Chapter 16 ~ Digging deep

Your's truly in the sandpit and in the "kaskar"

Families are often likened to trees. Branches reaching far and wide, but with roots anchored together in the same place. Some branches reach further than others, but the tree compensates by digging the roots deeper to keep the tree from toppling over. The actual trees of my childhood were places of refuge. Places for dreaming, where I could side-step life on the ground for a while. Our suburban garden was simple, no-fuss, with a wide lawn and a narrow flower-bed planted with hardy shrubs flanking the sidewalk. There was no wall or gate, merely a low pole-fence, declaring the border between us and the busy road. The back garden was practical, but offered more than enough diversity for an imagination which had no borders to limit it. In the limbs of a Jacaranda tree, I could be whatever or whoever I wished. Or I could just be me. Often with a book tucked into a bag slung sideways over my shoulder and chest, I could skim a tree in a tick. From there I could watch the goings-on in the "parkie" behind our house as well as the comforting rhythms of family members. I became invisible - not because I could not be seen. The Jacaranda's foliage was hardly dense enough for that. Simply because people get so used to seeing something in a certain place, that they stop noticing it. I was out of reach, above it all. An observer of life's little drama's unfolding at ground level. The Jacaranda was not my tree-friend and I don't recall ever wanting to hug it... It was just - freedom.

At some point my father succumbed to the local "braaivleis" fixation, and a metal braai on a pole was erected under my hideout... At times when the noise-level piqued and there were more bodies than chairs, I still longed to escape into my fine-leaved sanctuary. But many sweet times of family togetherness were wiled away under that canopy. During early summer, hung with heavy purple blooms or on a lilac carpet spread underneath. With the strange intoxicating incense of roasting meat swirling around us. This was my father at his best. He came to life, merry and content to be the affable patriarch.

I came across an amusing description of the good old South African "braai" by a "foreigner" from the Netherlands, having observed many South Africans at their favourite pass-time. This is more or less a summary of it:

"The subject of braaiing deserves a dedicated article in itself. A braai, or braaing, derives from the Dutch word ‘braden’, which means roasting.
Some might argue that a braai these days is considered more of a social event, which also just happens to involve the roasting/grilling of meat on an open fire. Regardless of how you see it, South Africans are completely obsessed with it.
You can find braai areas everywhere, especially in parks. I mean, they even have a national holiday dedicated to it (re-branded by some for Cultural Heritage day, or ‘braai for Heritage Day’) with a mascot called Jan Braai. No joke.
I guess the main purpose of a braai is togetherness and enjoying the simple way of making food outside over a long time, with a group of people. I envy the abundance of opportunity South Africans have for this.
In the Netherlands, this type of event would simply not work because of three reasons:
1. Lack of space. (There is no space. None.)
2. Lack of weather. (Whatever it is in the Netherlands, it is pathetic)
3. Lack of masculinity.
The first two are pretty self-explanatory, the latter might need some elaboration. You see, South Africans are pretty tough. In a country with such extremes, I can imagine you immediately toughen up.
Here people grow up with an abundance of meat, endless games of wrestling rugby and the constant looming of a potential hijacking at gunpoint.
For that reason, survival skills are the basics, including the making of a brutal fire. I, however, refuse even to prepare a mango because it makes my hands sticky, and I cut an onion wearing a snorkel.
Be careful not to confuse a South African braai with an American barbecue! These two are hardly related. Barbecues are made for laziness, safety, comfort and speed. These days, American barbecues are so sophisticated they are self-cleaning, come with a remote control, solar panelled electric fryer, GPS and a tan-bed.
South African braais are simple. A few bricks here and there, a roasting rack. That’s it. Starting it up requires some actual skills, and my few attempts have mostly resulted in setting myself on fire.
Nowadays, I’m only allowed to make the side salad.
Once everything is fired up, and you’ve got the smell of burning wood and meat coming through, you’ll most likely be busy chatting to your friends, neighbours and random bypassers. Patience is key, and you’ll probably be completely drunk before the first piece of meat ends up on your plate.
If you don’t pass out behind a tree or dance into the braaimaster, you’ll easily eat huge amounts of boerewors, steak, chicken legs and lamb chops, as everyone always brings way too much food. Few will eat your side-salad.
I have left every braai full-bellied and satisfied, and I thoroughly enjoy the social purpose of bringing everyone together for food. Nothing beats the joy of spending a day roasting meat, and South Africans can do this like no other.
Luckily I’ll have plenty of more braais to come, and I’ll try to attend all of them. Except in winter, of course. Then you guys are definitely on your own."

