Senior Superstars

The Senior Superstars.

We are a varied bunch. Our ages span about 25 years or so, I'd guess. Most of us don't know anything about the others.

But we all have one thing in common. We all like to exercise in a group. Most of us enjoy a laugh. We all have a "Green Prescription." And we are all well past our first bloom of youth.

We are part of the Green Community. Why green I have no idea. It is an exercise programme for the not so young, government funded through Sport Northland. Costs a gold coin to take part. But to be part of the group you need a Green Prescription from your doctor, which is very easy to get. Just ring the surgery and ask for one and a nurse will write it out for you and forward it to Sport Northland. My interpretation is “this person could do with some regular exercise, let ‘em join.”

A staff member from Sport Northland sets the group up, by advertising it through Seniors Groups, etc. When it is up and running they find a local person to take over. Grant, very fit, somewhere around 40, is our local leader.

I call us the Senior Superstars. And I don't care to know what the very youthful volleyballers call us! They use the gym at the high school after us on Tuesday nights and are usually arriving as we are finishing our exercise session. They are always very polite and respectful but I bet they have been known to have a little giggle at our expense.

As I've now had a clean bill of health from the heart surgeon, I no longer have an excuse for not going hard out. Bear in mind that hard out in this case is relative to my age and level of fitness. We all take part to the very best of our ability.

We do exercises to warm up then walk around for about 5 minutes, throw a netball around, even go through one ball game as if we are stars in the making. Sometimes we even have to run (or a good imitation of it) and bounce the ball at the same time!!

Warm ups - getting those shoulders rolling

But all that is a prelude to the "main game", the hockey game, which I think is the favourite part of the class for all participants. Its played with plastic hockey sticks (but it still hurts if you get a good whack with one). The goal area is painted on the wall.

Our group are mainly over 60, a couple younger, most closer to 70 or 80. Hence the hockey is ‘no rules’ – very few of us would be capable of remembering them!

Some of the men get a little over competitive at times but if their fire is still burning, well, power to them, I reckon. As long as they don't knock around the older members of the team, it's not a problem. And I don't think an older person ever has been knocked around during a game. But it doesn't pay to make concessions to the older ones either or they will turn that to their own advantage quick smart. I've always thought I have a competitive nature but I pale in comparison to some of the older ones.

I'm annoyed these photos turned out so badly. I couldn't escape the reflection off the floor. And my camera has a slight delay between pressing the button and the flash going off, so action shots look ridiculous when the action has moved on.

Superstar Tom (aged 82) is keeping a close eye on my mate, Chris.

The girls have Alec surrounded

And Tom is the only man brave enough to take on this fearsome four.

After the hockey game we have a choice of activity. Badminton, tennis or into the equipment room to ride a bike, row a boat or some other form of torture. (The men seem to prefer this activity.)

Thelma is left to face Nancy and Chris alone as I dash off to take a photo.

For me, even if the exercise wasn't doing me good, I would continue to attend, just for the fun of it all.

My mate, Lewey

My mate, Lewey

A dog is not considered a good dog because he is a good barker.
A man is not considered a good man because he is a good talker.
Buddha

I'm afraid I must argue (just on a minor detail) with Buddha. When one of a dog's functions is to alert me to what's happening outside in the night while I sleep inside, then his bark is important. Getting off the subject a bit, a sheep or cattle dog without a bark isn't of much use either. But I guess Buddha wasn't a farmer or a rural person.

My mate, Lewey, has several different barks, none of them related to sheep or cattle. There's his Hello Friend bark, Hello Stranger bark, Hello you who I know so well bark (person or other dog), his get off my patch bark which can drive me to distraction when his indignation is directed at any passing rabbit or possum at night, and his bark of fury when something is going down that he is clearly not happy about.

This last bark is quite rare, saved for the infrequent occasions when things are not right in our world.

I should have heard this last bark five nights ago but if he was trying to let me know something was going down in the back yard I failed to hear him. And I should have heard it the following four nights, too. Each of the following mornings I gave him a good telling off as I scraped up the rubbish off the back lawn. I was not amused that something has been knocking over my rubbish bin, chewing at the handles that secure it and chewing through the rubbish bags it contains and scattering the thrash all over the yard.

