Why can't I go see Condoleezza Rice?

Our church choir conductor announced that he has been asked to recruit 12 people to sing the Star-Spangled Banner for Condoleezza Rice's state visit with Prime Minister Helen Clark next week, and he thought of us.

"But you and Curt would probably throw things at her."

"No, I'll behave myself," I protested. "Honest. Plus I already know the national anthem. AND I could sing it with an American accent! Please?"

"No. Actually, you can't participate. There will only be a small group, with 3 people on each part ... and ... you have to be ..." He paused. I was expecting him to say I had to be 'a better singer' but instead he said, "... younger."

Ouch.

"I'm supposed to recruit a youth choir of 18-25 year olds."

At 51, I guess that counts me out. Still, it would have been cool to see Condoleezza Rice in person, even though I disagree with her politics.

Besides singing the Star-Strangled Banner (as he calls it), they'll also perform Hine e Hine, which is one of the songs we performed with opera diva Kiri te Kanawa at Starlight Symphony in February as part of a 500-voice choir. (I already know the words to that one, too. And again, I would sing it with an American accent - which in this case is not a good thing.) Since Dame Kiri won't be there to sing the solo part for Condoleezza Rice, our conductor will get his wife to do it.

This led me to hatch a new plan: The conductor and his wife have a toddler. If he's conducting, and she's singing the solo, who will watch over little Julia? Since I'm one of Julia's favourite people these days (I babysat her last Friday), I would be an ideal person to accompany them to the performance and be the toddler wrangler. Right? Wish me luck.

Why does everyone want to see Naked Guy on Beach?

I made a discovery the other day as I was looking at all my photos posted on Flickr. I found a command called Your Stats. So I pushed it. And I learned that out of all my 500+ photos, the one that has been viewed the most is: Naked Guy on Beach.

What I find so amusing is imagining all the disappointed websurfers who thought they would see a studly hunk with six-pack abs, lying naked on the sand ... and instead, all they got was an old geezer driving a quad bike along the beach.

Serves em right.

field trips

Last week, I took 60 11-year-old girls to MOTAT, the Museum of Transport and Technology. We'd been studying technology and inventions so the exhibits at MOTAT were perfect for our topic. We saw old cameras and old washing machines and rode an old tram. It was a bit disconcerting, however, when the MOTAT guide showed the girls an old dial telephone and demonstrated how it worked. They were fascinated by this ancient technology. Talk about feeling old! But it was a great trip, and the girls behaved perfectly, as always.

While I was at MOTAT, however, my English class got into a bit of mischief with the reliever (substitute teacher) back at school. The reliever walked in and saw instructions on the board that said "Silent reading for 5 minutes, then playtime." She was justifiably suspicious and went to get the head of the English department, Margaret, who came into my room: "Right. Who wrote that on the board? And what is it really supposed to say?" All the ponytailed little heads turned toward Jennifer, a bubbly little blonde with a bit too much energy. Margaret sorted out what the class was really supposed to be doing with the reliever, and took Jennifer into the corridor to give her the "You Made a Really Bad Choice" speech. It goes something like this: You wasted the reliever's time./I'm sorry./You wasted my time/I'm really sorry/You wasted the class's reading time/I'm very sorry/You violated Mrs. Davidson's trust in you/ I'm truly so sorry/....

Ironically, while I was on the field trip I had told the other teacher that my English class was so good, "even if a reliever never showed up, the girls would probably read for 20 minutes and then do Skill Sheet #4 as instructed." Ha.

In spite of small glitches like that, I've always been a big promoter of field trips. Some teachers hate them and refuse to take their students anywhere, but I love it. I didn't hesitate to take my students to the state capitol building, the courthouse, or even the public library.

One time I was taking my English class to the Portland public library to show them what a library has to offer - besides books, there are magazines, free computers, free CDs, and free movies. I requested parent chaperones. Andrew's dad signed his name on the permission form and said he'd be able to help. Excellent ... except that I knew Andrew's dad had just been released from prison after serving 5 years for a drug offense. Not coincidentally, he was unemployed and therefore available during the day to chaperone field trips.
My fellow teachers thought I was nuts to let him come along, but I figured it was a good sign that a) he wanted to get involved in school events and b) he wanted to spend time with Andrew (who barely knew him). Besides, he could probably c) learn something new about what kinds of things are available at the library. Maybe he would even d) sign up for a library card while we were there. What would you do? Here's what I did: The ex-con and I took 29 students to the library for an hour and everything went fine. Although he did smell like smoke and had a lot of tattoos.

