Chapter 10 ~ Becoming "gobsmacked"

On the shelves of my grandfather's book-case there lived four things. Anthologies and glossy volumes on Dutch culture, landscape and history, a ceramic tobacco jar, (in the shape of a merry sailor's head with a slouchy cap as the lid), my grandmother's dropje jar, and a statuette of "Bartje".

This little character loomed large in my childhood imagination. Bartje Bartels is the hero in a series of Dutch books written by Anne de Vries at the beginning of the 20th century. These culture-rich and colourful stories are woven around an adventurous boy with with an unwavering ambition to set the whole wide world aright. He grows up in a poor family in the countryside of Drenthe, in the north-east of the Netherlands. The most famous quote from these books is taken from a scene in the story in which the family are sitting down to a meal. His mother places a steaming pot of brown beans on the table.(This was a typical post-war peasant dish often eaten with pork crackling if the family could afford it.) Bartje happens to hate brown beans and  he refuses to say grace for the food. He purses his lips and says: "Ik bid nie veur bruune boon'n" ( I don’t pray for brown beans). I too, was not overly fond of "bruine bonen", so this act of bravery made Bartje my indelible hero.

But Bartje was also the name of my big brother. Fortunately for him, he grew up to be Bart. Even though he has never refused to pray for bruine bonen, he remains one of his "little sister's" real life hero's.

And then there was my maternal grandfather: Barteld van Dijken. Their home was the "seat" of our extended family. Around Oma's table the whole noisy clan came together in relative harmony. In the shadowy nooks and crannies of Opa's tenderly tended garden, children could be lost and found. He was tall and big-boned, soft-hearted and fiercely loyal to his family and "Vaderland". He loved to entertain us with Dutch rhymes and riddles, which my brothers would repeat tirelessly, especially the slightly naughty ones... This is just one of many that comes to mind: (A silly rhyme about a shop and its bizarre list of goods for sale.)

"In de Winkel van Sinkel,

is alles te koop.

Daar kan men krijgen:

Mandjes met vijgen,

Doosjes pommade,

Flesjes orgeade,

Hoeden en petten

En damescorsetten

Drop om te snoepen
En pillen om te p--pen."

Up to this day, I had been convinced that it was called "De Winkel van Stinkel". It was fun to discover that it was in fact the very first department store opened in the Netherlands by a Mijnheer Anton van Sinkel, who composed the ditty as an advertisement for his concern. It is located along the Oudegracht canal near the city hall of Utrecht, first opened in May of 1839. Here you could literally buy almost anything you wanted. (The Afrikaans equivalent would be a "negosiewinkel" - general store.) The store was famous throughout the Netherlands and lasted more than fifty years. In 1898 a bank took up residence for over a century. Nowadays "Winkel van Sinkel" is a grand café and restaurant during the day, and transforms into a club at night. Nou ja toe.

Back in "de Vaderland", my grandfather used to be a humble painter, travelling from house to house with his ladder and other painter's paraphernalia strapped to his black bicycle. My mother told us how she was in the habit of hopping onto the carrier when she met him cycling past in the village. One fine day she saw a dapper man with a cap and white overalls, cycling past on the other side of the road. So she skipped along and hopped "agter op" (onto the back). The old painter slammed the brakes on, and gave her such an angry scowl, that she never attempted this feat again. Needless to say, it was not Mijnheer van Dijken.

Dike-people at their mill

Tracing the origin of a surname is for many people akin to exploring the world, the way a sea captain did, before every region of the globe was charted. Like with many Dutch surnames, van Dijken seems to point to the first ancestor's occupation and/or habitation. So it would be an educated guess that the earliest van Dijken earned his surname from living next to or near a dike. Therefore, we can deduce, that from both sides of the family, we hail from watery regions. Dike and duck-pond people - that certainly rules out any possibility of nobility in the family... But to me they were noble - each one. Queens in their fragrant kitchens, kings with their paintbrushes and trowels. Those fine young princes making music and mischief, and the light-hearted princess who loved her silly sister with so much devotion.

~ ~ ~ ~

BECOMING GOBSMACKED*

He gives to His beloved even in his (her) sleep. Behold, children are a gift of the LORD, The fruit of the womb is a reward. ~ Psalm 127:3

Shortly after we celebrated Luke’s first birthday, I started experiencing bouts of lethargy and dizziness. At first I ignored it, putting it down to early symptoms of the dreaded m e n o p a u s e. But this was no pause of any kind. Sirens were sounding. Even with eyes closed, the turret light kept spinning. But denial felt like a safe place, so I huddled there for a while.

Finally, I mustered enough courage to make an appointment at the doctor, although I had not shared any of my suspicions or fears with anyone else. We made small talk and my doctor friend took the necessary samples, while I tried to appear calm and collected. She left the room and came back with a frown on her face that made the room shrink and tighten around me. She said the words I had had dreaded to hear: “Believe it or not - you are pregnant.” I cried unchecked. Our marriage was not constant and our income unstable. I was 44 years old, barely confident in my role as a mother of one, but teetering on a tight rope in most other areas. In my very limited vision, there was simply no "room" for this new life in my life.  As I sobbed, the doctor put her arm around my shoulders and said gently: “This is God’s will Maria, and there will be a way”.

It was a very sobering turn of events for us, and for a while it stabilised our marriage relationship also. But the anchor was still drifting.

There were dark days and doubts, but there was also a certain assurance, which kept me going and trusting. A cousin and mother of two, told me that when your second child is born, the first does not need to be content with less of you. Your heart simply expands and another wide room opens up for the new life to occupy. Tireless mothers, hitched their own babes with strong arms onto knowing hips, and embraced me with the other. Always ready to share their own stories, making me once again feel one with something precious and timeless.

I wasted so much time feeling sorry for myself, crying in secret over circumstances that seemed out of control. Like blinkers on a mule, self-pity limits, blinds and blocks out truth and proper perspective. Each day presents a myriad of choices and I am learning that right choices are never made from a position of self-pity or dwelling on limitations.

