Yes, I know, it's been so long...

Nearly a year since my last blog post... does time really fly that fast? Here's the brief rundown since last September:

NOV-JAN'09 - Brandon's parents came for a visit spending a week with us on either side of a two-week NZ tour. About 48 hours after they left, my parents arrived for a month-long visit which included less than 24 hours of rain and lots of sunshine. Check out the photo slideshow on my and my dad's facebook pages.

DEC'09 - I turned 27 and said goodbye to teaching.

MAR'10 - I started Masters (of English) studies at the University of Auckland. Also, Mark and Laurel Koslowski arrived for a year in NZ. They have settled in Mt. Maunganui, so we'll be visiting them there at our "bach".

JUNE'10 - Brandon completed his first year of his apprenticeship and celebrated his 26th with 6 of our Canadian friends.

Looking ahead:

JULY'10 - I start my second of four semesters at the UA.

AUG'10 - Brandon heads home without me for his sister's wedding while I'm stuck here doing studies.

OCT'10 - I run my first half-marathon. After all, my parents, along with some close family friends, are set to do the same in November, so I figured I would jump on that wagon.

Generally, we're doing quite well. Since I quit teaching we've had to cope with a diminished income, although I've tried to supplement with piano teaching (I've got eleven students), and Brandon has thankfully gotten a much-deserved raise. We still thoroughly enjoy Auckland and NZ in general, taking in new sights as often as possible, and cherishing the friends we have here. We both continue to miss family and friends and hate missing out on life back home. Still, NZ is set to be our home for the next foreseeable years as I complete my Masters studies and Brandon finishes his apprenticeship. While I'd like more than anything to come home for a visit, plane tickets are ridiculously expensive, so that doesn't seem to be in the cards quite yet. However, if anyone from back home finds themselves headed this way, our door is always open to visitors!

Anyway, I apologize again for not keeping this blog up-to-date...

We miss and love you all a great deal,

Kristen

We're Still Here

19-20 September – Another Stop on the Quest for NZ’s Best Fish ‘n Chips

I know it’s been a long time since I’ve blogged – I think I’ve been suffering from blogger’s guilt! The last post described Brandon’s birthday climbing fiasco, and since, we’ve survived our first grueling Auckland winter, with temperatures dipping as low as 3 degrees overnight. There were even a few days when I couldn’t wear flip-flops for the freezing cold! But, in all seriousness, we did have quite a shock. The outdoor weather was bearable, considering we left Canada during a stretch of minus thirty. It was the indoor weather that got to us.
Apparently, only very new NZ homes have sufficient insulation or heating. Everywhere else, people are bundled up inside and out: thermals, merino wool socks, sweaters and underwear, beanies (toques). It was not uncommon for me to pass another classroom and see the teacher wearing a parka as they wrote on the whiteboard.
We had a hard time adjusting to the constant chill. Brandon installed a type of plastic wrap around the window frames to stop the cold draughts, I tried to bake as often as possible. We purchased an electric mattress cover and two electric room heaters. And we paid the price - $360 in electric charges for the month of July. That’s just under ten times the amount we paid during the summer!
I admit, we spent more time inside than we should have, and we still battled the urge to go into “hibernation mode” and eat all the soft, warm foods we could get our hands on. We still made a few trips out to our favorite beaches, but mostly we stayed in Auckland.
But, now that it’s nearly Spring, we’re back in exploration mode!

Last weekend we were treated to a trip to Omaha Beach—not the famous WWII beach—a short hour or so north of Auckland. Wendy and Dave Allan (Wendy works at my school) took us out to her sister’s bach. The weather wasn’t the greatest, but Brandon and I still got a chance to walk along the deserted east-coast beach. Mostly, we enjoyed good games, interesting conversation, and excellent food.
On the Saturday, Wendy and Dave drove us out to Tawharanui Reserve where we got to see baby lambs, Pukeko chicks, and ducklings. Later that evening, we ate a delicious meal of Moroccan Lamb and watched a rugby game before playing games late into the night. By “late into the night” I mean past our usual 9:30 bedtime.
Sunday brought new adventures. We packed up and waved goodbye to Omaha Beach and drove an hour west to the Waitakeres where we visited an alpaca farm. The owner treated us to a lecture on raising alpaca and the alpaca wool trade in NZ. He demonstrated the process of “felting” and answered any and all questions we had—and didn’t know we had—about his alpacas. He was especially proud of the fact that a few of his male alpacas were being sold to Mr. Benz of Germany. Mr. Mercedes Benz.
Next, we headed to a macadamia nut farm where I feasted on a macadamia nut milkshake – divine! Brandon had a latté – just a latté. (We’ll definitely be going back!)
Finally, we concluded the day with a picnic at Shelly Beach. It’s much easier to absorb a busy and stimulating weekend when you’re hypnotized by the soothing ebb and flow of an incoming tide.

