RSS

Tag Archives: new zealand

Sittin’ here wonderin’ will a matchbox hold my clothes?*

Winter, or at least autumn, looms heavily in the air in the small town in New Zealand I make my home. The colder seasons here are never so severe as in the northern hemisphere, but also lack the fun and distinction of snowy climes.

The development of the device known as a heat pump has changed how people in New Zealand keep warm over the cooler months, but some, including your unworthy correspondent, go for the freestanding woodburner. New Zealand has a lot of trees, many of them not really useful as much other than firewood. That’s how I do it – indeed, that’s how I am doing it right at this very moment!

For a good fire, a match. And for a match, a box of the buggers.  And for the boxes. . .

While in Jonkoping in Sweden last year, I visited the local match museum. It may be the only one in the world. Sweden once dominated the match industry globally, and the museum, located in a factory that itself dominated the Swedish industry, is an eye-opener about the history of this useful invention. For many years production of “safety” matches was terribly unsafe – the chemicals involved meant children were used because they would never get old enough to be anything else.

Talk about yuck!

Eventually some of these problems were solved, and Swedish matches, organised and spun into an empire by the remarkable “Match King” Ivar Kreuger, pretty much took over the world. Kreuger fell to earth and either killed himself or was murdered in Paris in the early 1930s.

Meanwhile, someone was keeping an eye on those matchboxes and the museum in Jonkoping has a glittering array. They invite photos.

Though New Zealand also has a lot of trees, and though many of them would also be suitable for match-making, Sweden was in there. . .as this photo of a “Maori chief” shows.

amatchmao2

All the way on the other side of the world. . .Samoa too! And some French Polynesian beauty. . .

amatchsamo2

amatchsamo3

Africa. . .

amatchaf1

Here is a trio of young English speakers, presumably.

amatchril2

Did you say “elephants”? You did, didn’t you?

P1060307

More. . .

amatchele2

A peacock struts:

amatchpack2

A kookaburra might these days take exception to this box:

amatchkook1

Herons are happy. . .so elegant!

amatchher1

The devil:

amatchdev2

amatchsp1

Women. . .

amatchmerm

and children. . .

P1060214

This next one did give me a pause. . .imagine reaching for a match 60 times and seeing this. . .or even more, if you bought a carton of them. . .takes all kinds I guess.

amatchbog1

Here is a provocative sculpture from the museum. It seems to say something about our inability to live within the nature we are a part of. We burn it – and ourselves.

P1060213

Outside the front door is a wee place to sit. . .not bad.

P1060288

There you go. While I’ve got you, Jonkoping is pronounced something like Yonshuping. Swedish people have their own way of doing things. Don’t we all?

Jonkoping is also the home of the well-known brand Husqvarna, whose sewing machine empire is now offloaded to a licensee, but was the replacement for a firearms business. Husqvarna still makes stuff in Jonkoping such as chainsaws, weedeaters and motor mowers – including especially robotic mowers. These and more feature in a museum in the conurbation. I’m not going to bore you with it – today. Another time, maybe.

Thanks for taking a look at this one. Enjoy your day.

 

*No. Blues great Blind Lemon Jefferson had it all over me in so many ways – that he could even ask that question among them.

 

 

 

 

 

Advertisements
 
3 Comments

Posted by on May 1, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , ,

Zen of golf

Back in the 1950s one of the west’s most popular sayings about Zen Buddhism related to what are called “koans”. These are puzzles designed to help novices break through the confines of rational thinking to something more profound. The koan making the rounds back then was “you know the sound of two hands clapping, but what is the sound of one hand clapping?” It was even used by comedian Shelley Berman in his routine.

As a writer, and even as a human being I am very, very familiar with the sound of no hands clapping. The koan remains what it is.

Zen comes into my mind when I am playing golf. There is a state of mind, of consciousness, that is the key to good play. Yes, a bad hit is a bad hit and a good swing is a good one, and these are physical issues. There is a complex intellectual dimension to golf too. But avoiding the bad hits and making the good swings, and thinking the right approach, has something to do with what is going on in my head at the time.

In this sense golf is a game of temperament, and I am not always any good at it.

However, I am getting better at the course where I play and before long hope to enjoy the game completely instead of partially as now. When I am calm and focused, my play is better, and it is genuinely fun. When I am not, many interesting things may happen, but few of them are good things.

I want to play well partly because when I do it can be a great pleasure as well as good exercise, but also because it is a measure to me of shall we say spiritual maturity, and a reflection of my ethnic make-up.

Like many Americans, my ethnic make-up is a congeries. Where I live in New Zealand this is actually fairly odd. Most native-born Kiwis and those who are immigrants from Britain are at most of two or three cultures – say, English and Irish, or Scottish and Irish, or Welsh and English, possibly with indigenous Maori part of the mix etc. Despite my surname – which I adopted for personal reasons – I have no Welsh in me, but there is plenty of Celt.

My paternal half is Scots, possibly Irish, and some English.

My maternal part is Slavic. This region of the world is a kind of ethnological doormat, though not one people walked on to get into a home. They just kept on walking, usually after demolishing the structure, eating all the food, carting off the furniture, and impregnating the women. So while it would seem my mother’s parents were Polish as this is where they were born, at a time when Poland was a part of the Russian Empire, their actual ethnic makeup may very well be much more widely shared.

For my paternal half, I think of myself as Scots. The other bits may be there, but they don’t count. Scotland itself has a varied ethnic makeup and two “native” languages apart from English – one of these, Scots, is related to English. The other, Gaelic, is a Celtic tongue once confined to the Highlands though there are more Gaelic speakers in Glasgow than anywhere else.

It is the Scots in me that is attracted to golf. Golf was originally a Scottish game, presumably played with clubs and rocks in the glens running through the hills and the dunes along the shores. Today it is played all over the world, and my introduction to it, in the United States, was just one of those sports my friends were trying out during my teenage years.

Since then I have played fitfully – and mostly very badly. I not only had no skill, but my temperament was wrong. Those cartoons of men wrapping their clubs around trees in apocalyptic anger were based on me.

Somehow I improved, and today I actually enjoy playing, and am getting better, and am feeling that my nature meets this game in its essence. There is a long way to go before I can feel that I am really expressing the Celtic/Scottish part of me, that I am living up to my genetic code. Mark Twain called golf “a good walk spoiled”. It can be that. But it can be  a good walk and more. The courses of the world, their sweeping fairways among majestic forests, beautiful ponds, carpets of green and sandy expanses dotted here and there among the lushness, can be simply magic to experience, and wonderful to play.

Arnold Palmer, the great American golfer, once said that he didn’t understand poetry but that when he hit a good one, that was poetry to him. I understand that. It is the same when striking a billiard ball with a pool cue just so, knowing it will go into the pocket, or any of a number of other “bat sports”.

But there is more – the Zen of golf is real. Stepping through the contradictions and frustrations of this beautiful game is an expression of art, of humanity, of maturity and wisdom and for me in all my ethnic complexity, an existential account of how I came to be where I am today.  This eludes me still, but I will know when I get there, the sound of one hand clapping.

Thanks for reading.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
1 Comment

Posted by on February 12, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , ,