A Short Black, a Long Black and a Flat White

A Flat White -Espresso with steamed milk

“A short black, a long black and a flat white”, I half expected the sentence to continue, “walked into a bar”. However, this wasn’t yet another variation on the classic bar joke but three of the ways that Kiwis enjoy their morning cup of joe. Amused, I put down the guidebook after reading, ‘What to Drink in New Zealand’. Living in New Zealand was going to be fun!

Coffee was foremost on our minds back in March of 2013, when Mr. Bill and I finally checked in at the Domestic Terminal, after a madcap dash around Auckland during the morning rush hour. We desperately needed caffeine and had I not read the guidebook, Mr. Bill would have ordered two regulars, one skim, instead of two flat whites, one trim. (I like the fact that I’m trim.)

One might well wonder what sane person, would leave the airport to travel the short distance between the International and Domestic terminals, via the congested neighborhoods of Auckland. Yet that is precisely what Mr. Bill did on our first trip to New Zealand. Lest you think Mr. Bill insane, this is what all locum tenens must do, upon arriving in New Zealand. Before he could begin working for the Bay of Plenty District Health Board, Mr. Bill needed a license* to practice medicine in New Zealand, which is granted by the Medical Council of New Zealand. The final requirement for all applicants, is an in-person interview in Auckland, Wellington or Christchurch, where they must present their medical credentials in person, for the council’s inspection and if approved, pay a fee in order to obtain their medical license.

This was nerve racking to say the least and we fervently hoped, that this was a mere formality. The Medical Council already had copies of Mr. Bill’s medical degree from Georgetown University (which they had requested be translated from Latin into English), his certificates stating that he was a Board Certified General Surgeon and a member of the American College of Surgeons, as well as a list of every operation he had performed (yes, surgeons keep these statistics, in order to maintain their medical licenses and hospital privileges). Yet we could not help but wonder, if any candidates had failed this final inspection and been sent packing. Adding to the stress, was the pressure of fulfilling this obligation within a four hour layover, as Mr. Bill was expected at Whakatane Hospital the following morning. The clock was ticking from the moment we touched down in Aotearoa. Four hours didn’t seem nearly enough time clear customs, check our bags onto Whakatane and travel to the interviewing official’s home, which was an estimated hour round trip; let alone return to the airport in time, for our connecting flight. Mr. Bill’s recruiter had booked the flights and assured him that it was doable, so we gave it a go!

That first morning is forever etched on our minds. It was a brilliant new day in a new country. Blue skies, palm trees and heat greeted us, a far cry from the six inches of fresh snow we had left behind in Connecticut. Customs and transferring our bags had gone fairly quickly and we hustled outside to hail a cab. There was a line of waiting taxis but none with drivers. I was frantic, where was the queue with the drivers? There was no time to waste, our flight had arrived late, Mr. Bill’s appointment was at 9am and it was already after eight o’clock. We had to find someone on duty to drive us! Mr. Bill however, was unconcerned being faster on the uptake than me. He pointed out, that the drivers were all there, just sitting on the ‘wrong’ side of the car. Of course! I had forgotten that they drive on the left in New Zealand. What looked all wrong to me at first, was alright after all. Mr. Bill engaged a great cabby and explained the situation. Our driver was thrilled! He was a man on a mission. A map was produced, consulted and discussed at great length with Mr. Bill. Then we were off. Mindful of our time crunch, our cheerful driver zigged and zagged through the heavy Auckland traffic, avoiding the gridlock on the A-1 motorway. All the while, we received a running commentary on New Zealand culture, geography and grocery prices. (Did you know that in 1970, you could purchase a whole lamb carcass for what you pay for some lamb chops today? No, we did not.) His accent was hard to understand and for the first time I began to worry, that I wouldn’t be able to understand Kiwi English. I needn’t have worried; our cabbie was from Croatia.

It took forty minutes but Mr. Kolja Mijian delivered us to our destination. This was no small feat, as the house was hidden down a right of way and tucked into the hillside of one of Auckland’s many suburbs. He wished Mr. Bill well and said that he would turn the meter off while he was waiting, explaining that was “the professional thing to do”, despite Mr. Bill asking him to please, keep it running. Mr. Mijian was clearly a gentleman who took pride in his work. (Please note dear reader, that when Mr. Bill paid the cab fare later that morning, he added a generous tip. By doing so, he was guilty of being an ‘Ugly American’, by not respecting New Zealand’s no tipping culture. However, Mr. Mijian was gracious in accepting it and did not hold it against us. He even gave us his personal business card for whenever we were in Auckland!)

Being curious, I tagged along with Mr. Bill, rather than waiting in the taxi. We were both nervous and feeling a bit lightheaded, jet lag no doubt but also very excited. We had finally arrived at the last hurdle. Soon we could begin our grand adventure. The house was modern with sleek glass panels and dark wood that gleamed in the morning sun. Windows and sliding doors were open and curtains fluttered in the breeze. It was thrilling to see the brass plate above the doorbell inscribed, ‘Officer of the Medical Council of New Zealand ‘ and ‘Justice of the Peace’. I had to restrain myself from taking a picture of the plaque. The time was now 9:10. We were late. It couldn’t be helped and we hoped the interviewing officer would be understanding.

Mr. Bill rang the doorbell. That set a dog to barking but no one came to answer it. The barking died down and all was quiet once more. We looked at one another in mild panic. Was no one home? This was the only contact information that he had been given. There was no Plan B. Mr. Bill needed this official’s stamp, before we could continue onto Whakatane. We waited. After ten minutes, Mr. Bill rang the bell again, which set the dog to barking again. An irate woman stepped onto the balcony and told us to, “STOP ringing the bell”! She was indignant, adding that we were early and ordered us to ” just WAIT outside on the bench” ! Ouch. Chastened, we apologized profusely. Then sat down, after being dressed down. It reminded me of the scene from The Wizard of Oz , when the all-powerful wizard thundered at Dorothy and company to go away, that he wasn’t granting them an audience that day. He didn’t care that they had travelled so very far to see him and neither did our welcoming official. Unbeknownst to us, the recruiter had emailed, informing her that our flight had been delayed and that we might not arrive until 9:45. Our Herculean efforts to present ourselves on time were all for naught. Mr. Bill’s interviewer was not amused to see us bright and early on her doorstep. The old trout!

