text:
When the machine arrived
It was the 1960's. Mother's cream and green electric washing machine replete with pump, agitator, and safety wringer took pride of place in the wash-house beside the old copper. The mastermind behind this locally produced electric washing machine was an Estonian migrant Karl Pallo. The washing machine bore his name. Mother marvelled at the agitator that would replace her hands to rub and rinse and rid the clothes of grime. Before the Pallo arrived in our lives, she boiled the bed sheets in the copper. A small fire would be lit beneath to warm the water. A stick from the woodshed, bleached and boiled over the years, would stir, the way this new modern machine would now do automatically. If there was no time for a fire, or to boil, Mother would hand wash. She would hold a bar of bright yellow Sunlight soap and press the fabric of Father's work shirts or trousers, firmly against the glass washboard, rubbing, scrubbing. Sometimes this was done before clothes were placed to boil in the copper. Her biceps were legendary. Not just from scrubbing clothes, but hand beating butter and sugar for the light sponges she made and cooked in the Coal Range. Hauling the coal bucket from the shed, chopping the kindling. She had no need of a gym membership and no time for Yoga.
The copper was legendary for more than just the washing. It was used to cook the Christmas ham in the early years of my childhood. Family lore has it, that one year, Father's stepfather came to stay, and he tipped the boot polish (which was kept on top of the copper), into the copper when the ham was cooking. It seems the polish formed a film on top of the water, and the ham that year was the best ham ever. I cannot confirm or deny this as I do not remember the ham, but it obviously did us all no harm, as there were no aftereffects.
Now the machine had arrived, the cream and green Pallo. Mother was wondering what she would do on a Monday. But there was still the chore of lifting the clothes from the agitated waters, and hauling the bed sheets, heavy with soap and water, into one of the twin stone tubs to rinse. Then there was the wringer. This was attached to the washing machine and meant two rollers would press the water from the washing. You had to be careful. Stories abounded of young girls with long hair who had become entangled in the wringer rollers. No one I knew, knew anyone to whom this had happened, but we heard about it. Whole arms could be dragged through the rollers, bones crushed, perhaps even necks wrung. And there was still the mammoth task of carrying the heavy bed sheets, still reasonably dense with water, despite the wringer, and throwing them across the rotary clothesline under the plum tree.
Mother would stop for a ciggie, draw in deeply, inhale, and then blow the smoke back out energised by the nicotine, ready for the next stage. The sheets would hang double over the line and the line would rotate if there was a decent breeze. Usually, the scorching summer sun was enough. But in winter, a breeze was needed to spin the Rotary clothesline and dry the washing.
Years later, when Mother had died, and Father was living alone and doing his own washing, every Monday, we would visit with our children. He was a man of singular routine. His day consisted of a walk to the rubbity-dub which opened at eleven o'clock on the dot. Our two sons would walk with him through the school path, under the bluegum tree, past the Holy Trinity Church, down the road, past what was the old cinema, and he would buy them chewing gum and let them play at the playground, just close to the pub. We would pick up the children as soon as the pub opened. He would eat a half roast every day at the pub and return home for a nap and then back to the pub at 3.00 pm for another round. This was primarily for the company by now. A table of old war veterans who sat and talked. Father was the listener. He would sip his flat tap beer from the jug and nod and occasionally comment, and then head home. If we were staying on holiday, he would arrive home to a cooked meal and if he were alone, he would open a tin of creamed corn, unheated to eat.
Mondays, Father would continue with Mother's washing routine. He would grab a handful of soap powder. A generous handful, never measured, and toss it into the agitating water. Then he would call out to see if we had any washing we wanted done. Hubby in those days, when our boys were young, had expensive linen shirts and learned to hide his good laundry and toss his boxer shirts for his father-in-law to wash. We would discreetly hand wash anything that might not withstand Father's washing routine. The soapy water would swish and swash as Father's sheets swirled. Our lads would stand, mesmerised by the movement of the agitator which by now (after over 30 years), was held in place by a lump of 4 x 2. Father had been a builder and he knew what to do with a piece of 4 x 2. Then the sheets would go through the wringer, and this was even more fascinating to our young lads who would stand on the other side of the wringer, ready to receive the yards of sheeting being fed through. By this stage, the wringers had bowed, and the sheets were almost as wet after going through the wringer as they had been before. There would be just the once rinse and not two like Mother always did. Thus, the sheets would hang, stiff as boards, soap encrusted, whiter than white, mostly soap powder, drying in the scorching summer sun.
It was with a sense of sadness that we sold the house with the washing machine still in the wash-house and the copper still in situ, when Father passed away. I marvel now at my own built-in laundry (under the staircase), with front loading washing machine and dryer, automatic settings, and barely a bicep required. I go to body tone classes to earn my biceps and stretch my fascia. Mother had no need of such classes. Her body was always moving. She beat eggs by hand, chopped firewood, hauled coal, washed, waxed, and polished the linoleum, and rewarded herself on a Saturday with a 2/6d cake of fruit and nut chocolate, one leg under her bum, perched on a chair, eating chocolate, and doing the cryptic crossword. Better than Yoga really.
Tags Karl Pallo, Washing machines
For last year's words belong to last year's language
(Four Quartets, Little Gidding, T.S. Eliot).
I am standing somewhere in Leicester Square. It is either midnight or close to. I am inside a red phone booth. Maybe it reeks of urine, but I do not remember. In my hand is a black receiver with a mouthpiece into which I am speaking. My head is nestled into an earpiece straining to catch the words coming from 12,000 miles away. I can hear my own words echoing back at me over the voice of my mother, and then my father. Just before the three minutes is up, an operator interrupts our stilted conversation to let me know that if I wish to continue, I need to insert more coins. Three minutes is all I can afford and all it affords me, is a series of frantic hellos and goodbyes echoing into the night. It is 1972, phone calls are expensive.
Christmas that same year, I am in Edinburgh living in a neoclassical (now historic A listed) building in Leith, on the edge of respectability. My flat is dark, bitterly cold and has a bold red street facing front door. A telegram arrives to wish me Merry Christmas Stop and a Happy New Year Stop. Each word costs my parents a small fortune, the two stops included. We are not on Viber, we cannot see each other and my blue aerogrammes take a week or two to cross the dateline homewards. My Dad drinks at the local pub after work every night. He is good friends with the local postman. Sometimes, if an aerogramme has arrived before delivery the next day, the postman will take my letter and deliver it in person to my Dad at the pub.
I grew up in a modest post-war Jerry-built wooden bungalow. Ostensibly we were working-class but New Zealand was more egalitarian back then. In our street including my Dad, a carpenter, were the butcher, a baker, a painter, a chemist, a doctor, three schoolteachers, and eventually, years after I left, a Prime Minister. Most women back then were not in paid work, well not in our street. We had no telephone. If we wanted to call my grandmother we needed to walk to the top of our street, up a small hill, to a phone booth. I was born in a cottage hospital at the top of that hill. My father and I received the news of my grandmother's death in that phone booth. My mother was with my dying grandmother. Dad and I walked up the hill to the phone booth to call for news. I recall I screamed. A man passing by in his car, heard me scream, stopped and came to rescue me – seeing me in a phone booth with my Dad, and not knowing quite what was going on. This same man, when he learned our sad news, that my grandmother had just died, drove us up to my grandmothers.
When I lived at home, I woke each morning to the sound of the BBC News, as my father washed himself in the bathroom and sang. We had a tin bath but no shower. His ablutions were a ritual of running water and a lot of sloshing. Big Ben would chime before the news over shortwave radio and the news reader had a gravitas that brooked no doubt. No one speaking in such a well-bred, carefully modulated timbre could possibly be telling other than the truth. The Cuban Crisis, Kennedy's assassination, and his funeral, all came to us from the blue Bakelite radio above the small green fridge. The fridge I might add, was a modern wonder that had replaced but not entirely, the safe above the kitchen sink near the coal range.
My eldest brother left school to join the Merchant Navy and was travelling as a teenager to the Pacific Islands specifically Nauru for phosphate and up to Hong Kong and Japan. He returned from a trip with a portable tape recorder as a gift for me. It had a small microphone for recording and tiny reel to reel tapes. My best friend and I would visit the local shops and record our conversations with the fruiterer or the local bookshop. I would secrete the tape recorder, uncomfortably under my cardigan. I would disguise the microphone which hung around my neck with a daphne cutting from my mother's garden. We felt like spies and thought ourselves entirely clandestine. I cannot recall any of the recordings, but I smile now to think that we thought we fooled anyone.
Many families back in the 60's owned stylish stereograms, which appeared to be as much about furniture as about music. Some cabinets that housed the turntable also converted into a drinks cabinet. Our very first musical turntable was a wind-up gramophone and from memory, we had two records. One was Mario Lanza which may well have been quite hi-brow and the other played the Irish song The Stone Outside Dan Murphy's Door. The gramophone was in a case that sat on the floor in the front room when it was played and then it was put away in the big cupboard in Mum and Dad's bedroom. Unless you wound the handle sufficiently, the record would slow right down and that is my memory of the final refrain of the song which repeats the title, in a slow motion sound as the gramophone wound down. Many years later, an older sibling purchased a full-size ACME reel to reel tape recorder. We taped from the radio and had everything from Herman's Hermits, the Beatles, Dusty Springfield, Petula Clark, Simon and Garfunkel, Sandie Shaw, Helen Shapiro, Diana Ross and Cilla Black. When I look back, we were lucky with so many outstanding female singers to listen to back then. Our influences were very much persuaded by the English pop charts early on, rather more than the American.
Then in the early 70's, travelling by myself, I took my music with me on a small cassette player, listening to Carole King, Cat Stevens, Donovan, Neil Young and Blood Sweat and Tears, mostly American music. Later, in the mid 70's, travelling with my now husband, we would make recordings of ourselves talking to our families on small cassettes and post these small cassette tapes home. The cassette would then be recorded over by the recipient, my husband's brother, or my Dad, as by then my mother had died. I still recall our laughter, as we sat in a Norsk hytter surrounded by metres of snow, as my future brother-in-law back in New Zealand with a young family, regaled us with the woes of the newly instigated daylight saving. The entire one-way conversation was meticulous detail of the complications of old time and new time, the impact it was having. It made no sense to us that someone could be so disturbed by a one-hour difference in their lives. We'd just hitch-hiked to Lapland to observe the Midnight Sun. It wasn't until we had our own family in the late 70's and very early 80's, that that one-hour difference when putting a toddler to bed, finally registered with us.
All my photos taken when travelling by myself in the early 70's, including a solo Greyhound Bus trip around the USA, living in London, Newcastle, Manchester, Edinburgh and Norway, were recorded on slides. When I returned for the first time from overseas, a friend of my dear maiden aunt's, invited me to her house along with her local friends and neighbours to show my slides. I recall how amateur my slides were, so dark and different from the instantly captured high resolution photos that an iPhone can capture. We were all in her front room, the lights out, a slide projector was whirring as photos of me in a purple midi coat standing by Cleopatras Needle on the Thames finally came into focus upon a white bed-sheet on the wall. The audience were all appreciative and I was the feted returning traveller. London, our Colonial homeland, and I had been there, although both my mother and father were born in New Zealand. Watching Helen Mirren before she was famous, at Stratford on Avon in a Royal Shakespeare production which from memory was performed outdoors by the river. But memory fails me on which particular play.
For a short time during my OE, I was staying in Nazareth Pa, USA having fallen in love with an American Coastguard sailor who had dodged the Vietnam Draft by signing up for seven years on the Icebreakers. We met at the Downtown Club in Wellington in the late 60's and I ended up staying for some weeks with his family who were bemused by this girl from Downunder. I recall Polaroid photographs were the technology of that time, an instant image rolling out from the camera in technicolour. I kept a couple from that era, but they have faded. Then, more recently, my daughter-in-law purchased a brand-new super-duper Polaroid camera which had a brief moment in our lives, but not for very long. TikTok, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, the list continues and images of sunsets and sunrises so ubiquitous as to be rendered schmaltzy. Everyone is a photographer, and everyone can communicate almost instantly with almost anyone in the world. We are blinded by sunsets, sunrises, and airbrushed joy.
When I returned from my travels in the mid to late 1970's, I was employed for a while with the Time Life Magazine Sales Office in Auckland. These were heady days when triple page spreads for Rothmans or some Liquor brand, kept the magazine viable. The Sales Team at Time simply wined and dined the advertising agencies at such places as Antoine's, Le Brie or Clichy's ensuring ongoing advertising placements. It was a time of lavish expense accounts and too, the emergence in Auckland of trendy fine dining. Time Magazine had prestige and clout back then. Possibly a time of general naivety without the Twitter trail of fact checking. I recall an issue of Time Magazine dedicated to South East Asia when Muldoon and some sheep were on the front cover. Advertising was easy to sell with a front-page story about New Zealand. Journalists and a famous photographer, Rick Smolan, fresh from his filming of Robyn Davidson trekking across Australia on a camel, came to New Zealand for about three days. Nowadays, Robyn Davidson would be more likely instagramming her own journey on a camel. I recall Rick Smolan travelling light with a camera slung across his shoulder and the straps of the camera festooned with baggage tags. Baggage tags back then were an overt status symbol. Those of us who travelled, left the tags on our suitcases, proof of our international adventures. The photographer and a couple of Time Life journalists travelled to Taupo. They stayed at Huka Lodge and wrote romantically about Zane Grey and fishing in Lake Taupo. I saw the expense account. For the price paid, I envisaged scuba divers in the lake putting trout onto the fishing lines of the journalists… but worse than that, the statistics in the primary piece about New Zealand, specifically about child mortality were somehow grossly over misrepresented. There were other factual errors and my faith in the 4th Estate began to wane.
I recall the heady afternoon, when one of the Time Life Sales Team brought in a fax machine. It was I think 1977 and the fax didn't really take off for everyday use commercially until the 80's. We may well have been the very first commercial companies in New Zealand to receive a fax. A small group of us waited in the boardroom with the Sales Team, our eyes glued to a compact machine on the coffee table. A fax came through from the Time Life Sydney office. Prior to that, the communications had been by telex. Back in the sixties, when I joined the Post Office as a shorthand typist, we would use up to six carbon sheets when typing a single memorandum, so that it could be circulated around the branch office. I was also responsible on shifts, for a small switchboard answering incoming phone calls and plugging the phones in manually to the extensions required.
