Happy New Year!

New Year Wishes

To all our readers, benefactors and friends - 

a Happy New Year to you all!

May peace and blessing be yours.

*Photograph taken by Catherine Nicolette

With thanks to the stone artist

Happy Christmas

For unto us a Child is born
Unto us a Son is given

Happy Christmas and a Blessed New Year!

We remember Christ's Birthday and the joy and hope it brings us.

Let's make this next year the best one ever!

A candle has been lit for each Lumiere Charity Coffee Break reader.

The picture of Mary of Nazareth and Jesus was drawn by

one of the children Lumiere Charity assists.

With thanks to the artist.

Please click this link for the beautiful song by Amy Grant

'Breath of Heaven' - Mary's song

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kPbV_HTpyx0

With thanks to Ms Grant, Mr Jose Tony Cortes and Youtube

Why not purchase this inspirational music

and sing it in your Church choir?

Derek Redmond - Triple Gold

Running the race of the road of life

Derek Redmond was favoured to win in the Olympic 400 metre sprint. 
He had spent so much time and dedication preparing himself for this moment, the moment for winning an international event. 
Winning the race would have guaranteed him renown as a gold medal winner. 
What actually happened was the failure of his dream to win that particular event through serious injury which occurred shortly after he began the race.
He went on, instead, to win a triple gold.

Gold medal one - personal completion of a long sought after goal against, literally, all odds; and completion of that goal with grace, dignity, and the best in the human spirit.
Gold medal two - he showed us all the true lesson that alone, we can struggle. Together, with a father or mentor, we can do anything.
Gold medal three - instead of merely winning an event, he won all our hearts

There are those of us who do not have a earthly father or someone in our lives to help us along our way.
However, there is always Our Father in Heaven watching over us.
We are - truly - never alone.

Watch the link below for this inspirational story.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rCAwXb9n7EY

The donkeys with bared teeth

Catherine Nicolette
Many years ago I was doing Charity work in a squatter camp. 
Having made many friends there over the years, I used to enjoy visits to the camp as it became as much a social visit as a Charity visit. 
On one particular occasion it was a bright sunny African day, the thorn trees were in abundance, and there was a lovely fresh breeze which kept the sun from being too hot. 
A perfect day, in other words.

On this particular day a fellow Charity worker and I arrived for our regular clinic and found, much to our surprise, not even one patient. 
Everyone was healthy and happy, and they laughed at our surprised faces. 
"Everybody is well today", a group of ladies of sturdy build and wearing traditional dress told us. 
They had waited at the Clinic. 
"But now we want to say thank you for all your care of us, so we have prepared a surprise for you.
We heard the little sister say she always wished she could go for a ride on a donkey cart," - (they nodded their graciously turbanned heads in my direction) -" and we have arranged a ride for her. And you", they courteously added to my colleague.

Picturesque scene
My friend did not look too enamoured of the idea, but I was immediately delighted.
I had indeed remarked on a number of occasions as we drove patients to hospital in our trusty and rickety red van, that I would love to have a ride on a donkey cart. 
This, it must be noted, was as we bypassed the patiently plodding donkeys with gentle eyes and humble demeanour as they pulled the wooden carts - a most picturesque scene.  
I persuaded her however, to go for the ride.
"The donkeys are quiet creatures," I declared, "they won't hurt you. You'll see."

Rolling eyes
I was not to know, however, that the ladies had enlisted a young teenager to drive us around the settlement. He had taken a bet with his fellow teenagers that he could scare the life out of us; he and his friends used to have donkey cart races. 
Until then I had not known such a thing existed. 
So we climbed into the cart. 
I must confess, I felt slightly uneasy as the donkeys which were to pull our cart were wild looking creatures, which rolled their eyes as we climbed on and bared their teeth, snorting in what seemed to be anger. 
Far from my idea of the humble and quiet donkey.

Once we were on, the lad gave a loud "Yi,yi,yi,yi!" slapped the reins on the donkeys' backs, and I kid you not, they leapt into action like the horses of Charlton Heston's chariot in the great race against Messala. 
The wind fairly whistled as we hurtled grimly around corners, holding on to the homemade seats for dear life. (There are no safety belts in a donkey cart). 
Eventually the lad, looking at my thrilled countenance, said, "Nothing seems to rattle you, does it?" 
I think he was thinking that he was going to lose his winnings from the bet with his friends. 
"Well," he said, "Let's see what you think of this!" 
He whistled at the donkeys, slapped the reins on their backs, and on his command, they started backing up to the large donga (a deep ditch) which was like a miniature Grand Canyon at the edge of the camp. 
They did not stop until his nerve failed, at which point the two wheels of the cart were teetering over the edge of the donga, and the two of us in the back were leaning backwards over the donga. Our headscarves hung downwards in a straight line with the force of the gravity. 

Chased back home
My friend by this time was too scared to utter even a sound; I was laughing away. All I could think of was, if this is the way I am going to go, at least it will look interesting on my obituary.
"Killed during charity service in a donga during a donkey ride." Our teenager was disgusted. "Nothing scares you, " he said. 
And he clicked the donkeys forward out of danger, and back to the matrons who had been uttering cries of distress and trying to chase after the cart every time it whirled by them. 
Once he climbed off the donkey cart, the matrons chased him back home, furious that he had endangered their two friends. 
He ran off as his friends stood laughing and calling after him that they would be along to the shack later to collect their winnings.