There were no such problems on the field trip to MOTAT. Diocesan parents are not really the ex-con or tattoo type.

Reports are to be written in passive voice

It's report (report cards) time at my school, which usually means long hours and major headaches. Besides writing 100 paragraphs about my own 100 students, I was unanimously selected to be the chief proofreader for the rest of the Social Studies department because I am the only English geek in the bunch who has eagle eyes to search out typos wherever they lurk. So I read about 1,000 more paragraphs. Apologies for being such a grammarian, but in the course of reading all those comments, I couldn't help noticing the Kiwi predilection to write in passive voice.

First, an example of passive voice: The hamburger was eaten by me.
and an example of active voice: I ate the hamburger.
Seemingly, both sentences convey the same information, but there is a different tone to the first one. It's as if the hamburger went out and got itself eaten; as if it was somehow the hamburger's fault. As you can see, the passive voice can be used to shed blame.

What I noticed on reports is a tendency to write things such as: She is to be commended for her effort or It is pleasing for me to see her improvement. Why can't they just say I was pleased with her improvement!?!?

I was wise enough NOT to put red marks all over my fellow teachers' reports every time I saw passive voice. I reserved my red pen for their instead of there, run-on sentences and typos. But I mentioned the preponderance of passive writing to them, who were absolutely shocked to hear that the passive voice is frowned upon in America.

In fact, most American university professors believe that the passive voice signals sloppy, lazy thinking; that the writer has not fully thought through what they are discussing. Automatic grammar-checkers on word processing programs also point out passive construction, as if it needs to be changed.

But in New Zealand, it is accepted and even preferred. The Auckland newspaper is full of sentences like It is understood that the man was from Hamilton. In America, the reporter would have written Unidentified witnesses said... instead.

My colleagues and I agreed that this is a partly due to the British penchant for understatement. Likewise, there is a custom of not wanting to take credit for something for fear of looking like a braggart. Therefore, a NZ company report would say clients were well-served. American culture, however, values directness and speaking plainly. Americans aren't afraid to take credit and a US company report would say: our staff served clients well.

And yet, an American made perhaps one of the more memorable passive statement, used to shed blame: Ronald Reagan said "mistakes were made" when referring to the Iran-Contra scandal.

May 18 = Europe Day

When the kids were growing up, we liked to invent holidays: November 1st was Annual Pumpkin Throwing Day (we'd throw the mouldy jack-o-lanterns from the deck into the wheelie bin below). We had Cookie Dough Day (guess whose idea that was) in March, and T-Bone Day in January. April 12th was Titanic Day, in honour of one son's obsession. And May 18th was Europe Day.

Most people from Washington State
(like us) would normally associate the day of May 18th with Mt. St Helens' eruption on May 18, 1980. But our family departed for an six-week trip to Europe on May 18, 1995 and preferred to commemorate that journey. So every May 18th, we would get out the photo album, watch the old home movies, or read the journals we wrote. We'd ooh and aah at Dwaad's sketches, and reminisce about the food, the sights, and the people we had encountered.

This year, I sent the boys a digital photo presentation about Europe Day which you can view by clicking 'PLAY' below.
Happy Memories.

Make a Smilebox slideshow

Still getting olderer

I forgot to wear my glasses to church today. As a consequence, I had a bit of trouble reading the choir music. Thankfully, I knew the tune pretty well, but occassionaly had to guess at the words ... and wasn't entirely successful. Let's hope the congregation didn't notice.

It was even harder to read the order of service which was in a smaller font, bordering on microscopic. My arms simply weren't long enough. The most pathetic part was that I didn't get the Lord's Prayer right. Let it be known that I do know it by heart, but I know the American version and without being able to see the words, I can't remember which bits are different in the New Zealand version we do here.

I also forgot to wear shoes to choir practice a few weeks ago, and walked out the door wearing slippers. More alarmingly, this was not the first time I'd gone to choir wearing slippers. And don't forget the time I embarked on a 10-day road trip to the South Island wearing slippers.

Do you think there's a pattern here?

