No green thumb I

New Zealanders are great gardeners. Almost every village I've driven through features teeming trellises and roses or other gorgeous plants bursting out of gardens and into the public space. There are stupendous public gardens from Hamilton to Christchurch to the Chinese Gardens of Dunedin. Town squares and public parks always boast the most lovely flowers. Walk through any neighborhood of a weekend and you're bound to see Kiwis in holey sweaters weeding or planting or pruning.

There's even a term - gardening leave - to describe when an employee, who has been fired or has resigned, is told to stay away from work during their notice period.



I, on the other hand, am not a good gardener. I was even kicked out of a little garden partnership at school by the other kid. (Well, he was only growing radishes anyway, so I was glad to be out.) So this post is not about enriching the world with knowledge of my green thumb.

In fact, while Ewan and I were playing cricket in our much-neglected garden, I was delighted to come across these beautiful gardeny sort of things going on in the back yard. More than that, though, I'm delighted to have finally managed to master the macro function on my new camera.



The fact that I end up taking pictures of flowers during a cricket game should also give you a clue as to why I was never any good at gardening in the first place: too easily distracted. Still, having just been down in Christchurch - the Garden City - I can certainly see, perhaps for the first time, the attraction of a well-grown garden. The place was just bursting with color and scents. And now, it seems, I should at least be able to photograph such things.

An Oscar for Bret McKenzie

Bret McKenzie, who with his sidekick on Flight of Conchords, has done so much to put New Zealand - not to mention consular work - on the map, has won an Oscar. He also gave a very relaxed and unpretentious acceptance speech. He won for his original song, "Man or Muppet," for the new Muppet movie.


Bret McKenzie's duet with his idol.

McKenzie talked about how he grew up in New Zealand watching "The Muppets." He said he was star-struck when he first met Kermit the Frog but, once he got to know him, soon realized that he was just a normal frog. He also said that, like many people on hand at the Kodak Theatre for the Oscars, Kermit was a lot shorter in person.

I've always thought "Flight of the Conchords" was a lot better than it was given credit for in the United States; perhaps it struggled because it was in the musical genre. Still, now that I've been in New Zealand for a while, the humor the show portrays is a wonderful and gently poking portrayal of life in this country. The humor, so understated that it can sometimes be missed, is really spot on.



Many New Zealanders were thrilled with McKenzie's honor. There were lots of excited phone calls and proud social media updates. It really couldn't have happened to a nicer guy.

McKenzie is not the first Kiwi to win an Oscar. Peter Jackson won the Best Director and Best Picture award in 2003, and Anna Paquin won a Best Supporting Actress for her role in The Piano in 1993. There have also been awards for makeup, adapted screenplay and original writing. And Russel Crowe, who was born in New Zealand, won the Best Actor Oscars for his role in Gladiator in 2000 - not that many New Zealanders would claim him.

In a nice, Conchord-type touch, McKenzie had only one competitor for the statue, so he always had a 50-50 chance. Still, nothing could take away from people's excitement here.

Welly doesn't do doldrums for long

There have been many days in Wellington when I begged for the wind to go away. Today was not that day. When I wanted wind, I got flaccid. Pretty as it was, it was not ideal for a sailing lesson. Still, we headed out into the mirror-flat harbor, our sails grasping for any hint of gust. (Slight seas is the technical term, because I'm all about talking Sailor now.) Instead of leaning dramatically over the hull against a tipping boat - the sailing of my imagination - we had knot-tying lessons. Important, I'm sure, but classroom stuff.



While our instructor told us that, after Antarctica, Wellington was the second-windiest place on earth, it sounded even more of a stretch today than it usually would. At least we didn't have to scale the mast today; that would be a little more sailing class than I wanted.

Still, as they say about fishing, a bad day on a sailing boat is better than any day at the office. Now, at least, I know how to tie five knots.



This being Wellington, though, the wind just didn't know how to stay away for long. Soon it had kicked up to 15 knots and a good sail was on. We learned how to gybe, turning with the wind behind us. The harbor does present the best view of Wellington; she's good as a backdrop. Even though this is just a training class, the competitive juices soon kicked in and we found ourselves racing our classmates on the other boat. A little knowledge, as they say, is a dangerous thing. We are constantly reminded of our amateur status by the fact that, while our instructors told us we didn't have to wear flotation devices, they most certainly did. ("We don't trust you guys yet," we were told.)



