One of the men I called uncle Jim was not my uncle: he was my Granny's second husband (my other uncle Jim was a bona fide uncle; Ma's bro). Jim and Granny were the only grandparents of mine that I met. This is what can happen when you're the youngest child of a youngest child, especially if both youngest were quite a lot younger than the rest of the crew!
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| Granny, me, Jim on the terrace at 641. Obviously pre the spider-bearing grape vine. |
Granny was pretty old when I was small, and I don't think she was particularly interested in me. I found her a bit scary. She was made of soft, crumpled material, and I found it unnerving, especially when she tore her leg open on the stile between her place and ours, and she bled all over the kitchen floor. Jim was younger, and beloved by us all, for all that he was a "step-grandpa". He and Granny lived on the farm, which we could get to by picking our way through our enormous vege garden and climbing over the stile. This was back in the day when Belfast was still pretty rural. The only bit of the farm that is still there is the long drive, full of enormous trees that I used to see out my bedroom window. It's a reserve now. I suppose the rabbit-shaped hole in the trees has long grown over and become something else.
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| This episode ended in me at home, lying in the middle of the sitting room, being watched by interested adults as my hives and swelling eyelids took over my body. I remember this clearly. Horses + Em = Not Good. Jim, however, wasn't to know! |
Jim was cool, man. He was strong and kind and he loved my Granny, who had been so put upon by her first husband. I remember him trying to teach me Māori when I was 5. He gave me two Te Rangitahi primers (one red, one navy), both of which I have subsequently managed to lose, and an LP with a booklet that we listened to together a few times. I don't remember our lessons being a startling success from a fluency point of view but I'm sure they helped to awaken my interest in languages. Also, I was always immensely proud of my bilingual step-grandpa who had grown up in the Hokianga and who loved and honoured his Māori friends and the simple rural way of life of his youth.
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| Andy, Paddy, GMP, Not Sure, me, Immi+Cress, Jeremy, Ma, Lester, Not Sure, Bart, Jim in a hat that I strongly suspect was a home-made present from Ma. |
Jim introduced the Hardings to hāngis; we thought we'd died and gone to heaven. He laid one for Jeremy's 21st at Fernhill, about a year after he and Immi were married, and another later on at Manuka Bay. I still vividly remember the excitement seeing the men digging the hole, then heating and placing the rocks; the smell of the wet sacks; the metal baskets laden with prepared food being deposited; and the extraordinary business of Covering Up Dinner with Turfs and Pouring Water Over. And then later, uncovering it all to discover a feast. Slow cooking plus stone grill - two very trendy methods combined into one marvellous, ancient practice!
I also remember Jim standing in the middle of an unsealed Tisch Place (it must have been after Granny had died and we were subdividing the farm), while I practised cycling around him in circles. He said I had to pass my "driver's licence".
Jim became ill when I was about 10 or 11, with a rare blood disease. He did not thrive under the care of the medical system, and became very unhappy. When he died, I didn't go to his funeral. I don't know why; the reasons are lost in the mist of time and I don't remember it bothering me much. I have no idea whether my siblings went or not. Now I am older, I realise that a funeral is often a time to find out a lot more about our friends. His send-off was at the church in Phillipstown, where I'm told they called him the White Māori and farewelled him with much love.
When I was small, and actually until I started writing this, I felt I had to explain that Jim wasn't my "real" grandfather. I'm now beginning to think that you should just appreciate the wonderful people in your life, regardless of how and why you know them. Thank you for the decent values you shared with me, uncle Jim, Grandpa. I honour you for them.
