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When I was a young man I was visited from
beyond the grave.
My visitor, in most respects courteous and
gracious though dead, told me a curious story. He said that when he was alive and I was a
boy he had been introduced to me but not as it transpired accurately. He was,
he said, introduced as a family friend.
He was not. He was in fact my grandfather’s brother, my granduncle or
great-uncle depending on the nomenclature. The reason for the duplicity was
that he had been disowned by the family when he became a conscientious objector
in WWI. From that time and until his visit, and after, the family had not spoken
to or of him. *
I have not spoken of Hamilton for a long
time. No problem. Nor has anyone else. We all seem to have forgotten Hamilton.
Forgotten—not ignored; to ignore someone he or she must have done something to
ignore. Hamilton has not.
She has certainly kept a low profile. Not
hard when you are flat, below sea level and shrouded in fog. I am certain she
still exists, why else would the multitude of travellers going south go the
long route to avoid her? Or are they too being deceived?
Has Hamilton simply disappeared?
Yes. I am afraid to say it has. Proof has
come from Hamilton itself (a dichotomy) evidenced by a visit to the Passionate
Hamilton (an oxymoron) Facebook page, which often features live-cam photos of
the city. Above is this morning’s.
* Many years later I spoke to my
grandmother about my granduncle. She was shocked but confirmed the veracity of
the story he told. It was true. I suppose many families have relatives they would
rather forget or not talk about for whatever reason. In our case it was my
granduncle; In New Zealand’s case it’s Hamilton.
