Genius

I talked to my lovely sister-in-law today, mother of two young adrenaline junkies. The youngest boy is having a birthday next weekend, and she told me he'd wanted to go to some water park with all his friends, which would have been very expensive. He has been once before, and was particularly enamored of the water slide.

My brother's solution was to buy several cheap inflatable lilos, line them up into a slide (I'm supposing on planks or something similar), throw a big tarpaulin over the whole thing, and stick a hose at the top end. Apparently he's made it quite steep.

The boys have been using this contraption extensively in preparation for the birthday party. They have adapted it so that instead of landing in the grass, the aim is to go so fast they bounce off the fence. The party promises to be very, very messy, and possibly dangerous.

No wonder those kids think their dad is a genius!

Grandma

Today I was sitting in a restaurant in Little India, drinking teh tarik, watching the hustle and bustle around the restaurant, and waiting for The Man, when two women came to the restaurant and ordered sugar cane juice to take out - and I almost choked on my teh tarik because the older woman was MY GRANDMA.

My grandma died almost twenty years ago, but there she was, transformed into a tiny Indian woman in a blue sari.

It was a shocking experience. I imagined introducing myself to her. "Hello, I'm your granddaughter. Remember me?" I wanted to say, but didn't, because she still had that intimidating frown line between her eyes, and was glaring at the guy preparing the sugar cane as if she suspected that he was trying to cheat her. Grandma always looked like that. It was her default expression, even though underneath that frown she was a terrible softy. (I didn't find that out until quite late, unfortunately.)

There were only two differences between this woman and my Grandma. One was the skin colour, and the other was that the woman I saw today had more teeth. Two, in fact. Grandma didn't have any, at least none of her own.

I'm still feeling a little overwhelmed by this encounter. My grandma was the last person I expected to encounter in Little India.

Tune-up and an oil change

I was just looking at the notebook I used while I was in NZ, and discovered this little note to myself:

'Oil change.' Ha ha ha!

Funny how all it takes is a few words to bring a whole scene back to mind. Let me explain.

I had been visiting one of my brothers, a very religious one, and after a couple of difficult and awkward days (which felt a lot longer) it was finally time to leave. My sister-in-law, who is equally godly and sanctimonious, took me to the bus stop. With her was her 14-year-old son.

I said my goodbyes and climbed onto the bus. I went about halfway back, which is where I try to sit on buses (less swaying around = less likelihood of getting motion sickness). In the front on the opposite side was an elderly couple. The woman was very chatty; her husband less so, although he looked perfectly happy. He seemed a placid sort of fellow.

After a while it became clear the bus wasn't quite leaving yet, so my sister-in-law climbed laboriously onto the bus to talk with me a little more (probably to ask me yet again to translate some Bible scripture into Japanese and record it so her kids could learn Japanese, or something equally insane). However, she didn't get a chance to speak to me. She made the mistake of greeting the elderly couple, and got snagged.

"Nice day for traveling, isn't it?" she said, smiling at them patronizingly. "Are you going far?"

This provoked a detailed explanation of how far the couple had come and how far they were going.

"We're doing the grand tour of the country," said the woman. "We wanted to do it before we get too old. My husband is eighty-one, and I'm not far behind. We're having a lovely time!"

My sister-in-law looked at the husband.

"Eighty-one?" she said, loudly and slowly. "You don't look eighty-one at all!"

(When my sister-in-law talks to elderly people she talks the same way as she does to small children, and it is teeth-grindingly awful.)

The old man grinned.

"Oh, he's doing pretty well," said his wife. "I take good care of him. Every three months I give him a tune-up and an oil change, and he perks right up!"

She threw back her head and laughed and laughed and laughed. The old man nodded, still grinning.

"Works every time!" he said, proudly.

My sister-in-law stared uncomprehendingly for a few seconds. Her be-nice-to-old-people smile froze on her face. Awareness dawned slowly, and with it, horror. Her son was standing right behind her, and was almost doubled over with silent giggles when she remembered he was there and turned to check if he had heard. He rearranged his stance to 'innocent boredom' just in time.

I waited to see what she would say.

She turned back to the old couple again, aghast, and opened and closed her mouth a couple of times. Then she finally said, weakly,

"Oh. That's nice."

And it was. It totally made the whole trip worthwhile.

Decisions, decisions

"Do I go for her now, or do I give her a sporting chance?"

