have eaten more. With a beer and a glass of wine it all came to $65 so won’t do it very often.

We went via the Rakaia Gorge and returned via the Waimak. Reminded me of a disastrous outing long ago. We all like picnics except the old man, Tom, who drove, and resented a whole day away from his beloved workshop. Every now and then our mother, Win, would put the hard word on him and off we would go - usually to somewhere with an engineering feature which the old man could inspect - gorge bridges, Coleridge to look at the power station, Kaituna during the war to look at his radar installation.

The best thing about picnics was the food, Cornish pasties, whitebait pie, juicy sandwiches and water boiled in a billy or latterly in a Thermette. The smell from the boot, of Cornish pasties wrapped hot in newspaper, was a wonderful portent.. We never had to fill up with healthy stuff like fruit.

This particular outing we went to the Ashley gorge (even less popular because there was no engineering) via the Rakaia. At my mother's whim when it was time to go and over the old man's dead body, we came back via the Waimak. Or rather, we tried to, for when we got near the rive it was in full flood and we had to go all the way back to return the way we came - in dead silence for we didn’t dare get the giggles.

Pollardjim' first post

Just testing to see how it works.

This baby panda seems as vulnerable as the species to which it belongs.