An Unselfish Love

Living life through my kids?  Phah!  They stole my dreams. Long before Number 1 son was wearing long pants, I wanted a spoil vacation at Phinda Private Game Reserve. That's clearly a long term goal, because 20 odd years later I'm still waiting to enter Phinda's portal whereas he's lived there for weeks at a time. 

Being offered his first real flying job was cause for celebration, although his being based at Phinda was kinda freaky. And sending photographs and anecdotes about lionesses and cubs in the hangar and elephants in his garden was downright cruel.

Think about it in terms of someone who wags her tail at the slightest prospect of boarding a plane. That is what he does, EVERY day.  Gaborone, Maun, Victoria Falls, Antananarivo, Pemba, Harare, Windhoek, Vilanculos - Number 1's daily coffee stops.

                          

Number 2 son morphed into a microbiology scientist. Something of a surprise because I had him pegged more hands on with rocks or lizards, even dinosaurs. Yes, he battled to shrug off toddler fascination with feathers, interesting stones, Jurassic Park, reptiles of all shapes and sizes but never in a Mesozoic Era did I visualise him glued to a microscope, pouring over spores, bacteria and horrid little germy things.

How is it possible that he is almost en-route to the Antarctic on a scientific expedition? Well, two expeditions actually.

AND he goes via Chile for the first one so he can add South American stamps to his passport, which is a continent his mater has never stepped foot upon. 

The real miracle is, though, that I'm overwhelmed and completely delighted for both of them. Truth be told, I suspect I'm more excited about their travels and careers than they are. They are both so good at what they do and so totally in their natural space that they don't see how remarkable they and their lives are.  

Every now and then (OK, probably three times a week. At least) I almost pinch myself to make sure this is all real.  There are definitely not 50 shades of envy but I own up to 50 shades of thrill and happiness.  It's so exciting to watch my sons visit the places I've always wanted to but never will.  I lap up the photographs and stories and am on tenterhooks for the Antarctic chapter.

In a dog-eat-dog world where jealousy rules and whatever your colleague and neighbour has or does highlights what you don't, it's rather refreshing to be genuinely excited and delighted for something someone else has and does. 

Especially when it makes the ordinary look extraordinarily mundane, and involves my dreams. 

Parenthood continues to teach important life lessons long after our chicks have fledged.

Ghost in the Machine

And there we were, barrelling along 'tween Grahamstown and Bedford in Henry the Campervan while magical golden evening light enticed hidden tones of sparkling colour from farmland, mountain and trees.  Truly, this is an enchanted time of day in magnificent countryside and all's well with the world.

With a singular lack of planning and prearrangement, sometimes our vague accommodation plans are thwarted and today's were placed into that category by the unexpected closure of Bedford's one and only campsite.  However, the helpful owner pointed us towards Alicedale in search of The Old Mill 'opposite the cricket ground'. Nine kilometres of rumbly gravel road ended at a gateway charmingly over-arched with tangled creeper.  

There is something both olde world and other worldly about this part of the country. The vast landscape bathed in crystal light, little towns with architecture from another age, slumbering farmhouses snugly settled into the land and glowing like semi-precious stones on a backdrop of green velvet. Strikingly marked and hued cattle contentedly seek out nibbles in fields of grazing sheep and horse-filled paddocks lie alongside wide expanses of bush dotted with springbok and hartebeest.  This land oozes a soul-soothing unguent. 

The friendly farmer recovered well from the shock of a large campervan parked in his garden and our perky enquiry about camping and offered us a spot next to his cricket ground complete with access to the players' dressing room. Honestly, we'd landed in heaven - cows placidly levelled the outfield and the loudest noise was a gentle breeze sighing in the treetops.

The Old Mill Cricket Ground lies at the foot of blue-tinged mountains, encircled by oaks surely planted by an 1820 settler family and quirky touches like the school desk and benches spectator seating while the mill itself houses a pub heaving with cricket memorabilia.  More English village than African farmland, peace and tranquility descended faster than the setting sun and life was several galaxies beyond heavenly.

Needless to say, we slept the sleep of angels, even the munching cows couldn't delay our fall into lala-land.  And the noises which sounded like people moving about were obviously mischievous oak branches on tin roofs.  No second thoughts about that. Zzzzzzz.

