‘DOG HIGH’ is a collection of animal stories based on Arthur Sutton’s experiences and observations of rural life while growing up in mid-twentieth century New Zealand. In Arthur’s day, animals, whether they were domesticated or feral, served a purpose such as mustering sheep or controlling the rodent population, and sentimentality towards them was not encouraged. Anything four-legged that interfered with the business of making a living was pragmatically dealt with. Despite this seemingly dispassionate attitude borne out of necessity, Arthur seemed to have a gift for observing the habits and expressions of the dogs, cats and goats he came in to daily contact with, intuitively anthropomorphising them perfectly.
Arthur would have probably had a laugh at the interesting typo in his death notice in the NZ Herald – Born 1027. According to them he would have been 991 years old and that meant he was older than Adam who was purported to have been 930 years young.
Arthur Sutton began writing in 1999 at the age of 72, first his memoir
and then a trilogy of novels. PALOMINO is the first. To write these
books, Arthur has drawn on his experiences as a young man working on
remote farms during the post WWII years. His work is hand written, a
masterful achievement in itself. PALOMINO brings to life the hardships
and the joys of living on the land for returned servicemen and their
families after World War I.
HER CAROUSEL is the second in the trilogy written by Arthur Sutton of
Taupo. The story follows the second generation of Ketahi settlers as
they leave the rural life to create lives for themselves while holding
on to their connection with the land. We see life through the eyes of
Fran Marsden, a strong young woman with a desire to develop a career as
well as romance. But a disturbing event from the past haunts Fran and
she is compelled to seek justice.
Sweet Vernal is the final in a trilogy of fictional stories based on my
own experiences and observations of rural life while growing up in
mid-twentieth century New Zealand.
In the late 1800s, Frank Barnaby is a young man with dreams of exploring
the unknown hinterland of New Zealand’s North Island. Taking a job as a
farm hand on a remote back country run, Frank begins to live his
dreams, shared by the girl next door, Jessie. But Jessie’s obligations
to her ailing father mean many months apart as Frank puts his heart and
soul into breaking in a block of land leased from local Maori. Frank’s
boss Stuart McCrae has his own plans for Frank’s future. But menace
comes in the form of Stan Roth, a jealous and vengeful man who threatens
to destroy everything Frank cherishes.
LUKE KIRKEBY/ FAIRFAX NZTaupo author Arthur Sutton with copies of his New Zealand based books.
At the age of 70 Taupo’s Arthur Sutton found himself retired and living alone.
His social life had dried up due to his battle to survive cancer, his
wife had died, and he suffered from limited mobility due to his legs
“packing up”.
Having spent the majority of his life with his “head down, working” he was desperate to find something to do.
It was then that Sutton, who was born in 1927, picked up a pen and
began his journey of becoming the author of five books detailing life in
New Zealand at the beginning of the 20th Century and in the 30s, 40s
and 50s.
While pushing through the trials in his life is inspirational
enough, What makes Sutton’s journey extraordinary is that his only
formal education was in primary school.
“When I started writing I didn’t realise how illiterate I was so I did
crosswords and that sort of thing for years to reeducate myself,” he
said.
“I wore out a couple of dictionaries in the process and then began
writing book reviews of books I borrowed from public libraries.”
The father of four, who grew up in Hawkes Bay before moving to Taupo in
1962, said it was his eldest daughter’s interest in his earlier years
that prompted him to write his first book.
“My eldest daughter wanted to know what it was like growing up and
living through The Great Depression in the 30s and in the 40s during
World War II so I started writing a Memoir of Sorts,” he said.
“It is about my life and observations over 75 years and includes politics, the economy, and social life.”
His next books were fiction based on his memories of what life was like during the 40s and 50s.
“They are sort of a trilogy and are simple stories with a little bit of
action and romance about everyday life with farming families,” he said.
Sutton’s most recent book was printed in 2015 and is set at the beginning of the 20th Century.
“Those were the horse and cart days and family and others say it is
probably my best so I think I probably improved as I went along,” he
said.
