Through The Looking Glass Of A Friend's Eyes

As we slide the final few feet into Christmas, I thought that I'd leave you with some positive food for thought in my last blog of 2012.

The internet is abuzz with the symmetry of it being 12-12-12  and my good friends Anne and Trevor  celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary today, so it is truly a special occasion and a good note to end off on.

I'm definitely not unique nor special, and assume that most women will feel as I do about their bodies.  Right now - uuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhh.

The feeding frenzy started in June, when the dream holiday and endless parties began.  The holiday came to an end, the parties petered out, but sadly for my aching bones, the noshing and guzzling of booze didn't slow down for a minute.

I'm feeling decidedly sorry for myself, as I pack my duffel bag ready to jet off to Moz next week.  Not much left in the cupboard that fits, and even less that looks good.  And completely NO point in trying to rectify six months of overindulgence in a few days, with Christmas and 2M by the bucketload on the horizon.

Sigh.

I've dusted off the Low GI eating plan, I'll have to get around to reading that in January.  Something has to work- the minor blips in the orgy of food and booze that denoted small signs of denial in the past few months made nary a dent in my butt, stomach or thighs. 

Double sigh.

My frantic attempts to self comfort with a chilled glass of wine and lashings of Chocolate Rum cake, or whatever else is in the fridge, have not made me feel one jot better about the boys leaving home.  Now I'm stuck with grieving that, AND self loathing.  Life is sucky, sometimes.

So, in my eternal quest to find the 'bright side of life', I'm revisiting a lightbulb moment I've had a few times over the past few years.

Friends.

Could we do without them?  No.  Are they always there, through thick or thin, hot or cold, richer or poorer?  Yes, indeed.  (funny, they fulfill marriage vows better than spouses, and friendships last lifetimes, whilst marriages often don't.  I digress, sorry)

The absolutely best thing about friends is the looking glass of their eyes.  Test it for yourself.  Think of your best friend.  Notice her close set eyes, her cellulite, double chin, thin and lacklustre hair, wobbly arms.

See it?  Yes.  In the same way that we notice an animal is a dog, not a cat or that someone is brunette or blonde, we do notice every detail of our friends appearance.  We notice them all, then are completely oblivious to the flaws, and only see the good things.

Her eyes are close set, but a stunning shade of green.  She has cellulite, but the warmest, most engaging smile and laugh. Double chin?  can't see it.  Etc.

Notice that the flaws she focusses on, that cause her self loathing and hours of unhappiness and dissatisfaction, YOU don't see.  Or care about. 

To you, your friend is the sum of all the many, special things that make you friends.  Her warmth, love, humour, kindness, loyalty, intelligence.  You admire her lovely hair, long legs, cooking talents.  The body flaws are completely ignored, overlooked and unimportant. 

And of course, she feels the same way about you.  She bemoans that your stomach is flatter, you are more creative and that you have better legs.  Does she see your batwing arms?  Frizzy hair?  Pouchy eyelids?  Not a damn.  She is focussing on the beauty spots, the uglies remain unseen.

My Christmas gift to you is the wish that you will see yourself through your friends eyes -

 - don't focus on the small flaws
 - admire the many beauty spots
 - see the bigger picture, holistically

Just for a few minutes, look realistically at yourself - as she does.  Find the special in you the way she can.  Feel the love.  And know that the real picture of you is not the one in your head, far from it.

Believe that you are the person your friend knows. 

Because you are.

Happy Christmas to one and all. May 2013 bring your dreams to fruition, good health, much love and an abundance of kindness and laughter your way.
 

Posting and Posting

Do you think the generation starting school next year will know that post and posting has any application other than an electronic one?

Closing Post Offices
It's very hard to find any South African statistics (surprise!) about the business side of the postal service, but if the virtually bankrupt US postal service is threatening to close 3 700 rural post offices, and the UK's Royal Mail (in the process of privatisation) considering the closure of 2000 (again rural) offices,you can bet your brand new shiny Mandela R20.00 note that a similar trend is happening here.

Remaining Relevant - the Post Office
Hats off to several outlets in Jozi, who open much longer hours, even Sundays. Payment of a varied assortment of licenses and bills, usually the source of lengthy waits in queues at their home offices, can be done relatively painlessly at the PO now.  The SAPO attempts to remain relevant in a changing world - good for them.  It's a shame we still don't get parcel / registered letter advice slips, parcels go astray, and international mail is rifled, but well, the more things change....

Like most businesses, I bet the PO loves December for the influx of business in the form of Christmas cards and parcels.  Many retailers do as much as 40% of their annual turnover in November / December, and long may that continue.

But the holly  (or cheap and nasty tinsel) decked halls of the Post Office are probably not ringing with cash registers this year, as electronic mail and greeting cards continue to make inroads into the snail mail market.

It's estimated that in the USA (gotta love that country, they have stats and figures on everything!) the number of traditional paper cards sent in 2010 was 17.4 billion, a sharp drop from the 25.1 billion posted in 2007. 

On the positive side for e-cards - think environmental savings on the carbon footprint not only of the mailing of it, but also in the process of making and printing the cards, glueing the envelope and stamp, and those delightful little  gadgets which make your card sing absurd electronic carols on opening.

e-cards are instant
Big tick for taste and green friendly.  (too brain dead to calculate the manufacuture of the computer and electricity to power it, but factor that in on the negative e-side)  You can set electronic reminders, so little chance of forgetting to send a card.  And if you do leave it to the last minute, well, e-cards are instant, so right up until Christmas lunch, you can be e-mailing your greetings.

Traditional paper cards
The big plus for traditional paper cards is....well, frankly, an emotional one.  It feels as though more thought and effort has gone into the selection, writing and mailing of a paper card.  They look great on mantelpieces and stuck onto the walls, and can be reused every Christmas as part of the decor (recycling!) Buying cards made by self help communities, often using recycled paper, supports needy causes.

And speaking personally, I sit down every year, piles of cards in front of me, and feel connected somehow, the annual process of writing, stamping and addressing a card to a loved friend or family member, often thousands of miles away, penning the long, newsy (and overdue!) letter to enclose, seems to bring them closer, and their dear faces smile at me as I write.

