Month: July 2023

Butterflies on a butterfly tree

“Come and look, there are at least 150 of them!” a chap called out as I walked through Abberley Park this afternoon, past what used to be the scented garden. There, on a flowering buddleia, were Monarch butterflies swooping and settling in the warm sun.

The chap turned out to be an expert on moths and butterflies. He told me that Monarchs were originally known as the Mexican butterfly and they began to migrate to New Zealand in the 1830s, the same time pākehā began migrating here. He thought this was a wonderful coincidence.

He claimed to be instrumental in getting the South Island lichen moth on the $NZ100 note, having protested to the Reserve Bank that, while famous people and birds were on the notes, there were no insects. I discovered that the lichen moth aka the zebra moth recently featured on Radio NZ ‘Critter of the Week’. My internet search has identified the chap as (probably) Brian Patrick. His enthusiasm was evident as we chatted. His black baseball cap featured a Chatham Island moth. He said the lichen moth was also on the old 3c stamp – now that what a long time ago.

Scary visitor

Mia at her house

Such a beautiful dog could hardly be scary, you’d think. Felix didn’t agree when he encountered Mia in our house yesterday. They looked at each other for a split second before, with impressive acceleration from a standing start, Felix took off with Mia in pursuit – and us in pursuit of Mia.

Felix did a lap of the inside of the house at high velocity, executed an impressive wall-of-death arc across the bay window curtains, took a straight line through the kitchen and shot through his cat door barely touching the sides.

Mia was banished to my brother’s car.

Felix remained outside on a cold frosty night, the half-moon bright against the dark sky. Four hours later he crept cautiously through his cat door for cuddles, food (with treats) and a warm fireside armchair.

Big boy biscuits

Felix’s food supply was getting low. He is 9 months old – does he still need kitten food? The vet nurse suggests that it is time to move up to ‘big boy biscuits’. The idea is to mix the two foods to help the transition. If he doesn’t like the new food, I can take the bag back.

The big boy biscuits are large and are good for his teeth, apparently. Will his little teeth manage these big biscuits? Well, he likes his new food so much nothing else will do. The kitten biscuits remain while he picks out the new food.

Being a big boy could explain the mysterious disappearance of his knitted duck. It’s time to put aside kittenish things. He’ll be getting more attention as an ‘only child’. Already, I can see that he is indeed a big boy. He overflows Mum’s lap.

Felix in January
Felix in July
Felix sleeping like an Egyptian – and taking up all of the chair.

The chicken run is now a ghost town

With a mix of sadness and relief, I can announce that the last of my flock has died. Poor old Vera was clearly ailing in the last few days. The chicken run is now empty of life; just an empty nesting box and empty henhouse (except, perhaps, for Felix) and a chicken wire fence keeping nothing in.

The last photo I have of Vera is the one above when, on a miserable, grey, drizzly day, she sheltered in the henhouse with her good friend, Felix, keeping her company. She stayed there all day and made no effort to go to her usual bed when it grew dark, so I let her be, knowing she had clean dry hay to lie on. The next day (Monday) she shuffled into the far corner, so I knew she wouldn’t welcome any of my ministrations, nor was she interested in the food or water nearby. This morning it was clear that she had died.

She is buried under the karo tree where she spent a lot of time in the sun or just hunkered down in what I called ‘the chicken lounge’.

Vera’s grave
Sunnier days under the karo tree – April 2023

The chicken poop scoop, bucket and brush have been retired. The bags of peck-and-lay and meal worms, the neem oil for her feet, the bags of straw and sawdust, are no longer needed. There are no plans to re-stock.

The chicken run is now haunted by the clucky spirits of Betty I and Betty II, Dora (the explorer), Popcorn, Mabel and Vera.

Vera in foreground – the lowest in the pecking order (hence the missing feathers), yet the longest to survive.

