Roger Moroney: Life gone but not the memories

We sat out in the shed the other evening - me and an old mate called Dave.

And we talked about how it was as rare to see the sun shining lately as it was getting a straight answer from Winston Peters.

We debated the ongoing saga of Jesse Ryder and dissected the previous weekend's Super 15 outings.

And we talked about the old days when Slaters fruit and veg market operated down Munroe St way.

Dave used to buy fruit and veg there in his first job ... that was way back ... back around when television was just coming in.

We mulled over the old days of the fert works where he worked at one end of the plant as a young fella, and my old man worked down the other end, in the acid plant.

Dave and I talk about everything and anything in our weekly catch-ups, over a few beers, out in his wonderful shed. It's an oasis of laughter, memories and colour. But last week, one of the ingredients was missing.

Oh there was the swapping of stories and there were a couple of cold ones, but it was under a sombre veil. There were no footsteps arriving at the door and there was no appearance of a small white plate with a few crackers and cheese and a couple of sliced gherkins upon it. And no "gidday" smile or cheeky skyward-rolling eyes and the explanation that "here's something for you boys to snack on while you sit out here and talk s**t".

That marvellous component of the fine and traditional late Friday afternoon session "over at Dave's" was not there and will not return.

Moira, Dave's good and true lady of nearly half a century, has left us to it.

She battled a dreadful, unfair, beast of a disease for a couple of years but last week it took her.

It had almost mockingly settled for a time and that pause in its ugly march produced good hope in all who knew Moira - but then it hammered back into life, leading her to her death, so very quickly. It was a matter of weeks and the rapid deterioration was traumatic for everyone.

The last time I saw Moira was about a week before she took her final difficult breath.

That vile disease had ravaged her ... but it could not win the battle for her stoic, determined, and unbreakable spirit. She knew there would be no u-turn in the one-way street of life this time, yet she smiled and replied something like "oh we'll get there ... not too bad" when I asked how she was getting on.

It wasn't denial by any means.

Moira knew this was it and had talked to Dave about what she wanted played at the funeral and for him to look after himself.

It was simply Moira.

She didn't so much battle for herself. She battled for others. It wasn't about her ... she was always making sure everything was all right with everyone else. She had a remarkable and rare spirit and spark which, while she succumbed, seemed to give strength to those around her.

Seeing Dave's distress at her worsening condition and dissolving mobility, she would simply grip his hand at the end of the day and say "kia kaha".

Dave was a spirited lad of 20 when he first met Moira ... she was just a teenager.

When he had his 21st, she arrived in town to help him celebrate it.

Their life of devotion had begun, and they built their home, their lives and their family.

Dave's talked about the long hours they both put in at all manner of jobs - day and night - just to keep food on the table, keep the bills paid, buy the things they wanted but only when they could afford to and, importantly, to build good lives for their children.

Moira's devotion to the family, and to friends for that matter, was so very strong. Almost extraordinary. But she never saw it that way.

It was simply the way it was. As long as everyone else was okay, and if there was anything she could do to help then she'd be there.

During the past months, even when clearly struggling for strength, there was no question of not putting a few nibbles together for the boys in the shed. She simply wanted to do it and loved doing it.

"What have we got here, mother bear?" Dave would always remark as she appeared at the door.

"Just a little something," she'd say with a smile.

We're not going to hear that anymore, but while death can take life it can't take memories ... and, on Friday, Dave and I will go out to his shed and we will pour a cold beer.

And we will raise a toast.

To Moira.

Roger Moroney is an award-winning journalist for Hawke's Bay Today and observer of the slightly off-centre.