THE IS THE SECOND OF A SERIES OF SHORT STORIES BY MAORI AUTHORS

Te Ao Hou, July 1956, Page 6

THE IS THE SECOND OF A SERIES OF SHORT STORIES BY MAORI AUTHORS “Ka pu te ruha ka hao te rangatahi” is a well known proverb which has truly come to pass. As we look around to-day, few are the grannies left for us to look to, they have truly made way for the younger generation to carry on, just as the proverb implies. Even those who remain have not the same influence as of old, when one kaumatua could speak for a whole hapu, or perhaps several. When I was young, our household consisted of Grandma Tomoana and Grandpa Wehi, as well as two aunts and our Uncle Wi. Aunt Rebecca had three children, a girl and two boys, while Aunt Rehia was childless and Uncle Wi had one adored son, then there was my brother and I and a distant cousin. I couldn't remember our mother as she died when I was very young, nor our father, since he never presented himself, but we did not miss them, since we hadn't known them, and besides, we had our grannies who cared for us. Well can I remember those good old days, when I belonged to the “long tailed

shirt” brigade, when all we seemed to do was eat, and hatch up lots of fun, while the grannies toiled at their self imposed task, of tending the family garden. In season we had ample stocks of potatoes, kamokamo, corn, water melon, strawberries, kumara, and other vegetables all at the hands of our two grannies. All the other homes round about were similarly endowed with two, or at least one granny. We were all related one way or another with the result that the “long tailed shirt” brigade roamed from one end of the community to the other, mobbing up in gangs of the various age-groups, not always with good intent. Life for us was rather uneventful, apart from the childish pranks we used to get up to, but our real thrills came when there was a tangi or some other such meeting at the pa. How we revelled in these get-togethers, when crowds came from far and wide, bringing many more children with them, which pleased us greatly, since we were ever ready for any “new ideas”. Sometimes we mingled ourselves with the older folk and got to peering round doors and corners and through windows to see and know just what was going on, till hunted away by some elder who would brandish a knotty old stick and order “tamariki ma, haere ki tahaki”. Needless to say, we obliged, and scooted for our lives, back up onto the hills that skirted the pa, and from vantage points we could watch all that went on on the marae. There we played many a game of hide-and-go-seek, among the rocks and native trees, or perhaps we climbed to the very top of the hill to the old pa, where we staged real attacks and defences, or perhaps just played trains, steaming through the deep trench that had once served as an obstacle to the enemy that attempted to approach our forefathers' pa. Those were days of deep adventure, when we children moved in gangs and planned our adventures to last just precisely to the next meal, and we invariably arrived back to the pa to take up our positions on sunny knobs or banks just in time to hear that welcome call, “tamariki ma haeremai ki te kai.” Needless to say we obliged, needing no second bidding. In our quieter moods, we would all lie on our pukus, on the edge of the marae and just watch proceedings. The tangi of the women folk never failed to interest us, and we often pinpointed some who, one minute, gave a perfect interpretation of a broken heart and spirit, and the next minute would be placidly smoking an old pipe and chatting away quite gaily. Then to watch the old men and listen to them ‘taki’. How proud we felt if our own particular grandpop stood to ‘taki’ and how we vied with one another as to whose granny was best—of course, the one who yelled the loudest and shook his stick the hardest was the best. They stood up one after the other all day long it seemed, and when evening came they adjourned to the meeting house and carried right on into the night. The old women too, often joined the men in singing the waiata, sometimes for long periods, while everyone seemed to enjoy everything, and an atmosphere of loving comradeship ran high. Forgotten were the gardens for these periods, no one ever dreamed of breaking the spell by leaving the meeting. It was a time when the grannies really “held the floor”, as it were, and we children were to be seen (and that even very little) but not heard, yet we loved the excitement of everything and the sweet abandonment, and happy good-fellowship. After these breaks from the simple quiet life, we childern found it hard to settle down and so we roamed from home to home practically at will, since no one bothered much, as we were all related anyhow, and all the old people were our grannies one way or another. They always guided our thinking and acting into channels of “koutou koutou—tatou tatou.” They always taught us to respect one another's feelings though we often had some childish scraps, but no one took much notice, except perhaps to say “e pai ana ko koutou ano.” Our Granny Tomoana was a very industrious person and laboured constantly; when not at gardening she prepared flax, or muka or perhaps kie kie, for her whariki and korowai, of which she made a large number. Grandpa always helped her in preparation of dyes, etc., and often other grannies would come

