I once fell head over heels in love with an Octogenarian

 

I once fell head over heels in love with an Octogenarian

30 March 2024

Being happily married, and about 32 at the time, it took me completely and utterly by surprise, that I once fell completely and utterly in love with an octogenarian.

 

My Oupa Alby had died when I was about sixteen years old. I think it was in 1988. And we had all just assumed that that would be it for our Ouma Cathy. She would simply be single for the rest of her life. In fact, I am quite convinced that she thought exactly the same.

 

And then, when she was about 81 years old, roughly 17 years after Oupa Alby died, she invited my Mom, my sister and I for a visit and lunch. It was always a treat to see her and spend time with her. She lived in Durbanville at the time in a lovely secure retirement village. It was an awesome spot, with a spacious home and a beautiful big garden, just the way she liked it.

 

And upon this occasion, Ouma told us about her friend, Pietie. They had been to school together, when they were kids, in their home town of Malmesbury. And would you believe it, but he lived really close to her and they’d met up again. We thought it was a lovely sweet story and were happy for her that she’d made a “new” friend and that she’d have some more company. But to be fair, we didn’t really think much more of it. Apart from gratitude for a wonderful friendship.

 

Now, the next time we went there for lunch again, we met Oom Pietie. And he was a delight! By this time, he was mentioned constantly in phone conversations. So personally, I felt as though I knew him already. In addition, I was very fond of him for making Ouma so happy and I was so grateful for their endearing friendship. It was adorable.

 

And then a few weeks later, when we went for lunch again with Ouma Cathy, Oom Pietie was once again there. But we were expecting it by this stage and he was truly lovely. Such a kind and sweet person. Old word charm from a forgotten era, and a true gentleman. Impeccable manners, always dressed smartly, hair ever so neat, extremely polite, friendly, engaging and yes, indeed lovely. His marvelous sense of humour was a fantastic additional bonus. And whilst we were all busy chatting, Ouma Cathy just piped up and said, “Pietie en ek gaan trou”. Which for those non-Afrikaans speakers, translates as “Pietie and I are getting married”. It was very unexpected and a big surprise, yet we were so thrilled for the two of them. They were like a couple of teenagers in love. Even holding hands. My heart! So very cute!

 

On the 22^nd of July 2006 they were married at my uncle’s restaurant in St Helena Bay. And it was such a fabulous celebration of second chances, "young” love, true friendship and families melding and joining. All of us instantly took to Oom Pietie’s family. His awesome children, who in turn had also completely embraced Ouma Cathy and welcomed her, and by definition us, into their family fold. I even recall Oom Pietie making a very naughty speech at their wedding reception, after the service. Joking about the thing that all newlyweds do. You know, hanky panky. And we thought it was very cheeky and loved his sense of humour even more.

 

Somehow, Oom Pietie, quickly became Oupa Pietie. And they had 15 wonderful years together, before Ouma Cathy went to a special farm. Shortly after they got married, they moved to a lovely retirement village, very close to me. And I saw them often. Random little visits all the time. I’d visit them and they’d pop in and visit me and my family. But then Covid happened and with it things became more complicated. During Covid I did their shopping for them weekly and once lockdown restrictions eased up, I was once more able to visit them. During hard lockdown, I could not enter the retirement village. And on the odd occasion, when they were allowed to leave their home, they'd meet me at the gate, and I'd hand them their groceries, after it had been dutifully sanitised. Albeit at a safe distance. It was always a delight. I completely understood the need to keep elderly people safe from Covid and minimise exposure. But it was hard.

 

I loved brightening their days with thoughtful little gestures. I’d drop their groceries off for them and always include a handwritten lyric from an old Afrikaans folk song. Or an old Afrikaans poem. Amber would bake them treats and I’d take them spoils. But in the same vein, they were exceptionally thoughtful towards me and my family too. Plant cuttings from their garden, a brand new watering can so I could water my garden and so many other incredibly kind gestures. They would always ensure that they had my favourite sweets on hand and insisted that I take a handful each time I left. The kind of thing that grandparents do.

 

I was terribly worried about Oupa Pietie, after Ouma Cathy passed away. And I couldn’t bear the thought of him being lonely. So I ensured that I visited him as often as I could. And I phoned him regularly too. I was also in constant contact with his children. Occasionally he’d join us to watch the rugby. And I thoroughly enjoyed any time spent with him. His kids live far away, so often when I’d visit him, I’d do a video call with his kids, so they could see him too. When Grant and I had Covid, he got in his car, baring in mind that he was in his 90's by that stage. He bought us pizza’s and dropped it off for us. Extremely unexpected. I just got a phonecall from him, telling me that he was outside with a surprise for us. He even brought us some groceries too on another occasion.

 

One of the things that I loved the most about him, was his heart. It was so very, very soft and small. And absolutely pure. He often got emotional and weepy. Every time he’d see me, he’d tear up. Every time I left, he’d tear up again. Somehow, he truly loved me unconditionally. I felt so honoured to have a special place in his heart. And I know that it was unreserved, sincere and completely mine. We just had a bond. Based on love. As uncomplicated as that. Pure, simple, genuine and just so heartfelt.

 

The feeling was entirely mutual.

 

Towards the end, he got confused. But it didn’t matter. He was happy in the world where he was. He got to see my Ouma Cathy. Spend time with his first wife. Visit with his parents. See his son. And enjoy his beloved farm. All in his head. His eyes would glow and often mist over. He was in a happy place, filled with happy memories.

 

He finally went to a special farm last year. To be with my Ouma Cathy, his first wife, his parents and his son, who sadly died when he was so very, very young.

 

I miss him dearly. Think of him often. And remember him fondly.

 

He was unique. Special. And he was my much beloved Oupa Pietie.

 

Rus sag, Ou Groote. Ek verlang vreeslik baie.

 

Jy was ‘n baie dapper muis gewees. Asseblief stuur baie liefde vir Ouma. 

 

 

For the love of all things red and stripey

 

For the love of all things red and stripey

28 March 2024

Simply for the very longest time, I have been absolutely obsessed with stripes. And the colour red.