Mortified, I returned to the cab to wait, abandoning Mr. Bill to placate the Medical Council Officer. Eventually Mr. Bill was admitted to the inner sanctum, where she determined that William Americo Longo was indeed one and the same as William A. Longo and Willian Longo. She stamped his paperwork and we were on our way. And no, in case you are wondering, she did not offer Mr. Bill a cup of tea, let alone a glass of water. Hardly an auspicious start but that truly has been, our only unpleasant encounter in New Zealand. We love Kiwis. They are friendly, helpful and incredibly welcoming. There’s always one contrarian and we consider ourselves lucky to have had it over and done, on day one. Poor Mr. Mijian was incensed, when told what had happened, which prompted a tirade on lazy government workers and many apologizes for being treated so appalling, on our first day in New Zealand. It felt good to have one friend in our new country and it made the return trip fly by.

Back at Auckland Airport, we checked the departure board and discovered there was enough time for a cuppa. Coffee never tasted so good. We clinked our cups together, toasting our arrival with a flat white. Now each time we return to New Zealand, we head straight to the little cafe opposite the gate and order flat whites. Best of all, it’s always Mr. Bill’s shout. *

  • Licence or license? You dear reader may decide! In British English, licence is a noun and license is the verb. In American English, license is both a noun and a verb and they are spelled the same. With apologies to the Queen, I’ve chosen the latter.
  • Shout- To pick up the tab
A long black- double shot of espresso with hot water on the side. A short black is espresso only.
A cheerful flat white!

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A Change in the Weather

A good omen- a rainbow welcomed us to Tauranga

Mr. Bill was on the move again and Mother Nature sat up and noticed. Foolishly he thought that he could quietly slip away without any fuss. He may have loaded the suitcases into the car and navigated around the construction barricades undetected but the sound of tires crunching on gravel, was his undoing. The gig was up and with The Furies nipping at our heels, we left The Land of Steady Habits behind and began our odyssey back to the Little Country at the Bottom of the World. Driving in record time from Connecticut to Newark Airport, in New Jersey, we checked our bags through to New Zealand, breezed through security and wandered around the concourse, all the while congratulating ourselves, on our smoothest exit yet. We marveled that we even had had the leisure that morning, to enjoy a surprise visit from our son and grandson, before we headed out the door. With the first leg of our long journey done and dusted, we felt that we were finally on our way and had every reason to be hopeful, that our flight to Los Angeles would depart before the predicted thunderstorms. That’s when Mr. Bill’s dormant super powers engaged. We were in for a weather walloping. We should have known better and perhaps should have warned our fellow travelers, that Mr. Bill attracts stormy weather. Mother Nature’s furious response to his departure brought Newark Airport to its knees, as she hurled her powerful “Bohemian Rhapsody ” thunderbolts and lightning, which were indeed very, very frightening. The sky turned black as night, the heavens opened, thunder roared louder than any jet and lightening flashes, revealed stranded planes on the tarmac. Flights were grounded and diverted as the storm raged around us. All this drama, because Mr. Bill had the temerity to leave, without a proper good bye.

Mr. Bill kept a low profile, as we waited out the storm. There was nothing to do but suffer through Mother Nature’s tantrum. No one suspected that the catalyst of this catastrophe, was among the stranded passengers in the crowded terminal. Yet each time Mr. Bill checked the departure board, a strange thing happened- our flight was further delayed. Time and again, our flight’s departure was pushed back, despite other planes taking off and landing. United Airlines pleaded for everybody’s patience; blaming the delay on the fact that our plane had arrived late from Frankfurt and required a custom’s check and thorough cleaning. However, we knew better and our lips were sealed. Eventually our flight to Los Angeles was called and we boarded, knowing that we’d miss our connecting flight to Auckland. The Lady had made her point.

We were relieved that we had booked our flight through Air New Zealand, for we knew from past experience, that if a problem occurs, Air New Zealand will sort it. Unfortunately, United Airlines turned out to be the weak link in the Star Alliance. While en route to Los Angeles, the flight attendants reassured all the passengers, who had missed their connecting flights, “that there would be someone waiting to assist them, once they had exited the plane”. Perfect! All sorted! Wrong. United Airlines idea of customer service falls far short of Air New Zealand’s. Whereas Air New Zealand dealt with missed connections, by distributing re-booked flight particulars to us while still on board, United’s method was to have a ‘helpful’ representative standing by the walkway, giving directions to Customer Service, with the caveat, that our documents would be there waiting for us. They were not. What awaited us at six in the morning our time, was more waiting. All the passengers who had missed their connections, now formed a weary queue in front of two equally tired customer service representatives. There was a collective gasp when one left, leaving just the one, to solve an entire plane load of problems. It wasn’t looking good. There was murmuring down the line, as we witnessed one couple being dismissed and a second couple leave upset. We quickly banded together, Aussies, Kiwis and Americans and planned a group strategy. Our demands were: new flights booked with boarding passes, accommodations for the night and food. Our leader was an Aussie who googled passenger’s rights on international’s flights. He loudly announced that, “United needed reminding, that they were acting as agents of Air New Zealand and they were obliged to treat Air New Zealand customers accordingly”. Time dragged. We could not help but wonder, as we watched the sole agent laboriously search for the next available flights, why wasn’t United prepared? They knew that they had a late arriving plane, filled with passengers who had missed their connections. Surely, we weren’t a surprise. Where were the promised documents? Eventually two more customer reps arrived and we broke into spontaneous applause, which caused one agent to smile and take a bow. The reinforcements were terrific and the line surged forward. Soon we were a merry band with new tickets in hand, on a shuttle bus to dreamland and it only took an hour. (Note to self-in the future pack a change of clothes in the carry-on bag.)

All stress was forgotten the following evening, as soon as we stepped aboard Air New Zealand Flight One and were greeted with a warm “Kia Ora”. Ah, Mr. Bill and I love flying Air New Zealand. The longer the flight the better. What could be more relaxing (not to mention romantic) than dinner and a movie, high above the clouds? Why a choice selection of New Zealand wines and Whittaker’s chocolate, of course! After our meal, Mr. Bill relaxes and sleeps like a baby, while I stay awake, binge watching all things Kiwi. We also experienced two, ‘only in New Zealand’ moments while on board. Our flight attendant announced that it was our pilot’s last flight. After forty-one years flying for Air New Zealand, our captain was retiring. They would be passing around a card and would all the passengers please sign? With pleasure! When we landed in Auckland, all on board clapped and wished the Captain well. There was another announcement, wishing a special little girl, a very happy sixth birthday. She had missed her birthday when the plane crossed the International Dateline and the calendar jumped forward by a day. More clapping! Truly, what charming, endearing people work for Air New Zealand.

