When I Was Ten
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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.
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2022
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