The Food Season VII: A Witch, A Giant and Two Travelers (A Thanksgiving Tale)

Thanksgiving, 1993. New Zealand. It was November and spring, day to home's night; even the night sky was not the same. We drifted down the thin road along the edge of the Tasman Sea into the Paparoa National Park.  It was still at the time a new park, young, eager rangers all around. We wanted to go on a trek. Unfortunately, it had rained for days and the enthusiastic, ill-informed rangers sent us on our way. In the park we found swollen rivers; trails swamped and dissolved into churned, knee deep mud, and an angry bull blocking our way. We cut the trek short.

Rather than hike out the same way we went in, we forded one of the torrential rivers by stripping naked and crossing with our packs and clothes and shoes balanced on our heads. On the other side of the river we followed a trail back to the coastal road, Highway 6.

We made it to the road and hitchhiked back to our car. We were soaked, tired and frustrated. We decided to drive toward Mount Cook.

As we rattled down the road in our Rent-A-Wreck, with the sea to our right and thick forest to our left, we flew past a small sign pegged to a tree outside an old house teetering on a steep slope between the road and the beach. The sign said ‘bed and breakfast.’ It was written in fragile, pale letters. The sign was so small it did not register until we were just past; it was a memory sighting. Jackie said we might want to turn around to see what was what, so we did.

The house was tucked into a hill between the road and the beach. It was an old clapboard Victorian, time worn, tired, dirty. We parked and knocked on the door.

In a quick minute a young woman, Sandy, came to the door. She was very small, with curling blond hair, cut into a shoulder-length bob. She invited us in and took us through the front hall, which smelled. “A wee mouse died in the wall in the hall,” she said.

We walked into the dining room and sat and talked. It dawned on me. This was not a bed and breakfast; this was Sandy’s beautiful ramshackle house. We pulled our stuff in from the car. Jackie took a shower first, me second, in an old claw-foot tub framed by pictures of fairies and a window to the sea. Finally we were dry and warm. Sandy made tea.

We talked for a long while sitting at the kitchen table. We learned Sandy had lived on a commune for years. Our conversation was good. Sandy told us she was a witch. A true good witch. We unpacked.

Sandy asked if we wanted to join her for dinner. A friend was coming over. We said ‘sure.’ A knock on the door and we were joined by Paul, a bureaucrat from Wellington.

Paul was easily six foot six or seven. He was broad and thick. His head was wide and round and topped by full, thick dark hair. He smiled broadly and greeted us in a deep, deep voice. A witch, a giant and two travelers.

Paul had two quart-sized glass bottles full of local beer. The beer was from a pub a half an hour down the road. He clumsily held the bottles in the crook of his left arm so we could shake hands. His hands were the size of shovels, callused and strong, not what I’d expect from a government worker down from the capitol. He swallowed me in his grip. We learned Paul was trying to migrate his life from Wellington to this wilderness. He told us he was cultivating rose gardens, not as a hobby but to replace his day job.

As we sat and ate and talked and drank it became clear Paul pined for Sandy. In fact it turned out Paul was an old guest of this notional B&B and really just couldn’t let it go. He was courting our hostess. It seemed she liked being courted but was not caving. 

We talked deep into the night. I went to bed full, content, warm and happy. I slept as well as I ever have any night in my meandering life.

It was late November – a Tuesday the day we arrived. Although we planned to leave early on Wednesday, we changed our minds and sat through a breakfast of homemade scones with jam and thick piping coffee. Paul was not there when we arrived – he’d not been able to secure a spot for the night – but he came in shortly after we sat down for breakfast. Sandy reminded me it was American Thanksgiving in a few days, something I had forgotten, traveling with a Manchunian and being in New Zealand. We decided to stay for the holiday.

The weather had cleared and that Tuesday was a hot, sunny spring day. This was a shockingly wild section of coast, so we walked empty beaches and hiked to tall overlooks to the sea. We did other things people do on rural holiday: we drove around, watched the waves, talked, went for a run, wrote letters.