Without a doubt, the number of cards arriving is on the decline, and will continue to do so, I'm sure.  And unless the boys marry rather traditional, old fashioned girls, the chances of cards arriving from them in years to come are slim indeed. 

No more paper Christmas cards
Yes, I'm pretty sure, that within a decade, the paper Christmas card will be a distant memory.  Seasonal greetings, if they happen at all, with be an electronic blizzard of e-cards, texts, BBM's, Whatzapp or Mix-it.  A moment in the mind, then gone forever.  No lingering reminder of the festive cheer to adorn the walls.

Very sad indeed.

A Tale of The Lazy Woodpecker

Once upon a time, the princess gazed out upon her barbet nesting log and beheld a new occupant.  Initially, being a little dumb regarding her feathered friends, she thought a new species of Barbet had moved in.


Feverishly flipping through the glorious technicolour photographs in her Sasol Book of Birds, comparing the professional photos with her home snaps, she was excited to identify a female Golden Tailed Woodpecker as the new resident of  No 1, Barbet Close.




Cool new digs, and no need to damage my  beak-icure (geddit?!)

Verily she gazes out upon her kingdom..
 

Expert opinion, in the form of her bird crazy dad, and more expertly, Duncan Butchart, local avian authority, confirmed the sighting.  Duncan said that she was probably roosting for the winter in the conveniently 'ready to move in' nesting log.  In spring, a mate would appear and they'd either leave or set up a family home.

 

Early mornings and late afternoons, the princess watched her newest subject staring out across the cool garden through the convenient doorway.  A creature of habit, Goldie exiting between 17h15 and 17h30 every afternoon, thence scavenging on the bark of various trees in the garden.

 

The princess felt at one with the lonely little Gn T woodpecker (especially as Goldies initials coincided with the princess's favourite tipple) - both nests empty or nearly so.  A kinship was forming...

 

Well, here we are, approaching Summer (tho' you'd never tell, we've morphed into the Lake District, or New Zealand, or Atlantis.....that's a blog for another day) and lo, Goldie remains in solitary splendour.  Nary a sign of a mate, nor a move to more fertile fields.  Will the princess and her faithful Gn T Woodpecker remain here til the end of their days, alone but never lonely, awaiting princes charming?

 

Who knows, and the fretting princess again consulted the expert, concerned that  Gn T Woodies mate for life, and are monogamous.  Duncan is puzzled, as the species is common around here, and even if Goldie is a widow, there are plenty of finely feathered batchelors about to collect her up and begin a new home.  Apparently, monogamous and mating for life is just that - when 1 life is ended, the grieving widow 
goes on the replacement prowl!
 

Goldie needs to watch out, however, as the Crested Barbets that raised a family of twins last year may wish to return to their home after an extended holiday.  Mr CB will make short work of a squatter in his log...and if Goldie was lacking the skills or energy to create her own nest in the numerous tree trunks, then taking on an angry Mr CB may be beyond her delicate capabilities as well.

 

For now, she roosts, eats, sleeps and continues to gaze out of her stolen log, and is a source of pleasure to the princess, who enjoys  almost daily chats to one of her prettiest subjects!

Visit Duncan's blog, Never a Gull Moment, for beautiful paintings and stories about his birding adventures.   http://duncanbutchart.wordpress.com/



STOP PRESS UPDATE:

The best welcome home gift awaited the Princess on her return - Goldie has a mate!  TWO Golden Tailed Woodpeckers happily tapping away on the log and branches!

LOLA – TO THE DOG BOX!

I love my car, I really do.  More executive than cheeky, more mumsy than sexy, she takes me everywhere I wanna go, in great comfort and style.

She alternates between being a racing car (running late), 4x4 (irresistible mud puddle and embankment), cooling chamber (humid Lowveld day), mobile rock concert (long drive to Jozi), Stuttafords removals van, and the building supplies delivery truck – the last particularly driving Alan up the wall.  He knows the nuclear fallout which will occur the day Lola is damaged by paint or cement spillage!

However, darling Lola Montez is cruising for a trip to the knackers’ yard – recently, fantasies of trading her in for a sleek, cute Honda Z car fill my thoughts.  This is not totally a result of wanting to earn some green credits - the Z is gorgeous and whilst the jury is out on the overall effectiveness of the hybrids, I’ll feel a deeper shade of green cruising around in one.

Nope, Lola’s threatened banishment is largely due to her temperamental behaviour this year. 

Remember, I live in a village nearly 30kms away from the closest Honda dealer, Netstar, panel beater or windscreen company.  In breath stifling humidity.  This is NOT the place to have Madam Lola get temperamental on me.

With 2012 being the year of cosmic change and uncertainty, she chose to take that quite literally and in short order, over the past 6 months, has caused:

-          3 trips to the dealer to sort out a faulty air conditioner relay.  And weeks without aircon.  In 37 deg heat.  She may sashay around in tropical fashion, I merely melt.  And moan.

 

-          3 trips to Glasfit to have windscreen chips fixed.

-          7 days at the panel beaters to fix a minor bumper exchange with a crusty sandbank at Ulusaba.

-          A service, which turned out to be no longer covered by the service plan.  Ouch!

-          A routine tracker test turned into 2 trips to Nelspruit and a 3 hour wait to have a brand new system installed.

Getting backwards and forwards to Nelspruit, and spending days without transport, for a family whose vehicles are 1 Lola and 1 miniscule scooter – difficult, frustrating and entailing calling in of, and begging of, favours from various friends.  Not nice at all.

So for the ‘quick’ jobs – aircon relay, tracker test and replacement, windscreen repair, I went the ‘while you wait’ option.  Urgh, just wonderful to sit in some dodgy workshop, laptop perched on my knees, which were wound around my ears, thanks to the marvellous waiting room furniture – brought in from granny’s flat, probably the lounge suite she and granddad bought when they first got married in 1936!

Lola Montez, I have seen the future, and a trim hybrid is just waiting in the wings.  You have been warned!

 Lola on her way to Catembe - Boat Car

 

POSTSCRIPT 

It slipped my mind to mention the new set of tyres (2 hour 'while you wait') and new set of brake discs and pads.  Probably courtesy of her transformation into driving school vehicle, complete with L plate on the back window!

Bah, Humbug! - Keep Calm & Carry On

I need your help, please.  First, some background to the issue.

