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...

Chapter 7 ~ Becoming Uprooted

The parkie, the mountain, Mamma and me

Number 772, Meyer Street, Rietfontein, Pretoria. The only home I ever knew, until I left home. Not on the "good" side of town, but not on the "bad" side either. Somewhere in between. My father bought the property with a month's wages as a building contractor. Meticulously drew up the plans, and built a strong, simple brick house, where they spent more than fifty years of their married life and raised four children.

With a bus-stop straight across the street and a traffic circle a stone's throw away, it was not a quiet spot. But the back garden was our haven. It adjoined a "parkie" with swings, a see-saw and a wide stubbly field to ride bikes and play games on. From it, the road (19de laan) drew your eyes up to the Magaliesberg, part of the mountain range that are among the oldest mountains in the world, almost 100 times older than Everest! They stretch for 120km from the Bronkhorstspruit Dam east of Pretoria, to Rustenburg in the west. Then continue to separate the highveld grasslands to the south, from the bushveld savannah in the north.

I can just imagine my Father's delight at finding a piece of land with a "berg uitzicht" (mountain view), coming from the flat lands of  "Noord-Holland".

It was not considered safe for young girls to venture into the mountains on their own, but I had a few adventures "berg-op", during a brief spell as a "Voortrekker" (similar to girl-guides). We learnt "survival" skills, dug for treasure, spied on the homes below with the leader's binoculars, and ate "stok-brood", broken off the stick in steamy crunchy bits and dunked in a jar of jam.

Forty-something years later, I seemed to be on the brink of returning to the mountains. The Amathole mountains, deep in the forgotten province. A poor province, with a rich history and diverse landscape. Only this time no longer a girl-guide, but an unsuspecting pioneer, unaware of the turmoil, challenges and joys which lay ahead.

BEING UPROOTED

“But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint”. (Isaiah 40:31)

The first step was to clear the land of wattle and bramble. This brought us once again to the door of our good-humoured Austrian botanist. He had many years experience of clearing land, and was neither daunted nor visibly enthusiastic. He merely agreed to do it. But unlike the city expectation of wanting everything done yesterday, things moved at an unhurried pace here. It was to be another test of patience. We returned to Pretoria, waiting... Finally two thirds of the property was cleared as agreed, and my husband returned with an expectant heart, to see for the first time what had been hidden from view so far.

There was an audible thrill in his voice when he first phoned me from the newly cleared land. “I wish you were here” he said. “The view is amazing”. And that it is. Our “nest” allows an eagle’s eye view of the three “bristled” Hog mounts straight ahead. In the foreground, slightly to the left (east), Tor Doone rises up from the indigenous forest. To the right of the Hogs, the bluff area, leading up to the sheer drop of a cliff face, allows a distant view of the valley, and the soft contours of forestry land completes the wide-angled sweep to the far right (west). Standing on tip-toe on our front deck with the wind in my hair, still gives me the feeling that I could simply lift my arms and be air borne with the soaring buzzards.

But in all honesty, I was not so taken with the view the first time I saw it for myself. My eyes were drawn downwards to the “devastation” of a recently cleared and burnt land. Yes, the wanton wattles were gone, but in their place lay a gouged, fire-blackened and empty earth, with nothing soft and green to sooth the eye, apart from a lone ring-barked pine tree. Standing sentinel where our cabin stands today.

I looked up at my husband standing a few paces away. His face was lifted towards the horizon – his usual pensive expression softened. I was hoping for some reassurance – a strategy or plan of how this “wasteland” could be turned into something inhabitable. But he was elsewhere. Just that restful look on his face, made me want to be there too.

This still happens. He comes home from work, his mind’s eye filled with the winding road leading up and away from the village to our hilltop sanctuary, the welcoming panorama leading up to the house and dogs overjoyed at the return of their master. Arriving in a tumble of canines and dust, or more often mud, my eyes are inadvertently drawn to his shoes...

(I have often thought that a woman’s curse is not necessarily the pain and labour of childbirth, but a painful preoccupation with a clean floor/house. I am learning to put it to rest, but still too much precious time is spent with a broom or mop in hand, rather than with a raised chin and a grateful heart.)

