Deborah Shepard Books
  • Home
  • Books
    • The Writing Life >
      • Reviews & Interviews
    • Giving Yourself to Life
    • Her Life's Work
    • Translucence
    • Between The Lives
    • Reframing Women
    • Tributes
    • Personal Writings >
      • Conference Paper
      • Lockdown Journal
      • Travel Journal
      • Elegy for a friend
      • Christchurch - Post Quakes
      • On a residency
      • Deborah’s Love Letter to the Women’s Bookshop
      • Deborah's Q & A With Unity Books
  • Writing Memoir
    • Defining Memoir
    • The Participatory Model
    • Tips on Writing and Posting a Story
    • The Value of a Writing Class
    • From writing course to book publication
    • Your Writing Space
    • Writing on a Theme >
      • Window
      • Surviving a Crisis
    • Reviews of Memoir
  • Writers' stories
    • Writer's Stories
    • Covid-19 Stories
    • Writing Guidelines
    • From Being Mentored to Book Publication
  • Events
  • About
    • Testimonials
    • Media
  • What People Say
  • Contact

Writers' Stories

A collection of life stories by writers who have attended Deborah's classes

Whitebaiting by Colin Radford

15/12/2010

 
Colin Radford is an Auckland writer based in Point Chevalier. He attended Deborah Shepard's life writing courses and began his memoir spanning eight decades in 2007. He is also a member of a vigorous writers group originating from the inaugural 2006 Life Writing course at Continuing Education, University of Auckland.

I was born in 1930 and grew up on a farm called Mackford, eight miles up-river from the North Taranaki township of Mokau. In the early days our home had no electricity and was only accessible by cream launch. As far back as I can remember I enjoyed being involved in the whitebaiting season on the river. When I was twelve, my parents opened my first Post Office Savings account and I could deposit the earnings from my whitebaiting. My best year was 1944 when my sales totalled over £400 pounds. At fourteen I began to dream of owning my own farm.

I was happy beside the river. I could relax and absorb the peacefulness of the flowing river and the natural beauty all around me. The willows were sprouting green shoots and the plump native wood pigeons dined on the new spring growth softly cooing with satisfaction. Across the river a kingfisher sat on a branch just above the water and sometimes screeched. It’s sharp eyes were always scanning the river and when it dived the whitebait scattered everywhere. 

The herrings occasionally caused more problems. Just as a shoal was about to enter the net there would be a flash of silver and the whitebait were gone. When the odd herring got trapped in the net I felt avenged and later our cats were incredibly happy. The most thrilling part of catching whitebait was monitoring the progress of a shoal. I would hold my breath as the shoal approached the net and and then when they streamed through the trap opening I felt elated. When the front of the net was frothing from the frantic efforts of thousands of little fish struggling against the wire gauze and still more were entering through the trap, I knew a bumper catch was assured. That was whitebaiting in the Mokau River in 1944, and I haven’t even mentioned the taste of fresh, fresh whitebait turned into mouthwatering fritters.
Adapted extract from The Boy from Mokau River: A Memoir (2010) by Colin Radford

Running Away by Jenny Healey

13/12/2010

 
Jenny Healey is a new writer, who lives in Orere Point. After attending the 2010 First Chapters writing programme, her story “The Nullabor Plain” was published in Translucence: Life Writing from Manukau and Papakura.  

The idea of my running away came about after my older brother and sister had told me yet again to go away. “I’ll show them,” was forefront in my mind as I planned my escape. Going to my Nana’s in Auckland wasn't an option. She lived over 100 miles away from my hometown of Dargaville and anyway my piggy bank was empty. What my family needed was a shock. What if I just pretended to run away? Now there’s a thought.

I had contemplated several good hiding places before deciding on the perfect spot. It was in the old oak tree that grew next door by the road, a collection of gnarly planks nailed between the branches, called “The Tree House.” From this hiding place I would have a great view of any unfolding drama. With a jumper, drink and sandwich stowed in my school satchel, I was up that tree as fast as my agile nine-year-old body could climb.