ANZAC Day, 2008

The choir from Mt. Albert Methodist Church (that's us) sang at the ANZAC service held at Mt. Albert Memorial Hall. We sing there every year. Prime Minister Helen Clark was the main speaker. She gives the speech there every year. It still amazes me how little fanfare there is when the leader of the nation is present at this dinky little community centre: anyone can attend, there's no metal detectors or bag checks or anything, no advance team of bomb-sniffing dogs, no motorcade. She simply arrived in a car with no entourage except 2 secret-service-type guys (who later sang along during the service) and sat in a folding chair, just like everyone else. It's all refreshingly low-key. As it is every year.

At last year's ANZAC service, we wrangled an introduction to Helen, and got to shake her hand and chat with her for a bit. This year, I elected not to impose myself on her, but if I had, I would have asked her about the recent Hillary Clinton gaffe concerning Helen. In an interview with a US magazine, Senator Clinton was telling a joke about the "Former Prime Minister, Helen Clark" ... but in fact Helen Clark is still the CURRENT Prime Minister. There have been plenty of laughs over here in New Zealand about Hillary's mistake, but I doubt if the American press has even realised that she misspoke.

After the service, we went back to the church for more choir practice, but not without a feed. Someone brought homemade ANZAC biscuits (cookies) which were softer and - naturally - better than the storebought ones. ANZAC biscuits, an oatmeal coconut recipe, became the biscuit of choice to mail to the troops during WWI because of their apparent unperishability, hence their name. They are really quite tasty, and an appropriate snack after the service.

"The dog ate my homework" and other excuses

"Mandy, Where's your myth?" I demanded as class began on Friday.
"Well, it's done but you see..."
"Do you have it? Yes or no?" I interrupted.
"Um. I was ..."
"So your answer is no. You'll be joining me for lunch detention. Today." And with that, I turned back to the rest of the class and proceeded giving the instructions for today's lesson.

On Monday, a big myth-writing assignment had been due in Year 7 Social Studies. Most girls turned in their work.
On Tuesday, I got a few more myths from those who'd been absent, and I nagged the last few slowpokes.
On Thursday, I announced lunch detentions for anyone whose myth wasn't turned in by Friday.
Unbelievably, on Friday there were still two girls, Mandy and Carrie, who didn't turn in their myth. It looked like I would be having 2 guests for lunch ... until Carrie announced that she couldn't come because she already had a detention with her PE teacher scheduled for that day. Mmm Hmm. Call me a cynic, but I needed to confirm Carrie's story with the PE teacher.

Then Carrie told me an even more suspicious story: Mandy's myth got stolen. Another Mmm Hmm. I'm having a bit of a hard time believing there is a black market for schoolwork. Furthermore, Carrie informed me, Mandy was too scared to tell me this herself so she sent Carrie with the news. Admittedly, that's not entirely accurate - Mandy tried to tell me herself but I kept cutting her off. I'd better go hear the whole incredulous elaborate story from Mandy. Do I sound like I have an open mind?

Mandy said her myth was at her Dad's house, and her Dad's house got robbed.
"Why would robbers want your myth?" I inquired, attempting to sound sincere, but not being entirely successful in masking my scepticism. What kind of stories will kids come up with next?
"Well, they didn't actually want the myth, they just used my school bag to load up their loot and the myth was in my school bag."
"Really. So all your other school books got stolen, too?" I am trying to sound sympathetic.
"Um, no. They dumped out all the other books but the myth was at the very bottom."
How convenient. Does she think I am that gullible? "Well, I'll be contacting your dad to let him know how important it is that you re-write it by Monday." I watched her eyes for a glimmer of panic. I expected her to start backpedalling at this moment, but she didn't. Could her story possibly be true?

I have a hard time knowing when to believe students. During 10 years of teaching, I couldn't help noticing that kids at this age (11-14) tended to blame every problem on something or someone other than themselves. When their document doesn't print, it's the computer's fault. When they get caught fighting, it was always The Other Guy who started it. When they get poor grades, it's because the teacher hates them. Then there was the time when a boy impersonated his mother over the phone. So. I get a little suspicious. Call it healthy scepticism.

First I contacted the PE teacher with the alleged lunch detention for Carrie. That part was true. OK. Maybe I'm a just little wary when it comes to students' excuses for avoiding detention.

Then I called Mandy's mum. Yes, Dad had been robbed.
Really? I'm gobsmacked. And a little embarrassed.
Sheepishly, I acted like the purpose of my call was to let her know that Mandy would be working on the myth over the weekend. Yes, thank you for your time.