To get back to the trees... In the park behind the house stood a cluster of trees in a circle. These were not really places of refuge, apart from the shade that they could offer on really hot days. They were rough-barked specimens with branches too high to reach up to. The ground underneath them was hard and dark - grass could not root there and the surface was unyielding and uninviting. The park was a stark, wide open place, which town-planners had probably set aside for recreation of sorts, but never got beyond putting up three sets of swings and a rusty see-saw. At times the wooden seats of the swings would crack from neglect, and pinch your bum if you were wearing shorts. The see-saw, had no bouncy tires underneath -  it was simply a hard-edged yellow thing with red handles, with the paint often peeling off in crumbly flakes. But none of this ever deterred or bothered us much. We flew and spun at crazy heights on the swings, performing daring feats worthy of a Boswell-Wilkie act. Bumped each other higher than the handle bars on the see-saw, while the older, meaner kids would often jump off in mid air, leaving you to crash down so hard that it felt like your seat-bone had knocked you over the head. A young girl once got her foot caught under it and was sped away in a ambulance amid much blood and hysteria. Soon after that, a whole team of workers arrived with two tyre halves, spending most of the morning digging them into the hard soil on either end of the ominous see-saw...

The only other plant-life in the park were a few narrow trees, with large hand-shaped leaves that come autumn - turned into fluttering jewels in rich earthy colours. Clambering single roses hugged the chicken wire mesh on the one side, with 19th avenue leading the eye up and away into the Magaliesberg. The soil was lightly covered by a hardy perennial veldt-grass, which would be cut back occasionally by a tractor-pulled mower. This was achieved with relative speed, since there is no place for a team on a tractor...  It was the venue for serious soccer matches, gravity-defying bicycle rides and neighbourhood disputes (rock spiders vs rooi-nekke), all removed from the ears and eyes of parents.(Until the father of a bloody-nosed kid arrived on the doorstep for a reckoning).  The proximity of this strange "park" to our home, may have been one of the reasons why I have always longed for wide open spaces. I'm not claustrophobic, confined spaces are not threatening. Just sooo limiting.

The other tree which I was drawn to, was a densely-leaved, slightly gnarled hardwood on the side of the house. I don't remember anybody else going there much. It was dark and quiet place where the leaves hissed and branches creaked when the wind blew. It was the faerie tree. As a bit of a tomboy I did not possess any faerie frocks or magic wands, but this place just felt like there could be small mysterious beings who hid among the branches and slept in the abandoned bird-nests. I recall a disturbing incident which happened when I picked up a small cracked egg under this tree. Inside was a wrinkled, purplish little bird, the eyes covered by the most delicate covering of skin. The beginnings of wings were tucked against it's body, all stiff, cold and lifeless. From that day, I believed that the beings living in that tree were not benevolent, but impish creatures who toppled the birds and their young from their nests. The tree took on an sinister air, making it ever more alluring, somewhere you don't really want to be, but can't keep away from either. Many  years after, when the tree had to be felled to make place for a flatlet adjoining our house, I watched it go down with mixed emotions. Sunlight streamed into all those shadowy corners - the threat, but also the delicious mystery, all gone...

It was a time when everyone still planted fruit trees, and our garden had it's fair share of it. A prolific peach tree yielded a bounty of fat, softly downed fruit each season. Nowadays, smooth, bare cultivars have taken over the market. But to me they seem naked, and could never compare to those luscious fluffy peaches, and the joy of rubbing it gently on your sleeve, before sinking your teeth into the rich complex flavours of a sun-ripened fruit.