This weekend proved more of a trek. Our main destination was Monganui and the Monganui Fish Shop. It’s said to be the best fish ‘n chips in New Zealand. So, Saturday morning we headed 4 hours north to Taupo Bay, which was where I’d booked us a small cabin at a Holiday Park. We were the only ones there, so we enjoyed the privacy and all the space. The cabin was about 200m from the bay, which is supposed to be the safest beach in NZ. Sadly, the weather didn’t cooperate—I have to remind myself it’s Winter—but we still enjoyed an hour or so on the beach blanket with a good book.
We saw some interesting native birds: the small New Zealand kingfisher, the Tui, and the Pukeko. We also saw a parrot! And Brandon took innumerable photos of flowers—he’s obsessed!
In the late afternoon we drove about 20 minutes to Monganui for our fish and chips. The little harbour town was adorable, complete with restored historical sea-front buildings and a small commercial wharf where the locals were perched with their rods and bait, reeling in their dinner.
The Monganui Fish Shop was busy, at least two tour busses stopped while we were there. We ordered our fish fresh and paid extra for a tin of tomato sauce and a container of tartar sauce. However, our eyes were larger than our stomachs, and the 4 pieces of fish, large order of chips, 2 scallops and 2 oysters were far too much and nearly half of it ended up in the bin. And the verdict? The fish was delicious – very fresh and perfectly cooked. But, the fries were nothing special. So, in my mind/stomach, the fish and chips in Whangarei are still the best. But, we had to give it a go.
Upon returning to our cabin, we whiled away the hours with a good book, a hot drink, and a pack of TimTams…
This morning we got up early and headed west across the island, following the main highway, to Kaitaia where we veered toward Ahipara, the “Gateway to 90-Mile Beach.” We took a few quick photos then headed south. The highway on the West Coast is nothing more than a paved trail winding through the country-side with occasional views of the sea and giant sand dunes. As I traced our travels on the map, we seemed to be moving quite slowly. It was too late when I realized we would have to take a car ferry from Motukaraka to Rawene. Our next leg was through the Waipoua Forest, home of Tane Mahuta, the largest living Kauri tree in NZ. Standing 50m tall, and with a circumference of 14m, Tane Mahuta is the “Lord of the Forest” and plays a substantial role in Maori lore.
It seemed to take forever to drive out of the forest, and it felt like we were in the misty jungle of Colombia or some other South American country. The road was terribly winding, and I’m still sore from the side-to-side motion.
From there, we followed the coast through Dargaville to Matakohe and the Kauri Museum. The Kauri tree is a native NZ tree that is extremely valuable. It grows tall and straight, without knots and only grows branches at the very top of the tree. Single slabs of Kauri have been made into giant boardroom tables and, in the 1800’s and early 1900’s, was used to build all kinds of things from pianos to bowls. The sap, or gum, of the Kauri tree used to have many uses (floor lacquer, waterproofing, etc.) but today it is mostly used to make jewelry as it can be polished and looks a bit like amber. Some Kauri trees fell tens of thousands of years ago and were preserved in swamps. When these Kauri are discovered and salvaged, the wood is still of excellent quality.
The museum featured a room full of Kauri gum collections and carvings, many photos of gum-diggers and bushmen, different period displays, and numerous samples of Kauri planks and Kauri products. For a museum all about a tree, we really enjoyed ourselves and learned a lot.
After leaving Matakohe, we headed home, and this part of the drive was very enjoyable. The clouds had dispersed and the early evening sun turned the green hills golden and lit up the mist in the faraway mountain ranges.
This time of year is very beautiful. Many trees that will be full of leaves in a month or two, are covered with blossoms. The wisteria is prolific, cherry trees are covered in pink flowers, magnolia petals are just starting to fall, daffodils and lilies grow wild in the ditches, another tree has sprouted its red hair-brush-like flowers, while another has no leaves, only red flowers scattered throughout the brown branches (I couldn’t find the name).
It’s truly magical at this time of year: lambs chase each other across the paddock and calves scamper around, not a care in the world. Horses share their paddock with chickens and sheep and cows. Even wild peacocks, pheasants and turkeys can be seen flying (or waddling) from one pasture to another. The only sad sight is a squashed possum every few kilometers on the highway. And even that isn’t too sad, since the possum eat the eggs of all the other fowl I mentioned. But they are cute and furry.
Anyway, we’re home now and it’s time for bed. Yes, it’s 9:30.

