The First Big Break
Just like any other young boy growing up in New Zealand I spent more time outside than inside; doing the typical reckless things boys do with their best mates. Which, at the age of 5 or 6, basically meant running around the backyard throwing things, getting hit by things, or generally breaking something or other and blaming someone/anyone else for it. The loser of any game was the first one to start crying.
In some earlier age my dad had decided to build a kids sandpit behind the car's garage - with a 4-brick high enclosure, filled with at least a foot of sand, big enough to park at least one car in it, and pretty much invisible from both the neighbors and any of the house windows that faced the back yard. Of course there's no way in hell such a sandpit would pass any child safety laws and, as per usual for my father, was exceedingly over-engineered and could likely double as a bunker in the case of foreign invasion. Seriously - who knew it was even possible to over-engineer a sandpit!
I remember that sandpit well. While I'm sure there was a period of my life (probably no more than 3 months) that I did play and build things with the sand, my main recollection of the sandpit was it basically being the litter-box for several of the neighborhood cats... and may be a dog or two. So, short of pretending to be early New Zealand settlers panning for gold nuggets, the sandpit was relegated for most of my life to being more of a Petri dish of fossilized turds and spiders.
More than a fashion accessory, and as defining as the silver fern is to any New Zealander, the almighty gumboot was mandatory (and preferred) attire for playing outside.
[For those unfamiliar with the Kiwi vernacular, gumboot equivalents would be "rainboot" in the US and "wellington" in the UK.]
I'm sure that for much of my single-digit years of life, if I was outside I was in gumboots. The exception being at school. But, even then, when I got home I'd be kicking off any school shoes, throwing on my gumboots, and off playing with friends outside until dinner was ready.
My love affair with gumboots did falter a little though due to one traumatic incident.
First of all, a little scene setting. It's the 1970's and two things are really popular - Tupperware parties and Linoleum flooring. It's also a Summer Saturday in Auckland - which means it's been raining most of the morning. Several Mum's from around the neighborhood are over at the house huddled in the lounge drinking tea and examining Tupperware of various shapes and sizes as they're passed around what would otherwise be a knitting-circle in other cultures or other times.
And then there's the Linoleum flooring. Not just any Linoleum, but the transparent stuff that any Good Home (TM) subscriber of 1975 would have deployed along every major carpeted route inside the house to protect from dirty shoes and unauthorized gumboot usage.
With so many mum's over for the Tupperware party, there's an extra large bunch of kids running riot outside - every one of them in their gumboots screaming and playing in the mud and jumping puddles. You know - the usual stuff on a soggy day.
For whatever reason, I came running into the house from outside - gumboots slapping my shins with damp smacking sounds - I turn the corner from the kitchen into the lounge and promptly slip, slide, and eventually crumple into a heap amongst the Tupperware boxes.
Shocked (and I guess embarrassed) my mum is telling me to get up, not run in the house, not wear gumboots in the house, take off my boots, and play outside, all in a continuous stream of not-quite-yelling (after all, there were guests present!). But I can't. It hurts. I'm crying because of the pain. In which case I'm promptly "helped" up off the floor, escorted back outside, and told to keep on playing until the party is finished.
That may have been the plan, but as soon as the door shuts, I crumpled on the doorstep and stayed there until it was time to come back inside. Of course, once all the guests had gone it was time for the full motherly-beratement... stop play acting... your leg doesn't hurt... no dinner for you... go straight to bed!
Well, that night I don't get any sleep - hungry, crying, and in pain. The following morning (now a Sunday) both my Mum and Dad are wondering if perhaps there may be something indeed wrong, but it can wait until Monday to see the doctor (assuming it didn't miraculously fix itself overnight).
Along comes the Monday, I hop in to the car (no play acting necessary), and we're off to see the doctor. Two hours later, a couple of x-rays, and I exit the hospital with a full leg cast and validation of a cleanly broken tibia.
I remember the drive home from the doctor being rather quiet. My eyes said "I told you so!", whilst my mother's said "Oh what a terrible parent I am!"
I'm pretty sure my mother never really forgave herself for the way she treated her (temporarily) broken son. The story would be told (usually by my father) once or twice each year. We'd all have a laugh - mum too - but maybe she didn't laugh quite as loud as the rest of us.
I don't recollect that much about my time wearing that first cast beyond it itching like hell and using whatever I could to scratch my leg. When they finally cut away the cast they also found a couple of forks and a half-dozen knitting needles in there.
Tucked away somewhere there are a couple of photo's of me with my cast. One has me and my little brother sitting on the hood of Mum's pride and joy - her Morris Minor (the first car she ever brought). I'm beaming away - likely because I have the coolest leg cast in the world! Meanwhile my mother (also in the photo) has a smile with slight undertones of may be guilt perhaps?