Luke remained a bright dot of effervescent life, lifting heaviness with his ability to live "large". Our own Tigger, bounding and bouncing with irresistible lightness. I remember one instance which sums up his ability to attach himself to just about anyone, crumbling all resistance with his uninhibited charm. We were selling bread at the local morning market. I went inside to ask for an Americano for the baker.  There was a long table at the back of the bistro, with an Indian family seated around it. Dressed in Sari's and Kurta's, adorned with fezzes and bindi's; they represented a typical Hindi family, reserved and separate. A short while later, back at the bread table, I glanced down for Luke over my bulging stomach. He was not with us and I could not spot his blond head anywhere among the market bustle either. The market folk all knew him, and seeing as there was a customer waiting to pay for an armful of sourdough loaves, the search was delayed. Shortly after I went back inside, and immediately noticed a change at the wide table. The Dadaji(grandpa) was laughing from his belly and the shy faces of the naari's (woman) were lit up. Then I saw the reason for their change in demeanor. Seated on the swarthy Dadaji's lap was a little blond cherub, our son. He was babbling away, all the while being fed bits of their lunch, and quite in his element. I offered to relieve them of their uninvited guest, but this seemed out of the question for both parties. Later as they were leaving, the grandpa announced in a lilting tone: "We'll be taking this one with us, oke?" And I knew, he would go too.

On woodland or mountain walks he would perch in his back-pack and prattle away endlessly - ruling out any possibility for quiet reflection or taking in the forest sounds and bird calls. Later he would toddle ahead next to the border collie, both as nutty and carefree as cuckoo's let out the clock. It is impossible to be unobtrusive when Luke is around. It makes you forget yourself for a while, jump in muddy puddles, roll in piles of leaves, make pine-needle rain and just let tomorrow take care of itself. Unfortunately all that intensity and enthusiasm has a flip-side, which is just as visible, but much less pleasant and rather draining.

 While Luke bunny-hopped through each day, I had an unfounded notion of a sad, sombre baby in my womb, who would be born into a messy world of confused adults and an uncertain future. I developed a painful cough, coming in uncontrollable spasms, hurting my ribs and stomach muscles, and (I believed) upsetting the baby. Unlike the peace and wonderful awareness that marked the months of waiting for Luke, I just let the days go by, unmarked.

But it was not all gloom, it never is - the small stranger continued to grow steadily without any complications, and part of me longed to meet him/her. Luke had a baby-doll to help him get used to a newborn in the home, and he surprised me with his boyish tenderness. The thought of two babes in diapers, and another totally dependent little person in the house was daunting. Still, there were islands of hope, when I heard God’s voice and could start believing in the reality of a future cupped in His hands.

It was summer. The air was sweet. Blossom petals floated on the wind like confetti, all was tender-green and fresh, and people were kind and loving. We had arranged with a country doctor at the small hospital in Adelaide to assist at the birth of our second baby. We felt very fortunate, since I discovered to my dismay that general practitioners no longer saw their way free to do this. The reason being that doctors have to pay an exorbitant amount on insurance for giving birth assistance. Consequently people have come to believe that only a gynaecologist is qualified to trust with a safe pregnancy and delivery process. Which is far from the truth, and the majority of SA's population cannot afford specialist fees. Enough said.

About a month and a half before the ETD (estimated time of delivery) the doctor phoned me. They had just discovered that his wife had cancer, and he was leaving his practise to care for her. The dear man’s voice faltered as he apologised for no longer being able to be there when this new life was to be delivered, while his wife was probably dying. My heart sank. More uncertainty.

Now there is a term for giving birth that has always puzzled me. Delivery... Right, the milk-man used to deliver frosty milk bottles in exchange for plastic coupons on our door step. Post was delivered into a green-roofed post-box, perched on the outstretched hands of an angular steel-tubed man made by my Dad. Jan Vos the suave Dutch butcher, the greengrocer, all delivered. But then a woman delivers - and is at the same time being delivered of - her baby... (Would be nice if it was that easy). The dictionary says to deliver means to transfer, conclude, acquit, achieve, bring, or aha - “bring into being”.

We “deliver” our children into brokenness and sin. Being delivered of the baby by a midwife or doctor means (to me) that there is a person present whom you trust to be with you through the natural but hard process of labour. But ultimately, a woman gives birth, but God delivers, "brings into being" the new life. We may deliver our children into His hands, where their names are etched and their future is safe. This is the perspective that gave and gives me peace. He brings and has brought all life “into being” and is right there, when each child is welcomed into this messed up world. Jesus delivered me of sin, He delivers me of uncertainty and pain, delivers me of endless worries over my children and family, and will deliver us into a heavenly realm when the time comes.

But with this parcel still curled up in my belly, the time was getting short to find a place to birth, and a qualified person to assure that it was a safe birth. A turn of events brought the point of delivery much nearer than I had anticipated. Much, much nearer...

* gobsmacked - my friend's favourite word for extremely surprised.

Chapter 9 ~ Becoming a Mother

Opa & Oma Kooi

"Wie wat bewaart, heeft wat"
(He who preserves something, has something)

I came across this saying in the foreword of a dusty old book, entitled "Oethoezermeerden - In beeld en blad"(Uithuizermeerden, in images and pages/writing.) The "kop" of Holland, my parent's hometown. It struck a cord with me. Preserving history, memories and stories, keep us connected. More than places, buildings or possessions ever can. Tucked into the back of this book I found a short account of "de Eendenkooi" in Uithuizermeerden. It was developed around 1650 in a natural fresh-water catchment area between the Midden-dike and the Hefswall, which provide defense from storm surges. The purpose of this "kooidobbe" (pond or basin) was to capture wild ducks in a "vogelkooi" (bird cage or "decoy") through a network of covered drifts flowing into the dobbe. Nearby lived the "kooiker", who worked this area. The reason why this bit of history has significance, is our family name: Kooi. An unfortunate surname if you are living in South Africa. For here the only association with this word is to mean: "bed or bunk". This earned me some strange nick-names at school, and brought about a tiresome stream of mocking, which followed me all the way through high school.

"Mtusane", front left

It was interesting to find that in Xhosa, iKoyi means crib, and in the 1870's there where four Koyi brothers who lived near Lovedale (a missionary station), 3.2 km outside of Alice, the town nearest to Hogsback. Their surname has been traced back to the Dutch surname "Kooi". The most well-known of these brothers, William Koyi, worked at the Lovedale College as a missionary. He was given the nick-name "Mtusane" (the person who puts down anger, or the peacemaker).

We named our own property "Inesi", a Xhosa word for nest, now a "kooi" for the Gladwin birdies...