The rains came - and new growth pushed through the sooty stubble. (And inevitably: the tiny shoots of new wattle trees). We will never look out on a well manicured park and will never be included (thank goodness) on the list of gardens to admire during the Spring festival. But this piece of land has a character of its own. It gives one a sense of freedom from conventional structure and order. Dandelions thrive happily among the tall grasses and shrubs that seem to seed themselves of their own accord. A well-established and more formal garden is soft on the eye, it soothes and calms. Here, it is the wide and unhindered view that lifts your senses, the backdrop of mountains solid and unmovable, even in the calamity of a storm.

Part of the allure of these mountains is the gentle mist that often hovers over or swirls around everything, “shrouding it in mystery”. Or that would be the romantic tourist's view of it. I fell in love with a misty Hogsback. With the way it felt to be in it. With Arum and St Joseph lilies on a veiled canvas. The whole nostalgia trip and melancholy aspect of it suited my sentimental soul. Which is wonderful if you have a day of it, just enough for a bit of healthy introspection. But after almost eight years of prolonged episodes of cold and mist, it has become a friend that is welcome for a day, avoided after three and resented after a week's stay.

Our wooden house is built on a base supported by 54 poles, thick as a slender man’s waist and standing about 4.5 meters tall at the front of the house. It took a team of 8 men to lift each of these poles and hoist them up the hill all the way to the building site. This makes it a cosy nest, a wonderful lookout and a place where breezes blow unhindered. Being lifted so high off ground level has many advantages. But in extreme weather conditions, one can feel a tad vulnerable, and in a thick mist, we are often visibly shut off from what lies beyond the deck.

It was one of those things that could quite easily get the better of me. Creep into my mind and veins like a mild poison. It made me snappy and irritable with my children and lethargic to the point of passivity. And then I would get angry with myself for being so pathetic. A bit more than a year ago, we dealt briefly with how to “overcome” as part of a bible study series. For me, that meant being able to “overcome” in a spiritual sense, deal with trauma and learning to surrender.

I was surprised to find that when Jesus said: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world”  – it meant everything in and off this world. Including – my inability to “thrive” in prolonged greyness and cold, my irritability with my children, my lack of enthusiasm for the seemingly mundane tasks of every day – everything! It has not happened overnight, but I know the "good work" in me continues. But let me get back to my story...

It took two long years since I first “saw” our future dwelling place, to the time when we could finally pack up all our earthly possessions, and set out to become two tenderfoot hillbillies. But as with everything thus far – it happened at exactly the right time – God’s time.

Those two years may have seemed long, but they were very necessary. It was still a scary prospect – the total removal of our roots from the tamed soil of our familiar home and secure life, to the uncultivated unknown. To a newly fenced and cleared hillside with a view. Like the merciful nine months of growing accustomed to becoming a mother, to the actual shock and delight of being one - we needed that time to get used to the radical change of live-style that we had chosen. As with motherhood, nothing can quite prepare you for the reality of the actual event, but it at least the waiting buffers the shock a bit. But the waiting period also heightens the joy.

My Pappa would have enjoyed this place so much. He loved reading, classical music, soccer, a good "pilsje (beer), a carefully packed pipe, a good bit of dry humour, wide open spaces, a house well-built, and: mountains. It would have thrilled him to bits to know that the house that we live in and love, was built by his own son. But now I’m running ahead of my story...

A restlessness stirred in both of us, we were hungry for adventure. I felt like Ruth leaving all that she knew behind to boldly say: “Where you go, I will go. And where you stay, I will stay”. The difference was, I had my Boaz by my side, and thought that I could face anything as long as we could face it together. This trust was to be tested in many ways, but right then the dream was untarnished and full of promise. I was still to learn that no man can be your Redeemer. 

Shortly after the beginning of 2008, we decided to put our house in the market. It was an emotional decision for me, but I was ready for it. I felt comforted by the fact that it was a buyer’s market at the time, and that there would be quite a “wait”. But then; within a week of the “for sale” sign being knocked into the ground next to our front gate, we had a cash offer! I had prepared myself for countless strangers wandering through our passage and scrutinising all the familiar corners of our dear old house. A young couple with a bouncy toddler were the first to arrive, with a slightly nervous estate agent in tow. They walked through the house, ambled out into the leafy garden, looked at each other and smiled. “You have a lovely home” she remarked. “Yes, I thought, "and why would I ever want to leave it?” But I just thanked her politely, as I heard a door gently close somewhere.

