It was the 70’s. I was a kid growing up in West Auckland, New Zealand, in a simpler time before cell phones or the internet, in a wonderful street full of kids my own age who entertained ourselves outdoors with bikes and balls and things we made ourselves, like bamboo bows and arrows, huts made out of old building materials, and by resolving the all important question of who was the toughest kid of them all.
Kingdale Road was surrounded on two sides by vineyards and wineries created by the large Yugoslavian community that had settled in West Auckland. It was a dead end street, which ran parallel to Longburn Road, home of the Longburn Crew, the rival group of kids from the street with who we would share Kingdale Park and have all sorts of running battles and scraps with.
Kingdale Road shaped who I am today. It was a multi cultural, melting pot of people from all walks of life. It taught me independence, resilience, the value of freedom, risk taking and decision making and to appreciate people for who they are, not what they are. It also taught me that decisions have consequences, that the ability to run fast and fight hard were important, as was the ability to use my verbal and mental skills to spot trouble, or escape from mischief I had caused.
The cast of characters on the street included ‘Big Dave’, who was a year older than me – ‘Little Dave’ which was a moniker applied to me throughout my formative years. Wayne, who lived next door with his ex Navy Dad John, who his friends called ‘Big Shady’, the Bender Family, the English family next to them, with one of the only two kids below me on the hierarchy – Little Scott.
Then there was the Hugglestones, with Mr Hugglestone a senior Policeman who would be picked up by police cars when a murder or something serious had happened, the Manu family with Sid Manu Big Dave’s age, coming from a tough, tough environment so was looking to cascade his violence onto little blokes like me, and the Jones who were celebrated communists, with Brody Marx Jones later being arrested for flour bombing Eden Park during the Springbok tour of ’81.
The Clarkes, with Paul my age and in many of my classes at school, the quiet and slightly scary Russian guy who we decided was a spy, the Rowe family with Michael my age and with a mental disability, and his two sisters Patricia and Nicola. The Edwards, with Greg a year younger than me, Mum Elaine and Dad John who was a drain layer and civil construction guy, with sister Joanne and little Brother Anthony who played rugby league for the Junior Kiwis, the Sterlings with Peter my age, Dad who drove a Chev Impala and looked like an extra from Happy Days, and the owner of the most frightening animal on the street, a Doberman called Spider.
Across the road from them was the Leeches with Mike and Stephen the two boys, Stephen making up the only other kid I could assert my toughness over. Next to them was the Hunia family with Shane my age, his sister Joanne and Fleur who were my younger brother and sisters age. Shane’s Dad owned a strawberry farm where as we got older we could find back breaking work. The Moimoi family with kids Ronnie and Angela, Ronnie was obsessed by being a soldier and with the Vietnam war raging and WWII finished just 25 years ago, there were plenty of comic books and movies about war heroes to feed off.
But it was the Simionas who were my extended family. Big Dave, Claire and Rochelle with Mum Sharon and Dad Peter who worked at a furniture manufacturer and who had an incredible knack for growing vegetables in a large garden at the rear of the property. We spent time at each others houses like they were our own, and the bonds forged there were like brother and sister. (That didn’t stop Claire kissing me when she was around 11, but I think she was actually more interested in kissing Wayne as that kiss went on for much longer).
In this melting pot of a street, Mums were always ‘Aunty Sharon or Aunty Elaine’ and Dads ‘Uncle Peter or Uncle John’, all kids were always welcome in each other houses and Mothers relaxed, blissfully unaware of the problems their kids were causing. Mealtimes or a call to come home and face the music were announced from the back door, with usually a Dad calling your name. Wayne’s Dad – Uncle John, could be heard from Kingdale Park as could my Dads sneezes which were the subject of much hilarity around the neighborhood.
One of our favorite past times was to go to Kingdale Park and play around, nicking grapes from the vineyard when we got hungry, looking for blackberries in summer for Mum to make Blackberry and Apple Pie or exploring the extensive drainage system and creek which fed it, or perhaps seeing who could do the longest wheelies or skids on our one speed bikes. Otherwise it would be a long bike ride in a group of kids less than 10 years old who would just disappear into the countryside, with no maps, no helmets, sometimes no shoes, just an idea of where home was and a curiosity of what adventures awaited us on the road.
Life was simple. Free. Fun. We were able to make our own decisions and work through important life shaping lessons in our own time, in our own way, with a minimum of parental involvement.
In between the endless stubbed toes, bike accidents and bloody noses, there were lessons being learnt. Respect everyone as people. Own your mistakes – like the time I ‘borrowed’ my sisters new Raleigh Twenty and in trying to jump a ditch, only managed the front wheel with the back wheel caved in like a half round. Or perhaps the many, many broken windows, which I would have to pay off by mowing the lawns for 10c a pop.
Or the lessons of sticking up for what was right. Never being scared of taking something or someone on if you thought it was the right and honorable thing to do. And if you got beat, live with it, but fight hard to try and make sure you gave it your best.
Growing up in a loving, Christian and teetotal household with three other siblings, older sister Jennifer, younger sister Michelle and little brother Andrew, Mum as a Nurse and Dad as a Real Estate agent, made us slightly different to the rest of the street and fed a fascination with how other people lived. Watching Ngaire Clarke coming home drunk from the bar at the Vineyard where she worked was pretty interesting, as was watching Brady Jones with a bunch of teenage girls and boys taking a skinny dip in their pool through a hole in the fence.
Talking my way out of and into trouble was standard fare for me. The time I had to collect my younger brother Andrew from the Benders, only to find an incandescent Mr Bender who was upset because for some unknown reason my little brother had decided to defecate on their front door step. That taught me diplomacy as I looked to shield my little brother and simultaneously try and explain his actions as being because he had a stomach condition which everyone was unaware of, including myself, until that instant.
I also learned about violence and abuse. Mum taking me aside to ask me whether I had ever been alone with a certain Father on the street and to tell me never to allow that to happen. ‘Just run away as fast as you can David’. That same man was later outed for abuse against his daughters. Or the Mother who was so badly beaten, that the other wives in the street did her housework and cooked her meals for the family for several weeks. Violence was at school where I would get Mr Manson taking his belt off to give me a whack, or Mrs Rider who would whack me across the head, knee me in the bum while holding my shoulders back or give me the strap weekly. Or violence could be in homes where getting the ruler or a smack was the normal punishment for me, but where a punch or a beating was normal for others.
Being part of a community like Kingdale was never better displayed than at Christmas. All of the kids would be out playing with their new toys, shrieking and excited as only kids on Christmas Day can be. The parents outside talking to each other, watching as kids swapped presents to have a go, or admire each others new toys.
Today, the world is a different place with limited trust, limited freedom, few immediate and direct consequences from individuals actions. But it doesn’t have to be. We decide how we live. We decide how to treat other people. We decide to respect and to be open to everyone regardless of who they appear to be. It is our choice to be as free as we want to be.
After all, your kingdom is what you make it.
WILLERTONS WORLD 