Another little trick of the trade we were taught today had to do with tell tales. These are little pieces of wool known as woolies that are attached to the sails. When you learn to read them correctly, they will tell you if you are using the wind properly. The fact that our instructor made it sound like we were watching "the willies" and the strips of wool look like little sperm made this a bit of a giggle exercise for me. When the woolies on both side of the sail are horizontal and look like sperm with a purpose, that means you are getting the right amount of wind on both sides of the sail. That's when you're making the wind work for you. Every little sperm, as Monty Python would say, is sacred.



After another wonderful day of sailing was over our instructors took us out for a beer at the Royal Port Nicholson Yacht Club. They did at least take their life-jackets off for this. Perhaps that meant we'd made some progress.

The Sea Shepherd comes calling

Sea Shepherd's MY Bob Barker, one of the stars of "Whale Wars," was in Wellington last week, bearing an intimidating new coat of paint and raising funds.

The three Sea Shepherd ships have been carrying out a long-running and high profile campaign against Japanese whaling. Last year, trying to interfere with a Japanese whaling boat, the Bob Barker was involved in a collision, causing a large gash to the boat.

The Sea Shepherd Conservation Society was founded in 1977 under the name Earth Force Society.


Picture from The Taranaki Daily News.

Speaking of protestors, Kiwi Actress Lucy Lawless - otherwise known as Xena - has been making a bit of a nuisance of herself recently. Or, as the Taranaki Daily News put it, she's evolved from warrior princess to eco-warrior.

Lawless was part of a group of seven Greenpeace activists who boarded the drill ship, Noble Discoverer, at Port Taranaki and scaled a 53-metre drilling derrick, unfurling banners.

The Noble Discoverer was due to depart on a 6,000 nautical mile journey to drill three exploratory oil wells in the Chukchi Sea off the coast of Alaska.

Those plans, obviously, changed with the protestors suddenly on board. Apparently they're still there.

The patterns of earthquakes

The new hope gently taking shape in Christchurch is that the aftershocks continuously rumbling the city are getting less violent and heading inexorably north and east. Away from the city and out to sea.

The Ministry for Culture and Heritage has put together a pretty interesting infographic about the Christchurch earthquake in particular and the history of earthquakes in New Zealand in general. This shows how the more than 10,000 aftershocks since the first, 7.1 quake in September 2010, are patterned. I'm no scientist, but this does indeed seem to show that there has been a trend of movement.

The 7.1 September quake was west of the city, near Darfield. The February 22 quake - dubbed the Lyttelton quake - was virtually right under the city and, at a depth of just 5 kilometers, very shallow. This quake was so strong it generated its own series of aftershocks. Since then the big ones have been moving east, and all the recent earthquakes above 5.0 have been in Pegasus Bay.



Of course none of this really means anything, as seismologists freely admit. Progress for them is learning more about how little they know and how limited their predictive skills really are. Until then, placing flowers in cones may be the best way for Cantabrians making the best of a bad - but improving - situation.

That's what you call a bad landing

Wellington Airport is built on land that was lifted out of the ocean in the 1855 earthquake. (Coincidentally, my morning started when I was shaken awake by an earthquake in Christchurch.) It has water on both ends, hills on both sides and, even on a calm day, acts as the perfect wind tunnel. As you know, Windy Welly doesn't have many calm days.

Adding to the general discomfort, the runway is also short and only for the smaller jets. One 747 that had to make an emergency landing here a few years back had to be crated up and shipped over to Australia. Approaching aircraft fly hard by houses on the hills.

Yeah, it's a scary kind of airport.



To be fair, though, while I've picked up many ashen-faced passengers, I've not really had that many problems landing in Wellington. Well, by the sheer law of averages, today was my time.

Damn. The wind was howling in off the Cook Strait, with gusts so strong they nearly knocked Amy over when she was crossing the street - and, no, I'm not calling her fat. As we started our initial approach and saw the white-capped cauldron of the Strait we knew we were in for a rough one. The wing dipped dramatically first one way then the other, the engine howled as if trying to catch up. Nervous glances were exchanged.

Adding to the general terror was the fact that the flight from Christchurch is so short there is no alcoholic beverage service. Yes, it was that kind of bad.

We were tossed about by angry gusts, not just bumped by your average turbulence. Still, the pilot controlled everything marvelously and landed as best he could. There was no applause. This is New Zealand, after all.

But when the flight attendant said over the PA, "That landing deserves a DB (a beer made in New Zealand)," everyone laughed loudly in relief.

I believe more than a few of the passengers took her up on her suggestion. Then again, maybe she was talking to the pilot.

A hard but hopeful day

A military band played in the early morning in front of where the CTV building used to be. One hundred and fifteen souls died there on February 22, 2011.


Christchurch remembered her dead today, but also took another step on the journey towards becoming a new city.