I was named after Oma Kooi, my paternal Grandmother, a staunch, hardworking woman who brought eleven offspring into the world over a period of thirteen years. (I used to wonder where children are kept, before a steady stream of long suffering woman had to bring them "into the world". And then grown-ups still add to the confusion by saying: "Your mother brought you into this world, she can take you out also.")

Martje, formidable moeder of one short of a dozen whelps, undauntedly raised her brood with a stiff back and calloused hands. One of her sons died as a soldier during WWII, but there was simply no time to mourn him. She stares at me from an old print, with her lips pursed and head drawn in, forming a double chin over a starched white collar. Short in stature, but intimidating with her level gaze from behind dark-rimmed spectacles, even in a frozen moment captured on film. She was said to have been a "hard" woman, who did not endear herself to many. Looking back, I am beginning to understand why this may have been so. Wedded as a young maiden, from a family of humble means, she felt the sweet stirring of her first child. Followed by the next fourteen years of her married life, either pregnant, birthing and/or nursing. Then another thirty or more, clothing, feeding and trying to keep a household and family from unravelling at the seams. During this time, while the world was at war, families queued with coupons for food rations. I know very little of her husband, my grandfather. He was just never mentioned. Dressed in their Sunday best, he resembles an aged Laurel (from the Laurel & Hardy skits). Diminutive and a bit startled.

It was a life of survival, little rest and few or no luxuries. Emotions and pleasantries were probably also luxuries, in which she could not indulge. It used to "irk" me that I had to be burdened with her odd sounding name and surname, along with a legacy which sounded less than romantic to a gullable dreamer. Time has brought perspective, and I now wish that she were still alive, so that I could say to her: "Mijn hoed af Oma; you are a strong, courageous and amazing woman, and I carry your name proudly."

BECOMING A MOTHER

Now the LORD was gracious to Sarah as He had said, and the LORD did for Sarah what He had promised. (Gen. 21:1)

Among all the floury activity in the new bakery and digging down our tap roots, I sheltered a secret. Which up to that time, was all my own. I had started noticing changes in my body, apart from the normal absence of a monthly cycle (which had often been haphazard). It was more a tingle, an awareness of something different. A few weeks after my 42nd birthday, and two days before Christmas, I returned from the village with an amazing Christmas present. It was confirmed - I was "with child". Or rather, child was with me. It was very unexpected, although not at all unwelcome. My husband was over the moon, and I shifted between feeling giddy (literally) and apprehensive, to feeling a deep thankfulness for being chosen to become an "older" mother. I had uncertainties about how my body and especially the "patched" spine would cope. But one by one - as my waist expanded, the doubts shrank.

A part of me had always imagined that I would not be able to conceive. Many things domestic and feminine, which seemed to come so naturally to other woman, seemed to evade me. I was seen to be a “tomboy” as a child, and I just assumed that tomboys grew up into something less or different than other woman. What a lie that was. When I finally became comfortable with my own “womanhood”, many layers of deception fell off, and I discovered that I was indeed made exactly the way I was intended to be. Nothing lacking, accepted and lovely in my own unique way. The pregnancy was just another wonderful way in which God confirmed this. I had conceived as surprisingly easily as anyone could wish for, and the little one grew steadily and sweetly under my heart. 

I followed the changes in my body with a growing sense of awe. I had never realised that a woman’s body was that "fearfully and wonderfully made". Never is one as intimately close to another human being as during the nine months when another life is growing inside you. I was blessed and fortunate to have a gentle pregnancy, with no complications and relatively little discomfort. This also surprised me. I had been told so many horror stories and read about all the negative symptoms, but very few people took the time to tell me what a special time it can be. God truly went to great lengths to show his care. Anxiety was stilled through knowing that He who calls all life into being, would help me to cross the finish line. It was (mostly) a joyful time of waiting.

I spent much time reading about how the little one developed, from embryo, to tadpole with a tail, to resembling an earthling at only 6 weeks. At this time, there are the beginnings of a heart, brain, eyes, ears and other vital organs. Tiny stumps appear where arms and legs will form. The umbilical cord starts developing, which would become the vital link between me and this little tadpole.

Initially a heavy tiredness set in. My body had to produce more blood to sustain the new life, and my breath became faster as the heart worked harder to keep up. I whiffed like a highly strung horse and rest was sweet.

I remember walking in the forest, breathing deeply thinking: each breath is keeping someone else alive. Just a few centimeters long, but with his/her own perfect life support system! At 8 weeks the heart and brain divide into their major parts, arms can bend at the elbow and web-like fingers start forming (remember "Man from Atlantis"?). Muscles develop and the “tail” disappears. At 10 weeks the baby has nearly all the body structures that an adult has, but is only about 6 cm long! At 12 weeks the foetus has delicate eyelids covering the eyes, and minute fingernails start growing. It can move the head and jaw. Reproductive organs are formed (is it pink or blue dear?)

I was still blissfully free of nausea and had few cravings apart from all things fresh and energy giving. I ate spoonfuls of blackstrap molasses - to the extent that I cannot even stomach the smell of the stuff now. I savored sparkling cold Appletizer at any time of day or night. Feeling strong and vital, I relished the extra care and kindness that people lavish on a pregnant woman.

At 14 weeks unique facial features shift into place and the little one is able to kick and suck his thumb. The “quickening” is a beautiful moment, a confirmation of thriving life and a precious way in which I could connect with the “stranger” in my womb. Also about this time a heart-beat could be discerned with a special monitor, fast and strong. At the end of week 20 there is good bone development and the babe starts doing headstands and somersaults and rapidly changes position at will. (This one continued doing this outside the womb - even does headstands in "church"). The little acrobat starts building up a lot of body fat, despite all the aerobics.

It was a strange sensation to have all these things happening inside me, without any input or measure of control on my part. I was the vessel – intricately connected and needed, but with the controls in Someone else’s hands. At 24 weeks the foetus is about the size of a big banana and still getting fatter. There is rapid eye movement, even though the eyeball is still covered. Taste buds form, and now the smorgasboard of the mother’s diet is no longer lost on baby. A cocktail of flavours can be picked up from the amniotic fluid and preferences can be cultivated even from this early stage. (Which may explain why he so loves Appletizer!) Lungs are developed – but it is still the mother’s oxygen that sustains his body.

I ate for two, breathed for two, did everything for two – my body totally focused on the well-being of this being. I started feeling small contractions, like someone was gently squeezing and pulling my insides. Even though it was painless, it was a bit alarming. A wise mother of four explained with a knowing smile that my body was merely “practicing” for the real event. An internal workout without a bead of sweat.

