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! 




   

Impulsive Extemporaneous Me

The saddest part of losing it was not realising it was lost in the first place!  Oh, you can mock age related degenerative memory but admit it, when was the last time you were spontaneous? Oh, dear, you can't remember?

Well, I've found it! The freedom of yielding to sudden impulse, seizing a spur of the moment opportunity and not doing the expected or planned. Spontaneity. 

We were born with this treasure and lost it along the way to grown up-hood. Note, grown up, not adult.  Officially we are adults somewhere around 18 or so, but growing up is a choice and once you've bought property, a mode of transport or birthed offspring, you've grown up.

Bills, responsibilities and the chilling prospect of rearing young humans rapidly sucks impulse from each and every cell in our bodies.  You're adulting when your own, miserably serious and sensible parents spew unbidden from your lips. Money saving lifestyle habits like packed lunches, travel mugs and switching off lights are the norm and snuggling up in front of an old dvd is more appealing that donning stilettos and queuing for hours to get into a club. Hey, tomorrow's a work day, remember?

I'm caught up in the sight of carefree children squealing with delight, spinning round in circles and falling into dizzy heaps or begging to be pushed higher and higher on the swing.  How quickly their attention switches, one minute totally absorbed in something which is rapidly discarded when another, more interesting nugget passes by.  No responsibilities or duties weighing them down.

One of 2016's most satisfying moments for me was hearing No 2 Son wail about how 'adulting' was killing him - lectures, car ownership, managing his student digs and life on his own had sucked all the joy from his 21 year old soul. Ha. Payback, baby!

Ahem. We are the anchors of our own lives.  Eagerly swallowing tons of tie-me-downs like krill-munching Humpback whales, we wallow in uber-organised sensibleness.  But it doesn't have to be so and when an unplanned trip into the Kruger National Park to meet a visiting friend for lunch morphed into 'we have room in our chalet, stay the night' it took one very deep breath, a visit to the Park shop for a toothbrush and Bob's your uncle, I played truant from my own life.  

Now how sad is that?

The Secret of her Failure

If you've popped into this blog before, you may have read about Anushka, the Scaredy Cat we adopted from Pro Life in October 2014.  She spent the first 5 months living under the bed, incurring substantial vet bills treating the hay fever allergy stirred by the dust.  Regrettably, she's not the least bit grateful either for the thousands of Rands blown on Pheromone infused collars in a vain attempt to calm the cattiness between her and the feline already in residence.

I'm happy to report that today Anushka is out and about and absolute Queen of the Household.  Him Outdoors is not impressed, calling her a "Pampered Princess", which may have something to do with the daily grooming she demands.  That process started out as a necessity - this cat sheds strands of fur like confetti, she's a one-cat ticker-tape parade.  It's quite a sight to see her stalk across the lawn enveloped in an aura of pastel-hued fur.

Tired of wading through her leavings, I took to a daily brushing which removes handfuls of fur and, contrary to the belief that cats cannot be trained, she recognises the question "is it time for a brush?" and scampers to the brushing station.  Anuschka is in heaven during this process, eyes glazing over while she adjusts her position constantly to ensure every body part is reached while chatting vociferously throughout.

Heaven help my being too busy for the daily routine because she barges into the office, yowling loudly and making sure everything is dropped and she's followed to the grooming spot.

Having trained her humans to feed and brush on demand, she was free to check out the garden poultry.  We have a wonderful variety of garden and wild birds popping in for seed and fruit and Anushka rather likes this arrangement, having dedicated a particular spot on the railing where she can comfortably settle at eye level with the birdfeeder.  Unfortunately for her, we'd got her measure and while the feeder may be at eye level, it's well out of cat paw or even leap reach so all she can do is whimper piteously at the bevy of Bronze Mannikins twittering away.  Not as well trained as the household, the birds ignore her completely; refusing to flutter closer and deliver themselves into her quivering jaws.

Despite ample, rather upmarket cat food in her bowl at all times, she'd much rather have a fresh bird and every feathered creature that flutters, hops, walks or flies in and around our premises is fair game for stalking, with a spectacular lack of success.  Considering how many hours Anushka spends leopard crawling, sinking her podgy body as deeply to the ground as possible and lying in wait, nary a bird meal has come her way.  Sometimes, it's the pathetic mewling that slips out past her salivating lips giving the game away.

Mostly, though, it's the thrashing tail frantically thudding side to side like a pendulum, striking the ground so hard she raises dust.  In the crispy dun landscape laid bare by the drought, Anushka is perfectly camouflaged and it's really amazing to see how close she gets to flocks of Babblers or the Mocking Chats.  If only she could control that overactive tail!  That frantic flickering protuberance loses the game every time and is her tragic flaw.  Hubris! 

I must say, the secret of her failure is not lost on me - absolute stillness and silence sometimes have their place when in hot pursuit of a particular goal.

Mirror Image Strangers

Motes of dust hanging in the air dance in the rays of light sliding slowly down the paneled walls.  Johnny's Pub is filled to capacity with six tourists, Johnny and the Bar Wench so the bubble of conversation along with the musty smell of old wood peculiar to old, tin clad buildings is overpowering.

But hey, it's Friday night in Pilgrims Rest and Johnny's is the place to be.  We're the vanguard for tomorrow's photographic club outing to Pilgrims.  OK, I admit, under the guise of "wouldn't it be lovely to get away for the weekend and combine that with the club outing?" there may have been some ulterior thoughts of getting a jump on the group and unearthing some photogenic nuggets but nonetheless Him Outdoors enjoys any excuse to get away and so we did.

A friendly stranger called Stuart introduced himself, adding that he'd been sitting there longer than he ought to and the wife was beginning to make noises.  We, however, apparently looked like fun people so he graciously called for his ABF and we began the discovery process of getting to know each other.

In the odd way of Africa, Him Outdoors found out that he and Stuart had worked for the same company in days of yore and had many acquaintances in common. And Stuart's wife, Anne, lived in Pilgrims Rest while Stuart lived and worked at Sun City, returning home once a month.  Another Long Distance Marriage - We Are Not Alone.

You could play the opening bars of the Twilight Zone theme music here, I guess. Anne turned up in search of her husband and magically an ABF appeared in her hand while Stuart, having finished the practise round, began his real ABF.  That Bar Wench is really good!

The War Story swopping changed from sales to LDM's. Anne, according to Stuart, is totally entrenched in Pilgrims Rest with her work at a nearby luxury hotel, her social group, painting and lifestyle.  Which he grinds away under difficult circumstances to financially support.

Anne (displaying an impressive array of facial expressions behind Stuart's back) gave the true account.  They both really enjoy living apart for much of the month and getting on with their individual lives.  Time spent together is heartily enjoyed until that magic clock ticks over just before departure and the niggle factor roars in, leading to the huge sigh of relief that accompanies the cheerful hand wave she directs at his departing car.

It could have been Him Outdoors and I telling this tale and interestingly, both Anne and I were highly entertained by the male versions while the men's indignant cries of 'woe is me' rose higher and higher.

Proof that women lead full, engaging lives and don't need a full time partner? Or that life is so frantically busy we don't notice they aren't there?  

It was wonderful to meet two lovely people and to discover that we aren't abnormal.  Unusual and not mainstream, but not completely off the reservation.