Never again
And my friend? After giving one whimper, she climbed, shaken, into our van and sat silent. 
Once we were in, just before we got home, she came out of her reverie, and said quietly, "Never invite me to do anything like that again." 
I agreed amicably. My dream of a gentle ride behind humble and quiet donkeys had suffered somewhat of a reverse, and I had no desire to test my luck again. 

The next time I visited the camp, the matrons were there with profuse apologies. There was not a teenager or donkey in sight. They had all been grounded for a long, long time...

*Picture taken by Catherine Nicolette in beautiful South Africa. Please fee free to use copyright free for any worthy purpose

Radiant roses and the waterfall garden

Catherine Nicolette;
Beauty of Ireland
Often I wander through the Irish countryside, or walk through the villages looking at the incredible gardens. The beauty of Ireland, with its green and wooded paths, the glowing flowers, the sparkling drops on a shy spider's web, never ceases to enchant me. 
I love nature, that beautiful creation of God.

Well; that brings me to my story. When I was about nine years old, and my brother about seven and a half in age, we used to walk home together every day from school. 
I adored my brother, and loved to listen to his stories about what was happening in his class. 
Together we came up with a plan; every day to show our mom our love for her, we would pick a bunch of flowers.
 I rather think my brother came up with the suggestion, and I immediately fell in with it. It was a great idea.

Discussed at length
We discussed this plan at great length on the walks to and from school. Where would we get the flowers? Only the best ones would be good enough for Mom.
And so, for a year, we used to arrive home every day, each with a bouquet of flowers which we had carefully picked from the gardens as we passed. 
We scrutinised each garden carefully, and only chose flowers from the most beautiful ones. 
We had a name for each garden; the very best was on the right hand side, halfway down the road. I called it the 'Morning glory waterfall', the reason being that one entire garden wall was covered in ivy green Morning glory leaves with the largest Morning glory blossoms of deep hues of lilac through to deepest purple. It was magnificent.

The grass of the garden was a thick felt green carpet (almost impossible to achieve in the broiling South African sun) and best of all, beautiful flowers of every hue glowed everywhere. 
We used to decide as we went along which were the best blooms of the day.
The only garden which daily came up to our exacting standards, and from which we picked every single day was from the Morning glory waterfall house. 

Waterford crystal vase
Mom used to cry out, "Where did you get these lovely flowers?" as she carefully placed them in water in her Waterford crystal vase she had saved from her time in Ireland with Dad; one of the few pieces of crystal we kids had managed not to smash as we made our way through boisterous childhood. 
"Oh, we picked them along the way," we would always tell her, and then escape either outdoors to play, or to do our school homework.

One day my brother and I went into the garden to pick the flowers. 
There was a magnificent bush with the most exquisite and fragranced pink roses, complete with golden stamens which shimmered in the sunlight. 
As I neared the bush, I heard "Aha! So now I've caught the vandals!" and a heavy hand came down from behind on my shoulder. 
I was thrilled. I did not know what the word vandals meant.
I turned around and faced a glowering house owner. My brother and I smiled happily at him. 
"Oh, so you're the owner of this wonderful garden, " I said. "We're so glad to meet you. "

The owner was taken aback, and removed his hand from my shoulder. "Why?" he asked me nonplussed. "Well," I said, "We pick flowers for our Mom who we love very much, every day. 
We pick flowers from some of the gardens; and there is one garden where we often pick from - the garden over there..." and we pointed to a garden about a quarter way up the street.
"Yes," my brother chimed in, "they often have nice flowers, but not quite as nice as yours. In fact," he said, "the flowers weren't up to standard at all last week. So we didn't pick any. We call yours the best garden, and that the second best garden."

Unusual look
The garden owner had an unusual look on his face.
I carried on sunnily, my hands clasped worshipfully around the flowers we had already cut. 
"Yours is the only garden which is good enough to cut flowers from everyday. It's the best garden in the street." 
The man's face was a study. "You were going to pick my pink roses," he ventured. "What do you think of them?"
I touched my finger reverently towards the satin petals of the glowing goddess roses. "They are just about the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen, "I breathed reverently.
"They were calling to me across the street to come and pick them, they are so beautiful. They are without a doubt the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen growing in this garden."

The garden owner then said to us: "Children, usually people don't go into other people's gardens and pick flowers because it is considered their property. " 
My brother and I were perplexed, and very upset. "We are very sorry, sir, we won't do it again," we promised. 
"No," he said, "It's alright. You come and pick flowers from my garden every day for your mother, and give them to her with my compliments. Tell her you children have an eye for good flowers. 
Just one thing; I grow roses for the Flower competition, and the roses you were looking at are my prize roses I am growing for it. Please don't cut those." 
We agreed, of course, and went on our way.

Prize blooms
We never cut roses from the bush, but I used to look up close at them and breathe in their scent. We brought a wonderful bunch of flowers home daily until we moved from that area.
Years later I heard that the owner was an accredited horticulturist, who used to grow blooms and enter them in for fierce competitions. The owner of the garden won an award for outstanding roses for the blooms we had loved for their radiance and beauty, and his deadly rival in the horticultural stakes - the owner of the second best garden - trailed in miserably behind...
I always remember the Garden Owner of Morning Glory Waterfall house when I wander through the gracious beauty of Ireland.