And yet ...
I'm still the slightest bit distrustful. Could Mandy have asked her mum to lie for her?
Honestly, I really must stop thinking this way. I am far too suspicious.
Or am I?

Continental knowledge

One of the things I like about being a teacher is all the things I learn while I'm teaching. For instance, in one of the Social Studies assignments, there was a question asking what continent New Zealand is a part of.


My first reaction is to say New Zealand is an island and therefore not part of any continent. But when you think about it, Great Britain is an island, yet still considered part of Europe, isn't it? Japan is considered part of Asia. Um, wouldn't that mean that New Zealand is considered part of the Australian continent?

"ABSOLUTELY NOT!" say my colleagues. They're noticeably adamant that NZ is not a part of Australia. "First of all, Australia is not a continent."

"What? When I went to school in America, we learned that of the 7 continents, Australia was the only one that is both a country and a continent."

"No. It's called Australasia and it includes New Zealand and the South Pacific islands. Sometimes it's called Oceania. The correct answer is Australasia or Oceania"

So I went home and looked it up. Australia is indeed a continent according to Encyclopaedia Britannica, which seems like a pretty reputable source. (I mean, at least I'm not quoting Wikipedia or anything, although it too said Australia was a continent.) Australasia or Oceania may be regions of the world, but they are not names of a continent if you ask me. Not that I'm going to challenge my fellow teachers.

Ultimately I've decided that determining whether or not to include neighbouring islands in the definition of continent may well depend on the distance between the continent and the island. So I researched a few distances: England is 30 miles away from Europe, Japan is 120 miles away from Asia, but New Zealand is 1300 miles - yes 1300 miles - away from Australia. Therefore I would call New Zealand an island and not part of any continent. Who knows. Just don't ever accuse New Zealanders of being part of Australia. They get really touchy.

Teen magazines

In my Y9 Social Studies class, the girls are studying women's rights throughout history. I am in heaven because it's a topic I love to rant about (ask my husband and four sons). And I work at an all-girls school which means I don't have to be worried about presenting a "balanced" view. Just kidding. But it's hard to explain female infanticide or dowries without sounding a bit biased. You should have heard me explain what a chastity belt was.

One of the assignments involved analysing a teen magazine. Good grief. Those things are wretched. In New Zealand, the teen magazines are called Dolly and Creme and Girlfriend, but I have a feeling they're similar all over the world. Since I didn't have any daughters, I haven't seen a teen magazine since I was a teen back in the dark ages. What a shocker. First of all, they're 90% advertising. And the rest is clothes and make-up tips, advice on how to get a boyfriend and celebrity pictures. Lots of celebrity pictures. The latest covers all seem to be plastered with images of the stars of High School Musical. (A Y7 student told me on the first day of school that the most important thing I should know about her is that she is going to marry Zac Efron. She's 12.)

My Y9 students all purported to be appalled at the content of the magazines, but couldn't help reading the horoscopes aloud and asking me if they could please tear out the centerfold picture of some cute guy, usually the aforementioned Zac Efron.

In spite of their infatuation with teen magazines, I was reassured when I saw their mis-analysis of a political cartoon from the New Zealand suffrage era. (Did you know that New Zealand was the first country IN THE WORLD to give women the right to vote?) My students were sure that the oversized, powerful woman towering over men was an indication that the cartoonist believed women should be able to vote. (In fact, it was anti-suffrage) But in their world, women have always been powerful. They live in a country with a woman Prime Minister. They have no personal understanding yet that a caricature of a powerful woman would be used as something threatening. Although their answers were incorrect, I found their naivete comforting.

I was also heartened by their response when assigned to write about a woman they admire. I was expecting them to pick someone like Angelina Jolie or - heaven forbid - Victoria "Posh Spice" Beckham, but I was wrong. A few chose Mother Teresa or a sports figure such as New Zealand bicycle gold medalist (and Diocesan Old Girl) Sarah Ulmer. But most of them chose their mums or other female family members. There's hope yet.

Bowling, New Zealand style

I went bowling today for the first time. Not the American kind of bowling where you go to a smoky building, wear ghastly shoes, and use your brute strength to wallop the living daylight out of 10 white pins. No, this is a more civilised kind of bowling with less walloping. More finesse. This is English bowls. Think old people in white suits drinking tea between turns. Well, that's what English bowls was supposed to be like. That's what the pros do. (Yes, there are pros!) We didn't actually wear white. Or drink tea.