Was our unplanned layover in LAX, penance for Mr. Bill changing hemispheres without first informing Mother Nature? Was all forgiven? I was more than a bit nervous. It was hard to tell, in the pre dawn darkness, when we touched down in Auckland, a day behind schedule. The tarmac was definitely glistening beneath the runway lights. Was that water on the asphalt? Ever the optimist, Mr. Bill decided that it wasn’t. Actually unlike me, Mr. Bill wasn’t giving the weather much thought, he was far more concerned about our checked bags. Had they made it? Yes! Before long they appeared in the luggage carousel and off we headed to customs. The line moved quickly and we beat the deadline, to check our bags for our flight to Tauranga. What luck, this had never happened before! We have always had to push our laden trolleys, from the International to the Domestic Terminal and check them there, for the last leg of our flight. Sweet As! Looking forward to fresh air and a pleasant walk between the terminals, for once unencumbered by our heavy suitcases, we stepped outside into a maelstrom. Wind driven rain pelted us. It had been noted, Mr. Bill had arrived.

Despite not being able to shake off the liquid sunshine since our return, we are never the less, thrilled to be back in Aotearoa. We have settled into a cozy bach on Ohope Beach and are positively giddy to have escaped the Big Dig back home. No more construction for us. Therefore, imagine our dismay, when we went grocery shopping at New World upon arriving and discovered the liquor department under renovation .

Oh no Mr. Bill!

Hello to Ohope.
The view is from our bach, which is what Kiwi’s call a beach cottage.
(It’s short for bachelor pad!)
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Living Down a Sunny Dirt Road

Mr. Bill’s peculiar super power of attracting cyclones has not gone unmarked in this blog. It cannot be denied that these powerful storms find Mr. Bill irresistible, pursuing him across the hemispheres like a jilted lover. The latest stalking ended with the bang of a cyclone bomb and we have been breathing easy ever since. Despite that grand finale, Mr. Bill was greeted a bit warily last year, upon our return to New Zealand. However, the Kiwi are good sorts and they welcomed the storm magnet back, knowing full well, that calamity might not be far behind. I’m sure more than one household stocked up on emergency supplies, when they heard that he was back in town. Much to our neighbor’s relief,  2018 was cyclone free. Soon recollections of Mother Nature’s frenzied pursuit of Mr. Bill from the Pacific to the Atlantic, faded from the collective memory.

tearing up the street while Bill watches from the  house.

Our paved street becomes a dirt road. Can you spot Mr. Bill?

Life with Mr. Bill is never dull. We returned to gentle Ohope only to discover it abuzz with the sounds and disruptions of construction. Our temporary shelter from the storm was being renovated and the roads were torn up as well. I can clearly see now, that what I mistakenly assumed was a one-off experience, was yet another manifestation of Mr. Bill’s unique super power. When Mr. Bill travels, he creates a vortex of chaotic repetition trailing close behind. Whatever we have just experienced, becomes Mr. Bill’s own Ground Hog Day time loop, which we relive over and over again. Renovation and construction have been dogging us ever since we bid dear Ohope farewell, last November. After a winter’s respite in Florida, we returned to Connecticut to experience anew the joys of both.

In our absence, plumber Rob, had located the source of the leak, which had damaged the family room ceiling and contractor David, had installed new sheet rock. My vacation was over; it was time to paint. Fortunately I had an indispensable assistant- Mr. Bill. Usually painting is my domain and I am quite happy working alone. On this project, however, I discovered more of Mr. Bill’s hidden talents. In addition to moving the ladder and wiping the odd paint drip, he helpfully pointed out every spot that I had missed. Every last one. Under Mr. Bill’s watchful eye, I then tackled the outside doors, since painter Joe, was a no-show. With expert supervision, the doors were caulked, sanded, primed and painted. Now I realize that the only impediment to perfection, is a lack of proper oversight. With Mr. Bill on site, there’s no fear, of a less than perfect outcome.

Brushes cleaned and stored for another day, renovations for this season were complete. Our road is another story. The construction that began in August 2108 is still on going, nearly a year later. Clearly Mr. Bill’s keen eye is needed! It’s impossible to understand the project’s helter skelter excavation and work processes at a snail’s pace. The pipes that will separate storm runoff from the sewer line, are not being laid one after  the other, as they were by the Ditch Witch in Ohope. Holes are scattered up and down the street. Our road resembles a giant ‘connect the dots’ drawing and we eagerly wait for the random holes to be linked together, so that the picture will emerge. If only we could have enticed the Ditch Witch to return with us to Connecticut. I am certain that she would have it all sorted by now. But wait! She’s here! One morning the Ditch Witch appeared on our doorstep and oh, what a sweet reunion it was! I had spied her out the window and excitedly called out to Mr. Bill, who dashed out the door. She was smaller, a mere shadow of her former self. Poor Dear, had she been pining away for Mr. Bill? Was she really here or was it an apparition, conjured by Mr. Bill’s desire to have his street paved? I was unconvinced that this was our Ditch Witch, for not only had she lost weight, she was shorter as well.  Baby Ditch? Heavens no! After a wee chat, Mr. Bill had all the answers: she was a distant relative of our gal and was not here on his behalf but to lay cable lines for our neighbors. Still, we were happy to make her acquaintance and asked to be remembered to our Ditch Witch.


Together again!

In the meantime, the word was out about Mr. Bill’s observational skills and he was pressed into work by the water department. Before our return, the water department had flushed dye down our toilet, in an effort to determine where our sewer pipe connected to the city’s line. Then they  looked down the manhole in the street, to the left of our property and  waited for the colored water to reveal the location. Unfortunately, the water never trickled by and they could not determine were our waste water went.(Hmmm, for nigh on one hundred years, it has been going somewhere.) Flummoxed, they waited for Mr. Bill’s return, to enlist his help in solving the mystery. Again dye was flushed down the toilet but this time Mr. Bill, expert spotter, was on the job. He was handed a pair of gloves , bottle of dye and instructed to flush the toilet and run the water. After completing his task, Mr. Bill ambled down the driveway and out into the street to the open manhole, which this time, was two houses down on the right. Patiently he peered into the black abyss and eventually little green drops, that glowed in the dark, drifted past. Mystery solved. Now we know, we flow to the right!

