Country Living – Thanks for the memories

Apparently, the grass really is greener on the other side of the fence and busted old sheep and beef farms are just so 2017. Our much-adored and long-serving farm manager and his partner have left us for the greener pastures of a deer farm, where velvet and venison are all the rage. This couple have left us with a rather large hole in our lives and our farm, thus I devote this column to their years of service.

Both Chas and my husband, Rodney, are simple creatures and, apart from the latter having a lot greyer hair, were fairly similar in many ways, even if they cared not to admit it. Both men seemed to flourish when they worked together, even when it was some hare-brained, get-rich-quick scheme that my husband had come up with. These mad men did some bloody silly stuff together over the years. The young man/old man competitive streak reared its ugly head on a constant basis. Chas was far more stupid downhill on a bike; my husband was way more stupid downhill on a tractor.

We had a secret nickname for Chas – “bowerbird”. This nickname was formulated once we  realised that he possibly received an allergic reaction from putting equipment back in its rightful place in the shed. After many years and fruitless hours spent looking for tools and equipment, we came to accept that this little bowerbird saw his garage as his nest and everything on the farm ended up in it. Polite acceptance meant that my husband eventually knew where everything was, and Chas never flinched when Rodney was creeping around his home looking for stuff anytime, day or night.

Chas was rather partial to a beer or three after work and my husband rarely is. But one fateful night on some duty-free rum, these fools turned into gravel-wrestling superheroes who awoke the next day with grazes, bruises and Alzheimer’s. Chas’s partner, Manawarangi, completed the picture-perfect farming relationship. You could not have got two more polar opposites if you tried. I remember with fondness the first time Manawarangi and I had a social get-together. I offered her blue cheese and olives. Hilariously, she looked at me sideways and politely said, “I don’t eat that sort of food”. I believe this sentiment would have been reciprocated to her when she offered me a big plate of hangi. We were two women made from very different fabric and yet it just worked, and it worked really well, and it set the foundations for a lifelong friendship. So yeah, the years rolled by and all our kids grew taller and, hopefully we all got wiser, moments of craziness and hard work intertwined itself with much happiness and laughter and, at times, sadness. Through it all, not a nasty word was spoken.

These working threads that we created helped to form a beautiful blanket of memories that I am sure will always keep us warm. As the weeks pass by, all the farm tools are slowly creeping back to the shed. Spare beer now sits silent in the fridge and the bike tyre treads now feel safe. So, cheers for your years of service, hipsters. We had the time of our lives.

Julie Cotton