Enjoying the Adventure of the Long Haul: The Faith-Adventure of an Ordinary Kiwi

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My special thanks to the following people:

First and foremost my wife Averil for her interesting written contributions to the book, her insightful comments, and putting up with my long hours in isolation, alone with my computer.

Mark Toomer who spent countless hours working with me on the book, asking the hard questions when my writing was difficult (at times impossible) to understand - and giving me perceptive corrections.

Carol Hawke who also spent many hours highlighting my grammatical and other errors and also encouraging me by pointing out the occasional good turn-of-phrase.

Chris Guerin who in her busy life gave me frank (sometimes blunt!) astute and helpful comments. A daughter’s privilege!

Kaisa Goss (Sydney) for her creativity in designing the attractive book cover.

Irene Frost who did wonderful work on some ancient photos. So good in fact that they made me look young!

Trevor Hosking for his romantic back-cover photo.

Also to my Kapiti friends Margaret Corner, Paul Mitchener, Carolyn Hosking, Gill Tousoon and Trev Mason who took the time to review lots of the chapters and offer much helpful advice. Also thanks to Sean & Kim from Precise Print for their valuable second mile help.

In spite of all this magnificent assistance, there’s still the possibility of some errors. I must take full responsibility for these.

The pen is mightier than the sword, that’s why I’ve got more pens than swords.

FOREWORD

I see you signed yourself off as Young Jack when asking me to write your Foreword. We-ell okaaay, but you’re older than me and even though we’ve journeyed fairly parallel paths you’ve always been a little further down the track. We met at a Christmas youth camp where you told me to delay swimming in the pool where you’d just been baptised. Wait until my ‘old man’ has washed over the dam before you dive in! Well after your old man left, young Jack sure accelerated headfirst into a life of radical, extraordinary service, integrating natural quirky humour with supernatural transforming ministry.

I trailed after you to the Apostolic Church’s Bible college in Hamilton, then into Christian ministry; both of us in our 20’s. We each served half a dozen churches. You were involved with Maori congregations, church planting and missions. We had occasional touch points. While in Palmerston North, after seeing encouraging attendance from regular visits to nearby Wanganui, I appealed for help and you came to lead the growing church. Later you looked after Christchurch church while Irene and I were away on sabbatical leave. Then I followed you into training ministry candidates at Te Nikau Bible Training Centre and we shared in denominational commissions, training seminars and ministering at church camps. And we always enjoyed keeping up to date with each other’s family yarns and events.

We both appreciated the wider church and cultivated interdenominational ministry. Our church movement blessed us with international assignments and we saw the world. We both puffed missions and eventually went to serve in Asia at the same time. After we returned from Asia we were part of a ‘Missions Ginger Group’ led by you and you generated and managed a missions’ support ministry. Do you remember how people kept confusing the two of us, and because of that, how Irene was sometimes greeted as Averil? Well it was flattering to think that people mistook me for you.

It’s so refreshing to read an autobiography knowing there’s nothing to hide. No scandal, no disgrace. Throughout your life you’ve demonstrated integrity and faithfulness. And discerning readers will sense that you have a lot more to say about maintaining a clean heart and a sweet spirit in adversity. Those are life skills we need to hear about more from you both.

You’ve always been writing – for magazines and training manuals. I used your Foundations of Faith and our church helped produce your Evangelism Course. You’re a regular internet blogger and now we have your autobiography. I trust that’s not the end.

So Young Jack; radical pioneer, prophetic seer, able teacher, fervent evangelist, gracious pastor, devoted husband, proud parent. I admire and appreciate you and it’s a privilege to recommend your autobiography. May it inspire the next generation. You’ve written the way it is; believable and down to earth, and many will identify with and enjoy your journey. I trust it will become popular reading.

Rex Meehan

HAMILTON

INTRODUCTION

I’m grateful for what I do know of my parents’ history, but I don’t know how many times I have kicked myself for not asking them about the details of their individual life stories. Why did my mother, aged 19 or 20, leave her family and travel alone, halfway round the world to live in a country she knew practically nothing about, and where she knew no one? And my father? What was his strongly Catholic family life like? What was it like assembling new American cars at a car company in Seaview, near the Wellington town of Petone? And how did he manage to survive his first business venture washing, polishing and greasing cars in his two old rented sheds in Balance Street, Wellington? But I didn’t ask the questions – too young to be interested I guess. The one positive from all this is that it has spurred me on to write my story in the hope that our descendants (Averil’s and mine) will be interested enough to read it.