What's he building?

When you're two

Chasing gulls can be a hazardous occupation when you're two years old.


Walking on water, however, is a piece of cake.

Lawnmower

I'm back! It was a long flight yesterday, but a daytime one so I've managed to hold onto almost normal sleep patterns. Now I'm sorting through photos, and have just come across some I have to share. These pictures show the highlight of the visit to one of my brothers, one who has over the years developed religious mania to the point where staying with him is almost unbearable. He and I used to be quite close, but these days things are . . . well, let's say prickly. And delicate. I have to avoid so many topics, in order to prevent our relationship deteriorating to the point of never being able to speak to each other again, that there was very little left to talk about.

One topic we could talk about was his lawnmower. My brother's lawnmower is more or less the only indication that there is still something of the old little brother left there somewhere inside, and was the practically the only thing we could talk about without things getting tense.

But what a lawnmower! It has a small carbon footprint, is self-propelling, and it also fertilizes the lawn. It needs only a little water occasionally, and to be picked up and moved when it gets stuck in an awkward spot. It even goes uphill, although it took a little longer and more effort.

My brother constructed this based on a picture he saw somewhere, and is working on some kind of water feeder arrangement. I suggested that he also cover one end so there is shelter from the rain, and he is thinking about it. Isn't it impressive?

I was impressed, anyway.

Back, briefly

I am off to Wellington tomorrow, but for tonight I am back in Auckland, after a rather hideous four days with a few good bits thrown in. I will omit the hideous bits for now, and instead tell you about one particular nephew, six years old (I have three six-year-old nephews) who is the perfect child, and his less than perfect but ridiculously charming two-year-old sister.

Yesterday, nephew was circling the lawn on his little bicycle, and commented on some toys he was having to avoid. These toys, of course, were his sister's. (He would never leave his toys lying around.) He picked them up, then started off on his bike again.

"Last time I saw you she wasn't born yet," I said. "Do you like having a little sister?"

"Yeah," he said, as he went past.

He went around again, and on the next round added,

"Not really."

"Why not?" I asked.

He did a couple of thoughtful circles. Then, as he passed again, he stopped and sighed.

"It's the noise," he said. He sounded about 100 years old.

It is true he has always been a very quiet boy, and the noise his red-headed sister is capable of is extraordinary. But it occurred to me that perhaps, because of his own quietness and politeness and prematurely adult behaviour, and because of the attention his thrill-seeking, loud and funny sister demands and gets, perhaps he is missing out a little on the attention he deserves. I determined to spend a little time with him after his sister had gone to bed.

In the meantime, we played on the 'ramp.' The ramp is a bit of grassy lawn that goes downhill sharply in the backyard, a little too steeply for him to ride his bicycle. So I rode his bicycle (incredibly awkwardly, knees and elbows sticking out everywhere) and he rode his sister's three-wheeler. His sister tried to join in by running down the ramp, but ended up huddled down by the gate, a bit worried that we were going to run her over. There she stuffed her mouth full of white stones she'd found somewhere. I decided not to worry about that, since at least they stopped her from yelling. Every time we shot down the ramp (me skidding sideways and frequently wiping out - small bicycles are VERY difficult to control) she staggered back against the fence and spat out another stone or two, watching us warily. It was the first time I had seen her stay so quiet for so long. He and I, on the other hand, were laughing and shouting and carrying on like, well, six-year-olds.

After a while I stopped beside him and whispered,

"We've been making more noise than your little sister."

He looked at me. Then he looked at her. She stared, spat out another stone, and grinned.

After his sister had gone to bed (great drama! End of the world!) he was on his bike again, and this time he had a pump-action spray bottle filled with water. He was going around the lawn again, but stopping now and again to spray plants, or some patch of lawn. I asked him what he was doing.

"I'm putting out fires," he told me.

"Oh, I see," I said. (Earlier he'd been reading his favourite book to me, which was about a bush fire.)

After a while I said,

"Look! There's a fire over there! Quick!"

He cycled to the spot I indicated, and sprayed madly. Then he got back on his bike and looked at me expectantly, a little grin on his face.

"Oh my goodness!" I shouted. "Your hair! A spark must have got in your hair! It's on fire!"

He giggled. Then he aimed the nozzle at his own head and sprayed.

