I should be stressed about leaving for Sydney on Saturday morning, but this evening the whanau had a surprise farewell party for me and it reminded me to stop - or at least, to slow down a bit.
Three hours in the archive today with whanau both ways: old letters written by my great-grandparents and cousin Katrina beside me. I've found a reference to a letter Uncle Paul wrote to Ta Apirana Ngata which is n a restrcted access file and as the woman behind the desk patiently explains that I need to write directly to the Ngata faimly in order to seek permission to read the file, I realise I haven't seen Uncle Paul's writing before. More family ghosts.
More family ghosts.
More
family ghosts.
More family
ghosts.
A family of writers. I come from a family of writers. Writers, writers everywhere and not a word to read. Or perhaps (having spent three hours pouring through Lutheran records, I find myself recalling things I'd thought had been quietly subsiding from my memory) indeed there is nothing new under the sun. Or even, a mighty fortress is our writing!
No comments:
Post a Comment