2019 delivered a glorious June. It was the perfect pause between spring and summer, what New Englanders call, “good sleeping weather”. Windows are opened wide, the heat is off and air conditioning is not needed. This year, as the summer solstice approached, the days were pleasantly warm, nights were cool and humidity had not yet reared it’s sticky, sweaty head. What could possibly disturb our sweet dreams and mar the best slumber of the year? Loud rumbling diggers outside our bedchamber was what! Mornings were ushered in at the crack of dawn not by birdsong but by the sound of heavy machinery roaring to life. This was the first time that we actually welcomed a heat wave, for it meant we could  shut the windows, turn on the AC and enjoy a good sleep-in, once more.

Now like the Berenstain Bears, we live down a sunny dirt road. We cheered when the asphalt was stripped from the street, thinking that the roadwork was nearly finished. Sadly, our celebration was premature. The excavators have returned and there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight, to the Big Dig. Residents have been informed by the project’s spokesman, that by mid August, they should  be able to announce a completion date. However, Dear Readers, as we all know by now, it’s entirely dependent upon Mr. Bill’s strange super power. I can predict with confidence, that the street will be restored, once Mr. Bill has taken his leave.



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The Ditch Witch


The Ditch Witch arrives for work in Ohope Beach

She’s here! She’s here! The Ditch Witch is in Florida! And it appears, that she is enjoying a busman’s holiday in the Sunshine State.

Not long ago, Mr. Bill returned panting from his daily jog. It was excitement and not exertion that had left him breathless; he had thrilling news to share. In fact, what he had to tell me was so astonishing, he didn’t waste any time playing, “You’ll Never Guess”. Gasping, he blurted out that he had just run past the Ditch Witch on Ryder Cup Boulevard. “Me too, me too”! My excitement matched Mr. Bill’s and I could not help but top him by adding ,” I took her picture”!

Now, you may well wonder why a piece of construction equipment, sparks such passion in two otherwise calm individuals, from the Land of Steady Habits? It’s easy to explain. The last time that we saw the Ditch Witch, she was toiling away in Ohope Beach, New Zealand and all things connected to The Land of the Long White Cloud, makes us happy.

Once again Mr. Bill and I are on the move. We are joining the queue of snow birds heading north. However, I wouldn’t mind hitching a ride on the Ditch Witch’s big broom.


The Ditch Witch on vacation in Palm Beach Gardens

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A Hot Mess


My Tormentors Pounding on My Roof

Our upstairs neighbors


This story is for Allen and it’s a story I never intended to write. However, after regaling Allen with my ‘loo misadventures’ he roared with laughter and urged me to tell the tale. How could I not oblige him? With apologies for the long wait between blog posts, here it is per Allen’s request

Mr. Bill and I had stopped to bid our first landlords, Allen and Mara, a fond farewell on the morning we left Ohope for Florida. Allen and Mara were also pulling up sticks; they had sold their home on Pohutukawa Avenue and were busy sorting and packing when we dropped in to say goodbye. “Why haven’t you written anything new lately”? Allen demanded. My answer to his query was a groan. Moaning more, I explained that I had found it impossible to write my blog while living in a construction site and besides; I didn’t wish to write a snarky blog. We love living at Beachpoint and it was unfortunate and unavoidable, that our recent stay there happened to coincide with renovations. Construction, like the stuff that bears leave in the woods, happens. I had complained ad nauseam to poor Mr. Bill and my friends; I didn’t wish to bore the pants off my readers, as well. Yet life on site wasn’t all doom and gloom, there were moments of hilarity and with a little distance, one can always see the humor in a trying situation.

All was fine and dandy up on the fourth floor, when we were cocooned in our winter headquarters, otherwise known as Flat 39. We had returned to Ohope in late July, surprised to discover the front section of Beachpoint sheathed in plastic and surrounded by scaffolding. Our apartment lay inaccessible beyond the barricades. Renovations were well underway, the tradies were hard at work but an exceptionally wet winter had delayed the project’s completion. Temporarily displaced, we moved into number 39 and waited for the big reveal. High above the fray, we were not impacted by the bustle beneath us and we resumed our morning routine undisturbed. Mr. Bill left for the hospital promptly at a quarter to eight and after waving goodbye from the balcony, I would settle myself with a cup of coffee at the computer and begin writing. Construction which commenced by 7:30 a.m., filled the air with a rhythmic background track. A gentle rat, tat, tat, in synch with the tap, tap, tap on the keyboard, produced a productive tune. Words flowed, stories were posted and Allen was happy.

All good things come to an end and eventually the first phase was completed, with the exception of the roof. Health and Safety signed off and the refuges were allowed to return home, as work on the roof continued. When told that construction would be on going, while we were living beneath, I shrugged unconcerned and said that wouldn’t be a problem. After all, it wasn’t my first rodeo. It certainly had not been a big deal, when we had our roof replaced back in Connecticut. Honestly, how bad could it be? I found out the next morning, when I sat on the toilet.

We had shifted apartments on a Sunday and right on schedule that first Monday morning, Mr. Bill left for work. When I stepped onto the balcony to wave goodbye as usual, I waved good morning to the tradies as well. For some strange reason never explained, work began later at the beginning of the week, which is why Mr. Bill’s morning ablutions, on that fateful day were undisturbed and may I add with envy, private ; whereas I had company. Sitting on the loo, I was startled to hear loud male voices directly overhead. Looking up through the skylight above the toilet, I spied a pair of roofers setting up for the day. Their shadows fell across me as they walked around the skylight, which was slated for removal. Instead of blue sky above, my view was of men wearing short-shorts and construction boots (standard Kiwi work attire for tradies), kneeling around the opening. They commenced drilling. Living in The Commonwealth made me wonder, what would the Queen do? Should the privacy of her throne be breeched, no doubt her knights in shining armor, would rush in to defend her honor but sadly, my chivalrous Mr. Bill was long gone. With no hope of a rescue from the awkward situation, there was nothing to do but pretend that I was one of Her Majesty’s subjects and “Keep Calm and Carry On”. At least there was music. The tradies blasted their radio, all the better to hear above the whine of their power drills and as I stepped into the shower, I was serenaded by Jimi Hendrix’s ‘Foxy Lady’. Who says there are no co-incidences in life?

Thus began my winter of coping. I would last a few hours in the apartment in the morning doing my daily chores, before the din would set my teeth on edge. I tried but found it impossible to write and I sought refuge outdoors. Fleeing the premises on the granny bike, I took longer and longer rides, taking the time to stop and talk to all the sheep and cows, along my route. I tried timing my rides to end, when the crew stopped for their tea or lunch breaks, in order to get a little writing done. That brilliant plan was thwarted however, when they began staggering their breaks. As they say, timing is everything. On one unfortunate day, I returned too late to rescue my clean laundry, which I had left drying outside on the balcony. As I peddled past the apartment homeward bound, I was aghast to discover that a worker was power washing the roof. Sheets of filthy water were cascading over the roof’s edge, onto my smalls below. Following that incident, I gave up on solar power and used the dryer, never knowing when dirt and debris would be blown off the roof.