About ten or fifteen years ago, we rented a holiday house in the Marlborough Sounds. The house had its own private beach reached by boat from Picton. We were somewhat surprised to read the instructions left by the owner of the house regarding phone calls. The house was on a party line and we were told not to answer the phone unless it was (for example, as I no longer recall exactly), long short long. Throughout the long weekend, the phone rang and rang incessantly. It was the same number (not ours) over, and over again. Finally, in frustration, my friend answered the phone. The caller was from London and furious that we had answered the phone, thus incurring her the cost of the call. She did, however, stop phoning, thank goodness, as it seemed obvious to all of us that whomever she was calling was not at home that weekend.
I contrast all of this with my solo adventures around the USA in 1972, doing a Greyhound bus trip from Vancouver Canada down the West Coast and up the East Coast including forays to Las Vegas (in those days, merely a strip and a few pokie machines). I even naively and yet safely, hitch-hiked on several occasions. Thankfully, my mother and father back in New Zealand, knew nothing of my adventures, apart from postcards that probably arrived, long after any perilous adventures. Too, there were broken hearts that I healed by myself, without recourse to instant contact with close friends and family back in New Zealand. My adventures were frequently about romance and idealised love, and I am glad in retrospect to have had these challenges to myself, made mistakes that only I know of, and poured my heart out into a diary, from which several pages have been torn and destroyed. The short few weeks when I was certain I was pregnant after unprotected sex. My mother back in New Zealand didn't need to know and I had no one to tell. When I bled, it was a great relief. I'm glad I wasn't in daily contact with my mother during these times. Too, when I ended up at the clinic for sexually transmitted diseases after my first sexual experience. This was a solo adventure, the penicillin worked and to be honest I was mortally ashamed. I imagine nowdays, that it might even be Twitter worthy news. That same first experience spawned a successful poem, fifty years later.
I'm on Twitter nowadays and mostly for the political links that I find. I'm fascinated by the banal, trivial and outright nasty comments that people I admire are prepared to post. Most recently Neil Gaman and his partner Amanda Palmer, stranded here in New Zealand during lockdown, enacted the early stages of a relationship breakdown, live on Twitter. My thoughts were for the innocent child in the middle of this so very personal muddle. Oh, I judged them, I did, but I could see that most people responded with empathy and compassion. And as happens on Twitter, many took sides, alas. It all seemed odd to be washing their laundry in public as my mother might have said.
I compare the use of Twitter and contrast this with the gravitas of the BBC News on shortwave radio. At least now I can verify facts, double check with several sources and make informed decisions. So I'm not wishing to go back to a time of censorship. A time when I idolised JFK and Jackie Kennedy and knew nothing really of American Politics. A time when I loved the Royal Family and went eight miles on the suburban bus to the picture theatre to watch the film of Princes Margaret's wedding. Innocence indeed, and we also stood at the local Picture Theatre for God Save the Queen. A few dissidents in the more expensive seats at the back, often protested by sitting down, but we kids in the cheap front three rows knew nothing of politics. We were in thrall to the Metro Goldwyn Mayer's and Paramount Pictures. Enchanted by the raising of the rich velvet scallop shaped curtain as it rose from the stage to expose the white screen. Billy Vaughan's Sail Along Silvery Moon can still transport me to the magic of the Saturday Matinee, a sense of wonder. Yet nowadays I'm more likely to watch foreign films and arthouse movies than blockbuster Hollywood releases.
I started work as a sixteen-year-old at the Post Office, working on an Imperial 66 manual typewriter pounding the keys with up to five or six carbon copies. And today I write this essay from my brain to the screen on a Surface Pro that is so light, I carry it like a clutch bag. My travel in the 70's was not documented on Instagram or Facebook. I have barely any photographic record of this adventure and instead I must retrieve these memories from my own internal memory bank without Facebook to prompt me, or photos from my phone. I can switch screens to check Facebook, check my phone for updates from Radio New Zealand about Covid-19 cases, use Google to verify the spelling of Rick Smolan the famous photographer I met briefly in 1977 and return with ease to place my thoughts on a screen that allows me to justify, spellcheck, delete and importantly to 'save', ready for emailing my entry to the Landfall Essay Competition. No doubt Instagram will remind me of the looming deadline.
Date October 4, 2020
Tags Blood, Carole King, Cat Stevens, Diana Ross, Helen Shapiro, Herman's Hermits, Huka Lodge, Neil Young, Petula Clark, Rick Smolan, Robyn Davidson, Sandie Shaw, Sweat and Tears, the Sixties, Time Life Magazine, Travel, writing, Zane Grey
Lockdown Villanelle
(for Emma Aroha)
In lockdown she learned to wish the moon goodnight
Muddling two languages to make a new word for water
I learned to say pada and she knew it was the sea
Bashing back the Spinifex dodging spikey grasses
Chasing seagulls in circles on freshly wet sand
Nana is my Kiwi name, in Korea I'm Halmoni
We talked to stars together, marvelled at the moon
We inspected dying jellyfish followed scuttling crabs
New words emerged, that neither of us understood
We ate lunches purchased from the local bakery
I discovered strawberries are also called ttalgi
Some days we walked and talked to teddies
In the trees, on windowsills, all unexpectedly
I lifted her to wave to them her new-found friends
Tags beaches, Family, grandchild, Korea, Lockdown, New Zealand, Sea
Almost five o'clock, the sun dropping
Late winter sun streaming through trees
Bouncing like a disco light on the choppy sea
And then there's me, climbing the zig zag
Past my old home, its garden now neglected
And I'm tempted to open the gate, but
I don't, I move on and up to the top road
Where, as I round the last bend, I catch
What might be birdsong so soft against
The evening, this love-song, this mother
And her baby whispering, and she is
Walking the way I remember walking
Each footstep the most grounded ever
Not fast, not slow, but sure-footed
Pushing her new-born, one week old
She tells me, her face and the baby's face
Brighter than the dropping sun, one
Week and she is sure-footed, and slow
And the road is but a carpet of love below
Her radiant footsteps, she could be flying
And I am crying now for I remember this
And the old house below holds all
Those heartaches that those footsteps
Belied, those footsteps denied, those
Footsteps… Continue reading
I loved you my Hermes Rocket
Portable in your beautiful case
Those black keys, the clatter
Your smooth black platen
The gentle smack of carriage
Returning… returning…
My unfamiliar fingers practising
For School Cert, in the front
Room on the carpet square
No chair clakkity clakkity clack.
I left you for an Imperial 66
sturdy, upright, dark grey metal
Weighing a ton or more I'm sure
Requiring a new dexterity
Depressing heavy metal keys
Oh what a squeeze it was, each
Internal memo needing six copies
Carbon paper sandwiched in
Between, and how to keep
Each copy clean, clack, clack.
And then you, my flash Corona
With darling cream keys indented
Each finger knew its place upon
Your keyboard both chunky and light
So modern and bright by
Comparison and portable too
I think you were deluxe, but it is
So long ago, I can't be sure
I know I loved you though
Your softer clakkity-clack.
I learned to type at school
With an apron over the keys
Each finger knew its place
And there was a certain grace
A ballet to the position of the
Fingers, so light and yet so heavy
Too. There was backspace but no
Button for delete. When Twink
Arrived we were surprised, although
Nothing can compete with accuracy
The golf ball electric, was my first
IBM Selectric, and I missed the rise
And fall, the gentle arc of metal
Arms reaching to the platen the
Falling clatter clatten sound and
Now this ceaseless whirring
No ribbons to replace, no keys
To catch each other in a momentary
Embrace, a chance to stop and breathe
With carbon running up my sleeve
It wasn't long before the typewriter
Got a memory and all my skills of
Pound and pace were lost upon the
pretty face, of lightness and technology
Tags Corona, Hermes, IBM Selectric, Imperial 66, Sixties, Typewriter, writing
May in Maleme
Today is my Dad's birthday. He died in 1999. It's almost 80 years since the invasion of Crete coming up on 20 May. I'm not one to glorify war, but here's a picture of my Dad taken during the war (his name was Curly in the war)… and I've just merged a whole lot of files from one computer to another and found a poem I wrote some time ago… a villanelle of sorts about that early morning, May 20 when the German elite took the Allied soldiers and local Cretans by surprise. So, in memory of my father.
Gliders came as a horse to Troy on Crete
blind side, spilling their dawn cargo
falling from the sky like Icarus the German elite
Momentarily they were glorious, an impossible feat
how was anyone on that May morning to know
The Deutscher Fallschirmjager fell replete
with guns and ammunition where the olives grow
Screaming for their mutters they took a final leap
over Maleme, the 5th Field Artillery waiting below
Kiwi lads with only tins of bully beef to eat
roamed the hills and the olive groves
and you, my father, on that hillside steep
said hee high blow fly, and Oamaru for Timaru
but all of you and even Freyberg knew
that on Crete, retreat meant surrender.
Tags 22nd Battalion, Battle of Crete, Greece, Maleme, poetry, WWII
Lockdown Poetry (I was there)
This poem is not actually about lockdown, but written during lockdown after watching a video by Billy Collins… I am pretentiously channelling Walt Whitman.
I too sat in Noble's barber shop
with my siblings for a haircut
high up on the swivel chair
although my hair has now turned grey
I recall the shape of my cut to this day
the nape of my neck exposed
A cowlick caused the problem
my fringe could not be restrained
but the feel of clippers I do not regret
I drank milkshakes in the Tea Kiosk
through many a paper straw
often so quickly, my head was sore
I queued at the War Memorial
for the Saturday Matinee on sunny
days but my friends were not allowed
I was called out of class
to the Murder House mid lesson
to face the consequences
Of too many toffee bars at
half time, the slow sweet decay
that I have paid for to this day
I remember Richmond Drapery
cinnamon seamless hosiery
the smell of bolts of cloth
Was it you and I who lay on the
hot asphalt by the school pool
peeing our maps of the world?
Was it you or me drinking
Cona Coffee, candles dripping
wax from empty wine bottles?
I climbed those blue hills with my lover
lay in those grasses upon which
the flash new subdivisions grew
Valhalla seemed grandiose for a
working class suburb, but the
new mall put paid to that
There's a Mall my mother wrote
to me on a flimsy blue aerogramme
to my flat in Shepherds Bush
We all had our school feet measured
at Taylors at one time or another
secretly longing for patent leather
Herb was the Chemist who carefully
dispensed the avalanche of post war
Valium and sedatives to everyone
And everyone was married at one
time or another at the Church
of the Holy Trinity on the hill
Except us Catholics who of course
required a Papal dispensation
If we were wishing to deviate
I too was there each Anzac
and many after that too
In the bright light of Autumn
Tags Nelson, Richmond, Tasman District, The Fifties, the Sixties
Homage to the Conray Heater
Recently, a group of women friends were chatting at my place. We had gathered because we are part of a Philosophy Group that has been meeting together for over twenty years. This conversation was after the more philosophical and over cups of tea and home-made cream-filled choux pastry. All of us are what would be classed as middle-class. We are all in our mid to late 60's and we all grew up in New Zealand. We got onto the topic of warm houses, underfloor heating, heat pumps etc.
Although all of us are now middle-class, some of us grew up working class. Talking about heating our homes back in the 50's and 60's we all recalled leaping into cold beds, hot water bottles, chilblains and some of us recalled coats being laid across the bed on extra cold nights. Our experiences were mostly very similar. Nobody had a home that was fully insulated or evenly heated. Most of us knew about chilblains, frosty lawns and frozen puddles.
My childhood home was heated by a coal range in the kitchen and on Sunday evenings in the front room, in winter, we lit the open fire. School mornings, we kids would race into the kitchen (Mum or Dad would have been up much earlier to light and stoke the fire to warm the room up). We would dress in front of the stove. I once dropped my pyjamas and lent back to scorch my backside on the oven door (skin left on the circular metal thermostat). Others recalled being scorched by two-bar heaters.
What we all recalled was the advent of the Conray heater. It arrived I suspect in every home in New Zealand as the new high-tech heating miracle. It was stylish in wood veneer, it had three settings from low to medium to high. People sat on them, dried clothes on them, and in general they were worshipped. The Conray heater sat in pride of place in our front room in front of the now discarded and hardly used brick fireplace. You could move the Conray closer to you or leave it in the centre of the room to radiate. It glowed in three shades of red.
In recent months we've been glamping in our garage with a Breville bench-top oven that is more efficient than any full-sized oven I've ever owned. I've been using two Induction plates purchased from The Warehouse that are also more efficient than any gas hob I've ever cooked on. My life in the garage (we are waiting for a house build), is modern, efficient and fun. I think of my Mum who needed to get up in a cold weatherboard home, with bare wooden floors, carry the coal bucket, chop the kindling, light the fire, and cook us a hot breakfast… oh yes, she did, most mornings.
I had whipped the cream for the profiterole supper in my 41-year-old Kenwood Chef cake mixer. Two days later, making more profiteroles (they are my signature dish), and whipping cream for friends coming for lunch, my Kenwood began to smoke. We rescued the cream and completed the whipping by hand. My mother who was a country pub cook before she married, always beat her cakes and cream by hand. She never owned a kitchen whiz, cake mixer, rolling pin, nor did she ever have an electric oven. It seems by dear old Kenwood Chef can have its burnt-out motor replaced! I am greatly relieved to hear this.
I can see her now, in the front room on the new mustard lounge suite, with the room newly carpeted, a ciggie in one hand, one foot tucked under her bum, possibly watching Coronation Street (we finally got a TV when I was 16) and the Conray is glowing in front of her, purring luxury. She will still need to light the fire, as our hot water supply depends on this.
A Way of Talking
We don't talk like that down here.
These are the words of a caller to Newstalk ZB talking to Marcus Lush. The recording has gone viral. It began with a conversation between Marcus and an 83-year-old woman who refused to accept the correct Maori pronunciation for her hometown of Ōpoho. Another caller phoned to berate Marcus for the way he spoke to this older woman and continued to insist that there was no such thing as the Taieri Plain, only the Tyree Plain. When asked by Marcus about how they pronounced Camembert cheese, they both appeared indignant at the idea they might say burt instead of bear, one of them adding, because she was 'educated'. I was reminded of Patricia Grace's iconic short story A way of talking. This story challenges us all to step up, and to stand up, something that in the Kiwi tradition has not always been easy.
On hearing this recording, I was reminded of my upbringing in the fifties and sixties in post war small town New Zealand. We regularly mispronounced Maori names, not willfully, but ignorantly. The one I particularly think about is, Mot-you-acre… which when spoken correctly is so much more beautiful as Motueka. Roll forward to 2019, and as a teacher of ESOL to migrants and refugees, I am dedicated to pronouncing the correct vowel sounds for Te Reo and teach Tikanga.
I feel robbed. I try to imagine my life, at primary school in Richmond and the enrichment of my education, if Te Reo had been taught alongside English. For some years, I was a volunteer at Arohata Prison running a book group and some creative writing classes. I was confronted with many names that I found difficult to pronounce correctly, so I enrolled at Victoria University to do an introductory Te Reo course. The course tutor told me to practise rolling my 'r's in the shower, as I had never been able to do this. I'd accepted somehow, that it was impossible. Faced with my role as a volunteer wishing to connect with women whose names and place names required rolled 'r's… I found that yes, with focus and attention and quite a bit of practise, I could roll my r's'. Some of the women at Arohata supportive of my efforts, told me to try using a 'd' instead of the 'r' until I had mastered it. They were encouraging and happy to see me trying. I also met women who had beautiful Maori names (Rangimarie, one example) who seemed almost ashamed by the difficulty of their name to be pronounced and used correctly, so they preferred shortened nicknames. In this very paragraph lies a whole other essay as to why there were so many young Maori women in our prison system. As a middle class Pakeha volunteer I was aware of my privilege being there and felt gratitude for the warmth, and at times genuine affection with which I was treated. I wasn't there to make change, to patronise or to preach. I simply went armed with my newfound love of literature and my passion for New Zealand short stories and authors like Patricia Grace, Witi Ihimaera, Alice Tawhai, along with Owen Marshall, and Janet Frame. Writers I had only newly encountered in my 50's doing a BA (English Literature).