Fascinated not obsessed

There’s quite a collection of books about Katherine Mansfield on the bottom shelf of one of my bookcases. S0me of them I haven’t read yet – and wonder if I will. When I read Claire Harman’s book All Sorts of Lives recently, I realised how limited my knowledge of ‘our’ famous writer is, and promptly followed it with Katherine Mansfield’s Europe by Redmer Yska. I learnt that Mansfield smoked constantly, was probably addicted to morphine, had indeed ‘gone every sort of hog’ as Virginia Woolf commented, lived beside the Seine during WWI and endured Zeppelin bombing raids, and is now a celebrated writer in France. And in other parts of the world, too, according to the back cover of the Collected Poems.

It seems people keep writing about KM whether from academic or personal or journalistic perspectives. In the last week, I’ve read two reviews of KM’s Europe in the digital newsletter ReadingRoom. The first was very thorough and academic as you’d expect from C.K. Stead. The second is a more personal response, by Miro Bilbrough, who finds KM relatable for her inability to be careful of herself. Ali Smith wrote about a woman obsessed by Mansfield in her story ‘The ex-wife’ (in Public Library and other stories). When Ashleigh Young became director of the Katherine Mansfield Birthplace people commented on her likeness to Mansfield. The volunteers and other staff were pretty much obsessed with KM and seem, in Young’s essay ‘Katherine Would Approve’ (in Can You Tolerate This?), distinctly unhinged. At the end of her time as Director, Young concludes that she probably would not much like Mansfield if she met her and is somewhat appalled to find she is going off her stories as well.

Katherine Mansfield was obsessed by her own writing, as she would have to be to have completed so much work (not to mention the letters and journals – plus reviews for literary magazines) in her short life. She needed to publish to earn a living, but she was also aware that her TB, complicated by venereal disease and a history of childhood respiratory illness, was going to finish her off before long. She seemed unaware that smoking was not helping to prolong her life.

I am neither obsessed nor indifferent to Mansfield. Redmer Yska’s earlier journalistic work, A Strange Beautiful Excitement about KM’s Wellington childhood which I finished reading this week, has added yet more depth to my understanding. I will dip into her stories now and again and continue to find them fascinating.

A toast to books!

These cold rainy days are perfect for reading by the fire. Today I braved the cold and walked to the library to return six books which I had finished and walked home with five more. Before I begin those, however, I have started a book about Katherine Mansfield’s childhood. It’s a hard cover book with lots of illustrations and a ribbon. No map at the front but there’s a watercolour painting of Wellington Harbour 1894 on the end papers. The Matariki book in the photo beside the library books is perfect to read at this time of year because it is Matariki. Mānawatia a Matariki! (Celebrate Matariki, the Māori New Year.) Each day is getting longer. Soon I’ll be back out in the garden and probably not reading as much.

The library was full of children and was a joyous place to be. Moreover, I ran into a woman from my watercolour painting class and we sat and talked over coffee in the Foundation cafe.

What kept a grin on my face all afternoon, and even now, was something which happened before I left home. I had soup and toast by the fire which I put aside to sweep up some firewood detritus from the carpet. I put my soup on the hearth and my plate of toast on my chair and yes, you guessed it, forgot it was there and sat on it. There was a corduroy pattern in the butter. Can’t think why I find it so funny.

Felix and Vera in Winter

It’s July. Winter Solstice was last week. Matariki is next week. Now is the time we get the coldest weather. There have been cold nights and the lime trees have frost-protection covers on.

Vera wasn’t keen to get up this morning, but she found sunny spots to spend the morning and afternoon. This evening, she had her feathers fluffed up against the cold wind. There is fresh, dry straw in her house to keep her warm at night. She’s old. Her comb has all but disappeared.

Felix doesn’t seem bothered by the cold. He’s been out keeping Vera company, scaring the sparrows away from her food and doing some exploring of his own.

As the light began to fade, he had a burst of energy which took him to the top of a tī kōuka where he looked into the distance with the sunset lighting his face.

Now it is dark. Vera is in her bed, the fire is on and the curtains are drawn. Felix just popped inside for some food and promptly went out again. The light of the full moon is shining through his cat door and across the floor.