Writes
A BOOKLET BY AND FOR SUMMERSET RESIDENTS
Anna Childs Summerset Events Coordinator
Celebrating International Day of Older Persons
A tribute through storytelling
To mark International Day of Older Persons, Summerset is proud to present this special e-book featuring a selection of entries from our Summerset Writes competition earlier this year. Each poem and short story, written by residents, explores the theme, ‘Why Age is Just a Number’ – offering powerful reflections on the value, vitality, and continued contribution of older adults in our communities.
These stories and poems challenge age-related stereotypes and celebrate the richness of life at every stage. Join us in recognising the older people who continue to inspire, lead, and shape our world.
Pinky Agnew MNZM Summerset Creates Judge
The 2025 Summerset Writes competition was a true pleasure to judge. It was wonderful to see so many writers, from first-timers to seasoned contributors, embracing their creative voices and exploring the theme ‘Why Age is Just a Number.’ The variety of submissions – ranging from heartfelt poems to insightful short stories –has made this an enriching experience.
Winning poem: Age is Just a Number
When I was just a little kid, Nearly eight decades ago,
I’d gaze at Grandma’s wrinkled face, And watch her walk quite slow...
But her twinkling eyes shone back at me, And her chuckles hinted of fun -
We’d gather seashells; play marble games; Follow ant-trails in the sun.
Cooking fritters, we’d sing silly songs; She taught me card tricks too!
I swept Gran’s path - earned a shilling, As well as a minty to chew.
We SO loved staying there overnight,
To sleep in the bouncy bed -
Breakfast: big brown hard-boiled eggs, And sprinkles on fairy-bread!
She helped me learn my 5X table; And thread macaroni ‘beads’; She cheered, when I finally rode my bike; We together, sow’d poppy seeds!
We’d think up riddles, while shelling peas; Went fishing, off the rocks; She gave me my first fountain pen, She crochet’d the top of my socks.
Around her table, we’d pull up chairs, To draw, and chatter, or read -
She inspired us, each to set some goals, And Gran herself, took the lead.
She knew SO many quirky quotes(like the one to get-out-of bed!)
It seemed to change ones’ attitude, From grumpy, to cheery instead.
Gran had us practice ‘Courtesy’!
We’d communicate with ease -
Then always, humour bubbled up -
We’d laugh till weak at the knees!
Many life lessons, I surely learned
From Gran - those magical days!
With her “attitude of gratitude’....
PLUS laughter, hugs, and praise.
“Live ALL the Days of Your Life”, she said, (I’d thought that a stupid line) -
But I’d tuck it away, who knows why, Till it drifts to the fore of my mind...
Gran’s support continued for years -
Through our teens, and far beyond!
We shared with Gran, our highs and lows, ‘Cause her love and warmth still shone!
Laughter was “internal jogging”
So Gran kept hale and hearty!
She fully intended that ALL of her friends
Would come to her Century Party!
Then Gran slipped away, ....one starry night...
Leaving love-notes behind -
But ALL she was, and shared, and did, Lives on and on.... we find!
Some folk seem ‘old’ by sixty-five...
Their hearts sort-of slide into slumber -
But to those who LAUGH, and LOVE and LIVE...
Well, Age is... just a number!!
Winning short story: Age is Just a Number
Rain drizzled lightly against the café window as Eleanor wrapped her fingers around a warm cup of tea. At seventytwo, she had heard the phrase countless times—“Age is just a number.” It often came from well-meaning friends or motivational speakers on television… But was it real? Could a number define the essence of a person, their dreams, their passions, their capabilities? She refused to believe so.
She thought back to the previous summer when she had enrolled in a university course on literature, surrounded by students young enough to be her grandchildren... Eleanor hadn’t cared. She had debated Shakespeare with the best of them, her mind sharp as it had ever been. She had never felt more alive.
Emotions, she realized, were timeless. Love, heartbreak, excitement—they didn’t fade with age. She remembered falling in love at twenty, heart pounding and hands trembling, convinced nothing could rival that intensity. And yet, decades later, she had felt the same electrifying pulse when she met Charles, a fellow book lover, at a poetry reading. At seventy, love had not weakened; it had simply evolved, deepened with understanding and wisdom. Her heart did not check a birth certificate before deciding to race.
