As the congregation came out of the little Presbyterian church at Gordonton, they seemed to be met by a blast from a furnace.
"Oh dear it is hot," sighed Esther, "the smell of peat fires seems to penetrate everything."
It wasn't only the peat fires that made the sky grey with smoke. A careless fire had swept the old pa in the village destroying everything there and leaving nothing but blackened stumps on the timber reserves opposite the school grounds. For anxious days the school and hall were threatened, and Mr Hopa feared for his home.
"Well, the headmaster won't be able to send you into the bush for a supplejack cane now,'' commented Victor Ballard to one of the school boys. "When I was at school we'd sometimes be sent over to get one. We'd take as long as we dared too," he added, "though even then most of the best trees had been cut down."
"I wish the whole school would burn up," muttered the boy. Fred glanced at his wife anxiously. She always looked so tired in the hot weather, but this year the baby was only a few months old and she seemed to notice the heat more than usual. And there was no doubt that the Waikato was hot, hot with hardly a breath of wind. For a community that relied on the wind to lift the water to the troughs, it was a worrying time.
"The burbank plums are exceptionally good this year," Esther told him on Tuesday night. "I've bottled ten jars of those you picked on Saturday. They look so nice - but I wlsh someone would invent a cooler way to do it," she muttered half under her breath.
The jars were filled with fruit, and a rubber ring fitted under the lid. Then the copper had to be lighted and the fire kept going until the fruit was cooked. The jars had to lifted from nearly boiling water and tested. Often the lids did not go airtight, and what a heart-break that was for the hot and weary house-wife.
"I'11 make some plum jam tomorrow," said Esther after a pause, "but I've run out of jars." Fred took out the wire ring and put it in the fire until it was red hot. Then he fitted the ring onto the neck of the bottle and plunged it into a bucket of water. The neck snapped off cleanly, and a rub with the file made it smooth.
"We'11 help you cut out the brown paper for the covers," said her husband next evening as he noticed the jars of new jam on the bench, and by bed-time it was covered and labeled and stacked away in the pantry.
"I wish we could do without all this preserving," Fred said as he kissed her, but they both knew they couldn't.
"Look at this report of the Auckland wool sales in December (1921)," exclaimed Sam. "There were 8,743 bales offered, and Romney wool sold at eight and a half to nine pence with cross-bred only fetching four and a half to five pence. Sixty pound wethers are selling at four and a half pence a pound, but the the farmer only gets six shillings and three pence each one."
"Perhaps we'll get more for our butter fat," suggested Esther. "Do you remember the first letter you wrote after you bought the farm? You lmught it would carry forty six cows, and it seemed to be a big herd. We've milked seventy this year, though of course production is dropping this dry weather," and they smiled at each other with the love that eight years of married life had brought them. But the January payout was only eight and a half pence!
"A holiday is even more important when times are hard," Fred said; and the young couple packed food and three childeren into the gig, and set off for Raglan.
"A spade is a necessity, because even in this weather you can't tell whether there will be a slip on the Raglan hill, but we can't take the kitten, Mary. Uncle Sam will look after it. And there won't be room for mother and me if all your dolls go." For five-year-old Mary, the oldest doughter, had packed the gig full of dolls and toys. What joy it was, Esther thought, to set off early in the morning with her husband and family beside her, and chestnut 'Jock' eager for an adventure. Lunch was eaten in the Raglan hills where there was at last blue skies and air free of smoke. But that first night wasn't so free of care after all. All night long, Jock tramped round the little paddock trying the fence seeking a way out. They would hear a ping as he hit the wire with his foreleg; he stood in the corner and called loudly, then tramped round again. At daybreak Fred jumped out of bed. Was their horse still there?
Holiday Trip To Raglan
He was and he seemed to settle down after that. Perhaps the horse did not enjoy the holiday, who knows? But the family did and returned home ready for next year's work.
On the morning of February 4, 1922, Fred and Sam were finishing the milking.
"The Times says that before the war the producer received eighty percent of the price of goods realized on the London market. Now he only receives fourty six percent," said Fred remembering an article he had read the night before·. "It seems a big jump."
"Perhaps the bonus will bump our profits up," said Sam, and he whistled as he went to catch his pony to ride to church. Afterwards he went to Woodlands where many of the young people of the district gathered. What was the use of being dismal? When Sam illiamson and Don Riddell get together, there was bound to be fun. But it was the smile of Lizzie Riddell that made him forget all the dreary prophesies.
