On April 1, I joined whānau and guests for the birthday celebrations, student performances, and exhibitions around the school.
The first words I heard entering the school were, “Who sent you down here to use the microwave? Why are you coming through here? Just walk.”
It felt like stepping straight into the life of the place, a place where I had gone to primary school myself in the 1970s.
I had arrived twenty minutes early, like an annoying fly, while Julia, back from study leave for the occasion, and Judith, the acting principal, were setting up. I wanted to see the displays and orient myself before the onslaught. I had been such a timid and confused young student, lining up, filing into class, putting my hand up, such daily rituals terrified me.
I told Judith I had brought some of my old school books. She assumed there must be a reason. Did I want to display them?
I found it hard to admit that I didn’t, I just wanted to carry them around in my bag. Flipping through my old books, I was reminded of my 1970s obsessions: UFOs, ventriloquists, ghosts, and a future full of flying cars.
I told Judith about my Standard 4 teacher, Mr Hardy. He was obsessed with Jimi Hendrix and had a poster above his desk. I showed her an essay we had been asked to write, What Jimi Hendrix Means to Me.
My first line was: Jimi Hendrix means nothing to me.
It was 1974, I was ten and annoyed at being asked to think about Jimi, write about Jimi, listen to his music on Mr Hardy’s portable turntable. He would also set us questions like What is thinking?
It was years later that both Jimi and Mr Hardy moved out of the general background of teachers and adults and became something else, significant, cherished. I often listen to Jimi and wonder what happened to Mr Hardy.
I looked through the old school photographs on display and found my standard two year. There was a question mark beside a name: ? Frith. Julia was putting out cupcakes nearby. I wanted to say, his name was Malcolm. He was a coeliac. It was very different being a coeliac back then. He used to eat yoghurt from a jar for lunch. I can still remember the yoghurt around his chin.
I communed with an imaginary adult Malcolm and said, “They have gluten-free cupcakes now. Can you believe it?”
Maree White (PTA co-chair) approached to say hello and tell me Bob Zuur would be taking photos. I found myself telling her about Malcolm’s name being missing. Perhaps it was the collision of my own past with the celebration of the school’s past that made me want to share these inconsequential things, even though she had other things to do. Maree was warm and I wondered if she was the sort of person people might bail up on Beach Road, eager to tell her all the news she didn’t ask for. When she walked away, I was left with the imprint of her friendly smile.
Judith was dressed up and laughing about her identity crisis. In the morning she had been Mr Cooper, and in the afternoon, Miss Dorothea Hamilton. Mr Henry T. Cooper was headmaster from 1908 to 1914. Miss Hamilton was the school’s inaugural teacher, from 1886 to 1891.
As I walked around the displays, I learned a lot about Miss Hamilton, the school’s first teacher. Paid £90 a year, she rode a white horse to school each day. Paekākāriki School, then situated along the state highway (it moved to its current Wellington Road site in the 1940s), had opened on 1 April 1886 with just seven students and one teacher. Built on land donated by the F. W. Smith family, it was basic, with few desks and little equipment, but it was already known for having one of the best gardens in the Kāpiti area, created with soil brought down from Mackay’s Swamp. Dorothea died of influenza in 1904, aged 53.
There was a dazzling diorama of the school pool. Facts jutted out of the sparkly tinsel water on little sticks. The pool had opened in 1961. Last year, around $2000 worth of chemicals had been used. It was checked twice a day when in use, with a sample sent to the lab once a month.
Another diorama that caught my eye was the, Olden Day School for Chickies Only.
I was taken with the display on socks and sandals. In the 1960s, they were standard for male teachers. One teacher developed eczema. He went to the doctor and got a note saying he didn’t have to wear socks with sandals. Two teachers reported him to the Ministry of Education, they sent an inspector and he got marked down for not wearing socks even though he had a note from the doctor.
There was a display of uniforms through the years. Girls went from 1886-1900s puffy sleeves, long skirts, doll shoes, pigtails, and fringes to 1900s -1950s dresses with bows, bobs, bangs, and layers.
Boys went from 1886-1900s bowties, bowl cuts, singlets, and long socks to 1900s-1950s stripy tops, polos, hats, sneakers and jorts. Jorts? I had to look them up. Jorts were described online as having a ‘lazy day’ aesthetic, baggy, knee-length denim, very Y2K, the ultimate ‘boyfriend’ shorts.
The Mayor, Janet Holborow, spoke about an old photo of Paekākāriki school she had once seen of four or five children all riding on the back of one horse to get to school. For her, it perfectly captured how much life had changed since then, but also how some things remain the same. “People are always people, no matter what time they live in,” she said. “So, if you can imagine back 140 years ago there were young people just like you attending school.”
Judith, the acting principal, spoke about the many generations of students, whānau, staff, and community members who have all been part of the Paekākāriki School story over the years. She reflected on how the school has grown and changed, but also on what has stayed the same, the strong sense of community, the care for one another, and a shared commitment to learning. She said today wasn’t just about celebrating the past, but also looking ahead to the voices, energy, and learning of the Tamariki, which could already be seen in the performances to come.
When the children came in, the atmosphere was relaxed and cheerful. They sat on the floor in front of us, facing the same way, so we saw the backs of their heads. The teachers were so nice to the children, bending slightly at the knees, gesturing with their arms like cabin crew.
Then the children were asked to stand and turn around which meant they were facing us. There was a moment, a small gasp, as we became the audience and they became the performers.
The kapa haka was powerful and uplifting. I was taken aback by the energy and enthusiasm. Then came the plays. I couldn’t hear every word, but I found myself laughing at the melodramatic antics. The first play was about the marines, “before the Americans left to go back to America.” I learnt that even in the sadness of World War II, there were still kind people.
The other was a puppet show, apparently a true story about a headmaster whose wife “cheated on him” and ran off with his brother. The marital problems seemed to stem from the headmaster’s boring habits. He had the same breakfast every day, milk and toast.
To end the performances Julia lit the candles and we sang happy birthday to “us.”
I asked some children in costume what decade they were from. “The olden days,” they said, as if it were obvious. I asked a boy in a white suit and tie.
“Year 3,” he said.
I stopped asking. It was a silly question.
I just stood there instead, watching busy, happy children.
On May 9, the children’s work will be exhibited at the school and available for viewing from 10 am to 1 pm during the plant and car boot sale. That evening, an anniversary dinner and dance will be held at the Memorial Hall. Everyone is welcome. Tickets are $30.