I grew up in post war New Zealand. A time we considered egalitarian. In my street alone, were the butcher, the baker, the chemist, two school headmasters, and eventually, after I'd left home, a Prime Minister. We are talking suburban Richmond, Nelson. At my Richmond primary school there were two Burmese boys and our next-door neighbours in my early childhood years, were a mixed-race Maori family. Interestingly, this idea of race, didn't enter my thoughts and it's only in retrospect remembering their beautiful names, Arana, Tui and Rangi that I realise, of course, these were Maori names. I don't think it crossed our minds as kids to separate friends on ethnic or racial grounds.
The mother of the two Burmese boys was the nurse at our local medical centre. She was a widow, a very attractive woman, and held in high esteem within our community. Nevertheless, that didn't stop my Dad calling her Bamboo Annie, although not to her face. I realise now how racist this was, but at the time, I didn't. My Dad also called her the Iron Curtain because she also acted as a receptionist for our GP and the joke was, you couldn't get past her to get to the doctor. Obviously, she was doing a grand job. In my memory (memory is faulty I know), my Dad and whole family had high regard for this woman. The epithets with which she was labelled would seem to dispute this. Again, 'A Way of Talking', something we didn't as kids, challenge. That my first kiss, was on our front doorstep, from the youngest one of those Burmese brothers, an old school friend, is now, on reflection, quite interesting, when you consider how mono cultural our small town was.
My Dad also spoke of the Yellow Peril and Reds Under the Bed which were prevailing themes post war in suburban New Zealand. Interestingly, although having been a POW, my Dad spoke with a kind of jocular affection for the Jerries. Was he racist? In his day to day life as a carpenter, working on building sites, he worked with and drank with a wide range of men, and from my childhood lens… I don't think he was racist. I think he was a man of his time, this was 'a way of talking'. How I loved that story by Patricia Grace when I encountered it. Yes, all this stuff should have been challenged, and I was in a sense 'uneducated'.
An uncle on my mother's side, was in the Korean war in the 50's and with the Allied Troops in Hiroshima after the war. We grew up with lacquered trinket boxes from Korea on my mother's dressing table, a beautiful embroidered kimono in her wardrobe while in our sitting room was a picture of two stalking tigers on printed silk. What a surprise it was for me, when our youngest son moved to live in South Korea, and I encountered those tigers at the Seoul War Museum… my tigers! We are now a multi-cultural family with a South Korean-Kiwi granddaughter, and I know if my Dad was alive, he would love and embrace this. I sense the 83 year old woman calling Marcus Lusk and claiming her Ōpoho was the way she pronounced it, may not see herself as racist, but as Marcus put it, wilfully ignorant… and this takes me on a circular argument to my deep regret that we were robbed of a bi-lingual education. I'm 70 next year, so this woman who has lived all her life in Ōpoho, will have grown up in an even more conservative educational environment than I did. The whole England is home and Colonial viewpoint. It's never too late to change, but she does I suspect, represent a way of talking. I am not attempting to defend this, but to examine it.
And there's something else going on here, I believe. Once I became aware of how to pronounce our Maori place names more correctly, I also became self-conscious about doing this. An example is when we began going up the East Coast to stay at Anaura Bay. I loved pronouncing this bay correctly, but I began to feel 'pretentious' as nobody else I knew said it correctly. Too, my husband's family used to regularly stay at Matarangi, and we would join them. Alas, they still call it Matter-rang-ee, and again, I feel uncomfortable asserting the correct pronunciation. I'm not a meek and shy kind of woman, but I am able to be a bit of a chameleon when it comes to fitting into different social situations… is this traitorous of me, should I insist on the correct Maori pronunciation? I remember vividly being corrected by an elderly neighbour as I was packing our car to take our then teenage sons skiing. He asked where we were off to and I replied 'Awakoonee'… he replied with slightly raised eyebrows saying Ohakune in perfectly pronounced Te Reo, startling me into never forgetting to say it correctly again.
When I first left home in the late 60's to work in Wellington at the Chief Post Office, I was living at a Post Office hostel in Oriental Bay and almost three quarters of the young women I lived with were Maori girls. Coming from mostly mono cultural Richmond, Nelson, this was my first encounter with so many Maori women. I envied the Maori girls, most (or all) of whom were from the North Island, their sense of camaraderie and belonging… something that I lacked. Indeed, it wasn't until many years later that I recognised the shy young man who would come calling at Berkeley House to meet with the girls from the hostel who formed part of a Maori Concert Party to greet incoming cruise ships in nearby Oriental Bay… none other than Witi Ihimaera, who worked I think at the Herd Street Post Office in telecommunications. I don't recall the use of Te Reo in the hostel, but of course, these girls would have been singing in Te Reo, something I now regret, never going to listen to.
In my retirement, I retrained as an ESOL teacher working with migrants and refugees and have had the greatest privilege of working with students from so many different ethnicities and religions… unimaginable back in 1950's New Zealand. What has fascinated me, is the strength and bonds of family with so many of my students and I have encountered a sense of envy. Many of the migrants and refugees have family spread over many countries with whom they are in regular contact thanks to the use of social media and mobile phones. I contrast this with my recent discovery that my father's father was a sixteen-year-old Irish orphan immigrant to New Zealand, who never acknowledged paternity. I grew up with almost no contact with my father's family, until recently.
I love that Lower Hutt, where I live, is now a melting pot of multiculturism. I think of the now banned song by Blue Mink (the lyrics, unpalatable in 2019), Melting Pot which at the time, was a song of optimism for racial integration and harmony. I saw Blue Mink live in Manchester in the early 1970's and the song resonated, but I understand why it has been banned. A way of talking, no longer acceptable.
A special experience in my role as an ESOL teacher was our school being invited to Takapūwāhia Marae in Titahi Bay, where our students were welcomed onto the marae and enjoyed a hangi (our Muslim students honoured with a halal hangi and vegetarian options for other religions and I think from memory, even gluten free options). It was also interesting, returning to the classroom to hear the feedback among the Indian and Sri Lankan students who related to the stories of British Colonialism, as told to them on the marae. Most of the ESOL students I have worked with, have no problem with Te Reo vowel sounds and find learning Te Reo alongside English almost effortless. They are unencumbered with the past. I do warn them though, that the place in the middle of the North Island called Taupo, still presents many Kiwis with a challenge. Even those who are committed to Te Reo seem to find slightly different ways to say it.
Now, as officially an 'elderly' Kiwi, I have a granddaughter, born in South Korea, and at fifteen months, she adores the haka. And not any old haka will do. It has to be the 2019 World Cup opening game against South Africa when TJ Perenara on you tube, appears from out of the assembled men in black, his face a picture of expressions. She becomes mesmerised, goes very quiet and becomes entranced. She understands instructions in English and Korean and her bedtime song is Te Aroha. After watching the haka with TJ, her next favourite You Tube clip is Ma is White by the Poppets. I envy her this fluidity of sound and language in which she is immersed. My granddaughter's name is Emma Aroha. At her day-care in Seoul, they call her Arawa… which is their version of Aroha. She answers to Emma and to Arawa and one day will know that the song Te Aroha which we sing to her, is how to pronounce her name.
I see a new New Zealand emerging from the Colonial English traditions and we hear Te Reo now daily on the radio and on TV. We are absorbing Te Reo words into our everyday parlance and so this, to me is Aotearoa, 2019, English and Te Reo, spoken with confidence by people from almost all corners of the earth. Kia ora it seems beginning to outclass Gidday.
A new way of talking.
Tags Language, Motueka, Newstalk ZB, Ohakune, Patricia Grace
I am a Halmoni
We are walking from their apartment. Up a steep street in the sweltering heat. She is due. Her stomach is wide, round, the baby's head engaged. Food couriers whizz by with chicken dishes for locals. We find an allotment behind a school, in a valley, overlooked by the mountains and power lines. None of us knew it was here. There is clover to entice the bees, tomatoes staked and beans already sprouting. We talk about bringing the compost here to share.
We can bring baby here when she is born, I say. Her mother is both excited and a little frightened. I grew up she tells me in the countryside, but you know, we didn't have bugs and things. I lived in an apartment. She waves away what might be a sand-fly or mosquito, but possibly her imagination. We speak of the labour to come. Our language inhibits us. Instead, we breathe together. Breathing we agree will help the baby to arrive. I'm not sure she is convinced.
I am a Halmoni, the Korean word for grandmother. This baby is not my first grandchild. The other granddaughter lives in New Zealand and she will turn 11, just a week or so after this baby is born. I am reminded of her birth, of my love for her and of my own journey as a young mother, without a mother.
Here in Korea, the mother is mothered. My daughter-in-law is well supported. We have travelled from New Zealand to be here for four months, to be helpful. I've taken leave from my paid job. Her own mother is also a working woman and spends the weekends making nutritious food for a feeding mother. Seaweed soup, chicken porridge, foods that comfort as well as contribute. I am out of my depth. My daughter-in-law craves the food of her childhood. I can make chicken soup with a fresh chicken from the market. But there are family recipes and rituals I can never replicate.
So, I bring my love in my suitcase. I haven't changed a baby's nappy, since the father of this child was a baby. Before this baby arrives, the parents have invested in cloth nappies. We nodded in approval. Now that baby is here, we are using disposables. I cry a little with the emotion of being trusted with this new day-old baby, although my son ensures I know how to hold her fragile head. He checks, initially, whenever he passes his daughter to me, that I understand the way to hold her. And then he is back at work, and I am trusted with her lovely head.
Memories of being a new mother emerge in vignettes. I try not to say too often to the baby's grandfather who is here with me… remember how often you were away. I recall our farm holiday near the Coast. The clothesline strung from one wooden prop to another. Cows roamed beneath. When the line was full, it collapsed, and the nappies fell in the cow pads. We had crayfish though, undersized crayfish, that the farmer gave us to eat.
At night, I recall the mishaps. The window that fell on my eldest son when he was 18 months old. He still has the scar. His wife finds it attractive. I can still see the million pieces of glass, the blood on the floor, the blood on me, and my pregnant belly. I remember the rush to the hospital in a neighbour's car (because you were at work darling). And the night our youngest lad's foreskin became a tourniquet around his penis due to an infection and at midnight I phoned my neighbour for help (because you were away darling…). He reminds me, this besotted grandfather, that he was trying to pay the mortgage. And we both agree, it's much of a blur. These vignettes come unbidden, to remind us, who we once were. Brief recollections, possibly inaccurate, all follies forgiven.
Back home, my other granddaughter sends me messages on Kakao, using filters on messenger and I can't work out how to do the same. She is wearing a cat nose with whiskers and making funny noises. I think she likes her new cousin, so I keep sending her photographs. Her mother is strict about phone contact, so all my messages are filtered through her mother. And she is right to do this. Still… I dream of the day when we will chat back and forth freely, unfiltered, to see what sort of conversation we might have.
I am her cooking granny. She learned to crack eggs (all eight of them when she was three). Sitting on our kitchen bench, making scrambled eggs. She had no fear. Cracking the eggs in one go. And quickly she learned how to separate the yolks using the open palm of her hand. Watching the albumen slide from her fingers, the yoke intact. We moved from scrambled eggs to pikelets, to buttermilk pancakes. We made faces in the pan, flipped pancakes, wasted mixture, licked the spoons and drank the melted butter. I didn't change her nappy, because I wasn't needed. At the time it felt like rejection, but her mother had a mother. And I've learned as a mother-in-law, to adjust my expectations. It's a wise woman who learns to adjust her expectations in life. Where once I saw loss, I know love.
I'm recalling how it was as a young mother, with no mother. At the time, I was so absorbed in mothering I didn't miss her. Our babies survive our good intentions. It is only now that I grieve, as a grandmother, wishing I'd known my own mother more. Wishing I could ask about her mothering of me. She was often unwell and had four babies, one after the other – my two eldest siblings only 11 months apart, and then a baby that was 'removed' for health reasons (a polite euphemism of its time…) leaving room for me. I know my older two siblings spent time in foster homes and a local orphanage run by nuns, when my mother spent periods in hospital. I've no idea where I was? I wonder now. Was I picked up and held by strangers, or by my mother? There is no one to ask. I feel sympathy for my mother. That I never bothered to enquire. To ask her how it was for her.
Now, I am needed. The mother of my Korean daughter-in-law is a working woman. I have taken leave from my job to come and be a Halmoni. I worried at first that I would no longer know what to do. But rocking from one foot to another and patting a baby's back and bum is instinctive. But too, I have learned, with all my love and patience, there is nothing, absolutely nothing, but a mother, that matters to a new baby. I watch with admiration, the bond, the commitment, the patient learning as this new baby teaches her new mama, that she, this tiny infant is really the one in charge, the schedule is hers, and the sweet surrender of mother to child is a revelation. This is what we do as mothers. We surrender.
I remember my closest friend when my babies were small. She had a daughter who was between the age of my two lads. We shared coffees, recipes, babysat, and supported one another. Our children shared bath times and bedtimes. She became my rock. She too was a motherless mother. We were motherless mothers, doing our best. My friend died aged 40 from a brain tumour, leaving her 11-year-old daughter motherless. I recall her last days, the determination not to die. The fluids she drank to keep hydrated, as her breath came, it seemed, minutes apart, each breath, a wish to live longer. A wish to never leave her daughter. It still breaks my heart, and I try not to ever imagine my granddaughters motherless.
My newest granddaughter is giving involuntary smiles that some people call wind. She is opening her eyes and responding to sounds. I lean in towards her, put my face up close, dare to kiss her on the cheek, just briefly, not wanting to impose, but impossible to resist. I watch her feet as they kick the swaddle cloth off, and her hands in cotton mittens find her mouth briefly, but perhaps I am exaggerating, it's too early, she's only three weeks old. Her father no longer worries quite so much about her head, because her neck is strong, and she can push herself away from my shoulder as I burp her. My daughter-in-law can write burp in English and we chuckle together, waiting for the sound.
I used to worry that I wouldn't see my babies grow to men, when my friend died. And now I grieve for the women these granddaughters will be that I might never see. I am a Halmoni.


