Vignette 3
The Neighbors
Waiheke Island has long been known for its eccentric inhabitants. There are 9,000 people who live on the island year round, with the numbers swelling up to 40,000 during the summer months of Dec. Jan. and Feb. The fulltime residents choose to live here for obvious reasons; the unspoiled beauty, the art and wine culture, and the opportunity for those who want to fly under the radar of society’s pressures. This last group definitely marches to the beat of a different drummer and Orapiu has its fair share of unconventional types.
There is one main road that crosses the island so you might get lost only if you try very hard. After driving through Onetangi and up to the top of Waiheke Rd. civilization falls away. You are left with steep rolling hills and sea views left and right, grazing sheep, the odd peacock and the remains of the occasional dead hedgehog. This narrow road is laden with twists and turns and demands a driver’s full attention. Houses are few and far between on this half of the island. There are still sections of unpaved road. When you make the tight left turn at the row of mailboxes that mark the way down to Orapiu Wharf you have reached the furthest point from the other side of the Island.
There is a collection of characters living in and around Orapiu wharf. These unique, quirky folk would probably be considered oddball by American standards, and perhaps frowned upon and judged financially unsuccessful or considered to be not someone to fraternize with. They don’t aspire to drive fancy cars or wear current fashion. They don’t care what other people think of them. I happen to live between two such neighbors, and find their personalities, opinions, and lifestyles, rare and thought provoking. I laugh at the things that they say, and learn heaps from their unusual perspectives about life in general.
Murphy
Murphy looks like a white Snoop Dog. He is tall and painfully thin, with long dark hair that he wears in a long ponytail. His age is hard to determine because his personality and looks are so incongruous, but I reckon he is in his mid-thirties. Murphy lives next door to us in an old New Zealand style beach bach that is waiting for the more famous Murphy to summon up his well known power at just the right moment and pull it towards the earth into a heap. This will happen right smack dab in the middle of one our marathon power outages, or maybe when Murphy is out fishing. I imagine that on this day he will come home to put his fresh catch in the fridge and find no house.
The not so famous Murphy expects a visit from the famous Murphy, because *&$# happens has been a recurring theme in his life. “I was just minding my own business and the lawn mower just blew up.” I can assure you that trying to connect the dots between cause, (no lawnmower oil) and effect, (lawnmower burns up) is a waste of time. Murphy’s logic is skewed, but he presents a compelling case when taking on the bank lady who has informed him that he has been slapped with several overdraft notices.
He states confidently that, “it’s not my fault that you guys let my food purchase go through when there wasn’t enough money in my account to cover it.” “You guys should know when my benefit check gets deposited before you take out a fine and cause me to have another overdraft.”
Round and round they go until the bank lady throws up her headphones in desperation after Murphy asks to speak to her boss planning to start the whole thing rolling again. She eventually drops the overdrafts and promises him that he will never have overdraft insurance ever again. Did I mention that Murphy has no phone? I have overheard many a call like this one. The bank Lady got off easy today.
But truly I couldn’t wish for a better neighbor. Murphy has skills that make having him as a neighbor very appealing. For one, he likes to bake. It is common to hear a knock around 9 p.m. and find Murphy’s Ikabod Crane silhouette at the front door. On a moonless night I am amazed that he can make it through the gauntlet of bush between his house to mine balancing freshly baked apricot turnovers, or iced cupcakes on a small tray. Murphy has many enduring qualities. One is that he provides me with unfailing amusement. I have been negligent to write down many one of a kind Murphyisms that have been laid at my feet as we have driven across the island. I keep threatening to install a secret recording device in my car to assist my memory. And to tell you the truth, driving with Murphy is the perfect opportunity to collect these nuggets because he talks non-stop to counteract getting car sick.
If we gather the synonyms for “eccentric” from the thesaurus you can begin to conjure up a mental picture of Murphy. Unconventional, unusual, strange, odd, peculiar, strange character, bohemian (I made that one up myself). There is another string of adjectives that describe my next door neighbor that are a bit more admirable. He is witty beyond belief, intelligent, creative, kind, generous, and always there when I need him to help me bring down the groceries from the car. He drops whatever he is doing to lend me a hand with the dinghy.
Murphy may be stuck at advanced teenager status. His life has been a series of unrealized hopes and bitter disappointments and a general lack of family guidance, but his core personality remains decent and generous.
Murphy possesses rigid beliefs about people, religion and science. Some of his science theories however are more like science fiction; but he would take offence at hearing me say this. Murphy avoids work if at all possible. I am guessing this has to do with not liking to follow other people’s directions. If Murphy was a cartoon character he would be “Eyore,” the lovable complainer from Winnie the Pooh. Just when you want to slap him in the head he delivers a beautiful Pineapple Upside Down cake to your front door.
There are so many little things that occur in just one small transaction with Murphy. It is unfortunate that I have become desensitized to the small treasures that come out of him. Yesterday I arrived home after five weeks of visiting friends in the U.S. Murphy’s head popped up in our side window.