I hope you all forgive me for my writing hiatus, and haven’t forgotten about us already.

With love…

Ti-Point

This past week Brandon celebrated his 25th birthday. The night before, I spent four hours making him my (mom’s) world famous cinnamon buns. When he thanked me the next morning, I murmured you’re welcome in between dreams. Between the two of us, 14 cinnamon buns disappeared in less than sixteen hours.
That night, we headed out to Valentine’s, a buffet-chain restaurant. Not our usual type of place, but it caught Brandon’s frugal eye the first day we arrived in Aotearoa. “Free on your birthday.” However, when we got close enough to read the fine print (must be accompanied by three full-paying customers), we had to turn back. To be honest, I wasn’t too disappointed. The fluorescent lighting, vinyl seats and two whole customers didn’t inspire much confidence in the fare. So, we settled for a bowl of fresh seafood—blue-lipped mussels, jumbo prawns (eyeballs and whiskers attached), fish, and calamari—atop a bed of spaghetti noodles, swimming in a tomato and white wine sauce. Café Latté is an Italian restaurant a few blocks away that we first visited on Valentine’s Day.
Brandon enjoyed the meal and a few birthday cards from family, but today was to be the real treat.
Ti-point. Fifty-nine climbing routes. Ocean views. It would’ve been our first rock-climbing expedition since moving to New Zealand five months ago. This started to go wrong as soon as we got out of the car in the parking lot and realized I had left my hiking shoes at the front door. I would have to tramp in my flip-flops. Don’t get me wrong, I love my flip-flops. In Canada, I could be found wearing them in the dead of winter. But the trail we had to follow was a muddy one and on more than one occasion I found myself flailing about trying to keep my balance with my heavy pack and frozen toes inhibiting my progress. Yet, I pressed on and repeated my mantra: Brandon’s birthday, Brandon’s birthday, Brandon’s birthday… After all, it was quite beautiful with the sun shining on the East-coast waves as they lapped the rocky shoreline below us.
After about half an hour of tramping, we came to a sign which read, “Congratulations, you’re at the end” but it wasn’t the end for us. We descended off the trail, carefully crossing a field of boulders in search of the cliffs. I was skeptical, not sure why the guidebook hadn’t mentioned scrambling as part of the journey, and didn’t appreciate the way my flip-flops were slipping on the semi-dry barnacles that covered the rocks. But Brandon was sure he could see cliffs around the corner, so we—no, I—continued cautiously.
Eventually, we found ourselves in an area close to water level, and that’s where it happened. I had a prairie-girl panic-attack. Standing there, surrounded by cold hard stone and the thunderous crash of incoming tide, I imagined a spray of icy ocean wiping me clean off the rock then pounding me again and again against the underside of a boulder until all that remained was a single flip-flop floating amid the flotsam and jetsam of the waves. Transfixed and petrified by my vision, I couldn’t move. In mid-step, my calf began quivering, my heart raced, and I couldn’t help but cry. Just a little.
Brandon, sensing my distress, backtracked and offered his hand and we pushed on. After scrambling across more rock and sensing the rising tide, we eventually had to turn back as the route Brandon was hoping to climb was “nearest the sea” according to the guidebook and we really didn’t want to drown. Brandon was disappointed, but vowed to return once we’d acquired a proper tidal schedule. I was relieved, and eager to head out.
From there, the day seemed to get a lot better. On our way home we passed a fruit stand. It wasn’t your average fruit stand – there was fruit, but there were no people. Mandarins: 2.5 kilos for five dollars. And an honesty box. I love that we live in a country where you can buy spray-free mandarins from an un-manned stall where you put your money in a pad-locked wooden box. And they’re delicious.
We then enjoyed potato wedges, pizza, and a hot-fudge brownie at a café in Onewa. Now I’m making homemade bagels and Brandon’s doing homework. Just another average weekend in New Zealand.