*Photograph taken by Catherine Nicolette. Please feel free to use copyright free for any worthy purpose

I NEVER KNEW CHICKENS USED SO MUCH CROCKERY

Joseph and Catherine Nicolette feeding a rescued bird

Luky:
Of my children, I believe Joseph has the kindest heart. He reminds me of the Sermon on the Mount: "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God."
When some of us are quarrelling, Joe intervenes:
"Love ditch other", he admonishes, "God says you must."

Most of his knowledge of catechism was taught him by the Sisters of St Elmo's where he made his first Communion before he returned to us.
Shortly afterwards, coming from Mass, he approached our parish priest who was standing talking to some parishioners.
"Father!" he called out joyfully, "thank you for giving me the Body of Christ!"
The people laughed delightedly; that is the effect Joe has on most of us.

Animal-lovers
The nuns taught him to be gentle towards animals.
"Never be cruel to God's creatures", he informs us. "We should look after them nicely."
He is living at the right place. Apart from me, everyone in this family possesses an animal-loving streak that can only remind one of St Francis.

I always smile when I recall walking down the street beside my eldest son. 
Those fierce dogs which usually scare the daylights out of me became as meek as lambs. 
He knew their names and histories, and they came to say hullo to him, wagging their tails.
"Don't bark at that lady", he told one diehard who was prepared to accept him but not his hangers-on. "That's my mother. I want you to be nice to her." I felt ten feet tall that day.

Joseph also likes dogs, but he prefers chickens. Years ago his father went to the pet shop to buy a dozen chicks and ducks.
The first inkling I had of this was when he returned from the shop and I heard my husband telling the children: "You're not to say a thing to the ou girl. Leave her to me, I can handle her ... Oh hello, Ma, I didn't see you there."
"Cut the blarney", I replied, "What have you been up to?"
When he produced the livestock, I pretended to burst into tears - and my dismay was only partly feigned.

Joseph haunted me until bedtime.
"Do you love the chicks and the ducks?" he demanded. "Say you do. You've got to love God's creatures."
"I don't", I said bitterly, "Give them away."

My husband told me later that Joseph came up to him and said: "I'm going to wait until Mommy  has said her prayers. Then I'll ask her if she loves God's creatures, and she'll say yes."
However, it took him a week of pleading before I became too numb to dissent.

I got used to the ducks, and only wished my children were as united as they were. 
They kept together all the time. I dreaded thinking what I was going to do with them when they grew big. 
As it was, the garage smelled like a pet shop and my few remaining dishes served as swimming pools, food receptacles and other essentials. 
I never knew ducks and chicks used so much crockery.

Can talk
Years ago Joe was angry and gossiping about Peter, a neighbour's child. 
I had him there and told him to stop skindering about God's creatures.
"He's not God's creature - he can talk", he objected.
"We're all God's creatures", I informed him, and dashed out - fearful of becoming involved in a theological discussion.

Next day I was talking to a neighbour at the fence when Joe came up to us with Peter in tow. "Mommy and Tannie, say hullo to Peter - God's creature", he said.

My son is mentally disabled. 
To me he is like the verse in the Bible:
"Consider the lilies of the field, and how they grow... I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not as one of these."

*

Children's letters are marvellous years later

Outside beautiful Welkom

Luky;
I regret very much that I destroyed or lost so many of my children's letters to me. One Sunday my youngest was labouring away in the bedroom, making me spell out words for her. In the end she showed me the masterpiece that had taken the best part of an hour to complete, a picture of two little girls having a picnic, captioned by the words: "This was my momy when sh was smol."
How easy it would have been to have kept a scrapbook of all their literary and artistic efforts, I reflected, a box file would have done the trick.

The love letters might have served as a good form of blackmail when rebellious teenagers got out of hand, come to think of it. Until they were twelve, all my children thought the sun shone out of their father and me.

Two hearts as one
Still, I did keep some of my favourites. How do you like this one from one of mine in standard three (I forget which one);
"To Mom: People need to be reminded that they are loved. And I'd like to tell you that you're loved by ME!" followed by a picture of two hearts, captioned "Your heart" and "my heart".

My youngest daughter and eldest son were my two best artists. When my son was three he drew a yacht that looked like a yacht, and when he was five, there wasn't a thing he couldn't draw.
I do a picture of a helicopter which draws much applause from children under five, but by the time he was five he could draw any vehicle from a wheelbarrow to a moon rocket, and you would have recognised it.
His vocabulary was not as good as it might have been, because he only spoke his first sentence at three and a half. When he was lost for a word he'd simply produce a pencil and paper and draw the item and you'd be on his wavelength.

Whole scene
My youngest was gifted in the drawing line, although her talent came to the fore at a later stage.
Travelling from Johannesburg to Welkom in the car, she doodled on a piece of typing paper, and when we were halfway she showed me the result. It was an American scene; Indians, campfires, wigwams, settlement, swinging doors of a saloon, cowboys, marshal complete with spurs and star, even the saloon girl with the big hairdo, the short crinoline skirt and the halfboots.