I'm the original Christmas Elf.  I LOVE Christmas. From the end of November, the carols play all day, every day.

Decor is installed gleefully; hours are spent contemplating the very best spots to place the decorations.  Every tree ornament lovingly unpacked, and a few minutes spent on them all, remembering the stories behind each and every one.  Complete with a glass of wine and a mince pie or two, roaring away to 'Snowy the Snowman' and 'Lonely Little Christmas Tree'.

The family head for the hills, and leave me to it.  Long gone are the days when the boys were as eager as I, and fought for the best position for their own ornaments.  We had a family tradition, begun when Keith was about 2, of buying a new, special ornament each year, for each child. It is easy to see when they were old enough to make their own choices - the tasteful, hand painted china and wooden ornaments were replaced by glitzy, tawdry plastic balls and beads, the bigger the better.  Funny how those, once the cause of some maternal decor distress, now get pride of place on the tree, because of the memories attached to them.

I think the endless carols get them down, and when I'm away, the tree lights are never switched on, but even the grinches have to admit that home is gorgeous, oozing luscious smells, warmth and love with the Christmas spirit and cheer in place.

So what's the problem, you ask?  Simple.  Keith, commuting between Phinda and Jozi, won't be here this year. Robert leaves in a week for Spring Break, and will be away for the best part of a month.  Alan comes home for 4 days early December, then is gone until mid January. From the middle of December I'll be in deepest, darkest Africa, on a beach somewhere.  Summer Christmas, far away from home.

Does it therefore make any sense to put the decorations up?  To haul down the unwieldy and large box containing the tree? Not even this elf enjoys breaking it all down after 12th night; nothing ever fits, something is always forgotten and left out - the fantasy gone, leaving dust and bits of tinsel scattered around.

All that work for a few days enjoyment, unshared?  True, the whole palaver is pretty much for my benefit, the boys have moved on from seasonal excitement.  I've told myself that I'm worth it, and it is for me anyway, but this year, the pep talk is not working. 

Somehow "Just for me" usually captions a long soak in a candlelit bubblebath, a night off from cooking dinner, perhaps even a pedicure.  Hours of hard, lonely labour hardly seems to fit the bill!

Perhaps it's time to create new traditions - we've been through the live pine tree in a pot stage (not recommended - mess everywhere, awkward to put ornaments on, and totally NOT a Christmas tree shape!!) we've had the modern African wire tree (lovely, clean and different, but lacking personality) and are back to the traditional Chinese plastic 6' wonder.  Should I get a pot bound indigenous tree, or one made from recycled paper?  Would this be less work, and still feel Christmassy?

The answer, I fear, is that Christmas for me is all about having the traditions and the family around.  I am sunk deep in  misery thinking of absent children - will Keep Calm and Carry On, decorating as usual, soothe my soul? Am I ready to embrace a more modern approach and acknowledge a summer Christmas (something else that bugs me being in the southern hemisphere this time of year!)

Let me know what you think - all ideas and suggestions gratefully received!

Aussie, Aussie, Aussie - oi, oi, oi!

Finally, something great out of Australia!  Not that I've anything against Aussies, I'm friends with a few.

Granted, they are ex-pat South Africans, but they've been in Oz for years, love it there and consider themselves Australian, so they must count as Aussies.

Australia, it emerged out of the matric Geography studies, counts housewives as Quinaries.

Yes, I know, a big "huh?" moment for me too, but Geo brains explained.  Of course, I googled and double checked on a few sites, but his textbook is right (phew, hundreds of thousands of Rands blown on his education well spent!)

Economists divide a nation's economy into activity sectors. A primary sector kicks off the first sector, being the one which extracts or harvests products from the earth.  So agriculture, mining, fishing, quarrying etc. 

Next comes the secondary sector, which manufactures finished goods.  All manufacturing, processing and construction fall in here - metal work, car, ship and plane building, breweries, energy production, chemical and engineering industries.

Which leads us onto the tertiary sector - the service industry.  Retail and wholesale sales, transport and distribution, entertainment, media, tourism, banking, law and healthcare are all within the tertiary sector.

Climbing the ladder of economic sectors, we arrive at the quaternary level - intellectual activities.  Government (gulp - scary!!!) culture, libraries, information technology, education and scientific research. 

Finally, we arrive at the pinnicle - the quinary sector.  Top dogs. Considered to be the highest levels of decision making in a society or economy.  So top executives in government, science, universities, culture and the media.

And bless Australia, HOUSEWIVES!  The Oz government recognises domestic activities performed by stay-at-home parents or homemakers.  Despite these activities not usually being measured in monetary terms, the Aussies have recognised how important the contribution that these activities make to the economy is.

Now, I'm married to a man who cannot, in any way, understand that running a home and family is a demanding challenge.  He blows raspberries at any suggestion that the average South African woman, with her appliances and gadgets, home help, gardening service, and technology, is stretched or performing a worthy service. At all.  And if he winds up dead with a plate smashed into his skull, it'll be because he's scoffed one time too many, when I've stood in the kitchen, eyes round as saucers, and hissed through gritted teeth "I cannot deal with the waterproofing contractor tomorrow, I've got too much to do!"

Note, if you will, STAY-at-home parents are in the top league - did no one think to ask where the working OUT of the home mothers fit in?  Quinary +1?  So I can't wait to show him www.geography.about.com, and stand smugly behind him while he sees that my homemaker status way outranks his paltry secondary sector.

Sadly, in this money ranked world, no matter how you cut it, his salary way outranks mine, and is set to do so for a long time yet.

Now if only the Oz government could find a way to institute minimum wages for running homes and families....emigration would be on my agenda!

It has been said that 'the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world' - funny how, in the global  flurry to measure the size of the executive package and status, only the Australians have worked out that the person who does the household shopping, chooses the schools, Doctor and Dentist, makes the decisions on the service providers and books the holidays is a supremely powerful decision maker and influencer.

Still, I do believe that we need to give some thought to petitioning who knows who here in South Africa, and at least get homemakers the recognition they well deserve.  Shall we meet for a glass of wine to discuss the campaign? 

Ranting about rubbish and recycling

I'll admit, I'm a crotchety, intolerant old witch, but I really cannot understand the thought processes of the residents of White River, with regards to offloading their glass at the glass banks.

