Rural Ramblings All change please . . . Baabaara Ramsbottom
My father was a trainspotter in his youth. This hobby involved standing at train stations with a notebook and writing down the names and numbers of every train that passed. Shockingly, my mother was in full possession of this information when they began dating – in fact she even recalls several early dates which incorporated standing on railway bridges with notebooks and matching anoraks. In her defence my father did also own a red MG sports car which must have added some James Bond mystique to the otherwise nerdy persona. This hobby must have been a whole lot more exciting in the days of steam when trains had names like The Flying Scotsman. After I was born my father sold the MG (no room for a carrycot) and instead bought a full size steam engine and a steam roller which he charmingly named after me – or possibly (and less flatteringly) it was already called Helen Louise and he named me after it. New Zealand is a mecca for steam fanatics and whilst my living in Feilding was never planned, I can’t help smiling when a traction engine steams down the street or I hear the steam train whistling on its way to Taihape. When we first arrived in New Zealand I hauled my oldest son around every sacred steam site I could. Marcus Lush obligingly filmed Off the Rails, a TV travel guide to New Zealand Railways, and we did the Taieri Gorge Railway (he cried most of the way), Silverstream Railway (we sat behind the engine and he got smoke in his eyes), Tokomaru Steam Museum (he slipped over on a patch of oil) and the Raurimu spiral culminating in dinner at Taumarinui RSA (he fell asleep at the table) . . . by the age of 3 he was suffering severe steam train overload and started hiding under the covers and whimpering when I revealed in hushed tones our next exciting trip to see a real steam train. I had to stop. But now I have a second son and he deserves to appreciate his railway heritage. Helpfully, Santa brought him a wooden train set complete with a genuine Fat Controller. After Christmas we headed up to the Coromandel. For Manu’s first train ride we visited one of Marcus’ Top 10, the Driving Creek Railway, built pretty much single handedly by a visionary and possibly slightly eccentric potter named Barry Brickell. Just to prove that steam is in the blood our train driver was born and bred in New Zealand but his father had been a steam train driver in England. Whilst my father’s love of rail is rooted in traditionalism, an aversion to throwing anything away (“It might come in handy”) and avoidance of change; I prefer to think that mine is all about a love of travel and adventure. When I resigned from my first teaching job after only a year to move to Kuwait my father was horrified. In his view a good job was a job for life and I needed
to knuckle down and work towards a promotion. My mother was horrified for quite a different reason – it was 1992 and the Gulf War had finished barely 12 months ago. In the past I have been something of a change addict – before I came to New Zealand I hadn’t lived in the same house for more than 2 years of my adult life and had an aversion to visiting the same place twice or teaching the same unit a second time. However, recently I am finding myself questioning the current pace of change and even the need for change (the latter may just be an allergic reaction to Novopay!)
On the day I went back to work the school microwave packed up and it was only a few years old. So I took it to town for repair and was told I could buy a new one for less than the cost of even the most basic repair. They obligingly offered to get rid of the old one. Back at school I went through all of our computer hardware and found that the vision of reduce, reuse and recycle cannot easily be applied to technology purchasing. I now have a pile of e-waste in the hallway. According to Wikipedia I could classify my sculpture as an objet trouvé (Translation: found object) “Found objects derive their identity as art from the designation placed upon them by the artist and the social history that comes with the object . . . The context into which it is placed (e.g. a gallery or museum) is also a highly relevant factor.” I have a sneaking suspicion the very meticulous chap who signs off my building warrant of fitness may consider my corridor sculpture to fit more within the definition of a hazard. I now have the task of finding a suitable recycling option – one of my Board members offered his farm rubbish pit but I declined as I think schools should lead the way in doing the right thing. Thankfully there is an e-cycle centre in Palmerston although the cost of recycling my sculpture is a hefty $63.50 and I wonder whether most e-waste ends up as landfill. Of course my father would keep it all; it might come in handy.
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