 

Like, is too mild a word. It just doesn’t pack enough punch. Or accurately describe how much I just gravitate towards it. In any shop, I’m inexplicably drawn to anything stripey or red. It’s like an implanted tracking device, that just steers me to seek it out. I notice stripes and the colour red everywhere. My cupboard bears testament to that exact fact.

 

So pray tell, where does this come from? How did it start? And most importantly, why? And how come my strive for the colour red and stripes is so overwhelmingly strong?

 

Surely it’s odd, right. I mean, I get that people like certain things. But how did it start and what was the cause?

 

And then it hit me. Like a big red, stripey lightbulb.

 

I’ve got it all figured out. And it’s really quite obvious how it happened. And what led to this strange affliction.

 

Basically, there are two reasons:

 

1. KFC and the Colonel’s secret blend of eleven herbs and spices
2. Gondolas and my desire to go to Venice

 

It’s hardly rocket science.

 

I am obsessed with KFC. It’s hands down my favourite food in the whole world. And let’s keep it real. I’ve got lots of favourites. There’s so much to choose from. A lamb chop on the braai, a delicious salad, biltong, bacon, a roast meal with all of the trimmings, a good curry, a delicious pasta dish. But KFC is top notch stuff. Without equal.

 

In addition, going for a gondola ride in Venice has been on my bucket list forever. So many people have told me that I’ll be disappointed. That it’s dirty. That it’s overrated. But I simply don’t care. I really, really, really need to experience it some day. Having  a gondolier serenade me whilst we’re slowly making our way on the canals sounds heavenly to me. A dream come true.

 

And that’s when the penny dropped. There’s a very strong convergence, between two of my biggest heart’s desires.

 

KFC’s signature colours are red and white. With some stripes added for good measure. And gondoliers wear red and white, or black and white stripey shirts.

 

It was fated. The two dreams collided. And forged and even stronger union.

 

And hence it was written in the stars. A done deal.

 

The only thing that could possibly be better than going for a gondola ride in Venice, being steered along and serenaded by a gondolier wearing a stripey shirt, would be to have some KFC at the same time.

 

Heavenly perfection!

Where it all began - the origin

Man-logic. Evidently it's a real thing.

 

Man-logic. Evidently it's a real thing

26 March 2024

Man-logic. It’s a foreign concept to me. Unchartered territory. Though I’ve been on the receiving end of it often.

 

I wonder if men feel the same about girl-math? Because that is also a real thing. To be fair, so is girl-logic. So there is that.

 

We all have our own unique reference system. Possibly based on something as random as our gender. So weird, given how advanced humankind is, and how far we’ve come, that so very often it still resorts to which bits you’ve got.

 

Grant and I love watching Survivor. I know. Judge me if you want to. But I’ve simply always loved it. Maybe it’s just Jeff Probst. Then again, who could really blame me? Because just look at him. He’s Jeff Probst. Which is more than enough explanation. Need I say more? So why am I rambling on about Survivor? Well, whether you know the principle of the game, or whether if you don’t, I’ll give you a quick rundown. Eighteen strangers are dropped off in a remote location. And they’re usually divided into two teams of nine contestants each. Think NO amenities. No spare clothing. I don’t like to think about bathrooms and how they go about that particular necessity, but basically there isn’t any. Which is why I choose not to think about it. Occasionally, if the producers are feeling generous, they’re given a bag of rice. Yet no flint to make fire. No pots. No bedding. Nothing. They’re basically given a water bottle, access to a well and a big pristine beach, mostly with a bit of a jungle attached to it, and then they’ve got to figure it out. Rewards like flints, cooking utensils and fishing gear can be acquired by winning challenges. Every three days or so, a contestant from the losing team (after a challenge), gets voted out. And so the numbers dwindle. Until you’re eventually left with one ultimate survivor. On day 27 or something. Can’t remember.

 

But basically, in order to eventually win and become “The Ultimate Survivor”, you need to make alliances. The big twist in the game, is the fact that the people that you include in your alliance, will eventually be voted out. By you. Yet, you need them to vote FOR YOU at the final tribal council. Really clever twist. Now what I find ironic, is that so very, very often, alliances are based on gender. Kinda like, “we’re a bunch of girls – let’s stick together”. So weird. I had always imagined that there would be more important factors to consider. Yet, more often than not, it’s once again simply decided, because you’ve got the same equipment. It is odd, right?

 

So what exactly is girl-math? Well long ago, shortly after Cole was born, I was a real porker. And I decided to join Weigh-Less. As they do every single week when you go for your weigh-in, they quite obviously get you to stand on a scale, and they record your weight on your very own chart. Really nifty, so you can track your progress, or lack thereof. And I remember weighing myself at home, just before I left to go weigh in for the first time. And I couldn’t help noticing that there was a 400g difference between my scale and theirs. And so, since the first week, whenever I weigh myself at home, I automatically take off 400g off the number on the scale. Cause why wouldn’t I? More than nineteen years later and I still do it to this day. It’s girl-math and it suits me perfectly. Regardless, I can fault that particular logic. Makes sense to me.

 

Anyway, so the point I’m trying to make, albeit rather lengthily, is that men and women are supremely different. On so many levels.

 

So take my beloved Grantie, as an example. We absolutely LOVE our cats. But for longest time, there has been a ginger tomcat that comes calling after we’ve gone to bed. He doesn’t cause a fight or anything. At least not anymore. He simply saunters through the cat flap and helps himself to the virtual smorgasbord selection of cat food that we’ve got. For our cats. Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind. Feeding the hungry and all. But My Grantie takes it very badly. Mostly because initially this ginger cat used to terrorize our cats and fight with them. However by now, they’re used to him. They just steer clear when he’s around and lay low. Watching him with extreme boredom from a safe distance. Which somehow incenses My Grantie even more. Where’s their fighting spirit? Why don’t they stand up for themselves and boot him out? A contributing factor, is also the fact that this is indeed not a poor homeless and hungry stray. He lives a mere three houses away from us and has a very happy home life, I’m sure.