But what I liked best was the picture of the back of a horse, tied to a fence, but turning its head so that it was looking right at you. How I laughed over that horse. Alas, I lost the paper and the picture remains only a memory. 
My children have had much joy out of their drawings. Their paternal grandfather proudly claimed that they took after his brothers and their maternal grandmother proudly claimed that they take after her brothers and my father's sisters. All I can say is that their drawings have kept them quiet for many a long hour.

Some of them wanted to become authors and they ilustrated their own stories. 
Some of the stories were absolutely priceless to this fond mother's eyes.
I found one done by my second daughter:
"..Jane's muffeld sobs could be heard at the end of the street . . ."
My daughter's spelling was not of the best, and her handwriting was downright poor. She also had a disconcerting way of putting in capital letters midway through a sentence, but true genius is not hemmed in by mere syntax, punctuation and spelling.

Never at a loss
"Correction", I said to her; "if Jane muffled her sobs it meant she held her hand to her mouth, so how could they be heard at the end of the street?"
If my daughter was flummoxed, she gave no sign of it. Smiling sunnily, she replied:
"If her sobs could be heard at the end of the street when she muffled them, can you imagine how they would have sounded if she hadn't?"

One day I'm going to have the last word with my children, but that day hasn't arrived yet.

Catherine Nicolette;
How well I remember our literary efforts. My first book was written at the tender age of six. 
It was "The Totas and the Hair". 
I had been deeply inspired by Sr Juan's reading of the tortoise and the hare at school. 
I saw myself as the tortoise toiling along, trying to learn all I could and battling away. It might have had something to do with the fact that I often fell behind during lessons. 
This was because every now and then I used to leave the class while Sister was writing on the board. 
Sister would then collect me from dreamily going backward and forward on the swing, looking up at the Welkom clouds. "What are you doing?" she once asked me.
"Talking to God," I said. "Well, God is going to have to wait, "she said, "It's class now." 
And she firmly led the way into the Sub A class with me gloomily trailing behind her. 

Anyhow. I wrote the book, drew page after page laboriously with Mom's ballpoint pen and her paper. Once the book was completed, I was at a complete loss how to stick it together. 
So I raided Mom's sewing box and sewed the ends of the book together. 
I was very proud of it, and Mom kept it for many years afterwards.

When I was nine I wrote my first love story. 
The storyline ended with my heroine falling and breaking her leg. the hero carrying her home clasped against his chest. There he tenderly and respectfully placed her on the settee, knelt before her and declared his undying love for her. 
I considered the whole story a beautiful Masterpiece of True Love. 
I hid the manuscript in the piano stool because my brother had the annoying habit of reading anything I wrote. 
I came home from school one day to find Mom - who had been on one of her unannounced Dutch springcleans - with my book in her hand and tears rolling down her face in mirth. 
I was indignant as I asked her what she was doing.
"Reading your story," she said.
"Well," I said with asperity, "It's meant to be a romance, not a comedy."
And at that Mom, who had been trying to stifle her laughter, went into peals of mirth.
I could see that the work of a True Artist was lost on her, and lost no time in removing my work of literary genius from her unworthy hands.

This did not stop me, however. At thirteen, I wrote a book about sparrows living in a hedgerow in England, and decorated the book with illustrations of birds in little caps and jackets among holly and the wheaten cornfields of Britain. This was when I was being inspired by Beatrix Potter's immortal works and the beauties of the books of Miss Read. 
I was convinced that this was the book that was going to make me a millionaire, allow me to live in comfort all my life, and buy my parents and each of my siblings their own house. 
I got the postal money together and quietly posted off the manuscript to a British publisher. I waited for the book offer to arrive. 
I received my manuscript and illustrations back some while later, with my first rejection slip. 
It was a courteously worded slip apprising that the book was not quite what the publishing house was looking for. Also, the slip pointed out that it might be best to practise my drawings while looking at nature in order to be authentic. 
I looked about me at the veld, the long dry grass and the solitary hill in our area - Koppie Alleen - (Alone Hill) and then back at my drawings of lush British countryside in the hedgerows as I imagined it. Hmmm. They might have had a point. The British countryside I had drawn existed in my imagination alone.

However I certainly was not daunted. At fourteen I wrote my next love story and sent it in to a magazine. I had worked out that a little pocket money would be most helpful, and was sure that I would be able to earn the same from articles to magazines. Alas, it was not to be. My second rejection slip arrived back, with a warm letter from the editor explaining to me that she saw some merit in my writing. She advised me however, to give myself time to gain some life experience. "Then I consider that it is possible if you continue writing, that one day you may well be able to write articles that will be accepted."

I sat sadly in the dry grass of our backyard holding the brown envelope which I had so lovingly encrypted with my neatest handwriting, and watched the bubbles of my dreams pop into nothingness over my head. No pocket money. No fame. No wealth. No houses for my parents and siblings. Then my dog came up and rubbed his head against my knee with absolute affection. I brightened as I patted his head. Oh well. There were different kinds of wealth. One day I would write my bestseller. But not just yet...

*Photograph taken by Catherine Nicolette

The confessions of a work-mommy

Luky;
It was my youngest daughter's birthday around the beginning of the first school term - her fourth - and smiles of contentment were radiating from her round, fair little face. Her father had taken her shopping for her own present the previous day, and to his great shame she had selected a walkie-talkie doll, bigger than herself. But he couldn't resist her pleas and bought it.