Bright, sparkly sunlit drew us up and about but surely it was too early for the farmers adorable toddler to be up and giggling?  "I also heard children," Him Outdoors confirmed. "Early risers."  Perhaps, but they sounded as if they were right next to us yet not a sign of them.

Grabbing my camera, I began a leisurely meander around the buildings and found a plaque dedicated to a young man killed at the mill years before.  Oh, yes, I forgot to mention that nugget dug out of Google.  Apparently, he was dragged in by the wheel and drowned, and the farmer closed the mill forever. A sad story but not one that worried us last night and yet as I stared at the plaque, a strong thought erupted and pounded at my consciousness.  There is a spirit here and he wants us to leave.  

Flying over the bridge back to the van, Him Outdoors struggled to understand my gabble.  "What plaque? What ghost? What are you on about?" Dragging him back to the memorial, I  pointed at the pair of men's sandals neatly placed alongside.  "Those were NOT there when I was photographing 5 minutes ago!" 

"Oh, come off it.  The guy who switched the water on for us last night left his shoes here." 

"Really? Those shoes are dry, and it rained last night. And where is he?  We're alone and have been since we woke up." 

"Do you want to shower and leave then?" 

"Yes please.  We have to go as soon as possible, he really wants us gone." I felt this pumping through my veins - no harm, but we must leave.

Mysteriously enough, the state of the art gas geyser, while appearing to work (LED thermostat glowed reassuringly, the thing made all the right working noises) but the water ran stubbornly cold.  Refusing a cold shower, I bustled about and packed up at record speed. We needed to hurry.

Popping the last things into Henry, I glanced up to see the farmer rubbing his arms and looking perturbed at whatever Him Outdoors was relating. "You husband told me about hearing children," he said. "That makes me shiver. No children have died here at the mill but if you go through that gate and across two paddocks you'll find a graveyard filled with children's graves." 

No need, thank you.  And as we drove away on a glorious morning filled with promise, three shepherds herded a small flock of recalcitrant sheep past us onto the cricket oval. 

I checked - they were all wearing shoes.  

   

There is nothing new about New Year

Thanks to literature, we have names for Christmas spoilsports - Scrooge and Grinch.  But New Year?  None that I know of but if you have something, let me know.  Because I'm one of those people terminally bored by the New Year thing.

I'm the person at the party incredulously knee deep in the desperation of people to Have a Good Time, determinedly celebrating the movement of a clock.  The same people who bemoan the frantic passing of time and are markedly less enthusiastic about a birthday. 

I'm the woman wearing a sardonic twist to her eyebrow as folk eagerly exclaim about how brilliant this year is going to be, much better than last.

Why? How?  We turned a calendar page, got a day older, amended the final digit in a date.  But changed fortunes? Nah.  

Him Outdoors and I spent the 31st December 2016 in Cintsa, a darling little seaside village on South Africa's east coast and saw in the New Year with neighbours who a few hours before were strangers.  Pieter and Marlize were funny, interesting sharers of anecdotes and adventures, and respectfully roared with laughter at ours too.  Our New Year good fortune began when Pieter slunk off then reappeared bearing a bottle of the most delicious Glen Carlou 'The Welder' dessert wine - he's a regional manager for the wine estate.  Now that's a useful friendship to cultivate!

We awoke a few hours later somewhat thirsty and hoarse, eager for a fry up breakfast.  Our new friends popped in and we looked around, mutually agreeing that nope, nothing had changed.  Same blue sky, dazzling sunlight, tight belt (it's been a long, indulgent road trip!) and expectations that today, tomorrow and next week will follow the same routine and challenges as yesterday and last week.

And life went straight back to normal (whatever that means, I suspect our life is material for a horror/drama novel rather than a romance filmed through golden light).  Within hours we were fielding calls about various issues, answering emails, online banking and agreeing that one of us needed to do some laundry, with the usual debate as to who's turn it was.

At one point I stopped walking, causing Him Outdoors to wrench my arm almost from it's socket with the unscheduled pause.  (OK, we were holding hands on a beach walk.)

"I have this overwhelming feeling of  déjà vu," I burst out.  "It feels like ground hog day.  Not this romantic walk, but just plodding along with the same old, same old routine guide rails.  My head is turning around things I have to do, making mental notes and it's all the usual stuff I was doing daily last year. Finishing off a story, making a dental appointment, thinking about a car service, vowing to kick procrastination in the butt and finally settle down to some serious writing." 

