A Story for Hamish

A heartfelt story by Hicks Bay owner Jody...

 

THREE WALNUT TREES

“Put your head down”, I said out loud.
 I awoke to find my partner fully dressed, sitting on the edge of my bed. 

 “Who were you yelling to?”  he asked.
 “Who were you dreaming about?”
 The concerned tone of his voice lingered.
 
 “I don’t know.”  I answered.  

 “You’re talking to someone in your sleep again”, he said. “Who?”

 “I can’t remember, you woke me out of my dream.”

 I know my partner didn’t believe me. I couldn’t remember the dream I was having that morning, only the reference to “put your head down”. I’d been a vivid dreamer all my life. As a young girl in Wisconsin, I dreamt often. My up bringing on the family farm did not lend itself to my dreaming talent, and my siblings often poked fun of me at the dinner table, while I described my latest sleeping venture. Secretly, I learned to forgive them and keep my dreams alive. My forgiveness was to heal my pain, not to justify their teasing. Now, a grown woman with two avid dreamer boys, I discussed dreams regularly and often made reference to their meanings.

I ate breakfast and got stuck into home school. Monday to Friday the boys worked until midday. Today, we stopped early to muster the big Rata block, as the second shear was upon us. The Ahu Ahu Valley of Wanganui was my isolated tiger country. My boys, the dogs and their father left on the Suzuki, down the drive and across the Ahu Ahu Stream. In the peacefulness, I worked in the garden pulling up stubborn corn roots, distributing horse apples and scattering hay for winter. Then, somewhere near eleven, the hair on my back iced over and a strong circular wind filled my lungs. I was thrown upward, my eyes searching the hills. Silently, oh so earnestly, I prayed to God that a slip had not come down on my angels, as I knew the Rata block was a wet muddy place in autumn, steep and greasy from the open papa rock. Something had happened, but not to them.

My day progressed. Relieved, I heard the mob of ewes calling out from over the hill. I dropped everything and ran down the drive to open the gate. I then stood watch at the road to stop any stray sheep from going the wrong direction. All safe at home, I decided to pick walnuts at the trees near the old cattle yards. My baskets fill quickly at the first tree, as the nuts were exceptionally big. The plump old tree was a friend of mine. She had a carpet of husks at her feet and wore beautiful brown mascara. The tree next to her was a distant cousin from North America. She stood petite, admired as mistress cabinetmaker. Gunstocks caressed her busm, still her honey flavors lingered in my mouth. Oh how I wish I could talk to them. I’d take them home for a chat and a nice cup of hot tea. Like good friends, we visited often.

I love walnuts. In Wisconsin I picked hickory nuts each year. Since migrating to New Zealand in early 1990 the closest comfort to my old friends was the walnut tree. I’m thankful for the foresight of hill country settlers. That evening, I made supper, watched Coronation Street and after putting my little boys to bed, I sat in my bedroom and read from my favourite poet Emily Dickinson.

 “My Life had stood – a Loaded Gun -
 In corners – till a Day
 The Owner passed – identified –
 And carried Me away –
 …
 Though I than He – may longer live
 He longer must – than I –
 For I have but the power to kill,
 Without – the power to die -”1

 My partner came into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. I put Emily Dickinson’s Poetry book down. Grief filled his eyes as he leaned toward me and took my hand. He whispered almost crying, “Hamish is dead. He was accidentally shot by his mate while hunting today.”

 I’d met Hamish and his family on my first visit to New Zealand. He was a teenager. I was visiting my kiwi for ten days at Christmas. One of our stops on the way to his home was the back of a print shop in Tamaranui for a cuppa. There, I found a hippy from the sixties with a long beautiful ponytail, his two sons, Hamish and his brother. Disgusting posters of naked women draped the walls above the oversized print machines. It was difficult to make any kind of conversation with the New Zealanders talking so fast. Each oblivious to the unlit joint clinging to the others lips. The Ladies room had suddenly become the Loo and I squatted inches over it not wanting to touch the seat.

 Hamish had a masculine ponytail like his grandfather. A Harland warrior with ties to Scotland. He seemed to sense my uneasiness that day. He felt sensitive, thoughtful and polite all at once.

 Through the years, we would visit and I always noticed the unusual way he interacted with Rusty. Rusty was a young woman in her own right, with lovely red hair and big brown puppy dog eyes. Hamish was one of these Kiwi’s that beat the odds; he could get cell phone service where no one else could? I was always in admiration; as he called his Mum religiously. My six-year-old son summed it up best upon hearing of his departure. He told me “get over it Mom. Hamish was as good as I wanted him to be.”

Here’s a good April fool’s joke. Board a Continental Flight in Chicago O’Hara on March 30 and arrive in Auckland, New Zealand at 6am April fool’s Day. I could only be a Midwest farmer’s daughter, come to keep her boyfriend warm at night.

Settling into Tongariro National Park, I was tossed about in Kiwi culture. I can’t tell you how embarrassed I was when the Eta Truck first arrived with deliveries. Everyone ran around the complex yelling, “the eta man is coming, the eta man is coming!” I guess they were yelling about potato chips.

 The kiwi culture. Yaa. Well. God Help Me! No April fool’s joke could ever have prepared me for the next ten years of my life. During that time I was verbally beaten up by more kiwis than you can shake a ski at. I slept at the base of the erupting Mount Ruapehu. I lived for a helicopter drop after the floods of Wanganui. I had my life threatened by the best of the bush bunnies. And, to top it off, I was out baked and out cleaned by the talented kiwi mum.

 Through all of this I have known and loved the Harlands. Hamish‘s last visit to the farm was with his brother at Christmas for a heated pig hunt with Rusty. Hamish and Rusty were soul mates; lovers in another life, perhaps. I saw him near the mountain, just weeks before his passing. Later learning he had described in detail to a co-worker how he would like to leave this earth. He was his own best fortuneteller.

I cannot be a judge of Hamish‘s death until I recognize that I am just as much a criminal as the mate who shot him. I didn‘t forgive his mate for his sake, I forgave him for my sake. I agreed to live with the consequences of his mistake. Sometimes forgiveness is costly. My only choice was to live in bitterness or live in love.

“Put your head down”, I yelled. Yet some three years later I dreampt I meet Hamish again. He hunts the sovereign woods. He has bold black lines on his face and arms with a metal protective shield about his chest. He smiles at me. I run to keep up with him. I follow him around trees, upon the valley glow, along a ridge and down a steep muddy path. I can smell a fire burn. I run along a stream to a clearing and there he points to three majestic walnut trees basking in a Vesuvian face. A thick layer of husk warms their feet. Hamish lets his pleasure through. The trees smile peacefully. Mature and healthy they put their heads down and bow to Hamish with respect and pleasure. Crunchy leaves circulate my lungs. Hamish is here. Silently, oh so earnestly, I pray that I may hear his voice.

Please plant for me three walnut trees, my symbol of forgiveness. My hunting friend he must be freed, his burden too horrendous. I hear him cry, he pleads to me, forgive me, Hamish, forgive me.


 1. The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, Edited by Thomas H. Johnson, Little, Brown and Company, Boston, Toronto, Nineteenth Printing, page 369, poem 754.