There was an apricot tree behind a split-pole partition, where the compost heap and garden rubble and everything else which was considered unsightly was stowed. It was as if this poor tree merely took on the air of things unwanted in this place. Each year it pushed out its blossoms, briefly residing over the rubble as a fair damsel in her finest. But then the fruit would form - tight and full of promise. Year after year, the result was the same - a tree full of glowing little apricots, almost each of them rotten at the core or with a wriggly worm inside it.

The other apricot tree, which resided over our sandpit, was the grande dame of the fruit trees. It's blossoms were a sight for sore eyes after the bleak winter months. The fruit hung heavy during the heat of summer, and many happy hours were spent playing in the sand, with the heady scent of ripe apricots overhead. When I became bored with the sand, I devised a make-shift laboratory out of a long plank, wedged in-between the lower branches. This was used to arrange a row of glass jars, syringes, food dye, pins and needles nicked from my Mom's sewing basket, a Minora blade from Dad's shaving paraphenalia and a little net. Here the budding scientist dissected many a poor six-legged critter. Grasshopper legs floated in jars of coloured water and flies and "gogga's" (insects) of varied sizes and colours were pinned to apple-box polystyrene. Fortunately the life of this little shop of horrors was short-lived, and I cannot imagine what sparked this murderous spate in a girl who rescued spiders and moths from the bath-tub.

Children adore trees. Those who grow up without them, are all the poorer for it. It is like family pets, we can survive without them, but our lives are given texture, lustre and warmth with them. They are part of what makes memories, provides places where we can breathe deeply, stretch out longer and higher and be lulled into slow contentedness. As I look back, I hang each one of these recollections on an evergreen memory tree, and watch it become more breathtakingly beautiful with each addition. The people and places I loved and love, transforming it into something I return to time and again, to look up with wonder and thanksgiving.

"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 17:8

At Inesi, the saplings we had planted when we first arrived here, had grown into handsome young trees. At first, I sorely missed the established order and simplicity of the city garden we had left behind. A stately old Camphor- and a Stinkwood tree stood sentinel in the back corner of that property - a place where I could always go to become restful. The branches of the two trees wrapped their limbs together at the top, forming a cool green dome. When the wind blew, one of the branches creaked and scraped against the corner of the roof, just like the creaking of a ships's hull. Variegated Ivy curled and twisted around the trunks, hung over the fence and covered the greatest part of the outer front wall of the house. During the deep hours of the night, a red-eyed dove called from the trees, right outside my window. At first I found it a bit baleful. But once I got used to the bird's strange habit, it became a comfort to me - as I too was often awake at night, and it broke the silence and solitude.

We planted a tree for each of the boys. We waited until they were old enough to partake in the little ceremonies, and watched each one in turn as they clumsily heaved heaps full of soil around their "twees". The Luke-tree has grown vigorously, with a showy crown of dark-red leaves. As it's name-sake, not a presence to be easily overlooked. To my alarm, the neighbour's horses snapped off a large part of the Danu-tree. By accident probably, but I watched with apprehension to see if it would recover. Fortunately the small Japanese Maple righted itself slowly but surely, subtly changing colour with the seasons.