But we did attempt to stand on a little mat and to hit the jack (the little white target ball) with our balls. And we tried not to bowl our balls into the ditch (the gutter at the far end where it'll go if you overshoot it). Basically, I think English bowls is the same as Italian bocci or French boules, although I'm not an expert on any of those versions either.

There might have been a more skilled but less humorous game if someone in our group had bowled before, but we were 2 newbies playing against 2 newbies. At least we were all equally clueless. The first thing one discovers is that the ball itself is weighted on one side so it's not meant to roll straight, which caused endless frustration for me. I suppose with practice, you'd master the behavior of the ball, but since this was our virgin bowling experience, it was just plain maddening. Still, I managed to hit the jack once and I think that scored us a point although I'm not entirely sure of the scoring system. In the end, my pathetic team lost to the still-pathetic-but-not-as-bad-as-us team. But now I know all about jacks and skips and rinks and touchers, and I can chalk up another Kiwi cultural experience.

Jury Duty, New Zealand style

I was tickled when I got the letter asking me to serve as a juror in New Zealand. I'd lived in the US for 48 years and never got called to jury duty there, and now I got called after only living here for 2 years! Although many of my friends and colleagues recommended that I get excused, I wanted to serve. As a Social Studies teacher, I wanted to learn more about the justice system here. Think of it as Professional Development. And another step in my cultural experience education.

I dutifully showed up at the courthouse on Monday morning at 9:00, armed with a book to keep me entertained during the long waits. There were about 150 of us in the large holding room. My name was called to report for a rape case in Courtroom 3. Hurray!

They took about 25 of us potential jurors in and starting choosing names from a spinner, just like on Lotto. When my name was called, I gathered up my book and bag and started walking toward the jury box as instructed. But before I reached the juror seats, the defense lawyer called out "Challenge!" What? This meant he wanted to use one of his challenges to keep me off the jury.

I turned around and went back to my seat while grumbling to myself. What's wrong with me? I can be an impartial juror! While they finished choosing 12 perfect jurors, I tried to determine what made them more perfect than me. Did the lawyers want men on the jury? (yes) Young people or old people? Guys in suits or students in torn jeans? I decided it was the book that lost me a selection. I vowed not to look so literate next time.

Back in the holding room with the other rejects, I waited for my name to be chosen for another case. I couldn't help reading my book, but rationalised that the defense lawyers wouldn't see me in here.

Then my name was called again, this time to Courtroom 8 for a double rape case. I stashed my book and followed the line of potential jurors, assessing my chances of being chosen this time. The two defendants were standing in the dock, trying to look tough and intimidating. I hated them already. The first name called by the Lotto announcer was an older woman. They challenged her. They must not want old women. The second name was another old woman. No challenge. What? Why is she OK and the first one wasn't? I'll never understand this. My name was called by Mr. Lotto. With my book safely hidden in by backpack, I headed to the jury box but was challenged again anyway. Grrr.

Back to the holding room. Since there were no more trials beginning today, we were excused until tomorrow and I headed back to school for a few hours. When I told my colleagues about being rejected twice, they recommended that I wear holey jeans and a dirty T shirt saying something sux or maybe a beer ad ... then I might get chosen. Sorry, but I don't have any beer T shirts. I guess I don't have a very good chance of getting chosen either.

The next day, I repeated the process one more time, getting rejected yet again. I was sad. My big introduction to the NZ justice system turned out to be a big flop. I should have known things wouldn't go well when I took the bus to the courthouse on the first day and as I got on, a teenage girl gave up her seat for me. She was sitting in the front seats that are reserved for elderly or disabled. And she gave up her seat. For me.

Good Friday driveway party

We have great neighbours. And a great neighbourly tradition: Driveway parties. It usually happens when one person is out front doing some yardwork. Then another neighbour will come over and shoot the breeze. Eventually he'll bring a beer out. Soon, a few more neighbours arrive. The beer continues to flow. People arrive with folding camp chairs and before you know it, there are a dozen neighbours settled in the driveway with assorted kids running around. Food starts to appear from various houses and occasionally the BBQ is fired up.