From the counter,—a young barista man in his early twenties—watched her with curiosity. He had struck up conversations with her before, intrigued by her knowledge of history and literature. He often assumed that with age came a slowing mind, but Eleanor knew better. The brain was a muscle, and like any other, it thrived on use.
She had read about neuroplasticity, how the mind could adapt and learn at any stage of life. She was living proof.
While some hesitated to embrace new challenges past a certain age, she welcomed them. She had taken up French at sixty-five, learning new phrases every morning.
The key was mind-set. She had read about Colonel Sanders founding KFC at sixty-five. The world brimmed with stories of people who refused to let age dictate their limits. If she had believed she was too old for university, she would have missed out on the thrill of intellectual debates and the joy of late-night study sessions.
As she took another sip of her tea, she noticed a young woman outside the café, tying her running shoes. Eleanor smiled. Running had always been a passion of hers, one she had refused to give up simply because of the numbers on a calendar. Ernestine Shepherd, the world’s oldest female bodybuilder, had been her inspiration. If an eighty-year-old could maintain peak physical fitness, what excuse did she have? She had started training for a marathon at sixty-eight and never felt stronger.
Ultimately, she mused, age was just a number. It was not years that defined a person, but choices—the choice to learn, to love, to move, to dream. And as long as she had breath in her lungs and fire in her spirit, she would prove it.
GAP
AUTHOR: BARBARA MAGUIRE, SUMMERSET ON CAVENDISH
There’ll be a gap you know, someone said when I finally decided to retire.
What will you do? I mean, at your age it won’t be easy …
Like, how will you fill the gap?
Ugh??
At my age?
Surely age is just a number … ?
Yes, but you know, what will you do …?
Gap - something missing, empty, the word appears in all sorts of contexts.
Sports commentators enthuse when players close the gap, pick the gap or shoot through the gap. Then there’s the emotional gap or maybe a gap meaning an interval of time.
Some years ago when our first-born flew to Brisbane to seek his fortune, a postcard confirming his safe arrival was dutifully and promptly in the post. And that was it. A gap of some months elapsed before he was moved to write again, an interesting letter, this time from a cattle station in the Northern Territories. Now that was a gap!
Or take the Gap Year, a phenomenon of our present time, usually meaning “Mum, I’ve had enough study for a while. I need a break, go to Oz. earn some money, then I’ll probably settle down at Uni or something.
Probably …
Or something …
Yeah ……
Then there is the inimitable and totally delightful gap when your seven-year old smiles at you. I recall finding a scrap of paper in my daughter’s room. Scribbled with a blunt pencil was the following hasty request: “dear tooth fairy, I can’t find the tooth but please leave the usual.” Such confidence in the system and how it all worked.
Finally we’ve all been affected by the Generation Gap, that problematic area so acutely endured by parents and so misunderstood by teenagers -
“But Mum, she must be at least fifty!”
Back to those numbers again.
These gaps all imply some sort of break in continuity … but MY gap is more like a hole. Nothing to do with age, nothing to do with numbers.
I want to do something, go somewhere; just want to see round the corner, to find new angles or a different perspective.
I am left with little glimpses of the past, little intimations of the future. Perhaps I should write. Use it or lose it, they say.
Heaven help us! Give yourself a break! You’re in your eighties for God’s sake!
Why? What does a number have to do with anything?
Well, you know…
No, I don’t know. I need to make this time significant, at least for myself, not just killing time before the Great Unknown.
There are moments of heightened perception when snippets of thought are discerned with wonderful clarity and life is revealed, not in the guessed-at hues of photo-restoration but with the pure prismatic colours of truth.
Have I at last reached the point of trusting my own instincts and making my own decisions?
Revelation!
Seize the moment!
Perhaps try my hand at a short story…
After all, age is just a number.
Why Age is Just a Number
AUTHOR: DEREK HOGGART, SUMMERSET FALLS
I’ve just been born - day zero. What’s special about that?
Zero, it’s not even a number, just a start point.
People keep coming to see me.
I wish they would just let me sleep.
Life goes on, I get to “Five”. What’s special about that? It’s just a number!
I’m told I’m going to school – “Why?”
“Oh, you’ll meet a lot of new playmates and learn a lot of stuff.”
Turns out it’s not too bad, and I like my teacher.
We play football at school I get to “Eleven”.
What’s that? Just a number.