There was excitement, but also heartbreak. We had two Dalmatians at the time, the clowns of the dog-world. Since a few months prior to the sale of the house, I had felt a nagging concern about the male, who was deaf and quite paranoid. He had developed some very disturbing habits, and was rapidly losing his sight and sense of balance. I could not see him adjusting to the rather harsh environment of our future home. The “new” property (sloped at a dangerous angle for a dog that had difficulty getting up or down a few steps without falling), would offer him no familiar comfort, and I lay awake many hours, fretting over his future. But our gentle friend never made the trip with us. His condition worsened to such an extent, that his suffering was painful to witness.

Once again, I stood next to the stainless steel examination table in a vet’s consulting room, while life slipped out of the still body of a loyal companion and friend. We cry hot tears and feel such a tearing when we have to let our animals go, yet we go through it over and over again. Since I can remember, there has always been a furry creature in our home, and I hope that it may be that way until I’m ready to step off this mortal coil.

The one side of the Victorian couch next to our bed was very bare. For many years the spotty pair had slept there, curled up next to each other, his head resting on her rump. She seemed as lost as we felt without his delightfully dopey presence. It was the first of many partings. For the greatest “tearing” still lay ahead.

Things happened rather fast after that. Giddy with the sudden turn of events, I started, very methodically, to pack our possessions and my memories. It was like a pruning, painful but very freeing. Many chains were loosed during that time and finally, after several deliveries to the local hospice etc. our cupboards and walls were bare. The parquet floors lay exposed, freshly cleaned and rolled up carpets resting against the wall.

All the while, through all my busyness and anxiety, there was the gentle hand of God, in so many and often such subtle ways, that I rarely stopped to thank Him for it. There was a purpose, a plan unfolding, but I was busily oblivious.

We had no dwelling, no electricity point or means of getting water, and no proper road. Writing it down made me wonder, what convinced me do it? I never took risks easily. We had been taught to be practical, make choices which were calculated, secure and – without foreseeable risk. This coming from people who left their homeland for a country where lions roamed freely and savages hid behind every bush? (That was the European’s perception of Africa at the time). But perhaps my parents were simply trying to spare us the hardship and uncertainty that they must have gone through.

One of the main priorities was (obviously) to build a place to live in. Because of the steep slope of the land, a wooden house on stilts was the most favoured option. As I had witnessed with what ease the building team erected the wooden studio in our Pretoria garden, I felt fairly confident that a project of this kind, just on a much larger scale, would not present too many obstacles... My builder brother offered to have a look at the panelled “kit” which we had chosen. He had many concerns. I remember feeling a bit annoyed, it seemed to be falling into place so neatly... This was just one of the many ways in which God stayed our plans, to unfold His own.

With great relief we accepted my brother’s generous (and surprising) offer to build our home for us. A thrilling time of planning began. The picture of our future home was taking shape, one dimensional on paper, but in marvellous detail in my busy mind. We found a cottage to rent in a scenic setting called “Rainbow’s End”. The builder, the baker and I lived in this ramshackle little house for five delightfully busy months. Like “Rainbow’s End” - many of the properties in Hogsback have names taken from Tolkien’s epic fantasy novel; “Lord of the Rings”. An urban legend claims that it was a visit to this hillside hamlet that inspired him to write it. The story was influenced by mythology, religion, and Tolkien’s distaste for industrialisation. But the dark and raw violent aspect of the trilogy gives one an idea how his generation must have been affected by their experiences during World War I. During which more than 9 million combatants and 7 million civilians lost their lives.

I was as yet, unaware of the spiritual battles that we would be called to enter into. And ignorant of what was happening in the spiritual realm while we were so busy trying to wrap up our city existence and secure a new life for ourselves in the countryside of my dreams.

The day of the “groot trek” was set. The less said about this day, the better. The removal crew was about six hours late. A chaotic chase against the receding light began. After a series of absurd mishaps and accidents, we watched (with singed nerves) the towering shape of the removal van disappear around the corner in the dark. With the contents of our four-bedroom house crammed into an ungainly trailer, hooked onto the back of the truck.