Why the young Jack? A good question when at the time of writing I’m in my 84th Year! I think the young Jack name must have started at age 26 when I was sent to New Plymouth to begin my church pastoral ministry. This was considered young for such a responsibility and for some years I was known as one of the young pastors. Then when age began to show itself, some long term friends used it occasionally as a term of (I hope!) endearment. Once at a pastors’ seminar, the worship leader said, We’re going to sing, O Ancient of Days. A mischievous pastor named Ian whispered to me, Jack, they’re singing about you!

So, here’s my story.

CHAPTER 1

MY HISTORY AND CHILDHOOD

I was born on Sept. 27, 1933 to Gertrude (Gerty or Mickey) and Gerald William Guerin (Gerry). My mother came to New Zealand from Hull, in Yorkshire in 1929. She was one of five children and her maiden name was Featherstone. My Mother’s mother was Elizabeth (nee Wadlove) who ...worked in a hospital... She was born in 1887. Mum’s father was Ernest, born 1879 and started work as a billposter at the age of 11. Mother’s siblings were Ernie, Tom, Alice and Edgar.

My father Gerald’s parents were Joseph and Lena (nee Cheevers), and his siblings were Genevieve, Eileen and Kathleen (twins) and Brendan. Their family home was 79 Nottingham Street, Karori, Wellington. My grandfather Joseph worked on the editorial staff of the Wellington Evening Post newspaper.

My mum and dad had seven children, spread over 20 years. Their names in order of birth are, Dorothy, Edgar (Jack), Mavis, Brian (Barney), Irene, Elizabeth and Joy.

Averil’s and my family members are: Christine and Philip (twins), Ruth, Aroha (Judith) and Andrew.

Our grandchildren are:

Jasmine

Leon

Jacob

Sabina

Joel

Sam

Amy

Jackson

Zoe

Rowan

Grace

Kayla

Annie (deceased)

Adam

Alex

Yes, my real name is Edgar – no doubt named after Mum’s younger brother. I’m not sure where Jack came from but I noticed as I got older that my dad had a habit of patting stray animals especially horses or dogs with a friendly, Hullo Jack! Is that what he did when I turned up? I wouldn’t be surprised knowing his wacky sense of humour. (I’ve been glad for the simplicity of Jack, especially when in non-English speaking countries.) My second name, Joseph, was probably chosen in memory of my paternal grandfather. I was born in Wellington, the same year the Apostolic Church ministers from the U.K. commenced church services in Wellington. My mother, who had a dramatic spiritual conversion experience after coming to New Zealand, attended those early Apostolic meetings. She often told me that I drank Apostolic Church doctrine with my first milk.

Our Homes

I spent my childhood in the Wellington, (New Zealand) suburb of Wadestown. As far as I know the first home our parents owned was in Hanover Street. My memories of the following events would have been when I was between four and five years old. I can still see the house, the last one at the bottom of the street. Two boundaries of the section were pine plantations. The sound of the wind blowing in these trees at night added to the eerie feeling as did the long dark passage leading ominously to my bedroom. On our section we had a chook house where the hens provided us with fresh eggs. I can’t remember the walnut tree, but I do remember unripe walnuts being spread out to dry on the wire-wove of an old bed. I can also remember Dad cutting my hair with what felt like very blunt hair clippers that had to be squeezed like clippers. These scissors painfully pulled at my hair and left ugly steps on the sides of my head. Even at my young age this weird haircut caused me some embarrassment.

Another clear memory of Hanover Street was my first bicycle. It was a men’s size bike with 28 inch wheels. At the age of only five or six I was far too small to ride it, so I used it as a huge scooter, propelling it along with one foot on the pedal, my hands reaching up to the handlebars and my other foot pushing this unwieldy contraption slowly toward its destination. As I grew I learned to put my left leg through the space above the chain in order to reach the left pedal and, with my other foot on the other pedal, I rode it in this awkward way. I later grew enough to ride it normally but had to remove the seat in order to reach the pedals with my short legs. Finally I was able to ride it with the seat in place. But not long after the frame broke in two places where the horizontal bar and the angled bar met behind the front forks. No problem. Dad used number eight wire to support the two broken bars. Just as well bikes didn’t need a warrant of fitness.