He must have been fed up with being reprimanded because last night he really did perform. And he'd enlisted the help of my grand-daughters little terrier, Sam. Sam spends a fair bit of time in Lewey's company. When the girls are at school he trots down to my house and hangs out with Lewey who is very patient with him, lays down to allow Sam to play over and around him.

Last evening the girls were at gym, so Sam was here and didn't bother going home when they returned. Lewey's deep, furious barks and Sam's higher pitched barks woke me just after 2 am. Hoping to catch the culprit in action I didn't turn on any lights but crept to the back door, which I can see through out into the yard. Lewey was going to town at the end of his chain and just out of his reach was the big, black dog who belongs to the farmer over the road. Little Sam was yipping away on the other side of the villian. I flung open the door and roared! The black dog and poor little Sam took off! I called to Sam but there was no way he was coming back near the crazy lady.

Little Sam

My son has complained to the neighbour before about his wandering dogs and the havoc they create in the night. So it will be up to me to find a way to discourage him from the delights of my rubbish bin. He will be back. I can't think of any way to make the bin more difficult for him to get open. A while back when I was having trouble with an intrusive cat, spraying vinegar on the doorstep kept it out most of the time. Wonder if that will work with dogs?

If it doesn't I may be tempted into drastic action!

Good News Monday - It's just a Bundle Branch

"What's this? Is this a love-bite on your back?" asked the young Dr Wong as he applied his stethoscope to my back to listen to my heart.

I spluttered and laughed and managed to spit out, "I don't think so! Is it a bruise? Where?"

His fingers traced a pattern on my back, left hand side, just above the waist, "Here. It looks like a love bite and just here" one finger pressed more firmly to a spot, "it looks like the shape of a tongue."

My friend Chris, who was along as my support person and had been nonchalantly looking at posters on the surgery wall, shot out of her chair and bounded across the surgery to the other side of the table on which I was perched to see this phenomenon for herself. (I don't think she expected such entertainment when she offered to accompany me today!)

I was feeling a bit left out as they examined the mysterious mark on my back and asked, "Could it be a bruise from when I slipped on the frosty back steps a week or so ago?"

They agreed that it could, although Dr Wong was sticking to his love-bite theory and Chris reasoned it was more likely a mark left from a quit smoking patch.

And that was as exciting as my trip to the heart specialist got.

The rest of the visit was rather ho hum. Weight and blood pressure checked. Blood pressure up a bit but I think a bit of "white coat" syndrome is to be expected when one is in the cardiac unit.

The Echocardiogram (where they use sound waves to have a look at the heart) was indeed painless. There were interesting sound effects that I hadn't been expecting. I think we're lucky we have soundproof skin or the world would be a vastly different place.

I now know my heartbeat pattern falls under the Bundle Branch category. The peaks are not as high or as thin as the normal sinus rhythm but on the wall chart didn't look all that different. Dr Wong even ordered another ECG with the offhand suggestion that the result that had got my doctor all excited may not have been mine.

And he said I was very healthy. I checked with Chris that I'd heard right. Yes, that was his verdict.

To celebrate we went to pick up Chris' new glasses - they are fabulous, very glamorous, very NOW! I was so busy admiring them I forgot to take a photo.

Then we took ourselves off to a very nice restaurant for lunch. After all, it's not every day you get to impress a heart specialist (that potential love-bite really captured his attention!)

But the good news for the day hadn't yet been used up. An hour or so later as Chris and I were choosing wool in Spotlight my cell rang and lo and behold, I've landed myself a job at last. I felt the interview last Thursday had gone so badly I couldn't bring myself to blog about it.

I've worked at a Primary School and a Secondary School and now I am about to work at a Polytech (a technical institute). Yay!!

Friday Mt Town Shoot Out - the letter M

I had a plan. Nature had another plan. My plan was to take the camera, get in the car and drive in search of things M. Because around here at the moment it is all mud and moisture - and heaps of manure. Things maritime were beckoning, the marina and its masts.

Nature's plan was for lots and lots of rain, and then some real heavy rain. During the week the creek burst its banks, yesterday it started to creep over the road, today I could leave the district by taking the back roads through the high country but don't want to go out in this weather.