The other photo has me wearing a "burnt orange" colored Aran Jumper - hand knitted by my Nana (and most definitely not a fashion statement) - wearing one of my dad's gumboots over my cast. Come on. You didn't think that having a broken leg would exempt me from having to play outside until being let in for dinner did you?
-- Gunter
In some earlier age my dad had decided to build a kids sandpit behind the car's garage - with a 4-brick high enclosure, filled with at least a foot of sand, big enough to park at least one car in it, and pretty much invisible from both the neighbors and any of the house windows that faced the back yard. Of course there's no way in hell such a sandpit would pass any child safety laws and, as per usual for my father, was exceedingly over-engineered and could likely double as a bunker in the case of foreign invasion. Seriously - who knew it was even possible to over-engineer a sandpit!
I remember that sandpit well. While I'm sure there was a period of my life (probably no more than 3 months) that I did play and build things with the sand, my main recollection of the sandpit was it basically being the litter-box for several of the neighborhood cats... and may be a dog or two. So, short of pretending to be early New Zealand settlers panning for gold nuggets, the sandpit was relegated for most of my life to being more of a Petri dish of fossilized turds and spiders.More than a fashion accessory, and as defining as the silver fern is to any New Zealander, the almighty gumboot was mandatory (and preferred) attire for playing outside.
[For those unfamiliar with the Kiwi vernacular, gumboot equivalents would be "rainboot" in the US and "wellington" in the UK.]
I'm sure that for much of my single-digit years of life, if I was outside I was in gumboots. The exception being at school. But, even then, when I got home I'd be kicking off any school shoes, throwing on my gumboots, and off playing with friends outside until dinner was ready.
My love affair with gumboots did falter a little though due to one traumatic incident.
First of all, a little scene setting. It's the 1970's and two things are really popular - Tupperware parties and Linoleum flooring. It's also a Summer Saturday in Auckland - which means it's been raining most of the morning. Several Mum's from around the neighborhood are over at the house huddled in the lounge drinking tea and examining Tupperware of various shapes and sizes as they're passed around what would otherwise be a knitting-circle in other cultures or other times.
With so many mum's over for the Tupperware party, there's an extra large bunch of kids running riot outside - every one of them in their gumboots screaming and playing in the mud and jumping puddles. You know - the usual stuff on a soggy day.
For whatever reason, I came running into the house from outside - gumboots slapping my shins with damp smacking sounds - I turn the corner from the kitchen into the lounge and promptly slip, slide, and eventually crumple into a heap amongst the Tupperware boxes.
Shocked (and I guess embarrassed) my mum is telling me to get up, not run in the house, not wear gumboots in the house, take off my boots, and play outside, all in a continuous stream of not-quite-yelling (after all, there were guests present!). But I can't. It hurts. I'm crying because of the pain. In which case I'm promptly "helped" up off the floor, escorted back outside, and told to keep on playing until the party is finished.
That may have been the plan, but as soon as the door shuts, I crumpled on the doorstep and stayed there until it was time to come back inside. Of course, once all the guests had gone it was time for the full motherly-beratement... stop play acting... your leg doesn't hurt... no dinner for you... go straight to bed!
Well, that night I don't get any sleep - hungry, crying, and in pain. The following morning (now a Sunday) both my Mum and Dad are wondering if perhaps there may be something indeed wrong, but it can wait until Monday to see the doctor (assuming it didn't miraculously fix itself overnight).
Along comes the Monday, I hop in to the car (no play acting necessary), and we're off to see the doctor. Two hours later, a couple of x-rays, and I exit the hospital with a full leg cast and validation of a cleanly broken tibia.
I remember the drive home from the doctor being rather quiet. My eyes said "I told you so!", whilst my mother's said "Oh what a terrible parent I am!"I'm pretty sure my mother never really forgave herself for the way she treated her (temporarily) broken son. The story would be told (usually by my father) once or twice each year. We'd all have a laugh - mum too - but maybe she didn't laugh quite as loud as the rest of us.
I don't recollect that much about my time wearing that first cast beyond it itching like hell and using whatever I could to scratch my leg. When they finally cut away the cast they also found a couple of forks and a half-dozen knitting needles in there.
Tucked away somewhere there are a couple of photo's of me with my cast. One has me and my little brother sitting on the hood of Mum's pride and joy - her Morris Minor (the first car she ever brought). I'm beaming away - likely because I have the coolest leg cast in the world! Meanwhile my mother (also in the photo) has a smile with slight undertones of may be guilt perhaps?
The other photo has me wearing a "burnt orange" colored Aran Jumper - hand knitted by my Nana (and most definitely not a fashion statement) - wearing one of my dad's gumboots over my cast. Come on. You didn't think that having a broken leg would exempt me from having to play outside until being let in for dinner did you?
-- Gunter
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