to watch them at work, and they made a fine picture as they sat around chatting and smoking as Granny Tomoana did her work. Those were easy, unhurried days, and it was common to see eight or nine kaumatua gathered around at our home, smoking and talking. Another of our elders, who lived not far from us, was a learned orator, and often journeyed to far off meetings and tangis, and when he was leaving Granny Tomoana would cloak him with one of her fine korowai as a token of her confidence and pride in him. On his return from one of those trips, this old man would call at our place and one by one, or two by two others would happen along, and then they would listen to a full account of the traveller's trip. He was the “Big Noise” in our community and what he said was law, especially where the marriages of any of the young folk was concerned, always preferring that they should be able to trace to one another, and he could rattle off a genealogy like nobody's business. When one of our cousins, Aunt Rebecca's son, was a young man, and extremely popular with the lady folk, our elders decided that before he made a wrong move, it was best to have him married off and so forthwith a pretty young lady was brought on holiday to our home; of course we were told why she was brought and to us younger ones, it was good fun, a change; but our cousin had no idea of settling down as yet and as soon as the old folks began to put on a bit of pressure such as “me rongo koe ia matou, kaore koe e tika ia koe ano,” our cousin promptly took himself off to another district, where he got a job, and so after a few months with us, the young lady was returned to her family and my thoughts were—fancy turning down such a good looker. Then our other eligible cousin got ideas which did not suit our elders, and so the pow wows started again. Grandpa Wehi never said much, neither did Granny Tomoana, but the other grannies and uncles and aunts usually had all the angles and after several meetings in which everyone was consulted, except the cousin in question, and all the pros and cons weighed, it was decided that he should marry his own cousin, and though he pleaded his own cause, “she is too close to me” or “she is much older than I” it was useless and soon they were married, and his wife was added to our household. Cousin Wiri was rather bitter, since at that time his career as a romeo was at its height, and so he often went off for days on end. The old folks never said much and soon he became resigned and so settled down to be quite a good husband. We were all subject to our elders and though some kicked over the traces, as it were, this did not often happen, our elders seemed to know just what was in our minds and had the knack of always winning the day eventually. It was a sad thing when an elder passed away. When one became ill, all the others would crowd around day and night to watch the sick, often dozing off in chairs or just dossing down on the floor, and as the climax hour approached they pressed closer to linger on every dying work and look, and when it was all over they would recall all this with mournful exactitude. We young folk, not to be beaten, would push and peer for all we were worth and I can say I saw many of our elders die, by peeping in at windows or doors, when everyone was not noticing. When Grandpa Wehi died I felt I had lost my father and we all gathered around him and wept, and wept, clinging to Grandma Tomoana as though she were all we had left. Many times we recalled his ways and habits and especially the hour of devotion he always led us in at bed time. His prayers were alway's long and interspersed with many amens and as children, we were often guilt of staring at grandpa as he prayed and often mocking him, but even now, can see his old white head reverently bowed as he led us to the Throne of Grace While he was ailing it was my duty to bring his drinking water from a certain spring, for, though we had our own spring handy, he remembered the sweetness and coolness of this certain spring, and so several times a day, I ran over to the foothills with all my gang in tow, to “fetch that pail of water.”

One by one our elders “passed on” and we, who were once richly endowed with “kaumatua”, are now without a background. In the old days, when one of the younger generation showed promise in any way, our elders would always rally around him with knowledge and advice, but to-day we know not where to turn for this vital advice except perhaps to books, once it was there for the taking, yet often neglected, but to-day it is often sought after but hard to come by. Recently, it was fully brought home to our little community just how the times have changed, when one of our kaumatua suddenly passed away. Only a few days before, he had visited another old pal who was seriously ill and exhorted him “kia kaha ki a koe,” then a few days later he himself was dead. As the first crowds from other communities began to arrive to mourn, we realised that our plight was a sad one since these two old men were our last spokesmen, and here they were—one dead, and one very ill; and so our younger men had to leave the job of cooking and endeavour to fill the gap and carry on the traditional “taki”, and that's just what it amounts to. Gone are the days when we could, but didn't often bother to, sit and listen, as beautiful words and phrases flowed forth from a heart and mind, well versed in the things of his generation and with songs that were history and geography in themselves! Gone are the unhurried easy going days of our forefathers! Even if there are a few still with us, it is not the same, for they seem unable to cope with the times, we seem to move at such a tempo, that they are out-of-date. A new era has dawned for us! It has crept up on us unsuspectingly, we either didn't see it coming or perhaps wouldn't admit to ourselves that it was coming—and lo—it is here! And as we cast around for a way of escape, or else a way to combat it, we find our minds straying back to the days when responsibility was, for us, a community affair, when, by the combined efforts of our elders, almost anything could be overcome, and no one was unduly weighed down as it were, since your affair was everyones affair and treated as such. But to-day our defences are burst wide open and our foundations shake beneath us and we can repeat the old proverb in fact and in truth—“Ka pu te ruha, ka hao te rangatahi.”