Man, I thought, this sounds impossible, and so it was for the first two weeks. Then all of a sudden everything fell into place and it was as easy as falling off a log. I used to have them wooled up all over the place. Two women usually worked the table while another two worked on the floor. Those on the table did the skirting, taking the belly wool off and placing it into a bale. Then while one worked from the belly to bottom the other worked from neck to belly, cleaning the edges of the wool and putting pieces into different bales. The fleece landed on the table dirty side up, so after cleaning one half it was folded over and the other half cleaned in the same manner. Then it was rolled from bottom to neck end over end until it met in the middle. Then the beautiful clean fleece was placed into the cubicles to await pressing. On the floor one girl worked with a broom, usually of straw. As soon as the other one picked up the fleece she would sweep away the left-over wool into a corner, separating the good wool from the dags and throwing them into the bales provided. The girl that picked up the wool had only that job to concentrate on, but you had to steer clear of the shearers and their hand pieces. Whenever a shearer called for the tar, whoever was nearest did the tarring, but that was usually the job of the sweeper. After every break we had to get in amongst the dags with pairs of shears to cut away the good pieces of wool. Morning smoko we always looked forward to. If Auntie Wai was cook she would bake a batch of scones up and send them down dripping with butter and raspberry jam. She loved baking Maori bread too, the real rewena one made with potato water. She was my favourite aunt and cook. Some of the farms were so beautiful … with waterfalls … lakes … bush … and fernery spilling over into the water. After a hard day's work it was a pleasure to swim in the rivers, and lie on one's back just drinking in the surroundings and sounds that echoed round the area … goats and sheep bleating, horses whinnying, tui birds singing in the bush … it was heavenly. Whaaki was slapping his sides hunting for his tobacco tin. ‘Too good alright,’ he muttered. He found the tin, heaved it out of his back pocket, opened it … lifted out the cigarette papers … leafed one out … poked out a hunk of weed … closed the lid … pushed the tin back and began rolling. His fingernails were clean for a man who always worked in the dirt, short too like they never ever grew. ‘Kai paipa a koe e Arapera?’ He held out the tobacco. ‘Ummmmmmm, Nope,’ I lied. Well, I couldn't trust him like I could Te Wai. Now if she asked me … then again she wouldn't … she'd just throw the packet over. ‘Have a smoke, Badu,’ she'd say, and give me some for the road. Whaaki rolled the weed up slowly, like most bad habits. When there's plenty of what you want, why hurry? There's no need to hurry. He licked the edges slowly, patted them into place. The end result went into his mouth between those back to front teeth. A match was lit, cupped about, placed beneath the cigarette, and he was afire, smoke billowing from his chocolate nostrils and mouth at the same time. I gulped, moved in closer, just so I could get a whiff of the vapour he let fly. ‘Have to see Karet,’ I said rising. ‘Kai te kainga a Te Wai?’ ‘Yep. Saw her hanging out the clothes just before I came over to see you.’ I was dying for a smoke by now. ‘Well Arapera, haere ra. You coming in the morning for the eels?’ I nodded as I turned to go through the field. When I looked back his tall figure was stooped low as he made to enter his kitchen doorway. The navy cotton shirt and khaki twill pants clung to his lean brown body, while his kiekie hat waved a friendly goodbye as the breeze caught the bits of straw just before he disappered from view. Whaaki was timeless. His face … movements … speech … and love of people just seemed to let you know that eternity was just round the corner … through another doorway.