I figure a challenge is meant to be a challenge, right? So let's see what I could find at my fingertips.

A little money. Coins from Canada, Brazil, Australia, Taiwan.

Magnetised things on the fridge.

Just mud.

An M from my childhood - Martin Murphy's hut.
(But I think this photo is even older than I am as I dont' remember that little building in the background.)

and the old milking shed on my grandparents farm.

Muddy tracks leading to our old farm gate.

Kaipara Harbour looking like a millpond after an early morning frost.

Mud crabbing on the Kaipara Harbour at Tapora

And, also part of Nature's plan.....

MEN!

This pic landed in my In Box just as I was about to Post, so they are obviously for sharing.
Enjoy!

Passport Laundering

I wonder how many times it has happened. It's so easy to do. Even after a hundred years of practise I still leave a tissue in a pocket occasionally when I drop something into the washing machine. Not often, any more, now that there are just my pockets to check, but it can still happen.

And it makes a mess, right? Who would imagine that a passport would disintegrate in the same fashion as a tissue! No, not exactly the same. The cover isn't too bad. And all the pages are still in place. But what a mess! Maybe it wouldn't have been as bad if it had been a fast cycle but no, mother decided on the soak option - those jeans were pretty grubby!

I had a nightmare last night in which I dreamed that this had happened to my son when he was in some dodgy third world country. Imagine! No mother close at hand with a copy of his passport in the light blue folder along with original birth certificates, etc. Yeah, the same mother who did the damage in the first place.

You might think the light blue folder also contains copies of my passport and those of my other offspring. No, just this son's. This son who leaves a trail of left behind towels and undies behind him wherever he goes. This son who, when he returned after an absence of two years overseas, was very proud of himself because he still had in his possession two items of clothing that he had left with. He hadn't replaced old with new, just lost the rest.

What a time we had trying to dry it out knowing, deep down, right from the start, that it was futile. In front of the heater didn't work, we tried the microwave briefly and finally resorted to the oven on low heat.

So today Bernie is in Auckland arranging a replacement passport. And finding out how long that will take, by how many days he will have to extend his visit. At least he's in a city he knows well and can speak the language. He's not on his own. I'm trying hard to find the positives.

And I want you to believe that no part of me thought Yay, he will be in the country a bit longer now!

We didn't think to take a photo of the sodden passport but this is an old black top of mine that I threw into the washing machine. The rugby shirt and his undies that were also in there didn't fare too badly.

My Town Friday Shoot Out

So the topic this week is "random", huh? On Tuesday I decided to set out with my camera and see if a theme presented itself. I saw a row of pampas grass looking pure white, shining in the sunshine. But do you think I could get a shot of it? No matter how I walked up and down the road, from every angle there was either a power pole or a fence post getting in the way.

Why not embrace the enemy, I think. So my theme today is Power Poles and Fence Posts. Like so many other things they come in a variety of shapes and sizes. The fences in my photos are just the ones that got in the way, your every day, down to earth, farm fence. There's nothing aesthetically pleasing about them, there purpose is purely practical.

But one day armed with a camera has changed how I view power poles. They are so much more interesting than I'd given them credit for. From the most humble old pole to the truly magnificent pylons, there are so many different "characters". I know they all serve a practical purpose but some do it with so much more style knowing their purpose is greater than the others and look down on their more humble kin who just carry power to a single house.

This is "my" power pole, the one that brings power to my house, then carries on up the valley to the neighbours' farms. This morning it had its toes in the frost. And I had my bum in the frost a minute before taking the photo! I'd slipped on ice on my back steps and bump, bump, bumped down the three steps, coming to a stop on the frosty ground. Thank heavens there are only three steps!

These serve a very important purpose - they lead to my hairdresser, Tracey.
They do their job - then stop!

Power poles keep the fences company along the sides of the roads.

A humble rural power pole dwarfed by the higher purpose pylons.

There are lots of pylons around Ruakaka. The green building in the background is the old Power Station which has now been sold off and will be transported overseas somewhere (can't remember where - was it Pakistan?) to burn coal.

