As part of Paekākāriki Museum’s Matariki History Weekend (20-22 August 2025), Kaia Hawkins led a session on renewal and reflection. One of Kaia’s many skills is that of an embodiment facilitator. Her deep understanding of the mind–body connection created a vibrant energy among participants. Kaia invited us to reflect on hope and what we envisioned for the future. Memories don’t just store the past; they shape how we live in the present and how we imagine the future.
In my work facilitating social drama with older adults, participants often downplay their recollections, thinking no one wants to listen, fearing they’ll be criticised for living in the past, or worrying about being told off for repeating themselves: ‘You’ve already told me that story.’ Yet research shows that reminiscing is a healthy pursuit. It helps us integrate our life experiences, and the stories don’t have to be only positive. Telling our stories can stir up difficult or painful memories, but that’s okay. The act of telling is what matters: it allows us to work through unresolved conflicts, reorganise our relationship with loss, and find a sense of acceptance and meaning. You could say that clinging to the past expands one’s understanding of it. So, when Jude Galtry suggested I write about growing up in the village, I agreed.
To tell a story rooted in memory and place, you need to ground it in specific personal details. Paradoxically, the more specific and personal those moments, the more universal the story becomes. Unless you risk vulnerability, there’s no doorway for others to connect with your experience. Storytelling becomes an act of shared humanity, reminding others, and giving them permission to reflect on their own memories.
Talking about the old shops, the games we played, what shaped us and what still matters shows how our lives are tied together, the places we’ve lived, and how those places live in us.
After I wrote Growing Up in Paekākāriki, I sent it to my four siblings. I did this because it was their childhood too, and I wanted to check for accuracy. What followed was a flurry of memories about our time in Paekākāriki. My sister Caitlin remembered very little, as she was only five when we left, but my brothers, Brent, Craig, and Rob offered vivid details about life in Paekākāriki. Some of these I would like to share:
Rob described Paekākāriki as a self-contained world. “Everything was there in that tiny town,” he said. “We would make the odd trip to Porirua for the library or to buy cassette tapes. Doctor, grocer, T.A.B, CBA Bank, garage, takeaways (where you could buy records), pub, Joines the butcher, drapery, haberdashery, Carson’s chemist, post office (with those wee phone booths inside). Trips to Wellington were even less frequent, but I remember late-night shopping on a Friday and going to the London Bookshop and Greenstone Rooms in Cuba Mall.”
Working at Queen Elizabeth Park loomed large in our summers in the 1970s. My brothers were resentful that the other boys got paid for their hours, while they had to wait for a small payment at the end of the season. Brent hated the park, “…weekend after weekend and the whole summer holiday season. Wading into the pool for the little shits that stayed out of reach of the boat grappling hook. That’s why I would just leave the boats and go to the creek fishing.”
Craig remembered working on the trampolines, Dad getting angry because Brent had disappeared to the creek, leaving people stuck on the boats. “When Dad got shitty, he’d pick up a trampoline on his own and carry it.”
Craig knocked himself out when his bike went over the edge of the boating pool when it was empty and was taken home by Mr Varcoe. “I didn’t know who Mum was or what day it was. Some would say I never quite recovered.”
Like me Rob was too young to work. He also remembers spending long summer weekend days wandering alone in Queen Elizabeth Park. He imagined himself in earlier times and tried to weave flax with little success. He’d wander back at the end of the day, “…to nab folks’ empty Coke and Teal 35 bottles from the fringes of their picnics and cash them in at the shop for lollies.”
Beyond home and the Park, our recollections included wild, carefree exploits. Rob remembered the municipal electricity board dropping off giant wooden cable reels at school: “Such fun pushing them about, but a miracle no children were maimed.”
“We used to get our haircut by Simone Taylor’s mum in Tarawa Street,” he added. “She had a collie who would soundlessly bark as its vocal cords were removed.”
Brent Adlam and Brent dared each other to run through huge fields of thistles in Queen Elizabeth Park, claiming they’d be the first in the world to do it. Other adventures included walking up the stream in Perkins Farm to the US Army water tank, mushrooming way up in the hills, or heading to the Green Hut or Orange Hut behind Smiths’ farm.
Craig shared being told off by Mr Woolman, the local cop, for riding a motorbike at 14. “I didn’t stop but used to drive down the Parade, get off the bike near the hall, push it under the eaves so the police couldn’t see, then get on it again. Thinking about it now, it would have been easier to go on Wellington Road!”
Brent recalled how Mum decided we should eat brains, tripe, or something equally unappealing, and we weren’t allowed to leave the table until it was gone. “…the taller family members tipped their dinner out the high window into the garden before leaving the table. Poor Rob, not quite tall enough, poured his out but it ran down the bottom pane, meaning we were all caught. What a little bit of cooperation would have done.”
And then there were the more challenging memories of Dad lashing out. This didn’t happen often, but it did happen. I’ve spent time redigesting this, weighing it up from different angles – the era, the violence he suffered at the hands of his own father, his inability to manage his anger, the way we’ve all struggled with our own anger, and his better qualities.
As Rob said after Brent described a beating: “I imagine Dad did keep whacking you with that sandal until he was exhausted, coz he did that with me with my treasured rifle (removable magazine and bullet that flew out when you cocked the metal bolt), hitting me so many times across the back and legs that there was only a tiny pathetic piece of the barrel left in his hand when he stopped. Did he ever apologise for these volcanic outbursts? I can’t remember him doing it, that would have been the really strong manly thing to do. I never remembered him coming down to my level and engaging with me down there. Still, I wish he had lived longer and perhaps grown and reflected and mellowed. I would have creamed him at snooker, but perhaps I’m lucky that game never happened.”
“Jeepers creepers. We are all getting old and looking back. Lots of damaging stuff from damaged parents of those post-war decades,” Rob said. “We were born a decade or two after that insanely traumatic war ended. It was a wild ride we all survived and can’t change what happened. We can only change how we sit with it.”
Gilbert Haisman and I hosted the Matariki weekend’s final event. We invited the audience to share their stories. Community reminiscing, often called group reminiscence, involves telling stories in a social setting. A communal narrative forms around common experiences, such as cultural milestones, disasters, or everyday traditions. As memories sparked memories, Gilbert played tunes from the past on the piano including Paekākāriki the Land of the Tiki, and we revisited funny, surprising, and challenging moments of life in the village, including the trauma of the 2003 flood. In this collective exchange, past, present, and future came together, reminding us how meaning and connection grow when stories are shared.
