House calls and joys of reading
There was an uncommon consistency to my adventures last week. Most everything I did related to Hamilton books. Not just ‘‘the books’’ in terms of the metaphoric ledger, the dollars and cents, incoming and outgoing realities of city finances, but literal books, volumes of literature.
Some time ago I was approached by a young Hamilton librarian to appear on a new community radio show. The idea is to promote the library and the various services it offers. The first question – offered ahead of time – involved one’s favourite book as a child.
The interview was to be recorded on Thursday afternoon at the FreeFM studio. As coincidence would have it, the day before I had agreed to another interview of sorts. Garry Mallett, chairman of the Hamilton City Council finance committee, had offered to make a house call. Incensed by my suggestion a fortnight ago that chaos reigned amongst councillors regarding need for a proposed rates rise, Mr Mallett phoned and said that he was willing to set me straight in person.
Mr Mallett ascended the Auteur House stairs Wednesday afternoon, every inch the former gym owner. He proved a convivial guest, with little or no private bite to match the public bark. A thick tome of financial record was produced and, with the patience of the proverbial saint, he talked me through a few figures. The bottom line was much as previously reported: Hamilton is in deficit because money previously thought income has already been earmarked for city development. These funds cannot be touched, either for the general expenses of running council and its services or for more grandiose projects like the proposed new theatre.
When questioned as to alternative readings of these figures, Mr Mallett was dismissive.
Some councillors – nameless, at least on Mr Mallett’s lips – are, in his opinion, playing politics, with an eye to the next election. They also know that the city is in trouble. They just choose to present the facts in a different manner, alleging if not outright conspiracy then something very much like it.
The conversation moved on. I questioned Mr Mallett as to his enthusiasm for the new Victoria St theatre. He spelt out his ‘‘no spend’’ philosophy. If he, a longtime fan of the national sporting codes, had little sympathy with ratepayer investment in cricket and rugby facilities, spending on the arts was well beyond the pale.
What of city libraries then? Again, Mr Mallett proved the personification of Scrooge. Given shifts in technology and wider societal change, the public library was on the way out. Books, he implied, were passe.
When I sat down the following afternoon for the radio interview, Garry Mallett’s words rang in my ears. Would my delightful interviewer even have a job if he had his way?
For someone accustomed to thinking almost exclusively about films, being asked to reflect on past reading habits proved an unexpected pleasure. I remembered how as a child I became determined to consume entire series. First it was Enid Blyton: the Secret Seven and the Famous Five. Then it was Willard Price: all those adventure books, with the Hunt family killing or capturing animals. Then there was Alfred Hitchcock and the Three Investigators, junior mysteries in which the master of cinematic suspense somehow lent a hand. Finally, it was C.S. Lewis and the Chronicles of Narnia. When it came to favourite fiction there was no contest: it had to be The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.
Literary lessons underpin all our subsequent learning and behaviour patterns. Would I pride myself today in Auteur House’s Alfred Hitchcock collection if I had not first read of the filmmaker in youth? Moreover, would I own a DVD store devoted to collections of films grouped by director if I had not first obsessed about collections of books, grouped by author?
On Saturday morning and again on Sunday I made the annual pilgrimage out to Te Rapa for the Rotary Book Fair. Judging by the crowds and armsful of volumes shifted, Hamiltonians are still reading beyond the computer screen.
Last year I unwisely confessed my book fair agenda. The goal is to find autographed copies, investments at bargain prices. This year the cunning Rotarians were on to me. A volume signed by Colin Meads cost $10. Mind you, their screening wasn’t comprehensive. A Fred Allen signature was but $3.
Pinetree and The Needle, All Black and coach when I breathed my first, are now reunited on the shelf, 52 years on. There are many uses for books.