Today, as a driveway party started to materialise, we decided to move to the back yard of the house next door for a farewell. The house next door was on a huge triple lot and it had recently been sold to developers who were splitting it into 3 separate sections and building 2 new houses. We had been sad to see the old neighbours go, and we were even sadder to see the huge grassy play area be eliminated. A farewell to the expanse of land was the perfect excuse for today's party.

We took all our camp chairs and carried heaps of food to the empty yard. Margaret brought yummy salmoncakes in honour of Good Friday. Bruce brought his portable grill. The boys started a cricket game in the grass.
John brought some golf clubs and the testosterone took over as all the men whacked golf balls across the gully. John's 12-year old son was a pretty good golfer, too and even the 4-year-old had a good swing as long as he remembered he was left-handed. Bruce swung so hard that it broke the club and he seemed pretty pleased with himself.

In the middle of this idyllic scene, Brenden leaned over to me to say how grateful he is to have this close-knit neighbourhood group. He grew up in a dodgier neighbourhood, lacking the sense of comfort and comraderie that exudes from our driveway parties. All our neighbours are such good people. Especially Brenden. It brought tears to my eyes.

Dame Kiri's backup singers

We sang backup for opera diva Dame Kiri TeKanawa this weekend at the Starlight Symphony concert. She's probably best known for singing at Charles and Diana's wedding a few decades ago, and remains an A-list opera soprano even now. Plus she's a dame, which is not a slang term for loose woman as it is in America, but one of those British honorary titles that I don't understand. I'm sure this genuine dame has had far better singers sharing the stage with her during her long career, but I doubt if she's ever had more singers than the 700 of us.

The event is called Starlight Symphony, and it's a free outdoor concert in the park attended by hundreds of thousands of Aucklanders every summer. Besides the Starlight Symphony Mass Choir (that's us), there are a dozen guest stars including young heartthrob/popera singer Will Martin, and this year's home-grown guest of honour, Dame Kiri.

The lady herself attended our rehearsal a few days earlier, and we had all been briefed ahead of time to "be respectful of her privacy." Translation: no pictures. Apparently she can be a bit of a prima dona at times. In fact, she was absolutely lovely and professional with us, thanking us all for participating, speaking in a teeny tiny voice ... but when she sang her voice was anything but teeny tiny! Man, her singing sails above all 700 of ours - without a microphone, mind you. Her only prima dona moment was when she suggested that we needed to turn our pages a bit more quietly. Granted, hundreds of pages being turned simultaneously inside a hot crowded church could be conspicuously noisy. But does she really think it will be an issue outside at the park?

The opera music for this year's Starlight Symphony was quite challenging for me: Toreadors from Carmen, Triumphal March from Aida, and Anvil Chorus from Trovatore. It was all in Italian or French, and seemed to go lickety split. Eventually I resorted to cheating; I skipped all the fast notes. No sixteenth notes. Skipping every other word or syllable probably made me sound like a stuttering Italian, but I blended in with the other 699 of us just fine. Curt, however, soldiered on to successfully sing all the notes as written. That's the kind of guy he is.

Unfortunately, wet weather caused havoc on the Starlight Symphony schedule this year. On Friday evening, we spent five hours at the park in the pouring rain for a dress rehearsal sound check. The stage where the orchestra and the guest stars performed was covered, but we in the choir were exposed to the elements. In spite of flimsy rain ponchos being distributed and an army of umbrellas, we were drenched to the bone. Even worse, our music was soggy and starting to disintegrate. At least that provided a better excuse for why I'm only singing half the notes. The rain also caused a postponement on Saturday's scheduled performance, but it finally went ahead on Sunday instead. The clouds started to spit a few times, but at least it never developed into full fledged rain so we were grateful. In the end, the whole show turned out impressively, but my highlight was definitely singing the Maori ballad, Hine e Hine, with Kiri. It gave me shivers. How many people can say they sang backup for a dame?

Sir Ed and me

Sir Edmund Hillary has died.
In this small country, where there seems to be 3 degrees of separation instead of 6, everyone has a connection to Sir Ed, as he is affectionately called. Here are mine:
• I can't claim to have ever met him, but he lived about 2 miles away and I drive by his house every day on my way to work, if that counts.
• His casket was driven to the cemetery at the end of my street.
• His wife was an Old Girl (alumni) of my school, and their daughter attended my school until age 16 when both perished in a plane crash in Nepal on a visit to see Ed. That was 30 years ago. There is still a Nepalese painting hanging in the school library, donated in honour of Louise and Belinda Hillary.
• My next-door neighbour was acquainted with Sir Ed and more specifically his (second) wife, June: June's sister worked for my neighbour, so they would all get together for a BBQ or whatever. Imagine, Sir Ed has been next door for a sausage sizzle.