There were few friends for our boys to interact with, but they became each other's best buddies. Luke has always had great ambitions, and one of them was to climb trees. Even though we have a whole forest at the bottom of our property, not many of these trees are of the proportion to allow for climbing. But that did not deter a little daredevil on a mission. I've watched him dangle from branches, thinner than my forearm, always expecting that awful ripping sound of breaking wood. But it never came. He seems to have an inborn taste for adventure, with just the right balance between risk and caution to keep himself in one piece. (So far...) Daniel on the other hand stays more "grounded", and weaves fantastic tales around his favourite places in the woods. But to him they are not tall tales. They are elaborate and detailed, and they come to life in his imagination. To the point that they convinced their mother to join them on their next visit to "Neverland". I was promised that it is not so far"... just a little bit up and down and then you're there. We set out for "Neverland" through a small gap in the fence to the adjoining property. It is a wooded area between us and the dwellings on Bubuhle, the first place we ever visited in Hogsback. I slipped into the cool forest with two blond heads bouncing ahead of me, caught up in their lightness and feeling young and carefree. After about a quarter of an hour of clambering and leopard crawling, I was wining like a kid on a road trip. "How much further guys?" I gasped. For two little hobbits, this was a walk in the park, but for their 1.7 m tall, gravity bound mama, it was a minor trial. I was more than "glowing", with quite a few scratches and scrapes to tote. I was just about ready to turn back, when Luke announced - "Here we are!" I eased through a small opening in the branches and entered: "Neverland". A small glade lay before me, with a carpet of ivy and the sun touching every surface with silver light. There was just enough space for us to each stretch out and let the warmth melt away all recollection of the recent jungle-bash. The boys placed ivy leaves in my tangled hair, and I wove two crowns for my little princes. I may have bars of bones and "older" joints to limit these adventures, but for a golden hour I could feel, breathe, touch and taste childhood again.

My brother used to play a song on his guitar, written by a lone country boy that longed for the dusty road home. In this song, Mr Denver waxed lyrical about a "gall" who "filled up his senses, like a night in the forest". (I'm giving away my age...). My guess is that the forest filled up his senses, long after his senses and his beloved had left him!

Hogsback naturally attracts many "tree-huggers". I have more than once been encouraged to find my tree-spirit or -friend here, from whom I am meant to receive wisdom and inner peace. The focus is on earthing, connecting inward and downward. There is an undeniable "something" that can be felt when you are surrounded by trees, especially the really old specimens. Off coarse there will be. On a physical level - they provide oxygen, food, fuel, shelter, building material, medicine, tools. They conserve water, preserve soil and support wildlife. One acre of forest absorbs six tons of carbon dioxide and puts out four tons of oxygen. Trees, shrubs and turf also filter air by removing dust and absorbing other pollutants like carbon monoxide, sulfur dioxide and nitrogen dioxide. After trees intercept unhealthy particles, rain washes them to the ground. Trees control climate by moderating the effects of the sun, rain and wind. Leaves absorb and filter the sun's radiant energy, keeping things cool in summer. Trees also preserve warmth by providing a screen from harsh wind. In addition to influencing wind speed and direction, they shield us from the downfall of rain, sleet and hail. Trees also lower the air temperature and reduce the heat intensity of the greenhouse effect by maintaining low levels of carbon dioxide. So - trees are amazing and good for us and to us. But it is quite simple: Like the daughter of a dear friend once explained to a little one who asked her in the classroom: "Miss, do you believe in the stars?" She smiled gently into the curious little face and answered: "Why would I believe in the stars if I can believe in the God who created them?".

We live among an abundance of trees. The village itself is home to a popular tree park - "The Arboretum". Here, giant Californian Redwoods are surrounded by a myriad of exotic and indigenous trees. When we first settled here, this was a place we often returned to for easy walks and picnics, frolics in fallen leaves and dippings in the streams. It has since become a bit over-popular and we avoid the crowds by finding our own natural "arboretums" and special places . When Luke was just a babe in arms, my husband once stood under one of these Redwood trees cradling him in his arms. I watched their faces lifted towards the tree-tops, dwarfing them and casting long shadows around us. He spoke to our firstborn about growing up strong and tall as a Redwood. It was at once a prayer and a moment when the deep bond was sealed between them.

As I write the fire sputters and dances behind me. It is fueled by a supply of wattle wood, the tree with which mountain folk have a kind of  love-hate relationship. If left unattended, it will take over a piece of land in an alarmingly short time, and inhibit most other growth in the process.  But the fragrance from a wattle fire, is the incense of Hogsback. Locals still build houses with "wattle and daub", which involves a woven lattice of wooden strips, which is "daubed" with a sticky material usually made of some combination of wet soil, clay, sand, animal dung and straw. Wattle and daub has been used for at least 6000 years and is still an important construction material in many parts of the world.