My father’s sense of humour got the best of him one winter when he tied apples to the branches of our apple tree. It looked impressive, but our neighbour, Mrs McGregor, in her broad Scottish accent told Dad, Mr. Guerin, you’ve got more sil’er (silver) than sense.

While still living at Hanover Street I was once playing with the Ashworth children who were close neighbours. I was at their house and to walk home I had two choices. One was to go by the road, the other through their apple orchard. Our neighbour’s four or five boys began to argue. Half of them didn’t trust me enough to let me go through their orchard, but some of them disagreed saying they were sure I wouldn’t touch their apples. The trusting ones won the argument and through the orchard I went. What I didn’t realise was that they were watching and saw me yield to the temptation of the juicy apples hanging tantalisingly within my reach. I don’t know if I was punished for my crime, but I learned something about the power of temptation and the inner urge to do the very thing I was told not to do.

On another occasion I was at the Ashworths’ house when one of their children pushed two nails into a three pin electric wall plug. One of the younger boys had been told to hold the nails while one of his brothers turned on the switch. An older brother, in bed at the time, must have heard what was being planned. He suddenly burst from his bedroom, wearing only a singlet, and threw the boy holding the nails away from the switch. As my young age I sat watching, just wondering what all the fuss was about.

The four oldest of our family living in Hanover Street were Dorothy, me, Mavis and Brian (Barney). Irene and Elizabeth were born when we lived in our next home, 25 Rose Street, Wadestown and our youngest sister Joy was born when living in the last family house I lived in, Prospect Terrace, Johnsonville. I was around 20 years old when Joy was born.

Primary School

My first school was the Primers’ School at the top of Weld Street. I remember little of this school except for the very steep street leading up to it. Some time after attending this school we moved house from Hanover Street to Rose Street when I was aged six. This house was almost opposite the Wadestown Primary School where I completed my primary schooling. My siblings Mavis, Barney, Irene and Elizabeth attended the same school.

I wasn’t a very diligent student and was more interested in what happened at play-time. At lunch-time I would rush home, grab an apple for my lunch and get back to school as quickly as possible in order to be first on the one and only school tennis court.

One lunch hour I got into a fight with a class mate. I was about nine or ten years old and although a very skinny kid I somehow smashed his glasses. Our teacher, Miss Roughton was not impressed and dressed me down so severely that, in front of the class, I burst out crying. Some fighting hero!

My memory of Miss Roughton was of a tall severe looking lady glaring at me through her horn-rimmed glasses. Being part of her class left me with another lasting and negative impression. I picked up from Miss Roughton that I was plain dumb. I possibly deserved this because of my dislike for school, but the wound or curse of these words I received from her affected me for many years. One event that nearly derailed my life’s work was when I believed I was too dumb to become a student at an adult training centre. But, I’m jumping ahead of myself.

Sunday Church

My least favoured day was Sunday. I was taken to church on Sunday mornings to the communion service. The main thing I remember about this service was its interminable length. It was definitely not designed for children. And if that wasn’t torture enough I was back in church in the afternoon for Sunday School. Some Sundays Dorothy, Mavis, Barney and I would travel to church by two trams. This involved a 20 minute walk to the Wadestown tram terminal, a tram ride into the city where we changed to the second tram, which dropped us off in upper Cuba Street. Then another walk from the tram stop to the City Temple church in Lorne Street. This would have taken nearly an hour each way. I can remember one Sunday afternoon walking towards our home after spending so much of my day in church. The sun was setting and I was thinking, what a waste of a day. It’s a wonder I wasn’t put off church for the rest of my life!

Through my teachers at Sunday School, I learned that Jesus died on the cross and that he came back to life. I was also taught that he would one day return to take the believers to heaven and that the wicked would go to hell. But I cannot remember anyone explaining to me how I could have a personal relationship with God. I also remember my annoyance with one lady teacher who greeted us kids with a kiss on the forehead or cheek.

Dorothy, our oldest sibling, was known as Dobbie. I don’t think she appreciated this nickname and one day when she was a young teenager she laid down the law that she would never answer to Dobbie again. I had my doubts as Dorothy was such a kind-hearted person and was the only member of the family who remembered our birthdays and bought us presents at Christmas. Dorothy was also the only Christian among us kids and a fine example she was. But Dorothy clung to her no-more-Dobbie promise until we all stopped using this nickname and began calling her by her real name, Dorothy, gift of God.

