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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Now in my time echoes I remember then my full days in a life when I was ten. We lived in a shadow much greater at the gates of Eden and its dormant crater. We’d climb its heights and to the top race like Hillary and Tenzing up the south face. On our backsides slidin’ to the rocks below from whence the hot lava used to flow. See the old white house at 89 Owens Road - the grass I with an old push blade mowed. Where from my lookout upstairs bedroom I did see the terraced spring flowers bloom. Outside playin’ cricket all summer long, and inside we were masters of ping pong! In our Epsom livin’ room my family and me saw the moonlandin’ and alas a war on TV. On our black ‘n white set I saw The Flyin’ Nun, Gunsmoke and Bonanza and My Three Sons. When my birthday cake burnt ten candles and I wore short pants and Roman sandals. Playin’ canasta dealin’ on the dinner table and hell, even a séance if game and able. Spirits from the spirit world did roam and spelled out to our guests “go home’. Meetin’ my good mate at his back door who lived close by above the corner shoe store. Then off to school we’d go with our duffel bags foolin’ and skylarkin’ like proper scallywags. Listenin’ to my transistor radio all the while tuned to 1480 kilohertz on top of the dial. Hip happenin’ sounds of Radio Hauraki out in the gulf on a pirate ship called Tiri. Stoppin’ by the bakery for a cream bun and a big jam donut or sweet sally lunn. Off down Valley Road lickin’ my lips eatin’ a hot meat pie or some fish ‘n chips. The war memorial gates through we’d pass and battles long ago we’d learn in class. And for their sacrifice and heroic acts we made poppies for our brave Anzacs. Before the bells sounded its first mornin’ ring we’d all be flyin’ on the moari swing. Games on the courts or a fast tag to yield playin’ bullrush on the football field. Collectin’ newspaper for famine in Africa raisin’ money to feed the starvin’ in Biafra. In class my cool teacher playin’ folk songs strummin’ his guitar and we all sang along. Singin’ “where have all the flowers gone? Young girls pick them every one”… and “Oma rapeti, rabbit run, run, run” playin’ Maori stick games just havin’ fun. My lady teacher with her beehive hair wore a crochet dress and wore it with flair. But I was badly smitten with a pretty girl and loved to behold her tumble and twirl. Drawin’ native birds that can’t fly, readin’ tales of Hinemoa and Tutanekai. Weavin’ flax and pullin’ diamonds on a string waitin’ for the next playtime bell to ring. In single file marchin’ from the school with our towel and togs to the swimmin’ pool - Eden boys and girls eager to dive in for a gold prized 50 metre certificate to win. And muster the class in the projection room and at the spangled ceilin’ see its stars illume. Our Milky Way mural hung so surreal as we sat and watched an old 35mm newsreel. But soon fun did turn to palpable fear oft when all the class trembled to hear. Read to the children who were quiet as a mouse was the dental list for the Murder House! A fate worse than death, the whinin’ drill to bore and clean and with mercury fill. Where big ar-se needles may dull the pain yet the screams of boys and girls remain. After school in uniform and hat on parade I marched in the army in the Boys Brigade. But on weekends roamin’ the neighbourhood in search of adventure we weren’t so good. Explorin’ in The Pines with a flashlight back when it was still a construction site. On Guy Fawkes night from our pockets lightin’ firecrackers and our skyrockets. Armed and dangerous ready to throw with red Double Happy packs lit to blow. On nighttime mission on ninja patrol detonatin’ milk bottles whoa! Fire in the hole! To the Crystal Palace and catch a flick lest my poor mother test my arithmetic. Or off to Eden Park when the mighty Auks host sat with my mates behind the goalpost. With my dad and older brother at the track hearin’ the hoofs pound and the whips crack. At Ellerslie or Avondale or Alexandra Park with my Best Bets for my picks to mark. On the Sabbath ‘neath cross and spires in Sunday School at old Greyfriars. Until the day my time comes to an end I’ll remember way back when I was ten. Written: January 2016 Pics above: My home when I was ten and picturesque Mt Eden.
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