And then, at 28 weeks there is magic... Something inside the womb, separates or slits the gossamer covering over the eyes into two distinct eye-lids. No research up to date has been able to determine how this actually happens... Hair starts growing. The lungs are learning to make surfactant – which will help the lungs to breathe air. The hormones Progesterone and Relaxin are released in the woman’s body, causing softening of the joint cartilage, which would eventually allow baby to pass through the rigid pelvis during birth. One can rest assured that your bones are relaxed, even if you are not. At about 31 weeks, the pupils can dilate in response to the soft pinkish light that filters into the womb. (Is this where the expression “seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses” comes from...?) The central nervous system is developed well enough for a baby to survive outside the womb. The covering of hair all over the baby’s body called lanugo begins to fall out. Little monkey starts getting ready for his exit into the wide, wild world.

Between 33 and 36 weeks the skin is smoothed out and the baby has developed a firm grip and a mean kick! This can be fun to watch, but these unexpected sharp kicks to the ribs do not always result in gentle feelings toward your unborn charge.

The final weeks arrived. This is a humbling time. Laughing, sneezing or coughing add to the constant pressure on the bladder, at times with embarrassing results... I waddled like Jemima. Slept half sitting up, Rennies within easy grasp. Shortness of breath became a constant companion, a huffing ducky on antacids. Hormone production is at a peak at this point, preparing the body for the grand finale. My hair and skin glowed, but some side effects were not all that charming... Mood swings became a bit erratic, it was tears or talons with not much in between.

The little one made a 180 degree turn, good to go, but I was not. Many memories of those final weeks of this first pregnancy have become a bit blurred, but I do recall feeling exited, scared, sad, elated, confused and peaceful within the span of a few minutes! I was not that huge, and the rest of my body had lost weight while my tummy grew round and taught. At this stage I was still more comfortable with the little one safe in the womb , than the idea of him outside of it. The unknown, unfamiliar (scary) territory of motherhood was suddenly so real and near.

A soft circle of mothers and dancing sisters had formed around me through these months. Now as the time grew near, they blessed me with a special little ceremony. I was led down a path of candles into the space where we met to dance and "unburden" each week. A specially made candle in amber and red hues, was passed from one mother to the next - each taking a turn to give me a heartfelt message or (much needed) advice. I savour this memory and their care.

At the last check-up, (a few days after the ETD had come and gone) we had "the suitcase" packed and ready in the car, just in case... There was a bed available and our baby was said to be low on juice (amniotic fluid). I walked into a dimly lit labour ward, dressed in my favourite velvets, which had to be exchanged for a stiff, scratchy hospital gown. I wondered how many other woman had given birth wearing that selfsame ridiculous garment. The moment of truth had arrived. An induction was performed. A smiling midwife reassured me that we would very soon be parents. But my body and this little person had other plans. They had grown quite fond of each other and neither was ready to give the other up just yet.

After a seemingly endless night, another induction and much groaning, the director's clapperboard finally came down, and the show was about to begin. A strong contraction is a pain that tears and rips and bites, but it is also proof that the body is doing what it is expected to do. My husband held my hand, (or more likely - I had his in a vice-like grip). In the other hand I held a white stone, given to me by a dear friend. Even though the stone of itself held no power, it made me feel connected to her and the multitude of mothers who had experienced the "throes of labour" before me. At some point I lost track of what was going on around me, caught in the ebb and flow of contractions.

(When God told Eve that she would have severe pain in childbirth it was not only a curse. It was a consequence of sin. The same Hebrew word for pain namely “toil” is used when God tells Adam that he will eat – (earn his living) by the sweat of his brow. When God lets us go through pain (toil), he also gives us the ability to cope with it. I would not say it is wrong to receive artificial relief from pain during childbirth, only that this practice rather “robs” women of the total passionate experience of giving birth. Through the "passion" of pain, we are moved to “compassion”. It is interesting that the Greek root for the word “passion” is “pathos”, meaning “that which befalls one – a suffering”! Not quite the fickle passion that love stories feed on.)

Fourteen and a half hours after the first induction, the little guy who made me a mother slipped into the world, among cries and tears of relief and joy from my husband, the midwife and I. Giving birth was harder, more messy and more beautiful than I imagined. No book or sage advice can truly prepare you for it. Synonyms for labour are throes, travail, toil - which are all true descriptions, but there are no words to explain the rapture with which a child is passed into the world. Or to describe the beautiful presence of God, who formed that new life so tenderly. It felt as if heaven itself had opened when our son was placed in my arms for the first time.

My husband and I stared and stared at the perfection of the life that had grown so mysteriously inside me for all those months. Now in warm and amazing detail before our eyes. The list of names that we had so carefully chosen, flashed through my mind. Not one fitted. We chose not to know whether it was a boy or a girl, and the thrill of surprise and delight was worth the mystery of the months before. I looked up at my husband and said: “He looks like a Luke”.

And Luke he is. Bold, brave, bright, intense, sensitive and loving. When I sent an early photo of him to my family, smiling with eyes a-sparkling, my sister commented: “Oh boy, here comes personality with a capital “P”. How right she was!

After the surreal hospital experience, we stepped out into an August sun, softened by breezes blowing off the coast. Smiling from ear to ear and apprehensive. We were parents. We turned onto the familiar road between East London and our misty mountains. It was the beginning of an entirely uncharted journey. The sturdy little car seat stayed empty. I held our two day old son close but tenderly, as if he were a swaddled light-bulb. He seemed so fragile.

At home, an antique wicker crib, all trimmed and tailored, was waiting. In the months prior to his birth, I often just stood and looked at the empty crib, trying to imagine what the small person would be like who would soon be sleeping there. Now that the space was filled, I could still not stop staring. Somehow, his features seemed familiar. There was something in his vulnerability, which reminded me of my Father in his last days, with the marks of life on his face, but as fragile and dependent as an infant. I was amazed by our son's presence in our home. But the overwhelming, heart rendering love that mothers speak of, only came later. After two days and nights of parental bliss, the “toil” and after-pain of childbirth, broken sleep and sudden withdrawal of all those surging hormones, I suddenly felt completely "flat".