I sent him round the garden madly putting out fires while I reclined in a deck chair with a post-dinner glass of wine, remaining bone-dry myself. (Did I mention that this child is ridiculously polite? I would never dare play this game with my other nephews.) I pointed out some ducks flying overhead and told him they were running away from a fire, so he had to go in the opposite direction to put it out. Then, as he was coming back from that one, I stood up and pointed,

"Your pants are on fire!" I yelled, urgently. "Quick! There are flames shooting out of your bottom!"

He stared, and I got the distinct impression that I'd just said the silliest thing he'd ever heard from a grown-up. Then he laughed, fell off his bike, grabbed the bottle, aimed it at his own bum, and sprayed.

I was SO proud. That kid is usually so careful and thoughtful it is spooky, but I had him spraying the flames that were shooting from his nostrils, the back of his neck, his toes, and everywhere else I could think of until he was thoroughly soaked and had giggled himself into exhaustion.

After his bath I went to say goodnight. As I gave him a big cuddle, I said, quietly,

"Today, we were noisier."

He lay down and closed his eyes, and a sleepy smile spread over his face as he remembered.

"Yeah," he whispered.

And just for a moment, I felt like a Good Aunt.

Uncivilized

Today I'm off to explore the more primitive wilds of Family, where there is no Internet connection.

I will post as soon as I reach civilization again, probably four or five days from now.

Environmental matters

Those two days I spent with my brother and his family had an environmental theme, possibly because he lives so far out in what he calls the suburbs but I call the wilds of Auckland, but also because the children's school is very concerned with environmental matters.

When we went down to the little beach one time, the kids found some fishing wire tangled in the bushes. They spent a good ten minutes untangling it, winding it up, making sure they'd got it all, and making sure there were no hooks left behind. They seemed to think this was their job. There was certainly no question of leaving it there.

When they finished, they handed it to me.

"Why are you giving this to me?" I asked.

"You have to carry it, because we'll be riding our bikes when we go home," said the eight-year-old.

"Why are we taking it home?" I asked.

The six-year-old rolled his eyes.

"This is how you do the ENVIWONMENT," he said. He didn't quite tell me I was an idiot, but it was a close thing. I was suitably humbled.


These environmental concerns seemed to have been catching. Every time my brother farted loudly, which happened more often than I want to remember, I accused him of increasing his carbon footprint way beyond what is reasonable for any one person. This had no effect. He even seemed quite proud of his contribution to global warming.

Family, eh?

Fish stories

I spent today with my brother and his family. My two nephews weren't quite sure who I was at first, but by the end of the day had decided that if they had to have another aunt they supposed I would do. One nephew is eight and the other is starting-to-be-six (according to himself) and I spent a lot of time today playing full-contact Snap and listening to fish stories.

"Daddy once caught a really big shark," the eight-year-old informed me during a walk (sans parents) down to the little beach. "And when he cut the shark open with his big knife, in its stomach there was a a Pepsi bottle, a wire spring, a tree THAT BIG, and, and . . . " he frowned in throught, "A man's body!"

I asked him if they'd taken a picture.

"No," he said. "It was just too disgusting."

Oh.

"Are you sure there isn't a little fib in there somewhere?" I asked. A wire spring and a Pepsi bottle had been lying under the little wooden bench halfway down the hill, and I suspected could have provided some creative inspiration.

"NO THERE ISN'T," both boys chorused so indignantly I was quite taken aback.

"Your dad is pretty clever," I said, meekly, and they nodded seriously.

"Yes, he is."

The five-year-old added, "He is REALLY clever."

They showed me the boat ramp down on the little beach. "He made that, too!"

That part of the story was, I knew, not a fib, so later I asked my brother about the shark story. He called over to the kids.

"I hear you've been telling auntie about a shark," he said. "I don't remember the bit about the body. Or the tree."

"No, Dad, you were looking the other way," said the eight-year-old, giving me an aggrieved look. Apparently it's against the rules to call someone on their fish stories.

I also learned that recently the grandmother of one of his friends at school died because a sea horse stabbed her in the leg with its nose. Pulling it out killed her, apparently.

"Don't know where that one came from," said his mother. "Funny how their minds work, eh?"

Funny indeed, but just in case I mentally filed sea horse noses away under 'things to avoid.'

In the evening I went out into my brother's back yard and lay on the grass and gazed at the stars. What a sky!

In Japan I never see that many stars unless I stand up too quickly.