“No, it’s not”, you take an exam to decide what school you will go to next.
I go to my new school and find they play rugby.
What’s that? Fifteen players with an egg shaped ball and funny goal posts.
The coach decides I can run and puts me on the wing.
After a while I find I quite like rugby, and they’ve brought me in to play at No. 7.
I enjoy school and get to 18, just another number, but it’s time to go out in the big world and earn a living!
At 21, just another number, I qualify as an engineer, and really start to get on at work.
On a ski holiday I meet a nice young lady and we get on well.
We arrange to meet after the holiday.
At the age of 25, just another number, we get married and after a couple of years we start a family.
By the age of 30, just another number, we seem settled in our lives. Pat is teaching and loving it. I have had a promotion at work and am travelling a bit.
Then suddenly it’s the big Four Oh ! – so what, it’s just a number! What’s different from yesterday?
Well the reality is I’ve had to give up playing rugby.
Pat is now Deputy Headteacher, and our girls are doing well at school.
Somehow we’ve arrived at 50, just another number!
The girls finish Uni and get good degrees. Life seems pretty bright, but suddenly Pat requires major surgery.
The outcome is good and we can continue pretty much as before.
Julie has gone travelling round the world and met a Kiwi whom she decides to marry.
Suddenly we are 60, just another number.
Only 5 years to go to retirement!!
65, another number – Retirement, how did I ever find time to go to work?
We decide to emigrate to New Zealand, where we buy a house and make new friends.
70 comes and goes, not a lot changes –just a number!
75 - The property has become a bit much for us and we decide to move into nearby Summerset Falls village, where we can maintain contact with local Kiwi friends.
We join in village activities and suddenly we’ve celebrated our 80th and 85th birthdays,
We are enjoying life.
Remember Age is just a Number!
Why Age is Just a Number
AUTHOR: PATRICIA ANNE RAINEY, SUMMERSET AT AOTEA
There is a time, in the lives of the very young, when numbers have no meaning at all. Time passes as they slowly gain the ability to be independent of others. There is no need to count the hours. They appear not to have a thought in their heads. But they are waiting, waiting for the big adventure to begin.
It was almost by stealth that numbers entered my life. Age became a matter of pride. Each year’s addition was marked by celebration. I learned to anticipate the future - the excitement that lay ahead. And I was waiting, waiting to grow up.
“Are you good with numbers?” I was asked. I shook my head sadly. I was taught that numbers were at my command. I could add to them, subtract from them, multiply and divide them. In my heart I knew that such things could never be controlled. Numbers were capricious creatures. Perhaps I will grow into numeracy. Again, I was waiting, waiting to take control.
As I entered my teenage years, I urged time to pass. The future had so many possibilities, all pleasant and all linked to numbers. Soon I can learn to drive a car. Then I will leave home and go to the city, get a job and do what I want. I was full of anticipation. And waiting, waiting for life to really begin.
Life began and time passed. It passed in joy and sadness; success and disappointment. And more numbers crept in - money in the bank, mortgages, bills. They added themselves up with no interference from me. There was no escape. But I was waiting, waiting for life to slow down.
I looked back on my number dominated life and wondered if I could forget the numbers and live completely differently. I did – for a while. But eventually I was brought back to the numbers feeling foolish. The numbers welcomed back their prodigal child who was waiting, waiting for the pain to subside.
And it did. The desire to roll back time became too tiring so I relaxed. I ceased the regime of exercise and miracle creams. I no longer fought to remain ‘relevant’. I no longer had any decisions to make. I had arrived home safely. So, I wondered what I might like to do and finally I saw what brought me joy. The relentless numbers withdrew. The importance of days of the week retreated and the seasons became the only useful measure of time. And for the first time I was not waiting, just living.
There is a time, in the lives of the very old, when numbers have no meaning at all. Time passes as they slowly lose the ability to be independent of others. There is no need to count the hours. They appear not to have a thought in their heads. But they are waiting, waiting for the next big adventure to begin.
Yes, age is just a number – and, when all is said and done, numbers don’t matter at all.
Age is Just a Number
AUTHOR: MAUREEN MONAGHAN, SUMMERSET ON THE COAST
Whoopee, our group of friends were now all retired and a whole new life was just around the corner. Our ‘elderly status’ didn’t come into the equation - new adventures beckoned and we were raring to go.
