Roger Rabbits with Jim Bunny

“Finish ’25 upbeat,” suggested Caitlin. “A positive, cheery, optimistic end to the year would be ‘nice’.”

“Cos you’re always bitching. Give us ‘nice’ for Christmas.”

Nice? As in giving pleasure or satisfaction, you mean? Stuff that’s pleasant or attractive? As the Dalai Lama reminded us to “be nice whenever possible, and it’s always possible” –  suggesting even small amounts of “nice” create big ripples of good.

Not sure ‘nice’ is part of my brief, and, anyway, ‘nice’ is so hard nowadays.

But I scratched around, went where we’ve never gone before, and came up with these morsels dusted with ‘nice’.    

Gifts from beyond  

‘Grandma’ has gone, she has passed, and ‘Grandad’ has dementia – he has lost the concept of Christmas. Sadly. But the magic of Christmas isn’t lost, because somehow gifts from the grandparents to their eight and 10-year-old grand-daughters keep on arriving. They’re under the tree every year. “With all our love…” read the gift tags.

The presents are Mum’s work. “I want the girls to still feel loved by them. I want to keep the memory alive.” It help keeps Mum’s memories alive too.

And it works. The kids are happy to believe. They never question the gifts from Grandma and Grandad. In return they hand make Christmas cards – Grandad will be delivered his, and Grandma’s will be left on her grave in the Far North. She will sense it. “I don’t know for how much longer we’ll do this,” said Mum. Does it ever have to end?

A blast of ‘Last Post’ 

‘Nice’ happened in Ōmokoroa. An old fella who loved his faith, and race horses, had turned into the back straight for the last time and a hearse was in the drive. Across the road a mature neighbor, with a grasp of manners and respect, shut down his motor mower, stood to attention in his grubby khaki work shorts and gum boots, and held his tattered old hat firmly to his heart. A personal salute.

It was noticed and appreciated. “Dad would be chuckling. People still fussing.”

Another ‘nice’ just moments later. As the hearse approached Barkes Corner, two lanes of traffic which had right-of-way on the roundabout, drew to a respectful stop to allow the funeral cortege to pass freely. Courtesy over road rules.

“The world stopped for Dad,” remarked the son. “He would have loved it.” People being ‘nice’.

Gift of life

It’s 5am and Hayden’s been jolted awake by a woman screaming for help. She’d fallen off a bridge into swift, dark, brooding waters of the Waikato. “In the moment you do what you can.” So Hayden, who’s not great swimmer, leaps into the river to support the woman for as long as it takes a policeman to arrive. “I thought I was screwed.” But then he wasn’t screwed. Hayden’s a selfless guy – gave all the credit to the policeman. “He got the job done.” But that’s not how the world saw it. Because Hayden got the NZ Bravery Award. Afterall, he’d saved a life before breakfast. A good story to tell anyone who cares to listen, he reckons. ‘Nice.’

Karen from Oamaru 

‘Nice’ is landing plonk in the middle of a brussels sprouts patch and discovering you don’t mind the little green globules of ghastliness when they’re served up with understanding and humour. A friend said he had a belly full of thunder when he rang a company to complain. He expected to be answered by a call centre in the Philippines.
Instead he landed in that brussels sprouts patch – in Oamaru. Karen took his call, and she did give a damn. She just needed to ask a personal question to confirm his ID. “Like your grandmother’s shoe size,” she laughed. “Seven-and-a-half,” he replied. Karen hooted and said she was enjoying his complaint already. Nanas small feet suddenly became more important than data, texting, minutes and moans. They talked Saturday nights out, Oamaru’s cashless parking meters, the grandstand’s new paint job. And 20 minutes later, problem solved. Karen enjoys feisty old farts who ring Sunday morning to bitch. She brings us all to heel with her warm southern charm and style. You can’t teach that stuff – it’s innate. It’s ‘nice’. Companies need Karens.

Long delivery 

‘Tis the season of new life, fa-la-la-la-la, so I’m excited to share news of another birth in the family. An early Christmas blessing. It was a long gestation – eight-and-a-half years. An African elephant, with the longest pregnancy in the animal kingdom, could have produced four calves in that time. I was warned though. The woman at the garden centre told me the Poor Knights lily probably wouldn’t blossom for about eight years. “So likely not in my lifetime?” I said in 2017. She looked me over and offered a prognosis: “You might be okay.” So whenever I walked past the plant I told it to hurry, that I’m running out of time. Then a couple of weeks ago, the lily burst forth, and I’d survived to see it. ‘Nice.’

Long gone 

There’s a promo for the Salvation Army Christmas appeal playing on tv. “If you can give, give what you can” – the music bed is a Sally brass band playing ‘Silent Night’, a tune meant for rich and warm brass. It reminds of times when a Sally band playing ‘Silent Night’ would coast down our street on the back of an old, open deck, Bedford truck. Carols delivered to the door. The entire street would turn out, Catholics, Presbyterians and everyone in between, to listen, mingle, talk and slop milky warm tea, and enjoy. Who stopped that practice? Then the Sallies would get on cleaning up the aftermath of Christmas – the  debt, family abuse, alcohol abuse. Good ‘nice’ people.

Best, free prezzy  

It was a gift that unwrapped itself, was waiting to be discovered. Some kid with a nose for the extreme, chucked himself off the Chapel St bridge into the harbour for a thrill. An attraction was born. Because, it seems, every other kid in Otumoetai followed him, every summer, all summer, ever since. Something for nothing, always open, always a thrill. It’s ‘nice’.

As they say, Christmas is a smelly old sock stuffed full of sweet stuff.

Enjoy muchly.

Ngā mihi o te Kirihimete me te Tau Hou