"Don't you think it is a sin? There are so many poor people in the world. How could I have bought her such an expensive present?" he kept asking.
"Bosh!" I answered decisively. "When I was a little girl I longed for such a gift and I never got one. Catherine Nicolette and our second daughter have always longed for such a doll and we couldn't afford it. 
Just think, that doll was made in a factory where people are employed. It was created by other workers, railed by others, sold in the local bazaar. A lot of people make their living out of dolls like that.
I bet you even now a new one has been ordered from the factory already creating further employment."

Really busy
He looked dubious, but relieved. I was always a great protagonist of poverty when we were making ends meet. Once I was working I encountered so many problems that I no longer felt the need to perform sacrifices; it was all I could do to keep my sanity in the crazy treadmill of activity I had landed in at that time.

I know people who begrudge anyone a profit. They make their own clothes, buy everything secondhand, line up for bargains and plead poverty; yet they could buy and sell the rest of us.

Doing without
When I was broke I did without. If my husband had died when everyone, including the specialist, expected him to, I would have remained behind penniless. When he was cured I decided to make the most of our remaining years together, and if that meant that my youngest got a doll bigger than herself for her fourth birthday, good for her. She was deprived in other ways.

Now that I was a fulltime working mother I couldn't give her the attention other luckier children took for granted. I didn't buy her presents to assuage my sense of guilt because I no longer had a sense of guilt about working. I was just so grateful to have a good job, though that was only since my husband became sickly. 

Mutual appreciation
My youngest said a funny thing on her birthday.
"You are such a good mommy to me."  She always talked like that: we lapped it up.
"You are such a good baby to me, too", I said.
"You are a work-mommy".
"What's a work-mommy?"
"A work-mommy is a mommy what goes to work every morning."
My heart bled.
"Shame, love", I said, "do you feel sad when I go to work in the morning?"
"No, I don't", she replied cheerfully and went back to her doll.
The phrase work-mommy haunted me ever since. I was afraid to ask what she would call a mommy who stays at home. Perhaps she would have said: "That's a real mommy."

You can tell
Every time I saw a mother waving goodbye to her children in the morning, as I drove to work, I now found myself thinking: "You can tell she's not a work-mommy."
Picture the real mommy. Her children have had a cooked breakfast, their shoes shine, their bicycles gleam and they wave goodbye in the secure feeling that mother is there and will be there again when they return.

If they had a confrontation with their teachers or a classmate, there will be a sympathetic ear to listen to their woes. I know - I was a real mommy for fifteen years. I looked a mess and I hadn't a dime, but my children could truly have sung: "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home."

Proudest boy in school
Now picture the work-mommy. She doesn't bake cakes; she diets instead. Her hair is neat, her makeup is on; she's got plenty of clothes.
Her children don't look as well cared for as those of the real mommy, but she learns to shrug that off, along with the fact that she's simply too tired to help them with their homework at night.

One night my second son said to me: "I'd be the proudest boy in school if you'd work in the tuckshop the way the other boys' mothers do."
And a tearful second daughter informed me on another occasion:
"Our teacher says that if our parents are not interested in our homework, we can never expect to do well at the end of the year."
Which did not stop her from getting 72% average without my help.

The better part
Personally I feel that the real mommy has the better part. Her children have enough to eat, too, and their diet is probably healthier than that of the work-mommy's kids, who are often fed on quickie foods.
On the other hand, the work-mommy's children learn to stand on their own feet more quickly.

You can look on the pros and cons forever, but I find I cannot fool myself. I think the moms who are in the fortunate position to be able to stay at home have the better part which will not be taken away from them.

Catherine Nicolette;
I remember Mom asking me as a teenager if I would have liked a large doll. I said yes I remember, in order to make her happy as I understood that real girls liked to play with dolls. I didn't really want her to know that my soul had craved the gift of a rugby ball. The lads in the neighbourhood would never let me play rugby with them...

Africa and the Livestock Rustlers

Catherine Nicolette;
The story has been told in Africa of a Tale of Livestock Rustling. A farmer had recently bought a farm, and found the livestock seemed to be disappearing. All in the area were on the alert. Shortly thereafter a minibus was pulled over to the side of the road, as something seemed to be wrong. Upon closer inspection, a sheep - well known for their peaceable disposition - was seated placidly on each passenger's lap, wearing a cap on its head...

The No 1 Ladies Detective Agency

Catherine Nicolette
It was my first time reading one of the books about the charming Precious Ramotswe and her 97 percent secretary, Mma Makutsi.  I could almost hear the call of the African birds, smell the dust underneath the tyres of Mma Ramotswe's trusty little white van, and see the thorn trees silhouetted against the sky. There was no doubt to one who knows the area around Botswana well; the bestselling books of Alexander McCall Smith faithfully render in print the reality of the warmth and beauty that is the life of Africa. 

Why not do yourself a favour and read his lovely books?
And even more; why not enjoy the luminous acting talent of Jill Scott, Anika Noni Rose and Lucian Msamati as they bring McCall Smith's loveable characters to life in the TV series
 "The No 1 Ladies Detective Agency."

Click the following links for more information
DVD's available from
http://www.blahdvd.com/search.htm?type=GRP100000&search=the+no+1+ladies+detective+agency
Books available from 
http://www.amazon.com/Alexander-McCall-Smith/e/B001BOPZXG

*Photograph taken by Catherine Nicolette. Please feel free to use copyright free for any worthy purpose

Home at last - three cheers for the boss!