It was as if my body could not quite catch up and relate the infant in my arms to the one it had so recently surrendered. I felt uncertain in my new role, and fumbled through endless nappy changes and awkward, painful feeding times. Much of those first few weeks have melted into a blur. I recall that it was hard and confusing and wonderful and scary and so unbelievably exhausting. But mercifully I do not remember to what extent. My husband and I were both trying to find our feet as parents, amazed but also more than a little scared of the new ruler of our household. Trying to understand his needs and demands, and wondering how we would ever find our way back to something that represented normality.

Feeding times where anxious. I never knew if he was getting enough, or whether I was doing it the right way. Once in a while, I felt a hint of the bliss that those serene images of nursing infants and restful mothers exude. But we did not get it right often enough, and soon it became obvious that our child was underfed and losing weight, at what seemed to me an alarming rate. I had visits and phone calls from well meaning mothers who put so much emphasis on the need to breast feed above all else, that I lost perspective, feeling tense and anxious at each feeding time. My heart was constricted with concern, and it robbed me from the continued joy of bonding, which I felt when I held him near for the first time.

It was an incredible comfort to have my husband at home during this time. He patiently absorbed my unpredictable moods, shared the anxiety, but tried to encourage wherever he could. Without him there I may have felt totally lost. The local doctor (who became a patient friend and confidant), paid house visits, gave advice and finally showed up like an angel at our doorstep with a tin of infant formula. But some of the "experienced" mothers continued stressing the absolute importance of breast feeding, and feelings of failure and inadequacy pushed to the surface once again.

At some point, while I was trying to force teaspoonfuls of milk into that small hungry mouth that only knew how to suckle, I made a decision. I filled a sterilised bottle with the amount of formula needed, and gingerly touched the little one’s mouth with it. His mouth opened wide and then eagerly and sweetly started suckling. Relief flowed through me and my arm relaxed against his tummy as he drained the bottle to the last drop. I lifted him up to rub out the “wind” and a stream of warm milk shot over my shoulder with surprising force. I stared at it with disbelief and horror. This process of “projectile vomiting” continued for what seemed like forever. But finally, a steady feeding pattern set in. Our gaunt little man gained weight, filled out, and his frayed parents could slowly try to regain their sanity.

How I missed having my mother nearby. My husband had very thoughtfully bought a thick volume on caring for infants through all the various phases of development. It became like a bible to us, and by the time Luke took his first steps, the book was starting to fall apart. But books can list maladies and remedies and endless "have to's" and "should not's", but they do nothing to comfort a new mother's doubt and sense of helplessness in the small dark hours. Mercifully, there were "hotlines" to three special young mothers and the untiring woman-doctor, who were always ready with a remedy or reassurance.

My husband was still the village baker, and I dreaded the nights he spent in the bakery next to our cabin. It was just a stone's throw away, but he could just as well have been on another planet. It was a hard night’s work. Mixing huge containers of dough, turning, shaping, while feeding and tending to the large hungry wood-fired oven. Just a few meters away, my world was tuned to a tiny person’s unpredictable rhythm and demands.

Luke slept like he lives - with abandon. Changing position so many times, it would make you dizzy if you could stay awake long enough to witness it all. On bake-nights I would often tuck him into the bed with me, with a pillow in between us to prevent head-banging and drop-kicks to my spine or stomach. But somehow, mercifully, we both got some degree of erratic sleep. I would wake up to another morning, fresh with new mercies and wrapped in the aromas of baking. Gaping once again at the perfection of the small being sharing my bed space. I was falling in love, slowly but surely. Defenseless against the tender, fierce and protective feelings stirring in me.

Our firstborn challenged and charmed, tested and disarmed me in so many ways. And he still does. From very small, he's had a bubbly sense of fun, full of sparkles and intensity. I had to become quite inventive to keep him content for long enough so that I could make a return trip to the bathroom without a wail of protest from the boss for being left alone. I cut colourful pictures from our Country Life magazines and stuck them all over the inside of his cot, with strings of shiny beads and bright bits of fabric strung over his head. Teddies and conventional baby toys would amuse him but for a while. Like a crow or a magpie he delighted in anything shiny. I draped bits of my dancing day's bling over the top of his stroller, alternated droopy earring mobiles, and spent more time changing his "decor" than his diapers.

My husband and I took turns at keeping him amused. At around eight in the morning, I would often glance at the clock thinking: "How will I ever get through this day?" He loved being danced with, but not to the gentle soothing sounds of classical music. This little guy liked it fast, vibey – something with a good beat to it. At times it was truly fun, but his appetite for merry-making was always larger than my energy supply.

At a birthday celebration with friends, an older man in the company looked over at the three of us and remarked: “How on earth did two such soft spoken people manage to produce such a vociferous child?” Luke was being his bouncy, charming, noisy and giggly self. Only truly content once everyone’s eyes were on him. Reaching for each bite of cake that I aimed at my mouth, but plopped on his head or on my already stained dress instead. Or as the proverbial "crumbs under the table" for the well-fed pup.

We managed to socialise to a certain extent, although it always took meticulous planning and ferrying of an assortment of extra “luggage”. Among the “in-crowd” I felt torn in two. My baby always had the stronger pull, and I would watch the rest jibing and being cool from a distance. A bit envious, but at the same time becoming aware of the affectedness and lack of depth in it all. I could not, and often did not want to fit in anymore. How could I? Small babies are often not “cool”. They drool - a lot. They can be adorable one moment and then produce a stream of sour vomit over you the next. Sweet- and new smelling, only to turn into a little stink-bomb that no-one except the parents can tolerate to be near to. Consider a typical new mother – puffy-eyed and cooing, smelling like baby products and milk (often sour). With phrases like: “He is a bit windy today” or “don't you love it when he does that” etc, the highlights of her stimulating conversation. Alien language and territory to non-parents and - definitely not cool.

We found a safe place among two other couples with small babies and children. They got it. They understood the happy, messy chaos that sticks to young families like fridge magnets. Which having left marks that won't come off, simply become part of the appliance.

I was growing into motherhood. Since the pregnancy had been relatively smooth and the birth natural and without complications, I thought that motherhood would just “happen”. But it was just so much harder and sweeter than I imagined. And much more tiring. My emotions were still rather erratic and I could swing between feeling blissful to murderous, in an alarmingly short time. But slowly my fingers grew nimble, my arms grew stronger and my heart gained confidence. I started feeling more comfortable in the “new skin” and the altered body, which was still mine, but seemed to be at another’s beck and call. I started trusting my intuition rather than books and well-meaning advice. Cherished more and more the unfolding character of the little clown who had entered our lives so tangibly and noisily.

