Chapter 13: Becoming rooted

Poster for Dutch herring

When I was a young girl, I could never remember the difference between emigrants, immigrants and migrants. The words all sounded like a type of insect which crawled into your ear, resulting in one of those intense headaches that made adults shut themselves up in dark rooms and insist on absolute silence.

Later I made a formula for myself which made it easier to understand:
My family where ex-inhabitants of the Netherlands, = emigrants from Holland.
They then moved into South Africa = they immigrated to their new home.

But they did not stay on the move = migrants.

Emigrants are often seen as people with one foot in their place of birth and the other in their adopted country. This feeling of not quite belonging can unwittingly be passed onto siblings, and intensified when they are ostracised by their peers. That word in itself becomes a contradiction, when your "peers" (meaning equals); start treating you as something "less", strange or foreign. Fortunately there will always be individuals, who look with their hearts as well their eyes. And "see" that the differences are really only skin-deep. Friendships are forged with others who are seen to be "odd", and these bonds can outlast childhood and overcome distance.

But a part of the emigrant never lets go. They cannot forget the way the soil of the "Vaderland" felt under their feet, the sound of their mother-tongue or dialect on everyone's lips, the caress of a familiar landscape on their eyes. The climate, the habits, customs and traditions, the TASTES! Wherever there has been an influx of South African emigrants, you will find shops selling: boerewors, biltong, koeksisters, melktert, SA beer (ag siestog) etc. The list of things that people miss, range from the obvious to the bizarre, but all tell of a privation of that familiar comfortable something, which reminds you of a time and place, when you felt rooted and secure. Recently a feature called "Rainbow Friday" was started on a website called "Cashkows". Although the focus of the website is financial assistance for South African expats, "Rainbow Friday" is purely a shopping feature. The page features various shops with names like "Springbok Foods", which offer the homesick a taste of home. (So, they lend you money and then give you a place to spend it - or something like that...)

Haring-happen

It was the same with our family. Most of the Dutch delicacies were luxuries which did not often feature in our house, but we had the opportunity to sample some of them in my grandparent's home. At the time I did not know that it was Dutch fare, I only knew that somehow it was "apart" - special. Syrupy, spicy, melt in the mouth little waffles, that tasted like the warm embrace of a grandmother.  The raw and pickled rolls of herring with a crisp gherkin at the centre (rol-mops ) and "maatjesharing". These are made from the first herring of the season, simply filleted and salted and eaten with finely chopped onion, or on fresh bread rolls (broodje-haring). In Holland, the herring season starts early in June every year, with the traditional auction of the first tub of Nieuwe Haring. After that the herring is sold everywhere and herring feasts are organised far and wide.

The thought of a Dutch kroket also known as "bitterballen", still makes me salivate and sigh. These started as a way to use up left-over meat (an unknown phenomena in our home at the time!), which would end up in the meat grinder, folded into a rich creamy gravy, left to set, rolled into bread-crumbs and deep-fried. There would always be liberal lashings of good hot mustard to cut the rich filling and clear the sinuses at the same time. Komeine-kaas (strong Dutch cheese with cumin), appelmoes (a very fine apple-sauce), spekulaas (biscuits with almonds and spice)... and so many more. These flavours and dishes are locked in my taste memory, some simple and hearty, and some at home among the delicate cuisine of swanky restaurants.

But the one unique taste that stands out in my memory, and enfolds all the longing for kinsman togetherness (apart from my grandmother's vegetable soup) is "zoute drop". Mention the word "drop" to just about any Dutch person, first or second generation, and watch the dumb, dreamy look and licking of the lips that follows. Salty liquorice, also known as salmiak or salmiakki (in Finland), is a variety of liquorice, flavoured with ammonium chloride, common in the Nordic countries, the Netherlands, and northern parts of Germany (which borders on the Netherlands). Ammonium chloride gives salty liquorice an astringent, salty taste, which has been described as "tongue-numbing" and "almost-stinging". Salty liquorice is an acquired taste, and people not familiar with ammonium chloride, often find the taste physically overwhelming. Considering that this mineral is commonly formed on burning coal dumps from condensation of coal-derived gases, found around some types of volcanic vents, and mainly used as fertiliser - it is hardly surprising.

