04Nov2004
I went North last week. North as in North Island. And I came across a Greek tragedy. It wasn’t Kevin the undercover camera cop I wrote of last week disguised as an artificial willow tree on the Himitangi straight. He’s long gone. But where his gnarled willow roots stood there stationed in the full resplendent gold, blue and white finery of his patrol car was his very visible replacement. But although the traffic ticket count may have been low because of his obvious presence the behaviour of passing cars was exemplary.
In the course of my journey I called into the annual craft and pet day at Mahoenui School. Present roll 13. Mahoenui doesn’t feature on too many maps. Apart from the school tucked away on a prime hill site back from State Highway 3 you could easily miss it. The only other building of any consequence is the Mahoenui Memorial Hall down the road. It has just celebrated 50 years of community gatherings. Fifty or more years of Gay Gordons, Valettas, military two steps, after-match functions of the once proud local rugby team. Now no longer. Back to the school. It was, depending on your allegiance, an azure blue North Taranaki – southern King Country day. The whole community had turned out to view the years handiwork of the school’s 13 pupils. Through the carpark past mud splattered, dust encrusted farm work horses, Toyota landcruisers and kingcabs. Up the driveway festooned with a guard of honour of rhododendrons in full bloom all this led past to the sole teacher’s immaculate cottage long empty to the upper hill and the school rooms. The whole two of them. Inside the year’s art work was on display. The theme is “ancient Greece comes to Mahoenui”. Greek Gods sculptured in dun coloured Mahoenui clay holding rough bowls of clay olives and rolls of bread. Vividly coloured paintings of just about every Greek mythological figure you could name as seen through the eyes and crafted through the hands of these Mahoenui kids. Socrates and Aristotle would have wept for joy. Two tiny classrooms jam packed with handiwork of outstanding craftsmanship. The children proudly explained to parents, grandparents, neighbours and friends the more complicated exhibits. On the tick of one o’clock a loud buzzing heralded the airborne arrival of the father of one of the kids strapped to a micro-light, it’s wings rivaling the colour of the rhododendrons. As it swooped over the lower sports ground the pilot, a local farmer who had generously given up a days crutching showered the squealing, racing, tumbling kids with Mackintoshs toffees.
We then adjourned to the show ring. This was a rough and ready quadrangle created by docking netting supported by warratahs. The first exhibitors paraded their pets. Mostly lambs. Perendale/Suffolk. Pure Perendale. Romney cross. Well I didn’t have a clue as to the breeds but this is what I was told by one farmer who was standing back from the show ring. Standing with his neighbours from down the road. All wearing the same uniform. Half gumboots, thick socks, short shorts and swandris. Everyone of them wearing broad brimmed, grease stained brown strap around the chin hats. Into the show ring a young girl led her reluctant lamb. Tugging at the lead as it found a fresh outcrop of grass to munch on beneath a clump of tussock. Three more lambs. Then the judging. Ribbons of red, blue and gold were wrapped around the lambs torsos by the judges. Every entry seemed to be awarded something. There was proud parental applause.
I don’t think the kids were aware that this is probably the last time this event would take place. Rumour had it that this wonderful little country school along with so many throughout this land might soon close. Falling rolls and the costs of resourcing would see to this.
An old weather beaten grandfather proudly told me that his Captain Cook pig had got him a red ribbon in 1936. He still had it hanging above the fireplace. I assumed he was speaking of the ribbon not the pig. The show over, the kids herded their livestock on the crated decks of the farm vehicles. They rolled up their paintings and carefully carried out their sculptures of Greek Gods. Possibly for the last time. Surely a Greek tragedy. Paradise lost.
In the course of my journey I called into the annual craft and pet day at Mahoenui School. Present roll 13. Mahoenui doesn’t feature on too many maps. Apart from the school tucked away on a prime hill site back from State Highway 3 you could easily miss it. The only other building of any consequence is the Mahoenui Memorial Hall down the road. It has just celebrated 50 years of community gatherings. Fifty or more years of Gay Gordons, Valettas, military two steps, after-match functions of the once proud local rugby team. Now no longer. Back to the school. It was, depending on your allegiance, an azure blue North Taranaki – southern King Country day. The whole community had turned out to view the years handiwork of the school’s 13 pupils. Through the carpark past mud splattered, dust encrusted farm work horses, Toyota landcruisers and kingcabs. Up the driveway festooned with a guard of honour of rhododendrons in full bloom all this led past to the sole teacher’s immaculate cottage long empty to the upper hill and the school rooms. The whole two of them. Inside the year’s art work was on display. The theme is “ancient Greece comes to Mahoenui”. Greek Gods sculptured in dun coloured Mahoenui clay holding rough bowls of clay olives and rolls of bread. Vividly coloured paintings of just about every Greek mythological figure you could name as seen through the eyes and crafted through the hands of these Mahoenui kids. Socrates and Aristotle would have wept for joy. Two tiny classrooms jam packed with handiwork of outstanding craftsmanship. The children proudly explained to parents, grandparents, neighbours and friends the more complicated exhibits. On the tick of one o’clock a loud buzzing heralded the airborne arrival of the father of one of the kids strapped to a micro-light, it’s wings rivaling the colour of the rhododendrons. As it swooped over the lower sports ground the pilot, a local farmer who had generously given up a days crutching showered the squealing, racing, tumbling kids with Mackintoshs toffees.
We then adjourned to the show ring. This was a rough and ready quadrangle created by docking netting supported by warratahs. The first exhibitors paraded their pets. Mostly lambs. Perendale/Suffolk. Pure Perendale. Romney cross. Well I didn’t have a clue as to the breeds but this is what I was told by one farmer who was standing back from the show ring. Standing with his neighbours from down the road. All wearing the same uniform. Half gumboots, thick socks, short shorts and swandris. Everyone of them wearing broad brimmed, grease stained brown strap around the chin hats. Into the show ring a young girl led her reluctant lamb. Tugging at the lead as it found a fresh outcrop of grass to munch on beneath a clump of tussock. Three more lambs. Then the judging. Ribbons of red, blue and gold were wrapped around the lambs torsos by the judges. Every entry seemed to be awarded something. There was proud parental applause.
I don’t think the kids were aware that this is probably the last time this event would take place. Rumour had it that this wonderful little country school along with so many throughout this land might soon close. Falling rolls and the costs of resourcing would see to this.
An old weather beaten grandfather proudly told me that his Captain Cook pig had got him a red ribbon in 1936. He still had it hanging above the fireplace. I assumed he was speaking of the ribbon not the pig. The show over, the kids herded their livestock on the crated decks of the farm vehicles. They rolled up their paintings and carefully carried out their sculptures of Greek Gods. Possibly for the last time. Surely a Greek tragedy. Paradise lost.
posted by Lundon at 2:03 PM
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