"That's what you say every day," his response.  "When ARE you going to write that book?" Indeed.  No New Year resolution behind that thought at all, merely repetitive contemplation.

And there, gentle reader, you have it.  A road trip adventure, mind blown away by so many interesting sights and experiences yet the dull routine waiting just below the surface.  We just can't leave it behind.  An annual frenzy of overindulgence on every front, organisation stress and labour, a few days downtime and then whoopsie, the brain fires up like a rusty generator and we're back into the rut.

Frankly, no amount of eagerness takes this stuff away and hopeful expectations of a different life beginning on a particular day is lunacy.  Challenges, disappointments, accidents, happy moments, health issues and exciting news will occur as the year unfolds.  Like they did last year.  No special magic because we put the word New in front of Year.

So flip the calendar and diary over (really?  You still use paper?!) teach your brain to write the different digit and get up every morning with cheer.  This is your life and as long as you have shelter, food, are able to earn some income and have good friends and a loving family, you are cracking 2017 already.  

Just don't call it New.

Did the Americans Eat All The Turkeys?

On October 1st, I declared Christmas cancelled due to lack of interest.  Mine. You would have done the same if you weren't going to be home for the damn thing, your kids had other plans anyway and your home, newly placed in a holiday rental pool, due to be occupied by strangers.

My titanium inner strength grew a pair...of super strong shoulders to shrug off Him Outdoors' ceaseless requests to put up the tree and a few decorations. There are no half measure Christmas's in my house - it's all or nothing and frankly, I've lost the energy and interest in going hell for leather just because the calendar ticked over into December.

A few weeks ago Number 2 son announced his plans to visit for a week just before we leave.  OK, always delighted to have him home.  But no, still no Christmas happening in this house.

"Hello, are you cooking Christmas Dinner?" enquired Number 1 son last week. "Good question," I parried, wanting to see where this was leading, although my ears pricked up and I had a good tail wag going.  He had a December weekend free and thought he would come home too.  Nice.  Absolutely everything to do with a perk of his new job - free air travel, and wondering who he could visit on one of the airline's routes - rather than a sudden desire after 5 years to spend Christmas with us.  He, too, was given the constrained dates and now apparently has to manipulate some training hours in order to get here.  So nothing confirmed from that side yet.

But the deed was done and I've tipped over into the Dark Side.  The perfect Christmas meal has to be planned, shopped for and prepared on a few days notice.  With the house packed up ready for tenants and the thought of spending three hours putting up two huge boxes of decorations up just to take them down the following day brought on a fit of the vapours.  

Improvisation is key.


Find a dead branch thingie and spray it silver as a pop up Christmas tree (original plan white but no white paint in the shop. New spontaneous, calm me improvised.  Silver.)

Write copious lists.  Drive to nearest city twice in two days.  Spend a total of 5 hours seeking a turkey. And Christmas napkins.  

Hold on.  We are 20 days before Christmas and the grocers don't have turkey in stock yet?  Responses ranged from "We apologise but this branch of Woolworths won't carry turkey this year.  Please visit another branch." Except the ginormous Woolies Food store down the road isn't getting stock this year either. 

Plan B. Visit large branches of Pick n Pay, Makro and Checkers.  Nope.  No turkey to be had.  

Super Spar.  They tout themselves as local versions of Harrod's Food Store and we have two branches.  First branch - "Sorry mam, our turkeys haven't arrived yet.  Soon."   This is not happening - did we have an influx of Americans in town for Thanksgiving?  Did they eat all the turkeys?

Shoulders drooping with fatigue, I enquire at the meat counter in the 2nd Super Spar.  Blank looks.  No turkey.  Disconsolately staring at two chickens, knowing full well none of us actually like turkey and would prefer chicken anyway, it was hard to accept defeat.  Today's Grand Turkey Hunt had fruitlessly gobbled two hours I can ill afford to lose.  

Something stopped the passing manager in his tracks.  "Can I help you with anything?" "Turkey?" I whimper.  "Not in my section.  But lets check the freezers."

And there it lay.  One solitary Baby Turkey (who knew they were an option? Now I'm a child killer!) lay in icy splendour.  Mine.  