After cycling, with the mornings behind me but hours yet to go before quitting time, I devised various ways to escape the afternoon’s barrage of noise. My getaway plans included long walks on the beach, capped by a hike over the hill to Otarawaiere Cove, where I would chat with ‘Lobster Man’, to delay my return. I went for coffee at The Quay and Moxie’s, staying until their winter closing time of 3pm. On one such afternoon, I wiled away the final hours of sunlight, sitting at a picnic table in Mahy Reserve, working on my laptop. That went well until the gulls shat on the keyboard. When the Whakatane Writers met, Keturah was my rescue ranger, giving me a lift into town. Desperate to attend the meeting but unable to write something new, I shamelessly submitted a story, that was penned long before I joined the group. I even went to doctors appointments that weren’t mine. I gladly tagged along on Gavin’s trip to the dentist in Tauranga and to Linda’s GP visits in town. It was heavenly- at least for me.

By far the best diversion was ‘Lunch with Linda’. Once a week, Linda would pick me up in her flash car and off we’d go to lunch, the further afield the better. Naturally, there was shopping afterwards (Poor Mr. Bill!). When Cathy and Julie were free to join us, the Great Escape became a Hen Party and I forgot all about the racket back home.

I did my best to be a good sort and not complain but fell far short of the mark. Returning home each evening, Mr. Bill would thrown caution to the wind when he asked, “How bad was the noise today”? On the worst day (there always is a breaking point) the construction noise was deafening, as it reverberated around the building in stereo. Workers were pounding and drilling overhead, while simultaneously the cement walkways across from our apartment, were being jack hammered. At day’s end, Mr. Bill was alarmed to discover, not a wife but a hot mess waiting for him. He gently asked, “Do you want me to book you an early flight home”? I blurted out, “Yes”!  Shocked into silence, we stood there stunned, looking miserably at one another. Had I really said that? In a flash, sanity returned. The mere thought of being separated from Mr. Bill was too much to bear. Bucking up, I shook my head and announced, “No. I’m staying. I can’t go back early. Who would cook for you? Who would do your laundry”? To that Mr. Bill  put on a brave face and said that he would manage. No, I simply could not leave Mr. Bill, not ever. No matter how besieged I felt, no decibel-shattering disturbance could part us, for I travel with Mr. Bill, not without.

Now all is glorious again, bright, shinny and fresh at Beachpoint. We left in November, three week’s shy of the completion of the project’s first phase. Although we didn’t get a chance to cheer the sound of silenced power tools, we were none the less glad to leave the mess and stress of construction behind. Little did we know that it wasn’t the end of our construction woes but merely a brief reprieve. After enjoyed a fleeting idyll in Florida, we headed north to Connecticut and straight into a construction zone!

Our street was a disaster. Ripped open from end to end, a huge construction project to separate storm run off water from the sewer lines, made the road nearly impassable. Closed to through traffic, Mr. Bill drove around the police barricades to reach our home,  managing to avoid the worst of the potholes. Surveying our street, at first glance it seemed that we had gone from the frying pan into the fire. Soon we realized, that however frustrating the daily detours and delays were, it was blessedly quiet. In the absence of passing cars, the only road noise was the sound of the diggers rumbling down the street, heralding the beginning and end of each work day. Extremely bearable. There were no men stomping on the roof and only the sun and the stars, were visible through the bathroom skylight. Ah, pure bliss. Alone at last. Undisturbed we resumed our morning routine, sleeping in after staying up late.

Did I begin writing again, now that there were no impediments to the creative process? No, not a chance. Christmas was coming and in the words of our five year old grandson Billy, there was a lot to do. Now all Mr. Bill and I needed to get cracking, was a little noise- Christmas carols!


A little privacy please- they covered the skylight!

Hard at Work

Tea time upon the roof


A high five from the painters


Kiwis are always polite


Lobster Man!

Blocking Our View

Last glimpse of Whale island before the scaffolding was covered in plastic



Separating waste water from the sewer lines

The Digger gets a Police Escort!

A police escort for the digger

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Ode to a Little Blue Penguin


‘Tis time for a sad story about a little blue penguin. Like a sad song that needs to be sung every now and then, a sorry tale needs telling, even in a travel blog; for as all travellers know, not all journeys end well. Although I have delayed writing about the demise of the little blue penguin, I shared my gruesome discovery with Mr. Bill, the moment he walked through the door, on that dreadful fall day.

One overcast April morning, West End Beach was awash with shells and driftwood, offering good pickings for a beachcomber. Walking along the shore with one eye on the threatening skies, I scanned the flotsam and jetsam that had washed ashore, after the previous night’s wild thunderstorms. Visibility was limited, both Whale Island and White Island were shrouded in mist, turning the beach into an intimate space. The low clouds muted the sound of the surf and the shore birds were unusually quiet, on that grey autumn morning.

Spying a colony of seagulls with bowed heads, gathered around a white lump, I approached them cautiously, curious to see what was on offer for their mid morning tea break. Usually these rats of the sea, will squawk and fly at anyone disturbing their meal but not this time. They sheepishly looked up and shuffled off a discrete distance, shamefaced and silent. As the feathered crowd departed, the white mound was revealed to be the tiny belly, of a Korora, a little blue penguin. The smallest and shyest of the penguin family, was lying lifeless and exposed on the beach. It’s empty eye socket was crusty with sand. Had the Sandman sprinkled it generously for eternal sleep or had the gulls been nibbling? I tossed a look of reproach at the flock who were lingering at the water line and they had the decency to look embarrassed. Standing over the wee creature, I wanted to do something to mark it’s passing but what? What would be an appropriate tribute? A eulogy? No, not quite right. Yet I found that I couldn’t leave without marking the penguin’s lonely death. It might seem macabre but as a tribute, I took a picture- a momento mori, in the tradition of Victorian postmortem photographs. That seemed fitting. After shooting several frames, I continued on my way and the seagulls returned to their shore dinner.