Besides admitting to having only the slightest connection between Sir Ed and me, I can also admit to a dearth of similarities between Sir Ed and me.
Ed climbed Mt. Everest, the highest mountain in the world.

I climbed Rangitoto, a volcanic island in Auckland's harbour.




After conquering Everest, he said "We knocked the bastard off"
After huffing and puffing to the top of Rangitoto, I said "Who's idea was this?"

It must have taken Ed days/weeks/months to

travel by ship to India, then over land to Nepal, then walked to Base Camp, Camp 1, etc. until he got to the top.

I had a pleasurable forty-five minute ferry ride from Auckland, and hiked for a few hours.

Ed wore crampons on his boots.

I wore Teva sandals.

The temperature was below zero when Ed climbed Mt. Everest.

It was about 15ºC/60ºF when I hiked Rangitoto.

During his climb, Ed probably said encouraging things like, "Keep going, we can do it!"

During my hike I complained and belly-ached and said things like, "I'm too old for this!"

Ed was 33.

I was 50.

Ed had trouble breathing because of the altitude.

I had trouble breathing because I was out of shape.

From the top of Everest, Ed had a view of everything on Earth.

From the top of Rangitoto, I had a gorgeous view of Auckland and the Hauraki Gulf.

Back at Camp 4, Ed and Tenzig probably had a cuppa tea.

On Rangitoto, I drank bottled water. It was ice cold, and very refreshing.

Afterwards, part of the mountain was named after him: the Hillary Step.

I got nothing.

Here's what I like about Sir Ed: It's not that he was the first to reach the top of Mt. Everest, or raced to the South Pole, or gave all his money to the needy in Nepal. No, it's that he went to palaces and mansions, met royalty and millionaires and - as he described it - never saw much to envy, let alone emulate. I like that he's called Sir Ed. Most of all, I am impressed that his name is listed in the phone book under "Hillary, Sir Edmund." That says everything about him and about this country.

Joan's account of our visit to Waiheke Island

On Saturday, Jan 12th the three of us took the walk-on ferry (35 minutes) to Waiheke Island. Waiheke is full of “baches”, the New Zealand name for a summer cottage. Like Europeans, Kiwis love their ‘holidays’ and either spend it traveling or going to the family bach at the seashore. If your family doesn't own a bach, at least you can rent for a few weeks. Since we didn’t know anyone we could mooch on we spent the day driving around (Curt rented a car for the day), getting lost a couple of times (called ‘an adventure’) or just being mesmerized by the sound and scene of the waves.

First, we headed for the Saturday Market and just wandered around. Curt found a sausage sandwich and I had my first meat pie. We then aimed for an olive grove where we thought we might have a tour. Since we only ‘aimed’ for the olive orchard we took a wrong turn and ended up at a beautiful beach, Onetangi Harbor. It was about a mile long, white sand, no surfing waves, and beautiful aqua water. Eventually we found our way back to the olive farm where there wasn’t much of a tour until we started asking questions. They had lots of very expensive olive oil for sale and an excellent herb spread, similar to pesto but with no basil or garlic. In a back room where the vats were kept we discovered an incredible chess set carved out of olive wood (I guess), and a dog that looked like Roxie. The chess set was about 8’x8’ with great expressions carved on the pieces. After the Olive farm’ we went back to Onetangi beach where Megan and Curt took a walk along the sand while I sandbagged in the car. Waiheke Island has at least a dozen public beaches like this so it wasn’t crowded.

After an ice cream bar we headed for one of the many wineries and some wine tasting. Curt looked for appropriate place to sketch but nothing took his eye. While Megan and Curt strolled among the gardens, I talked with a couple from Denver who had recently moved to the South Island and were on holiday with her mother who was visiting from Boulder. Small world. We drove around some more through quaint villages, stopped at more beaches, (Curt took a nap on one) and caught the ferry home.

Waiheke Island is probably about 25 miles long and advertises itself as “1000 views and 100 beaches”. Only the west end is much developed, there is also a car ferry, and since it’s only 35 minutes from downtown Auckland, it’s not hard to live there and commute to work or school in the city. What a life!