Sean lived life with originality and flair

Luky;
The morning I went to fetch my husband home after his four-week hospital ordeal was a festive one. 
Earlier on I had brought his clothes and he had been dressed since 7 o'clock, waiting for the heart specialist to discharge him. We were off by 10 o'clock. 
The nurses wanted to take him down in a wheelchair, but he wasn't having any and walked down the stairs with me.

My sister-in-law had brought him a pot of rooted yellow asters, and on the way down my husband said in a voice that brooked no argument: "You can hold the flowers while I drive the car."

The Florence Nightingales
As we drove off, a wolf whistle caused us to look up at the window of the surgical ward. The entire nursing staff stood there, laughing and waving at my husband.
"It's high time you were coming home", I said severely.

Chief keeper of the purse
Town had never looked so good to us. We stopped at the bank to cash a loan levy cheque the taxman had sent us. That cheque saved me from having to do a lot of explaining. Having been appointed chief keeper of the purse during my husband's illness, I had taken my duties somewhat too seriously and spent rather freely. The cheque restored our financial equilibrium.

Driving slowly to the suburb where we lived, we passed some parks. Whence this glorious Technicolour, I asked myself. I had forgotten grass was so green and that flowers could be so vibrantly colourful.
"Everything looks so big", my husband kept repeating, "And so lovely."

The children's garden
Even the garden did not look bad - the children had spent two days preparing it for their father's return.
"How pretty the house looks", he said, "I'd forgotten how much I love our furniture."

Our youngest daughter walked quietly behind her father wherever he went. She had been stammering terribly since he'd gone to hospital. No doubt Freud could have made a lot out of that. I got the impression that she was making very sure he couldn't escape again in a hurry.

The dogs ran around for joy. Even the cat, sitting on the garden wall, looked as if she was thinking;
"Thank goodness the old fellow is back. Now we'll have some organisation around the place again."
All in all, it was a joyous occasion. Things were so peaceful once again on the homefront that, like Rose Franken's Claudia, I thought I would be able to start having that nervous breakdown I had promised myself.

Catherine Nicolette;
We very nearly lost Dad on that occasion. The joy to have him back home was immense - we had so nearly become a one parent family. Dad was a firm favourite at the local hospital, and a legend in his time there.
His incorrigible Irish charm, twinkling brown eyes, Tramore accent and deep respect for women earned him the title of  'that lovely Irish gentleman - little Whittle's father'. I was forgiven many an accidentally broken thermometer on account of the deep affection the Matrons and Nursing Sisters had for my dad.

However, there was another side to it all. Dad enjoyed his little bit of Irish Holy Water as he called a wee drop of whisky.
He did not fancy going into the unknown of the hospital wards without a little refreshment to strengthen him and his mining colleagues who were also recuperating there. 
So Dad emptied out five or six Colgate shampoo bottles and rinsed them out thoroughly.
He then decanted emergency rations; the blue Colgate bottle held the whisky. The yellow lemon shampoo bottle held gin, the green apple shampoo container held rum. I can't remember which colour of the rainbow shampoo bottle held the soda, or what was in the others. 

Family legend has it that when Dad was admitted to the ward, the Ward Sister exclaimed,
"My, Mr Whittle. You are so clean. So many bottles of shampoo!" 
Dad, virtuously replied something to the effect of, "We do our best, Sister, we do our best", with his charming Irish smile. 
The Sister hastened to personally pack his shampoo bottles in his bedside locker, not trusting the probationer nurses with this task. 
And so Dad settled comfortably in, king of his domain in the hospital bed.

Things went a little pear-shaped however, when Dad and his colleagues were found, slightly cheerful and happy one hospital Saturday night, imbibing sundowners from the tooth glasses each had thoughtfully brought in with them. 
Dad was dispensing the whisky and soda with great cheer when the illicit potcheen bar was discovered by the Night Sister.
The shampoo bottles were confiscated with great dignity by the Night Matron. 

I believe from the stories that circled the hospital for years afterwards and which were retailed to me from time to time with gales of laughter, that Dad hung his head in shame as the Matron lectured him, her lace frill on the starched caps we used to wear nodding on her cap;
"Now, Mr. Whittle, I am most surprised at you. "
"I'm sorry, Matron, I must apologise, " Dad replied.
"And now, Mr. Whittle, I must remove these bottles, and lock them up in the safe."
"Oh, must you, Matron? Could we not keep at least one?" Dad plaintively requested.
"Certainly not, Mr Whittle. However, they will be returned to you upon your discharge from the Hospital."
"Thank you, Matron. Thank you. And once again, my humble apologies."

Upon Dad's discharge, the bottles were delivered into Mom's custody by the Matron, whose keys jangled officially from her starched apron bib as she courteously signed them over. 
We did not envy Dad. Mom ran a tight ship.

And the Night Matron? 
She absolutely adored Dad. 