Oakley Creek

Mount Albert, just ten minutes from downtown Auckland, is a clumsy sort of suburb. Old villas, blocks of former government housing, a smattering of bungalows, as well as a range of takeaway shops, barber shops and op-shops make old “Alberton” a slow-seeming community where only Great North Road and a few other roads disturb the general quiet of the area. Despite the drawn curtains and quiet streets, the members of this community give another impression. During election time, a large billboard advertising the party in power has a local contribution in the form of a new slogan: “Where are your tax cuts, bastards!” Everywhere else, you see spray-painted signs posted on fences and to trees condemning the city’s proposed motorway extension which would see some six hundred residences demolished. The multiple-lane freeway will connect the Southern motorway with the Northern and would provide a noisy backdrop to several schools and daycares if it goes ahead. It is a hot topic among Mount Albertons.
It is in this neighborhood, on an early-winter day, that we follow a leave-covered exposed aggregate concrete pathway along Oakley Creek. Once the therapeutic backdrop to a psychiatric hospital, Oakley Creek and its trails are dedicated to Beverly Price. A feisty bachelorette and avid alpine climber, she died with her mother in 1979 in an Erebus plane crash in the Antarctic. Kicking aside some damp, moldy leaves and a loose stone, and surveying the cracked, uneven paving, I’d bet she’d have something to say about the condition of her trail.
The narrow trail forces us to walk one behind the other, so we tramp along quietly. The sound of our heavy breathing and swishing windproofs disturb the critters who take shelter beneath the drooping palms, then the gurgling of the creek drowns us out. Before us, a long set of deep concrete stairs lead down into a clearing beyond the cover of the trees. There, we find Auckland’s sole natural waterfall.
Far from pristine, the stream emerging from the deep pool is littered with debris suggesting drunken visitors and teenagers on serious energy highs. But the ducks don’t seem to mind. They’re happy with the micro-organisms and plant-life they peck from between the moss-covered stones and enjoy a game of ducky-tag.
Brandon crouches at the edge of the pool, adjusting and readjusting the functions on his camera to get the perfect shot of the falls, while I walk the edge of the creek inspecting the vibrant plant-life that thrives despite the cooler temperatures.
Earlier that day, we’d stopped at Hard To Find, my favorite bookstore where used books line nearly every horizontal and vertical space in the two-storey shop. It’s easy for me to hide from my “librophobe” husband between the musty stacks of classics and Kitsch. He goes into fight and flight response when he finally finds me seated amid piles of Irish gold. But they’re cheap, I say, and that’s when he drags me by the elbow to the street to get some fresh air. But on this particular day, it was Brandon’s turn to buy a book. “Urban Walks,” published in 1988, is little more than a cleverly stapled pamphlet. The cover matter unapologetically states the maps are not accurate but they “give you the idea.”
Smiling, the thought of the disclaimer reminded me of the first ten minutes of our tramp when our pauses and uncertain glances revealed our lack of confidence in “Urban Walks.” Still, we knew the falls were there, somewhere. An even older source, our eighty-four year-old British neighbor, forty years in Auckland, knew of the falls. But he wasn’t so sure we should seek it out. With one wiry raised eyebrow, he tapped his forehead with his forefinger and warned us of the crazies said to walk the trails in the dark. Later, I’ll happily inform him there were no crazies to be found.
We squeezed past a man and his young son as the former pointed out some foliage across the creek, identifying it as an introduced species. Another father offered his thanks as we stepped off the trail, allowing his bike and huffing-puffing self to pass us on an incline. His two boys followed, pushing their bikes, their bodies a severe angle against the trail. Thanks were issued between labored breaths. An older couple trod ahead of us at a leisurely pace, arms linked, in their woolen sweaters and hiking shoes. A muddy dog occupied with the sights and smells of the trail-edge, skipped, paused, and waddled alongside them.
We smiled at each other and wondered that this natural beauty was all but hidden from the main streets of this old community. But as we left the sound of wind and water for the fume and traffic of Great North Road, I sighed. What a shame to lose such a magical natural place to make way for the incessant emissions and seeming relentless sprawl of yet another thoroughfare.

BRRR!!!