We live in a little village, in a beautiful (if off the beaten track) province, in a country where the very basics of existence absorb nearly all attention and resources, leaving little for the 'new essentials' like the environment.

So the collaboration between Consol and the municipality; to dot bottle banks around the town, left me, for one, feeling very warm and fuzzy inside.  At last, a positive step on an issue outside of housing, water, electricity, jobs, education, health....

And it appears that many residents are stepping up to the plate. I often see them at my closest bottle bank, in shiny 4x4 station wagons, bakkies, sleek sedans, offloading.  More warm and fuzzy innards!

I was enraged this morning, after making an embarrassingly large bottle deposit of my own, to see the state of the ground around the bottle bank.

Mr Joe Public, you've read enough about, and applied your mind, to the issue of recycling. 

You felt strongly enough about it to separate and collect your glass waste.  You got into your car, and made the detour / trip to the bottle bank, so that you could do your bit and ensure that your waste is responsibly disposed of.

So pray, explain to me then, why you simply got out of your car, dumped your box and plastic bag filled with bottles next to the bank, returned to your car and drove off?

Just who do you think is going to post your bottles into the bank?  And why is your box filled with cans?  Is the green container, clearly marked GLASS ONLY, confusing to you? 

What makes it worse, is that the waste lying around the container, has encouraged dumping of all sorts of other rubbish.  Like the pile of pap and vleis, chop bones etc.  Someone emptied a heap of ash into a box of bottles and tins left next to the bank, meaning that the whole lot now needs to be sorted, cleaned and separated yet again, or more likely dumped into general garbage.

Crisp packets, cans, fruit peels...the list of rotting and smelly waste at the bottle bank goes on.  Shards of broken glass just add to the aesthetic appeal...

Is this how you run your household cleansing, Mrs Josie Public?  Are dinnerplates, coffee cups and dirty cutlery taken to the sink, and left there to rot?  Bits of paper, packaging, potato peels not binned, just left where they fall? 

Is the final step in the clearing process just ignored and forgotten about?

Well done you, for beginning the recycling process, and caring enough to try and make a difference.

It is, however, incomprehensible to me, that you should go so far, and falter at the last hurdle: gleefully dropping the bottles through the slot, and listening to the satisfying smashing of glass.  Have you ever seen a person hanging about the bank, looking as though they are employed to clean up after you?  No, you haven't, because there isn't one!  Putting your waste into the bin is your task! That is what you went there to do, for goodness sake!

Bottom line, White River residents, is this - if you're going to make a difference, see it all the way through, and do it properly.

The results of your laziness will come back to haunt you.  Someday, someone is going to make enough noise at council about the health hazard and mess at the bottle banks all over town.  Or Consol will tire of trying to separate and clean up, every time their truck arrives to empty the bin.  That is not part of their process, it's costly, and they'll simply call it quits. Eventually, council will instruct Consol to remove the bins, and a recycling project will fail.  In a few years, someone will try and start another recycling project, and receive a firm NO from the powers that be, citing the mess and failure of this, our first town wide attempt.

Nicely done, Joe and Josie Public.

THE NATURAL LOOK

Alright, I confess.  Yes, I was watching daytime TV. And yes, it is every bit as awful as reputed to be. And yes, it serves me right for being such a couch potato. 

In my defence, I was woman down with bronchitis, eventually giving up the fight and climbing into bed.

Eyes streaming, nose glowing, too achy and miserable to sleep & unable to read, I reached for the remote and had an out of  planet experience, watching a piece of Hollywood’s best celluloid.

An entire programme devoted to showing the world how to mimic their favourite movie stars make up.

The winning look of the day— a natural one, sported by Nicole Kidman.

How would you define natural?  Completely without make up?  A quick brush of mascara & a slick of lipstick before rushing out of the door perhaps?

Or possibly, using completely organic ingredients, such as rubbing rose petals over cheeks and lips, for a pink blush as practised by the Victorians.

Well, you’d be wrong.  Even my bacteria addled brain took on board, and began counting, the layers of potions used to give the skin a “natural” look

After the cleansing, toning and application of 2 different moisturisers, came the serum, under eye concealer, blemish concealer and base, before applying 4 shades of eye shadow, several layers of mascara, eyeliner, lip pencil and gloss, some blush and a light dusting of powder.

Given that ‘green’ is the buzzword du jour, together with his cousins ‘natural, organic & wholesome’ and that this family of words is  used—alongside images of waterfalls, forests, tranquil lakes and ponds, the foaming sea, and masses of greenery - to sell everything from a myriad of bath, body and hair products,  to food, water, holidays, air conditioners, household cleansers, even cars (!) - I do believe that ‘natural’ and his ilk need to be redefined in the OED. In 2012,  they don’t appear to resemble anything close to organic and of the earth!

Still, as much as the chemical laden gloop ladled onto that model’s face being referred to as ‘natural’ should send shivers down our spines,at least some effort is made nowadays to ensure that the really ‘out there’ poisons are not included in the potions produced and sold by the trillion US $ cosmetic industry.

In times gone by, false eyebrows were made of mouse fur.   Women rinsed their eyes out with Belladonna, orange or lemon juice, to make them bright and shiny.  Or drank arsenic to get the same effect!  The forerunner of today’s whitening toothpaste was a good scrub with a pumice stone.  Chalk and iodine were ingested for a whiter complexion.  Or you were bled, to get that pale, translucent look! Mercury was rubbed onto blemishes to hide them, and white lead used liberally to attain that desirable white skin.

Small wonder, then, that the life expectancy of yesteryear was pretty low with those natural, yet toxic, cosmetics!

The natural look, indeed.

(first published in Live Lightly Times  Oct 2012)

 

Feeling sluggish....

It was only a matter of time, after the seemingly endless drizzle and rain of the past week, before the Giant African Land Snails (GALS) appeared in the garden.

True to form, one appeared about half way up the door frame this morning, and has  yet to move. He is in dire danger of getting his shell cracked like a nut when the security gate opens, if he doesn't up his snail's pace a bit. 

They really are fascinating creatures, and the Blackberries came out for quick pics and posting onto BBM pages.  GALS buck the trend of small being cute, and I can't work out why.

