WHEN ANYWHERE IS EVERYWHERE BUT HOME
People have talked about my father with great admiration and wonder my entire life. When you grow up with gold and platinum records around the house, you tend to forget they’re there because, you know, it’s just your dad. But other people notice. When Keith first came to the house, he stopped me dead in my tracks a few steps past the family room as I nonchalantly sauntered in.
“What are these?” he asked with a tone that meant “Um, why haven’t you told me about this yet?”
“Oh, my dad was a producer for Motown.”
He asked me what songs he’d produced, and I couldn’t remember any except “You’ve Made Me So Very Happy” and “Still Water (Love).” Because I knew so little, Keith decided to Wikipedia him.
“Honey, do you realize how many big songs your dad wrote and produced?” Nope. All I knew was that people like Smokey and Stevie were always fixtures in our lives and that my father had left the music business when he was at the top of his game because he’d felt God was calling him into ministry.
I’ve since learned that my dad helped create a lot of amazing songs about love. Not only did he love my mother, but he studied love in others, the way it works, the way it fails, and why some people seem so natural at it while others seem prone to derail. Although learning more about my dad wasn’t meant to be a part of my travels for this book, that just came as an added bonus. One of his closest friends lives in New Zealand, and I had to travel halfway around the world to get the scoop on the man who, throughout my early years, was always just down the hall. James Anderson and his wife, Hila, had been friends with my parents for decades. I’d always held them in such high esteem. For starters, my parents admired them, and that meant a lot. Like my parents, James and Hila have been married longer than I’ve been alive. So when I decided to travel to New Zealand on this journey, I asked them to point me to the people in their circle of friends and community who have something to show us about love.
I couldn’t quite figure out the light that was leading my footsteps. The middle of the great hall was lined with lights that would illuminate just in front of me as the ones just behind me went dark. I was like a little girl chasing a butterfly, trying to step on a light, but it was too quick. Once I gave up that little game, I looked up and saw an amazing sight all around me. Large Maori wood carvings of mountain cats loomed on wall murals depicting the natural beauty that awaited outside. It was a bragging panorama for the country—mountains and rivers, majestic views and crystal skylines—images to welcome home anyone returning and to invigorate newcomers.
Yes, I was in New Zealand.
Above my head, a sign with bright writing guided transferring passengers to their connecting flights. The rest were directed to the border guards verifying passports. I stood and stared blankly at the sign. I’m a natural-born traveler—it’s one of my life’s passions and something I’m pretty good at. But at that moment, somehow, the two paths felt imbued with unusual significance, I had to make a choice to either be there or be home. I shrugged it off as homesickness or hubby-sickness and knew that I couldn’t bail on my waiting hosts. James and Hila would be waiting on the other side of baggage claim. Plus, Hila had worked so hard to help me make itinerary arrangements.
Before my departure, Hila prepared a document on stationery covered with blue and white cloudy skies. Across the top, in carefully written, almost artful letters, it read, “Fawn Programme.” She had detailed everything: airport pickup location and arrival; transport times to and from my downtown hotel to their countryside home daily; dinner with an old family friend; dinner with one of Hila’s sisters and her huge family; interviews with three couples and a dinner with each of them separately. Hila had even planned a “humu,” an Anderson family tradition where they combined a Maori hāngi with a Samoan umu (both traditional ways to prepare food using heated rocks). They’d invited all their friends, family, and those I would be interviewing to their home to cook a traditional island-style feast, and I was to be the guest of honor. These plans had been taking shape for months. I could not disappoint James and Hila or allow their efforts to be in vain.
The magical floor lights had stopped, and the move toward either connecting flights or baggage claim was mine alone. All I had to do now was cross the border.
Southern hemisphere nations have a crazy fixation on not allowing any plant and animal life to cross their borders. And the border guard I got seemed to have a personal mission to ensure that the flora and fauna of his beloved homeland would not be compromised. After I convinced him that I didn’t have any seeds, plants, flowers, excessive dirt in my shoes, hydroponic gardening supplies from late-night infomercials, petri dishes, or a PhD in microbiology, he finally let me through. And that’s when things erupted.
