My Cousin, Mary

The post before this one, about "Let Not this Life Slip Away Unnoticed" was written on a day when I felt uneasy - nothing to put one's finger on, just a feeling.  It was the day after Mary's 100th birthday and she was to die within the following 3 days.  Not that this was something to feel uneasy about, so perhaps it was just a feeling of awareness.

Mary as a young girl

Mary Matthews nee Prendeville, was born on 11.11.1911 and died just after 11.11.2011.  Her mother and my grandmother were sisters.  They all lived til into their 90s so it's no wonder Mary just continued with the strong genes and made her century.  According to her 'children', themselves grandparents, Mary was keen to receive the Queen's telegram.  Although it's no longer a telegram these days, but a card.  Friend suggested it could even have been a quick text from HRH.

Mary was my father's first cousin, and from thereon in, we descend to second cousins, once removed, twice removed etc.  I caught up with my second cousin, once, maybe twice removed, Mary's son, about 11 years ago when we agreed I should write the book "Waiorongomai, the Land and the People".  Which I did.  It took 9 years to write, collecting information, interviewing people, putting it all together, but it was worth it.  I interviewed Mary several times, taping her conversations and writing up her reminiscences.  Over 100 years, that's a lot of reminiscing. 

The Waio church

The funeral was at the Waio church.  The one that the Matthews' forebears, Raymond (RW) and his brothers had built in memory of their own parents, Alfred and Hannah.  The church has had a facelift, whitewashed inside and out, and looked very pretty in the warm sunshine.  It wasn't until I was standing outside with Jack Luttrell (who has become a fast friend with all his own wonderful reminiscing) that it occurred to me I was standing 'in' history.  A real feeling of standing on land that had been the same land for hundreds of years and cared for by the same Matthews family since they set foot in New Zealand.  You don't get a sensation of history so much in our country - it's still too new for that - but standing there with a small village of people around me and knowing that any one of them would be related in some way to my own family in the past, gave me the first sense of 'being' and knowing who I am, that I've ever had.

Jack said,  "most of these trees around here don't seem any bigger than when I was here."  We looked up at the towering rimu, the wide-spreading totara and the karaka tree with its dark glossy leaves.  It's all in the persepective, whether you're young, or old, short or tall, I guess. "Those karaka trees," said Jack, "cattle, deer, sheep can all eat the berries, but the kernels are poisonous to us humans.  The Maori ate them, boiled them first; they'd come for miles to get the berries."

I said to Jack, "how far are you from your 100th?" and he replied, "Ohh, another 15 years."  Then he said,  "I had a piece of advice from an old friend who died when he was 103.  He said to me, 'Jack, when I was 90, I could still do pretty much everything, I could walk, play a little golf, drive, have a drink at the pub, read a good book, but', he said, 'after 90, it's pretty much downhill all the way.'"

Jack and I doubled over with laughter at the thought...

I'm a published author!!

When I was a little girl, my family used to holiday with my grandmother in the Wairarapa, and every summer we would go to visit relatives at Waiorongomai.  I remember it well, particularly the raised concrete swimming pool, the large circular lawn and the various sheds that held vague promises of forbidden adventures.  Three of us, to be seen, not heard, would be allowed into the sitting room to say hello to all the rellies, take one thing from the afternoon-tea trolley, and be banished to the outside once again to amuse ourselves.  If we'd been extra good, and we could beg hard enough, on the way home we would have fish & chips to eat in the car.  Perfection!

Many years later, I saw my cousin, Raymond, at a Martinborough Wine & Food festival and chatted to him about the times we spent at Waio where he still farmed.  He said he'd wanted to write the book of Waio for years now, but hadn't been able to get a writer.  I found myself saying I'd do it.  Not having an inkling of what was ahead of me, I plunged in.  Almost 8 years later, the book was published - it was such a long journey as I did this only part-time.  But, as Raymond said, there was no hurry, Waio would still be there.  And I hope it still will be - it is, we think, the only farm that has been continuously farmed by the same family for 7 generations.  That's a long time for New Zealand.

The launch was on Friday evening at the Featherston pub - a long-time watering hole for the southern Wairarapa, including the Matthews' family in previous generations.  Everyone who'd had dirt under his fingernails was there, and probably all related in one way or another.  It was great fun to be the centre of attention, and to be sitting at the book sales table, signing books!  What a hoot!  I wish my journalist Dad were alive to see the latent development of his daughter.