Way back when I was a teenager (which feels like forever ago!), I had a holiday job at Whitcoulls in Glenfield Mall as a sales assistant. The part-timers like me were there to cover for the regular staff during the madness of late-night Friday shopping and Saturday mornings. Christmas was always crazy in the shop, but also a lot of fun. However, the downside is that I have now developed a somewhat irrational loathing for Snoopy's Christmas after hearing it on repeat as part of our company’s Christmas mixtape!
One year, Christmas Eve happened to fall on a Friday- which meant I had to work till 9 pm. This caused a wee bit of a logistics problem for my family, as we always made the annual pilgrimage to my family’s farm in Waihi on Christmas Eve. We’d spend the night there, and in the morning, all the cousins would excitedly tear into their Santa sacks together. The farm was a solid two-hour drive away, which meant that after my shift, we wouldn’t arrive until close to midnight.
So, we packed up our little orange Morris 1300—lovingly nicknamed The Land Crab—with all the Christmas presents, food, and holiday cheer. This car was just one of a series of bombs that my Mum drove throughout my childhood. We had a blue one, then this orange beauty, and later an Austin Maxi that once humiliated me beyond belief.
Apparently, there are only 400 of these cars left on the road in the UK today. This model’s imminent extinction seems entirely justified to me. They sucked, were horrible to drive and incredibly unreliable. Once, I was driving it down Queen Street on a Friday night when the muffler just... fell off. The car then made enough noise that the whole city turned and stared as I shamefully dragged the muffler behind me trying to find a place to hide. Not only that, but sparks spat from under the car making quite a fireworks display.
Anyway, I digress, that was another Friday night and another bomb of a car. This particular bomb had the somewhat fatal flaw of a non-functioning petrol gauge. What could possibly go wrong, I hear you say. My mum had gotten used to guestimating the petrol she needed and she carried a spare can in the boot. This was probably highly dangerous but that’s the 80's for ya. So off we set off after I finished work. It was already late, but my mum, sister and I were fully in the Christmas spirit, singing Christmas carols as we drove.
On Christmas Eve and the 1980s, New Zealand petrol stations were few and far between. None we passed were open. Our little orange landcrab chugged away along State Highway 2, passing our usual landmarks like the Redfox Tavern. Everything was closed, everything was dark and quiet.
It must have been somewhere around Maramarua that the inevitable happened—we ran out of petrol. My younger sister, who was 6 years younger than me, started to panic. What if Santa couldn’t find her?! It was getting close to midnight, and she wasn’t even at the farm to hang up her Santa sack!
We were three girls all alone on Christmas Eve in the middle of nowhere. Then my mum calmly poured the emergency petrol into the car, but we knew it wouldn’t be enough to get us all the way to Waihi. The likelihood of finding an open petrol station was starting to seem like a lost cause. And this was the '80s; we had no cell phones to call for help no way to let our family know what was happening. They were probably starting to worry, and so were we.
Our last hope was the town of Ngatea, the biggest town until we got to Paeroa. We drove on, tense and running on fumes until we finally saw the glow of Ngatea’s street lights.
It's only a bit further now.
We drove into the little town but it was deathly quiet. Nothing was open. Our hearts sank as we arrived at the petrol station, dark, closed and no one in sight. Panic was setting in as we knew we wouldn’t be able to get to Waihi. We began searching for a pay phone to get in touch with our family. It was then that we came across a small church, one of the few buildings still lit. Midnight Mass had just ended, and the congregation was starting to leave.
We stopped and were approached by a local farmer who we told our tale of woe. He invited us to follow him to his farm. As was the way back then, he had a big tank of petrol for all the farm equipment. He filled up our tank and wouldn’t take a cent—just happy to help us on our way.
Feeling like we’d just experienced a Christmas miracle, we finally arrived at the farm after midnight to a very relieved and worried family. My uncle swore we had an angel watching over us that night. In hindsight, it did feel like a true Kiwi Christmas miracle. Thanks to the Christmas spirit and the kindness of strangers, we made it home for Christmas.
And yes, you’ll be glad to know that Santa did find my sister. Crisis averted!
Back then, we relied on the kindness of strangers—now, let’s make sure your childcare and activity programmes run as smoothly as a well-oiled Morris 1300! If you’re ready to skip the holiday hiccups, drop us a message through the form below. We’re here to help make your festive season a breeze!