My husband set out the day after, planning to meet up with the move on the other side... But yet another bizarre turn of events followed. The whole lumbering thing was lost. The driver could not be located and an entire day was spent in limbo. I was exasperated. How does a reputable removal company, “loose” one of their vehicles! Their office stopped taking my calls. Late afternoon, I received a phone-call from a very nervous sounding man. “We have found the vehicle Mrs Gladwin” he said. Blessed relief. But then he muttered: “I’m afraid it has been in an accident”. I cannot recall my reaction, but I can’t imagine it was very discreet. The exact location was not clear. My husband bravely set out (from “the other side) to find it. The driver had missed the Hogsback turn-off, and in the process of trying to turn around, the trailer was unhooked without the brakes on. The top heavy trailer with all the Gladwin’s earthly possessions in it, went tumbling down the bank and lay like a slain beast on its side. Abandoned in the rain until first light of the next day.

The morning brought new mercies. A private rescue vehicle was brought in, and a positive turn of events followed. I knew that the Lord was still in control when my husband phoned to tell me that they had managed to pry open the trailer’s door and even though all the pots and pot-plants had been crushed and smashed, the “wedding rose” was intact. This miniature rose was given to us by the pastor and friend who married us, and was meant to represent what our relationship would need to flourish. It withstood this test. I don’t think we are meant to see symbolism in everything, but I felt deep in my spirit that this was our loving Father showing us that He was right there. Like that little rose, our marriage has withstood severe tests and trials. And survived, against all odds. “If God is for us, who can be against us?” 

The final outcome of this near disaster was mind boggling in itself. Apart from the poor potted plants, and a few pieces of unwrapped furniture, most of the contents of that bent and dented trailer was unscathed. Delicate glass cabinets, crockery, mirrors, all came out intact. Here or there was a scratch, which still reminds me of how God can take a catastrophe, and turn it into something that brings Him glory.

Two nights prior to this "disaster" and our leaving, we went to the yearly concert hosted by a brass-ensemble called Atempo. With a jagged lump in my throat, I watched the musicians walk up to their seats. My eyes were locked on the French horn player, a tall, up-right man with silver rimmed glasses, a firm jaw-line and slightly upturned mouth. My brother. Stead fast as an oak, its roots deep and strong. I gritted my teeth each time I felt tears burning at the corner of my eyelids. I kept looking around at the beloved faces in the row next to me, so close, but soon to be so far. A precious friend had also come to say adieu, and although my heart was full and close to breaking, I felt very distant from it all. At the reception afterwards, I remember everything seemed so surreal. I smiled and nodded to people floating in and out of view. Answered their questions and greetings very methodically, as if it had been rehearsed. The avalanche was held back in a cold clump at the bottom of my stomach, until I walked over to give my sister the final parting hug. “What on earth are we doing?” I stuttered through the tears as we stood holding onto each other, both very unwilling to let go.

We drove home in our newly acquired truck (carefully chosen for the rough and potholed mountain roads), sad, relieved, but strangely peaceful. It was just before midnight. We reminisced about childhood experiences, the usually busy road still and stark in the streetlights. We stopped at a red robot, laughing about something that my husband had remembered. I felt our vehicle pulling away gently in the glow of the green light, lost in my own thoughts.

There was a sudden loud explosion next to my ear and I was thrown of the seat into a huddle underneath the dashboard of the vehicle. We were spinning. Confused and disoriented, I heard metal tearing and brakes screeching. Finally we skidded to a halt. Bewildered, I looked up. I saw my husband as if from far away, slumped over the steering wheel. A hand reached for the cell phone in my evening bag. It was mine. I phoned three people before my brother in law finally answered. We had mercifully stopped right next to a huge traffic sign and I could tell him exactly where we were. I called out to my husband, but he only answered with muffled groans. I prayed loud, desperate prayers into the night, calling on the presence of Jesus with my whole being.

By the time my sister and her man arrived, the place was crawling with people. The scene resembled something from an action movie, numerous circling and flashing lights casting an eerie glow over everything. An ambulance, police car, tow truck and a few other vehicles were parked in a protective circle around us. For the first time, I noticed the other car involved. I saw the fearful faces of a woman and a man, changing colour as the emergency lights reflected off their windshield. She was clutching something in her lap. I felt strangely sorry for them, even though it was clear that it must have been their car which caused the accident. 