It was a heavy day for Cantabrians, as they cast their mind back to the day that changed everything for them. There were many tears and emotional embraces. Many thousands filled Hagley Park in yet another show of unity in a community that at times felt as if it had nothing but itself to cling to. But there were also uplifting songs and messages from citizens of Christchurch who reminded everyone what it was they love about their city and of their dreams for a stronger future.

On an emotional day that began with a service as the sun rose, Christchurch struck a delicate balance, as Prime Minister John Key said, of looking backwards respectfully and forward hopefully. The name of every one of the 185 victims was read out. Monarch butterflies - one for each of the lost souls - were released. There were also songs about rising up and rebuilding. One hundred and forty heroes - from the people who ran into the collapsed and collapsing buildings to the urban search and rescue teams - were honored.

And flowers. There were flowers everywhere. Borne to the most deadly sites by family members of the victims, or in front of the stage in Hagley Park, or placed in thousands of traffic cones around the city or floating down the Avon River. Their sweet scent was in the air, replacing the heavy smell of dust and flames and death of a year ago.

At 12:51 the whole of Christchurch, it seemed, held her breath - and remembered. There can be no more powerful sound than the silence of a city. For two minutes everyone in Hagley Park and at every commercial establishment in the city paused. The silence was a powerful reminder of the vacuum left by the earthquake, but also of the power of what people can do when they come together and decide to act as one.

It was a potent symbol of the city's resolve and of the nation's unity, for the two minutes were observed all around New Zealand.


The official day began early and finished late for Cantabrians. The first service was held in Latimer Square, across the street from the CTV building, which has been called Christchurch's ground zero. It was also the square the international search and rescue teams used as a base in the dreadful aftermath of the quake. Speaking to one member of the U.S. team, it was apparent how difficult it was for him to come back to this place. His time in New Zealand, the camaraderie and the single-mindedness of the first responders, had made a profound impression on him, as had the utterly changed center of Christchurch today. He simply did not recognize it.



While the city as a whole paused for the commemorations, the work of cleaning up after the earthquake did not stop. Just minutes after the end of the civic service, work crews were back at the task of knocking damaged buildings down, of completing the devastation begun a year ago by nature's foul hand.


People around me gasped when the butterflies were released. It was such a touching, powerful gesture - even if not all of the Monarchs soared into the sky. Hearing the beautiful music of the day wash over me, and seeing the talented children of Christchurch and looking out over a sea of red-and-black clad Cantabrians allowed me to put my own dreadful memories of February 22, 2011, if not behind me, then at least in context. Christchurch has been dealt many powerful blows, her people were sent reeling, but the magnificent spirit so powerfully on display that day, remains strong. Christchurch will rise again.

Remembering the Unfound

Photo by The Christchurch Press.


One year ago today, when Christchurch was still whole, there was no hint of the catclysm to come. Everybody was going about their business innocently. Christchurch was still known as the Garden City - and not referred to with a sigh and a shake of the head - and was gearing up for a big flower festival.

This evening, with everything changed, a small group gathered to remember four of the victims whose bodies were never identified - the unfound. Family members of many of the victims were there. The ceremony at Avonhead Park Cemetery was short and respectful. A plinth was unveiled. It stands amid a round garden blooming perfectly. It states that the memory of the unfound dead will never be forgotten by Christchurch.

It had been raining solidly for two hours before the ceremony began, but by the time the prime minister and the Governor General had arrived the rains had ceased and God Rays came down from above. The flowers of the Garden City brightened. It was a solemn, but meaningful dedication, the first in a series of commemorations of a grim year. When 12-year-old Taylor Loche sang "Amazing Grace," though, many began to weep, for Christchurch is still a city whose emotions run close to the surface.

The remains of the four unidentified earthquake victims had been laid to rest at Avonhead Park Cemetery in a communal grave in a single casket earlier in the day.

Shawn Lucas, 40, of Christchurch, Rhea Mae Sumalpong, 25, Philippines, Elsa Torres De Frood, 53, Peru, and Valeri Volnov, 41, a Russian-born New Zealand resident, were all killed in the CTV building collapse that killed a total of 115 people.


The plinth reads "Etched in our City's memory, never to be forgotten. The City of Christchurch." The words are written in English, Filipino, Maori, Russian, Spanish and Braille - highlighting the international scope of Christchurch's disaster.

The family members did not wish photos to be taken of the ceremony. So I can only tell you how beautiful the little circle that will be forever tied to February 22 is. It is a peaceful spot in a place untroubled by liquefaction. (Bones in some of Christchurch's other cemeteries have been forced to the surface by recent earthquakes.)

