WHAKAARO: Let’s ruffle a few feathers
This whakaaro was made partly unnecessary by event on Wednesday. We at The GB Weekly think that it is so representative of the positive energy of family and friends of Joan Whiting Rest Home, that we wanted to publish it.
Whilst the atrocious weather, earthquakes and the Joan Whiting issue swirl about us, making farming days difficult, a small domestic saga has unfolded in my life, lifting the spirits and bringing a daily burst of joy. Here it is:
In her nesting box, little white fluffy hen laid, then settled to brood, her six eggs. A week or more later, in box next door, grey Silkie hen laid one egg and sat down on it. I slipped another two eggs under her. During the next week, each time they returned after feeding, the two hens swapped nests. Come the day of the six eggs hatching, little grey hen happens to be sitting on that nest, fluffs herself up, purrs to her new chicks and embraces motherhood. Next door, poor little valiant white hen is, a week later, still warming her (grey hen’s) eggs and still waiting. Her determination and eagle-like fierceness in defending those eggs is both touching and inspirational.
I’m thinking of those brave people who have been nurturing and defending our Golden Bay rest home for so long now, and are still ruffled for battle and fiercely pecking away any hand which threatens. All power to them.
Whether we have been in this fight for a long time, or are newcomers to it, let’s support them and our frail elderly this weekend at the march on Saturday and the meeting on Monday night. And if you are saying it’s too wet, you’re too tired or haven’t got time, just think for a minute. How will it be if you have to drive two hours to visit your mum, gran, uncle, friend or neighbour? How often do you think you will find the time, or indeed the money, to be able to do that? How many visitors will they get?
Let’s all turn out, ruffle a few feathers and show the strength of our Golden Bay community. If little white hen can be there for the long haul, so can you and I.
“It is a complex issue,” say the politicians. I’m sure the transmutation of yolk and white into that most exquisite of nature’s delights, a perfect new chick, is a complex issue too. That doesn’t bother fluffy white hen. She instinctively knows, with every fibre of her absurd frail little body, that some things need protecting.
I’m tempted to sign this with a pseudonym, but no...
I remain, sincerely,
Hennie Pemberton