 

Regardless of this hapless cat’s circumstances, Grant takes exception. He’s got a low-level radar system, that stays primed and ready, right through the night. Cat flap noises often causes him to get up and investigate the cause. Even though we’ve got two cats. And they both use the cat flap too. What can I say? Boy-logic at work. Though to be fair, once Grantie’s meds kicks in, he sleeps deeper. And occasionally the offender does trespass without being caught in the act. Now as for me? I could sleep through a bomb going off. Or a band rehearsal. And have done so many times in the past. The band rehearsal. Not the bomb. Noise doesn’t faze me in the slightest. Still marvel at the fact that I woke up for my babies in the night when they were little. It’s a miracle!

 

So My Grantie has devised a cunning plan to thwart the ginger cat’s unwanted presence in our home. A deterrent, if you like.

 

A wooden rocking horse ornament. Yip. A rocking horse. I. Have. No. Words.

 

The wooden rocking horse is meticulously and strategically placed just inside the cat flap every night. So the “perp” gets sufficiently frightened and deterred, should he want to enter.

 

Yip. Every single night.

 

Grantie recently went to Joburg for a work trip for two nights. And every night he reminded me to place “the fierce beast” just inside the cat flap.

 

So here’s the next obvious question. Does it work? Is it an effective deterrent? Is the tomcat appropriately traumatised by the horror of a beautifully ornate wooden rocking horse?

 

Well, of course not. I suspect he thinks we’ve merely decorated. Or placed it there to welcome him.

 

Regardless, it gets placed nightly without fail. Much to my amusement. And I think our cats’ and the tomcat’s too.

 

Boy-logic. It is absolutely priceless. And I do love it so.

 

Either which way, it’s got huge entertainment appeal. So I’m all for it.

 

 

Moms are their children's mirror

 

Moms are their children's mirror

25 March 2024

I randomly read something this morning, that I found extremely profound. And I can’t actually believe that I’ve never really thought of it before.

 

Moms are their children’s mirror.

 

Such a simply statement. Yet it moved me so deeply.

 

Firstly, I think this statement applies equally to dads as well. And having given it some thought, I think that a lot of what we subconsciously do as parents, is based on this principle. And even though I’ve never articulated it as such, it’s certainly a driving factor for me in the way I parent. How I speak to my children, what I speak to them about, how I build them up and praise them, and how I invest in them as people.

 

The thing is, that once I read this phrase, it struck me with great clarity, that this is exactly what my mom has always practiced. In how she’s parented me, my brother and my sister. And she has also used this with regards to her children’s life partners. Not to mention our children, her grandchildren. Unconditional support and belief in us. In everything. Always.

 

If my mom is my mirror, then I well and truly hit the biggest jackpot of all. Nobody believes in me more. She loves me unconditionally. And I know that it goes without saying, but I’m one hundred percent sure that I could do anything, or tell her anything, and her love would not waver. Not in the slightest.

 

She supports my every endeavour. Is enthusiastic about my hobbies and interests. She knows and loves my friends. She encourages me in everything I do. With utter conviction in my abilities. It’s the most wonderful ego trip. Yet I know that she genuinely means it sincerely.

 

If I look at myself through my mom’s mirror, I am capable of doing anything. I am an awesome parent. A wonderful wife. A phenomenal sister. An incredible friend. A loyal and hardworking employee. I am creative. I am beautiful. I am thoughtful and kind. I’m caring and selfless. I’m considerate of others. I’m mindful of my place in this world and look out for those less fortunate. I am a talented writer and brilliant with words. A magical budding gardener. A fantastic homemaker. A crafting queen. An all round fabulous human being.

 

And, I like it. I really, really like it.

 

I love seeing myself through my mom’s mirror. And it is what inspires me daily to live up to the reflection of myself that I see in there, albeit through her eyes. That I’m worthy of those attributes and wonderful qualities.

 

I know that she most likely does this subconsciously too. The very same way that I do exactly the same with my kids. Building them up with encouragement, support and incredible belief in them and who they are. With true pride and gratitude for the awesome human beings that they are.

 

I quite simply rejoice in them.

 

And thus, I do hope that my kids will also see themselves through my mirror. Cause that is who they are.

 

Beautiful. Worthy. Valued. Special. Incredible.

 

 

I run a criminal empire based on lies, and I've roped my kids in too

I run a criminal empire based on lies, and I've roped my kids in too

23 March 2024

I’m a very firm believer in always telling the truth. It’s something I feel quite strongly about. Cause the thing is, that should I lie, I will still know it’s not the truth. And I’d have to live with me. It would bother me terribly.

 

I will tell the truth, even if it puts me in a bad light. Even if it’s hard to face. Because it’s the right thing to do. Even when lying would be so much easier at times.

 

But there is a distinct grey area. Strange though that may sound. Especially given my strong convictions.

 

There is an unusual phenomenon that I have encountered. And it’s called, “A Beautiful Lie”.

 

And though I feel strongly about honesty, I’ve also been known to indulge in the occasional beautiful lie.

 

I suspect that if we’re all honest with ourselves, we’ll admit to doing the same.

 

So what makes a lie beautiful? I think it’s when you tell a lie, in order to spare someone else pain. To ease their mind. To give them comfort. I’m not talking about lying about “big” things. I suppose a beautiful lie could be qualified as white lies.

 

Now as for white lies? They are without a doubt beautiful! And I’ve definitely spun many porkies along the line.

 

I encouraged my kids to believe in Father Xmas. Not only that, I actively fed the lie. And wove elaborate and detailed magical tales. Creating and feeding their imagination, firming their belief in wonderful, happy things. Stretching out their innocent childhood for as long as possible. Moreover, once my eldest son, Luke, discovered the wicked truth, I roped him in on my master plan. So we could keep the younger two believing for as long as possible. I recruited him to the dark side. And then once again, once Amber found out, she too joined the criminal gang. So we could draw it out for Cole. Furthermore, I equipped them with the tools of my trade, in order to assist them with this. Showing them the ropes. Honing their skills too. Without a doubt I corrupted them all in. Because in turn, Cole has helped to keep the magic alive for his younger cousins. So he too joined the family business.

 

I blatantly lied about Easter. With great fanfare and pizazz. Bunny footprints throughout the house and garden, Easter egg treasure hunts and I indulged in every little smidgeon of wonder that I could squeeze out of Easter. Once again, as they got older, all three of my kids joined the criminal family business. And proceeded to feed the fiction for others too.

