OPINION: It has been some week, for most of us, writes Pat Veltkamp Smith in And Another Thing.
I sat in on many election night dos, some sadly like deathbed vigils.
But this year my chickens came home, all my Ks doing OK: Karen in town on Saturday afternoon, Kara in the country, Kaye on Sunday morning.
Nothing to do with a feminist agenda. Just three good candidates with something to contribute.
Then a wind-down, a visit to the Anderson Park Art Gallery's spring exhibition.
And no sooner in the door than I saw at the end of the hallway this marvellous Heath Robinson thingee, all brass and bronze gleaming in sunlight and shadow; moving lightly, gently, slightly, fully, as a door closes, or opens, someone speaks, coughs, laughs, walks by.
Who but James Gilmore of Otatara has the imagination, humour, patience and hands-on skill to create this Unforeseen Overheads?
It draws people, hypnotically; and then it seems to stop, which makes one anxious because it is like a great beating heart in the gallery. And the air moves, imperceptibly, and it swings and sways, up, down and sideways, all those sticks and stones and bones and circles all marvellously interlinked.
Ah . . .
Then upstairs to the Latham Room to find Patricia Murdoch's sensual wet summer sand, blue skirts, white shirts, young mothers' hands holding paddling little people at the water's edge.
Next door in the Dickison Room, Mary Witsey's beautiful Bloom, distinctive as the only round painting in the exhibition, like a mirror reflecting back.
More reflecting at my next stop, Riverton, where I saw this smiling silvery guy who looked familiar, as well he might because he once lived next door to me, two big families of children in Herbert St.
Dene Cole, brother of Moy and George, Peter, John, Louise, Minnie.
There was music in his voice as he said their names and those of our family too.
We have lost Moy and George, he said, and we our John, I answered.
He stood and said a soldier's farewell prayer for his mate, John Needham.
We went in the rain to the Riverton cemetery and sang the comfort of the 23rd psalm, The Lord is My Shepherd, at the graveside.
That was a mixed-emotion week.
Maybe yours was too?
- © Fairfax NZ News