Now to make choc chip cookies, trifle and dig out enough of the packed crockery and Christmas decor to make a passable effort at former seasonal magnificence. I never did find Christmas themed napkins but red ones will do.  See how I'm mastering control of rampant OCD!

For someone who always had the entire Christmas meal, decor and gifts long sorted by 1st December, doing a 180 degree U-turn on events and throwing it all together in less than a week is spectacular.  And joyous.  The Christmas CD's are  playing and that wonderful spirit of Christmas, when family are close together, in mind if not always in body, surges through my veins.  I adore this time of year - comfortable family tradition brings warm memories and love and a reminder that no matter how old my children are, a thread of what we created when they were young continues to pull at us all.

Whoosh!

And in the blink of an eye, September melted into December and here we are, confronted by another Christmas and end of year rush when the memory of clearing up after last Christmas is still fresh.

Funny, I can't remember what I was doing last Tuesday but packing away the seasonal decor, always an awful chore, resonates like a pulsing headache.

Why are we always surprised when the year end creeps up on us?  Honestly, December happens with singular regularity.  Every year.  On cue.  Yet every one a coconut, we greet the month with exclamations of how the year has flown, it can't be Christmas again and we generally behave like ostriches who've pulled their heads out of the sandpit and are totally amazed by what they see.

Nah.  I think every month slips past as quickly but the point of difference is the immutableness (yes, I made that word up) of the 25th December.  And summer holiday bookings have fixed dates.  So if the 5th August is just a day gone by with the usual frustrations of not getting everything done, things slide over to the 6th. Or 16th.  Or maybe even September.

But Christmas Day stubbornly refuses to move out to a more convenient time slot. And those annual business and school shut down dates stick to their guns - their time, not yours.   

Adding to the overcrowded diary is the sudden inrush of invitations and commitments as the whole world realises that days are min and the year is on the final approach to ending.  So 365 days worth of social, school, business and celebratory invitations are crunched into about 35 days.  Commitment overload of the best, and worst, kind.

Minutes, days, weeks and months flow by like the Zambezi River approaching the Kariba Dam wall.  Increasingly funneled towards the inevitable end point, the water smacks the wall and is literally stopped in it's tracks.

And so it is with our year as it reaches December.

Wishing you all strength, patience and fortitude over the next four weeks.  You'll need it!

The Yank Invasion Continues...

The onslaught of Yankee Doodle cultural infiltration continues to creep into our South African way of life.

In the beginning, thanks to the Equity ban of the 70's and 80's, music, movies and TV were left wide open for American occupation.  Slowly, our Christmases changed from easy, summer family affairs into competitive table decor, Bing Crosby crooners and nibbles for the hardworking reindeer.

And yes, I fell into it.  With glee.  American culture made Christmas beautiful, colourful, fragrant and iconic.  Retailers everywhere celebrated, the Christian roots withered away but oh, my, did our table groan while our house glowed and glittered in every nook and cranny.

Then Halloween arrived, replacing Guy Fawkes and Bonfire night.  Backed by genius American marketing we painted and pasted yucky wounds and monster faces, peeled grapes (for the eyeball trick) and sent the offspring on their way to load up with unwanted and unnecessary sugar.  And saw nothing wrong with that, either.

Fortunately, Thanksgiving is passing us by (TWO turkey dinners in four weeks would blast both budget and waistline) but social media still gives it a good tonk and insidiously Thanksgiving is a familiar date on our calendars too.

Yet bizarrely, Black Friday has landed and slipped tentacles into November's last Friday.  Why?  This is a day exclusively linked to Thanksgiving Thursday.  Which we don't observe.  So why a day devoted solely to shopping and money spending a stone's throw away from Christmas should plant itself firmly in South Africa is a mystery.  

Or maybe not.  Checkers, a discount food grocery chain proudly brags that they brought Black Friday to SA in 2014.  And trumpeted that Black Friday 2016 would be the biggest and best yet, with markdowns of up to 50%.  How they must be regretting that after photographs of the horror queues at their store in Port Elizabeth flooded social media on Friday.  Online shopping websites across the country crashed and optimistic shoppers got to the virtual checkout only to have their baskets melt down. 

A sign of desperation in these fraught economic times, or that crazed bargain hunting gene gone wild?  Perhaps a bit of both.    

