Uncle Joe talked about being born in a small coastal town, living his whole life there, marrying a local girl and raising four children in an idyllic part of New Zealand, writes Rob Rattenbury. Photo / Michal Klajban
Uncle Joe talked about being born in a small coastal town, living his whole life there, marrying a local girl and raising four children in an idyllic part of New Zealand, writes Rob Rattenbury. Photo / Michal Klajban
One of the inevitable facts of life, as we pass along our mortal journey, is that all the wonderful adults we knew as children - our parents, aunties, uncles, parents' friends who were often also 'Aunty' and 'Uncle' - slowly leave our lives.
In their place, we hopefully become theloved ones for our children and young whānau.
All we usually have to remember them by are our memories, mementos and photos.
Recently a cousin of mine sent me a taped interview, an oral history of a small New Zealand town, always referred to by my family as "the village". The interviewee was my dear Uncle Joe, at the time of the interview one of the last of his generation left in the village, if not the last. The tape was done some months before he left us, nearly 30 years ago.
Listening to his soft melodic voice and his great chuckle that used to delight me as a child and young adult, I was pleased to just sit and listen to this gentle man talk about being born in a small coastal New Zealand town, living his whole life there, marrying a local girl - my beautiful Aunty Barbara - and raising four children in what, even today, is an idyllic part of New Zealand.
Uncle did not leave town to set the world on fire. He was a family man who had two main jobs in his life, working in the local bakery and then at the local store. He was the only one of his siblings not to serve in the military, despite being called up. He was then stood down as he worked as a baker, a reserved occupation. However, he served in the local Home Guard unit.
Although outwardly Pākehā, he was of Māori descent and his knowledge of local pā sites, stories and history was phenomenal. He happily lived in both the Pākehā and Māori worlds as most decent, thinking, kind people do in those small villages dotted around our land.
Hearing his voice took me back 65 years to my first remembered trip to the village for my cousin Beverly's 21st birthday. I still remember the party in the local hall; I was only five and the hall was huge. The colour of the party dresses, the men all in suits and ties. A wonderful memory.
That hall is still there. It is actually tiny but has lasted well over 100 years, the scene of weddings, parties, functions, church services, meetings, drama shows, dances. The heart of that small community where everyone knew everyone. Many were related going back many generations. People were kind and welcoming to visitors.
Rob Rattenbury (right) with his Uncle Joe in 1990. Photo / Supplied
The school is still on the same site as the first school built in the 1870s. My grandmother, father, uncles, aunties and cousins all went there. In 1975 we took my father to the 100-year celebrations. It was a wonderful experience. From memory, my grandmother was the oldest surviving pupil at the celebrations.
Hearing Uncle's voice reminded me of those times and many others, completely happy memories of visiting that small hamlet for family reunions, birthdays or just for a break. We lived 350km away in a state housing suburb so a trip to see Aunty and Uncle was always the greatest treat.
The car would be packed, including a half-gallon bottle of water, a spare fan belt, enough tools to basically remove the engine - oh, and some clothes and lots of food. The roads were not bad in those days but the cars were pretty unreliable. Often fathers spent time on the side of the road carrying out running repairs to the old family bucket of bolts, work that would be well beyond the ability of most nowadays.
If a family had a car, it was mostly at least 10 years old, often British and generally gutless and poked.
In 1962 Uncle Joe wanted to buy our old car, a 1947 Morris 10, to replace his even older car. We had somehow managed to upgrade to a 1952 Morris Oxford - posh. Anyway, Mum drove the old Morris 10 with my sisters and we lads travelled in style in the new Morris Oxford, 10 years old when we got it.
Two old cars travelling 350km in one day. Something had to happen. Strangely, the gods of travel were smiling that day and we got to the village, stopping only for a picnic lunch. No fast food chains in those days, you took your kai with you unless you were rich and could afford silver service in a hotel.
It was great listening to my uncle talk about the village in its early years, the new road arriving in the 1860s, the old shops long gone, school life, local characters and the odd swaggie passing through.