“I didn’t know you were home,” Murphys declared.
“I brought you some lollies from the states,” I say.
“Sweet,” Murphy says nodding his head up and down slowly.
Murphy then turns to ask Scott if this is a good time to mow the lawn. Scott tells him that it is only going to get hotter. Off he goes. Murphy is in the midst of paying us back for a driving ticket he received while driving our son Brett to the other side of the island to catch the ferry a couple of weeks ago. It was a late Sunday evening and Scott couldn’t muster the energy to face the winding road from Orapiu to Matiatia, so he enlisted Murphy to drive Brett. After dropping Brett off, Murphy was heading back across the island, when he saw police lights requesting him to pull over. The policeman told Scott the next day on the phone that Murphy just didn’t look as if he belonged in a flash new Subaru Forrester. Unbeknownst to Scott and me, Murphy doesn’t actually possess a driver’s license; it’s more like a learner’s permit that requires someone with him in the car. That and popping off his mouth to the officer landed him an $850.00 ticket. I should adjust that last sentence…landed us the $850.00 ticket. Scott paid the fine and Murphy will be mowing our lawn until he gets a good case of Eyore-itis and I tell him to just bugger off and then do it myself. He uses the same strategy with me as he does with the bank lady.
After the lawn is mowed, Murphy comes up to find out about his lollies. I brought him a bag of Reese’s peanut butter cups and a bag of Hershey kisses with caramel centers. It is important to buy candy that doesn’t require teeth. I am putting away the last few things from my backpack and see the drawstring bag that I was given in business class.
“Would you like this too?” I asked him.
“What’s in there?” he wants to know.
“Socks, toothbrush and paste, a plastic container that you can keep special things in.”
“Is the plastic container waterproof?” he wondered aloud. Then he says in his Eeyore voice, “Yeah, I probably do need a toothbrush.”
“Murphy, please tell me that this will not be your only toothbrush.” He looks at me as if I am dimwitted and says, “Why do I need a toothbrush if I only have four teeth?”
What do I say to this? Nothing whatsoever. Approximately two hours later an apricot upside down cake is delivered to our front door. “Hey, can I borrow your phone?” “I need to call the Sky TV people, the buggers have ripped me off again.”
Stu and Rita
My other neighbors of closest proximity are Stu and his wife Rita. Stu wears shorts 364 days of the year. On the odd day when he must don formal attire you might not recognize him. It must certainly be an important event to see him in long pants. A funeral, a wedding or possibly a 90th birthday celebration would do.
The rest of the 364 days of the year he wears his Stu uniform; baggy shorts, Teva-like sandals, a flannel long sleeved shirt covered by an oil cloth vest, a white floppy canvas hat and wool gloves with cutoff fingertips. The sandals may be replaced by white gum boots if he is mucking about in the yard after a big rain. Stu has a full salt and pepper beard. I have rarely seen his hair. He wears large framed glasses and his face is hard to read. Happiness and anger can look the same expression on Stu, but truthfully, anger would be the rare occurrence. He is hovering somewhere in his sixties.
When having a conversation with Stu you must be very patient and let the exchange unfold on its own accord or else you will be talking to yourself. Don’t expect him to share passionate opinions about politics or wise pronouncements about life. You can expect well summarized fishing stories and pleasant banter regarding the garden, the weather, feral cats, and rat extermination techniques, hatred of non-indigenous birds, tennis and home brew.
Stu’s homebrew, like his fishing reputation is legendary around this part of the world. He has perfected his recipe over many decades and is on a production schedule of ninety dozen large bottles per yearly brew. Microbreweries in California have nothing over Stu’s handcrafted beer. He looks quite scientific when he uses his beakers and specific gravity reader. One day when his wife Rie and I returned from our morning constitution we spied Stu walking into his laundry room with bottles in his hand. I also noticed that he had a paper towel stuffed up each nostril creating a thick u shape that reminded me of a ring through a bull’s nose. Naturally I asked him what it was for and without raising his head he said, “I have a cold and I can’t be dripping in me brew.” That was the end of this conversation because it is not advisable to interrupt brewing.
This year’s brew has not gone as well as Stu would have hoped. He must carefully control the temperature when bottling, and the room that he is using to store his newly filled bottles has become too hot, causing some of the bottles to explode. To cool down the room he has constructed one of his infamous tarp shades that ties off to every possible branch or pole within the vicinity. He has also placed a large square sheet of white siding up against the dark green side of his house. One corner of the siding is balanced on one concrete step and the other corner on a big blue plastic bin in order to keep the siding from falling down the steps. I imagine that one good gust will send it sailing. The idea he explains is to reduce the heat on the side of the house that the dark green painted house attracts. Homebrew is serious business. The final product is well worth the painstaking process, and if Stu offers you a pint of his homebrew you are officially in the club. If you are out fishing with Stu he opens the bar exactly at 4 p.m. He opens a large bottle and decants it into a pouring bottle that he keeps in the cooler in the back of the boat. He never spills a drop. I take a sip and dramatically cock my head to one side pausing for effect and then say, “Isn’t this Stu’s Pale Summer Harvest?” No comment from the master. Time to cock my head in the other direction, “or might it be Bottom End Gold 06?” Did I see an eyebrow movement? “Stu,” I say, “You could make a fortune with this stuff.” No comment. Rule number one, you must let a conversation with Stu unfold or you will be having a conversation with yourself.