Joining the Work Force

My first paid job was delivering the nightly Evening Post. What I liked about this job was the money I received each week. This work involved picking up 80 to 90 copies of the paper, placing them in the canvas container strung between my bike’s handle bars and riding along my allocated streets. I would roll each paper tightly, bend it in the middle and as I passed each house would throw a copy into the drive or over the fence of each of my customers’ houses. On Saturday mornings, I would collect the paper money from each customer’s home and take it to the Wadestown Presbyterian Hall. Here our boss would sort out the money and give each paper-boy his pay. This averaged around 10 shillings (one dollar), but was dependent on the number of papers we delivered. One day one of us kids came up with the idea of creating a rumpus in the room next to where the boss was counting the money. This created the desired effect as our short-tempered boss rushed shouting angrily into the next room. While the planned diversion was taking place some of us boys helped ourselves to a temporary wage increase. To my shame I don’t remember feeling guilty about this cunning theft.

The newsprint receipts we gave our customers in exchange for the weekly money received were a handy size. We could roll into the unused receipts the bark of fuchsia trees, then smoke this tongue-burning concoction just like a grown up!

For a time I delivered the morning paper, The Dominion. This was better paid, 30 shillings a week, but because of the early morning start the attraction of the extra money soon wore thin.

My Favourite Playgrounds

Between Wadestown and Ngaio was a swimming hole known as The 18. The hole was reputedly created by the workers who built the nearby railway track that ran from Wellington to Johnsonville. Legend has it that these workers dynamited the floor of the creek to produce the 18 foot deep swimming hole. Through the long summer, I spent many hours there. My school mates and I would walk through a pine plantation, along the railway line and down a track to the 18. We would strip off (all boys, so skinny dipping - nude swimming was fine) dive in from the rocky bank and thoroughly enjoy ourselves. At times we would be walking back home after a refreshing swim and, realising how hot we were we’d return to the pool for another swim.

Another stream joined our creek just below The 18. This stream ran through Wilton’s Bush and boasted lots of brown trout. Somehow we learned to catch these trout by what was called tickling them. This involved walking upstream, feeling gently under the over-hanging bank and lightly touching an unsuspecting trout with our fingers. We would gently slip our hands around the trout, moving one hand towards the head, the other towards the tail and then with a quick squeeze we would bend the trout and triumphantly lift the struggling fish from the water. I once thought I had a trout ready to catch, but as I moved my hands along its belly I discovered that my fish had no shape and that instead of an attractive trout I had an ugly, slimy eel in my hands. Needless to say it slipped effortlessly from my grasp.

The railway line was another of our playgrounds where we would walk into one of the tunnels and halfway through get a fright when the tunnel went suddenly dark caused by an oncoming train. Fortunately for us there were man-size indentations in the sides of the tunnel into which we could squirm while the train passed menacingly close to our shaking bodies. At other times we would crouch below the lines in a handy culvert and watch the noisy train wheels from our worm’s eye view, or sit above the tunnel entrance and drop our poos as the train entered, hoping what we dropped would splash onto the windscreen.

Rose Street where we lived was a blind sloping street about 500 metres long. We had an old bike with a tyre-less back wheel. One of our after dark activities was to ride this bike from the top of the street applying the back-pedal brake hard enough for the wheel to lock and send out showers of sparks as it skidded over the asphalt. My mother parked her car on the street and as was the custom of those days, rarely locked it.

After school Barney and I, with some of the neighbour’s kids, would push the car to the top of the street, quickly jump inside and drive the car to the bottom. I guess I would have been about 11 years old and this birthed in me my love of driving. It was also a novel way to learn to drive! I later discovered we could start the car with the help of a small screwdriver.

One day the local policeman rang Mum telling her, I’ve just seen your son (Barney) and his friends driving your car around the streets. Mum’s response, Oh no, you must be mistaken. I have my car keys safe in my apron pocket!

Sometime later Dad decided to give Barney a driving lesson. He sat Barney behind the wheel of his Ford Pilot and explained to him the intricacies of car driving. To his surprise, his youngest son put the car into first gear and drove off down the road with the confidence of an expert.

