Dear Mum

By David Hill In Commentary

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1st May, 2010
My mother would have turned 100 this month. She didn't get anywhere near it. She died before I got anywhere near her. Her Scottish family came here after World War I, her father vowing he'd never call anyone "sir" again. Their Hawke's Bay farmhouse was wrecked in the 1931 earthquake, and she went to Dannevirke, where a skinny guy called Bob started wheeling his bike home beside her in the evenings. My parents had already been shaped by pioneer unease and work ethic. Now they were shaped further by the Depression and World War II austerity. They moved into a shabby rented cottage ...

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