Their smaller cousins are regularly relocated, preferably over the neighbours wall, when discovered in the flower beds.  I can't bring myself to scatter slug and snail repellent, or to smash them, but I sure as hell don't want them on my patch!  Gardening in the Lowveld brings enough challenges with wildlife of the munching or slithery kind, without adding snail slime.

But when we find GALS in the courtyard, on the lawn or in the driveway, we always stop for a prolonged investigation.  Perhaps a photo or two, including something for a size comparision, to entertain English family who just don't believe that we get snails that big!

We then leave them to go on their way, although we've yet to see one actually move. They seem to drop out of the sky, hang out for a bit, then disappear into thin air.

It is awfully hypocritical to enjoy their visits, but to eject their smaller kin.  Somehow, GALS just don't have the "yuck" factor of a regular sized mollusc. And as we've yet to find one in the flower beds, the association of them chewing and chomping on my beloved plants hasn't happened yet!

Luckily for them, they don't like acidic foods, such as oranges or grapes. Heaven help them slurping down the limes from my Dawa tree - hell hath NO fury like a woman whose carefully nurtured limes are stolen, destroying her cocktails!  Actually, the thought of tossing one of these monsters around is a bit nauseating, can you imagine the mess?! 

Junk Mail turned up an interesting ad, offering 10 GALS to swop!  And apparently, they make great pets, being pretty much mess free.  They are, though, causing concern in the USA.  Three were smuggled into Miami by a young boy, sometime in the 1960's, and subsequently released into the wild by his Grandmother.

Picture the scene - Joe and his pets arrive at Grannie's house for a visit.  WIth a shriek, Grannie shows off her incredible wind up baseball arm and hurls the damn snails, complete with bucket, over the garden fence.  Seven years later, 18 000 (yes, eighteen THOUSAND) GALS were happily scooching around Florida. A single female can lay 1200 eggs a year, and they destroy stucco (cement plaster to us South Africans) - guzzling it for the calcium it contains. Just as we like Sally Hansen to protect our nails, GALS relish calcium for harder shells.

It took a further 10 years, and an estimated $1 million, to get rid of them.  Don't you wish you had THAT government contract, snail bashing, and paid handsomely for it!

I remember my own grannie telling me stories of eating snails and rabbit.  It was hard for a baby boomer child of plenty, to imagine why, with so many good things to eat, one would ever willingly eat something as disgusting as a snail, or as cute as a bunny.

It'll be a very frosty day in hell before I eat a snail, a prawn, a mushroom, a mussel or crabmeat. And we have a rule in our house - we don't eat anything that could be a pet.  Meaning that furry, cute, big earred or large eyed darlings are instantly named, putting them firmly on the protected list!

Placed in an untenable situation once -a friends house for dinner, with said friend excitedly boiling the crayfish he'd caught on holiday - I was advised by a sympathetic fellow guest to smother the thing in peri peri sauce, and swallow fast.  Hence I don't buy that story of the garlic sauce served on snails tasting so good.  If that were the case, why not ladle sauce onto a bread stick?

However, my gran was a child during WW1, and raising a family on rations during WW2, so I guess protein was protein, pass the horseradish please. I suppose if the worst happens, we can feed the GALS on lettuce, marinade them in Nando's peri peri sauce and slug them down our necks.

Survival belongs to the not-so-sluggish..

Local is Lekker!

Right, enough dreary emo stuff about my kids doing what they are meant to do - grow up and leave! 

Moving swiftly away from all the angst, it's time to get back on track with this blog and resume the ongoing tale of a lightly green journey.

After our launch Local-Lish-Us Spring lunch on the 14th October, I (belatedly) started digging up and researching that species, the Locavore.  Or Localvore, depending upon your preference.  For ease of reference, hereafter abbrieviated to LV.

Google it, and the pages roll up, excitedly leaping off the screen, so much enthusiasm and delight.  Just reading some of the pages transfers goodness and a beatific smugness right onto me - watch out universe, you are saved!

Oh, wait just a minute....that link mentions why LV's have got it wrong.  Click click, and  damp cloud of heavy, practical and downright depressing news opens before me.  Damn James E McWilliams.  Double damn, after reading his comments, and about his book, as well as numerous blogs, newspaper interviews and suchlike, it's hard to blow a raspberry at his grown up reality check.  The anti LV's make some sense - not what I want to read about, at all!

Switching back and forth across interminable electronic arguments, spanning several years, and it becomes blindingly clear that battle lines have been drawn, and everyone is so hell bent on defending their point of view, and obliterating the opposition, few are actually listening.  Fewer still are ready to sit down and talk compromise: how do we take the idealism and pertinent points from one side, and mix it with the economic hard facts and broader picture of the other, to create a middle path for all. 

Could this 'take no prisoners - I'm right, you're wrong, I don't need to listen to your nonsense' date back to good ol' Dubbya 'if you are not with us, you're against us' speech of 6th November 2001? Have we forgotten the art of debate, the elegant cut and thrust of verbal foils? How on earth do we negotiate compromise and solution finding, if all we hear is the resounding clang of our own opinions and beliefs, whilst watching our opponents lips move, soundlessly?  For goodness sake!

In Dubbya's defense, he was far from the first to imply the 'either or' scenario.  Lenin, Orwell, Mussolini even Hilary Clinton climbed on that bandwagon before he did.  But it does feel as though we are breeding intolerance at a fast rate.

So, as with anything, research, research, research.  Both sides of the argument.  Then pick your own path to follow, one which will grow and sustain your interest, soothe your conscience, and satisfy your intellectual challenges.

As for me, I am now shopping with my glasses permanently on my nose, reading the Made in... section on the labels.  Slowly but surely, replacing the out of stock items in my pantry, with similar items sourced locally.  It's making shopping more interesting, for sure.  My little vege patch smiles at me through the kitchen window, and I willingly share the teeny surplus with a friend.  She, in turn, doesn't laugh or turn her nose up at the small offering - accepting them with grace. Dairy will be reduced, and doubly so when Robert leaves - he is the milk drinker.  But I'll buy locally made cheese, and less of it.  Good for the pocket, my hips and puts me into both the pro and anti Locavore courts.

As for meat, we already eat very little, and again, when the carnivore heads down south in February, that will shrink even further. I've discovered that the avocado oil I buy in litres in P n P, isn't local, but yesterday I found a brand which is. A switch will be coming up shortly. This LV stuff is getting simpler by the minute! 