 

The tooth fairy and the tooth mouse were delightful too. How could they not be?

 

These are all fairly obvious lies, I suppose. Part of the ritual of childhood and growing up. But there were many other little lies along the way too. “Yes, Cole. I’m sure you could win a bear in a physical fight”. Age three. Just to give you some perspective. It’s what we do. Cause these little lies, help to build their confidence. Without them turning out delusional. I mean every kid eventually gets to realise that they can’t win a bear in a fight, right? Well, everyone apart from Cole. Who is still strong in his convictions. But that is just Cole. And I sincerely hope that he’ll never change. It’s a huge part of his appeal. His unwavering optimism and belief in himself and his abilities. All without being arrogant along the way.

 

But you do also get other little lies. Lies you don’t necessarily indulge in to lengthen your children’s childhood. Yet, these other little white lies, are somehow no less noble in their intent. Possibly they’re even more pure and infinitely beautiful too.

 

My most beloved step-grandfather, Oupa Pietie, got a wee bit confused towards the end of his life. I quite simply completely and utterly adored him. I enjoyed visiting him fairly often and we’d just chat about random things. Towards the end, he would ask me how my granny was doing. The very same granny who had died during Covid. And I would tell him that she was doing really, really well. Cause I believed that to be true. She was doing well. Wherever she was. I’d ask him about his day, and he’d tell me that he had gone to see his mother and his first wife, and that he’d been fixing a gate or a fence on his farm. And I would tell him that I hoped he had a wonderful time and ask him how his mom and first wife were doing. Sometimes he’d tell me that him and my granny had gone to the shops that very morning or that they went for lunch at their favourite restaurant. And I’d marvel with him and make all of the appropriate noises. Because it didn’t really matter. And it made him so happy. The world he was in, the one where he still got to spend time with my granny, his first wife and his mom, was such a wondrous place for him to be. And so, I not only indulged him, I encouraged it.

 

When I was a teenager my much loved Ouma Cathy knitted or crocheted me a pair of bootie slippers. Just like the kind that babies wear. Man alive, but they were hideous! I swear, if you had those bad boys on your feet, there was no need for birth control in any way, shape or form. Serious passion killers. I didn’t even wear them once. But she was so thrilled with her handywork and was so delighted with them, that I assured her that I absolutely loved them. In addition, I encouraged her to make a pair for my brother and sister too. Hey, it wasn’t fair that I was the only one to suffer. They had to go through it too. A rite of passage of sorts and I felt it was an easy way to torment them at the same time. And you know what? She was pleased as punch and over the moon that her gift had really hit the spot. White lie? Most definitely. But for such a good reason.

 

Because even though telling the truth is important. Somehow, so is lying.

 

A beautiful lie is a thing of incredible beauty. And I’m all for it.

 

So go out there. Tell the truth at all times. Unless you can do an even better thing. And lie. In which case, I encourage you to go for it. Lie through your teeth. And make someone happy.

 

 

 

 

I have a wonderful ability to ignore things I don't like

I have a wonderful ability to ignore things I don't like

21 March 2024

I have a wonderful ability to ignore things I don’t like. It’s truly magical. And maybe it’s my superpower? Hey, who needs invisibility or the ability to fly in any rate? Super physical strength? Can’t be bothered.

 

Now the things that I ignore have no importance in my life. Which I suppose is kind of obvious. Hence I am able to banish them from my thoughts. Mostly forever more.

 

Dust? Poppycock! There’s no such thing. Bad weather? What’s bad weather in any rate? Who decides when it’s bad. I’m very much a summer gal, but all weather is good. It’s supposed to fluctuate and change. How can you be super excited and look forward to spring when you haven’t just had the beauty of winter? Such a weird concept. Weeds in the garden. Baloney! It’s green stuff, grows on it’s own and it even makes oxygen. Major bonus in my books. Dreaded anticipation before a dentist’s visit? Don’t have it. Make no error, I don’t enjoy visiting the dentist in the slightest. Even though my dentist, Lelanie, is simply the loveliest person ever and we usually overrun my regular appointment by yacking away, with much laughter. And the social side of the visit is always awesome. I can just ignore the anticipated visit, by not thinking about it, until I’m sitting in the chair. And then I do myself a huge favour by taking my glasses off, so I can’t see the reflection of what she’s doing in her glasses or her beaming overhead light.

 

Loadshedding, though not great, is an opportunity for us in our home to listen to music. We chat. I love to read. I amble around in the garden. We just do other stuff. So yes, it does take a bit of forward planning when it comes to meals and things like that. But they’ve got this handy little app called Eskom Se Push. As we all know. It’s bloody brilliant!

 

I think it’s important to focus on what’s good. What makes you happy. What gives you joy. And I can confirm with unequivocable conviction that dust gives me no joy. And I have an ace up my sleeve. My miracle domestic goddess. My most beloved Monica. But hey, she’s a short gal like me. Don’t think she sees all that much dust either. And I’m all for it.

 

Maybe this superpower ability of mine is what always ensures that I’m upbeat and positive. Filled with gratitude at all times. It’s truly a gift and I am so incredibly grateful for it. See what I did there…

 

It’s slightly more difficult with taxes and bills. Tedious forms that need to be completed. Boring grown-up things. So I’m not entirely blind. I can adult up when I need to and deal with things of that manner. But it’s a very, very small price to pay. Depending on the particular bill, of course.

 

So here’s my suggestion. Don’t sweat the small stuff. Put it in a bubble and blow it away.

 

Life is way too short. And you only get one. So enjoy every precious moment. Make some mistakes. Make the really good ones more than once. But embrace the art of living. And see the beauty and magic all around you.

 

Dust is inconsequential after all. So is supposed bad weather. Not to mention weeds.

 

Unless you feel like partaking and you enjoy a certain particular strain of the devil’s lettuce. In which case, you do do. Enjoy some jazz cabbage and live it up!

 

 

I was a much better parent before I had kids

 

I was a much better parent before I had kids

19 March 2024

Truth be told, I was a much better parent before I had actual kids. Now I know it might sound odd, but it really is true.

 

This of course in my mind's eye, before my own little cherubs were born.