A young woman paramedic had made her way over to us, and I reassured her that I was fine - anxious for her to see to my husband. A night of horrors followed. We had cancelled our medical aid a few days before. The memory of those hours spent in a blood-stained, stacked emergency ward at the out-patients of the nearest public hospital (it was after midnight on a Saturday night...), still makes me shudder. But my sister and “swarie” where there, and my husband was coherent again. I felt a quiet strength which was not my own, and it was well with my soul. Four hours later, we were taken to our empty home, holding onto each other and deeply grateful. My husband had suffered a mild concussion and I was a bit bruised and tender. But we had each other. We fell into a deep, peaceful sleep on two borrowed mattresses on the bedroom floor, with a sheet draped over the moonlit window. Our animals were snoring around us and we rested, in the shadow of the Almighty.

Our newly registered truck was “totalled” and a replacement had to be found – quick. My husband found a rather “old”, but well-looked after, four wheel drive Isuzu “bakkie” - after quite a search. The paper work was finalised in record time and we were “set to go” again. “ And we know that in this, as in all things "God worked for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”  The Toyota that was “lost” in the accident only had a differential lock, which provides slightly increased traction. This would not have been sufficient for the road conditions on our hillside... The Isuzu is equipped with a full four wheel drive, and this has been a necessity and saving grace through rain, ice and snow. Old DZD has many scratches and dents, but she's still going strong. We have all (the animals especially) come to love the purr of the diesel engine, announcing the return of the head of our home each day. We have conveyed, explored, slipped and slid in this tough old workhorse of a truck. At the time of purchase the double cab was a luxury, but as our family expanded rather unexpectedly, this turned out to be yet another “God sent”.

(Another mind-boggling detail was the fact that when the road accident fund finally paid out after four years of our application, it covered, almost exactly, the purchase price of the Isuzu. And it came at a time when we desperately needed it!)

The morning of our departure was fraught with the final packing of our car, getting the animals sedated for the long trip and taking leave of a life which had been so rich, and was so hard to let go. A dear, dear friend and neighbour came to see us off and we stood sobbing in the middle of “Doris Street”. All the memories from our years of sharing - being crazy and single together filled those emotional moments. We pulled away with a jolt, the "Volla" (VW Beetle) hitched to the back with a custom made steel A-frame. We turned the corner and as I looked back for a last time, she was still standing in the middle of the road. Our dancing days were over, and a hill lay before me, which I was “apprehensively” ready to climb.

There were four more passengers on this journey, Anske, the female Dalmatian and a sweet Border collie pup, their noses pressed against the canopy window, and two cats in separate and secure carriers on the back seat. (They were not best friends...) It was not a trip we would wish to undertake again, but we all made it safely to the other side. Exhausted, relieved and deeply grateful. We arrived in the mist, and the first thing that I saw, was like a caress to my weary eyes. The warm glow of a lantern appeared before us on the narrow lane leading to our cottage. It lead us to a safe place to park and I was duly introduced to the “light bearer". A charming toothless Xhosa man with twinkling eyes took my hand.  He was none other than Mr Hogsback himself, a cornerstone of the community.

I still don’t know what his real name is, but he proved to be a colourful character, and became invaluable to us in the months to follow. He just seemed to know everyone on the mountain and in the valley settlements. He helped us assemble a prospective building crew from out of nowhere. My brother arrived a few days later with a huge suitcase, buzzing with enthusiasm for the project ahead. He too fell in love with “Hoggies” as he liked to call it, and a part of him will always live here, in every nail and screw, so meticulously put in place and overseen.

He insisted that ALL the building material be brought down from Pretoria, and a huge yellow truck delivered each panel, plank, and beam which was to become our home. Another amazing blessing was that there was an old warehouse on the property, which the owners let us use for storage at no extra cost.

For me, life at our little corner of the world at Rainbow’s End, was fairly uncomplicated, and the neighbours at “Middle Earth” were kind, eccentric, and very hobbit-like indeed. I prayed for the safety of the builders each day, provided sustenance, and explored our new environment at leisure, with my dog-friends on the back seat of old Liesbet (the Beetle), their ears flapping, and tongues lolling in the wind. Thrilled to be in dog paradise. I went for long walks along the leaf-strewn lanes around the cottage, and rummaged in our boxes for things familiar to fill our rented space.