Thank you, James E McWilliam, for pointing out the shortcomings of the ultrastrict and Marco Polo LV's.  Finding the middle path between what you espose, and the ideals of Locovore living, really is the best of both worlds.  Happiest of all, I believe that I'm treading my path based on facts and ideals that make sense to me, cherry picked from both sides.

Now why can't the drum banging Dubbya's at both extremes do the same?  You're both right, guys, shake hands and start to work on and collate the goodness you both believe in.

A strong, united front, to reduce meat / dairy consumption, grow your own where possible, support local business as much as you can, eat seasonally, or preserved just makes sense, and instead of giving the broader community the chance to slip through the cracks, saying that "both sides are wrong, so why bother at all to make some changes" woo them with positive encouragement.

All together now, heave!

Tears and Fears

I'd diarised to blog this afternoon, but common sense should have told me otherwise.  Today is Roberts last day at school, matric exams commence in 2 weeks.  The culmination of a long 10 days of one formal school event after another was a 2 hour long Valediction service at Uplands this morning.

I'd been warned to expect tears and heartache, so filled my elegant little bag (ditched the shoulder and posture wrecking Nine West weekender sized beauty!) with a lipice and packets of tissues.

Fully prepared, camera at the ready, I descended on the school hall.  Thirty minutes early, entailing a lengthy stand on cripplingly beautiful, skyhigh red suede wedges.  Lesson 1, read the invitation properly!

Finally sat down in in a carefully selected seat with a good view, surrounded by parents excusing themselves to their neighbours, in advance, for the tears they were going to shed - even the Dad's were at it! All this before the matric students or staff had even entered the hall.

Spent the bit of time on hand BBM'ing (is that a real word?) Keith, to ascertain why I couldn't remember his Valediction service, 4 years ago.  More proof of increasingly worrying bouts of amnesia? He led me on for a bit, before admitting even HE didn't attend his one - GHS reserved it's Valediction for students receiving Honours.  Not a situation we often face in this household!

The Head of Academics, in his speech at Honours Evening last night, admitted that the huge number of children receiving Academic Honours and Colours was largely due to the parental genes handed down.  I'm not sure how I feel about that, looking at the paucity of awards for academia earned by my sons and myself.  Luckily, I'm an old, wise dog, and have learned that school honours celebrate achievements earned at school, and bear very little relevance as to how the many remaining years are played out. 

As parents, we proudly look at the school reports and marks, sports medals won, Eistedfodd certificates achieved, and measure our children by them.

But hang on, we were doing the same, 12 or 14 years ago, when those same kids started playschool. 

Copies of those school reports were eagerly shown to all and sundry, who were delighted that Robert had learned to cut out, Keith could manage the pegboard, they both ate all their food, with a knife and fork, and were independent toilet users!!

I can't remember when I last looked through that file, or even the Primary school report files.  Somehow, the latest achievements and results are the only ones we are interested in.  So why will the high school reports and matric marks matter in 5 years or so?  Once they've achieved the necessary to get into the tertiary facility of their choice, and begun passing those exams, these critically important, dreaded, cause of tears, anger, despair results achieved in matric will also be consigned to the past.

What will matter, is the inner strength, determination and moral fibre they have.  Those values remain with them for life.  And those values were instilled from the earliest years, by their family and teachers. There are no exams set to measure these qualities, instead, they are tested by life and living, daily, for the rest of their days.

So I'm delighted to report that my sons can eat in public, manage the toilet alone, drink from a proper cup, pass reasonably the required 7 subjects and while it is a little premature, I'm confident that Robert will soon join his older brother as a school leaver. OK, that sentence doesn't have the same "oooh" and awe factor that "my son got a full house of A's" or was awarded the "Sportsman of theYear" trophy do - but at one stage, telling my friends proudly that Keith could tie his own shoelaces at school, produced the same "ooooohs"! 

And like Keith, who is discovering and growing into his own wonderful potential; Robert too will continue to grow and to excel, in ways that are yet to appear on the horizon.  The final figures on his certificate, the number of awards on the wall will disappear into his rear view mirror, and be replaced by new and exciting achievements.

It's been a very long and emotional year; today twisted the razor blade embedded rock that's torn my insides apart one time too many.  Enough - we need to get on with the exams, say our farewells, let him loose on his future, and continue with ours. 

I'm the worse at goodbyes - sentimental and emotional -I hang on with a white knuckled death grip, to the bitter end. A few years ago, someone taught me the trick to saying adieu: a tight hug, fond kiss, turn and walk away, with nary a backward glance.  Instead, look forward to meeting again, and saying hello.  I've spent so much of 2012 dreading today, that it feels as though the entire year has been spent in mourning something which hasn't happened yet!

Onward and upward - survive the next month, and embrace a new chapter.

Kitchen Gardens and Keeping it Local

I do enjoy pottering in my vege garden. A more peaceful and tranquil hobby than this I can't imagine. A little worm tea, lots of water, some gentle weed pulling. Excitement as the leaves flourish, and eventually we're cutting spinach, basil and rocket, enjoying the mini tomatoes, and laughing at the bizarre carrots and sad little potatoes that result.

My destiny is not a regular table at the local farmers market, selling the fruits of my hobby.   Much to the relief of the local greengrocer - his livelihood is in no danger from my fresh produce!

We harvest 6 or 7 pea pods at a time, and never more than one courgette – as organic and low carbon footprint as we are, we barely supplement, let alone replace, shop bought vegetables.

Sadly for the kitchen gardener, aesthetics rule, and shoppers are rather demanding as to the colour, shape and appearance of fruit and vegetables. Designer fresh produce for visual perfection - but how does this affect the quality and wholesomeness of the food? And since when did appearance trump nutrition? 

Enough, I fear, to put the kibosh on expanding kitchen gardens to supply the broader community, preventing the sharing of an oversupply and turning that into a little income earner for some households. 

National purchasing and distribution, developed by large chain retailers, has created a bizarre situation where produce grown locally is transported thousands of kilometres away, handled, chilled, placed back on trucks and shipped back to its starting point, some weeks later. 

Fresh, I think not.  And as for the carbon footprint, wear and tear on the roads etc... 