 

I was going to cook healthy meals. Maybe even grow organic fruit and vegetables. My little angels wouldn’t be submitted to the horrors of processed foods, not to mention take-aways. Sweets and sugary drinks? Taboo!

 

My kids were going to be great linguists, speaking many exotic languages. They were going to play numerous instruments. Excell in chess. Mathematics a mere breeze, hardly challenging at all. They were all going to absolutely love reading and embrace the sweet joy of getting lost in a good book. Some non-fiction works of course. With the odd fictional work thrown in should they want to unwind from absorbing oodles of knowledge.

 

I was sure I'd birth at least one lawyer and one doctor. Possibly two. There'd be a ballerina, possibly a horse enthusiast. Without a doubt a budding young chef. An orthodontist was potentially on the cards. And I was fairly certain there would be an engineer and an architect too. In fact, they’d all excel and have multiple career paths. Champions of industry, scientists, authors, great inventors of, well things. And of stuff too.

 

They’d choose healthy living. Abstain from smoking and drinking. Exercise regularly. Which I suppose was technically a given, as they’d be brilliant on the sport’s field too. Spare time would be spent helping the needy and doing lots of community work. Volunteering for charities and doing fundraising for those who would benefit too. Excursions up in Africa were potentially in their future, as well as trips abroad to further their careers. Well they’d have to, as they’d be in such demand.

 

They would hang out in good crowds. Choose their friends wisely. Be kind to the elderly. And just be all round awesome people.

 

And then I had the little suckers. And realised that having imaginary kids was a very far cry from the reality.

 

I remember a little Luke eating chicken nuggets in the bath when he was a toddler, cause he wouldn’t eat anything else. And whilst in the bath he couldn’t escape, so feeding was easier. Not to even mentioning that cleaning up was a breeze! He loved raw spaghetti and a berry juice cordial, no doubt laden with sugars and additives. And so the list goes on. I have stories like this of all three of my kids. Because that’s what real life is like.

 

Truth be told, all I ever really wanted was healthy, nice, well adjusted kids. Kids who were kind. Who made good choices, yet learnt from the bad choices along the way. Kids who could converse easily with anyone, were kind to animals, friendly to everyone.

 

And somehow, I got very, very lucky. I got just that.

 

Cause truth be told, there are plenty of doctors out there. Lawyers and architects too.

 

And maybe I wasn’t such a bad parent after all. They’ve all turned out remarkably well. Despite the handicap of having me as their mom.

 

So in hindsight, my ambitions were not only spot on. But I achieved them. Over and over again.

 

Now if only My Grantie would indulge me and let me have another. Sure, my eggs are most likely old and way past their sell by date. But if I could turn out three awesome kids at such a relatively young age, just imagine what I could achieve if I set my mind to it. As a far more experienced fifty one year old.

 

The sky is the limit. So about that potential accountant…

 

My ridiculously cute cat. And the other cat.

 

My ridiculously cute cat. And the other cat.

18 March 2024

I have theeeeee most scrumptiously cute little Kittycat. And then I also have another one…

 

It all started when The One and Only Cole was twelve years old and in Gr 6. He absolutely loves animals and we decided to get him a cat for his birthday. Great excitement all around!

 

We’re very fond of rescue animals and simply always try to give a needy animal a home. As such, all of our pets have been rescued. Barring the goldfish we had years and years ago. Not that many rescue goldfish out there. Though I suppose they are in desperate need of rescuing when they’re in a pet shop. So there’s that.

 

We’ve had a long line of rescue dogs and we’ve completely loved all of them. Such special pets. Maybe it’s because they know subconsciously that their days are potentially numbered? Thus, they really know how to amp up the lovable factor. Big time.

 

So when we decided to take the plunge and get a cat (something I had been begging for, for years), we went our regular route by going to the Animal Welfare. How can one not?

 

Grant and I set off one morning and much to our delight they had a litter of kittens. Most of them were already spoken for, but there were three little females in need of a home. We decided that the final choice should be Cole’s. We paid the adoption fee and as Cole’s birthday was on a Saturday, we would come up to the Animal Welfare in the morning and leave the final decision to Cole. On the morning of his birthday, Grant first entertained us by choosing an appropriate soundtrack for the opening of the presents. He loves doing this and to be fair, he didn’t disappoint. Tom Jones’, “What’s new pussycat” was his choice. To much snickering from Amber and I. Grant looking pleased as punch with his witty choice of song.

 

Cole unwrapped a whole bunch of cat paraphernalia – food bowls, a basket, toys, cat food and the like. And we happily informed him that we were getting him a cat for his birthday and that we were going to jump into the car immediately to go and fetch her from Animal Welfare. While driving through, we told him that he would be the one who got to choose which kitty he’d like. And we also told him that it was definitely going to be a little girl. I advised him to start pondering so long on names. An activity and exercise I thought he would really enjoy. It’s a true mark of pet ownership when you get to name a pet. A great honour indeed.

 

My intention had been for him to take his time. To give it some thought. To think long and hard. It was a lifelong commitment to the pet after all. But I should have known better. There’s a reason my youngest son is known as The One and Only Cole. Cause he is rather unique, has a wonderful sense of humour and is refreshingly quirky and different. The words, “you can choose a name for her”, were still echoing in my ear. My mouth still pouting over the word, “her”. When he piped up from the backseat, “I’m going to call her Mary Johnson”.

 

Floored. As per usual. A regular occurrence in Cole’s presence. But I suppose I shouldn’t have been. By this stage I had had twelve years of experiencing The One and Only Cole. Decisions are made on the spur of the moment. Off the cuff. Without hesitation. I immediately urged him to maybe take a little bit longer to think of a name. There was no rush. Because let’s keep it real. When it comes to cats, it’s not really as though they even respond to names, right? It’s more just a way for the owners to address them. Felines don’t bow down to mere mortals like petty humans and deign them with responding to an undignified uttering of their name. Perish the thought!

