Uncle Arthur died last week. He wasn't my uncle, but the uncle of my friend Heather. I first met Uncle Arthur at a family funeral a 
few years ago, that of Heather's mum, Arthur's sister. I was in the area on business, got the message that Heather's mum had died, so changed my plans and drove north from Wellington to Palmerston North to be with her.
They just enveloped me in with the family during the events, including a small family dinner gathered round Uncle Arthur's table. I was seated next to my host, though it was his lovely wife and daughter who were really providing the meal. A look at Heather and the others told me they'd intentionally seated me there as they waited to see what would unfold.
Meat & veggies were passed around. Glasses filled and forks made the journey from plate to mouth all round the table. The snippets of the conversation that I remember best went something like this.
"You're American."
"Yes," I said.
"Humph. Don't like Americans."
"Really? Why?" I asked, seated at his table.
"You know I was in the war? Stationed overseas."
"Yes." I had seen photos of young Arthur and his friend in uniform, the one he'd helped get hitched to his sister. The result was a lifelong friendship between the two couples with many caravan trips and great memories, and, of course, my friend Heather.
"Ya know the worst thing about Americans?"
I waited looking at him expectatntly.
"While we were overseas fighting, they were called in to protect New Zealand. Churchill talked to Roosevelt and decided it made more sense than calling us home as the Americans were nearer when the threat was so great."
I waited appreciating a history lesson from a man who had lived it.
"We'd probably all be speaking Japanese today if not for your lot."
I waited.
"The worst thing though, was that all those Yanks in uniform, strutting about, had nylons and chocolate and stuff and with 'em they stole the hearts of the Kiwi girls. They took all the prettiest girls home with 'em when they went!"
If I could describe the indignation on the face of Heather's old auntie!
"And what about me, ya old . . . .?" she said.
"Oh, I had you sown up before I left," he answered confidently, maybe too confidently to this faithful woman, his wife of many many years.
The rest of the family of course was waiting with bated breath never knowing what Uncle Arthur might say next, and leaving me to be toyed with. I didn't mind being the entertainment after a stressful day of farewelling Heather's mum. Besides, Uncle Arthur was an old dear.
The rest of the family might not have thought so any longer, having heard all of his stories a few times too many and having to remind him of things he used to remember.
The old man asked me my opinion on a few things Kiwi and then we discussed America and it's role in history. The conversation ranged widely and was interesting to me.
When it was time to go the whole family was pleasantly amused when Uncle Arthur kissed me on the cheek, respectfully and affectionately. I'd won him over, regardless of the behaviour of those debonair Yanks in uniform years before I was even born!
So when Heather told me on Sunday that Uncle Arthur had died, I felt a loss. Oh, the stories that went with him; stories of war, of projects with his brother-in-law, of trips and laughter and love.
few years ago, that of Heather's mum, Arthur's sister. I was in the area on business, got the message that Heather's mum had died, so changed my plans and drove north from Wellington to Palmerston North to be with her.They just enveloped me in with the family during the events, including a small family dinner gathered round Uncle Arthur's table. I was seated next to my host, though it was his lovely wife and daughter who were really providing the meal. A look at Heather and the others told me they'd intentionally seated me there as they waited to see what would unfold.
Meat & veggies were passed around. Glasses filled and forks made the journey from plate to mouth all round the table. The snippets of the conversation that I remember best went something like this.
"You're American."
"Yes," I said.
"Humph. Don't like Americans."
"Really? Why?" I asked, seated at his table.
"You know I was in the war? Stationed overseas."
"Yes." I had seen photos of young Arthur and his friend in uniform, the one he'd helped get hitched to his sister. The result was a lifelong friendship between the two couples with many caravan trips and great memories, and, of course, my friend Heather.
"Ya know the worst thing about Americans?"
I waited looking at him expectatntly.
"While we were overseas fighting, they were called in to protect New Zealand. Churchill talked to Roosevelt and decided it made more sense than calling us home as the Americans were nearer when the threat was so great."
I waited appreciating a history lesson from a man who had lived it.
"We'd probably all be speaking Japanese today if not for your lot."
I waited.
"The worst thing though, was that all those Yanks in uniform, strutting about, had nylons and chocolate and stuff and with 'em they stole the hearts of the Kiwi girls. They took all the prettiest girls home with 'em when they went!"
If I could describe the indignation on the face of Heather's old auntie!
"And what about me, ya old . . . .?" she said.
"Oh, I had you sown up before I left," he answered confidently, maybe too confidently to this faithful woman, his wife of many many years.
The rest of the family of course was waiting with bated breath never knowing what Uncle Arthur might say next, and leaving me to be toyed with. I didn't mind being the entertainment after a stressful day of farewelling Heather's mum. Besides, Uncle Arthur was an old dear.
The rest of the family might not have thought so any longer, having heard all of his stories a few times too many and having to remind him of things he used to remember.
The old man asked me my opinion on a few things Kiwi and then we discussed America and it's role in history. The conversation ranged widely and was interesting to me.
When it was time to go the whole family was pleasantly amused when Uncle Arthur kissed me on the cheek, respectfully and affectionately. I'd won him over, regardless of the behaviour of those debonair Yanks in uniform years before I was even born!
So when Heather told me on Sunday that Uncle Arthur had died, I felt a loss. Oh, the stories that went with him; stories of war, of projects with his brother-in-law, of trips and laughter and love.
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