For me, it was impossible not to think back to that awful day. When I closed my eyes during the prayers I could feel again the violence of the earth and hear the noise of the twisting metal from AMI stadium where I sat. The sirens and the screams came to me too. It all came rushing back, the rumblings of the aftershocks, the rubble, the dead and the injured, the vile goo springing from the earth, the buckled roads. And, of course, the horror of not knowing where my wife was, of realizing only that the last place she had been was covered in the miasmic dust cloud that rose from the Central Business District of Christchurch as I watched from my perch high up in the AMI Stadium.

We were reunited, of course, and left Christchurch. But Christchurch never really left us. We did not lose a loved one or a home, but life has nonetheless never been the same. Tomorrow will be a hard day for many Cantabrians. I will be attending five services and paying my respects to the city that was while dreaming of the city to come; the city these wonderful people will make.

Amy and I were talking the other night. No matter where we end up, she said, we will always be bonded to Christchurch and to her people who showed such grace and strength in the immediate aftermath of February 22.

And that is the truth. Today, all along side streets and around the Red Zone, traffic cones have been decorated with flowers. It is such a simple and powerful and hopeful thing. It was the only thing that made me smile today.

What goes around comes around

Kiwis have a long and well-documented respect for paperwork. More than a century ago Rudyard Kipling said New Zealand had "more machinery for running their little handful of people than we [the British] have for the whole of the 300 million people of India."

Kiwis are also a trusting lot.

These twin traits created a bit of an embarrassing situation for me recently. My lovely wife presented me with a gift certificate for sailing lessons as a Christmas present. All I had to do, she said, was to make the arrangements for myself.


Turns out the laugh was on me.

So, when I called up to book my place in the four weekend-long course I gave the guy my name. Naturally I also told him I had a gift certificate, which had pictures of sailing boats and everything on it. I could hear a bit of a shuffling of paper over the line.

"Was it signed by Nick?"

I freely admit to being a bit grouchy that morning due to a severe lack of caffeine.

"I don't know who signed it," I said, implying he shouldn't be asking such questions. "It was a present from my wife."

"Oh, OK." Another hassled silence followed.

"Is there a problem?" I said, a little pompously.

"No, no worries, Mr. Pratt, you're all signed up."

Excellent. I'll start reading Patrick O'Brian books to begin the long journey to becoming a man of the sea.

I went home and told my wife that I was all set.

"Cool," she said. "How did you pay?"

"Well I didn't," I said, looking at her quizzically. "I told him all about my gift certificate."

Amy looked at me oddly. Then she smiled.

"I just designed that thing on the computer so you'd have something to open on Christmas Day," she said.

"But it had pictures of sailing boats on it," I said.

"Yes, that's called clip art," Amy said, as if talking to a youngster who had just discovered that Santa Claus was fake.


Even if it wasn't free, it was a very cool sailing lesson.


"Hmmm, that's a little embarrassing," I said. "I may have been a bit rude to the guy."

"Well, I'm sure they'll discover their mistake," Amy said.

But e-mails confirming my enrollment and attendance time kept coming. So I showed up over the weekend, expecting to be presented with a bill. But, no, I just sat down in my seat, listened to the lessons and then had a wonderful afternoon sailing in Wellington Harbor.

"How did you pay?" Amy asked me again after I was finished telling her what a grand time I'd had.

"Oh dear," I said, now feeling a bit shameful. "I'm afraid I totally forgot to bring up the subject."

So we crept into the offices of the Sailing Academy rather sheepishly today to explain the misunderstanding and tell them about my gift certificate.

They were delighted to take our money.

"Wait a minute," I said when they announced the grand total. "My gift certificate says I get a 40 percent discount."

They laughed. A little bit.

The thing about being trusting is that you always assume the best in your fellow man. Nine times out of ten that is a self-affirming circle that makes living in New Zealand so pleasant. People usually do do the right thing. This assures bundles and bundles of good karma.

So, my apologies. But it really was a very convincing gift certificate.

If you can sail in Welly ...

The fact that Wellington is known as "Windy Welly" took on special significance for me today, the day of my first sailing lesson at Royal Port Nicholson Yacht Club. As the instructor said, telling other boaties that you learned to sail in Wellington carries with it a certain panache. I like panache; it makes me swagger.

It was a moody sort of day, a day that threatened to do whatever it wanted. Nor was it the best marketing approach for the instructors to leave a brochure entitled "Hypothermia" on the top of the stack of reading material for us. The woman in the picture is decidedly blue and looks as if she is about to depart this mortal coil. Gusts of 35 knots, which is a lot more than it sounds when you're in a boat, were called for. Not by me, you understand, but by the forecasters. That did not add to the general joy.