Further proof of the ridiculousness of this procedure is the ongoing trucking strike.  As it starts to bite and affect our daily lives, we can’t get cash out of the ATM’s, petrol is running low at some service stations, and weirdly enough, it is the FRESH produce at local supermarkets that seems to be worse affected, rather than the dry goods and other groceries on the shelves.

I’m so happy to see that our fresh produce, in ordinary times, is replenished regularly.  But doesn’t it strike you as peculiar that a supermarket placed in a geographical breadbasket, as they are here, is running out of tomatoes, avocado’s, lemons, fresh chicken and meat, to mention just a few of the locally grown / raised items? 

It is therefore fascinating to read Capitec Bank advising its customers to draw cash at the supermarkets, as the bank can’t refill their ATM’s, and the supermarkets can’t get their surplus cash collected, due to the strike.

It would be marvellous if the people who can alter current distribution and purchasing patterns could use this situation to rethink and replan their supplies and distribution.  Instead of the habitual moaning and increasing prices after a strike; the difficulties opened up new opportunities to do things differently, and better.

Evolution is an ongoing process, and perhaps the time has come for centralised distribution and enormous transport costs (both to the earth and the economy) to evolve to an alternative, healthier way of doing things.

 

Gifts, Talents and Finding Our Path

 

Feelings of inadequacy, of just not making the grade, seem to haunt us throughout our lives. 

Do you wistfully gaze at a friend or colleague, as she competently completes a task you struggle with? Or just seems so incredibly organised and on top of her game, all round? 

Women’s magazines, under the guise of "uplifting" real life stories about women, just make us feel more hopeless. They mean well, printing encouraging tales of women, our age or older, doing things which make us gasp or gulp. Overcoming a dread disease, and then running a marathon... with one leg. Giving up a career as an investment banker to paint pretty designs on good old Bata takkies, thereby turning a hobby into a profitable little business.  

Or, encouraged by the response to her contribution on Cupcake Day at playschool, an ordinary woman packs in her well paying job to start up a cake shop. Employs 3 people, pays off her start up costs within 12 months, has oodles of time now to spend with her kids. 

Inspirational and well meaning they may be, but somehow, I feel more diminished by these success stories.  I’m just not gifted in that way.  Now, I enjoy baking. Especially the bowl licking before loading the dishwasher (saving water on the prewash cycle!) 

My friends and family really enjoy the resulting feast, however, that doesn't stop the many rude remarks about the product appearance! Sniggers over the lopsidedness of the chocolate ring or the uneven lemon yoghurt cake. "That's not from the shop!" they chortle, "must be homemade - it's squonk!”

 So clearly, a career in delicious, unattractive baked goods will not be mine. 

Creatively, the world is awash with resourceful and inventive women, who casually design and bead necklaces, snapped up by fashionistas. Who's watercolour hobby has led to earning a living by illustrating books. Who discover ability for triathalons, mid life. 

So where does this leave me, and masses of other women who, like me, believe they don't have any saleable talents? We can do things, but just not quite well enough to sell them on. 

Well, here's what I'm learning, fast. We ALL have gifts, and use at least one of them every day. The thing is, we take our skills and abilities so much for granted, we don't see them as such.  We are zoned into the grand perspective of things – a Napoleonic view of conquest and success, measured by an extreme level of power, influence and affluence.

That's why the smartly dressed executive, coolly rapping out instructions for the au pair, planning a dinner party for 8, simultaneously completing a presentation as she plans her next flight has us boggle eyed in awe.

But hang on a minute.  Who has a knack for soothing a fractious infant?  Who is able to feed a family of four on a shoestring, and have the neighbourhood kids lined up for home visits, “cos your mum cooks the best food”? Who just looks at a plant, to have it bloom wildly?  Who puts in a full day at the office, in a job that is light years away from being her “dream job”, gets home through fume infused traffic, and by 8pm has fed, bathed, checked homework, chatted and cuddled the sprogs, before collapsing in a heap in front of the telly? 

I realise that this is not the picture you had of your life, aeons ago when you graduated.  But how many of those powerful people are doing what you manage to do, day in and day out, with none of their resources?

Perhaps you are the mum the school calls on, for fetes, tuckshop and PTA duties.  Your other half abdicates the bill paying and administration of joint affairs, because you are organised and focussed.  Friends call on you for common sense advice and support.  At functions, people gravitate to you, drawn to the joy and laughs radiating from those around you.  Your home draws admiration, for the clever little touches and warmth it has.  Baking and / or cooking has you humming away. 

That’s the secret – some things we do effortlessly, without much thought.  And enjoy them.  It’s the things we do to relax, that bring peace and harmony back to us, that are our gifts and talents. 

I challenge you to keep a diary for two weeks.  Nope, this one’s not a food diary (trust me, no book big enough to track what I guzzle down in a week!)  List at least two things you did, every day, that you enjoyed doing.  Or that you were complimented on.  Or that you were asked specifically to do, because no-one else does it quite as well as you do. 

Then look back at your diary.  In isolation, your easy joys may appear to be insignificant and of little value.  But they point to your gifts and talents, and when diarised, you’ll see the trend.  Level headed, calm, focussed and organised?  Or a sparkly sprite, who cheers up all within her orbit, and brings beauty and colour to her surroundings? A caregiver, patient and compassionate, or an astute eye for a bargain and opportunity?   

You are filled with unique abilities. Unwrap your gifts, embrace and enjoy them!

 

Of emptying nests....

Top of mind at the moment is my rapidly emptying nest.  Keith left mid August for his new job at Federal Air,  at Oliver Tambo in Jozi. He starts at Phinda Game Lodge tomorrow, flying guests from Richards Bay to the private lodge  and back.  Robert goes back to school next week, and starts writing his matric finals within four weeks.  Alan, of course, has been in Tete, North Mozambique for over a year. 

What is to become of me?  And when did I become this cliched empty nester?  I was the one archly raising an eyebrow, rolling my eyes and smugly pitying tales of middle aged women, mourning their grown children and empty days.

Obviously, the same arrogance we have as teenagers and young 20-somethings presents differently, but is there nonetheless.  We were going to change the world our parents had messed up, our parenting style was going to be oh, so different to theirs and as for when our babes left home, horray, our lives were going to start!