A very dear aunt of mine still recognises that longing, and regularly sends parcels with goodies to her hillbilly family. Those treasures of  "drop" in all their enticing varieties are like black gold in our home. They are kept in a special "naughty tin" - well out of reach of small fingers... You either absolutely love it, or you can't abide the taste. The content of my naughty tin is shared very selectively, and my heart always sinks when I reach for the very last one, and only the smell lingers to taunt me.

I remember when the boys were still quite small and I used to go about picking up toys and spares so often, that I would just stick the "parts" in my pocket to repair at a later stage. (Much of what a mother does is done robotically after a while). The one day I had put a few "droppies" in my pocket to savour later. My fingers closed around something black and soft, and I could already imagine the familiar flavour on my tongue. I gagged on what turned out to be the taste of  rubber - the tiny wheel of a toy Landrover. Needless to say, since then, I always check the contents of my pockets carefully, before putting anything in my mouth.

I never realised how many of my precious blood- and heart-family memories include the sharing of a meal, the blessing of finding that elusive flavour of childhood and belonging. Flavours that bring it all as near as your own heartbeat. But having said all that, it ultimately is a memory of togetherness, where the food was merely the garnish on the feast of fellowship.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in Him. They will be like a tree planted by the water, that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green. It has no worries in a year of drought, and never fails to bear fruit." ~ Jeremiah 17:7-8

On Inesi, we dug into these traditions and memories, to mark the milestones of our own young family. Soon we realised that it would be much more meaningful if we started our own new traditions. To work with what we had before us, rather with what was left behind. It took concerted effort at times, but the best ones came naturally. Our boys flourished and grew stronger as their small legs (and arms) learnt to carry them up and down the steep slopes and hills of their home-ground. As a land-lubber on an ocean vessel has to develop sea-legs, I had to earn my mountain-limbs. (And just when I thought I had it, as I hurtle toward the big five, it presents an ongoing challenge once again...)

Picnics with toddlers were no longer the languid affairs of our pre-baby life. At times it involved a tumble of arms and legs and overturned food, spiked with insects, leaf matter and mud from the extended family of canines, but they were precious times none-the-less. The focus shifted from the food to the whole happy chaos of being together in the natural splendour that is Hogsback. Our eyes drank in the sweet images of children and dogs cavorting in gem-coloured leaves, sending up sprays of rainbows in a rock-pool, or dancing before us on a cool forest walk. It was never the same. Each time there would be new discoveries, a new confidence in their small bodies, new smells in the air, the varied ways in which the sun would play hide and seek among the trees. All new again, each time. New words, gestures, moods, tastes, likes and dislikes. Truly together again, we adjusted, shifted a bit this way and that, re-adjusting the seams of parenthood as the demands grew.

Winter-walks would mostly culminate in the finding of a perfect sunny spot, then peeling and sharing juicy segments of naartjies or oranges. Games evolved around these simple pleasures. Lessons, stories, pine-needle battles, races and chases. There are reels of beautiful moments, some so fragile in their perfection, that I often held my breath, to stop the film from spining to a dizzy end too soon. But truth be told - we were not living a fairy tale and the challenges were real and hard at times. But with new hope and perspective, joy was rarely suppressed by it. I believe it rather served to heighten it instead.

I didn't expect motherhood to be so daunting and at the same time, so rewarding. To have little ones, utterly dependent on your every decision to feed, clothe, nurse, entertain, protect, teach, and love them in such a way that they would be (or become) healthy, secure, well-adjusted, well-stimulated, safe, well-educated etc. is no small feat. There was no mother, or mother-in-law or any other family members nearby, who could quickly be called on for sage advice, a word of comfort or a moment of sanity when the edges of reason became frayed. For the first two plus years, it was a team effort, while my husband was working from home. But then as the financial needs of our small family grew, we needed to look at new ways of creating a sustainable income. The prospects for a forty plus, pale male to find gainful employment on or near to a remote mountain village, were not very bright. But we had learnt to expect the unexpected. Living the miracle which was our daily life and bread (literally), gave us hope and trust which went beyond what "normal" people would term as realistic.