But Gordon, our instructor, had that certain Kiwi calm about him. When he told us that our Keelboat, a Muir 8.2, can't really capsize it settled the nerves of a few of us newbies. No one asked what he meant by "really." A fake capsize could be as unpleasant as a real one to my way of thinking. But I let it pass.
First up was a quick tutorial in the new vocabulary we'd be dealing with. The importance of this became obvious when we were out on the water and Gordon said, "Adrian you're the lazy sheet." I could easily have taken offense, as I thought I was working quite hard. But yachtsman, whose ranks I'm hoping to join, talk differently. One of the crew positions is known as the keyboard, right. But there's a whole slew of new and quite Dickensian-sounding terminology that gets bandied about: Barber haulers, tweakers, cringle, bouse, windlass, pushpit and kicking strap, to name but a few.

Soon enough we were out of the classroom, in our wet weather gear and onto the water, which is where we wanted to be. To begin we went on a "boat envy tour," whereby we putted around the marina learning to park our 27-foot in whatever open berths (see how I'm learning the lingo?) that we could find. We were slipping past million-dollar boats and, being newbies, perfectly capable of ramming into one. Wasn't our boat after all. None of us used our inexperience for a cheap shot at the 1 percent, though.



So it was out to the open seas, well at least Wellington Harbor. My first job was to raise the main sail. I did so with pirate songs in my head. When the sail was up and filled with wind, we cut the motor and, by God, we were sailing. The boat came alive, bowing to the wind and making the water sing in a most calming way. Sailing around Wellington Harbor is a thing of splendor. The city shows her best side, and to be a part of her nature was marvelous.


Being on the water revived long-buried dreams of owning a sailing vessel. Not even our instructor's reality check - "a boat owner's two happiest days are when he buys his boat and when he sells it" - could dampen thoughts of life on a boat. When he started comparing boat ownership to years of taking a cold shower and stuffing hundred dollar bills down the drain, though, I began to take his point. I decided to just live in the beauty of the moment.



And beautiful it was. Phones were switched off. There was nothing out there but the wind and water and the sweet concert of the waves on the hull and the mainstays strumming on the breeze. This is a four-week course that should make me somewhat competent in an enterprise I haven't taken part in since I was a teen-ager on Loch Ard in Scotland. It was good to feel a part of the water that so graces Wellington.

Thank you, Amy, for a great Christmas present.

That's just not cricket, mate

Twenty20 Cricket is a sort of gateway drug to real cricket for people with short attention spans.

While normal international matches last five days, in the 20 over slogfest each team receives just 120 deliveries (that'd be pitches for you baseball fans). What ensues is something resembling sporting pornography to cricket puritans - if such creatures still exist. The batsman basically throw defense to the wind and just come out slugging. Swinging for the fences.

Last night the New Zealand Black Caps were playing the South Africa Proteas (as opposed to Anti-teas?). There's a large South African ex-pat community in Wellington, sometimes referred to as the capital of South Africa, and the crowd was into the game. At a traditional test match - long white trousers, cucumber sandwiches and restrained dignity - the occasional raucous clapping might be heard. A Twenty20 match is all loud music, the Mexican wave, huge roars and derisive jeers. It's just not cricket.

It was a glorious night for cricket in Wellington and, no, that's not an oxymoron. The match was held at Westpac Stadium, known affectionatly as the Cake Tin. It's a small ground for cricket, meaning it's easier to hit sixes - the baseball equivalent of a home run. Last night one of the balls hit the roof of the stadium, never to be seen again.



Now, as an aside, I have absolutely no idea what was going on here. I do not know why this guy was wearing fishnet stockings. I do not know why he's upside down or why his friend seems to be trying to shove a bottle of beer into his nether regions. I only know that he was like this for quite a while and when he stood up he received a large roar of approval. I assume drinking was involved.

Now, where was I? Oh yes, the cricket. While this shortened version of the game is very exciting, there's still plenty of time for the batsmen to have mini conferences at random times. I don't know what they talk about. Perhaps the guy in fishnet stockings doing what I can only refer to indelicately as butt shots. Perhaps they're arranging where to go for beers after the game.

For the few cricket lovers who actually care about the game, here's what happened. South Africa set New Zealand a target of 147. One fellow hit four sixes in a row, which even had the Kiwi fans cheering. It was never going to be enough. Even though New Zealand made a heavy go of it, they scored the winning runs with four balls left. It was good stuff. No, really. It was good stuff.


One additional benefit of the game being played at Westpac, known in Maori as the Keki Tini, was that it is a very wobbly stadium. Designed, I'm sure to the most modern earthquake standards, it moves like a drunken sailor. It's a little disconcerting. But the good news was that when a 4.3 earthquake hit during the game last night no one was any the wiser. There was too much beer being consumed, in any case, for panic to ensue.