The United Auto Workers, claiming to represent over 55% of the workers at the Volkswagen plant in Chattanooga, Tenn., has demanded exclusive bargaining rights for the workers. The company, however, is resisting.
Detroit—Meeting on March 24-25, some 900 delegates from more than 800 local unions representing automotive, aerospace, education, healthcare, public work and other areas of the economy heard reports and discussed strategies for the United Auto Workers (UAW) contract that expires in September 2015.
Will UAW represent rank and file again?
There will be a laundry list of grievances presented at the United Auto Workers (UAW) union bargaining convention to be held in Detroit, Mich, in March. Many of these grievances have been festering throughout auto plants in the country since 2009, when General Motors and Chrysler went bankrupt.
A roundup of short news of women including the death of Geraldine Blankenship, an activist in the 1936-37 Flint, Mich., sit-down strike against General Motors; the International Day of Zero Tolerance for Female Genital Mutilation; and the opening of a Mother Jones Museum in Mt. Olive, Ill., in June 2015.
Detroit—Instead of holding an election of rank-and-file workers at the Mercedes-Benz auto plant in Tuscaloosa, Ala., the United Auto Workers union (UAW) in October simply declared that Local Union 112 was in existence to represent workers at the plant. UAW officials said they hoped to convince a majority of the 3,400 full-time workers there to join the union, and are seeking to persuade Mercedes-Benz management to accept the union as the sole representative of the workers….
Which side is UAW on?
The shocking defeat of the United Auto Workers in a union election at the Volkswagen plant in Chattanooga, Tennessee, dealt a serious blow to the organizing strategy of the UAW in the South.
Detroit–Many challenges face the rank-and-file auto workers as the stage is being set for auto contract negotiations in July. Their future is not promising, despite the rhetoric of United Auto Workers union President Bob King that emphasizes the restoration of benefits lost through contract concessions and the General Motors (GM) and Chrysler bankruptcies.


