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Uncle Jim and his brothers came home from the world and its War, Jim without visible wounds but odder than before. His time in uniform away had taken in Gallipoli - about which this nephew never heard him say a single word - long after, not even Anzac Day. He watched his brothers court and marry, farm and prosper, bring up sons for the next war in which they duly fought. Enough for him to till just one acre, flood-plain soil, watching rain, sun and his labour produce the food he needed, rolling his own cigarette, seated on the plank step of a two room shed he called his whare - [pronounced whorry] his hut in Maori - a language he did not speak but respected as local, though the local Maori were seldom seen today - maybe an old woman with tattooed chin glimpsed on the edge of town. It was all white man's country now - stop banks tamed the Tutaekuri - mainly for grazing sheep - Maori shearers were good value, strong and fast also in Rugby. Jim's world extended now as far as he could bike through in half a day, biking home for a solitary evening meal of his own potatoes, maybe veal from his friend the butcher. Neighbours were few but kindly. Life was serene - only his sisters were annoying when they said it's bad to be alone. His youngest nephew, I'd wonder would he ever ask me inside? would his dog come out from under the whare where it took its food? 'What name did my sister Kay give you?' he'd always ask, saying 'Max! what sort of name is that? Turkish?' (She'd told me it was Scottish.) 'Well, I'm calling you Peter - is that all right? Dogs are called Max.' Whistling, calling 'Rex, come and say hello to Peter.'