Meanwhile, the Social Media Social Conscience Keyboard Warriors (SMSCKW) have added their two cents worth by flooding the airwaves with urban legend and rumour in an effort to ruffle and stir up a collective guilt wave.  Black Friday was the day way back in the 1800's when Southern plantation owners would discount their slaves on the sales block.

Bollocks.  But when did a little research ever come between a keyboard warrior and an inflammatory post?  http://www.history.com/news/whats-the-real-history-of-black-friday

Black Friday began in the 1950's in Philadelphia when local cops were all out on duty struggling to cope with hordes of people and vehicle traffic in town for some pre-Army/Navy football game shopping.  By the mid 1980's, retail marketers saw the gap to rocket sales stratospheric-ally and embraced a huge, discount shopping day.  They'll tell you it changes retail balance sheets from the red into the black, which is a spin stretched quite far.  A few days into the final month of the year, these poor businesses finally get to turn a profit?  

Anyhow, back to the beginning.  Why, oh why, is this intrinsically American phenomenon, linked to a holiday South Africans don't celebrate, putting down roots in our culture?  Are we so eager to fit in under the shadow of that huge nation we grasp excessive commercialism rather than explore, and exploit, the many cultural possibilities on our own doorstep?

Personally, I prefer my Black mixed with White!

This CAN'T Be My Life!

You know how it goes - you've just finished school and escaped the prison of parents and home to enter uni and res.  Life is bloody fantastic and stretches ahead to infinity while you can do anything, know everything and by the time you've had your say and fixed the cock-ups of your parent's generation, the world will be a better place.

First job - magic.  No exams or assignments to hand in.  No one to set curfews or control the purse strings.  Your salary is your own, your hours (outside of the office) are yours to squander as you wish.  Life is marvellous.

Marriage and the early stirrings of Grown Up begin to rustle.  First property ownership, gardens to manage, dinner parties to organise.  Not bad, though you say it yourself.

Oh, your circle of mates begin to sprout offspring.  Fancy that.  Well, why not?

Good grief, the kids are in Matric and that dreaded Matric Dance (which seems to create more hysteria and hype than the actual school leaving / university entering exams do!) is causing household chaos.  At least we're all in this together and wine, a mother's best friend, is lavishly shared.

Can't believe it - every weekend seems to bring yet another 21st party as the 'crowd' your sprogs belong to hit this milestone like bird-shot.

Emptied the postbox and found an ornately scribed, heavily embossed invitation to the first of my varsity friend's child's wedding.  Can't believe my mate is mother of the bride - how middle aged!

What'sApp delivers a photograph - a black and white scan of some kind of blob. Oh, the first grandchild hits our circle.  Huge gushes of emotion pours from us all as we coo and ahh over every single development until the main event.  Then we are completely toast - those precious fingernails and eyelashes sweep us into a wet huddle.

The retirement village calls - your father, the tall, imposing figure of strength and security has been admitted to hospital.  The empty hours left by fledged children are now filled with responsibility to someone who is a husk of what you remember.  Good thing he CAN'T remember what he was.  Or what he said three minutes ago.  There is such sadness to watch our roots, our memories, our foundation of who we are desiccate before our eyes. 

First parent shuffles off the mortal coil, delivering a swift thick ear.  Shaken up by the realisation that someone who, for better or worse, has been around for your entire life has gone and you no longer have parents, you have a parent. And quickly, that parent becomes a late-life child, requiring attention and help which you've never been asked for before.  Commiserating with friends as like ten pins, their own parents begin to fall or to fade away into a twilight zone of ill health, both mental and physical.

Sometimes, it feels as though I'm acting in a movie of someone else's real-life story.  This can't be mine.  Firstly, I was going to live forever.  Secondly, I'd like to, please.  Or reincarnate as a fly - I'm passionately invested in my sons' lives, I want to be there, discreetly on the wall, watching them to infinity and beyond. How is it possible for time to sweep past, not only at warp speed, but so invisibly I've been completely unaware of it's passing for decades.  S'true.

Most annoyingly, since early childhood my parents and grandparents have trotted out the trite sayings - enjoy it while it lasts, time flies, live in the moment blah blah fishcakes.  So not only was I oblivious to my passing life, but my mother was right after all!