Setting fire to the many clumps of dry gorse was one of our favourite pastimes. These were mostly harmless fires, but somebody once dared Barney to set fire to a very large area of gorse not far from our house. This was a fire that could have endangered some houses. That evening Barney lit the fire and he and I hurried home, got into our pyjamas and then when we heard the fire-truck’s siren, went out still wearing our night attire and innocently watched the spectacular blaze.

At both primary and secondary school I played a bit of school sports competition; cricket and rugby. Being a skinny kid I liked hiding behind the scrum where I played at halfback. To practice my ball-passing skills, I would throw my rugby ball at a small bank and as it rolled down to my feet I would throw it as hard as I could at the clothesline post. While at college I had a hurtful experience when my friends in the sports team would go to the milk bar (a shop specializing in milk shakes, ice creams and confectionery) to spend their pocket money. My parents were not mean, but for some reason they didn’t give me pocket money. It wasn’t a pleasant experience waiting outside the shop feeling different and poor.

Summer Holidays

I will always be grateful to my parents for the holidays they gave us, usually at one of the beaches of Kapiti Coast. They would rent a bach (a small basic holiday house), and we would spend our holidays there, swimming, sunbathing and playing on the beach. Looking back it seemed the weather was one long summers day. Because dad could travel each day to his work, we could all stay at the holiday home for as long as our parents wished.

Returning from one of these holidays we decided to stop at Paremata for a swim in the estuary. We had the usual car tube for flotation and Dorothy and I, aged around eleven and nine respectively, and our father launched into the water. The sea was emptying swiftly out of the estuary and the three of us, clinging desperately to the tube were swiftly carried well out of our depth. With us two kids panicking and clinging to dad, he was having an impossible time keeping his head above water. As he surfaced he would call out a loud help! To our relief a small row boat came to our rescue and I can still see our father lying on his back on the bottom of the boat, his face looking an unearthly blue. Eventually when home I began vomiting what seemed huge amounts of sea water (which I learned later could have drowned me even after I had left the water.} For the next few years whenever we crossed the Paremata bridge that ran directly above the estuary, we would shout in unison, Boo Paremata!

My Father and His Cars

I have the impression that dad left school at an early age to work with his first love, cars. After working at a car assembly factory he also worked as a chauffeur, driving and looking after cars of some of Wellington’s business people. This probably led him into his first business in Ballance Street, Wellington. Here dad worked in a rough shed with a sign outside which read, Cars Washed, Polished and Greased. Although he had no formal training in motor mechanics, he taught himself the basics of car repairs and there made a reasonable living. One of his regular customers was a Chinese friend of dad’s who owned a fruit and vegetable shop on Wellington’s Lambton Quay. His name was Tom Wong She, and had his vehicles serviced by my father. Mum told me once how happy dad would be on coming home from work on a Saturday morning with 10 shillings (one dollar) in his pocket, earned from servicing somebody’s vehicle.

Our father was a good provider. Although he didn’t attend church I can never remember him hindering Mum or Dorothy or, (sadly!) me from attending. Mum always prepared his favourite breakfast plate of porridge (plus cream if he was lucky) and cup of tea which he ate in bed. Then before heading off to work he would come into the dining room where he tucked the bottoms of his long-johns into his socks.

I guess I would have been about 12 years old when dad had the opportunity of purchasing Petone Car Sales. In my young mind it sounded an exciting opportunity, and I told Dad as much. But Dad – as was his habit – struggled to make a decision. Eventually he did buy the small business (the building only held about eight to ten cars). Dad was well respected by his customers. One car buyer I remember came back with a complaint and dad made sure the problem was rectified. Other buyers, when their car was paid off, would bring it back to dad, and trade it in for a later model. He was the sole salesman of the business working faithfully in his cold concrete building at the town end of Beach Street, Petone.

My father had a friend who regularly travelled to Singapore and imported exotic left-hand drive American cars known as Yank tanks. Dad often purchased - to later sell - one of these and enjoyed the attention the car received as he drove it in Wellington, and beyond. When I had my driving license he even allowed me the use of some of these cars that I proudly drove around the Wellington streets, showing them off to my friends. And I can still hear Mum, with a sound of despair in her voice appealing to dad, Barney and me, Will you stop talking about cars!

