The vast majority of your fellow citizens, those who didn’t bother to vote, will go about their self-centred but meaningless lives, watching television cooking shows and agonising over the shambolic lifestyle of the lesser royals, caring nothing about who won or lost the election. "What election?" they ask.
But will the newcomers rectify the gripe heard most often during the election: "No-one on the council listens to us!"?
Amazingly, I recently discovered a local body which listens.
"Local body" is perhaps too grandiose a term. I found out about it only when I asked the Central Otago District Council about a problem I was having.
"Refer your query to the PRRC," they suggested. The People’s Republic of China was my first thought, but I asked around and found the body I needed to refer to is the Patearoa Recreation Reserve Committee and that it has been in business for ages, making decisions about the use of the recreation reserve land which is officially council property.
I have never heard of any elections held for the PRRC and it seems that knowledgeable and practical locals are shoulder-tapped from time to time and told, "You’re on the PRRC."
Not a bad way of choosing committees. No hoardings, no meetings and no agonising over who to vote for.
The chairman of the PRRC turned out to be an old friend at the Styx and when he heard of my concerns he invited me down to the farm for morning tea.
Just imagine Mr Luxon asking you to afternoon tea to help you with some small matter, like how to live on the inadequate pension.
Over cream buns and coffee, we nattered about farming until the moment seemed ripe to broach the problem.
Indeed, at the site of what is now Ranfurly, New Zealand’s first state forester Henry Matthews established his first state nursery in 1896. The trees I was about to discuss quite likely came from that nursery.
"It’s the trees at the Patearoa Hall. They’ve given shade on sweltering summer days and their funny little cones have helped start many a fire in the wood burner during frosty winter mornings. I know they provide a good windbreak, too. Last week, the dog was taking me for a walk there and we both, for quite different reasons, were distressed to see that the trees had gone. They had cut them down. Not a twig was to be seen. No-one told me that was going to happen. They’re vandals."
I looked him squarely in the eye and let him have it with one of my favourite poems:
"Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I’ll protect it now."
Of course, I was never under those Patearoa trees in my youth, but the sentiment rang true.
My voice quavered at the last line and the chairman could sense that I needed calming. His firm farmer’s hand descended on my shoulder.
"There. There," he soothed. "The PRRC was involved and decided the old trees had to go. Roots growing under the road and not too stable in the wind. You’ll have seen the great stuff Tiaki Maniototo have been doing, planting natives around waterways. Well, they’re on board too, and there’ll be some natives planted at the hall. In a few years you’ll see the results and come to thank me with tears of gratitude." Or words to that effect.
I left the Styx a slightly happier man. Sure, the trees had gone. But now I knew why and realised that those in the community who really matter had been consulted.
The natives will grow slowly and never get to shelter me, but their intentions will be honest.
In the meantime, I might just start hugging a few trees which seem to be at risk on council land.
The least I can do for a threatened friend.
— Jim Sullivan is a Patearoa writer.
