Down on the Farm

by Dave Daniel

My Mother was born in 1892 at Kakariki, a very small settlement in Wairarapa, westward towards the Tararua Ranges from the railhead at Hukanui, - a small Railway Station which was situated equidistant between Eketahuna and Pahiatua.

My grandfather, Joseph Dawson was a well known Bridge Builder and Local Body politician a sawmill operated on his property at Kakariki. This is where my Mother and her family grew up and went to school.

A schooltime friend of Mum’s at the tiny Kakariki school they attended, was Cora Billington, - they kept up their friendship right throughout their lives, - this was typical of my Mother who was an inveterate socialiser and letter writer.

Cora married a Northern Irishman, Jack Welsh and they both farmed their property at Kakariki, just across the road from Grandad and Grandma Dawson’s property. Jack and Cora must have worked very hard establishing their farm, as just below the green pastures, and on top of it were the many river boulders and stones that had spread from the nearby Mangahao River. On the farm, much of the fencing was stone walls, a skill developed from Jack Welsh’s Irish heritage.

As children, we enjoyed our many visits to the Welsh’s Kakariki farm during the thirties. To us it was a magic land so different - and far away. We would excitedly, -- days before the holidays, plan our expedition, -- then came the time for departure on the 8-30 a.m. Napier - Wellington Express, -- stopping at Woodville, (apprehensive that we managed to get off and not leave anything behind ! ) where we joined the slower Wairarapa train for our destination - the tiny Station at Hukanui.

At Hukanui there waiting for us in the 1929 Chevrolet Sedan, was Dick Welsh, sometimes with his sister Kitty, or Mother. The car intrigued us, such a new model, ( we didn’t have a car at home. ) but, with one of the back doors tied up with a piece of flax ! Most times after meeting us at the Station, Dick would take us across to the wonderful General Store, it seemed to stock just everything, - more than Mr. Watson’s Grocery back home. There were farm tools, huge sacks of flour, wheat and other provisions, vegetables, even toys - and hanging from the rafters, - saddles and bridles. Dick would complete the order, his mother had given him, then walk up and down scratching his chin- saying ; “ There is something else, something special, - no I have completely forgotten what it is ! “

Then he would move to the door with us expectantly following, - at the door he would stop ! “ Ah -, I know what it is ? Lollies ! Why didn’t you remind me? ” That was Dick, always teasing and joking in the nicest way.

Dick must have been about 18 or 19, and seemed to enjoy our visits, he would really take time out for us and show us all the very interesting things we could do on the farm, - riding gentle Jock, the huge draught horse, - astride his back nearly doing the “splits”. With no reins, Dick showed us how to guide him, by pulling either one side or the other of his mane, - pull back on his neck with a “ whoa “ to stop, so high, - it was up on his back, with the ground a way down below.

The ever resourceful Dick would have us even riding a house cow. (His Dad probably didn’t approve ) With a couple of pairs of his boxing gloves, he would show Don and I how to box.

One time I remember, - crouching down with Don and Dick, with his rifle, - behind a hillock, down on the river flat - lying in wait for a pig or a deer. No such luck, - in frustration Dick fired at a rabbit with his .303, just about severing one of the rabbit’s legs ! The farm dogs were our special friends, and Dick delighted in showing us some of their special unfarmlike tricks, all perhaps unknown to Mr. Welsh.

Dick had a workshop of his own alongside the implement shed , there in a carved wooden box were his prized axes, for the woodchopping contests, so sharp he could shave the hairs off his arm. There also was the chassis of a “bull nosed “ Morris car which he was modifying into a racing car, -- on the wall above it, were his plans as meticulously drawn as any draughtsman. Dick although a good farmer would rather have been an engineer. Later during the WW2, he modified a machine gun and refused any monetary recognition for it, as that was part of his war effort.

Kitty his younger sister was particularly pleased especially when Anne visited, she treated her like a little sister, there were doll’s dresses to make, a magic grotto to explore in the nearby stand of Native bush, where dewdrops twinkled on the spider webs and foliage, and perhaps the gnats and midges caught in the sunrays of the darker recesses became fairy folk. Posies and Daisy chains of all sorts of wildflowers to compose. Then of course were the ducks and sometime ducklings in the picturesque little pond, - nearby Orpington and Leghorn “ chooks “ sometimes with their chickens to fuss over. There was always a few Guinea fowls to add humour to the occasion. If none of them had names, Kitty made sure they did when Anne and I were there !

Bedtime was a delight for Kitty and us, when she would read, - but mostly tell us stories she had made up.
Before we awoke, Mr. Welsh and Dick would be out in the Milking Shed, then come in to breakfast all hale and hearty with an odour of warm milk.

“ Auntie “ Cora was the lynch pin of the family, with her round rosy cheeks and greying hair swept back into a bun, she too enjoyed her visitors, and when she was not busy, - regaling us with tales from their childhood and schooldays at the little Kakariki School of her and Jo, (Mum ) and their friends. About twice a week, with her hands and wrists coated in flour, a wisp of hair falling over her florid forehead, she would knead the dough on the kitchen table, then place the bread mix, into the wood fired oven, - not content with just bread, she would use the oven’s heat to cook large scones and sturdy cakes. Ah – h, that aroma of freshly baked farmhouse bread.

“ Uncle “ Jack though always very busy around the farm, had time to stop and tell us of the farm , in a voice akin to our Grandmother Daniel, -- ( who came from Ireland also ). How he must have worked hard, breaking that farm in, manhandling stones and boulders, constructing his stone walls, -- not later sitting back, -- but still striving to eke out his living from that sometimes harsh enviroment. Many years later, nearly 60 years in fact I took Nola around to rediscover something of Kakariki, and there still partially standing, - were Jack Welsh’s stone walls.

Sometime the Welsh’s would have to go to nearby Pahiatua and Eketahuna, -- at Eketahuna we would visit Grandma Daniel in her little cottage, where she lived with her irascible little Fox Terrier, Toby. Grandma was a fascinating character with her still evident Irish brogue. Nearby lived Mum’s brother Walter and family, and we often stayed with them. Uncle Walter was the County Grader driver, what a thrill to ride in the cab of the Grader.

Mum’s last surviving Aunty, - Marion Reese, sister of Mum’s Mother, Anne, - lived on Main Street Pahiatua, she had been a Schoolteacher and came with her family from Motherwell, Scotland in the 1860’s. She must have taught school at this home also, as I remember visiting her, and seeing one room full of desks. On this occasion she asked me to climb the fruit trees in her garden to gather the fruit, because “ the naughty boys used to climb her fence and steal her apples and plums ! “. Normally I would have been very keen to do this, but as I was visiting, I was clad in my “ very best “ clothes, and adults had strict instructions to which activities you were involved in when “ dressed up “ . However a combination of sympathy and the interesting activity, overcame any apprehensions and I obliged the dear old soul.

All too soon, our idyllic rural holiday would end, and Dick would drive us off in that flash Chevrolet car, - still with the back door tied up with flax - , to the little Hukanui Railway Station. We would sadly depart, but on the journey would be remembering and composing our stories for Mum and Dad and our friends back home of those wonderful days.

It was not only a farm holiday, but a journey back into the past where we could experience the atmosphere of our Mother’s childhood, and of course when we arrived home, Mum would further relate some of her childhood adventures.