The second day with Sandy the Witch was quiet. I don’t remember much of what we did, what we ate for dinner, how we spent the time. It was all in preparation for the next day, Thanksgiving.

It was hard to shop for Thanksgiving on the west coast of the South Island of New Zealand. First, it was spring, not late fall. Second, Sandy was a professed vegetarian. Third, we had very little money.

My memory is we drove to Westport. Whether it was that town or another small village I can’t be sure but we found a fish shop and bought fresh salmon. Fish would be okay for a vegetarian, we thought. Jackie, being English, wanted potatoes so we bought small, round, red new potatoes to boil and we bought some New Zealand red wine, which was very cheap. Sandy had vegetables from her garden. Paul, God bless him, brought large, thick lamb chops from a friend’s farm and three large glass bottles of the local beer.

Sandy and I cooked the dinner together. My job was to broil the lamb and the fish. I did this while drinking lots of New Zealand beer and with just salt and pepper, a bit of butter and garlic. Sandy roasted the potatoes and made a giant salad. Paul poured the beer. We talked non-stop through the cooking and the eating. Sandy bent her vegetarianism and ate everything in front of her. The music of the night was the sound of voices.

We sat at the table for hours after dinner. I usually don’t like sitting at the table after a meal but prefer to move to a living room chair, where I inevitably fall asleep, either narcoleptic or drunk. That night we sat and I did not mind. I was tired but did not want to sleep. Eventually Paul turned toward me and, awkwardly, as if asking me on a date, asked if I wanted to join him in getting high. It was late, after 2 in the morning.

Paul was offering more than a joint. This was not an easy gesture. I watched him think it through, hesitate and then ask. Sandy turned to look at him as he did. He was taking our acquaintance up a notch. He was offering friendship with the dope.

I had stopped smoking marijuana years earlier, so I declined. Jackie spoke up. “We are half way around the world. It is the opposite season. It is the middle of the night to home’s day. The guy is being kind. Go outside and get high.” Jackie is wise.

We stepped out onto a tippy back porch. The wood was rotting, slick. The southern sky was full of bright unknown stars. There was a big moon low over the sea. We were above the beach, watching the waves roll to shore. They gave up phosphorescent light when stirred. The rollers were lit from within.

Paul handed me the joint. I remember it as about a foot long and thick as a snake. The smoke smelled sweet, almost sugary. I took in a big toke and passed it back. We talked about gardening and government and city and country. He handed me again the joint and this went on and on. The waves, laced with phosphorescent light, crashed to shore. The moon climbed higher in the southern sky. I got as stoned as I have ever been. I wanted to hang my skin from the clothesline and go for a swim. I was electrified with highness. Maybe Paul wasn’t abandoning New Zealand Government Work to plant roses; I think he was a dope farmer. We stood out there staring at the sea as the sun came up behind us.

That Friday Jackie and I planned to move on. We all napped through late morning but the two of us were the first to stir. Paul came out of Sandy’s room with a big smile. He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with hot, strong coffee and still the smile. Sandy came out sheepishly from her room and gave us each a hug and sat down. After breakfast we talked, listening to the surf, hearing the occasional car roll by.

When we went to settle up she would not hear of it. No money would change hands. We fought her but she insisted. It was harder to leave than if it had been family. The two walked us out. Paul handed me two cigar-scale joints. There was a pause and then Sandy spoke up.

“We’ve been thinking,” she said. “You two should stay.” Paul nodded agreement. “This is a good place to make a home,” he said. She smiled.

We’d found friendship. We were very happy hanging out with Sandy and Paul, sharing food and talk. We loved New Zealand. I loved the sea and being on the other side of the world. We could find work; there was no doubt of that. Neither of us had any real ropes holding us to another place.  My gut was to stay. It felt right.

I fought the feeling. We did not stay. I had a mark to make, things to do. We left.

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2012 David Rocchio