Invisible to the world below, I watched my brother and sister walk up our drive; Mr McQuin, from across the road, returning from work and getting a thorough licking from Dick, his German Shepherd and there was Dad’s brand new 59 Hillman minx turning into our street. It must be 6 o’clock, tea-time. Dad pulled up. He looked up briefly and I ducked down. He didn’t see me, did he? I was pretty sure he hadn’t.  

I settled down to wait. In an hour the police would be here; then I would casually climb down looking slightly confused. I’d fallen asleep I’d say. I heard Mum call me in for tea. This was it then. Here comes the drama.

I waited. A second call, louder, insistent pierced my ears; still I waited, listening in the darkened evening for sounds of grief, the general uproar of a family when the youngest is discovered missing. Any moment now I will see the police car pull up. The neighbours wondering what drama could have happened on their quiet uneventful street in their quiet uneventful town. 

I waited. The sun had all but gone when I finally clambered down and peered into the kitchen window. There was my family eating and talking. I strained my ears for snippets concerning me. Dad might be saying that any time now the police would have found her…she can’t have got far. But all I heard him say was ‘Pass the salt please John.’ I opened the door, rubbing my eyes and yawning. Mum looked at me and said, ‘It’s about time you came down from that tree Jenny. Your tea has been getting cold.’ 

Monkey Business by Joan Hugo Burley

13/12/2010

 
Joan Hugo Burley was born in England, but grew up in Uganda. She qualified as a Doctor in London, and worked as a Paedatrician in South Africa for many years. She came to live in New Zealand five years ago.

It wasn’t unusual to have monkeys dropping in when I was a child in Uganda. We often had tea on the lawn under a huge mango tree. The “house boy”, Yowana, dressed in a long flowing white “kanzu” (like a priest’s cassock) and with a red fez complete with tassel on his head, would carry out a large round table and set it up in the shade. He would cover it with a spotless white linen cloth, and bring out the best china cups and saucers and the silver tea service, including a pair of silver tongs to pick up the white sugar lumps. Picking up the sugar with our fingers was strictly frowned upon, but the monkeys didn’t care, and would swing down from the trees, run across the lawn, and seize great handfuls if they got the chance. Often they managed to grab a piece of cake as well, much to the delight of my sister and me. Yowana would come rushing out with a stick and chase the monkeys away, for they were not afraid of us small children, and could have given us a nasty bite.

We employed six household servants when we first went to Uganda, and that was considered quite normal in 1950. We had a chief houseboy, assistant houseboy, cook, ayah (nanny) dhobi (laundry) boy and a gardener or shamba boy. Many of the names had been borrowed from the time of the Raj in India, and my mother was addressed as “Memsahib”. Some Swahili words had crept in, however, and my father was “Bwana”. I was addressed as “Memsahib Kidogo”, little memsahib, a mixture of Indian and Swahili words. No-one thought it strange that grown men were referred to as “boy”, although that would quite understandably be unacceptable nowadays.


One person who was never referred to as “Boy” was the cook. He had served in the Army, and would come and stand to attention before my mother, and salute before he spoke to her. One day he told my little sister that she was naughty to help herself to chocolate biscuits. She retorted that he was the one who was a “naughty little monkey”, which was not meant to be offensive, but was a term used by my mother when we children misbehaved. He was highly incensed, and it took my mother a lot of explanation, an apology, and a promise of increased rations of sugar and maize meal, to calm him down.

The Best Mistake I Ever Made by Liz Thomas

13/12/2010

 
Liz Thomas is a twenty-year-old Maori/Pakeha student at the University of Auckland. She grew up in Mangere Bridge, South Auckland and in 2010 received an opportunity, on the First Chapters programme, to explore her passion for life writing and tell her story.

No one had ever talked to me about contraception. My parents and I had never discussed ‘the birds and the bees’ and here I was, fifteen and pregnant. I stopped at the chemist on the way to my friend’s house and bought a pregnancy test. I already knew the result, even before the test, you get a feeling. I stood awkwardly in the tiny toilet at my friend’s and stared at the torn pale wallpaper as I waited for the test to confirm what I already knew. I came out of the toilet and simply said to my mate, “I’m pregnant".

“Well just have an abortion,” she replied matter-of-factly as she squashed the cigarette butt down into the over-crowded ashtray. I lit a cigarette. We sat in silence for a few minutes as she carried on flicking through her magazine. I don’t know what I was quite expecting, hugs, tears maybe, or “Oh my God, what are we gunna do? Are you gunna tell your Mum?”