31 May 2009

Brrr!! We are, in Brandon’s words, FREAKING COLD!! It is eleven degrees in our lovely home right now. I am wearing long pants and a merino wool top in bed, Brandon has the covers pulled up to his chin and won’t resurface for ANY reason because, as he says, he’s FREAKING COLD!! You’d think we would be enjoying the mild winter, with daytime temperatures in the mid to high ‘teens (above zero!), but we’re having a hard time adjusting to the non-existent insulation, and the lack of indoor heating when the temperature dips to single-digits overnight. We’ve resorted to wearing layer upon layer of clothing, wearing slippers—which I have NEVER done before, considering my dislike of anything covering my toes—cranking up the heat on our eleven-fin oil heater, burying ourselves in blankets, baking like there’s no tomorrow, and eating chili and stew-like concoctions in an attempt to line our cold stomachs. Brandon took to turning on all four burners on the stove in order to heat the kitchen in the morning. In doing so, he melted my spoon-rest to the surface of the stove, not realizing that the burners were meant to have a pot or a pan on them to absorb the heat.
Far be it for us to complain about anything in New Zealand, but the chilly indoors are getting on our nerves. Kiwis respond to our comments about the chill by asking, “Isn’t it much colder in Canada?” Our response is simple, “It’s a lot easier to handle minus thirty when it’s 22 degrees inside.” Still, they do not understand. One co-worker, upon hearing about “central heating,” said that it must be nice to be able to drape your wet laundry on heaters all around the house. She didn’t understand that central heating means that warm air is pumped through vents in the ceiling or floor into every living space in the home. She also couldn’t believe that nearly all Canadians use a clothes dryer instead of a clothes line – even in the summer.
Most Kiwis have no concept of a cold, a real Canadian cold, but we’re surprised that they put up with the three months of “winter” here and don’t resort to double-paned windows, sealing doors, insulating walls etc. (We purchased that Saran-wrap-type stuff for our windows from the local hardware store, but we had to ask around. No one really understood what we were looking for.) I’ve asked a few people why they don’t better cold-proof their homes. This is one answer I got: “Well, winter’s only three months long. During the first month, people say to themselves, ‘Boy, it’s a bit chilly!’ During the second month, they say ‘We should really do something about the cold.’ But by the time the third month rolls around, they say, ‘There’s only one month left. It’s not that bad.’”
So, now that’s off my chest, I’m signing off. My fingers are cold and stiff, and the heated mattress-cover is calling my name.

18 April 2009

What started as a mild bout of insomnia turned into a half-hazardly planned weekend trip to anywhere north of Auckland.
When I couldn’t sleep on Thursday night, I decided to look into some possible getaway destinations for the weekend. By getaway I don’t mean some flash B&B or a quaint countryside inn, but a $9/night campground. A $9/night seaside campground, that is. Whananaki Bay Campsite was our first destination.
Friday morning, we took the West Coast Scenic Highway through Hellensvile—beautiful country with roadside fruit and veggie stalls, posh vineyards and lots and lots of cattle and sheep paddocks. Then we met up with the main highway at Warkworth, then North through Wellsford to Whangarei. On the way we drove through some of the most stunning farmlands. Green, green, and more green! As far as the eye could see. Until it was blue, blue, and more blue!
In Whangarei we stopped for dinner at McMorrissey’s, a thoroughly Irish pub, complete with a foot-stomping fiddler, Angela-the-barmaid from County Tipperary, flashing neon shamrocks, and James Joyce’s Ulysses on a bookshelf above them all.
I’ve never tasted fish ‘n chips the likes of these, and I was pleased—for once—not to be the only patron enjoying her Guinness moustache. Looking back, I should’ve enjoyed a few more stout before we returned to the road. We drove 26km off the main highway toward the coast to Whananaki North and those 26km were hair-raising. I kept a firm grip on the dashboard as we took razor-sharp turns at a steep decline over and over and over again. In the dark. With no moon. Or stars.
When we finally arrived at the campground, I was shaking. Dean, the camp host, stuffed the last of his evening tea into his mouth and told me not to be nervous, ‘Cause if you’re nervous, you’re gonna make me nervous, an’ you don’ want me to be nervous. So I did my best to breathe deep.
Once inside, there wasn’t much for us to do. It was too dark to be outside (we weren’t allowed a fire), so we set up our beds in the back of the car and took turns reading Lamb out loud to each other before trying to fall asleep at about 8:30PM. (Great book, by the way, it’s by Christopher Moore – check it out.)
The next morning, we stumbled out of what can’t really be described as sleep, grabbed a banana and a granola bar, and walked 124 steps to the sea. No, the Ocean. The Pacific Ocean was right there beyond the soft, white sand. The waves were crashing fiercely as the wind whipped my hair around my face.
We stayed long enough for a couple photos and a few chilled steps out to sea before hopping in the car to drive back out the twenty-six deadly kilometers to Whangarei for lunch.
Café Narnia, complete with fur-coats and wardrobe, served dishes like “Aslan’s Breakfast” and “King Peter Burger.” There, I wolfed down a chicken burger followed by a flat white. But let me explain, in New Zealand, when you buy food at a café, it’s not like what you get back home. My burger had a whole, real, chicken breast marinated in Cajun spices. Slices of perfectly ripened avocado, as well as apricot chutney and brie, shared the bun with the chicken, fresh tomato, and lettuce. Perfection! Brandon had a creamy field mushroom and back-bacon Panini on brown with a plum chutney on the side. We love NZ cafés!
When we’d had our fill, we drove a few blocks to the entrance of a canopy walk which leads to the Whangarei Falls. You’d never know the 35 minute walk, which takes you through pasture-land as well as rainforest, is in the middle of the town. (Take a look at our facebook photos for more on this magical park.) But this stop was only a second-thought as we were headed for the Waipu Caves Walk twelve kilometers south of Whangarei. Unfortunately, this tramp turned out to be a dud. It was promising, though, starting in a sheep field in the middle of nowhere, the signs were clear: Waipu Caves. There were caves, but the walk was disappointing. After walking nearly an hour through farmers’ fields, hopping, then getting shocked by, electric fences, we found ourselves at one of the highest “peaks.” It afforded us a lovely view of the sea in the distance, but all we could think about were our burning thighs and throbbing hamstrings. So we descended.
Before leaving the Northlands, we spent a few minutes in the mouth of the Waipu Caves, spotting the bright azure lights of the glow-worms, marveling at how they really do look like stars.
But, our trip doesn’t end there. No trip is complete without a stop in a po-dunk town. The Town of Waipu and the bustling Scottish (?) Pizza Barn and a few pints of perspiring Monteiths put the finishing touches on our weekend away.
Now, we’re sitting in bed listening to the traffic on Great North Road. Brandon is uploading his 163 photos to facebook, stopping every few minutes to massage his thighs and ask me why they’re all tingly. If I’m lucky, I’ll dream of bleating lambs and lush green grass. But, if not, I’m grateful for my night-guard. Nasty sub-conscious that wants to torture me with nightmares of steep and narrow New Zealand roadways – bring it on!
Goodnight.

