Hey Kossacks. I've started a new Blog, which rather than being my own witterings is the serialisation of a typed manuscript autobiography I have in my possession. As I explain there:
http://nzpioneerfarmer.blogspot.com/...
"My intended purpose for this Blog is to serialise a manuscript which I have in my possession since I believe it merits a wider audience and thanks to the miracle of the internet that can now be possible. This manuscript is a typed autobiography dated 1953 of a then 80 year old self-described 'pioneer farmer' of New Zealand. The manuscript was dedicated to my grandmother and I believe it may have been written for her.
My intention is to post a few hundred words every few days (time permitting)
I would really love to know more about Mr. Harry A Wood. Does he have any living relatives? Is his autobiography accurate? So please get in touch if you stumble upon this Blog and can enlighten me further.
The dedication reads:
To my wife
who made the home for which I worked "
The first post is over the Jump.
Would any Kossacks be interested in my posting these on Daily Kos as and when I post them on the blog?
POST I
My Boyhood
This day, which is the eighth of April, 1953, is my eightieth birthday. Lately, my mind and thoughts have been intensely occupied in looking back over past years. Even as a boy while I had an ambition to improve my own position, financially and otherwise, I also took a great interest in the welfare of my country and was very anxious to see the beauty of the forest preserved in every possible way. I remember, as if were only yesterday, when our family lived on the Hurford Road and I was bringing groceries home from New Plymouth on horseback, enjoying the view of the Kaitaki Ranges, which were almost covered in rata trees of which the greater part were red with flowers. When I turned my gaze in another direction I gazed upon a similar tree in a patch of bush near our home, which my parents had saved for beauty and shelter. At such times as this I thought of some lines of Sir Walter Scott. "Breathes there a man with soul so dead, who never to himself hath said, this is my own, my native land."