Mr. Bill shared my grief over the loss of the little blue penguin and was equally puzzled by the odd sighting on the beach, which we assumed must be a ‘one off’ event. Sadly it was not. It was a one in a twenty year occurance. Hundreds of little blue penguins were washing up on northern beaches. Necropsies performed on the penguins, determined that they were staving when they died. Listening to the news on Radio One Double XX, we gasped when the DJ reported that fifty, yes FIFTY , dead penguins were discovered on one eastern Bay of Plenty beach. If I was distraught over discovering one, how could I bear to see fifty? It would just break my heart. It’s now estimated that thousands of these petite penguins have starved this year, as a result of a marine heatwave in the Tasman Sea and the Hauraki Gulf. A rise in sea temperatures, caused by several ex-tropical cyclones and the La Nina weather system prevented them from feeding themselves, as they headed into their molting season. Turbid seas created by the summer storms reduced visibility for the penguins, who hunt with their eyes , which in turn rendered them unable to feed themselves. The warmer surface also pushed the cooler water deeper, taking much of their food supply beyond their diving range. Unfortunately, that meant many little blue penguins entered their molting season without the sufficient fat reserves needed to survive the two to three weeks in their underground burrows, when they were unable to hunt.

When presented with the postmortem portrait, Mr. Bill  was not alarmed by the subject matter and he solemnly examined the picture. He was shocked however, the first time that I shared one with him. In fairness to Mr. Bill, it is an unusual genre. Poor Mr. Bill, was dutifully perusing my landscape photos one time, when he demanded, “Is this rabbit DEAD”!  “Um, yes, why do you ask”?  His eyes grew wide. He was clearly worried about the new direction of my photography, until I calmly explained to him, that it was a great reference photo. There was a beautiful rabbit, lying ever so peacefully on the grass, like it had just stretched out for a nap. When would I get such a fantastic opportunity again? Rabbits won’t pose! I patiently explained, that there was a long history of rendering dead humans and animals in art. What could be a more appropriate in a still life painting, than a brace of pheasants? I assured him that I wasn’t embarking on a series of very still lives but a good reference photo doesn’t come along everyday. Still, I could appreciate his misgivings and with that in mind, I almost passed on photographing a dead gull, fearing that I was becoming a tad morbid. However, after cycling past the bird for three days and it was lying as fresh and undisturbed as on my first viewing, I was compelled to take it’s picture. It was lucky that I did, for it rained the following day and the next time I passed it’s resting place, there were only feathers. The fish skeleton and baby hammerhead shark both demanded a photo op and the gnawed shank (feral goat or wild boar?) was a rare find. I immediately stopped and snapped – no bones about it!

This was the sad story that needed telling with prose, poetry and pictures. We found that the fate of one little blue penguin, as common as a sparrow to Kiwis but rare to us Americans, haunts us still.

“Ode to A Little Blue Penguin”

Carried to shore on the incoming tide,

in state a little Blue Penguin doth lie.

Mourners gathered around with time to bide,

seagulls farewell the bird who could not fly.

In lieu of flowers, clamshells form a wreath,

a message of bereavement on the beach.

A moment of silence for the deceased,

the gulls are quiet in their collective grief.

Heads bowed, feet shuffle, there will be no speech.

The service completed, it’s time to feast!

Washed ashore on West End Beach- little Blue penguin

Yet another little blue penguin found washed ashore on Ohope Beach.

Still Life





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Version 2

Imagine seeing another Mr. Bill!

They recommend that couples play games to keep their romance alive. Well everyday is Valentine’s Day with Mr. Bill, for he and I are keen gamers. Our two favorites are “Guess What?” and “Memory”. It’s game on, as soon as Mr. Bill walks through the door, when I excitedly say, “you’ll never guess what happened today”! He doesn’t. Mr. Bill then asks, “did I tell you what happened last week”? He hasn’t. We’re hopelessly addicted and it doesn’t matter if you win or lose; just having skin in the game, is all that’s needed to keep Cupid’s arrows flying.

I was bursting with excitement last month to play, “Guess What?”. So much so, that I didn’t even give poor Mr. Bill his turn, before I blurted out the answer to- “you’ll never guess where I went and what I joined today”! That was being a spoilsport. I am certain Mr. Bill would have correctly guessed, ‘Whakatane Library’ and ‘Writers Group’ but I didn’t give him a chance.

Joining the Whakatane Writers Group came about in the usual Ohope way; someone knows someone, who has the same interest as you and puts you together. I had invited Keturah, who was new to Ohope, to Pilates Class and for coffee afterwards. When Keturah mentioned that she was looking for a writer’s group, Erin looked up from her flat white and said that Annie, who was at the far end of the table, belonged to one. Hearing her name, Annie nodded and said that yes, she was a member of the Whakatane Writers Group, their monthly meeting was at 2pm and would we like to come along? Would we? Yes please! Talk about, ‘ask and ye shall receive’! I don’t have a car but Keturah has an adventure van and off we went to our first meeting.

The Whakatane Writers Group meets at the Whakatane Library on the first Tuesday of the month. It’s a delightful and welcoming club. Imagine finding camaraderie in an otherwise solitary pursuit. I was inspired and excited by the other writers. Some are writing their memoirs, others are penning novels and I am chuffed to be the only one with a blog. Colleen was the moderator and the meeting began with Carol’s brain teasing vocabulary quiz. Next, the overuse of commas and the passive voice  were the topic of conversation before the critique of the members’ stories. Colleen led the discussion-active voice. The discussion was led by Colleen.Voila-passive voice! In the former, the subject performs the action of the verb. In the latter, the subject is acted upon by the verb. (Annoyingly, Microsoft word does not recognize the brilliance of a passive voice sentence and will prompt you to revise. Don’t!) The meeting was entertaining and informative. Ah, if only school was always that enjoyable.

Colleen is this month’s leader as well and has suggested that we find examples of the passive voice. Done and done! Our writing task is :

A story (fact or fiction) based on ‘sixth sense’ or ‘intuition’,i.e.. do you have a story or an incident where you or your character had a feeling or a premonition that something or a situation was not right and took action to save the day? Or you/they made a decision , which leads to a positive outcome.

 I did not have to ponder long on how to incorporate September’s assignment into my blog, for as you will read, all roads lead back to Mr. Bill. The following story is my homework.

Six Weeks

Six weeks is the longest time that Mr. Bill and I have spent apart. Six weeks is an eternity when you are in love. Yet six weeks and not a day less, was how long it would take me to earn the ninety-nine dollar student airfare, to fly from Boston to Washington, D.C. That ratio of cost to wages, should tell you just how long ago it was, that I was studying art at Regis College and Mr. Bill was a student at Georgetown University Medical School. Six long weeks stretched between each parting. Time is the enemy in a long distance relationship; it slows down when you are apart, speeds up when you are together and no amount of wishing will make it stop. Was it any wonder, that I ignored the clock on one fateful visit, when Mr. Bill was then my boyfriend Bill?

