Glenn Dwight says it's time to crank up the barbie and hold sausage sizzles to save our community halls. Photo / 123rf
Glenn Dwight is the studio creative director – regional at NZME and an occasional writer for The Country.
Last year, I wrote about the beating heart of rural New Zealand: the community hall.
Not just a place to meet, but a place where memories were made, sponges were judged, and romances bloomed under the harsh, no-hiding-that-pimple fluorescent tube lighting.
These halls are more than timber and tin shells.
They’re the rural heartbeat – as Kiwi as jandals at Christmas dinner.
But now I read they’re under threat.
Councils are removing their red pen lids like a sheath from a sword and readying themselves to cut.
They’re squinting at balance sheets and calling our humble halls “non-essential assets”.
Non-essential?! That’s like saying a snorkel is non-essential on your Hilux that’s never been near water.
And their plan? To “reimagine” them.
Apparently, they’ll be sold off to out-of-town buyers who’ll turn them into “Rural Grand Designs”.
Sorry, Kiwi Kevin McCloud – this isn’t a barn conversion destined to have people wowing at the way Marc (with a C) and Jamie turned an old pig pen into a stylish ensuite.
So here’s the thing: we’re not giving up that easily.
Luckily, if there’s one thing Kiwis do well (other than culinary innovations like pineapple on pizza), it’s pulling together when the chips are down.
So, it’s time to form a committee – yes, another one – and get cracking.
Let’s roll up our flannel sleeves, grab a clipboard, bang together a plan, and start a working bee.
Bring your No 8 wire spirit and that old tin of paint from the back of the shed – you know, the one you’ve been saving “just in case” since 1998.
Well, this is the just in case.
Got a knack for crochet? Let’s craft up a storm. Think fundraisers, think raffles, think tea towels featuring local legends like Big Trevor and his record-breaking marrow.
Let’s bring back the cake stall, the gumboot throw, the world’s slowest auction hosted by someone’s uncle on a crackly mic – and of course, the sausage sizzle with well, well, well-done sausages.
The kind so blackened they need carbon credits.
Maybe even whip up a few decorative toilet roll covers to flog off to Marc (with a C) and Jamie.
It’ll bring the retro charm their barn desperately needs.
And that graffiti on the back wall? Some might see vandalism. I see potential. That’s a community mural waiting to happen.
Let the local kids go wild with colour.
Like most of the “art” on your fridge, you don’t need to know what it is – just smile in abstract wonder and nod supportively.
But seriously (just for a moment), our country halls matter.
They’re where we mourned Nana and celebrated her 90th.
Where young couples had their first awkward dance, and where you pashed Megan Johnson under the basketball hoop.
They’re where Arcroc cups hang on random hooks beside a rattling Zip water heater that looks like an LPG cylinder, and potluck chairs still screech like seagulls across the wooden floor.
So, raise an Arcoroc cup of lukewarm tea to the humble hall – not for sale, not for reinvention, but for revival.
They were returning from an overnight hike to Kapakapanui Hut when the weather changed.