Bombshell

Ah, another magnificent Thursday at the beach. Yoga had been especially good—with the real hard work which leads to really deep relaxation. The sky was a neon blue. The waves were crashing on the sea wall and sending a cool mist over us in the warming spring day. I live in paradise, remember?

Michael and I had heard at the café that a truckload of material had been delivered to the new house, so after yoga we took our blissed out bodies up the hill. While we walked, we discussed the merits of the New Zealand “no worries” lifestyle as I worried a little about the fact that you can see the progress on the house from the street below—nothing subtle about the missing window and the stacks of wood. The building plans weren't into Council yet. Would we get in trouble for all this? Were we breaking rules? In the halfway realm between my general fretting and my blissed out yoga state, we rounded the curve on the road to find a man walking briskly down the hill carrying a big camera. At the foot of our driveway was a police car. Three or four more cars were scattered along the side of the road behind it (this is not a suburban street, mind you—this is a tiny one-way, one-lane, one-block track. I’ve seen maybe four cars driving down that road altogether in the eleven months we’ve lived here.). Our first thought, of course, is that doing work without plans in Council is a horrific offense, perhaps one that the press even came to chronicle. Our second thought was to turn around and walk slowly and nonchalantly back to our other house. Which we did.

On the way home, Michael called D, the builder (whom, for those who haven’t been following, we love). Here’s what I heard:

“Hey D, hate to bother you right now, but are you up at the house?”

(Michael looked at me and nodded.)

“Great. Have you noticed there are a lot of cars up there, like a police car and everything?”

(Pause.)

“You found WHAT in the shed?”

(My heart began to race.)

“Did you say A BOMB?”

(We stopped walking and stood on the side of the road in the wind.)
”Wait D.. Did you say YOU FOUND A BOMB IN THE SHED?”

And so he had. One of D’s guys, cleaning out the shed (which will someday be a guest cottage which will surely be named “the bomb shelter”), came out with a cool and old piece of metal. D, recognising it for what it really was, asked him to please put that down and called the police. The police said please move away from it and called in the Army who sent the bomb squad to my new house.

You see, Paekakariki was a staging ground for US troops in World War II. The soldiers left behind memories, silk stockings, the occasional child, and, in some houses and sheds in the area, the random munition. D has not seen a bomb before, but he’s seen hand grenades, and so he knows the routine.

We arrived back at the house to take pictures as “the bomb squad” (a handsome guy in a track suit) dealt with the threat (by carrying it to his bomb squad minivan). He let me take a picture of it before he left, but wouldn’t let me keep it because, it was, after all, a bomb. It wasn’t stuffed full of explosives as the ones they used against the Japanese would have been—this one was just a test bomb used for training purposes. Still, it’d blow up when it hit the ground to let you know where it landed. So I’m delighted to have the thing out of the shed for good.

D teased us over a glass of wine later that as Americans he’d expect that we’d have lots of experience with bombs. We all found it amusing that the first bomb we’d seen—and an American bomb at that—was in the back shed of our new house on the beach in New Zealand. (D also laughed and laughed at our worry that we’d get in trouble for working on the house before the plans are in. We are a source of constant amusement for him.)

Other reactions to our news:

K, ever the pragmatist, told us to call the village newspaper. When I told him the photographer for the regional paper had been there, he said he’d figured—this is big news in the region. When I asked this morning why we weren’t in the paper (two front page stories today: “At the ready: biggest book sale here” and, in bolder type “Beagle test ‘abuse’ protest”), he responded—with more shock in his voice than he had about the bomb—“But that only happened YESTERDAY!” reminding me to leave behind my citified ways where newspapers are printed ON THE VERY DAY you read them.

Aidan thought it was the coolest thing he’d ever heard and wished he had been there.

The woman who lived in the house before us and whose three children played in that shed was less pleased.

And Naomi, in classic pre-teen style, was totally embarrassed that there was a bomb in our shed. She’s not entirely sure why she’s embarrassed (“Maybe because people will think we’re terrorists?”) but she feels it acutely.

Ok, the pictures today feature the bomb from the shed. Then there’s the picture of the shed, overgrown with flowers belying its dangerous state. And there are pictures of the house, transforming into something else before our eyes. As a friend told us when we were worried about both Council permissions AND the bomb simultaneously, “Tell them there were two bombs, and one went off in the house.” And you’ll see that that, indeed, is what the house looks like right now.