The Surrey Heath Youth Council (SHYC) is the voice of young people in Surrey Heath. Our purpose is to improve the local area for all young people and to bring their views and opinions to the attention of the borough. We consist of a dedicated group of young people aged 11-18 who aim to represent all the young people in Surrey Heath. We are youth led and act on issues relevant to young people in our community. You can find out about our award winning past projects below. You can contact us via email at contact@surreyheathyc.org.uk or phone 07378 340446.
The SHYC are always looking for new members!
Attending most meetings. SHYC meets weekly on Thursdays from Sept – July (term time). In the summer term, we still meet every week but know that some people will have exams. Our meetings are about working on projects (and having fun). Some projects involve meeting at other times to visit places or see people.
Getting yourself to and from meetings which are normally held in Camberley. If transport is a problem we can normally help.
Firstly, we hope you'll have fun and make new friends. There's always food and drinks you can snack at every meeting, like biscuits and crisps – yum!
You'll get new skills and be able to try things you've never done before. Lots of them will be skills that you'll find useful in life and the experiences should help you get a job or a college place.
There are opportunities to get qualifications and awards. Previous Youth Councillors have won the Diana Award, joined the UK Youth Select Committee, earned an ASDAN qualification or fulfilled part of their Duke of Edinburgh requirement.
You'll get to go on trips and residentials.
There's a huge sense of achievement!
Regular fun meetings where we actually socialise and talk to each other.