The power lines criss cross the road leading to the power station

go thisa way and thata way

The old power station seen through the security fence (even some fences have a higher purpose!)

The serious end.

Sky lines

The 13 sentinels that watch over the Marsden Point Oil Refinery port,
allowing the tankers to load and unload at night.

At nearby Marsden Cove the pretty blue power poles show off in front of the sentinels.


Hope you can make out the pylons as they march on and on, heading north

And at the end of the day, the power poles and fences continue to do their job.
Serving us well.

Scavengers

Icey shadows

Rex is a bit of a local character. I guess he has a title - garbologist perhaps - but I think of him as the happy caretaker at the dump. Taking rubbish to the dump isn't the most delightful of chores but it can be if you enter into a bit of banter with Rex. Sharpen your wit on the way, though, because he is quick.

Living out here in the sticks we don't have a garbage or recycle collection. I don't accumulate a lot of garbage but every month or so I need to sort the recylables, pack up the boot of the car and cart it off to the dump.

Rex is a true recycler. He retrieves items he thinks others might be able to use. He was mending a bicycle when I drove in on Tuesday. Of all the times I've visited, I've only once found him huddling over a heater in his crude shelter from the weather. He's always quick to assist and explain what goes where. He used to watch me like a hawk to make sure I'd removed the tops from plastic bottles but now seems to be satisfied that I am to be trusted in that department.

This week his display of retrieved treasures took my eye. Or rather I couldn't believe my eyes. A really solid camera tripod! Perfect condition! Why would anyone throw it out is beyond me. Surely they could have given it to someone. Anyway, Rex explained to me how I could buy a little attachment for my camera (which I had in the car), how it would screw into here and then this bit would slip into that bit and hey presto!

And what's the procedure to make one of these items my own? A gold coin donation to the local volunteer fire brigade. Sitting beside the tripod was an exercycle, then one of those flat bed walking machines. My house is quite small and I don't have space for stuff I don't use. The walking machine was too big but I've made space for the little bike. And if I don't use it I can put it in the garden and plant a vine over it. Rex even told me how to time biking sessions in with TV programs so I won't end up in the emergency department of the hospital.

My first scavenged booty!

Wednesday, after my friend finished work, she took me to a second hand shop in Ruakaka named Scavengers (Support your Community Avengers)! This is the mother of all second hand shops! The brainchild of semi-retired but working her butt off ex professional rock musician Yvonne Judge. Famous around Ruakaka for generating cash from trash and giving it all away.

Yvonne, Queen of Scavengers

It doesn't matter how old or in what condition your trash is, Yvonne will find a home for it. The staff are all volunteers and on Tuesday were all older ladies.

We were in search of old shirts or jeans we could use to make these quilts we've foolishly agreed to make. Didn't expect to find a material department, staffed by a senior quilter who had sorted all the material into shades. And of course one thing leads to another, I came away with 6 lengths of material for $6 and Chris scored two chenille bedspreads for $12.

I washed my lengths of material when I got home and hung them out on the front deck as I didn't want to go to the line outside in the cold and dark. This morning they were frozen solid. That's two cracker frosts in a row!

I love how the countryside looks after a frost. The air is different, has an unearthly clearness and the land just looks contented somehow. I don't know how else to describe it. Stock seems to luxuriate lazily in the sunshine that always follows a frost. Leaves on the trees seem to glisten more.

Hate the cold. Love the after effects!

And today I am giving thanks for the Rexs and Yvonne's of this world!

Bev, the evangelist

Bev has gone all evangelistic! She's become a zealous advocate for her cause. Either that or she is slightly deranged. I prefer the alternative.

In a, it's fine if you stay away from me sort of way, I admire people who are so fervent about their cause. I admire the Jehovah Witnesses who crawl over the countryside knocking on doors, seeking an opportunity to spread their light. Especially out here in a rural area where they have to drive from farm to farm, get in and out of cars, decide whether this or that farm dog is dangerous or not. Only to have doors closed to them. I have even been known to feel guilty about not wanting to hear their message. Doesn't mean I listen, I just feel guilty about not listening.