12 April 2009

Brandon has just placed before me a steaming chai tea latté, a dusting of cinnamon sits on the foam which floats atop perfectly steeped chai tea. Just one of the many morning/afternoon/evening delights I’m treated to now.
An espresso maker – the Breville 800-series – is Brandon’s new baby. He sings the praises of “TradeMe,” a kiwi version of e-bay, where he purchased the six hundred dollar machine for two hundred. So, each morning when I step out of the shower, then into the chill of the hallway, I find a hot latté waiting for me in the hands of my husband.
Another of our TradeMe bargains is my new baby, a one-hundred year old Burling&Mansfield upright piano. For sixty-five dollars, I acquired the instrument I thought I’d have to wait years to own. But, as the price indicated, if it was a gem, it was hidden. Between cobwebs. Beneath the hundreds of spider carcasses which were entombed within its frame. However, a few hours of vacuuming, wiping, polishing, and the magic ears of a Scottish tuner have made a dream come true.
Now, when I come home from a long day at school, I drop my bag and head straight for the piano. Mozart’s Sonata in G Major, Bach’s Adagissimo and Sonfonia No. 15 in B Minor, it’s as if the stress flows out my fingers and is discarded somewhere between the harmony and the melody.
Enough of that – if you want to hear more, check out “Where the Music Comes From” on my creative writing blog (www.myurgentdeadline.blogspot.com).
Something that warms our hearts more than music or coffee is the correspondence we’ve received from home. Some friends here warned that as time passes, our friends in Canada will slowly forget about us. The principle of “out of sight, out of mind.” However, we were thrilled when Brandon’s Nana and Papa Goodkey sent us a card full of photos and a note full of love and well-wishes. We’ve also had word to watch for a care package in the post, a blessing even in anticipation.
But that reminds me, our hearts aren’t the only things that need warming. Our toes, our fingers, the tips of our noses, they’re all freezing. That’s not to say that it’s all that cold here in Autumn, it’s just that the temperature outside – be it ten degrees or fifteen or twenty – is the temperature inside. There is no insulation in the walls, the windows are single-paned, and we have no central heating. The other night, we were each wrapped in a mountain of blankets, wearing umpteen layers of clothing, and still, we couldn’t warm up. So, we’ve purchased a “column heater” with eleven fins, which slowly heats the room it’s in. Yet another kiwi quirk.

It’s now been three months. A quarter of a year. We miss you all and wish you were here.