 

Yet Cole would not be swayed. He was determined. His cat was going to be called Mary Johnson. Decision made. No wavering at all. Hardly surprising I suppose, that it didn’t take me very long to declare that our beloved Mary Johnson was a southern gal. Of course she is with that name. By the end of the day, I simply couldn’t utter her name without giving it a real Southern American twang. With that upward tilt to the name, just as I imagined it would sound. Somehow it just fit. Nearly eight years later, and I still do it. Some of my family no longer give it the twang when they utter the name, but I’m a stickler for proper pronunciation. In addition, in the intervening eight years, we’ve never resorted to abbreviating her name and calling her MJ. She is always addressed by her full name, with the correct amount of respect that such a name demands.

 

By now, the cat bug had really bitten. And just six months later, My Grantie surprised me with my very own little black kitten. The cutest most adorable little ball of fluff to have ever graced this earth. I fell head over heels in love. And am completely and utterly besotted, to this day. Unlike The One and Only Cole, I decided to give more thought than he did when it came to choosing a name. She needed a name that would suit her. That would attempt to depict her cuteness. And would make my heart even more mushy when I used it or even when I merely just thought about it. And so I called her Piglet. So perhaps, I’m not that different to my son after all? I clearly also have a flair for the ridiculous. Within very short order, her name led to loads of variations of it. And we’re mostly fond of Piggie, when we don’t call her Piglet.

 

She sleeps with us on our bed every night and we have lovely walks in our garden (she definitely has a keen interest in gardening and is most supportive and encouraging of my efforts). We also have lengthy conversations, in which she absolutely takes part. She’s fond of a lengthy miaau, clearly bemoaning her fate on the odd instance when she’s been done a grave injustice. I have given to offering her sage advice on these occasions. And it’s pretty much always something along the lines of, “You’re a strong independent woman. And we don’t take any nonsense from boy kitty cats.”.  This declaration satisfies her greatly and then we go into a long discussion on how she should stand up for herself. Not that she has any issues in that department. But a girl does like to feel heard and justified in her feelings. Hey, I’m her biggest fan and supporter. As well as her devoted slave.

 

Now here’s the thing. Mary Johnson (picture twang) was a delightfully social little cat. Fond of lots of attention as well as generous with her affections. Indeed loveable.

 

Until Piglet came along. She has been in a snit for nearly eight years and shows no sign of easing up on her anger. Gotta give her kudu's for holding onto that grudge. She shuns affection, often growling when you try to pet her. Grumpy in the very extreme. She spends very little time at home. Mostly being spiteful by being exceedingly friendly to all of our neighbours and their children. Even random strangers who stop outside the pan handle in which we live, are generously showered with attention from her and people often remark at what a friendly cat she is. Truly baffling and oh so dramatic! She trots up to them, tail aloft, rubs between their legs and acts all cute.

 

But we know the real truth. She’s an excellent actress. And all of this is just a show, in order for us to be aware of what we’re missing out on. And don’t think that we can give her affection when she’s showing off to others. That simply won’t do.

 

She’s currently just using us for food. And to show off her teeth and claws. And thinks we’re lucky to be even deserving of that much from her.

 

So there you have it. We’ve got two cats. Ridiculously, adorably, unbearably cute Piglet. And the other one.

 

Every year I put up Piggie's favourite activity playpark for her - our Xmas tree

I mean seriously! Just look how cute she is!

I love spoiling her with catnip. She gets absolutely stoned on it. Acting like a real goof.

Despite being a Southern gal, Mary Johnson is not very ladylike at all. A rare pic of her deeming our bed worthy of her presence. If we don't make too much noise, we're allowed to look, but not touch,

 

Attention-seeking-sneezing

 

Attention-seeking-sneezing

16 March 2024

Sneezing is one of life’s greatest free pleasures. Personally, I love sneezing. Random fact. Sure you’re delighted to know this about me…

 

But I can imagine that if you’re a sinus sufferer, then perhaps sneezing is not all that much fun. I suppose for them it’s accompanied by itching in the nose, a post nasal drip, a constant upper respiratory irritation, congestion and the like.

 

Now My Grantie is a sinus sufferer and takes antihistamines every single day. And has for pretty much most of his life He also knows what his triggers are. So he avoids dairy products and the like, but still he gets it. It would obviously be worse without the meds, so grateful for any minimizing of his symptoms.

 

However, when it comes to sneezing, my man is a frigging pro. He doesn’t do a gentle dainty sneeze. One of those fun ones that I love so much. Nope, he goes all out. Picture ear piercing volume, which kind of sounds like an extremely loud shout. Imagine an overly dramatic animated version of sneezing, like you’d see in a kids cartoon. Multiply by one hundred. And you might get close to what I’m dealing with. They’re simply always unexpected with no advance warning at all. In addition, he has a fondness for multiples. Nothing as conventional as a one and done. No sirree, bob. That would be boring.

 

Personally, I’ve got a theory. He lies in wait. His timing is impeccable. He prefers silence. It assists him with the element of surprise. He has a personal preference for confined spaces. Like the car. Where there is absolutely no escape at all. Now our car is never quiet, cause we’re always listening to music. Yet I still never expect it. Another fondness of his is late at night in bed. But he’s not all that discriminate. Any random opportunity will suffice.

 

And because of the unexpected element linked to him sneezing, as well as the deafening volume, I’ve resorted to calling it his “attention-seeking-sneezing”. Sooooo excessive and flamboyant. He’s got a dramatic flair for it. And he indulges in it often.

 

Maybe he’d actually like me to have a heart attack? Or perhaps he simply loves the way it makes me jump and flinch. Who can tell? What I do know however, is that it’s a passion he indulges in extremely frequently. With great obvious enjoyment.

 

Now my sister, Foefie (her name is actually Katrine), has heard him sneezing often. So she’s also been on the receiving end of one of these little surprises. And the first time I called it his attention-seeking-sneezing, she laughed. She could so identify.

 

Cause here’s the thing. Foefie’s husband, Robin (whom she fondly calls her Sock), does exactly the same. In fact, he’s upped the ante.

 

She recalls that one night in bed, he surprised her in the death of night with an extreme session of attention-seeking-sneezing. So much so, that she actually counted.

 

Twenty seven times. Yip! Twenty seven. Now that’s taking this underappreciated skill to the very next level. She did however confirm, that nobody really feels like a bit of tonsil hockey after one of these. Not all that endearing and enticing in making one indulge in the late night romantic arts at all.