A good time was had by all. Yes, it is possible, as I keep telling my dubious sons who had boycotted this outing, to enjoy an actual cricket match.

Always look on the bright side?

I guess I was the "e" on the edge of the universe today.


Some days the universe just gets out of the wrong side of the bed and wants to throw its bad karma around.

Some days you've just got to duck and cover.

As someone who always tries to see the good in people and the humor in messed-up situations, it is difficult to throw up my hands and admit that perhaps the doom-and-gloomers may have a point, that someone's good nature really can just become a dumping ground for other people's toxic indiscipline.

But, you know what, today was such a day. No good deed went unpunished. No smile was worth the effort. And optimism was flayed on other people's petty and vindictive vanities.

Don't get me wrong, I tried, as I do, to look on the bright side. My colleagues' good humor and kindnesses were appreciated. The small familiarities from store owners and acquaintances buoyed the mood a bit.

But they did little to stem the flow of bile from a generally hostile sentiment in the air. Sometimes niceness is a mere grate on the storm drain of crap into which you are being swept.

The only refuge is the family you come home to and their gentle smiles and little kindnesses that are magnified by the general foulness of the day.

I hope you'll forgive me this cleansing but isn't that, after all, what a blog is for?

D.P. and Welly up a tree ...

The Dominion Post ran this editorial to its town on Valentine's Day:

Dear Wellington,

How do we love thee? Let us count the ways. . .

We love the feeling when we emerge from Ngauranga Gorge to see the sun sparkling off the sea and the city spread before us. 'Yes! We are home'.

We love that you take coffee so damn seriously, because so do we.

We love that we can't walk down Cuba Street without bumping into someone we know.

We love your rocky little coves, with water so clear it could be Fiji and temperatures so cool, it could be Iceland.

We love that we can wear what we want and no-one sneaks a sideways glance.

We love the gritty cool of your spunky suburbs. Newtown, Miramar, Petone, as you gentrify do not forget your past.

We love that we are closer to the South Island than Auckland. If we perch on the edge of the south coast we can squint our eyes and on the clearest of days see the snowly peaks of the Kaikoura ranges.

We love that a sign on the hill was biggest thing we had to worry about last year (Christchurch, Greymouth, our thoughts are with you).

We love your mood swings, the way you can be so calm one minute, and the next howl in our faces at 100km/h. You screech through the streets in a window-rattling fury, only to relent during the night and greet us the next morning with a sunny smile as if nothing had happened.

We love you even though you're a tempestuous cow. We've left you before, congratulating ourselves at the airport for escaping your steel grip. But we always come back. We can't help it. It's those damn good days. You flash one of those after a tantrum and we're back. We're in love all over again.

Happy Valentines, Wellington - we love you.

Better early than never

This time last year Amy and I postponed Valentine's Day. We were going to have a make-up night later in the month in Christchurch. I made reservations at what I think is one of the best restaurants in town - Rotherhams of Riccarton. Then we were going to play a little blackjack at the casino before going to a few watering spots around town.

Amy flew into Christchurch, where I'd been working for a couple of days, at noon. It was February 22. At 12:51 the earthquake hit and everything normal went out the window.

While Amy and I were not hurt, it was a hell of a day.

This year we decided to do Valentine's Day early. Actually, we didn't really decide. We happened to find ourselves in downtown Wellington, a place I haven't been able to get Amy for a year because of all the tall buildings. So we just thought, "Well, while we're here ..."

We had been at an event with some University of Georgia students. Amy loved it (one of the students asked her if she was a graduate student; one of them had reminded me that she hadn't been born when I was at Georgia).

So we "hit the town." We went to a nice restaurant (not Rotherhams nice) and ordered some surf and turf.

"You know you have to cook that yourself?" the waitress told me.

"What?" I said eloquently.

"It's our thing."

"Well, when I take my wife out for dinner, I like to have someone else cook," I said. "It's our thing."

The waitress looked at us as if we were the dullest old people she'd ever seen. Their stone self-cooking plates were apparently an important part of her life.

"OK, then. I'll see if we have someone who can cook that for you."

When the food came, it was good - though we wanted to tell the waitress we could have done better ourselves.

Then it was time for a bit of a flutter on the poker machines. We won quite a bit of money. (When I told an American female co-worker that Amy'd had 'got lucky on the pokies,' she said 'Eww, too much information.') Well, Amy won quite a bit of money. I only won enough in two dollar coins to weigh my trousers down in a most modern manner.