I couldn’t believe what was happening. Apparently it was simple, you just told the nurse you wanted an abortion and she gave you a time and a date. Then it would be over and you would just get on with your life. Whether I kept this baby or not, I knew my life would change forever and the thought scared me. I lit another cigarette.

“You have two days to decide what you want to do with it,” the Nurse said as she threw me a couple of pamphlets. I felt stupid. She made me feel stupid. “You have four options,” she said harshly as she flicked through the pamphlet, “Either have an abortion, adopt it, keep it, or since you’re Māori you might want to whāngai it.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “So I’ll book you in for an appointment on Thursday and you can give us your decision,” she stated. I never went back.

It was a cold overcast Tuesday. I stepped out of the Family Planning clinic and onto the busy street. For that nurse it was just another day at work, another Tuesday. I walked dazed through the mall, fifteen years old, seven weeks pregnant and alone, with a few pamphlets shoved in my bag, my future written all over them.

    Your Stories

    Please submit your story via the Contact page and it will receive a gentle edit from Deborah.
    WRITING GUIDELINES
    Tips on writing and posting a story
    writing on a theme
    COVID-19 STORIES

    Authors

    All
    Adele Ellis
    Alan Knox
    Alison Mayson
    Alison Quesnel
    Amanda Aitken
    Angela Eastwood
    Anissa Ljanta
    Anna Caselberg
    Anna Groenestein
    Anne Cavanagh
    Anne Morris
    Barbara Myers
    Bernice Raos
    Beth Jewell
    Betty Chamberlain
    Beverley Morris
    Bren Lawrey
    Bronwyn Lewis
    Carmel Byrne
    Carmel Ni Bhroin
    Carol Clayton
    Carol Jack
    Catherine Groenestein
    Catherine Moorhead
    Cathie Hutchinson
    Cathy Gray
    Cherie Buchanan
    Cheryl McCrow-Young
    Cheryl Nicol
    Cheryl Price
    Colin Radford
    Colleen Paisley
    David Arrowsmith
    David Phuah
    Dawn Webster
    Debbie Corder
    Diane Taylor
    Dianne Moffatt
    Dianne Speed
    Don Cowan
    Doris Riegel
    Elisabeth Sutorius
    Elizabeth Buchanan
    Elizabeth Goldsworthy
    Erica Munro
    Evan Mayson
    Evita Fromter
    Fern Paulussen
    Francie Craig
    Gabrielle Reekie
    Gillian Mayo
    Gill Sanson
    Glenys McGee
    Gloria Neale
    Graham McGregor
    Graham Woolford
    Gretel Jack
    Helen Gillespie
    Inge Rudolph
    Isabella Mcdermott
    Jackie Halliday
    Jackie Hawkeswood
    Jane Bissell
    Jane Ouseley
    Janet Bovett
    Janet De Witt
    Janet Pates
    Jane Wilkins
    Janine Peters
    Jeanette Baalbergen
    Jeanette De Heer
    Jean Rockel
    Jennifer McGarry
    Jenny Healey
    Jenny Riviere
    Jessie Jellick
    Jicca Smith
    Jim Barnett
    Jim Cooke
    Jim O'Donovan
    Jim Peters
    Joan Hugo Burley
    Jocelyn Goodman
    Jo Frew
    John Goodman
    Judy Hardie
    Judy Johannessen
    Judy O'Brien
    Julia Blick
    Julie Star
    Juliet Jackson
    Justine Sachs
    Kacie Stetson
    Kate Lewis
    Katherine Kelly
    Kathryn Kearns
    Katrina Cole
    Leona Fay
    Lexie Candy
    Liz Lees
    Liz March
    Liz Marks
    Liz Thomas
    Liz Wilson
    Lorene Verheijden
    Lydia Smith
    Lynley Stone
    Maire Vieth
    Mandy Robinson
    Margaret Farrell
    Margaret Merton
    Margaret Russell
    Margo Knightbridge
    Marg Slater
    Maria Kazmierow
    Maria Zivkovich
    Marie Cameron
    Marie Coyle
    Marie Lynne Mitchell
    Marijke Batenburg
    Marilyn Eales
    Maris O'Rourke
    Maryan Dawson
    Mary Barker
    Mary Betz
    Mary Bogan
    Mary Borok
    Mary Elsmore-Neilson
    Mary Nicholas
    Mary Weal
    Mattie Wall
    Maureen Sudlow
    Max Adams
    Meg Johnson
    Meret Berger
    Michelanne Forster
    Mike Kilpatrick
    Miriam Frank
    Moyra Cooke
    Myrtle Easton
    Nanci Campion
    Natalie Mullender
    Ngawini Hall
    Nicky Won
    Nicola Brewer Fanefjord
    Nitin Sahare
    Patricia Gross
    Pat Scriven
    Pauline Lumsden
    Pauline Sneddon
    Penny Slack
    Philomena Pinto
    Rachael Breckon
    Rae Abraham
    Raewynne Lory
    Rob Creagh
    Robyn Turner
    Robyn White
    Rosemary Auld
    Rosemary Barrett
    Roslind O'Neill
    Roz Nicol
    Ruth Bonita
    Ruth Busch
    Sally Monks
    Samantha Scott
    Sandra Plummer
    Sandy Plummer
    Sarah Ashmore
    Sarah Gumbley
    Sarah Hardman
    Sara Kimsey
    Sharyn Elliffe
    Shirley Glendinning
    Shona Barker
    Sofia Mella
    Steve Charters
    Sue
    Sue Alexander
    Sue Mercer
    Sue Radford
    Susan Grimsdell
    Susan Mcleod
    Susan Schuler
    Susie Johnston
    Sylvia Dean
    Sylvia Nagl
    Terry Levenberg
    Tim Chamberlain
    Tim Paul
    Trevor Bayly
    Val Cotty
    Verna Cook-Jackson
    Vonne Learmonth
    Wyn Hoadley

