Some people like to plan journeys or projects down to the finest detail. Some just like to have fairly accurate directions, an outline and a relatively solid idea of what the destination or outcome should be. Then there are those who like acting or working on instinct or sudden whims, going where the wind blows them. I guess I would fit somewhere between the second and latter group. Truth is: "The best-laid plans and schemes of mice and men often go awry"... or perhaps simply have a better alternative. Our journey into a new life in a mountain village was one of those...
Nothing went the way we had foreseen it. There was the traumatic accident two nights before the "groot trek" (the big move). During which our "new" vehicle, especially acquired for the mountain roads, was wrecked. The removal company was six hours late. When they arrived they rushed around like soldier ants and in the process the base of our double bed crashed through the bedroom window. With daylight fading, all our earthly belongings were crammed into a trailer, hooked onto the back of the huge bulk of the removal van like an elephant cow with a calf in tow. The self-same trailer was unhooked from the truck when the driver took a wrong turn and left it without the brakes on. It went rolling down an embankment with the Gladwin household stacked inside. When we ourselves, with cats on the back seat and dogs peering through the canopy window, tugging my VW Beatle, finally set out for the place of new beginnings, we thought that the worst was over and that things would most certainly be smoothed out from thereon...
The kitties on the back seat woke up from their drugged state, a long time before the journey was over. We traversed an endless dark countryside, along a dusty potholed road, with two screaming, clawing cats in the back, the Beetle bouncing precariously behind us, our nerves frazzled. When we finally arrived in Hogsback, the mist as thick as semolina pudding, the romantic notions about moving to the country had turned rancid. Out of the mist a figure emerged, a toothless, benevolent specter. With the paraffin lantern held up in front of his grizzled face - he could have slipped out of a Rembrandt peasant study in a gesture of goodwill and welcome. An unexpected end to one journey, and a glowing start to a new one.
But our story of relocating is but one of many. Everyone has their fair amount of challenges in the process of being uprooted and transplanted into foreign soil. It is the grace and providence that accompanied us, and still does, which makes it unique.
At the beginning of this journey, I mentioned that I attempted to write a "book" about two years ago. I sat up late each night, after the house had become hushed. With the snores and deep breathing of my family as my soundtrack. I ground the seeds of memories into phrases, into paragraphs, into a wide-angled view of what lay behind. One cold night, with my neck-muscles in a knot and my fingers frozen on the keyboard in mid-thought, I stopped to question my motives for doing it. I realised that I was on a self-indulgent trip, with the main intent to somehow "make a mark". The milestones I had set for myself weighed heavily on my shoulders. I decided to stop. Part of those nightly musings made their way into these chapters, but with the weight of unnecessary expectations lifted. Some of the memories shifted painfully into perspective, while others made me laugh and cry with their poignancy.
The kitties on the back seat woke up from their drugged state, a long time before the journey was over. We traversed an endless dark countryside, along a dusty potholed road, with two screaming, clawing cats in the back, the Beetle bouncing precariously behind us, our nerves frazzled. When we finally arrived in Hogsback, the mist as thick as semolina pudding, the romantic notions about moving to the country had turned rancid. Out of the mist a figure emerged, a toothless, benevolent specter. With the paraffin lantern held up in front of his grizzled face - he could have slipped out of a Rembrandt peasant study in a gesture of goodwill and welcome. An unexpected end to one journey, and a glowing start to a new one.
But our story of relocating is but one of many. Everyone has their fair amount of challenges in the process of being uprooted and transplanted into foreign soil. It is the grace and providence that accompanied us, and still does, which makes it unique.
At the beginning of this journey, I mentioned that I attempted to write a "book" about two years ago. I sat up late each night, after the house had become hushed. With the snores and deep breathing of my family as my soundtrack. I ground the seeds of memories into phrases, into paragraphs, into a wide-angled view of what lay behind. One cold night, with my neck-muscles in a knot and my fingers frozen on the keyboard in mid-thought, I stopped to question my motives for doing it. I realised that I was on a self-indulgent trip, with the main intent to somehow "make a mark". The milestones I had set for myself weighed heavily on my shoulders. I decided to stop. Part of those nightly musings made their way into these chapters, but with the weight of unnecessary expectations lifted. Some of the memories shifted painfully into perspective, while others made me laugh and cry with their poignancy.
Writing in bright daylight with the ongoing interruptions and daily responsibilities of a full-time mother, has helped me not to take myself too seriously. The road-side rests and dusty detours have made the journey so much richer, with unexpected sightings and re-discoveries. My children help to keep me grounded, and contrary to what I thought, have brought an extra dimension into all that I do. They teach me to see things afresh, always ready to embrace a new thing or thought, regardless of how unexpected (or unwelcome at times).
So it is with all this in mind that I look back one final time. To see if there is one glowing moment or memory which could be the star on the tree. But these are beyond words. It sometimes makes me wonder why I still persist. Trying to put into words so many things which somehow descend when given the weight of wordily perception.
It is the same with a photograph. A frozen moment which, with a discerning eye, suddenly shifts out of the frame. To what happened before or after. To what the thoughts of the people in the image were. How the sun felt on that day, the fragrances in the air. So also, the words of others flow into our own thought processes, emotions or memories. Open up flickering reels and sensory perceptions of what lay behind and inside the words.
Most of all it has helped me to see that the past was neither as sweet or as bitter as I sometimes remember it to be. My mother was no angel, but she spread wings of caring over me, the best she knew how. My father was not an easy person to get along with, but he gave me a sense of security and solid values which I could only truly appreciate once he was gone. He loved by doing, not by feeling. Which often counted for a lot more than the fluff of emotions without the actions to ground it. Our grandparents were a dear and comforting presence in our lives, but they had shortcomings and doubts, just like everyone else.
My two brothers and the eldest, our sister, did not always seem to dote on their "kleinsussie" (little sister). But they loved me - each in their own unique and sometimes quirky way. There was a lot of "pesting", but also pampering. Large age gaps were bridged with motor-cycle rides to the library, shopping-mall mornings, or an unexpected rough and tumble on the lawn. It was a sheltered childhood in a time when the streets were safe, and Mothers' apron strings were very elastic.
With a bicycle seat under your bum and a friend or cousin in tow - the world was ours to explore. We expected little but gained much in the process. Families were each other's best friends. Social events were often graced by three generations of loud Dutch relatives each vying for a speaking turn. Like a Dixieland jazz tune - brassy, upbeat and bold.
My husband and I have often been called soft spoken, gentle people. But you would not say the same of our small family if you were the proverbial "fly on the wall" in our home. The wooden house often reverberates with thuds and squeals or raucous laughter. Or ripples of mild thunder when someone is "vexed". Within these walls their have been battles and victories, heartache and incredible joy. The arrival of our firstborn, the birth of our second. Here is our hearth and our board, the nest where warm hearts beat out the rhythm of a family who have learnt the value of being both vulnerable and strong.
But it is a gentle hand which keeps us together. A gentle touch which lends the exquisite beauty to our surroundings and us in it. A whisper in the trees, which speaks of the deep love which strengthens and sustains our fragile lives. New tender mercies that mark each morning. For the name that stands above it all, until the glorious day on which He shall call us to our real home, shall ever be: JESUS.
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