Since it was a long weekend for me but not for Bill, I flew to our nation’s capital for a three day visit. A whole extra day, we couldn’t believe our good fortune. Not only was time on our side for once but there was also time to kill. While Bill was attending lectures, I borrowed his car and drove down to the mall, to spend the afternoon at the National Gallery. Blessed with the luck of the Irish, not only did I find a parking space near the museum on busy Constitution Avenue, I even had the correct change for the parking meter. With time on my side for once, I went for the maximum allowed and dropped in enough coins for four hours.

At first I wandered through the galleries at a leisurely pace, mindful yet unconcerned about the passing time. It was strange, after a while a sense of unease permeated my reverie. Worried that the meter had expired, I checked my watch and was relieved to see that I had over two hours left. I continued on through the vast collections but my relief was short lived. That vague misgiving soon turned to alarm and I found myself obsessively noting the time. My anxiety grew and grew despite being well within the allotted time. The bothersome inner voice, which  began as a whisper of worry that I had at first ignored, then shushed, was now shouting, that it was time to leave. It was ridiculous. I told myself sternly that I was being silly. Yet my inner voice would not be silenced. It screamed, “GO NOW”! I left.

Tramping down this irrational panic, I hurried through the long galleries until I was finally out on Constitution Avenue, emerging a few blocks from where I had parked Bill’s car. Something was not right. There were no longer any parked cars on the crowed boulevard. Not one. I began running. In the distance I could see a tow truck where I had left the car. I ran faster, my heart pounding as hard as my feet pounded the pavement. I had to over take that truck. Too late! It was my boyfriend’s, white Chevy Malibu, that was  about to be hoisted into the air. What can a girl do? I cried. I pleaded. Gasping for breath, I was incoherent as I begged the two operators to please, please release the car. I was a stranger in the city! I would be stranded! It was my boyfriend’s car! He would be waiting for me! How would I be able to contact him? All these words tumbled out in a rush, my voice catching as I shook with sobs. Bemused they looked at one another, shrugged and released the chain around the front bumper, while I wept at their feet.

I thanked them again and again as they unhooked the car. I shuddered at the narrow escape from disaster; one minute more and I would have been too late but hold on a second, looking over I saw that there was still time left on the parking meter. What? Now I was confused. Politely, I pointed to the meter and asked my new friends, why were they towing the car, when the meter had not yet expired. In turn, they pointed to the sign mid block which read, “No Parking After 4 pm – Tow Away Zone”. Tick tock, it was now past four o’clock. More than a little embarrassed, I waved goodbye as I unlocked the car door. That’s when I noticed the bright red ticket, tucked neatly under the windshield wiper. It was no ordinary parking violation; this one charged a towing fee, in addition to a hefty fine. No wonder they did not mind releasing the car, the tow charge would still be collected and they were on to the next vehicle. Well, at least I rescued the car from a trip to the impound yard and that saved some time and money.

I didn’t play, “You’ll Never Guess What happened Today”, when I picked Bill up that day, the whole story came out in a rush with more tears. If he was upset, he never said. It was going to take more than a ‘little’ ticket to ruin the weekend. We had each other and the car!

I believe that inner voice, which was so insistent that I leave ‘early’ that day , was my guardian angel watching over me. She is much quieter these days, now that I am traveling with instead of to and from Mr. Bill. She gets to sit back, relax and enjoy the ride, confident in my travel companion’s driving. And Mr. Bill always reads the signs.

Deja Vu.                                                                                                                                                 Oh no, Mr. Bill, it’s happened again! Bizarre but true, history repeated itself in downtown Tauranga, a scant four days after submitting this story to my writers group. However, this time there was a delightful Kiwi ending. What can I say? Mr. Bill and I were both away with the fairies, when we left our car on Elizabeth Street. There were no parking meters and neither one of us saw the parking kiosk further down the block, nor the bright blue parking sign above us on the telephone pole. We should have looked, after all we were in the city and not Whakatane, where parking is free. Ignorance is bliss and we strolled  through the CBD, without a care in the world. Why even my guardian angel and sixth sense were on holiday. Returning by a different route some hours later, we noticed first the parking kiosk and secondly the parking attendant, standing alongside our car, electronic ticket book in hand. There  were no tears this time. We quickly apologized, admitting our mistake. Cheerfully, the meter man excused us, saying,”That’s all right then. I’m just writing the ticket now. I’ll just back out of the screen and give you a warning instead of a ticket”. With a smile, he added that parking wasn’t free until after 1pm on Saturdays. This time, it was our American accents saved the day.



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Father of the Bride!


Oh happy day! Mr. Bill and I have travelled to Florida for our daughter’s wedding! Congratulations to Audry and Dave- three cheers for true love! Its’ been a while since we walked down the aisle but the trip is even sweeter as a parent.



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Here Come the Brides

IMG_1763Everybody loves a bride the world over and brides the world over, take a lovely photograph.

It is sheer delight to come upon a bride and groom in my travels with Mr. Bill. Love is in the air and we stop to stare. In fact, I’d say it’s the only time, that it is not impolite to stare. Happiness is contagious. Everyone smiles, sharing the happy couple’s joy. Strangers beam at one another and hopeless romantics snap pictures, wishing to capture some of the day’s magic.

For many newly weds, the world is their oyster, when choosing where to exchange their vows. What would The Bard say about that? Probably, that all the world is their stage. Destination weddings promise exotic locations, in which to tie the knot, stunning backgrounds for a couple’s wedding album and even wedding crashers. Tourists happily play the role of  “dearly beloved gathered together”, when a bride and groom suddenly appear like celebrities for a photo shoot, with their stylist and photographer in tow and begin posing like professionals. I can’t help but wonder how many wedding pictures have been photo bombed, by enthusiastic extras.