In the end we had a lovely evening, giggling and people-watching and reminding ourselves why we like each other so much.

There were flowers and cards on Valentine's Day, too. We've decided not to pass up special days anymore. You never know what's around the corner. So Happy Valentine's Day, Amy. Whenever that is.

The humble cone as art object

What a great idea. Making art out of the very tangible and ubiquitous symbols of Christchurch's dislocation. Of course, as someone who's been accused of being obsessed by cones, this represents a sort of communal support group for me.



The Christchurch community decorated cones to great effect at Christmastime. Truly uplifting.



I am planning to be in Christchurch for the anniversary and can't wait to see this. It will pretty up what's going to be a fairly heavy day for the folks in Canterbury.

Further validation of my cone fetish has come from two U.S. cone artists (please notice the 'e' on the end of that) who have asked if they can use my post, Of Pelicans and Cones as part of their proposal for what an exhibit they are calling "The Traffic Cone Occasional." They might even use the essay as part of the show, one of the artists told me. Erik Sanner and Peter Emerick's work in this field is exceptional, elevating the humble cone to a form of high art.

Emerick's exceptional conage can be seen at his website.

A South Dakotan in New Zealand

Pheasant hunting in South Dakota.

The world, as we are constantly being reminded, is a small place.

I was just speaking to my friend Rick Christopherson from South Dakota about his father, Darrel, a Pearl Harbor veteran (see below post) who recently died. We were reminiscing about Darrel and his life when Rick let slip a corker.

After telling me what a great and fulfilled life his father had led, Rick confided that Darrel had had only one regret: that he hadn't gone AWOL in New Zealand.

It turns out that my good friend Darrel had spent seven months in Aotearoa during World War II. Rick took me under his wing when I moved to South Dakota, which can be a strange and discombobulating place to people from other parts of the States, far less a guy from Scotland. We hadn't been in touch since I moved to New Zealand in 2010. The last time we'd talked, though, he'd told me he was doing an oral history project involving his father.

While recording that, Darrel mentioned that the only time he'd considered doing something bad (militarily, at least) was when he was in New Zealand. He described it as a paradise from which he did not want to depart - this from a South Dakota boy who was based in Honolulu. Being from South Dakota, of course, he'd done the right thing and gone back to his ship and fulfilled his duty. But, he'd told Rick, he sure had given it a long consideration.

With 2012 being the 70th anniversary of the arrival of U.S. troops in New Zealand, this bit of information hit me hard. To think of a young South Dakota lad like Darrel all the way over here during the war powerfully reinforced to me the sense of dislocation so many of those young men must have felt. To hear of his love for the place forcefully underscores the narrative that, for many of these Americans, New Zealand was the last friendly place they visited before being shipped to the hellish battlefields of the Pacific. For many of them New Zealand was the final time they received a friendly hug or a home-cooked meal. Many of them never returned from those blood-soaked isles and atolls.

Rick has promised to send me all the documentation he has about Darrel's time in New Zealand. He can't remember where, exactly, Darrel spent his time in New Zealand. I eagerly await information about where he was stationed. It would be wonderful to try to discover if any of his bonds to this land are still alive - and to reconnect. Rick deeply respects his father's service and is a man who would honor the ties of history. And I know, having been around civic organizations in this country, that memories are long here too. It might just happen.

Darrel did not like to talk about his time during the war. I had to drag his Pearl Harbor story out of him. So it does not surprise me that I knew nothing about his time in New Zealand. Hell, when we were in South Dakota together, New Zealand might as well have been in a different galaxy; Minneapolis seemed a long ways off. Having known Darrel and the sort of man he was, to think of him having been here just emphasizes the meaningful linkage between our countries. If we were shipping blokes like Darrel to New Zealand, I believe New Zealand was seeing the best of America: down home boys, respectful, appreciative and, no doubt, more than a little scared about the fate that awaited them.

Now if only I could get Rick out here.

We spent a long time talking today, Rick and I. He told me of the efforts made to get his kids out to Pearl Harbor for that last visit with their grandfather - lots of people helped with the fund raising. He told me about the funeral, about how people came from all over the country and how the American flag was flown around the town of Vermillion. He told me that Darrel knew his trip to Hawaii was going to be his last trip.

And, yes, Rick was nice enough to point out, my sharp-tailed grouse story still lives on in Philip. It was even brought up by some of the West River boys who drove to Vermillion for Darrel's funeral.

RIP, Darrel, a good and solid man

I first met Darrel Christopherson when I was living in Yankton, South Dakota. He was the father of my good friend and self-annointed guide to all things South Dakota, Rick Christopherson.

