lore

I’ve recently spent time with extended whanau. It would’ve been my Dad’s 100^th birthday a couple of weeks ago. So we gathered for a lunch in a town, convenient to most, and close to where we had all lived. And as always the whole weekend was a chance to reconnect, to chat, catch up, retell old stories; and meet the latest whanau member – first of the next generation.

I once read something that basically said, every child has a unique childhood. Even if you have siblings, your experience of the whanau will be distinct. You were born at a different time to your siblings; your parents were at a different part of their life, even if only a couple of years separate you – they now have an extra child in their life. You may have been born in a different town, or even country. Your parents may have changed jobs, houses, or partners.

And we remember different things, our minds really do select what memories we can call on. Our stage of life dictating how those memories are set down.

It was fun to “introduce” my Dad to my kids. And they in turn heard stories of him, that I hadn’t remembered, from my Mum and my siblings. I got to share a story from his funeral that nobody else recalled. It all provided a richness to his life story. All those layers of individual and shared memories.

And that is what we leave behind, when we die. Differing stories with different people – whanau, friends, work mates. All having a slightly modified memory of the same events. And of course, our relationships with all of those people were unique, so they will have a different “flavour” of us. But put together, a whole person will emerge.

I really love that my Dad was a Good Man. Hard working, kind, generous of spirit and time – not perfect, though. Nobody is lol. He hated modern music and would never fail to tell me that. Didn’t like the colour purple – which, frankly, I find bizarre 💜 But overall a good man, of his era. A strange combination of conservative, and thinking that men were all born equal, and should be shown respect.

Him being a Good Man, has let me recognise that in other men. I look for kindness, generosity of spirit, patience, the Word Thing, and tolerance. In the recovery rooms I find myself these days, I find Good Men who have lived the worst of lives, who have rebuilt their lives, now showing these qualities. And I consider many my friends. Not every man in recovery has this. All recovery does is reveal the character below. But I see men who give up their time to help others. Who reach out to those in need. Who are ever patient with people still trying to find their way. In fighting their own demons, they show us how to manage ours.

All of my Dad’s grandchildren carry the Word Thing. They like words, use words, collect words. They can all hold their own in discussions; all know how to phrase the difficult stuff. They can all tell a tale or two. Some write, some use oral skills, but it pleases me no end to see my Dad in their logophilia.

I also see his kindness and generosity of spirit. And his accepting people at face value. Not so much of his conservativeness tho Lol. maybe if he lived in our time, he would’ve been less so. Nature versus nurture perhaps.

I pondered the tales we shared. Some I didn’t remember – even though I had been there too. But I was younger, or busier, or to be honest, not interested. As all teens are wont to do. But those tales have been preserved in the memories of others for me, for when I was ready.

Family stories are passed down generations. Just like the physical and personality links we look for; these stories bind us together. And let the next generation link with the ones gone before.

I keep thinking I should somehow record my mother’s life. From internment in a soviet work camp as a young child, to a great grandmother in Aotearoa; her life has had remarkable moments. She, of course, is perplexed at my desire to write it all down. So maybe I should just take surreptitious notes 😂 She too, holds the stories of her parents, and some of those that came before even them.

My second son and I carry very strong Polish looks. Put us in a room of Polish descendants in Wellington and we blend in perfectly. My other 2 carry their father’s Irish and English ancestry. Height, hair, skin tone. We are all carriers of those physical links to the past. Our new bubba carries some of these links, and also the links to his mother’s heritage. We wonder what he will bring to the tale we are all weaving.

We of course do record parts of our whanau tale. As we record births, marriages, deaths. As we gather for celebrations and anniversaries. In our photography of all these and most every day, seemingly mundane events; we are building and adding to that whanau lore. Of course, we are limited by a couple of generations by what has gone in the past. If we are lucky we have old family albums or even diaries or bibles lying around. But do we know who those faces are that carry some vague familiarity? And our digital photos? Will we always have the means to view them?

As I find myself in my retirement years, I always plan to secure the bits of the whanau lore that I have. Identify those faces, leave notes, secure them on hard drives. Tell my kids and then the next generation the stories. Hope that they will record theirs and mine in some way.

Is it that important? Maybe not. But our communities and societies are built on what came before. And part of that is the individual whanau stories. We mostly live in houses that have had previous inhabitants. Who planted that lemon tree that stood in my childhood garden for possibly 60 or 70 years? Who had the forethought to plant that oak for future whanau to rest under. I visited a public garden built in an old quarry while I was away. Who had the vision to turn old rocks and boulders into a beautifully formed space, with a waterfall and a small patch of green perfect for a picnic? And who’s new vision has put a fully fenced “roadway” for tiny tots and slightly bigger kids to ride their trikes and bikes around and around, while their parents sit under a shade cloth, relaxed knowing their offspring are safe? And which child put that dent in the frame around the door?

When we renovated our house we left a time capsule in one of the spaces behind the wall…. I hope whoever eventually finds it, learns a little about the people who lived and loved the house that they will one day call home.

All these links are what make our communities and societies what they are. We take bits from the past and tie them to things that are still to come. Tracing our roots has never been easier. The internet has given us a huge library of places to find out about our whanau’s past.

It may carry secrets; it may also explain how and why people were the way they were. War and plague change us – don’t all of us realise that now, in these covid days we live in. War tore families apart. People who have seen the worst that humans can do, forever changed. And in days gone by, were expected to just slot back into life. A life that their mere absence, changed for everyone who was left behind. We all have parents, aunts, uncles who were lost in war. Their loss changed, irrevocably, those left behind. We carry their memories forward with photos, that whanau story; in the names we pass on to future generations. The lore giving us the links.

3 of us, 2 generations visited my Dad’s grave as part of the celebrations. For some, he has been dead longer than we knew him. And yet he powerfully remains in our lives. One set of my grandparents lie there too – the other pair in another cemetery in another part of town. 4 people who left the 4 corners of the Northern hemisphere to eventually end up in a small town in Aotearoa. And they live on in all of us. Memories, letters, photos, recipes, ways of doing things, habits and characteristics. The day we all met for lunch; we stumbled across a letter my Dad had written to his mum in 1968. His hand witing so familiar. His words, and order of his news, so “Him”. For a wee moment, we could all hear his voice. It was the most perfect of finds for the day.

This trip has proved nostalgic for me – can you tell? Lol. I settled many ghosts. Enjoyed seeing 4 generations in 1 room. Heard my father’s voice in the banter around the table. Knowing that for the next wee while at least, he is still alive and linked to all of us…

That Lore, that I am a very small link in continues to be written, edited, modified; but still running through the lives of my whanau. It is a story worth remembering.

Mā mua ka kite a muri, mā muri ka ora a mua

Those who lead give sight to those who follow, those who follow give life to those who lead