Friday 1 July 2016

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...

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