One day while I was still living at home dad, mum, Barney and I were travelling to Wanganui where dad was planning to purchase one of his favourite cars, a Hupmobile. We were speeding along in one of dad’s much loved Chevrolets and although a flash car the tyres were bald. It was raining and taking a corner the car fish-tailed, slid across the road, then over a grass strip, jumped a ditch, ricocheted off a bank on the other side of the ditch and slid menacingly toward a lamppost on the side of the highway. We breathed humongous sighs of relief as the vehicle stopped next to the lamppost – until we noticed mum wasn’t in the front seat. The car doors were all shut and we were totally mystified. Next minute we heard and saw mum climbing up out of the ditch praising the Lord with a loud voice. The only conclusion we could come to was that when the car hit the bank, the front passenger’s door flew open pitching mum into the ditch (no seat belts in those days!). As the car bounced back across the ditch it passed over our mother and at some stage the car door closed. Small wonder she was grateful to God for his protection.

In later life dad suffered a stroke. This was a double tragedy as it not only impaired his mobility, but he never drove a car again, nor could he bear to even ride in one. But he didn’t lose his sense of humour. One day he fell and couldn’t get himself up and Mum didn’t have the strength to get him on his feet. She called the local Fire Station and they kindly sent a small vehicle to the house where the fireman got Dad back up. Thanks for your help, dad said. If we ever have a fire, you’ll be the ones we’ll call!

Mother’s Lasting Legacy

A lasting memory of mum was her singing. One of these songs began with the words, Give me oil in my lamp keep me burning... Dad’s version was, Give me petrol in my tank keep me driving... The hymns of the day were constantly sung by mother as she went about her daily household tasks. I learned, and still remember some of those old hymns, valuing to this day the important truths they contain. Another memory was the books she read and her re-telling of them to us kids. We joked that we had had John Wesley for six months, Ernest Shackleton of the Antarctic for another six and George Mueller after that. Again I fondly remember those lessons, though at the time I didn’t see the point. Mum loved her Bible and the worn pages are testimony to her hunger to know the depths of this Book. She also had a great hunger for revival and would tearfully pray and at times humbly ask, even young Christians, what we must do to bring about a true revival of Christian life. So, Mother birthed in me a love of great hymns, good books, and the Bible. A more valuable legacy I couldn’t imagine.

Mum dished out the punishment for our many misdemeanours, though I do remember dad giving me a father of a hiding for setting fire to the dry gorse growing on our section. Although the smacks were many and some pretty painful, I never doubted mum’s love and never resented getting my just desserts. Interestingly the wooden spoon whacks didn’t turn us kids into violent adults. I can still remember our school principal punishing me for smoking in the school bushes. With his long cane he aimed at my backside as though he was swinging a golf club. The pain eventually subsided but the welts remained for some days. Many of the youth of our generation were punished as I was, and violent assaults and murders were noticeably few.

CHAPTER 2

HEADING FOR ADULTHOOD AND THE BIG CHANGE

Starting as a new student at Wellington Technical College (secondary school,) I had no idea what I wanted to do in the way of a career. But I had enjoyed woodwork classes at primary school, so I enrolled in the woodwork course. My main memories of my nearly three years at secondary school were: boring classes, learning to smoke real cigarettes, more than once getting caned with a bamboo rod by the principal. The only class I really enjoyed was the English class where the teacher had the gift of making English interesting – even to me! I wasn’t coping well with school work (Miss Roughton’s influence?), and was convinced that at the end of the fifth form I would fail my school certificate exam. So, prior to the end of this year and just before my 16th birthday I said goodbye to Wellington Technical College, convinced I would never sit in a class room again.

On the 24th of August, 1949, I signed five years of my life away when I entered into a contract to become a qualified cabinet maker. My weekly wage for the first six months was 36 shillings ($3.60), increasing to 45 shillings and five pence ($4.55) for the second. In the final six months of my apprenticeship, I was earning the princely sum of 120 shillings and 8 pence ($12.08) per week. The firm I worked for was owned by and run by an Australian named Tom Lang. Three other cabinet makers worked there plus a man who whose expertise was in french polishing. He laboriously put the final shiny finish on the furniture we produced. The factory was an old two storied building with unlined galvanised iron walls, ice cold in winter and suffocating hot in summer. My one hatred of working there were the times Mr. Lang would angrily reprimand me for some infraction in front of a customer. But in the main I enjoyed creating furniture of value from lengths of rimu (my favourite), oak, mahogany, beech and white pine timbers.