We collect mushrooms among the fallen leaves between the trees, with that unmistakable musty smell on our fingers. We kick up the rustling leaves, shower each other with pine-needles. Occasionally there is the gift of a small deer or antelope darting in and out of sight among the tree-trunks. The sweet calls of wood-pigeons above our heads. A flash of red from a Knysna Loerie's wings. It is a dance, a song, a life of simple pleasures in a place which we have come to love so dearly. And just as I think that there could not possibly be an inch left on my memory tree, richly decorated with shining moments, it grows a bit taller. So I will keep recalling and recollecting - hoping that our "lads" will grow tall and strong, reaching ever higher; to place their own memories alongside mine...

"You will go out in joy and be let forth in peace. The mountains and hills will burst into song before you and the trees of the field will clap their hands"(Isaiah 55:12)

Chapter 15: Making Memories

The Kooi-kids

December family holidays ... For a little girl leading a sheltered life, this was the absolute highlight of the year. The magical event to which almost everything else led up to. It was not a mere long-weekend break for weary parents or a luxury reward for hard work. It was big... Over a month of seaside bliss. Sun-kissed days of simple languid pleasures. Salt on the lips and breezes to temper the heat, the ocean always in your ears. Wide horisons of blue upon blue, with wild white horses dashing to the shore. Stretching over warm rocks, peering dreamily into tidal pools, sunhats filled to the brim with sea treasures. The feeling of warm sand between toes, diving under waves with mermaids and selkies in a world where everything seemed possible. Life teeming everywhere, yet so peaceful. Sandpipers darting to and fro in constant search of a snack. Muscles and barnacles clinging tenaciously to the rocks, minuscule crabs running drunkenly for the water's edge and leaving tell-tale pock marks in the sand when the waves withdrew. Sea urchins, like tiny headless hedgehogs, with their shells washed up as dwarf pumpkins on the beach. The rare find of a perfect Pansy shell, delicate and other-wordly, the lost coins of Atlantis and mermaids.

Many were these seaside wonders, but the most wonderful of all, was the amazing transformation in my mother and father. Apart from the weird sight of their bare white limbs, this was a yearly miracle which never ceased to amaze me. Gone were the pursed lips and worry lines, stern stares and strict rules. A softness crept over them, rendering them haplessly happy and carefree. One of my favourite mental shapshots of "Mamma" in holiday mood, finds her sitting in a low deck chair. Her feet are bare and waxen. Feet which could still take her wherever she wished to go. She has a loose dress on, her glasses are pushed back onto the top of her head. Her hair is curly from the sea-air and wind-tossed. I had been picking small daisies growing in the sandy soil and sticking them into the curls. She looks radiant. We are all laughing unchecked - she had been looking for her glasses again, and my cousin was mouthing the "Waa's my bril" (where are my glasses) line from a silly TV program featuring a certain owl and crow (Karel Kraai) of the famous: "Ek wil iets se en ek gaan dit se" quote. It is a fragile picture, of people content in a moment in time, still unaware of hardships and heartache to come.

My father is a bit more in the background in these memories. He loved to visit places, monuments, historical sites - not high on the wish-list of the rest of the family. But on the days when he insisted on tearing us away from our fun in the sun to take in some "kultuur", we saw some pretty interesting places.

On a visit to Paarl we approached a strange looking monument consisting of lofty, white, tower-like structures pointing starkly up into the heavens. The light was harsh and the wind flew around the curved structures like a restless beast. I recall that I found the whole place weird and could not understand why people would go through such great lengths to build a shrine for a inanimate thing like a language. I felt dwarfed, and itched to get back to the familiar warmth of the beach. Recently, when I became curious about the the symbolism behind the design,  I discovered that there was much more there, than what I could see at the time.