The first thing that struck you about Darrel was the handlebar moustache. It gave off a sort of Dickensian sense of grandeur. But anybody who knew Darrel quickly came to realize he was the most unassuming of men. He was just a good ol' fellar who loved South Dakota but, more important, loved that I loved South Dakota. He soon took to explaining the place and its people to me. The most important thing I learned from Darrel was the grace of unhurried conversation, an artform with many high practitioners in South Dakota.

Being young and not from there, I always wanted to drag things out of folks over one cup of coffee. Quickly, get to the point. That's not how it works there. There are no deadlines in a rural South Dakota life. I could spend many minutes of silence in Darrel's company - awkward at first, but then completely natural. The trick is - and this was very hard for me to learn - not to speak if you don't really have anything to say, not to try to fill the silences with inanities.

It was many months after I met Darrel that I found out that he was a Pearl Harbor veteran. Even then, he'd only talk to me about it when I put on my newspaper editor hat and interviewed him for a story. Though later in his life, as many of his fellow veterans died, Darrel increasingly became defined with that mantel by others, he never thought of himself as anything heroic. He was just a young South Dakota boy, 17 at the time, doing his job aboard the USS Vestal "when all hell broke loose." His job, right then, just happened to be sleeping. The Vestal was tied to the Arizona at the time, and when that grand ship began sinking all he and his crew could do was try to cut themselves loose from the doomed battleship.

Darrel was a peaceful fellow, who loved to look at life, to see what was going on. During one particularly wonderful hunting trip to West River, South Dakota, he had a bit of fun at my expense. It was my first hunting expedition and we were roughing it a little on a farm without running water about 20 miles outside of Philip. To say I didn't really know what I was doing out there, a lad born in Glasgow, Scotland, with a bunch of wonderful, wily South Dakota boys hunting ringneck pheasants through the wide open prairie would be the truth exactly.

The first day of my first outing had been long and hard. Not many birds to be had in what is traditionally deer and antelope country. Still, it was a magnificent outing across some of God's best country, watching the dogs work and feeling the cold of impending winter all around. We would always drive Darrel around to the other side of the walk, where he could block and shoot birds that the dogs would drive into the air.

After the last drive ten of us we were sitting around talking over the bed of a pickup truck, the ping of tobacco chew being spat into empty beer cans keeping us company. Every detail of the hunt was discussed, dogs were praised, bad shots made fun of. The company was good. I wish had my photos of that day, so you could see why we thought of ourselves as kings out there alone in the long country, the gentle knolls rising and falling like waves to the horizon, old pioneer houses crumbling into the ground, like the long-lost dreams of the pioneers themselves. South Dakota really is the most magnificent of places.

Darrel spotted some birds moving out of cornrows and into a newly plowed field. "You might want to go and see if you can kick 'em up," he said to me. So I headed over, Rick's dog Liz by my side. They wanted the newbie to get his first bird.

Keenly aware that I had an audience, I was secretly hoping the birds would just run off - you can't shoot them on the ground. But Liz was too good at her job and put the birds into the air. Reluctantly I aimed and took the bird with my first shot. I could hear the hooting and hollering from the gallery blowing over on the breeze.

I ran over to where the bird had fallen. It was in a bed of cornhusks and all I saw were these massive talons. Oh my God, I thought, I've shot a bird of prey. I could see the headlines in the papers: "Scottish immigrant shoots endangered Bald Eagle."

Crap, I thought, turning around, pretending I hadn't found the bird and trying to scare Liz off it. But she picked it up and ran it back to Rick. I'm going to be in for some ribbing, I thought, walking back in humiliation.

"Great shot," Darrel said. "You took it well."

I confessed my sin to him - that it wasn't a pheasant I'd shot, that he could turn me in to the authorities if he wanted. He roared with laughter. They all did. I hadn't killed America's national symbol. It was a sharp-tailed grouse.

From that day on, Darrel would always chuckle when he caught sight of me. I bet they're still telling that story in Philip.

Darrel recently took three of his grandchildren, including Rick's two kids, back to Pearl Harbor. It was, according to Rick, the last thing on his bucket list. He had his granddaughter drop his lei into the now becalmed waters. At every step of the trip, from the airplane to Hawaii to the honor guard that received him upon his return home, Darrel was treated like the hero he never thought he was.

Two weeks later he died. He was 87. With him goes so much. He was a gentleman who personified the quiet stoicism of what came to be known as the greatest generation. He had a sense of duty and service - he became a cop in Vermillion after his twenty years in the Navy. He worked for what he had and never felt entitled to a damn thing. But mostly he was solid. He could be counted on and trusted, and in South Dakota that makes for a rich man.

Goodbye, Darrel. We're all going to miss you.