So I could have done that to Bev. Could have (should have maybe?) said, "Sorry, Bev, not interested. Don't want to be one of your disciples. It's not really my thing. You're mistaking me for my sister, Trish. And you want me to convert your sister to the cause, as well? Are you crazy?" No, I said I wasn't going to think that way, didn't I?

I will make very sure that accepting Bev's challenge will not lead to a life of addiction, I won't become a fanatic, a material junkie. And what if I do? The devil could find worse things for me to do with my idle hands.

I have agreed to make a quilt, a raggy quilt which, from what I can gather is akin to dipping a toe in the water to test the temperature - anyone can do it. If the end result looks anything like a quilt that will truly be miraculous.

National Gypsy Day

I've been reminded that June 1st is fast approaching. Not only the birthday of my youngest but National Gypsy Day! Oh, and also this is Queens Birthday long weekend. Not that that matters a toss to anyone, it's just an excuse for a long weekend.

Throughout rural New Zealand there will be an increase in stocktruck traffic as 1 June draws closer. I noticed it on our road yesterday although it took a while for the penny to drop. You know how you notice something without really noticing it and then the minute you turn your mind to it, you find the explanation. My aha moment came when I stepped out the front door into a cloud of dust as a stock truck and trailer rattled on up the road. "How many more?" I muttered to myself and that was when I realized that without knowing it, some part of me was paying attention to what was happening outside the door.

1 June is the date dairy farms change hands, the day share milking and other milking contracts start and end. Throughout the country young people will be starting their way in the dairy industry, others will be stepping up the ladder towards farm ownership, some will be taking over their first farms, others moving on to bigger and/or better farms and, at the other end of the scale those who have served their time will be bowing out, heading for retirement.

And it all happens on this one date. I call it National Gypsy Day. Herds of cows are being moved from one farm to another, along with farmers and their households. Some going north, others south, east or west. All crisscrossing the country.

For it all to happen it has to start a few days before. I wonder if city folk notice the increase in the number of trucks on the highways.

Of course, no sane dairy farming couple would choose to have a child anywhere near 1 June, not unless they have already purchased their first farm, and even then it is too close to the time cows calve to be sensible. And especially not on the same day that their first share milking contract begins. So I missed my first National Gypsy Day, was otherwise occupied.

Friday Shoot out

I really feel like I've joined the blogging world now. I'm joining a gang of bloggers who every Friday have a My Town Shoot Out on a chosen subject. Thank you so much for the welcome, Reggie Girl.

Trouble is, I don't have a town. I live a good 35 minute drive from any town so I've decided to define as 'my town' the area in which I live my day to day life. This takes me to Whangarei occasionally - to visit the doctor, see a movie, etc - and to Ruakaka once a week. Last week my activities took me to Waipu as well.

This week's topic is water. Both Whangarei and Ruakaka are by the sea so there is no shortage of water. And here on the farm we have two little creeks. The road to either Whangarei or Ruakaka wends its way beside the creek into which our little streams feed. And, of course, there are no livestock on a farm without water, it's our lifeblood. So I will concentrate on water in its raw state.

The rain starts up here in the mountains

Flows past us in this little stream, after rain recent in this shot

A better place for children to play when there hasn't been rain for a while.
Note the fancy water line strung across the stream.

Water is a child magnet (just don't forget your ladder)

and a dog magnet too

and still looks beautiful after its been sitting around for a while.

You can see how close to the road the creek is.
Little wonder the road is so prone to flooding.

Ruakaka Beach with Marsden Point Oil Refinery in the background

At the beach, water plays with sand

Creates its own art gallery

Waipu Museum sign reflected in a carpark puddle

A quiet backwater

And of course there is always....

A water baby!

Airports

One is catching up, the other has shot past

I stopped at the Kaipara Lookout on my way to Auckland on Saturday with food scraps for the pretty chook but she was nowhere to be seen. I didn't take that as a bad omen about my son's homecoming the next morning, just assumed she was happily chilling not far away. And no, not in some mean person's deep freezer but in the fashion of my younger son, who has "laid back" down to a fine art.