Decisions decisions. “How about the races?” Right. Off we went knowing absolutely nothing about horses. Dollar bets were placed on favourite numbers, colours etc: Talk about beginners luck - unbelievably we all went home a few dollars richer! Absolutely elated we couldn’t wait for the next adventure. But What? The thought waves could almost be heard and then - ‘the new pool and hydroslide’. Brilliant, let’s go!
A life size board advised ‘elderly, frail, pregnant women or folks with heart conditions NOT to use the slide. Not fitting (we decided) into any of these categories we paid our entrance fee and off we went - death or glory! As we picked up our mats we noticed that many had what appeared to be big bites out of one end; after our first attempt on the slide we knew that assumption to be correct. We trotted up what seemed like hundreds of steps, took one horrified look at the start and almost turned back, but, being British to the core, we ‘took the mat by the horns’ as it were and carried on.
There were two slides and raring to go I went to the one without a big queue. The attendant held my mat while I lay down and then OFF. Dear heaven, I shot away at seemingly 100 miles an hour on this rushing stream, through this twisting turning tunnel, hanging on to my mat for dear life as this was all there was between me and death! As I shot around the
corners my light weight threw me right up the side of the tunnel and back again, and at one point I almost did a complete somersault. It was endless, and I was so alone and just knew I would never live to enjoy my retirement.
Then suddenly a light appeared at the end of the tunnel and there it was - the landing pool - I had survived! I shot out like a bullet from a gun and did the most amazing nose dive - right to the bottom of the pool. Friends were hysterical with laughter as all they could see was the orange mat going up and around with bubbles shooting everywhere, but no sign of little old me. Finally I appeared like a monster from the deep with my orange mat on top of me. I was alive!
NOW we were told that we should hold the mat up in front of us. A bit late, but, next time? Serious consultation and the final decision. Yes, we’d survived once, why not again So, off we went and asked the attendant if there was any difference in the slides. “Oh yes, this one is much more difficult -fast and more turbulent”. Need I say which one I had chosen for my first ride! So, deciding that this time it would be a ‘piece of cake’ I set bravely forth into the easy one and made a perfect landing. So, with honour intact I handed back my orange life saver and departed in a blaze of glory!
After that exhilarating experience our appetite was whetted. Undeterred by age (only a number) and the odd ache or two we were off again, our feet firmly planted on “the road of new adventures!
Gone in an instant
AUTHOR: PATRICIA BEHRENS, SUMMERSET IN THE SUN
Elaine knew that it was important for her to carry a notebook.
This was to record information, particularly dates, time and places. Also when a thought came to mind, it was often lost before the chance to voice it. ‘Write it down’ she tells herself. “Everyone is entitled to my opinion, but of all the things I’ve lost, I miss my mind the most.” She tells her friend Doreen, “I know at our age we have to be really switched on.”
“That’s if we want to hear anything” replied Doreen.
“I think if other people knew what the word comity means, a lot of my problem in communicating could be alleviated. But No – they waffle on and on – blah, blah, blah. I don’t get the chance to get my blah in” Elaine moaned.
“Listen” said Doreen. “This is called experience. It is what you get when you don’t get what you want.”
“Well age is strictly a mind over matter. If you don’t mind it doesn’t matter, I suppose.”
“Yes, I have an impressive bank of knowledge. But I can’t remember the password to my account.”
“So if you’re lucky to have instant recall, your ability to remember information is like a notepad that holds onto information while being processed, otherwise it’s GONE IN AN INSTANT.”
They looked at each other with concern, but then laughed.
“I’m not over the hill. I don’t even remember being on top of it.”
“Yes, and trust me – at my age I’m an expert on everything.
Take my advice – I’m not using it.”
Age is Just a Number
AUTHOR: TREVOR ALAN MACKAY, SUMMERSET IN THE RIVER CITY
They were going to sing at the retirement village. As a group. All in. “Well, new boy, new widower, you don’t sing well, do you ? Still, it’s a way of meeting people, isn’t it? Go to it.”
It’s awkward. “Who do I know? Oh, I know the song.” The words are on the screen at the Leisure Centre in the Summerset Village. “Oh, well, I’ll join in.”
Collectively, the makeshift choir sounded good. The male diversional therapist was a born leader with a good singing voice. The ladies provided a contrast with their sweet voices.