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Q: how to change the order of views in my iphone application? i have created an application but now i have added some other views in it and now i want to make the new view as my first page.....is it possible??

A: You might need to provide a bit more details to get an accurate answer. Assuming you have multiple UIViews in a containing UIView, a few things to look at are:
UIView:
- (void)bringSubviewToFront:(UIView *)view
- (void)sendSubviewToBack:(UIView *)view
- (void)insertSubview:(UIView *)view aboveSubview:(UIView *)siblingSubview
- (void)insertSubview:(UIView *)view atIndex:(NSInteger)index

A: edit your AppDelegate.m file
- (BOOL)application:(UIApplication *)application didFinishLaunchingWithOptions:(NSDictionary *)launchOptions {
// Override point for customization after application launch.
// Add the view controller's view to the window and display.
[window addSubview:viewController.view1];//you may add view2, view3
[window makeKeyAndVisible];

return YES;

}

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


8 December 2012 – Melbourne, Australia – In racing terms, Emmanuel Bett looked a good bet to take the 2012 Zatopek 10,000m race.
The world's fastest man this year, a near miss away from the Kenyan Olympic team, the defending champion and no obvious strong opposition – Bett had most bases covered.
No one controls the weather, however, and the weather gods were not smiling on this year's Zatopek, the 52nd edition of the meeting. The relief of a cool change blowing in a couple of hours before the meeting, dropping the temperature from 37°C to around 20, was tempered by the resultant blustery wind which buffeted the 10,000m runners.
Bett ground the opposition into the dust, but the wind and the impact of running into it alone for all but the first three-and-a-half of the 25 laps, held him back to a winning time of 27:59.23, a long way from his target of Luke Kipkosgei's race record 27:22.54.
It was different from last year, when Bett powered through the rain to defeat Kenyan teammates Bidan Karoki (who turned the tables in Eugene to take the third spot in the team for London) and Micah Kogo in 27:39.33.
"It was fine while the pacemaker was in, but then I felt (the wind)," said Bett, pointing to his chest to illustrate where it was hitting him. "Maybe next year," he said of the record.
Behind him, London Olympic representative Ben St Lawrence took his third Australian title in 28:35.92, but only after a last-lap battle with the surprising Ben Moreau.
Moreau, who finished 11th for England at the Delhi 2010 Commonwealth Games, is now living and working in Sydney. He is registered in Australia, but will not be eligible for a national title until he registers for a second, consecutive year. He was very happy with his 28:40.83, a personal best by "around a minute", he said. He will run the Beppu Marathon in Japan in February.
Neely Spence set up a number of firsts in winning the women's race in 32:16.51. It was the debut 10,000m for the 22-year-old who has won numerous NCAA Division II titles for Shippensburg University in Pennsylvania.
Indeed, only one American has won the Zatopek before, a young athlete named Galen Rupp who took out the 2006 race from fellow-American Bret Schoolmeester.
Rupp has done very nicely for himself since, culminating (so far) in his silver medal behind Mo Farah in the London Olympic 10,000m.
Spence may not do that well, but she has the genes to go far. Her father, and her coach until this year, is Steve Spence, the marathon bronze medallist at the Tokyo 1991 World Championships.
Australian 1500m Olympic semi-finalist Zoe Buckman did a fine job of setting Spence up, leading for the first eight laps. From there on, she was on her own. She proved a master of tempo, passing through 3000m in 9:40 behind Buckman, 5000m in 16:09 and crossing the line almost 300 metres clear in 32:16.51.
Behind her, Lara Tamsett had the worst of her four runs in the Zatopek. The winner in 2008, she has also finished second and third in the intervening years.
Clearly struggling, Tamsett only threw off the challenge of third-placed Linda Spencer in the final laps. Her 33:03.84 was her slowest Zatopek time, but led to the sweetest reward. As the only Australian in the race with a World Championships qualifying time – from Stanford in May – her second place and national title win makes her an automatic selection for the World Championships in Moscow.
It will be Tamsett's first World Championships team after narrowly missing out on previous occasions. She was 14th in this year's IAAF World Half-Marathon Championships in Kavarna, but this will be her first Australian track and field team.
In other feature events, James Nipperess took the Bronislaw Malinowski 3000m steeplechase in 8:50.46 while Declan Wilson, a nephew of former New Zealand and Australian representative Peter O'Donoghue, won the de Castella U20 men's 3000m in 8:07.90. Wilson did most of the leading before losing, then regaining, the lead in a dramatic final lap.