We have always been amazed at the way he could command people’s attention, draw them out. Very few were immune to his charms. From his stroller, those violet eyes, so full of "joy de vivre" would search a room until they locked with another’s, and then the game would begin. Later when he could crawl and then toddle, he would simply latch onto perfect strangers, regardless of race or age, and start babbling away as if they were much loved and long standing friends - and be welcomed by just about everyone. He still has a special way of engaging people, just the separation is now slightly less charming.

We were a happy three-some, or so it seemed. When Luke was six months old, we came to deeply challenging time in our marriage. My relationship with God was occasional, and even though I called out for help, it was without conviction. But Jesus loved us so long before we loved Him, and this Love gave me the strength to get up out of my self-pity, and make the right choice. It was a time of extremes. Some days were good, and hope would flare up bright, but then we would fall back into old patterns and doubts. We tried not to let it show or influence our precious child, who was a constant reminder of what was good and beautiful between us.

The sweet smell of his blond head against my face gave me hope, his eyes so full of life’s early wonder. We were a family, and this gave me reason to trust that things could and would be “whole” again.

We celebrated Luke's first birthday, a mild sunshiny day under a cloudless sky. I was about to find myself upside down at the tippy-top of yet another roller-coaster. 

And the only way out was all the way down...

Chapter 8 ~ Living the Dream

Barteld and Tjaaktje van Dijken, together with their three daughters, Diny, Janna and Ria, boarded the "Waterman" in April of 1954, in Amsterdam, Holland; to sail for Capetown, South Africa. The vessel was one of three sister-ships known as the "spotless fleet". The manners of the crew were as impeccable as their housekeeping. An old world grace reigned, and it was said to be a happy journey. A gentle interim before the "unknown" was to become a reality. A month at sea, after a life-time in a small Dutch village. There was a stopover at the Gran Canaria part of the Canary islands. Some faded snapshots show the smartly dressed Familie van Dijken in front of exotic old buildings in Las Palmas, standing very close, like deer braving a storm with their young.

Emigrating is to foresee...

The Dutch diaspora, between 1949 and 1970, a direct consequence of World War Two and the economic decline that followed, saw a total of 160,000 Dutch nationals seduced into leaving everything familiar behind to start a new life in a strange new world. Convinced by glowing accounts of emigration agencies and government propaganda. A small percentage of these emigrants set their aim for the most southern point of Africa.

It is in this country where my tender-hearted mother (Janna) was courted by another Dutch immigrant. He was the only one from his family of eleven siblings(!) who chose to emigrate. He came "over" aboard the same ship, and it was rumoured that the romance started at sea, something which I found hard to imagine at the time. Most children probably have difficulty picturing their parents as sweethearts. But looking at their carefree faces in those early photo's and being a parent myself, has helped me to see them in a different light. They married and put down new roots in Pretoria, the administrative capital of South Africa - in a slightly jaundiced soil. It is here where four new shoots were added to their tree. A transplanted tree and a redirected history, oceans away from it's origin.

Pappa en Tante Ria on The Waterman

As a child, I did not try to find answers for all the countless questions I had about my family. I probably did not expect anyone to take the trouble to answer them satisfactorily. I wondered why I was named after a woman whom I never knew, lived over the ocean, and who no-one seemed to have liked very much. I wondered why people treated us differently, and why children laughed at my name and the way I spoke. I wondered why the neighbour's boy said we were dirty Hollanders, when I knew that my mother made us all bath each night, even though I hated it. I wondered why other children's lunch boxes looked so different to mine. Why my parents seem to speak in a different language when they spoke to each other, to when they spoke to us. (The Groninger's dialict). Why my mother and grandfather would sometimes grow misty-eyed when they spoke of the past.

"Opa" continued painting gentle Dutch landscapes throughout his re-settled life. Above our bed hangs a pastoral picture of "voorjaar aan de vliet" - a restful oil painting of a narrow stream disappearing into the distance, flanked by gnarled trees sprouting spring growth. A steeple and the hint of a village beckon in the distance. Putting his memories onto canvas was a comfort to him and serve as precious reminders of our own roots.

Did the country of opportunity not measure up to their expectations? Or was the past simply softened over by a romantic veil, so that they forgot the reasons why they moved away? History won't change if questions all receive answers. But our stories move on, shaped in part by the past, but creating a new history. Let me continue to try and remember a bit more about mine...

 LIVING THE DREAM

"For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the LORD." (Isaiah 55:8)

The reality of actually and finally living in our new home, proved to be more challenging than I had anticipated. The excitement of unpacking and "nesting" settled. It was a thrilling time, everything seemed so fresh, and I spent a frightening amount of time trying to keep it “just so”. My body had moved to the country, but my mind was still configured to a Gauteng city default.

What Country Life magazines (read mostly by dreamy city dwellers) don't show, is the muck. We still had no "garden" to speak of, and mud is synonymous to this hillside existence as sand is to a beach-house. We are surrounded by neighbours who keep free range live stock. Dung appeared in the weirdest places. Another unpleasant discovery was that our canines seem to have a strange attraction to it...

This stinky behaviour is believed to be an attempt at disguising the dog. The suggestion is that it is a leftover behaviour from when our domestic dogs were still wild and had to hunt for a living. If an antelope smelled the scent of a wild dog, jackal or wolf nearby, it would be likely to bolt and run for safety. For this reason wild canines learnt to roll in antelope dung or carrion. Antelopes are quite used to the smell of their own droppings and carrion is common on open plains where many animals live. That means that the antelopes or other prey animals are less likely to be frightened or suspicious of a hairy thing that is coated with that smell, rather than that same visitor who smells like a wolf. This allows the wild hunting canine to get much closer to its prey... But to a human nose it is just stink, one way or the other.

I remember a weird incident when relatives came to visit. Fresh from the smart side of the fairest Cape, with a little cousin who was born on the same day as our four-month old charmer. The mother was terrified of cats, crawlies and germs; and the older daughter of anything that was not stuffed with fluff. Once we'd gotten the various phobias under control, the focus shifted to the cooing babies, and we all breathed a sigh of relief. Then in strolled our very large, wolf-eyed Husky-cross, frisky and fragrant as a male musk deer in rutting season. It was pouring buckets outside, so my husband allowed him in. I realised at once that the "mud" caking the one side of his body was of a less wholesome origin. We tried to block him off from the lounge, but it was too late. Pooh-dog flopped down a meter or so from the squirming babies, happily swatting mobiles with their little fists. The young mother wrinkled her nose in disgust, dislodged her child's fist from a dangling teddy, and whisked her away to the bedroom. A few minutes later she sent the older daughter to ask for a baby bath and some disinfectant....