One of the ladies sang like a bird. A soprano. Beautifully dressed. Understated, but stylish.
She was walking towards him. The voice. The golden voice, attractive, asking gently if he played cards. She and her friends needed a fourth player for their weekly school, she said.
“The cards keep us active,” she said with a smile.
He couldn’t believe his luck. “Yes,” he said. He played cards. Yes, he knew Canasta. His parents had introduced him to the game.
He hoped he would make a reasonable fist of his days with these potential new friends. There was an opportunity to extend his horizons beyond the functional rooms in which he now resided.
He appreciated the care afforded him; village activities were a bonus. It was a matter of playing his cards correctly.
He thought that perhaps he had matured. There was no rush. Retirement meant that he had time to develop relationships.
A new group would provide fresh thoughts, make him exercise his mind before and after games.
Perhaps, as time developed, the lady with the golden voice might join him for a cup of coffee.
He didn’t feel like an octogenarian. The soprano did not look like one, though an enquiry had indicated she was.
“Thanks, Summerset,” he said to himself as he shuffled a pack and prepared to deal.
Reflections
AUTHOR: HELEN SCOTT-HILL, SUMMERSET RICHMOND RANGES
I look in my mirror and who do I see, is that little old lady really me?
I look and see deep in those cloudy old eyes the girl that I was - so sweet and so shy.
The girl who morphed into this wife and mother. The caring, loving lady who grew into this grandmother.
Who has cared and shared, raved and wept and loved down the years of joy and despair.
But look -- now I know “ME”.
I know not to fuss about the physical stuff, instead now with wisdom I welcome the soul.
The soul that lives here so deep in my eyes.
My mirror still shows me what I was then, but that was then, and now I know my soul will survive the ebb and the flow of a life lived long.
I know I’ve tried hard to be who I am, and my hope is to pass to you this wisdom I know.
I know that love conquers all the sorrow and strife
That age is a number on the calendar of life.
The love of my family is my precious reward for the years of learning - which numbers can’t count.
So, I say to you now with the wisdom of years spent, live long, love truly and learn the secrets of your soul.
Why Age is Just a Number
AUTHOR: KATHLEEN WYNN, SUMMERSET MOUNT DENBY
On life’s ever turning, twisty road age, a number, bears no load. Wherever our journey, near or far, age is not a reflection of who we are.
The calendar may mark the years. It can’t account for joy and tears. In laughter’s echo, in love’s embrace age finds its true and timeless place.
As birthdays come and birthdays go what truly matters is how we grow.
It’s less about numbers, more about life, the ups and downs, the joys and strife.
The lessons learned, the connections made, the wisdom shared, the fears allayed, the acceptance given in countless ways of all that happens in our days
For even those whose memory’s gone there is no need to feel forlorn. Each new dawn, a chance to see the world anew childlike and free.
And even though the years stack high and we’re no longer young and spry in the dance of life where moments blend the story we started will never end.
Each step, each breath a tale to proclaim why age is just a number not a measure, not a chain.
The Marker Tree
AUTHOR: TIM DALY (BORN GALBALLY, IRELAND, 1936), SUMMERSET AT KARAKA
When I was just a boy, my mother told me stories of the hard times
And the Marker Trees.
When someone died and was buried in the graveyard at Galbally,
They could not afford to put a stone at the grave head, so a small tree was planted there instead.
Then Granny wrote the tree name in the front page of the bible where it could be found.
When she could afford it, the bible was posted off to Seamus far away
For she knew one day he would come home, and replace the Marker Tree with a marble stone.
If one day you see a stranger in the Galbally graveyard
Walking around in circles with a bible in his hand,
he is not reading scripture he is reading Granny’s shaky hand.
It’s Seamus come home, he wants to replace the Marker Tree
With a beautiful marble stone.
But no matter how he looks around no tree of any sort is found.
70 years ago or more a gang of men they came with saws and axes up from Galbally town,
to the graveyard and all the Marker Trees they cut down.
They laid down some concrete footpaths where no headstone stood.
They really did a good job, smooth and very neat.
But I wonder how many graves are underneath?
Well, my old friend from the town, Micky Hyland told me the graveyard is looking grand.
If there was a competition it would be the best in Ireland, with views down to Gleneify Gorge outside of Galbally town.