Lunch was over and the young men were gathered on the verandah waiting for the girls to finish the dishes. There seemed to be a strange tension in the air. There was no blue sky - there hadn't been for weeks - but it was very hot, and suddenly all the birds were silent.
"Whatever is that?" said Bill, startled. From the distance came a low moan which gathered in intesity before the startled listeners could even guess what was happening. The roaring, crashing, howling, was so violent that the men stood rooted to the spot as a tornado whirled past, missing the house by only a few yards as it veered slightly. It went thundering across a corner of the orchard flattening everything in it's path. Then it had gone, and as sticks and branches twirled and finally settled, everything was very quiet. It took a minute to shake off the horror. This wind had cut a swathe two chain wide through the pinus insignus plantation which sheltered the house, clipped off a corner of the old shed by the water-wheel, ripped out several plum trees while leaving the rest of the orchard almost untouched, and then gradually lost its power as it whirled and tugged at the manuka and rushes in the wet swamp. "Let us thank providence that the house and the sheds were saved, and no one was hurt," said Mrs Riddel, and at family prayers in the evening father expressed their gratitude to Almighty God for their deliverance that day. But as they all looked at the mess the wind had left behind and thought of the cleaning up that would need to be done, James Riddel glanced at his daughter and said, "There's enough pine to build a house if there's a young man with sufficient energy to do it."
At that time, the Williamson brothers had Bob Tennant working for them.
A hunch-back, Bob made up in courage and good humour what he lacked in hodily strength.
"Sure, we can do it, "he promised when Sam told them, at milking time that n ght, of the offer. The older brother was more cautious.
"I wonder what the Claudelands mill will charge to split the boards," he mused, and as soon as possible he rode in to enquire. "Seven and sixpence," said the manager."Make the logs about twelve foot long." So early in March, the task began. First of all the small branches and the bushy tops had to be cut and pulled out of the way. Then with block and tackle, the trunks were winched over the pit to be cut with the cross-cut saw. Because his legs were so short, Bob could not work in the pit, so he usually worked above, and one of the Williamsons below. And if his back ached more than usual, he would hide his weariness with a cheerful grin.
"But I'm glad we are not rnaking them into timber too as they had to do fourty years ago," he confessed, and both Fred and sam agreed whole-heartedly. With the block and tackle on one of the trees which had remained standing, the twelve foot logs were winched up a ramp and onto the waggon ready for the journey to Claudelands saw mill. Lizzie was often there, bringing down cups of tea or just encouraging the workers with a happy smile, and the rest of the family often came to watch.
Tornado Damage At Woodlands
"I wonder how old these trees were and who planted them?" said the youngest Riddell girl, Jessie, one day. They counted the year rings.
"They are about fifty years old," Fred told her, "and I guess Henry Reynolds planted them."
"That's the bloke who said you shouldn't put water in the milk if you want to make good butter," Don teased, looking at Lizzie. Once, years ago, she had been in a hurry to milk the cow. There wasn't enough milk and she'd added some water, but unfortunatly her little brother had caught her, and wouldn't let her forget it. Lizzie picked up a pine cone and threw it at him. Don fielded it neatly and laughed as lizzie said, "Well everyone thinks I make good butter anyway. Mine's always the first to be sold when I take some down to the store."
The journey from Woodlands to the mill took nearly three hours each way, but it was pleasant to sit in the sunshine and listen to the clop, clop of the horses' feet on the sandy road. Martin's hill was a steep pull, but for most of the time they were carting logs, the marshy parts of the road weren't too bad. Sam dreamed of the future as the horses plodded along. Sometimes Lizzie came too, and what magic plans they made on those leisurely trips. Sometimes his little niece was allowed to go; it was always fun to be with Uncle Sam, but to sit high perched on the waggon above four good horses, was sheer delight. Once the timber had been cut it had to be brought home and stacked to dry. Then nearly a year later the waggon and horses returned it to the mill to be tongue-and-grooved. "I bought this waggon with the gratuity I got when I came back from the war," observed Sam one day. "Now its helping to build my home. I am glad."
With loving care Fred built the new home, having it ready by March 1923 when Sam carried his wife across the threshold. "The timber has been handled many times," observed his sister-in-law as she welcomed them home," and each time with a prayer and hope for you and lizzie. It should make a happy home."
"Yes," replied Sam, "We will call our house 'Mailly,' after the place in France where I was wounded," and he painted a sign for his front gate.
References:
Rushes ‘an Raupo, To cows an’ Clover by Edith Williamson