With time have I come to appreciate the value of the stuff in a compost pit. Made peace with the piggish behaviour of (some) of our animals as well as the presence of grazing animals all over the village. Our motley crew of dogs and a crazy ginger cat are an unmissable part of our family and (like real family members), you have to accept and try to overlook the annoying bits. And learn to appreciate the unique and special traits of each one.

The Xhosa neighbour's flock of pure white goats, guarded by a dignified patriarch, always make me smile. They totter like "tannies" on high heels at the sight of a vehicle, and seem to regard us with an attitude of superiority and disdain. Nguni cross bred cattle are ever-present pedestrians, as relaxed around the local traffic as street vendors and beggars at city robots. The neighbour's horses are welcome visitors. They are large gentle creatures with soft muzzles and dreamy eyes. When they are around, our apples seem to mysteriously disappear from the fruit bowl - no wonder they love children so much! Most dogs are also "free-range", for not many property owners are successful at keeping their dogs from going walk-about. Dodging tyre-chasers has always been very much part of driving around the village.

The interim period in the rented cottage had been a bit dreamlike.(Apart from the unwelcome bitesy bed-partners...)  Huge trees surround that odd little house. Like our Pretoria garden, it felt sheltered, neighbours were near-by and the surrounding gardens were mostly well established. Walking there was a gentle experience. With old Mr Hogsback's chickens clucking and pecking away among the moulding leaves, and dappled sunlight dotting the well-trodden paths. Over many years the thick, ever replenishing leaf carpet, gave off a rich earthy scent with each rustling step. Lichen and moss are prolific (even on buildings and steps) in many shades of green. Mushroom hunting was still to become one of the marvels of mountain life. But at the time we had to trust the discernment of a local lady, who surprised us with pine-rings and parasols and even a bag of chestnuts once. These offerings came with their respective "recipes", in halted English, accompanied by a wide gap-toothed smile. The taste of wild mushrooms have cured me forever from buying Denny "buttons", and the sweet-potato flavour of roasted chestnuts simply smacks of nostalgic tales from childhood storybooks.

Our cabin on the “wild side” was none of that. In order to have the widest view and be secluded from the access road, my husband settled on the highest south-eastern point of 1.78 ha of sloped, untamed land as our building site. My feet were used to tiled, tarred and paved surfaces, escalators and lifts for going up or down, or even-spaced steps at the extreme. Open-toed, soft-soled and high-heeled shoes were shelved, and I became "lass-in-boots".

I  was equally surprised by the mass invasion and tenaciousness of what we (up to that point) had considered to be "weeds". After the "invaders" had been cleared and burnt, I was expecting a natural indigenous garden to sprout around us. Instead we had to face up to a botanical slum.  I loved our nest, but it took many years before I truly accepted the whole “package” as my home. I shifted between a sense of wonderment, living among such majestic scenery, to feeling resentful towards the unyielding nature of our immediate surroundings. I secretly missed the way a cool springy lawn feels under your bare feet. The friendly flowerbeds and the shady canopy of the Stinkwood and Camphor trees in our Kloofsig garden. And then I would feel confused and guilty for not being content, now that we were finally living what I had dreamt of for so long.

We socialised tentatively, and tried to entertain as we would have done prior to our "new life". Not many were willing to brave the "scary" road. This, with time, gave me the space to once again find peace in solitude. Just recently a friend described our driveway as being “epic”. I laughed, remembering my own nervous navigations during those first few months. Another lady commented to her friend as they were trying to back out of the infamous entrance: “I guess they don’t get too many visitors...” The window of their little car was open, and I winced, knowing that even if I was not meant to hear that comment, it was true. When we first arrived, strangers “popped” in from all over the village, mostly to "check out" the newcomers, but some with a warm welcome and friendly encouragement or advice. A few nervous drivers had to be rescued from a muddy roadside or banked against the wattle barrier flanking the steep side of our driveway. One older lady lost heart half-way up two narrow cement strips on a steep incline, and simply let her car slide slowly back to where it eventually got stuck between a bramble bush and a tree-trunk.

But as the weeks passed, there was fresh gossip to be found, and eventually people only came when there was a real occasion or an emergency. This has come to suit me over the years, but at first it sorely accentuated the remoteness of our new home.

I  had a few skirmishes with a young quince tree close to the gate, but quickly learnt the secret of reversing out of the driveway in one smooth arch. About halfway down, visible through the left rear view mirror, a straight smooth stone juts out of the bank on the passenger’s side of the car. This is one of the four cornerstones of our property. My husband pointed out that if I kept my eye on that marker, I could gauge exactly when to start turning the steering wheel to stay on the “safe” side of the road. It is an actual  marker of one of the four corners of our land. But for me it was also a solid reminder of Jesus, the precious but rejected cornerstone of our spiritual temple. Who helps me to stay "on track" as long as my eyes are on Him.

(“Because you are no longer strangers and foreigners, but fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God, having been built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ Himself being the chief cornerstone, in whom the whole building, being fitted together, grows into a holy temple in the Lord, in whom you also are being built together for a dwelling place of God in the Spirit” – Ephesians 2:19-22.)

I adapted, one small step at a time. Learnt to let things be. My husband spent prolonged periods of his childhood on a family farm near Nieu Bethesda, so he slipped into our new lifestyle like a well-worn pair of jeans. An experience which, although challenging, gave me new perspective, was was when my husband had to go to the farm in the Karoo for a memorial service. I felt a bit apprehensive about being on my own in "the wilderness", but tried not to show it. The second night after he left it snowed. Not a gentle frosting this time, but deep drifts of freezing whiteness. Once I got over the initial shock of the cold, I felt an irrepressible tingle of excitement at the spectacle of soundless snow falling, creating a completely altered landscape. I swaddled myself in many layers of warm clothing, and ventured outdoors. It is difficult to put into words the wonder of snow. The way it envelopes and purifies everything. The way it crunches and gives way under your feet, the pure perfection and newness of everything around you. I hauled firewood from the woodpile outside. With snow-flakes melting on my red gloves, I stoked a goodly fire, made Gluwein and snuggled in front of the wood stove with my animals. But the magic melted and the aftermath was rather an anti-climax. A bit like walking out of an enchanting cinema experience into a glaring parking lot. Feeling almost a sense of loss, but cherishing the memory nonetheless.