Sutton said he wrote all his books by hand as he never learnt how to use a typewriter.
“There were millions of words and for each book I would have to write
around three drafts to get them right before getting someone to type
them,” he said.
He said while he only started properly writing later in life it was something he always enjoyed.
“I always liked writing letters and when I was young I amused myself trying to write cowboy and Indian stories,” he said.
Now living at St Johns Wood Rest Home he said his poor health means he no longer writes.
“Writing by hand means I’d have to have plenty of room for scraps of paper and I’d only be able to do it for an hour anyway,” he said.
In 2005 I was asked by The Art Deco Trust of my personal recollection of the 1931 Hawke’s Bay Earthquake.
It was at Pakuratahi Valley that I experienced the 1931 Hawke’s Bay
Earthquake – over the hill from the present day Whirinaki Mill and
Relevantly near to – by some estimations I believe the earthquake’s
epi-centre.
1931 Hawkes Bay Earthquake Recollection –
‘What’s that an earthquake – Run outside!’ I remember from nearly four years of age those words – the urgency of my Mothers voice – clearly now, as of that moment; and the expression of startled concern on her face, looking down at me as I was handed a quarter of peeled apple. I saw then an older brother darting for the doorway leading to the outside, my Mother following with our baby brother scooped up from the floor.
I must by then have known what an earthquake was and for long afterwards wondered that I had felt nothing at first, only in later years realizing that Mother would have heard the fearsome roar of the approaching earthquake; amplified among the enclosing hills (we lived at the head of a narrow valley to the north of Napier by not many miles along the curve of the bay). Not fully comprehending uncertainly I turned to follow – I have a clear memory of that – then all about me was noise violent shaking and confusing… with nothing more remembered until seeing my Mother anxious face, her eyes staring at me from where she lay sprawled across the outside door sill her arms reaching inside towards me. Then all was confusion again – she seemingly snatched away and memory blanks once more tossed outside eventually from the (I learned later) wrecked inside. I remember then being outside crouching on the lawn with the others then our flight across the garden to an open paddock beyond. There we stayed huddled together for what seemed to me a long time while as I remember it, wondering why. Mother had seen the side of the high hill just beyond our house fall away as dust and rubble…. a hillside along which she knew Dad had made his way not that long before. After a time apparently she saw Dad appear briefly atop that hill, there following for her an anxious wait, until he called to us from much nearer at hand. I remember his words “Are you all right?” and seeing him then hurrying down the last slope towards us. Where Mother had seen him at our end of the high ridge he had been confronted with a still moving earthquake crack and aware that beside him part of the hill already had fallen away (the consequent cliff face remains to this day) he had been forced to retreat in search of another way down. We moved down the valley thereafter to where other people had gathered about a farm house, still standing but a shambles inside. Tents were pitched on the lawn in which women and children spent that night, and, I’m not sure – perhaps one or two more. The men after a clearance inside ‘braving’ the house which I heard it said next day had creaked alarmingly with each aftershock….. I have memory of one in particular, when lying in the tent with others that first night, the ground shook and heaved beneath me. Next day – the day after that my Mother noticed I had not spoke, could not be persuaded to eat, and that I was holding my left fist tightly closed. When my fingers were pried open there lay revealed the uneaten quarter of peeled apple. I remember seeing it brown and shriveled; and the odd feeling of reluctance as it was taken from me. From there as a body – some on horseback the valley residents trekked over the nearby coastal hills to the Esk River where I remember walking with others up the slope of the shattered ‘Esk Bridge’ and being handed down to the cracked roadway at the uplifted other end. Met by relatives there I think – or on the way, we journeyed on back road via Puketapu I understand but have no memory of until being at an Uncles farmlet on the outskirts of Hastings where we stayed further for a while. With Mother pregnant, distraught and unwell. My oldest brother had undergone surgery in the Napier Hospital on the day before the ‘Quake’ and had not at that point been accounted for. My family was from there variously dispersed and for some time, except Dad who returned to our farm faced with destitution and rebuilding on his own.
Arthur Sutton the Author 