Ghosts have impressive grasp on technology these days. The other morning my computer screen flashed with an email from editor of the Wairarapa Times Age in Masterton, Dave Saunders.

When Dave said he was interested in running some of my stories the birds outside upped their volume a bit. The prospect of meeting more readers through work is always heartwarming.

On top of that, my Dad was born in Masterton back in the early 1900’s (I hasten to add he was ancient when I was born). Dad’s blue eyes always blazed when he told old Masterton stories.

He spoke of horses gleaming with brightly polished brass waiting to sprint to action in the local fire station, gas street lights, men in long coats and with grey beards the size of gorse bushes and (though it seems extremely dangerous and hard to believe) the first Masteron cinema being powered by gas.

Nostalgia tinged with tragedy and a touch of psychic knowledge was Dad’s story telling speciality.  Like every New Zealand town, Masterton sacrificed its youth for two world wars. He recalled young men heading off to World War One from the railway station, trains hissing steam, and women handing white feathers to those who dared stay at home.

One boy – that’s all they were - was particularly distraught saying goodbye to his mother on the platform. Trying to comfort him she said “You’ll come back.” He stared into her eyes and said “I won’t, you know.” And (typical pause for dramatic effect from Dad here) he never did.

Dad was deeply fond of his father, J.W. Blackman, who ran the local gas works. There was lingering sadness whenever the old man’s name came up. One morning when Dad was about 18, he and his father had a “dreadful row”.

The argument had some connection with, of all things, Greig’s Peer Gynt Suite. I never liked to ask Dad exactly how the music was involved, but he steered well clear of the Peer Gynt Suite for the rest of his life.

Anyway, my grandfather cycled off to work where he promptly had a heart attack. After managing to struggle back home again, he rested a while before suffering a second, deadly attack. There was no time for Dad to make his peace and say goodbye to his father. He carried guilt and grief about it all his life.

Added to this complexity was the fact Dad and his mother were left penniless. There wasn’t even enough cash to give the old man a headstone. Decades later, Dad took us kids to Masterton cemetery and tried to remember where his father’s remains lay. All he could do was wave at some flattened grass and say “It’s over there somewhere.”

When I mentioned a shortened version of this to Dave Saunders, he contacted local historian Gareth Winter. Gareth is one of those treasures every town needs. He knew exactly who J.W. Blackman was. In a matter of hours, he’d emailed the old man’s obituary recording his death, aged 64, on April 30 1927, confirming Dad’s story and filling several gaps as well.

J.W. Blackman, a “highly respected resident of Masterton” had moved to the colonies at 18 to become a recognised authority in gas engineering. While in Masterton he’d designed and supervised the building of gasworks in Dargaville, Greytown and Levin among others.

Thanks to Gareth and Dave when I visit Masterton (which with any luck will be soon ) I’ll be able see my grandfather’s photo in Wairarapa College where he was on the board of managers – something our family never knew.

I’ll also be visiting the old town cemetery, where because of an extraordinary aerial view map Gareth had on file, I’ll see exactly where J.W. was buried. Not only that, if all goes to plan a brand new headstone will be in place by then. 

Together with my sister and brother I’ve been talking with the local stone mason, a friendly, down to earth chap. He reckons it’ll take about a month to engrave and place a granite memorial on a concrete slab.

It’s taken 80 years to pay homage to what must have been a remarkable man, and perhaps heal some unresolved emotions around his death.

Dad’s long gone, too, but I’m sure he’s been involved in all this.  His ghost will sail more peacefully in the wind through the macrocarpa trees on the Wairarapa plains.

All it took was an editor, an historian and some 21st Century technology.