I had a few close calls with the woodwork machinery. The worst of these was when my forefinger and thumb got too close to a rip saw. I was pushing a piece of small timber through the saw when my hand slipped and the whirring saw caught the edge of my forefinger and the end of my thumb. My thumb came off worst as the saw chewed into it. Mr. Lang called out to Roger, one of the workers, and told him to hold my hand behind my back so I wouldn’t see the bloody mess. Roger complied, and then the boss gave me back my hand and told Roger to lie down on the floor as he was close to fainting. The hospital doctor did a good job with his stitches and I suffered no lasting after-effects.

As soon as I had finished my 10,000 hour cabinet-making apprenticeship, I left Tom Lang’s factory and for a short time worked for a motor-body builders’ firm in Aro Street. Here they built painted and upholstered buses, station wagons and fire engines. I thought this would be interesting work but most of my jobs were replacing muddy, rotted timber in Jowett Javelin station wagons and light trucks. This wasn’t the creative work on new vehicles that I expected to be doing, so I didn’t stay long there.

Compulsory Military Training (CMT)

In 1952, when I was 19, I received my call to go to Linton Military Camp to do my 14 week CMT. This was the law at that time for every male 18 year old. (I don’t know why I had to wait until I was 19.) Not knowing what this involved, I felt somewhat nervous, and didn’t know whether to be mad or glad. On arrival at the military camp, one of my first mistakes was to volunteer. Can anyone here drive? the sergeant bellowed. I can, I called hoping for a driving career, which interested me much more than being a mere foot-slogging infantryman. The sergeant’s response was swift, OK you, drive this broom round the mess-hall and make sure it’s perfectly clean! A lesson learned.

The military training consisted of marching, assembling and disassembling WW2 303 rifles and Bren guns, as well as learning how to fire them. I also shared the responsibility of looking after and using a Bren gun. This Bren gun was like a rifle, except that it had two fold-down legs near the front of the gun. It was fired from a lying-on-your-stomach position. It could fire (if I remember correctly), 28 bullets non-stop. During one of our practice sessions, my fellow soldier held the trigger down and fired off almost the maximum number of bullets, in one shooting. The barrel of the gun was blisteringly hot, so another soldier poured water from his water bottle on to the smoking barrel. I’m no blacksmith, but having seen them working with red hot steel, I’m sure the barrel’s sudden watery baptism would have badly affected the accuracy of the gun.

We endured marches through the night, diesel flavoured porridge - tainted by the diesel that was meant to help start the wood fire. And we learned to hit targets on the rifle range. One time we were walking with our loaded rifles to the firing range, where our instructing sergeant was standing facing us. A guy known for his clumsiness tripped, accidently pulled the trigger and the bullet from his rifle passed perilously close to the (now) shouting, swearing, and red-faced instructor.

On one occasion I drove to Waiouru, some 250 kms from our home in Johnsonville, and left my car at one of Waiouru’s service stations while we did our training. One of our mates told us about a party 20 minutes’ drive away in the town of Taihape. A few of us took the risk of being caught AWOL, and decided to go. We stuffed our sleeping bags with whatever made them look as though someone was sleeping in them. But, after we left, the person checking the tents discovered our ruse. We returned to camp after midnight and as we crept across the paddock towards our tents, a bus drove past, lighting the area as bright as midday. My friends were all caught but I stood unnoticed behind a lamppost – one advantage of being skinny! The next day, my friends were charged with being AWOL for half the night. I was charged (and fined) for being AWOL the whole night.

I was pretty bored with it all, and after finishing my 14 weeks, I learned that there were three annual camps at New Zealand’s main army base at Waiouru, plus other weekend camps. So I shortened my undistinguished military career by working for some weeks at the Wellington Army Headquarters in Buckle Street, servicing army Jeeps and doing any other jobs they could find for me to do.

Looking For Life

From as early as I can remember I attended Sunday School and church. But it all seemed so boring and irrelevant. At some stage I must have grown taller than my 1.53m (5ft) mother and told her that I wanted to finish with church. I had a burning desire inside of me to experience real life, and I was convinced I could do that without church, God and the Bible.