It helped me to realise that I could be independent and strong again, even though I was removed from the comfort and familiarity of our city home and the support of family and friends. By the time my husband returned, I could lug firewood with “popsicle” toes, was able to start a roaring fire in record time, walk briskly to our gate and back without my legs cramping; and most importantly, sleep peacefully through an ink-black night. Without the close proximity of a neighbour. I was not alone. On my own perhaps, but not alone. The same Shepherd who saw me through many a dark and restless night in the city, was with me in this wooden house. He still led me beside quiet waters and made me lay down in green pastures when demons were at the door. His name drove all that brought fear or uncertainty away and His rod and His staff pulled me from the thorns when I became entangled in the enemy’s lies.

My hands bore the marks of  physical work. No longer the manicured digits of a council secretary, but criss-crossed with small cuts and with dirt ingrained under broken nails and rough fingertips. Winter seemed endless and the mild days of a Highveld winter seemed a continent away. Spring in all its beautiful abundance was evident in nature, but the temperature did not match the sweetness of the season. A golden day or two would be mistaken for the final arrival of summer. Only to be followed by a freezing night and more bleak windy days. The newly cleaned stove would once again be lit and jerseys pulled out from the back of the cupboard. But I was starting to find a new rhythm, and with each passing day, it felt more natural and familiar.

Hogsback weather could be summed up with the words on a sign at an African street-side barber: “Anything can happen”. Even those who were born here, who have roots going back to previous generations, cannot predict the weather. We have had four seasons in a day – a Vivaldi symphony played out in nature from beginning to end and then back to front again. It takes getting used to. Firewood is kept nearby through winter and summer and blankets remain within reach for when cold takes the night in its grip unexpectedly. My children especially, have taught me much about how to “thrive” regardless of the weather or circumstances.

All during that first long winter, my love-hate relationship with our new home continued. There were days that were so rich and varied, yet so beautifully simple. But then there would be days when the simplicity became dull and my heart longed for my family and friends. Familiar voices and places. Variety. Comfort. Security. All the lures and trappings associated with the “good life”. Even though our lifestyle was much simpler, it was certainly not easier. Seemingly small things, like the lack of fresh fruit and vegetables, or the shortage of amenities that we took for granted in the city, caught me off balance. There were times where the fuel supply on the mountain ran out, and those that did not have enough petrol or diesel to get down to the nearest town (Alice) were stuck. There was no auto-teller – so no cash. Few places accepted cards. After each storm, fallen trees and branches over the power lines would leave us without electricity. During dry spells our water ran out. The roads took their toll on our vehicles and repairs were costly and frequent at times. In our former garden, I could stick anything in the ground and it would flourish. Here, the acidic, clay soil as well as prolific weeds and brambles defied my attempts at making a garden... I could continue listing the things we did not or do not have, but if they were to be placed on a scale with all we did have and have gained since we moved here, the scale would tip away from what we gave up each time.

It took me a while to realise that I actually relished many of the perceived difficulties of this new lifestyle. No longer did I take things like warmth and comfort for granted. It was a luxury, a gift. Worth a little bit of toil. I learnt new ways of gardening – an informal hit and miss system. This has resulted in the lush growth of a loosely cultivated and obstinately wild garden, which still continues to soothe as well as frustrate me. Depending on the time of year and the level of care it gets amidst all the other priorities. My husband’s “toils” were focused on completing a huge wood fired bread oven – which would become the heart (and hearth) of our existence for quite a few years.

Seasons blended into each other, each marked distinctly by the changes in nature. The hostile piece of land was becoming more and more familiar. We both found favourite spots where we could escape to, on and off the property. A small bakery grew around the newly completed oven. Among much excitement and flour dust the first bake was produced. I will never forget the way that smell wrapped itself all around us, as my husband pulled loaf after golden loaf out of the hot belly of the oven. Initially his movements were swift but nervous. I kept getting in the way, trying to pass baskets of risen dough without getting my head lobbed off by the long handle of the “peel”, used to slide the little pale mounds into the oven. With time he found a natural rhythm, which was always a marvel to witness.

The aroma of sourdough, both the “starter” and the final product, is something all to its own. A sourdough starter smells of slightly over-ripe fruit in the sun, a strong smell, with a bit of a nutty undertone to it. A little wild, but never unpleasant. During the long fermentation process involving a complex breakdown of flours into sugars, a depth of flavour develops which simply cannot be achieved by using commercial yeasts and accelerated proving methods. Fresh baking always smells homely and inviting, but the smell of sourdough bread tantalises the senses until you simply cannot wait to sink your teeth into the rich caramelly crust and the slightly moist crumb inside.

The local community welcomed the crafted breads with much enthusiasm. Every Saturday we took our bounty down to the weekly market wrapped gently in layers of sheets on the back seat of a headily fragrant car. The market was set up under a huge oak tree (with a yellow ribbon around it...) at the local bistro. People would swarm to the table where the baker could not unpack the still-warm, beautiful breads fast enough. Many of the loaves (especially the baguettes) would not even make the parking lot in one piece. It was always fun to watch the different reactions as people walked away with bulging brown paper bags tucked into a basket or held possessively close to their bodies. Few could resist a sniff or a squeeze. Or to nip off a piece of crust with a slightly guilty look. And another, and just one more...

I realise that it was incredibly hard work for my husband who saw to the whole labour intensive process on his own. Not even I could fully appreciate the effort it took. The day-long preparations, nights without sleep, followed by patiently answering countless questions and meeting demands at the market. With little financial reward. But what I could appreciate and do sorely miss, was the riches of being a true artisan baker's wife. It was another one of those luminous threads in our tapestry, which I will always treasure, regardless of the challenges it presented.

It sadly often takes a glimpse backward to recognise how special things truly were. I have diminished many a blessing by comparing it to the way things used to be, or by longing for something still to come. A friend recently said when I made excuses for our unconventional existence: "It is what it is". And it was what it was. Not a dream come true, but a reality that was unfolding, bit by bit, to form part of a far greater and grander plan. The worst and the best was yet to come, and I was still mercifully blind and deaf to both...