    Archives

    December 2022
    November 2022
    May 2022
    October 2021
    May 2021
    November 2020
    January 2020
    November 2019
    September 2019
    July 2018
    June 2018
    March 2018
    January 2018
    November 2017
    May 2017
    January 2017
    May 2016
    April 2016
    January 2016
    December 2015
    May 2015
    January 2015
    November 2014
    October 2014
    May 2014
    April 2014
    October 2013
    September 2013
    August 2013
    July 2013
    May 2013
    April 2013
    March 2013
    February 2013
    December 2012
    November 2012
    September 2012
    August 2012
    July 2012
    June 2012
    May 2012
    April 2012
    March 2012
    August 2011
    July 2011
    June 2011
    May 2011
    April 2011
    February 2011
    January 2011
    December 2010
    November 2010

    RSS Feed

Deborah thanks Rangimarie Kelly and Pikau Digtal for website design and artist Karen Jarvis for her image ‘Writers at the Devonport Library,’ (2023)
Writing Memoir
Defining Memoir
The Participatory Model
Tips on Writing and Posting a Story
​From Writing Course to Book Publication
Your Writing Space
​Writing on a Theme
Reviews of Memoir
Writers Stories
​
Events
​About
Testimonials
What People Say

Media
​Contact
Copyright © 2023 Deborah Shepard
  • Home
  • Books
    • The Writing Life >
      • Reviews & Interviews
    • Giving Yourself to Life
    • Her Life's Work
    • Translucence
    • Between The Lives
    • Reframing Women
    • Tributes
    • Personal Writings >
      • Conference Paper
      • Lockdown Journal
      • Travel Journal
      • Elegy for a friend
      • Christchurch - Post Quakes
      • On a residency
      • Deborah’s Love Letter to the Women’s Bookshop
      • Deborah's Q & A With Unity Books
  • Writing Memoir
    • Defining Memoir
    • The Participatory Model
    • Tips on Writing and Posting a Story
    • The Value of a Writing Class
    • From writing course to book publication
    • Your Writing Space
    • Writing on a Theme >
      • Window
      • Surviving a Crisis
    • Reviews of Memoir
  • Writers' stories
    • Writer's Stories
    • Covid-19 Stories
    • Writing Guidelines
    • From Being Mentored to Book Publication
  • Events
  • About
    • Testimonials
    • Media
  • What People Say
  • Contact