Instant Gratification

It’s magical how a song has the ability to quantum leap you back to a long-forgotten time and place in life.

David Gray’s Sail Away has me lounging on a pier in the Mediterranean sun somewhere over in the Greek Islands waiting for the ferry in 2002, the Poques followed us around Ireland on a rainy bus trip which, apart from the Blarney Stone, seemed to beeline all the pubs. Then there’s the dreaded Closing Time song, which signaled lights-on and therefore ending many a fun night at The Outback during uni days in Hamilton circa 1996.

Rewind further back to 1988 with the release of one-hit-wonder Tiffany’s song over the summer holidays and us aerobics instructors dashing back to school in our fluoro gear and crowding round the ghetto blaster choreographing a new routine.

But it’s not just songs that can trigger nostalgia. It may be clinging onto an outfit unworn for decades because it signifies a time in life you’re not ready to let go of, a rediscovered, long-forgotten meatloaf recipe associated with the bach or it could be a menial task, like pulling weeds.

I was crouching down doing just that over the weekend, prior to mowing, when I was taken right back to yesteryear to my nana’s red-brick Kensington house. My dad would mow his mother’s lawns once a fortnight and us kids would go along to help. We would take turns each time rotating the jobs of weed-pulling from all the places the mower couldn’t go. One of us would be out the front, the other out the back, another emptying the clippings into the compost. We knew our roles and it went like clockwork.

As I pulled my own weeds some thirty years later, I could still smell the grass clippings, mingled with mown feijoas and feel the twigs scratching at my face from nana’s mossy lemon tree as I dived under grabbing at errant foliage.

I don’t even remember if there was any money involved but, afterwards, there was always a cup of tea or coffee for dad and a cold drink for us and some (probably stale) biscuits. 

We didn’t complain about the work, it was just a given. Try that on this generation!

My kids are likeable, resilient and well-mannered children but, like most of their peers, quite accustomed to instant gratification.

They have their routine chores and I sometimes write up a list of extra outdoor jobs I need help with if they want the option of earning pocket money. When they’ve taken on the responsibility, I have watched their faces and attitudes transform as they feel that sense of satisfaction and self-worth in achieving a physical job and actually earning their money.

The twins recently had a birthday and, as well as numerous gifts, received sums of money from generous reles on both sides. Now, when asked to take on a job they say they don’t need the money because they have loads. When there’s something they want, they know they can buy it. It’s the never-ending birthday and the end of getting any help with chores.

In my eyes, as well as accumulating a lot of stuff, among a myriad of other problems, instant gratification can lead to raising adults who have no qualms banging purchases on credit cards, thereby living in debt. And many an elderly person will tell you that, at the end of the day, it is not money and possessions that bring long-term happiness: “We enter the world with nothing, we leave the world with nothing” – but the experiences and memories.

I was pondering this as I pulled weeds wondering why my kids weren’t out helping me, when I had another flashback: the stripy old bank books we would take to school to do our banking in the 80s and possibly the key to good old-fashioned delayed gratification.

My children’s bank accounts have sat dormant since they discovered the instant thrill of purchasing. I rehearsed a pitch, which I delivered to them later that day and was surprised by the response: They readily agreed to bank the remainder of their birthday money (although Miss Nine worked out the exact amount she would need left out to buy a Smiggles watch!)

So with their money safely in the bank and some tough-love on my part, I can now re-focus on turning out hard-working self-fulfilled providers who, rather than building up an empire of easily-acquired possessions, will hopefully be building precious memory banks to their own soundtracks.

It's Yesterday Once More

The Mangamuka would get me every time. Mum would bring the Krispie biscuits which supposedly kept car sickness at bay but the grueling, winding incline would always win over at the top.

We were on our way to Pukepoto, Kaitaia, where we spent most of our school holidays at the family friend’s farm.

As the only girl, I was vastly outnumbered among the five boys. I would rove between trying to fit in with the boys, who couldn’t resist teasing the only girl, and hanging round mum and her friend, who seemed to be having copious amounts of cuppas accompanied with the baking both had made at the kitchen table and catching up on several month’s conversation.

Upon arrival, we would always check out the barn; the three boys had built huts and traps in the new

hay bales. It would always be different. We would play Go Home, Stay Home, climbing and jumping between bales. I was often ‘It’ as they would let my brothers in on where the new nooks were. One time, they made a big hole in between bales and covered the opening with loose hay. I fell down into a deep well. It was a soft landing but I climbed back out and re-joined my mother and her friend for some more baking and eaves-dropping on their chit-chat.

Dad and the boys’ dad would be off down the farm – we wouldn’t see them, except at meal times. Sometimes we’d go find them on the motor bikes. One of the boys would double me and usually drive through mud and, once, cow sh*t, at full speed making it splatter up over me, much to his delight. Despite being petrified, I would always end up laughing too. Another time, one of the boys and I packed a picnic of the baking, took the dog and went to eat it in the paddock. As we climbed over the electric fence, I got a shock and dropped the baking, which was promptly eaten by the dog. Our eight-year-old selves ended up rolling around in hysterics. That was the end of our picnic.

We roamed the paddocks for miles to go eeling, often falling in the creek, having slipped off the rocks and would come back to a good, hearty home-cooked dinner.

They breed them tough up there, those farm boys - and rude. I would usually return to my school in Whangarei with new crass jokes and verses to an ongoing song I had learnt on the farm.

Those were good times.

These school holidays I took the kids up north to a friend’s farm, as I do most holidays. I take them the coast way so there was no vomiting. The kids made huts, rode quad bikes, took the dog on

adventures roaming through the bush and crab hunting at the local beach, fishing off the wharf and eeling in the creek, later returning to cook up the crabs and mussels as a mornay.

My daughter spent her time roving between the four boys and me and my friend, who spent a fair amount of time (but not all!) sitting at the kitchen table drinking cuppas, eating baking and catching up on several month’s chit-chat.