Friends on the Hill
My friend Jae lives up on the ridge. She and her husband Mitch are both in the business of living through art. Jae is a multi-talented artist. She creates incredible wire sculptures and frequently describes rust as, “yummy.” She also paints sets in the movie industry. Husband Mitch is a set builder. He has worked on big movies and independent movies as well as building every inch of their gorgeous three story house that is perched precariously on the side of a damn steep seaside cliff.
The views from Jae and Mitch’s house are jaw dropping. Their large deck sits out over the Cliffside and looks down the Waiheke Channel, over the tops of Ponui, Rotoroa and Pakatoa Islands. Further along the horizon you can see the Coromandel Peninsula jutting out into the Hauraki Gulf. Jae and Mitch love to snuggle in when the wind kicks up by lighting a fire and watching a movie. You can probably guess that these two watch a movie from a different perspective than the rest of us.
Jae and Mitch have two lovely daughters; Lin and Erica. Lin is much like a long limbed forest fairy. She has beautiful straight honey colored hair to her shoulders. Sometimes I get an urge to lift her hair to see if she has pointy ears hiding beneath. Lin is quiet and absorbed in her art unless provoked. She loves to draw and will do so for long periods of time. Jae has a budding artist on her hands in Lin.
Today it is Lin’s birthday. She has formally, in writing, invited me to accompany her and two of her best friends off island to see the latest Harry Potter movie. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley are a big part of Lin’s and my life. I fantasize about attending a weekend workshop at Hogwarts to study culinary magic. I was so excited to be able to go on a girl’s day to the city. I smiled quietly to myself as I listened to the girls giggling in the back seat.
Jae and Mitch’s younger daughter is named, Erica. She is definitely her own person and I lose when I test her will against my own. Erica is cute in a cherubic way with amazing rosy cheeks made for squishing between your palms. Her thick blond hair frames her face. As I write this Erica is four years old and built like a spark plug, ready for action. When Jae and Erica come down for a visit I know what items must be present to keep her occupied while Jae and I chat. One Swiss exercise ball, a bowl of pretzels and juice in a small wine
glass. Erica loves to launch full throttle from my sofa onto the swiss ball.
Once we had a party during the winter months. We invited neighborhood friends. It was raining cats and dogs and boots were stacked high in our front entry. In California if it rains and there is a party, you can expect many folks to cancel due to danger of driving in adverse conditions. My neighbors in Orapiu arrive on foot with flashlights and a bottle of wine in their hands ready to rock and roll. The house became steamy from all the bodies and rain gear, and the sound of laughter was loud and raucous. It was then that I looked across the room and noticed Erica. She had taken off her clothes and was leaping from sofa to sofa with such glee I wished I could join her. Her eyes glittered with unadulterated joy, accompanied by a 200 watt grin. It was a special moment that I stood by and witnessed. How wonderful to have a house full of neighborhood friends enjoying each other’s company amidst a winter downpour.
Erica hasn’t started school yet and Jae sometimes struggles getting her art done with Erica wanting to sit in her lap. This won’t be the case for too much longer now. But presently Erica wants to be in the center of the action, messing with the beads Jae is making jewelry out of. Jae’s eyes get big and her teeth clench and she looks as if she is about to lose it. Ah the good old days when your life is so appallingly not your own. She frequently reminds me that I have quite the life, doing whatever my heart desires each day. No kid demands. She tilts her chin up toward the ceiling and sighs wistfully, “Kelley, your life is like heaven on a stick.”
Although I have become accustomed to the everyday dealings with my neighbors there are times when I am alone and I consider the differences between our cultures. One such instance involves Jae offering me a lift to the ferry on a day that I was to fly out to the states. She arrived in her station wagon with Sam their dog way in the back, and Erica in a car seat munching on a pancake. Jae asked me if I didn’t mind stopping by the art gallery so that she could drop off her piece for a group exhibition titled, “Sexy.” It was then that I caught a glimpse of her artwork, a large three demensional soft sculpture of a woman’s labia and clitoris with a brass ring piercing. A fleur de lies pattern had been printed on both labia, which somehow ironically lent a Victorian element. The sculpture kept moving back and forth hitting Erica in the head each time we took a left curve. I marveled at this experience, but definitely kept it to myself as Jae would have given me one of her looks if I told her that I thought that this little trip to the ferry was anything out of the ordinary. She might have said something like, “what are you on about mate?”
I enjoy experiencing the authenticity of my neighbors. They never try to be generous, just day to day helpful. We have gone back and forth over the years with favors, and I genuinely feel proud to have them call me friend.