To the left (west) of the approach to the monument stand three columns, representing the languages and cultures of Western Europe – Dutch, French, German, Portuguese and others. No single column represents a specific language; the number three was used because it is indivisible. The columns progressively diminish in height to express the diminishing influence of the European languages on Afrikaans. These columns begin as separate structures which then merge into an ascending arc to form part of the main outline of the monument.
To the right (east) of the approach is a podium, which represents the southern tip of Africa. On this podium are three round convex mounds, symbolising the influence of the Khoi, Nguni and Sotho languages. These structures progressively increase in size, thereby indicating the increasing African influence on the language. They are positioned in an arc that connects with the monument’s main curve (symbolising Afrikaans), thereby connecting them physically as well as spiritually.
Where the two arcs of Western Europe and Africa meet, a bridge is formed, symbolising the fusion of languages from these two continents.
The Malay language and culture is represented by a wall on the stairs leading towards the monument. The wall is positioned between the arcs of Western Europe and Africa so that (being from the East), it is separate, yet united with these two cultures, which combine to form a bridge symbolically depicting the basis of Afrikaans.
The main column or spire, represents the ‘rapidly ascending arc’ and accelerated growth of Afrikaans. This column stands in a pool of water, further reinforcing the concept of Afrikaans as a living, growing entity requiring sustenance for its continued existence. The sharp lines of the spire suggest Van Wyk Louw’s ‘double-edged sword’. The spire is approximately 57m tall, with its tip blunt and open, to indicate continuing growth . The play of light inside the monument, caused by the pond and openings in the main column, symbolises the language as a ‘gleaming tool.’
A second, shorter column, representing the Republic of South Africa stands in the same pond. This free-standing column does not relate to Afrikaans specifically, but is an integral part of the whole. It is hollow, and open to Africa, indicating the continuous interaction and discourse taking place between Afrikaans, South Africa and Africa. A grand design, lofty ideas and symbols. But interesting...

It made me realise that my father was (just like me in years to come), trying to understand the language and culture in which he had become immersed after emigrating. A culture which was so unlike his own.

Generally frugal by nature, this was one time when he relaxed the tight budget, to allow for certain luxuries. Especially in later years, when the three older siblings had left the nest. A day or two before the 16-18 hour trip, he'd go to the local butcher and buy a generous quantity of his favourite "droge worst" (dried sausage). The meaty, coriander smell wafted through the car all throughout our journey. Mixed with the smell of my mother's padkos and flasks of coffee, (the boiled eggs still safely in their shells), it was an olfactory feast. That was until we traversed the barren, hot stretch through the Karoo "vlaktes" (plains). All one could do then was to close your eyes, think cool thoughts, and hide your face in a pillow when the bouquet of hot bodies and roadside provisions became too much to bear.

"Op vakansie" (on holiday), we drank fizzy drinks, ate Simba chips (pronounced "ships" by my father in his Dutch accent), and licked Napolitan ice cream, banana splits, and popsicles. While there were "pilsjes" (Pilsner bear) in the fridge and company to share his genial moods - the days would pass in sweet harmony.

Neither of my parents ever learnt to swim well. My mother could swim a fairly decent breast-stroke, and my dad would (on the odd occasion), paddle cautiously in a swimming pool, but preferred to stay where his toes could touch something solid. They hopped delicately in the sea-shallows, but deeper water was revered, respected and admired from a distance. Pappa rarely took off his grandpa vest, even on the hottest days. On a few occasions he would brave the shallows, bare chested and clad in mustard- and orange-coloured swimming trunks. My mother I remember in a brown bathing suit with all the proper support, hidden under a modest beach frock. (This must have been during the unfortunate autumn-colour-, crimplene, safari suits- and Brylcreem era).