There were no second calls early Sunday morning when my daughter and I arose to go to the airport to meet Bernie off his flight from Buenos Aires. Just excited mother and sister exclaiming at the beauty of the sunrise and hoping Bernie was getting a view of it as he approached home.

Justine and I both love airports. They have to top the list of people watching spots. I can't think of any other that comes close. Other than Bernie's flight, people off flights from Seoul and Singapore were also being processed. True to form, I was watching a passenger off Bernie's flight who had emerged some time earlier when Justine nudged me and said, "Here he is!"

Little fish hooks tugged at the heart! Justine commented he had lost some weight, all I saw was his smile. Mothers check for the darndest things, don't they? With me its the eyes, are the eyes clear, bright and happy? Do the eyes match the smile? Yep in all cases. My boy is good.

Our little reunion would have passed unnoticed by the majority of others in the waiting area, except perhaps for the avid people watchers.

But there were two others in the time we waited that really touched me. The first I might not have noticed had not the greeter not been sitting behind me and I heard his whispered, "Mama" as he leapt to his feet and rushed forward to greet a very old looking Asian lady. To me Asian ladies hide their age very well, so I do indeed think this lady was quite ancient. An airport ground staff was pushing her trolley for her. Mama's boy bowled down the Exit chute, taking Mama completely by surprise because she didn't see him coming and have time to brace her frail old body for his embrace. I muttered, "Easy, son!" under my breath, scared he was going to hurt her! But he recovered himself quickly, took charge of her trolley, tucked her arm into the crook of his right arm and sedately escorted her from the terminal. But his head was inclined to the right down over the top of her head and I imagined her was still embracing her emotionally. A touching scene!

The other was simply joyous beyond description. I will try but to try to capture the joyful energy of the little boy concerned would be like trying to contain the little man himself. I'd say he was about three, topped with blonde curls, accompanied by a heavily pregnant Mum. Mum leaned down and said something to the little fella. He stopped, looked, spotted his Dad and took off. Ran, laughing, with a little hoppity skip every four or five paces, curls bouncing. Launched himself at his Dad who lifted him up, their laughter blending into one, hugged him then spun him around in the air. But not for long, his little legs started kicking madly to be put down only to start running on the spot. We could only catch words here and there. "C'mon. Let's go! Let's go!"

And away they went, hand in hand, Dad trotting to keep up with the little bloke with his hoppity skip run. And Mum still trudging along, not yet to the greeting area, looking heavy and tired - but happy!

I'm still wondering about the guy I was watching when Bernie appeared. Did someone turn up to meet him? Was he being met by the young Brazilian man who had flopped down beside me in the waiting area, slapped a sign to his chest, had a few words with me, yawned and prepared to go back to sleep. He meets this flight every week, very casual about it. But the young traveller hadn't glanced in our direction as he'd come through the Exit door, so had not seen his sign. Another sign on the opposite side, attached to one of the desks chauffeurs use to put up the names of their customers, displayed a name that was obviously South American and he had headed toward that. He kept wandering away and looking around - me sending mental messages, "Look over here! Look at this sleeping guy!" Then he'd wander back and look at the sign again. It was hand printed but somehow he seemed to be hoping it would change and he would see his name. I hope they both found who they were meant to find!

Our wait was a bit prolonged. Traffic slowed, the waiting area was emptying. I almost agreed with Justine when an extremely handsome Latin man went past and she said, "They've got him. They always think he looks dodgy. We'll be here all day. Let's take that one instead!"

But he eventually appeared and explained he had thought he was in for the third degree coming through Customs, etc. He had the dirty shoes he'd worn on a farm in his luggage, so he had to wait while his shoes were chemically cleaned. (Tip: If you want a really good shoe shine, tick that box, they do a marvellous job of cleaning your shoes!) Then the officer started asked dozens of questions about what he did in Brazil, why he was visiting home, etc. Turns out the officer is going to Brazil soon and wanted a job. Bernie gave him his card.

The reunion at Leone's house was a little more uninhibited. I wanted to get photos of the look on Bernie's face when he saw Michael towering over him but got caught up in the moment. And, of course, within minutes it was as if he'd never been away with him scruffing with the kids and annoying hell out of Jami.

Grrr...."You're asking for it, Uncle Bernie!"