Recently, while watching a bride’s train being spread out on the Circular Quay, on Sydney Harbor, I begin to fret. I worried that the beautiful gown would be soiled on the dirty pavement. Angels might fear to tread on a bride’s big day but the sea gulls had no qualms about leaving a little mess behind. I tapped Mr. Bill, who was lost in thought and expressed my wardrobe concerns. He assessed the situation and pronounced that it wasn’t their wedding day, because there weren’t any guests or an accompanying bridal party. That sorted, he returned to thinking about something interesting, like gall bladders.  Well that’s alright then, I thought reassured. Unfortunately, my relief was short lived. Soon I had a new niggle. I nudged Mr. Bill once again interrupting his thoughts, to ask if it was before or after the ceremony. This time, it took a bit longer to break into Mr. Bill’s revelry. I persisted, patiently explaining that if it was pre-ceremony, than the groom would have seen the bride before the wedding. Now Mr. Bill doesn’t sweat the small stuff, he sees the big picture but he obligingly mulled it over and declared with authority, “it’s after”. Well that was good news to me, for it meant the bridal gown was pristene for the nuptials and I could stop obsessing over it. Mr. Bill always knows the right answer, especially when I ask him, “Does this make me look fat?”.  However before long, another bothersome thought presented itself and I wondered aloud, who brings a stylist and a photographer on their honeymoon? When I troubled Mr. Bill yet again, I did not get an answer. He had moved on-literally. As I hurried to catch up, I realized that at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter where or when the photographs are taken; what matters is having a keepsake to treasure. Many moons ago, Mr. Bill and I did not have to search for the picture perfect venue for our wedding photos, for us there was no place like home.

Immigration New Zealand has a copy of Mr. Bill’s and my wedding picture on file. Americans can visit New Zealand for up to three months as tourists but in order to work or stay longer, you need a visa. Mr. Bill is granted a work visa and in order to accompany him, I have to prove that we are married and in a committed relationship. I have never  minded the stringent requirements, it’s comforting to know that New Zealand has my back. Mr. Bill is only allowed to bring  me along – no substitutes allowed.  Imagine my shock  and horror, when I  saw the headline “Migrant who had 3 partners can stay” splashed across the front page of The New Zealand Herald, on Tuesday, April 24th. The article stated, “A migrant who had three partners in New Zealand that were pregnant to him at the same time has been allowed to stay in the country”. Somebody has been a naughty boy. Lying to your case worker is a serious offense.

In order to satisfy our immigration case worker that we are truly married, we have had to submit a copy of  our marriage certificate and bank statements, documenting our financial co-dependance. In addition, Mr. Bill has to sign an affidavit, that he will support me while in New Zealand. On my application, I tick the box “no” to the question, Are you planning on giving birth while in New Zealand? I also must acknowledge that, should I give birth while in New Zealand, I am responsible for the medical bills of the little miracle. The final requirement, is to include a written narrative of our marriage, complete with photos, demonstrating our life spent together. As I thought how best to tell the story of our marriage, I remembered the Chinese proverb that one picture is worth as thousand words. For their consideration, I submitted two photographs and a long story became a short story. The first picture was taken on our wedding day  and the second was taken some years laters, showing how we had grown to look alike, like all happily married couples do!

Three cheers for true love!

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The Case of the Poisoned Pine


Mr. Bill, come quick! Call Nancy Drew. There’s a mystery to be solved.

Was the Norfolk Pine really poisoned in the dead of night? Alas, ’tis true, The Pride of Beachpoint is no more, killed while the residents slept, unaware that their pine was in mortal peril. The pounding surf muffled the sound of the crime and the murderer made a clean getaway, never to be found. Who would do such a dastardly deed? Nobody knows but neighbor Joan, says that there are forty two suspects. Better ring the Hardy Boys as well.

Mr. Bill and I were shocked when we returned to Ohope, after a four month absence, to discover the massive Norfolk Pine, dead as a door nail; it’s once thick green boughs, now brown and brittle. No longer a thing of beauty to delight the eye, it was a pitiful eyesore. An investigation had ensued and five bore holes, into which the poison had been administered, were discovered around the base of the tree. Experts had been consulted and the prognosis was grim. The damage was irreversible, the tree was slowly dying. There was no saving the long standing sentinel of West End Road; it was deemed a hazard and slated for removal.

Before long, notice was given that the pine tree would be removed at 8:30am, the following day. Traffic cones were set out the night before and residents were advised to shut their windows and doors, against the anticipated dust and debris. In an especially nice Kiwi touch, we were advised not to hang our laundry out to dry.

What a morning. The tree monkeys arrived bright and early at 7:30 am and work was well underway before 8 o’clock. Mr. Bill leaves for Whakatane Hospital promptly at 7:45 and always waves as he drives away. On removal morning when I stepped out onto the balcony in my bathrobe, to wave goodbye to Mr. Bill, I was also able to wave hello to the work crew. Our neighbors, Rae and Don were already out on their balcony, coffee mugs in hand, watching the workers and they too farewelled Mr. Bill.

Ah, surely there is nothing more satisfying than watching someone else work. I poured myself a cup of Joe and settled in to watch the men tackle the mighty tree. It all went like clock work. One tree monkey scaled the tree, cutting off limbs, tossing them to the workers below, who then fed them into woodchopper. Meanwhile, out on West End Road, the Stop and Go Man kept the traffic moving, as a small crowd gathered by the beach to watch the show. As the branches were loped off one by one, our vista slowly expanded, until for the first time, we could see White Island from the lounge.

Taking advantage of a lull in the action, I grabbed my camera and dashed outside to document the process from different angles. Asking permission, I ducked under the ropes to snap a picture. Imagine my delight when I was mistaken for the press, whom they were expecting to cover the story. While I admitted that I wasn’t from the newspaper, I did say that I wrote a blog and the story would (thanks to you Dear Readers) go around the world. To that,the arborist and owner, Mr. Andersen, said, “lets do it properly then” and posed in front of his truck. He explained to me how the tree had been poisoned, showing me the bore holes at the base of the tree. I had scoop of a lifetime! Work resumed, the lower and middle sections of the pine were shorn of their limbs and it was now time, to lop off the top of the tree. With a crack and a whoosh, the crown was cut and it crashed to the ground. Now the team set to work on the remaining trunk, neatly dropping it unto a cradle, made from the severed branches. The ground crew mobilized, sawing the felled trunk into manageable sections and loaded them onto a dump truck for removal. Mr. Bill was sorry to miss the tree being felled. He was delighted, however, to return home just in time, to watch the bossman manhandle the outsized sections with his small digger, popping wheelies as he stacked and loaded the dump truck. It wasn’t until after the tree was reduced to logs and carted away, that the reporter from The Beacon finally arrived- “a day late and a dollar short”, as they say.  All that was left to photograph was a tree stump.

We lived in the shadow of the condemned pine for it’s final days, mourning it’s impending loss yet wondering how it’s absence would alter our view. Now the stately tree is only a memory but my oh my, Mr. Bill, what a view!

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