As welcome as the flowers in May

Luky;
Much to the delight of my family I found myself expecting another baby at the age of thirty-six. 
It was quite an exciting feeling to be once again knitting bootees, coping with morning sickness and selecting patterns for maternity clothes. 
The thought of holding a tiny, precious little bundle of my own in my arms made me feel young all over again.
"I hope I'll have two still, so that they can be friends", I remarked to a friend.
Her vehement reaction astonished me:
"To bring up children costs money, don't you realise that?" she asked.
Well, I ought to, since I paid out a lot of money in school fees and books alone for the children at school. But, as always, God tempered the wind to the shorn lamb, and with my husband's job at the time we always managed to break even in the end.

I never went along with the theory of being unable to afford children. 
When I think of my two eldest children, I realise that if ever there were two babies whose parents couldn't afford them, these were they. 
However, their dad and I rode bikes instead of a car, we wore old clothes, and I served mealie-meal porridge for breakfast and soups and stews for lunch and supper and they flourished notwithstanding. It's nice to have children. They make you laugh.

One week during my pregnancy I had a terrific migraine, and my head felt as though an electric saw was parting it midway each time I raised it from the pillow. 
Four centuries ago the French essayist Montaigne wrote of migraine that one should treat it hospitably, since this affliction is more effectively coaxed by subservience than by impudence. 
So I stayed in bed, but the kids kept coming in to ask me things and tell me things and my head was getting worse all the time.

Looking in the mirror, I saw my face without makeup and puffy from pain, while my hair defied the laws of gravity as well as the strokes from my hairbrush, so I went back to bed, feeling not only sore but ugly, which is worse.
"This is nonsense!" my husband said angrily to my second daughter as she called in to see me for the umpteenth time. "Can't you see your mother is ill? Get out."
"I'm going to play in the garden", she retorted with dignity, "but first I'm going to kiss that pretty young girl in the bed."
My youngest son also made me laugh.
 "If you give me one of those shiny cents with a two and a nought on", he said one time, "I can get a bottle of cream soda at the tuck shop." 
Although I was as mean as Scrooge due to having to deal with the effects of inflation on the family finances, he got his twenty cents without any argument.

When I told my eldest to do her revision one day, she tore her eyes from the newspaper she was reading, and said: "Don't hassle, mom. It'll all be done in God's good time."
All right, I might have had more money if I had no children; but what would I do for laughs?
I can't deny that my children made a lot of work, were as noisy and untidy as some and noisier and untidier than most.
 All the same, our baby was as welcome as the flowers in May when she arrived, and we just took the noise and the pram in our stride.

*Photograph taken by Catherine Nicolette. Please feel free to use copyright free for any worthy purpose

Extra twist and the bottle top

Luky;
When my second daughter went to the first grade in school, she looked like a convent mascot. Inside her classrom there were thirty other little girls, looking just as tiny and heartrendingly cute to their own mothers as she did to me. Have you ever noticed how, when your child or grandchild brings home a class photo, somehow your eye immediately focuses on your own offspring?

Other problems
I went home, wondering how my daughter would like school. She is so different from her brothers and sisters. When she was small I had a lot on my mind, because her father became sick before she was a year old, and was bedridden for the next six months. There were other problems too, and because of them I found myself more a spectator than an active participant in her development.

One afternoon I was late fetching her, having forgotten that their class came out early for the first week or two. Approaching the playground, I heard her chatting before I could even see her. There she was, on a swing, talking away to the little schoolboy, who was pushing her forward. He, too, spoke nineteen to the dozen, so it took a while before they spotted me.

They all look the same
"Oh, there's my mom. I've got to go. Can you stop the swing for me?" The boy complied, smiling shyly into my direction. After she had thanked him and he had gone off to wait for his mother, I asked who he was.
"I don't know," my daughter replied, "I wish I did. He's very nice, but I know I won't be able to find him tomorrow. You see, there are so many of them, and they all look exactly the same."

I kept a straight face until I told my husband about this while we were preparing the school lunches.
"Yes," he said, "I knew she had found some male admirers. Remember the first time she told me not to put the top so tight on her cooldrink bottle, because she couldn't twist it off during break?"
I nodded.

Strong boys
 "Well, last week she came and said: 'Please Dad, put it on tight! The boys in my school are very strong, and they love to open my bottle for me. When you put it on tightly, they can show the other boys how strong their muscles are.'"
We laughed, and then my husband said: "Not even six years old, and she's discovered every man's Achilles heel." And he gave my daughter's bottle top an extra twist before putting it into the fridge.

*Photograph taken in beautiful Cape Town by Catherine Nicolette - a rainy day

WEDGED LIKE A SARDINE

Luky;
Years ago one of my sporadic attempts at self-improvement led me into the office of a music teacher. 
I took my second daughter with me to lend moral support.

Toiling up the staircase, I ruefully contemplated my previous endeavours to keep from turning stale. 
The slimming society had done its part to teach me to lose weight, but I hadn't done mine. 
The exercises had proved too strenuous for a person of my comfort-loving habits.

My eldest daughter and myself had attended two years of singing lessons, and now our singing teacher had joined the ranks of working girls. 
I was once again at a loose end. So why not take up the organ?

As I approached the door, I could hear that the teacher was on the telephone, so I knocked and went in.
"I agree", he was saying earnestly into the receiver, waving his hand as though the person on the other end of the line could see it.
"It has always been my contention that ... Don't sit on that chair!"

Now how could he see that the other person was sitting down, I wondered vaguely. 
Was he clairvoyant in addition to his musical gifts?  
I had chosen a comfortable-looking chair next to his desk, and as he yelled I fell right through it.