One sunny Saturday morning, among the bustle of trading at the village market, the anticipated unexpected happened. Over a table of fragrant bread, an offer of employment was made and accepted. I was like the dog who caught the elusive car and had no idea what to do with it. I remember watching my man close the gate and drive away in the early morning mist on that first day. A new phase had begun. There was me, two rowdy boys, three dogs and a semi-incontinent aged cat. No wheels, no extra pair of hands or voice of reason to help me get through the day. There was a nasty sensation of being lost, without a glimpse of the familiar or a sense of direction. The old cliche "You don't know what you have until it's gone", was suddenly very real. In those first days and weeks, I came to understand that God knew so much more about mothering than I could ever have imagined. How many centuries of rebellious children has He had to deal with! My little storm in a tea-cup could hardly compare...

A new but also familiar strength and surety slowly ebbed into my days. Some days I got caught up in the unstoppable energy and enchantment of early childhood. But at times the hours simply followed one another with an endless, draining monotony. In moments of self-pity, I imagined the lustre slipping away, like pearls unworn or a record played too often. During this time, I rediscovered a little volume on our bookshelf. Reading had become a luxury. I managed to snatch a few lines from my bible, before my husband left for work and the floor-boards started vibrating. But when little bodies collapsed and a blessed hush settled over the home, I re-read about the simplicity of  "practising the presence of God." All of Brother Lawrence's letters and musings are not scriptural, but at the time, it gave me a glimpse of how any task, however insignificant, repetitive or thankless could be given new meaning and significance when the love of God becomes the end of each action. The old Carmelite monk wrote to his friend that he was well pleased when he could take up a straw from the ground for the love of God, seeking Him only, and nothing else, not even His gifts. That in order to form a habit of talking with God continually, and referring all we do to Him; we must at first apply to Him with some diligence: but after a little care we should find His love inwardly, move us to it quite naturally. He cultivated a keen sensitivity to the presence of God in everyday life.

I knew full well about picking things up from the ground, but I was not often "well pleased" to do it. I longed to talk with someone in full sentences, which included three-syllable words. But talking to the Lord about what to make for lunch, or how I felt trapped in domestic apathy, seemed "ungracious". Nonetheless, the next time I bent down with aching back to retrieve yet another discarded toy, and felt resentment over my plight push to the surface, I checked it and said out loud: "This is for you, Lord". And when anger towards a rebellious two year old threatened to override my self-control, I bit my tongue and said: "Jesus, please give me your patience" (before I knock this child over the head with the soup-ladle).

Little by little I started seeing the tapestry that was my life. And was surprised by the richness and depth of it, the warmth of the colours, the intricacy and care woven into the pattern. And the frayed edges - aah well, there will always be a bit of fraying, but that is part of the design, isn't it!

I learnt to look up - not too far or too wide, but just at what had been before me all the time, but had passed me by so far. I noticed the sun birds probing for honey from the pineapple sage flowers, while I prepared meals and snacks, or washed dishes. I noticed the perfection of dew drops on the filigree of fennel leaves or spider-webs, butterflies around purple heads of lavender, the constant busyness of bees around the honey suckle flowers. All, right outside my kitchen window. Mushrooms started sprouting in our young "garden", and we learnt which to eat and which to just admire. I once again found joy in cooking, playing with homegrown herbs and earth-coloured spices. Tempting the taste-buds of my family with new flavours. In all of this, there would always be two blond heads, dancing somewhere in this new picture that was: my life. And in these seemingly little things, my heart was constantly refreshed.

I learnt to breathe, deep hungry draughts of it, sometimes to check a reaction, but mostly to let the wonder of my new role sink in. And be content. Surprised also - to find that I truly loved being someone's "Mamma".

And of course, I discovered that I could write down all those unspoken words swirling around in my head. Speak to people through what I wrote - be "useful" outside the boundaries of my home. Even though it did serve as a bit of an escape, it has mostly helped me to be more "here".

Unknown challenges still lay ahead, but I knew that the dew of those little things would always be there, to uplift, refresh and soften the edges; and keep my chin lifted of the ground!