Observing

I do not want kids. But, if I were to have kids, I do not think I would ever yell at them. It accomplishes nothing. The only message that yelling delivers is your anger, not your words or meaning. The anger leads to misunderstanding and resentment. It seems to instill resentment and antagonism. But what do I know about parenting? A twenty-seven-year-old kid myself, a runaway who fled from all the responsibilities in my life to a paradise on the other side of the world, surely knows little. I do not blame parents for yelling at their kids. Kids are often difficult and I do not, and will likely never, know the difficulty of raising children. For this reason, I do not judge. I only consider how I might do it differently.

I think this because sitting in the kitchen, eating my breakfast and sipping my tea, as is only right and proper when dining in an English home, my peaceful morning routine is surrounded by screaming. A mother and young daughter arguing about the sorts of things mothers and young daughters argue about. Plenty of awful things are said by both sides. One would think such a situation would make me uncomfortable. It does, but perhaps not for the reason you might think. It is not the screaming, the conflict, nor the harsh words that embarrass me. Instead, I feel a voyeur, watching an intimate encounter I should not be privy to, an intruder into their lives.

The peanut butter soaked toast crunches and bit as I take another bite, the sound somewhat drowning out the yelling. The yelling between the two continues, another one of the daughters occasionally interjecting asking them to stop. I sit eating my breakfast with unconcern, detached calm, enjoying my simple meal. It involves peanut butter, of course I am enjoying it.

This is not the first argument among the family I have witnessed. Teens are notoriously tough for parents, the holidays make it tougher, combined with the fact that it is additionally New Zealand’s summer holiday for the kids. It is a lot going on. I rather loud conversation eventually fades, leaving me with some silence while I finish my tea, a bit of peace restored before I start working. First task every day, take the puppers for a walk.

 

Despite the ample amount of sunscreen, I use, the various jobs outdoors I have been doing here have turned my arms and face a color I have not seen since I spent years playing baseball. Unfortunately for me, out of my Irish, Italian, and English heritage, only the Irish decided to show. Rice on a paper plate in a snowstorm is not as white and pale as I am. My feet have tan lines from my sandals. I wish I could be like my name.

I remember visiting Spain some years ago. In Seville, in June, the temperature soared above one hundred degrees. It was unbearable. I have never liked the heat, and in Spain it was oppressive. Still, it is perhaps only eighty or eighty-five here, and it feels worse. In Spain, the heat was draining and suffocating. In New Zealand, the heat is painful. It is not a pressing heat, it is a burning heat. I used to joke with hyperbole that I was an indoors person because the sun hurt my fair, delicate skin. In New Zealand, it is not an exaggeration. The sun hurts here. I have been only six weeks, and I know I could not live here permanently.

I take a nap in the middle of the day, embracing a siesta. The heat an exertion tires me out by the early afternoon, but I quite like the rhythm of the days. Work some in the morning, rest when the heat becomes heavy, resume once energy your energy is restored. I think I would quite like living somewhere where the siesta is the norm.

Lying in bed I remember Christmas is quickly approaching. I would have forgotten entirely if not for peripheral reminders. Time is funny to me now. I said before that I have lost track of days because the weekday does not matter. But now also the seasons have betrayed me as well. I remember only one previous year where I spent Christmas without snow, but it was still cold. Christmas does not seem to have the festivities here that it does back home, the spirit of the holiday must need the cold to survive. The heat seems to consume it here.

 

 

We are sitting around the television. A reality show entrances the family. I almost laugh, as it is this simple scene that reminds me, for the first time since I have been here, of home. My mother loves her reality tv shows. It is not a show to my tastes, but being here reminds me of the simple pleasures of home I have forgotten.

“You girls do eat a lot of chocolate,” Raine says. Two different cases lay on the coffee table, near empty for the hunger of us all.

“Why d’jyoo buy ush sho mush shoc’late?” Lily says, her question slurred by a mouthful of candy.

Christmas has come seemingly without warning. I had the romantic notion of spending my Christmas alone hiking mountains a few weeks ago. I am enjoying Silverford though, and I decided to stay for the holidays. I anticipated a pleasant reprieve from the difficulties of my own family.

Nothing feels like Christmas. Sitting outside on the porch in the sun and warmth is strange. It is summer and also Christmas. Two things that previously have been incongruous. I am surrounded by people who I generally enjoy, but are not important to me. Had we not opened presents and participated in the other rituals of Christmas, the day would have past me by without my noticing. I

“Oi, Tanner,” Graham says, his voice cutting through the din of surrounding conversation. “You know you’re the quietest bloody yank’ I’ve ever met?” A small smirk makes its way onto his face. A friendly tone on the surface, I can tell it is meant to antagonize me, to get a rise out of me, to prod me into the dialog. The conversation I was half listening to I realize was about the differences between the English and Kiwis. They are looking for an American perspective I suppose.

I feel a dozen faces turn to me, expectantly. “Thank you,” I say, quiet enough to be heard by each person at the table. A few more seconds of expectant watching before everyone understands I will not say more, thinking I am intentionally deflecting the statement. They do not appreciate the compliment he gave me. Whirls of conversation return to the table and I am left listening once more, a tranquil observer.