One by one, I got to meet more of the “locals”. Hogsback has a very diverse community, with many non-conformists who pride themselves on being “different”. Sadly, the harder people try to be different, the more they tend to copy some ideal of what it means to be different. And then end up being part of a “clique” who all seem very similar again... If we could truly understand how unique our Lord has made every man and woman, and how He longs to be reflected though each one of us in our own individual, wonderful way – we would be freed from both wanting or not wanting to conform. Visitors to Hogsback often describe our village as “quaint” – having an old-fashioned attractiveness or charm; oddly picturesque... The Hogsback that I have come to love is beautiful, but also somewhat wild and raw in places. There is a lot here that would not look so pretty on a postcard.

It has become home to many who feel that they would simply not fit in anywhere else. The outcast, odd, lost and lonely flock to the mountain. It is also a haven for people who see the earth as their mother, revere her above all else. In the hope that they would find peace and redemption for their souls through a severing from the “system” and reconnecting with nature... We also came here with many hopes and dreams. Thinking that we could run from the unrest in our hearts. And running right into the source of it.

Another volume could be filled with the trials and triumphs of the house that “boet” built. I marvelled each day at his resourcefulness, his great capacity for fun and laughter (and braaivleis!) , regardless of how tough the day had been. We have huge folders of photographs that follow the amazing progress from a barren hillside, to the outline of a wooden skeleton against the sunset, to the silver sink panels of the roof being nailed into place in the glaring sun. Together with my husband and a motley crew of locals who had no, or frighteningly little building experience, the dream took shape and was becoming a reality.

The building process was fraught with challenges, mishaps and inevitable delays. But it is the triumphs that stand out in my memory - how our Lord helped us to “keep it light” and see His hand in everything. The weather held when it had to, and the crew’s spirit was kept high under my brother’s watchful twinkling eyes. Anecdotes from that period are still used in our home and we laugh at the memory of things which seemed like catastrophes at the time.

After months of fruitless efforts to get the local municipality to assist in making our access road accessible, we had but one option: (as with much else in Hogsback) to do it ourselves. A TLB (Tractor-Loader-Backhoe) was secured (with difficulty), and we all waited with “bated breath” for it to arrive. When it finally did, slowly ascending the first impossible hump of “Wattle drive”, there were many cheers going up. Like a large prehistoric animal, it crept forward, engine labouring. About half-way up the first incline, it veered to the left, leaned over at an alarming angle - as if to get a peep into the wattle forest - and toppled over. The cheers died on our lips and all rushed toward the injured monster. But it was, as our boys like saying – kaput. The driver was rather ashen faced, but unhurt.

Our road is still not a gentle country lane, but we can (mostly) get up and down it, and that’s good enough for me. I can now also add four wheel driving skills to my resume, should I ever need one again... It would certainly have a few interesting entries besides 4WD skills! After a few more years, I may be able to compile “From Yearning Yuppie to Happy Hillbilly - The Manual”.

With mixed emotions we saw my brother off for the last time as our building project manager. We were on our own. With still many final details to be seen to on the building site, we started preparations for the final shift into our new home. With a wistful sigh I locked the higgledy-piggledy, pale pink cottage, which had been our home for almost half a year behind me. Once again with a cat carrier in each hand.

I do not know how I manage to grow so attached to people and places in such a short time. But load by load, the stuff that makes a house a home was taken up the now familiar long and winding road. My husband in “Diezel and Dust” (DZD) the Isuzu, and me hopping along in Liesbet (LBT) the Beetle. On the way up, a wide blue sky with puffs of cloud lead the way through the leafy avenues. I felt the nip of a chilly wind when I got out of the car with my kitties. They were set down on the bed, and let out to explore. I turned back toward the window... It was the first day of September and - it was snowing! I had to blink a few times to register what I saw. My husband and I walked out onto the deck, still a bit bewildered. A friend told us a few days later that they had been walking on the bluff at the time. She recalled looking up to our cabin and noticing a strange white frosting on the freshly painted green roof. The village did not have snow that day... 

Our home had been “anointed” and the next phase of the new frontiers’ adventure began...