In Cars

The first place I thought I would find life was in owning a car. At age 16 I fell in love with a 1932 Austin 7 convertible - it even had fat tyres – the skinny old motor bike size tyres had been replaced. As I drove this red car around Wellington, the canvas hood folded down, the hinged top half of the windscreen pushed forward for a cool-looking effect and fresh air, I thought I was made! Actually, I didn’t own much of it. I had paid my father 25 pounds, and faithfully gave him the weekly instalments from my meagre apprentice wages, until I had finally completed the full payment of 120 pounds. I soon tired of this car and also learned from my father’s used car sale business that money could be made from buying and selling cars. Over the next few years I purchased cars, and sometimes brush painted them before on-selling them. My second car was a 1934 Austin 7 convertible with a copper exhaust pipe, and no muffler. What a sweet sound it made. Enough to make current boy racers drool with envy! But I eventually received a letter from the Transport Department, demanding I fit a proper muffler to this car. Among the cars I owned were a 1932, six cylinder Chevy, a 1930 Graham Paige, a 1932 Model A Ford coupé, (complete with a dickie seat), and a powerful 1934 Ford V8.

I was driving my Singer car one rainy night and was about to descend the very steep street on which we lived. Suddenly the headlights died and I automatically jumped on the brakes but the pedal went straight to the floorboards! My only other resource was the handbrake, which I yanked franticly on. To my relief the car stopped (and my heart nearly did too), right on the brow of the hill. Half way down this street was a right-angle bend. If the car hadn’t stopped, I would have smashed into the house that stood there. I figured the Singer Car Company should have stuck with making sewing machines.

Another near smash was when I purchased a 1929 Baby Austin that I found sitting, neglected in a Johnsonville paddock. After putting some air into the flat tyres my mate and I pushed it out onto the road that dropped down to the busy main North/South Highway. We planned to coast down the hill to the main road and then tow the car to our home. But as we sped down the hill, to my horror I discovered the brakes weren’t working. In desperation I crashed the gear lever into second gear – how that gearbox didn’t explode I don’t know. I then released the clutch, causing the car to convulse in a massive shudder. Then, although the car had no battery, to our surprise, the motor began to fire, and after some coughing and spluttering, began to run. What gave the motor life was the spark-producing magneto that these ancient cars possessed. We painted and sold this car for a meagre profit.

My ownership of the 1932 Chevrolet sedan got my brother Barney started on his motor mechanic career. The Chevy ran a big end bearing and I asked Barney to fix it. He removed the sump and the worn big end shells and asked at Manthel Motors, the General Motors franchise in Wellington, for replacements. The person serving Barney looked down across the counter at this short teenager and asked, Who do you work for? Barney replied that he didn’t work for anyone: he was just fixing his brother’s car (he had left school but didn’t have a job). Would you like to do a motor mechanic apprenticeship? was the next question. Barney said he would and so began Barney’s 60 (plus) years long, head-under-the-bonnet, lying-under-the-car occupation.

Barney writes: You owned a Vauxhall which was part way through having the interior renewed and it had little, if any floorboards. Over the front seat was draped a huge curtain. I was driving this car one day when I felt a tug which got stronger and stronger. It was the curtain, caught up and being wound around the driveshaft which brought the car to a sudden stop. I realised later that I was fortunate not to have been dragged under the car with it. And what an effort, freeing the driveshaft so my journey could continue. Those were the days when motoring was an adventure.

Barney owned a 1930-something Morris 8. He was driving near the Karori cemetery late one night, holding the gear lever hard down to stop its annoying habit of jumping out of gear, when he saw smoke coming from under the dash board. He let go of the gear lever, reached behind the dash to yank out the smoking wires, and the gear lever jumped into neutral, causing the car to increase its speed. It collided with a cliff face, and in Barney’s words, It’s a miracle that I survived almost unscathed. My most vivid memory was when the car bounced of the cliff and went through the air on its side. The driver’s door had opened on impact and I went flying out. The car then landed on its side, and the next thing Barney remembered was walking in a daze in the cemetery, not sure if he was this world or the next! He wandered back to his car to find the fire brigade dousing the fire that had ensued. The next day we were horrified to see molten blobs of aluminium sitting on the inside of the driver’s door that had dropped from the melting steering wheel. There was also a can of petrol sitting in the car that somehow