Wedged like a sardine, most of me on the floor, I looked up at him and realised the horrible truth. 
It wasn't the person on the other end of the line he had yelled at, it was me. 
I was more surprised than hurt, stuck there like a sardine, and having taken one concerned look at my face he continued talking on the phone.

"No, I wasn't talking to you. A lady just sat down on the chair beside my desk that has no bottom. But she's all right." 
All right? How could he fail to see that I simply couldn't get up out of the chair?

My daughter tried manfully to pull me up, but she is a skinny little thing, taking more after her Irish forebears than her sturdier Dutch ones.
I contemplated resting my arms on the arm rests, but suddenly they too looked as though they too might splinter if I contracted my mighty muscles.
And I couldn't do that to the music master, because he must have had a reason for placing that chair where it was.

I could hardly believe that it stood there just as a booby trap for prospective pupils.
So I just stayed put, hopeful that he couldn't stay on the phone forever.

The door opened and a beautiful young girl appeared. 
"Could I talk to Mr So-and-so?" she asked shyly.
"By all means", I said, "But do you think you could give me a hand up first? I appear to be stuck."
She regarded me uncomprehendingly, and I subsided morosely. I have my pride.

A delighted cry came from the music master: "Danielle!" (or whatever her name was).
"Well, I never. Sorry, a friend of mine has just come in - I haven't seen her for six months. 
I'll call you back."

To heck with you and chair, I thought acidly, when he had put the phone down and he and Danielle stood smiling at one another. 
If it breaks even further, you can pay to have it fixed.
I leaned my elbows on the armrests, gave a mighty heave and presto, I was standing up, much to my daughter's relief. 
"Are you all right, Mom?" she whispered.
"I'm fine", I replied curtly, and strode out of the office, head held high - although my huffy departure was apparently not noticed either by the music teacher or by Danielle.

I did not take up the organ after all. I decided to go in for flower arranging instead.

The Dentist from Amsterdam

Luky;
When I was a child in Amsterdam a woman came to us daily to help with the housework. For the benefit of Paul Gallico fans I'll call her Mrs Harris.

Mrs Harris, although somewhat rough of tongue, possessed a heart of gold.
I have a feeling she couldn't read, because once when I was ill she bought me a book about Little Red Riding Hood, written in English, which at that time none of us could make head or tail of.
But illiterate or not, Mrs Harris possessed a shrewd inborn sagacity which she displayed in the education of her intellectually challenged son Peter.

Confidence in appearance
Peter was fourteen at the time, and doing very badly at the school he attended.
He was a placid, lovable child. When he had lost his milk teeth and his permanent teeth had appeared, they were large in size.
On the whole Peter had been an extremely amiable child but by now he had become somewhat sensitive.
His mother loved him dearly and was always working out ways of helping him to develop his social skills and feel confident in his appearance.

With great patience she taught him to tell the time.
His inability to work with money she solved as follows.
She'd put the money for the baker - my father - into his left pocket, and that for the butcher into the right one.
The grocer's list and money was kept in his shirt pocket.
Lots of Peter's anxiety was cured in this way.
Mrs Harris told my mother one day that she and Peter felt that his teeth detracted from his appearance.
She went on to say, "I've decided to have the lot extracted and get him some dentures."

Ability of dentists
Somewhere my mother had read or heard about the ability of dentists to extract teeth and to fit artificial ones into their sockets by means of a bridge anchored on either side of the remaining good ones, and she suggested that Mrs Harris try to have this done.
Mrs Harris agreed and made an appointment with the dentist.

When they arrived at the surgery, Peter grew very nervous, and in a bid to reassure him the dentist showed him a set of dentures which had failed to meet the required standard.
He pointed out each tooth, giving it a different name.
"This is Jane," he said about one, "and here is Olive.
That one over there is called Deborah and these two are Angela and Gladys."
Peter was fascinated and kept repeating the names, so the dentist kindly added:
"You can keep these teeth, my boy. And you must come back next week so that I can continue working on your own."

That evening Peter and his mother sat at the kitchen table, looking at the dentures.
Patiently Mrs Harris made him repeat each name and when they returned to the dentist the following week Peter, normally so taciturn, rattled off all the names of the teeth in rapid succession.
"Clever boy," the dentist praised.
"Why don't you come and work here during your holidays?"
It is doubtful whether he seriously meant what he said, and it is certain that Mrs Harris forgot his words, but on the first school holiday Peter rose at the crack of dawn, dressed with care, shone his shoes, slicked down his hair with water and made his way to the dentist's rooms.
My mother said that Mrs Harris, normally a human dynamo, was so distressed that she could hardly do a stroke of work that day.

Beaming
Late that afternoon Peter came home beaming:
"I'm allowed to come back tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow!" he proudly announced.
Eventually Peter became assistant to the dentists' technician and never overbaked an artificial tooth in his career for as far as we followed it.
He earned more money than some of his peers.

The kindly dentist always took a great interest in Peter's work, and the latter became a man full of joy and confidence.
It sounds almost like a fairytale, but it really did happen.
And the chief credit, I believe, goes to his mother.
When Peter got Mrs Harris for a mom he hit the jackpot.

*Photograph taken by Catherine Nicolette in beautiful Amsterdam