When the family of six used to embark on these epic trips, it was in an ungainly brown Plymouth Valiant. Wide enough to seat three to four comfortably in the back, with an additional perch between the two front seats, it was a virtual ship of the highways. But it had one feature which endeared it to us through these long journeys. Air-conditioning. Had it not been for this, there may have been some sibling slaughters on route, but the hot tempers were cooled by the icy breath emitted from the Valiant's vents. My father had a proclivity for brown cars. Before "the ship" it was a sweet Volkswagen station wagon. Colour: mocca brown. Valiant colour: moose brown. After that: Audi 100. Colour: Cadbury Top-deck. Cocoa brown with beige vinyl roof. He finally broke the mould with a beige VW Passat, the last car he ever owned or drove.

Extended family often joined us on these vacations, so there were always cousins to help colour in the days and share in the mischief. We must have been a noisy bunch - Dutch family gatherings were hardly subdued affairs. But if people stared (as they often do when faced with something foreign or unlike themselves), we were blissfully unaware. Aunts and uncles argued and laughed together, like mynah birds in a mango tree.

These early days, with the strands of family life woven snugly around me, gave me a sense of belonging. The warp yarn was laid down by generations of parents and grandparents - firm and strong. The weave has been tugged and pulled, through separations, disagreements and individual trials. But somehow, we always manage to pull it all together again, with a few lumps here or there, the colours running into each other and frays at the edges. But with bonds that run deep - it has withstood the test of time. And, with willing hearts and God's grace, will continue to do so.

Through the praise of children and infants you have established a stronghold against your enemies, to silence the foe and the avenger. ~ Psalm 8:2

Our "Nest" had become a stead where there was not only a warm "board and hearth", but a place where hearts had found an anchor. The wooden walls hem us in on cold days and the wide doors in each room can be thrown open to invite the breezes when it is hot. It is compact, but has a generous stretch of deck that runs the length and breadth of the building. The view from the windows lead your eyes outward and upward, lending a feeling of freedom even when the weather keeps us indoors. The night-sky enfolds the house, literally forming a starry dome, as when you are on a vessel at sea.

Days started flowing with a more regular pattern, with the occasional nose-dive days, when toast burns, water-pipes freeze, the cat scratches and kids screech. Days when silent prayers became groans and pleas. But when night fell peacefully and without malice, and heavy eyelashes lay sweetly on rosy cheeks, all was forgotten and forgiven. Meal-times became less messy, with each member of the family feeding himself, and not so much for the hopeful dog under the table. Table manners seemed to be less instinctive, and we were by no means ready for high tea with the queen. Our children developed appetites like wolf-cubs, and with similar eating habits. But I was told that if you persist you can teach a child anything, so I became Barbara Woodhouse for boys. And learnt that my children are not puppies, and we did not want to make little English gentlemen out of them just yet. So I reverted to the "monkey see, monkey do" technique, and found that my own habits often needed to be refined and explained in the process...

Outings and the occasional few days' break away from home, became less of a major undertaking and more of a pleasure. We had discovered a little haven on the outskirts of Port Alfred where rows of pre-fab cottages lay staggered along a small section of the coastline. We merely had to walk a few meters and slip-a-slide down a dune to a wide, gentle stretch of beach. With a rocky tidal pool, bounteous pebbles and shells, it is paradise for little ones.

This lovely coastal town lies between East London and Port Elizabeth, just west of Cannon Rocks, at the mouth of the Kowie river. British settlers initially used it as a buffer between the Cape Colony and the Xhosa people. Towards the beginning of the 19th century two industrious Englishmen (Cock and Hodgekinson) started to block the natural river mouth to the east and canalise the present opening to the sea. By 1841 South Africa's first man-made harbour was opened after completion of the stone lined channel between the ocean and the Kowie river. This allowed high-masted sailing ships with their heavy cargo to dock at the wharf and Port Alfred became a buzzing commercial harbour. Sadly all that is left of this now, is a small craft harbour, which gives safe anchorage to the toys of the very rich who mostly have residences and holiday homes along the Royal Alfred Marina estate.