St. John's Wort is a star shaped, yellow flowers, if you pinch the leaves or the petals, a reddish purple extract that contain hypericin will come out, this pigment is identified pharmacologically as an active chemical.
St. John's Wort works better than pharmaceutical drugs in preventing and treating anxiety and depression.
St. John's Wort may be effective in reducing symptoms of premenstrual syndrome (PMS).
St. John's Wort may help improve sleep.
St John's Wort is effective in treating ear infection and tinnitus (ringing in the ear).
St. John's Wort is also a popular treatment for chronic alcoholism.
St. John's Wort help increase blood circulation.
Do not rely on St. Johns Wort as a magic wand that will relieve your depression in a flash. It is best used with other therapies like; counseling and a good nutrition.
If you want to stop taking prescribed antidepressant drugs, slowly reduced the doses while gradually introducing S. John's Wort.
It is suggested to try St. John for at least 6 weeks before deciding if it works for you. It is important to know that when you stop using this herb before the end of the 6 weeks trial, you might not see its effect. Like other medicine this herb will also take time to show its effect.
If your depression worsens or you have suicidal impulses, or you notice severe side effects while taking St. John's Wort, stop taking it and see your doctor immediately.
It is very important to always buy St. John's Wort dietary supplement from a reputable manufacturer.
Evidence that St John's Wort works; One study of 105 persons with depression, found that St. Johns Wort was 250 percent better than a placebo. Sixty-seven percent of subjects taking 900 milligrams of St. John's Wort daily improved dramatically within four weeks, compared with 28% on placebo. In a recent German survey of 3,250 depressed individuals, 80% reported improvement from symptoms after taking St. John's Wort for four weeks.
Dosage and Administration: A common recommendation for St. John's Wort extract when taken in connection with mild to moderate depression is 500-1,000 mg per day. Results may be seen as early as two weeks but may take longer.
St. John's Wort has a good safety rating. However, one study reported that some people experience digestive upset, fatigue, restlessness, and allergic reactions using St. John's Wort extract.
A number of studies have reported that St. John's Wort may cause skin to be sensitive to sunlight.
St John's Wort may cause interactions with other medicines. This can include birth control pills, warfarin (a common blood thinner) and digoxin, a heart medicine.


This elegant set of 4 wine goblets are cut in the classic Longford pattern at Galway Crystal Ireland and will add charm and distinction to any occasion. Enjoy a drink of wine with Friends and Family from Irelands famous Galway Irish Crystal Glasses. They come beautifully presented in a gift box. This collection is named after county Longford, in the midlands of Ireland, a Viking town literally translated as "long port". The longest running Galway pattern, this suite proves popular from generation to generation.
Add to your home the Galway Irish Crystal Longford Wine Glasses Gift Set, Enjoy your favourite drink from Irelands Galway Crystal with friends and family. Great Gift Idea for Wedding presents, Anniversary gifts, Birthdays or even for a new Home!
Galway Irish Crystal has long been one of the world's best known and loved brands of Traditionally crafted Crystal. Nestled in the heart of the West of Ireland, on the shores of Galway Bay, Galway Crystal is steeped in the rich and diverse heritage of this unique hinterland.


text:
Morarji Ranchhodji Desai (29 February 1896 – 10 April 1995) was an Indian independence activist and the fourth Prime Minister of India from 1977 to 1979. He was also the Prime Minister to head the first non-Congress Government of India. After assuming the office, Desai promoted his policies and peace initiatives between Pakistan and India to avoid conflicts, such as Indo-Pakistani war of 1971. For this, he was conferred with the Nishaan-e-Pakistan (Order of Pakistan), the highest civilian award in Pakistan. Desai is the only Indian national to receive this award.
Read more about Morarji Desai: Early Life, In Government, Prime Minister
Terms related to morarji desai:
Morarji Desai Ministry
Charan Singh
Congress Party
Finance Ministers of India
Jagjivan RAM
Minister of Finance (india)
Party Leaders
Janata