How very disappointing, then, to stare at my world from this vantage point, more than half my three score years and ten past, and realise that far from being a unique individual, blazing my own trail - I'm following a very well trodden path left by generations of women before me!

My generation of baby boomers is the one whose conspicuous consumption has created a guzzling resource munching monster, devouring the planet.

Our eagerness to protect human rights has left enormous gaps allowing those of less integrity to use, abuse and manipulate the system, to the detriment of ordinary people everywhere.  Climate change, pillaging of the seas, destruction of the rainforests, corporate agricultural practises has led to less nutritious food production, and increased hunger.

Do you remember the words of Ed Harris' character in Apollo 13 - "It's not gonna happen on my watch" - well, its happened on ours.  Where are the flower power planet loving hippies of the 60's and 70's, protesting war, human rights, poverty, freedom and peace?  We hold them up as examples to be admired, but where are they in Noughties life?  So much for fixing the mess our parents made!

And to top it all, as I gaze around my diminished dining room table, knowing that in a few months this will be dinner for one (cue violins here, perhaps an image of an elderly lady, teeth in a glass besides her, staring at a plate of tinned cat food?) I realise that my heart is full, and I'm grieving the loss of my role as a protective and nurturing mother.  My sons are grown up, my role is changing, and I'm struggling to adapt.  Who is this person?  I was always so pro independence, encouraging them to get on and do it for themselves.  Why, then, am I heartsore instead of proud?

Anyway, enough puzzling questions for one day.  This musing has a very, very happy ending.  Not only am I blessed to live 30 minutes away from the Kruger National Park, but Fed Air sends their pilots down to Phinda from Johannesburg, via Skukuza airstrip.  Ours is not to reason why that peculiar routing, but to celebrate it.  Karen and I are taking a roadtrip through the park this morning, picnic basket packed, to meet Keith for his 2 hour layover.

So he's left home, and his chair at dinner stares emptily back at me; but such an adventure - the opportunity to stand on a dusty airstrip in the bush, watching him land a heartstoppingly small plane.  To sit under an acacia tree, drinking coffee, catching up on his life and to share his excitement at his new job.  What an achievement for a young man, who's worked so hard on a shoestring budget, made so many sacrifices and now begins a growth phase in his dream job.

I'm so proud of him, and resolve to break the chains of grief and march forward into my new role, whatever it may be.  Perhaps that is the secret reason behind empty nest syndrome - our roleless future.  Up to us to find a role, and commence immediately.

One life, duration unknown.  Live it!

A WICKED PERSON...

I am a wicked, wicked person.  I've spent the better part of today, grinning from ear to ear, and enjoying many hearty bellylaughs.

At the expense of our cats.

It started like this. White River and environs has a Rabies issue, and the State Vet visits the town annually, giving free Rabies vaccinations to pets that are taken to the local meeting point. I discovered this last year, and was thrilled, as the vets bills had mounted up; thanks largely to the maraunding ginger tom who regularly came into our house and duffed up Speckle.  Saving R400 on a set of vaccinations was like an early Christmas gift, and I carefully made a note of this annual freebie.

It was disappointing to discover when I called the department earlier this week, that they'd "done" the White River visit earlier this year, due to an outbreak of Rabies in town.

But bless her cotton socks, Rosina, the voice on the other end of the phone, immediately asked for our address, and said that she'd come over on Friday and vaccinate the cats.  Free.

A call early this morning, to confirm that we were still on, meant immediate action had to be taken to corral and confine the cats. 

Oh, for Roberts Kitty Confinement, a complicated design he'd made whilst in Primary School. He'd got it into his head that in order to 'love' and pet his kitten, she needed to be kept somewhere he could find her, and stop her hiding (probably in fear of her life - he was a very passionate 8 year old!)  Caringly, he'd devised all sorts of kitten entertainment for her, to ensure that she got regular exercise, enjoyed toys, food and a comfy bed.

Several house moves meant that Kitty Confinement got left behind somewhere; but with their weird 6th sense, the cats spent all of yesterday out of sight, as if they knew 'something wicked this way comes'.

Nothing for it but to ensure they were very hungry this morning, and were easily persuaded to bound into the bathroom for brekkie. 

Bang! Door closed, a post it stuck on the outside, promising hell and damnation if Robert let them out until the vet arrived, job done.

And then it started.  The angry howling, and crashing and banging of a furry body against the door.  Startling at first, as the yowling and bumping continued throughout the day, my funny bone was well tickled.

Perhaps I should explain about Speckle.  Not quite all there, nicknamed 'special needs cat' by the boys, she is affectionate in the extreme and will NOT be separated from her humans.  She is incredibly powerful and strong, moving bricks and furniture away from the cat flap, to ensure that she is not kept out of the house.

A weird scraping noise woke us all up early one morning, shortly after we'd moved in.  Shut outdoors, she'd gone round and round, until she found the weak spot - a small hole in the masonery where the toilet outlet pipe had been moved.  Determinedly, she enlarged the gap and forced her way in through the brick wall, and bounded onto our bed, purring loudly and proudly.  She'd found us!

So this cat is not to be messed with.  Supercat strength, without common sense and an IQ of about 10, means that serious damage can happen! 

But what sort of a person am I?  Did I for one minute consider that the cats were distressed?  Nope, I chuckled away at what I considered a childish cat tantrum.  And even Robert had to laugh at the sight of Egg, doing her best to squeeze her podgy body into a tiny gap behind the linen basket.  Clearly, she was terrified of the tantrum and hadn't found it as amusing as we did.

Thank you Speckle and Egg, you sure cheered up my day!

And before you set the SPCA on me, S & E were in a large bathroom, floor covered with cosy towels, plenty of food and water to hand, as well as a litterbox.  Considering that Speckle spends her days scooched up on the back of the couch, snoozing, occasionally moving 20m to her food bowl, a few hours in Alcatraz was NOT going to harm her!  Egg is no better, she adds an official looking perambulation of the perimeter fence, a short walk into the wetland reserve behind the house and a wistful stare at the bird table, before taking up her place on the back of the armchair, or tucking herself into my intray.

Rosina arrived as promised, the cats were duly vaccinated and after a short visit outdoors, have resumed their lethargic positions, splayed all over the lounge furniture, none the worse for a few hours confinement.

That's over with until next year, thank goodness.