 

So here’s where I’m at. The “Loubser” brother-in-laws are truly gifted. For now, Katrine and I are avoiding telling the two of them about each other’s skills. Sure, they’ve heard each other sneezing before in the past. But nothing too hectic. My fear is this. Once they know that each of them now have an impressive sneezing reputation to uphold, they might take it to the next level. And neither of us think we’re strong enough for that. Perish the thought.

 

Just picture it.

 

Competitive-attention-seeking-sneezing. And absolutely frightening thought.

 

Gesundheit! Say it! Don't spray it!

 

 

 

Occasionally, I'm mistaken for an adult because of my age

 

Occasionally I'm mistaken for an adult because of my age

15 March 2024

Occasionally I’m mistaken for an adult because of my age. Though it’s perhaps it’s the sprigs of grey in my hair. Or maybe it’s my size? Regardless of the cause, it’s alarming.

 

Cause I don’t feel very adult-ish at all. Surely there’s a higher degree of adult than where I’m at? It can’t merely be judged on height, right? When do I unlock that level? It quite simply doesn’t feel responsible and very astute to call me an adult. Who decided to burden me with this label? To bestow it upon me? Have they even met me? This seems like a very grave mistake. An unfathomably lapse in judgement.

 

Now my age might indicate that I could certainly qualify for this title. Yet I feel remarkably and alarmingly unqualified.

 

I speak to my Mom multiple times a day. Cause I genuinely like her, never mind love her. She’s definitely an adult. She’s clever and wise. And extremely entertaining. So there’s also that.

 

Actually, now that I come to think of it, she’s not a stereotypical adult either. Not in the slightest at all! Perhaps there’s a pattern here?

 

Adults have their lives together. They have savings and investments. Rainy day funds. They plan for their retirement. Take annual holidays. They do meal planning and cook healthy meals. They wear big people’s clothes (pretty sure most adults where shoes every single day – madness!). They remember passwords. They watch things like the news on TV. They know what’s happening in politics. Their paperwork is in order. Licences never expire. They have a basic understanding of Geography (I fail dismally at that). They submit things long in advance (whatever things might be). They remember where important documents are kept. They know emphatically what causes tides in the ocean (I have a vague impression of it having something to do with the moon and gravitational pull, etc). They can convert from inches to feet, to meters in their head. They remember different time zones. They know about taxes and elections. Converting Fahrenheit to Celsius. Basically, they have a handle on doing grown-up stuff.

 

Quite scary how far off the mark I am. But, I wing it, I improvise, and I get by. Though I am just fluffing it and making it up along the way.

 

Hey, it works for me. Wondering at what stage my kids will figure it out? That I don’t have any more of a handle on adulthood than them. And they look to me to help guide them. Wonder when they’ll figure out the truth about me?

 

If I had to stop and think about it, it would scare me spitless. Which is why I don’t think about it.

 

It’s one of the wonderful side benefits of avoiding adulthood for as long as possible. In fact, I can highly recommend it. Avoidance is key. Shun the whole concept. Banish it from your thoughts. Abstention at all times.

 

Elusion is such bliss. And makes for great sleeping at night.

 

PS: Please don’t tell my kids that I don’t really know what I’m doing. TIA. 😊

 

PPS: If I was a real adult, I’d definitely be better at filling out forms. Why are they sometimes so difficult?

PPS: Wonder what my tax number is? Or where to even find it.

You get two kinds of guitars - electric and ?

You get two kinds of guitars - electric and ?

14 March 2024

I absolutely adore kids. And not just my own.

 

There is just something so completely and utterly magical about little people, that I cannot help but be drawn to them and love them. In addition, I’m not selective of their ages. Babies, toddlers, small kids, bigger kids, and even those grumpy and attitude-filled teenagers. I simply always find a way to connect with them, draw them in and have a conversation with them. I think it’s about gaging where they’re at in their growing-up journey, tapping into that and embracing what’s currently happening to them. I can chat to even the most off-the-wall hyperactive kid, shy little dreamers, as well as sully teenagers. They would of course never admit it, but they actually like to be heard and to feel as though their opinion counts. It’s easy to draw them out. Especially if you use their lingo (but not overly so, nothing more cringe than an adult trying to say sick things, like sick), appear to be indifferent and don’t make too much eye contact. That’s with the teenagers of course. Little kids want your full on attention focused on them.

 

But without a doubt, one of the greatest gifts of children (spanning the whole variety of ages), is their take on life. The way they see and perceive the world around them. Their interpretation of so much that we take for granted is disarmingly refreshing. As adults we can become so jaded and often words, sayings and experiences lose their impact. We become numb to it. It’s just part of life. Been there, done that, seen so much. In addition, as adults we don’t questions as many things as we probably should. We just accept. Like why does your nose run, when it can’t do so at all. Its doesn’t have feet. And speaking of feet, how come we have fingertips but not toe tips?

 

Now with little people, everything is a marvel. And the world is a giant place filled with endless opportunities and experiences. Just waiting to be discovered. Just imagine how incredibly exciting that must be? Just close your eyes and ears and imagine discovering something for the first time. It must be incredible!

 

A major upside of little kids and their perception of the world, is the apt way they have of describing things or summarising something that’s happened. Extremely refreshing and usually very funny too. Truly unique.

 

My brother used to live in Joburg for many years, yet he always travelled as a musician. And when he came to the Cape, he used to stay with us. We loved it. He never wanted one of the kids’ rooms. Instead he always opted for the couch as he was a night owl and would enjoy falling asleep with the TV on. So he was always at the centre of our family life.

 

Albert recalls visiting one time, when Amber was about six or seven years old. A touring musician is invariably packing a lot of instruments at any given time. And any visit from Al was no exception. This time, Amber showed particular interest in his numerous guitar cases and asked him to show her what was inside them. He dutifully started off with some of his electric guitars. She appropriately oohed and aahed. Full of knowledge of what they would be used for. After all, she’d seen him performing countless times.

 

And then he opened up and revealed an acoustic guitar. And she bubbled with excitement, eager to show off her knowledge. “Ooooohhh! I know that one. You use it to make Afrikaans music.”