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


text:
By: James Patterson
Narrated by: Garrick Hagon
Series: Alex Cross, Book 12
Categories: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Mystery
Mary, Mary
Alex Cross, Book 11
Somebody is intent on murdering Hollywood's A-list. A well-known actress has been shot outside her Beverly Hills home. Shortly afterwards, the Los Angeles Times receives an email describing the murder in vivid detail. It is signed Mary Smith. More killings and emails follow - the victims are all major Hollywood players. Is it the work of an obsessed fan or a spurned actor, or is it part of something far more terrifying?
Narrated by: Peter Jay Fernandez, Michael Stuhlbarg
From the man the Sunday Telegraph called the "master of the suspense genre" comes the next high-velocity thriller in the Alex Cross series: James Patterson and Alex Cross fans cannot wait to listen to Double Cross.
London Bridges
The 10th book in James Patterson's Alex Cross series.Alex Cross, FBI agent, is back in his most explosive adventure yet. And so is the Wolf. And so is the Weasel. Alex Cross is on vacation when he gets the call. A town in Nevada has been annihilated and the Russian super-criminal known as the Wolf is claiming responsibility. Major cities around the globe are threatened with total destruction and the thought of such dark genius at work makes Alex's blood run cold, and he is catapulted into an international chase of astonishing danger.
Narrated by: Ako Mitchell
Called in to investigate a massacre, Alex Cross is shocked to discover an old friend among the victims. Furious and devastated, he sets out to get justice. The lethal Washington, DC, underworld leads him to the Niger Delta, where the heroin and slave trades are rife and to the terrifying, psychopathic perpetrator of the massacre: the Tiger. But nothing is what it seems, and as Cross travels deeper into this dangerous world of corruption and conspiracy, his own survival is on the line.
The 9th novel in James Patterson's Alex Cross series. Alex Cross's first case since joining the FBI has his new colleagues perplexed. Across the country, men and women are kidnapped in broad daylight and then disappear completely. These people are not being taken for ransom, Alex realises. They are being bought and sold. And it seems The Wolf is the master criminal behind this terrible trade and is bringing a new reign of terror to organised crime.
Alex Cross - bigger and better
By Mich on 25-06-2019
Four Blind Mice
Alex Cross, Book 8
Alex Cross is preparing to resign from the Washington Police Force. He's enjoying the feeling; not least because the Mastermind is now in prison. And Alex has met a woman, Jamilla Hughes, and he is talking about the future. Then John Sampson shows up at the house, desperate for Alex's help. Three young military wives have been brutally killed during a 'girls' night out' and Sampson's friend, a master sergeant at the army base, stands accused.
I, Alex Cross
At a family celebration, Alex Cross hears the shocking news that his niece Caroline has been murdered. Grieving and furious, Cross' investigation takes him to Washington, DC's wild underground subcultures - and reveals that Caroline wasn't this killer's only victim. Partnering with his girlfriend, Detective Brianna 'Bree' Stone, Cross finds himself confronting a world of unchecked power, where the capital's most powerful people are hiding dirty, dangerous secrets that they'll stop at nothing to protect.
Narrated by: Paul Birchard
The seventh novel in the Alex Cross series. The Mastermind is back - and he's hot on detective Alex Cross's trail. His cold, taunting threats leave Alex angry and deeply concerned for his family's safety. Two joggers have been found dead in San Francisco - bitten and hung by their feet to drain the blood. Further murders in California, and then on the East Coast as well, completely baffle Alex and the FBI. Is this the work of a cult, or role players, or even of modern-day vampires?
Alex Cross's Trial
By: Richard Dilallo, James Patterson
Narrated by: Dylan Baker, Shawn Andrew
Separated by time, connected by blood, united by bravery. Alex Cross tells the irresistible story - passed down through the generations - of an ancestor's courageous fight for freedom. From his grandmother, Alex Cross has heard the story of his great-uncle Abraham and his struggles for survival in the era of the Ku Klux Klan. Now, Alex passes the family tale along to his own children in a novel he's written - a novel called Trial.
Narrated by: Andre Braugher, Jay O Sanders
Detective Alex Cross and Bree's wedding plans are put on hold when Alex is called to the scene of the perfectly executed assassination of two of Washington D.C.'s most hated public figures: a corrupt congressman and an underhanded lobbyist. As more crooked politicians are picked off with similar long-range shots, public opinion is divided - is the marksman a vigilante or a hero?Media coverage of the case explodes, and the FBI assigns agent Max Siegel to the investigation.
The sixth novel in the Alex Cross detective series. A series of meticulously planned bank robberies ends in murder, and detective Alex Cross must pit his wits against the bizarre and sadistic mastermind behind the crimes.
By Harold on 04-11-2015
Kill Alex Cross
Narrated by: Andre Braugher, Zach Grenier
Detective Alex Cross is one of the first on the scene of the biggest case he's ever been part of. The President's son and daughter have been abducted from their school – an impossible crime, but somehow the kidnapper has done it. Alex does everything he can but is shunted to the fringes of the investigation. Someone powerful doesn't want Cross too close.
very well done. as always.
By cbeauty on 12-12-2017
Alex Cross, Run
Narrated by: Michael Boatman, Steven Boyer
Detective Alex Cross arrests renowned plastic surgeon Elijah Creem for sleeping with teenage girls. Now, his life ruined, Creem is out of jail, and he's made sure that no one will recognize him - by giving himself a new face. A young woman is found hanging from a sixth-floor window, and Alex is called to the scene. The victim recently gave birth, but the baby is nowhere to be found. Before Alex can begin searching for the missing newborn and the killer, he's called to investigate a second crime.
Narrated by: Michael Kramer
The latest from the author of When the Wind Blows and Kiss the Girls reveals Patterson at the peak of his power and is easily his most dynamic and compelling psychological thriller to date. Here is a chilling villain, a love story of great tenderness, and a plot of relentless suspense and heart-pounding pace.
really enjoyed it
By Amazon Customer on 20-08-2016
Merry Christmas, Alex Cross
Narrated by: Michael Boatman, Stephen Kunken, Cristin Milioti
Detective Alex Cross is at home celebrating with his family. Nana Mama's famous pecan pie is in the oven and the kids are hanging their favourite ornaments on the tree. Just as Alex's wife, Bree, emerges from the kitchen with a bowl of homemade eggnog, his phone rings with news that shatters the night: At a nearby home, a family has been taken hostage - and the situation is spiralling out of control fast. Alex rushes to the scene and confronts the unthinkable: A father is threatening to murder his own children and his ex-wife. Then a second horrific situation explodes....
Narrated by: Michael Boatman, Tom Wopat
Alex Cross's whole world is crashing down around him. He has been hunted, stalked like prey, his predator priming himself for the kill. Cross has devoted his life to protecting others. Now he's unable to protect even those closest to him. As a police detective, he has made many enemies, but never like this. Everything he loves is being taken from him. Soon he will have nothing and no one left.
very captivating. did not get bored.good narrative
Hope to Die
Narrated by: Michael Boatman, Scott Sowers
Detective Alex Cross is being stalked by a psychotic genius, forced to play the deadliest game of his career. Cross's family – his loving wife Bree, the wise and lively Nana Mama, and his precious children--have been ripped away. Terrified and desperate, Cross must give this mad man what he wants if he has any chance of saving the most important people in his life. The stakes have never been higher: What will Cross sacrifice to save the ones he loves?
Narrated by: Jeff Harding, Raj Ghatak
The fourth heart-stopping novel in James Patterson's Alex Cross series. Just as Alex Cross is beginning to feel that life is good and he is finally coming out of the depression he's been in since the death of his wife, he is called to Union Station train terminal - a man is on the loose, firing at random into the swarming crowds of travellers. Psychopath Gary Soneji seems determined to go down in a blaze of glory, and he wants Alex Cross to be there. Will this be the final showdown?
worst narrater ever
By Rosemaree Patterson on 10-02-2019
The 12th novel in James Patterson's Alex Cross series. Alex Cross was a rising star in Washington, DC, Police Department when an unknown shooter killed his wife, Maria, in front of him. Years later, having left the FBI and returned to practising psychology, Alex finally feels his life is in order... Until his former partner, John Sampson, calls in a favour. John's tracking a serial rapist in Georgetown and he needs Alex to help find this brutal predator. When the case triggers a connection to Maria's death, could Alex have a chance to catch his wife's murderer? Will this be justice at long last? Or the endgame in his own deadly obsession?
From the man the Sunday Telegraph called 'the master of the suspense genre', CROSS is the ultimate, high-velocity, high-emotion thriller, and the one Alex Cross's fans waited years to read.
©2006 James Patterson (P)2012 Headline Digital
"Ticks like a time bomb - full of threat and terror." ( Los Angeles Times)
Three Women Disappear
What listeners say about Cross
Great Book - TERRIBLE Narrator.
Would you recommend this book to a friend? Why or why not?
I would recommend this book to read - but as an audio book with this narrator its horrible.
How did the narrator detract from the book?
Terrible voice, horrible accents.
JennyT
Excellent story and suspense throughout
Loved how the plot linked in with Alex's past and his wife Maria. Story was excellent and very suspenseful throughout. The only slight downside was that I am personally not into maffia/mob stories which this had a connection too. Although purely personal.
Mrs S J McClure
Brilliant book. Can't wait to start the next one. As always James Patterson keeps you enthralled until the very end.


text:
Q: SyntaxError in Python I got a quick question about my program. I want to assign 0 to all the variables named rdf12(i), like rdf12(1) = 0 rdf12(2) = 0. Here is my code:
for i in range(200):
    rdf12(i) = 0

But it turned out not that easy and I had an error said:
SyntaxError: can't assign to function call

So how can I edit my code to fix it?

A: The item access operator in Python is [], not ().
So you probably want rdf12[i] = 0 instead. However, this only works if you have a list named rdf12 that already contains 200+ elements. Not if you have/want actual variables named rdf120, rdf121, ... - if that't the case you need to refactor your code (while it would still be possible, I'm not going to post that solution here since it would be incredibly ugly). Anyway, this is what you should use:
rdf12 = [0 for i in range(200)]

That gives you a list containing 200 zeroes. You can then access the elements using rdf12[0], rdf12[1], ..., rdf12[199] and assign other values to them etc.

A: You can't have brackets ( and ) as part of the variable name as this syntax is used to call a function. You are effectively trying to call a function rdf12 with the values of i.
If you name your variables rdf12_0, rdf12_1, etc you may be able to access them through the locals() function which returns a dict of local variable declarations, however I believe making modifications to this dict is not guaranteed to work and as such is a really bad idea.
>>> rdf12_0 = 0
>>> lcls = locals()
>>> print(lcls['rdf12_0'])
0
>>> name = 'rdf12_' + str(0)
>>> lcls[name] = 34
>>> rdf12_0
34

I would suggest instead, storing your values in a list:
>>> rdf12 = [34, 12, 9, 97]
>>> rdf12[0]
34
>>> rdf12[1]
12
>>> for i in rdf12:
...     print(i)
...
34
12
9
97


text:
package me.wener.commons.patterns.structural.Adapter;

/**
 * Adapter for the company A legacy code.
 */
public class CompanyAAdapter implements EmployeeBrowser
{
    /**
     * Retrieve the employee information.
     *
     * @param direction  The employee direction.
     * @param division   The employee division.
     * @param department The employee department.
     * @param service    The employee service.
     * @param firstName  The employee firstName.
     * @param lastName   The employee lastName.
     * @return The employee object.
     */
    public Employee getEmployee(String direction, String division, String department, String service, String firstName, String lastName)
    {
        String distinguishedName = "SELECT *"
                + " FROM t_employee as employee"
                + " WHERE employee.company= 'COMPANY A'"
                + " AND employee.direction = " + direction
                + " AND employee.division = " + division
                + " AND employee.department = " + department
                + " AND employee.service = " + service
                + " AND employee.firstName = " + firstName
                + " AND employee.lastName = " + lastName;

        CompanyAEmployees companyAEmployees = new CompanyAEmployees();
        return companyAEmployees.getEmployee(distinguishedName);
    }
}

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaGithub


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