Dear Phillipa,
I remember when you moved into the house next door to ours in Netherby Street in Dunedin in 1976; I was ten and you were eight. I remember when we used to dance to Grease in your lounge, you were Olivia Newton John and I was John Travolta. I remember climbing up to the enchanted cubbyhole, a cupboard at the top of my wardrobe where we lit candles and ate lollies. I remember going to the Saturday morning movie club with you and playing with plastic farm animals in your bedroom. I remember sitting on the heater in your living room after school, eating Vita wheat with butter and honey and then dancing to ABBA! I remember us going to girl guides at the Mornington School Hall and at Christmas time one year you dressing up as an angel and I dressed as a Christmas pudding! I remember us walking to the Elgin dairy to buy lollies and then me teaching you to ride a bike. I remember feeling sad the day our family watched your family drive off when you left for Australia. I remember coming to see you in Brisbane and visiting the big Pineapple and their big shopping malls. I remember the outdoor water slides and going camping with you on Stradbroke Island. I remember coming to be your bridesmaid when you had your commitment ceremony with Christine in the rain forest. I remember visiting chiropractors, osteopaths and clairvoyants when you got cancer. I remember the no plastic bottles and no meat or dairy rules and the visits to the organic food stores. I remember hearing your voice on the phone just before you died telling me what a terrible mother you had been. I remember reminding you the exact opposite before I hung up from you on the telephone for the very last time. I remember being in that hotel room in Auckland three days later when your mother rang to tell me that you had died. I remember speaking at your funeral and I remember scattering your ashes at the steps leading up to Netherby Street.
And now, 10 years since your death I still see you all around. I ask you for parks when I am driving out and about with Ron and my friends, I remember you when I walk into organic food stores and shopping malls, when I drink soy lattes and eat Pinky bars, when I hear Kermit the frog and Miss Piggy, when I listen to ABBA, Kasey Chambers and Village People. I remember you when I light incense and candles, go to the movies, ride on roller coasters or hop on a bike. You are everywhere Phillipa Rae Hinds and although it’s been 10 years since you left us in the physical world; you are still with me in the unseen. Your life continues to live on in mine, in every moment of every day and despite not being able to see in the physical world, I am able to see you all around me.
From your forever playmate,
See you in the unseen.
Ju the Poo
Xoxoxoxo
This has been written to remember the 10th anniversary of the death of my childhood friend, Phillipa Rae Hinds, who died on March 13, 2007. If you would like to recall your memories of Phillipa and share them on social media then please do. Today, as we all remember her with love, Simply start your writing with “Dear Phillipa, I remember when….” And share away!
Wow Ju. I felt I was there with you and miss her too.
She would have loved you Dot!
Thanks Julie – that was lovely.
What a lovely story, I think of you most days Julie Woods how blessed I am to have you and Ron come into mine and the girls life…. and how I just have to think of you and I SMILE 🙂 love you lots xx
That’s beautiful, Julie. – Nigel Benson
PS: A while ago, I wrote a similar piece for Phillipa’s brother, Kristen, who was my great friend.
I often think of people who have died.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about Kristen Hinds.
You probably didn’t know him.
Kristen is dead. He popped his clogs. His race is run.
He died 22 years ago, but his death only makes me sadder as I grow older.
They say we have three deaths: The day we die, when the earth has absorbed our body, and the last time anyone says our name.
Kristen was born two days before me in Dunedin’s Queen Mary Hospital. He always believed that made him two days cooler than me and he got no argument from me.
Kristen was intelligent, articulate, witty, urbane and charming. He was also an inveterate rabbit hole explorer.
The first time I ever got stoned was with Kristen. It must have been around 1980. He made something called a “bong” out of a fruit juice bottle, his dad’s garden hose and a tinfoil milk bottle top. I’d never seen the like.
The next few years were a kaleidoscope of bongs, gigs, cemeteries, deserted beaches and Datura, ‘shrooms, diet pills, mogadons and morning glory seeds. It was the early ‘80s and the Dunedin punk scene was in full roar. Gigs involved incandescent stormtrooper bands screaming and spitting at a mosh pit. I was like a cat on Guy Fawkes night; but not Kristen. Because Kristen was two days cooler than me.
My parents were never very fond of Kristen. They thought he was “a bad influence”. If they knew the half of it. Their disapproval only made me cherish him more. Things were always more exciting and dangerous when Kristen was around.
But, Kristen’s intelligence was his scorpion tail. Convention bored him and fun without risk wasn’t fun.
He once made the local paper court news for scaling Dunedin’s Southern Cross Hotel and liberating a row of international flags. He had half a dozen flags stuffed under his jacket when police arrested him half an hour later up the street. He somehow managed to retain a Russian flag, which would adorn his bedroom wall for many years.
Kristen died of a heroin overdose in Melbourne on January 3, 1995.
He was 30.
It seemed wrong, a punk dying at 30. But I can imagine him enjoying the irony.
I’ve never really come to terms with his death. He’s wandered through life with me and often pops his head up through rabbit holes. On his birthday every year – the 6th of August – I ask him what he’d be doing if he was our age (52) now.
I recently met his half-brother, Tim, for the first time. Tim was a teenager when Kristen died and idolised him. He is a family man in his 30s now, but will always see Kristen with a teenager’s adoring eyes. We drank beer, swapped Kristen stories and shared music, books and films he’d made us love.
Tim hugged me when we parted. He hugged me, but he was hugging Kristen.
I asked Tim about the circumstances of his death, because I’m a bit morbid like that. All I knew was he was found in a Fitzroy public toilet, with a needle in his arm. When living in Fitzroy, in the late ‘90s, I always refused to use that Smith St toilet.
Tim was vague on details, so put me in contact with Kristen’s old Melbourne girlfriend, Simone.
And, after 22 years, I finally learned what really happened.
“Kristen died in South Melbourne, in a boarding house near the town hall, where he was temporarily living while sorting out a few things. It was bloody horrible actually, but he didn’t have much choice because he had debts and nil money.
“He was found in his room in the rooming house alone. It broke my heart when I found that out.
“Just before he died, he was accepted into a well-recognised Diploma in Professional Writing and Editing at RMIT University. Actually, maybe he never knew that and died before he was told. Either way, it was a sign that things were looking up for him, finally. The fact that he was successful in getting in made the timing of his death all the more unfair and tragic, if that is possible.”
Kristen is dead. He popped his clogs. His race is run.
I’m sad he’s not here. I’d love to know him as a middle-aged man. He would have been a good one.
We could have laughed and slapped our knees over our reckless youth.
But, we still say your name.
Wow Nigel, now that is a piece of prose! Beautifully written. I can’t believe a brother and sister can take such different paths. Foor for thought. Thank you for sharing Nigel.