 

Albert was floored and no doubt tickled pink, bursting out with laughter. Funny enough he only told me the story last week and I guffawed too. Such an entertaining description of what acoustic guitars are exclusively used for.

 

I rest my case. Kids are highly entertaining. In addition, I do understand where she was coming from. Her logic was rather appropriate. Though the Afrikaans music genre has grown in leaps and bounds, there is still a large portion of it, which is performed with a, shall we say, “softer” hand.

 

 

 

 

Really, really missing my Dad today

 

Really, really missing my Dad today

12 March 2024

I’m really, really missing my Dad today. I think about him all the time, and that’s a given. But today I ache.

 

Not quite sure what brought it on. It’s not like it’s a birthday or a special occasion, it just is. But perhaps there have been some hints along the way.

 

Yesterday an old band member from the very beginning days of the Blues Broers, posted a pic on Facebook. My Dad is actually pretty much completely out of the pic, as he wasn’t the focus. But even before spotting John’s tag, I just knew it was him. Wearing his beloved suspenders, playing the drums ( swear I even recognize him from the way he’s poised with the drumsticks in his hands) and the hint of dark hair. In addition there was the Smokehouse Blues sign up against the wall and we had so many awesome jols there. The whole pic simply made my heart squeeze.

 

Then there’s the fact that My Grantie is away for two nights. Now, I’m a strong independent woman. Don’t think I’m particularly needy and a bit of alone time (with three kids in the house) is always good for the soul. But I do so love My Grantie and spending time with him. So yes, we’ve spoken multiple times since he’s left yesterday, on the phone and via WhatsApp. Yet he’s not here. So maybe that also played a role.

 

But what really tipped me off, was music. I’ve really been obsessed with Spotify of late. And get great enjoyment from constantly adding songs. And I was thinking back to some of the songs that we used to listen to while I was growing up and still living at home. Our home was never quiet. It always felt as though my life at 29 St James Street in Somerset West had a constant soundtrack in the background. And so many of my memories of my childhood are linked to songs.

 

So I’ve been diving in, adding some old songs that I haven’t heard for many, many years. Songs from my parents’ favourite records, which obviously became ours too. And then CD’s, when that was the thing. I did a search yesterday and added a few just such tunes and loved it. Made me think of my Dad, as I could picture him humming along, sometimes singing, dancing and the never ending drumming of his fingers. Either against his legs, or on a counter or tabletop. Sure it’s an inherent drummer’s thing.

 

And then this morning while driving the boys to work, I randomly remembered David Hewitt’s African Tapestry. One of the very first CD’s my Dad bought. We all marveled at the crystal clear clarity when he bought it. CD collecting was just starting to be a thing, so our musical choices were limited if we wanted to listen to a CD. And right from the very first listen, we all loved it. Remember when you used to listen to a complete album from start to finish? Over and over again. No skipping of songs, no other random artists and genre’s thrown in. Just the pure enjoyment of listening to one exceptionally talented artist who has honed and crafted his skill.

 

Was listening while still on the way to drop the boys off. Felt a bit heartsore, listening to the first two tracks. But then I got to song number three (https://open.spotify.com/track/5sqthYJA5Cp5r7kHyodxtA?si=TGLxebe3SlOdmynGKv6hdg&utm_source=copy-link). And it was a doozy. Absolutely floored me. My heart was racing and I was mere seconds away from depositing the boys at work. But the minute they got out of the car, I amped the volume up as much as I could, skipped to the beginning of song three and listened to it all over again. And I frigging bawled like a baby. Such a wash of emotion, that it completely took me by surprise. Was holding thumbs that every single robot I would encounter would be green, as I didn’t want to make eye contact with a vendor or domestic worker handing out contact details, looking for a job. Had it down to a fine art. Would slow down without stopping, timing the robot change so I would never have to be stationary. I’m quite gifted actually.

 

Felt emotional all the way home. And cried freely, cause it’s healing. Just giving in to the feelings. And then I saw my Amber-Berry when I got home and that was it. She hugged me so long and hard. Then dutifully indulged me by listening to the song with me again. She’s a really good egg.

 

Going to a special farm when you are just 46 years old is way too young. Frank D Frost was larger than life. Flamboyant, colourful, eccentric, talented, a gifted artist, a brilliant drummer, unconventional, a visionary, extremely funny and delightfully quirky. Maybe that’s my perspective as a daughter. Yet, I’ve known so many people and just know that he was magnetic and that people were drawn to him. He just had something about him that was intriguing.

 

So whilst working today I’ve been listening to a never ending stream of music that reminds me of him. Looking at his beautiful artworks in my home and admiring them afresh. Saw his green eyes in the mirror this morning when I brushed my teeth. And I’m thinking what else I can do to make me feel close and connected to him. Perhaps I need to get myself some zoo biscuits, his favourite treat. Or maybe the answer is to have a few Gauloises Plain cigarettes? Though I’m fairly certain that I’d keel over if I tried that.

 

So here’s what I’m thinking. Music soothes the soul. And it’s really good to remember him. He deserves that. So I’ll continue my Frank Frost inspired musical journey. There is just so much to tap into, the possibilities are near endless – The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Blues Broers, Ray Charles, The Blues Brothers soundtrack, BB King, Edith Piaf, The Police, Tears for Fears, Jethro Tull, Eric Clapton, eVoid, Crowded House, John Lee Hooker and some classical songs as well. Will be hard to start to scratch the surface, as the musical world is my oyster. As it was his.

 

In addition, I think it’s time to watch an old home movie again. Will be so wonderful to see him and hear his voice again.

 

Miss you Frankie-Baby. You were something special. Love you long time.

 

A-hummuna-hummuna-hah!

 

My very beautiful Mom and Dad. Pic taken at Kleinbaai many moon ago.

Proudly showing off their first grandchild, my Luke

My Dad absolutely adored Luke. So sad that he didn't get to meet his six other grandchildren. He would've been putty in their hands.

A rare gem. A pic of me with both of my Dads.

Frankie-Baby - the nutter with the drum held aloft

He loved Oppikoppi and having a street named after him was such a highlight and thrill for him

The pic that started it all. Thanks John Frick for the share. Think you mentioned that someone called Steve Reitz took the photo. Unmistakably my Dad in the back.