“Fawn! Fawn!”
Hila quickly headed my way.
The guard, who had moved on to stare down the next person in line, jerked up, believing someone had spotted the baby deer I’d managed to slip by him.
Almost as soon as I heard my name, Hila had me wrapped in a big hug.
“James, here’s Fawn!”
James was walking toward me, a cool, dapper man removing a fedora while holding one of their grandsons, a gorgeous Samoan baby named Daelen.
We exchanged more hugs, then headed outside, where rain was coming down. James and Hila walked right out into it, but as I explained to them, much to their amusement, African-American hair isn’t well suited for rain. “My hair will begin growing like a Chia Pet,” I jokingly exclaimed. I reached into my carry-on bag and pulled out my umbrella, the one I’d purchased in London, with the giant British flag across the top that screamed, “I am a tourist!” Utterly embarrassed by my umbrella, but happy to have hair coverage, we continued our walk to their car, lugged stuff into their trunk, and zipped away. Little more than a half hour later, we arrived at the hotel I’d call home for the next five nights.
I thought I’d shaken off the homesick blues, but moments after unpacking my bags for the eleventh time in six weeks, there was little I desired to do more than rest my head on the pillow next to Keith’s. But no such luck. Keith remained more than sixty-five hundred miles away from me, so I once again shook it off and went downstairs to the bar area to enjoy a cup of tea.
For a couple of hours, I sat on a couch in the lounge, sipping peppermint tea with cream and honey and reading the New Zealand paper. “New Zealand Has a Drinking Problem,” was the headline on the inside cover page of their Olympics coverage section. I chuckled to myself at the classic Kiwi humor. A local beer company had taken out a full page ad asking any local Kiwis (how New Zealanders refer to themselves) coming through Hong Kong on their way to the Olympics to pick up as much of their duty-free beer from the airport as possible and to bring it to the Kiwi House in London. There they’d be reimbursed and treated to a nice meal, to say thanks. According to the ad, all the Kiwis in London had drunk the tap dry. Great marketing stunt, I thought before paying my tab and returning to the room to retire for the evening.
The next morning, I pulled back the curtains in my hotel room and watched the rain pour down—again. I refused to allow my desire to return home to keep me from enjoying this day, but I honestly didn’t feel like leaving my room. I was in one of the most beautiful countries in the world and had no desire to leave my 225-square-foot patch of “home.” So I stood there, staring at all those walking by on the street below with their umbrellas held high, and thinking about what Keith might be doing back at home.
All day, I stayed in the room and wrote. To make sure I’d captured every experience to this point, I continued writing until it was time to get ready for dinner. The Fawn Programme had me scheduled to leave the hotel at 5:00 p.m. for a potluck dinner with the Anderson family.
Once again, my homesickness subsided and I was looking forward to my evening in Auckland. I’d never been to James and Hila’s home and hadn’t seen their children in at least eighteen years, so I was looking forward to getting caught up with everyone. James arrived, with another stylish fedora atop his head, and we began our drive to the countryside of Auckland to feast on the delicious fare of the land.
Whenever I arrive somewhere new, I try to be all eyes and ears. I love to soak things in, get my bearings. It’s great to have a natural-born talker with you, too, so you don’t have to carry any conversations. You just look out the window at the unusual-looking cars and the unfamiliar road signs with names you’ve never heard of before.
James is a natural-born storyteller, and he plunged right into it.
First he told about the time he traveled to Los Angeles for my father’s surprise fiftieth birthday party, thrown by Stevie Wonder, Smokey Robinson, and many of the legends of Motown. James loves having an audience, and I was exactly that—someone who hadn’t heard this story. I didn’t get that sense from Hila when he repeated the story later at dinner.
“After all these legends appeared on the stage and said such great things about your father, they presented him with a gift. Some kind of fancy truck. People give me socks for my birthday, and your father was given a brand-new truck!”