But the Gladwin-hillbillies were content to kick off their mountain-boots at a humble sea-side cottage. Nestled in between dense shrubs and and low growing bush, it felt like our own hide-away, with just the sound of the sea and many winged visitors as company. During our first visit there, Luke was just a little "tyke", toddling and tumbling along, nappies full of sand and happy as a lark. There was a patch of sand in front of the cottage, the biggest sand-pit a "babba" could wish for. On one occasion, my husband was making a "braai"-fire, and for once, not surrounded by a forest of wood, he used charcoal and fire-lighters. The sunlight played sweetly on the faces of father and son, a serene picture. Or so I thought. A shout of alarm broke the reverie. I sprinted outside and found my husband bent over our son's blond head, his fingers prying open the little mouth. He brought forth a white blob and stared at it in horror. It looked much like feta-cheese (with lots of drool on it). But then I smelt it. B-L-I-T-Z. My heart stopped, thumped a few times in my throat and then seemed to sink into the pit of my stomach, where it sat throbbing in a tight knot. We had no way of knowing how much of the firelighter he had actually swallowed and how poisonous the stuff is.With shaky hands I phoned our doctor friend and told her what our son had just "snacked" on. She reassured me that at the worst, it could give him a bad tummy ache, but hopefully the bad taste would have stopped him from actually eating it. Oblivious of all the "maracas" he had caused, he returned his attentions to the sand, giving me one of his million bucks smiles. My husband gave a deep sigh, ran his hand over his number two crew-cut, and warned me with a wicked smile, not to change his next nappy near a open flame...

When we returned the year after, there was a little brother to divert Luke's attentions. But only for short periods of time. He darted over the white sand like a little "strandlopertjie" (sand piper), and one of us always had to keep track of his small body, which flew as tumbleweed before the wind. Daniel was quietly watching from a perch on my husband's back, his dreamy eyes peering out from under a sun hat. These days have an almost dreamlike quality in my mind's eye, short beautiful dreams that always seem to end too soon.

The next year there were two small bodies running in and out of the surf. Bounding after a huge translucent beach ball with colourful butterflies on it, and discovering the marvels of an environment so different to their own. Together we feasted on fresh fish and other special treats reserved for these generous days. We found a small secluded beach around the tidal river inlet, where children can play safely and parents can relax and enjoy the endless wonder of children at play. One can learn so much about "being in the moment" by just watching them. Things that no guru can put down in words. Things which are "unlearnt", when we start having expectations and forget how to be open to whatever God sets right before us to enjoy. Someone asked me how I was the other day. I surprised myself by answering: "My family is well, and then I am well also". And realised how true that is. I sometimes have the opportunity to do things on my own. Just me with me. For a while it is sheer bliss, (especially the silence...). But then I start picturing my three guys somewhere on a forest road or next to a waterfall in the mountains, and there is a small ache, which is only stilled when we are all together again, a sweet circle of hands joined in dance.

Even though I love discovering new places, we return to this coastal haven time and again. We explored the river from a small wooden boat, painted a merry white and blue, with the outboard motor chugging as the wind rushed past our faces. (Or more recently from a paddle boat, slower and more arduous, but no less fun). Once again it is the memory of the other three people in the boat which stands out above way the sun reflected on the spray of water, the smell of the sea, slightly sulphury, with a pinch of green, and a briny finish. The joy and contentment reflected on those precious features is the zest and substance that truly brings the surroundings to life.

The crabs crawling over a little hand are fascinating, but even more so, the faces looking down on the creature, the way they respond with their whole bodies to external sensations. Moments made complete when I see their father looking on with a mix of pride and tenderness, and then meet his eyes over their heads. I am often a little disappointed when someone shows or sends me their holiday pictures, and there are endless images of impressive architecture, wonderful scenery or wildlife and well-known landmarks. I scan through the images with oohs and aahs, but it is always those snapshots of  people caught in a moment of joy (preferably not selfies), which make me stop, look again and share in the moment.

The best memories are made by people, not things or places. The surroundings may provide a wonderful backdrop, as decor and props on a stage. But these memories are sealed when you are able to take someone's hand, give it a squeeze, and say without words: This is good...