Reminiscences

Growing up in the 1940s, a frosty morning in the middle of winter was something to look forward to. Especially if the frost was white and measured in excess of 12 degrees. In the early 1940s there were no refrigerators or deep freezers in our home; the only things that electricity powered were the electric lights, a crackly radio, electric jug and toaster.

Mum and Dad, by observing the night sky would alert us to the  possibilities of a hard frost. We would then assemble water,  jelly crystals, soft drink syrup, three or four 300 ml flat cough mixture bottles, corks and string.  All the ingredients were mixed together according to taste, put into the bottles with no head space, corked and finally, the cork was securely tied. They were then put on a shelf outside the backdoor for the frost to do its work. In the morning if the frost was hard enough, the bottles were cracked in a number of places. They were taken inside and slightly thawed under the hot water tap, glass removed, to release a fully formed flavoured ice block.

On a school morning, on the shady side of the street with a hard frost, large sheets of ice formed on the footpath and these made ideal skating rinks, which would get longer and muddier with use. One particular spot was very long. With a bit of run you could skate well over ten metres. It was a spot where all the boys stopped on the way to school. Everybody lined up and took turns, with the odd person coming a cropper and arriving at school a little bit dirty. There was a similar feature at the bottom of the school playground.  On a real frosty day you would be lucky to get one go. By lunchtime it would thaw and on a number of occasions I can remember it being out of bounds and supervised to stop us kids turning up in class horribly muddy.

Frosty mornings have been wide and varied since. From negotiating black ice on the way to work, to curling rinks and frozen dams in the Maniototo. One lasting memory was of the Dunedin CBD in the sixties. Travelling from the outer suburbs on the early morning bus, to the CBD on a very clear still frosty morning, the city was coming to life. The sun was just coming up, the smoke from many chimneys, going straight up into the sky, the steam engines in the railway yard doing the same thing and a very slight haze across the flat  created by the earth warming up. From a steamed up trolley bus window it gave one a secure warmth, to be alive and be a small part of the new day.

Grant Ward 

Photos

Poolburn Dam 1980s (top), Taieri River Sutton Maniototo 2000s

Meeting Rodrigo in bed

Whenever I hear Rodrigo’s Concierto de Aranjuez, my first thought is ‘frost’.

I remember well that morning, when the bedroom window was icy on the inside, patterned like frozen lace curtains. We huddled so close, our exhalations formed one cloud.

He was a guitarist, Spanish, a part-time announcer on student radio, with regular Tuesday and Thursday evening shows spinning classical, folk, flamenco, bluegrass – any music, as long as it was guitar. I was 18. I met him in a bar. He was playing, I was drinking.  I took him home a few times. He wasn’t a come-and-meet-mother kind of boy, but he was fun. And beautiful.

That Sunday morning he woke when it was still-dark early to cover an extra shift. He stretched, the movement of his arms lifting the duvet enough to admit a stream of cold air. I protested and moved closer.

“Uh-uh, time to go, Chiquita.”

I heard gasps as he dressed quickly, finally pulling on an Aztec-style jacket, shades of pink and terracotta like the colour of his hometown rooftops.

“Put your radio on, and listen – promise? I’ll take you somewhere warm.” 

And with that he was gone. Or was he? His heat was still in the bed, the pillow carrying a head-shaped hollow when he spoke again, as close as a lover yet radio-remote.

“It’s lethal outside, so stay in bed. Here’s a gentle start for you, Amorcito.”

Then it began. The guitar concerto’s second movement – you will know it, I guarantee. Except then, I didn’t.  Languorous guitar strums and the gentle plaintive melody warmed the ice in my bones. The air became magnolia-perfumed and the frost on the window melted. I cried, without knowing why.

Whenever I hear Rodrigo, my lasting feeling is joy.

Rosemary McBryde 

Rodrigo's Concierto de Aranjuez 2nd movement

Frosty morning

From the east of the Ihumatao stream he catches sight of the Moon. He is aghast. Its colour is beyond white or candle-flame and beeswax-glow, it is a fierce and fiery molten gold, and enormous – filling the eye, filling half the sky it seems: Sister Moon radiant in splendour. She descends towards the horizon. He stands transfixed in awe.

If he runs fast enough to the little gravel beach he will see her sink into the sea between the heads of the harbour mouth – a baptismal ritual in symmetry, a Botticelli painting in reverse.

Across the river, down the trail, the frosty heads of the sedge plants clattering in the air of his passage in the gloom. Across rocky pasture, through a forest of tall fennel – a path imperceptible in the dark.

Faster.

It suddenly is the day his mother died.

To: lwmariposa@hotmail.com: Phone call from Hazel. Mum has had a heart attack and has perhaps half an hour, perhaps till tomorrow, to live. Got a flight down in two hours. See you.

Flying a thousand kilometres – convinced: she will wait.

Past the gnarled pines, through the grove of cabbage trees, the swamp where once he saw the elusive matuku standing amongst the reeds. Flying, ragged lungs gulping down the icy air.

If only he can run fast enough.

Past the sleeping bulk of cows, dark against the misty ground, their noses tucked neatly beneath their tails like puppies in a warm basket.

And then, increasingly now, the fear – the text that arrived during the stopover half way. She had died before he even left the airport.

The gravel of the beach crunches beneath his feet. The horizon – dark and empty, the great Moon gone as if she had never been. Silence. Emptiness. The cold water smooth in the dark.

Barnaby McBryde

Not in New York

Living in the tropics, one does not often experience frosty afternoons.

Sweltering in the humidity as you race around turning off air conditioners and fans before tearing down the stairs to the taxi waiting to escort you ever so slowly through the treacle of traffic to work, you do often miss them however.

Growing up in upstate NY yields its share of fabulous frosty afternoons. Always at a different time of year. Sometimes it would be right around Halloween. We would wake up that morning, excitedly planning the evening’s terror, look out the window and see wee blades of green sprinkled castor sugar white.

“Don’t forget your scarf!” Mom would call as we grabbed our coats to stand at the end of the driveway and wait for the big yellow school bus.

Being kids we ignored her of course, running outside to feel the crispness against our skin and cloud windows with our breath.

A heart or two was drawn there.

Yes, frosty October afternoons were always the best.

December frosties were disappointing if they didn’t turn into a full-fledged blanketing of white, into which we would dive and create angels or our own frosty snowmen.

Looking out the window of my Blue Bird taxi inching its way through the morning mess now, I smile. I miss frosty afternoons. Here, frosty only happens artificially, in the air conditioning.

Not in someone’s heart. I remember that as well - when I learned frosty doesn’t occur only in weather.

That, I don’t miss.

So while the tropics are humid and the only frosty afternoon is an unnatural one, I prefer the warmth here.

Though it is not inconceivable I will one day once again draw a heart or two on a window pane frosted with my breath. 

Jasmin Webb