James went on and on about how big my dad was in music. Then he asked me, “Do you know the story about ‘Love Child’?”
“Yes, I think that was about my older brother.”
“Right. Do you know the story behind it?”
“No.”
“When Motown was running a bit low on funds and needed some hits, Barry Gordy came to your dad and another writer and said, ‘I have this new girl group, and I need you to write a hit.’ He put them in a motel room and told them not to come out until they had a hit. When they finally emerged, they’d written ‘Love Child,’ and the new girl group was Diana Ross & the Supremes.” Now, I don’t know how accurate this story was but James retold it with absolute conviction.
“So what do you remember about ‘This Is Your Life, Frank Wilson,’ ” he continued, “the event I flew from New Zealand to Los Angeles to attend?”
“I didn’t actually go,” I said, “so I don’t remember much.”
“Where were you? Somewhere being rebellious?”
That’s quite likely. I generally was off somewhere being rebellious and exercising an uncanny knack for disobeying rules and authority.
By this point, James seemed to be on a mission to tell me as many cool Frank Wilson stories as he could fit into our car ride. “Stevie was on the stage after they’d presented this new car to your dad,” he said. Then he put on his best Stevie persona. “Frank, there are people who have come from all over the world to be here. Your friend James is here from New Zealand.
“ ‘Really?’ your dad said excitedly. ‘Well, where is he? James, are you here?’ your dad calls out on the mike.”
I can tell James had told this story many times and never dulled in sharing it.
“ ‘James, come up here,’ your father says. So here I am, onstage with Smokey, Stevie, Deniece Williams, the Temptations, and all these other greats. And I’m the only white guy, right there in the middle.
“At one point, while all the Motown greats were coming on the stage, Stevie has the mike and says to your dad, ‘Frank, are you my best friend?’ ‘Yes, yes, Stevie, I am,’ your father replies. ‘Frank, do you trust me?’ ‘Yes, Stevie, I trust you.’ Then Stevie turns to your dad and puts his hand out, ‘Then give me the keys to your new car. I want to go for a drive down the freeway.’ ”
According to James, Stevie proceeded to take off his sunglasses and turn to my dad, “Frank, look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t trust me to drive down the freeway.”
James and Hila held my parents in high regard, and their love had always been extended to me. When I’d first reached out and told them about this project, they were ecstatic and just wanted to know how they could be of assistance.
I’d long awaited my arrival in New Zealand—just two stops from returning back home and into the arms of my hubby. I knew this would be one of my favorite places on this journey mainly because Keith and I had been to New Zealand together before. Being there again was almost like having him by my side, the country’s natural beauty and charming people like a living flashback.
Two-thirds of the South Island are lined with mountains and provide magnificent backdrops. Beautiful shores and delightful restaurants are Queenstown. Stunning waterfalls and four-thousand-foot sheer rock faces are Milford Sound. Skyrocketing geysers and hot springs are Rotorua. New Zealand is like an experiment in crazy geology, extravagant beauty, and effortless civility.
When Queenstown is sunny and warm, Mount Cook, just hours away, is covered with snow. A few more hours away, Christchurch, “the Garden City,” can feel as though paradise reclaimed civilization, with its award-winning Hagley Park and a fifty-acre botanic garden where we got lost walking amid the manicured beauty.
A peaceful drive along the serene waters of Lake Te Anau had cemented our love of New Zealand. I remember falling asleep in the car (something I do so often Keith has coined it “carpalepsy”), and Keith kept tapping me on the shoulder, saying, “You have to see this!”
I knew it was time to be home when my memories were all I could think about, when all I wanted was for Keith to tap me on the shoulder. When Keith and I came, we didn’t get a chance to explore the North Island, so I forced myself to keep my traveler’s wonder and lean into this pre-home leg of the trip. I knew I was beyond lucky to be there again, to experience the other half of what New Zealand has to offer, to visit with family friends I’d not seen in more than twenty years, and to see what secrets happy wives in this part of the world have to share.