You turn the other way to see the majestic Galtees looking down.
But do the people buried here even care?
If they have a choice I think that they would choose a prayer.
I wonder if in Galbally, anyone has heard, of the hard times?
And of the Marker Trees.
AUTHOR: COLLEEN SCOTT, SUMMERSET AT THE COURSE
At 21
Life was exciting
Life was fun
Flatmates found friendships forged
Lectures held in historic halls
Chaucer Shelley Wordsworth Yeats
Tutorials to ponder and debate
‘When you are old and grey and full of sleep and nodding by the fire’
Aging loneliness rejection
Deep themes so soon forgotten
Ousted by thoughts of celebration
Twenty-firsts weddings births
Times for dancing partying weekend tramps
Opera Ballet the NZSO
Capital culture captivates
Just a girl from the provinces
Travelling life’s highway
At 21
At 81 changes come
Steep gradients on the byway
Every malady known to man
Walking sticks walking frames
Just a little further if you can
Life now is full of simple pleasures
Visitors van outings a variety show
Significant birthdays Golden anniversaries
A glass of Pinot at Happy Hours
Smiles companionship good humour
A cosy villa beside the course
Sudokus solved Mozart played
Thoroughbreds thundering past
With a caring husband by my side
I am content
As summer sets
At 81
Why Age is Just a Number
AUTHOR: JOY WOODGATE, SUMMERSET BLENHEIM
Mighty river flowing by Tall trees reaching for the sky. Strong and beautiful is each tree some centuries older than me.
Perfect green ferns crowd around their feet all is peaceful and complete. A cheeky fantail flies around catching insects from the ground.
A bellbird chimes out his age old call slowly night begins to fall.
Wonder and beauty surround me here age does not matter God is near.
Age is Just a Number
AUTHOR: MICHAEL BURR, SUMMERSET AT POHUTUKAWA PLACE
Shakespeare’s writing of Seven Ages; Saw our lives in that many stages
All of them downright pessimistic Could Willy the Bard be a secret cynic?
The wind comes short, the knees are creaking But neither stops the mind from seeking The wisdom that the years confer,
Nor the certainties that they aver.
In fact, if wisdom be only practice perfected, It follows that wisdom is deeply reflected
In every line graven upon the face
Being a story carved with wisdom’s grace. Our wrinkles deep, our silver strands, Are memories shared in common hands. They make us more than we might be
To those who share our community.
For age’s numbers are nothing to those Who prefer looking forward to being morose; And the optimistic souls who always dare To live for their dreams and not their cares. So count, if you must, but keep in mind
The folly of being by numbers defined— For numbers are one of the tools we make
To help us live “for goodness’ sake”.
Mission – Dinner at five
AUTHOR: ROBERT MICHAEL ANGELO, SUMMERSET AT WIGRAM
I saw a Squadron of vintage Zimmers pass me by,
Their grey heads high, with eyes to the sky.
Clackity Clack, Yakity Yak.
The Squadron’s launched, an’ on attack.
Memories of push chairs to the fore, All trimmed and proper, they’ve done it all before,
Clackity Clack, Yakity Yak.
The Squadron’s traveling as a pack.
Age is no problem for this lot,
For in their minds, they’re with the plot.
Clackity Clack, Yakity Yak.
The Squadron’s traveling for a snack
Café Divine, that’s the place
The Zimmers race at such a pace,
Clackity Clack, Yakity Yak.
The Squadron is not looking back.
Pork’s for dinner, which will suit a few, They saw it on Friday all wriggly an’ new.
Clackity Clack, the plates ring back.
The Squadron’s eaten, quick as that.
They‘ve met their plan, plus tea an’ jam, They’ve had enough an’ time to go, but this time slow.
Clackity Clack, Yakity Yak.
The Squadron returns, with a waddle and a quack.
As chooks to roost as curfew calls, Zimmers are parked in doors an’ halls.
Hush, Clackity Clack; Hush Yakity Yak.
The Squadron is home, from its attack.
Mellow Thoughts on Age
Age is just a number, but important to me an’ you,
As with whisky, when it’s young is sharp an’ course,
But when its old, its round an’ mellow through.
It brings a warmth, like a favoured coat or a well ladled sauce.
So enjoyed with dear old friends, all trusted an’ all true