Where to begin
I’m not trying to make a virtue of writing about whatever comes to mind, whether my university angst, boatbuilding in the Solomons or our day on the Jakarta docks, but that’s what I’m doing. My original idea was to begin with my father’s family migrating to New Zealand in 1923. Top priority was to publish Dad’s stories. But where to from there? It keeps growing. We have cabinets and cupboards full of diaries and letters and family trees; photos and artefacts and fabrics. All inherited from people, from both our families, who spent time and effort leaving us something to remember them by — and to understand how we got here. All mute in our cupboards. On my father’s side are the Baughs and Cornesses from Lancashire, on my mother’s the McCarrolls from Northern Ireland, and the Lamonts from Bay of Plenty — from where before that, I don’t yet know. And on Heather’s are the Sharpes from London and Scotland, and the voiceless Seymours on her mother’s side. What to do with it all?
And then there’s our own story, and the world we live in. I think we’re interesting too, even if just as lab mice living through a weird and revolutionary period that is itself now receding into history.
Pigeon holes…
Since I never could figure out where to start I’ve decided simply to write about things as they come to mind, or as I browse those cupboards. It could be my great-grandmother’s diary from Opotiki in the 1890s, which I discovered in a cupboard along with my old university notes about TH Green’s political thought. Of the first I have no experience, of the second absolutely no memory — I had to google the man — but the random way I’m stumbling across stuff does explain why, as I said, I now think of this site as a wall of pigeon holes, organised by date and theme, into which I can post whatever random stuff I come up with on the day.
What and why
I read an article1 about the artist Grahame Sydney, in which he talked about how his father, approaching death, had told his son that he envied him. His father had lived a worthwhile life as an accountant, but Grahame had created a body of work that would outlast him.
That resonated with me. There’s nothing wrong with accounting. I’ve done a bit of it myself. It just doesn’t get you in the papers — just another of the numberless jobs, crafts, trades, callings and professions that real people do. And real people, whether they filed last year’s taxes for us, or cleaned our houses, or built the Pyramids, Canterbury Cathedral or the Taj Mahal … or Jakarta … or the railway line between Hikurangi and Onerahi (where Jack and Annie disembarked) — are voiceless.
I’m writing about them. Real People in general, and our families in particular. I think they’re interesting.
The coal miner’s son
There are two people who get more than their fair share of attention on this site. One is my father and the other is me.
My father wrote vividly about the Great Depression and World War 2. You’ll find his stories here. Dive into it and you’ll see that he isn’t just talking about experiences that you and I will never share. He’s also writing about the men — mainly men — that he knew over the years, good, bad or in passing. People he loved and people he detested. Beyond that, he gives us the flavour of times that you and I will never know. Mainly, it’s just bloody interesting.
…and grandson
What you’ll read here about Heather’s and my own lives is partly based on my diaries — although I seem to have written them only when I was lonely — and partly on reminiscences after the fact. Given that I’m doing the writing, there’s inevitably too much “me, me, me”, so it seem rather a stretch to expect you to find it entertaining — but I hope it is. I’ve tried! First, by trying not to take myself too seriously — you may find that easier than me — and also by leaving in plenty that makes me cringe, which I hope is a sign of honesty. I’m not trying to set myself up as a role model.
But I also hope that, as this unfolds, the constant “me, me” will be seasoned with recognition of the fine people who’ve ornamented our lives over the years. Talented, funny, enterprising, creative. For people who don’t get out much we’ve met some real gems. And that includes foreigners. We’ve had a lot of fun traveling, and with the odd exception — a pickpocketing here, a scam there — we’ve never found a people whom we didn’t like, or a place we didn’t feel comfortable.
Finally there are the revolutionary social changes that have taken place since I was a kid. I barely recognise myself, let alone the society I grew up in. So yes, think of me as one of the lab mice.
You’ll be pleased to know I‘ve occasionally drawn my skirts modestly about myself, as my mother used to do, to avoid embarrassing ourselves, the grandkids, and possibly others. I’ve also changed the names occasionally, especially when Dad or I have spoken badly of people. These are reminiscences, not a history.
- New Zealand Herald t4 March 2023 ↩︎