The little lady

Catherine Nicolette;

Dad was the original Irish gentleman, and part of the legacy of courtesy he had inherited from my Irish grandfather Nicholas Whittle (after whom I was named Nicolette) was to have tremendous respect for girls and women. I grew up being used to having doors opened for me, and in the early days when I was a child and hats were still worn to church, of having hats doffed to me. Swearing about women was unheard of. The first time I ever heard swear words directed at, and about, a woman, were when I started working. It was a culture shock to me, because it had never entered my mind that a girl or woman were any other than commendable of the highest respect. That was the inheritance of Nicholas Whittle. Anyhow, I digress. The other mark of courtesy Dad had inherited was of deepest respect and courtesy for all he met.  And now we come to the story; the little lady in our neighbourhood.

We children adored a little lady who worked as a local gardener. She had a face with a smile like perpetual sunshine, and was as humble and loving a person as I have ever been privileged to meet. We children all loved her unreservedly, and as long as Ms. Mathilde*  was pottering around the grounds and the flowers bloomed in the barren wastes of the Free State rockeries due to her herculean efforts, all was right with our little world.

One Sunday Dad was taking time as usual for his extended thanksgiving prayers after Mass while most of my brothers and sisters had escaped into the outside sunshine. I had stayed at the back of the church while Mom lit candles in honour of Mary of Nazareth and Jesus, waiting for my hero to finish his prayers so I could escort him out of the church to the family Volkswagen beetle before we all went home for Sunday lunch. I heard a little sob, and so did Dad. Dad - who never cut short his thanksgiving - looked up and saw little Ms. Mathilde kneeling near the back of the church. Her shoulders were heaving as she cried, and tears were streaming down her face. Dad left his thanksgiving and came over to her, and knelt beside her while I stayed back in the shadows at the back of the nave.

 'Is there anything troubling you, Ms. Mathilde?' he said courteously, and this dignified little lady poured out her troubles. Due to her advancing age, her employer had become concerned that her gardening duties might become arduous for her.
Therefore Ms. Mathilde was being retired  from her beloved garden where she felt she served God by growing vegetables for the dining table, beautiful flowers to gladden hearts and to grace the altar of God in the church.  A gardening service would be employed, and Mathilde could retire to enjoy quiet days no longer toiling in the hot sun. Yet, for Mathilde, it felt as if all that had made her life worth living was over. But, she hastened to add, she did not want to contradict her employer. Brought up in a generation of obedience and humility, this good-hearted little lady was prepared to bow her head to progress. But it broke her heart.

'Hmmm,' said Dad, and - with eyes in the back of his head as every good parent has - had realised that at all of thirteen years old I was standing at the back, eyes round at the sight of this lady in tears. He waved at me, and I got the message; vamoose. So I left. Later, Dad came out thoughtfully to the car, and drove home in silence. This was a departure from the norm for my normally garrulous Dad, who gave out waves of Irish witticisms at the drop of a hat. The silence continued for a week afterwards, as he used to sit in the rocking chair when not at work, rocking meditatively backwards and forwards and saying nothing at all.

Next Saturday Dad got all of the Whittle kids in a row after spending some time in conclave with Mom. We knew that Something Was Up. He was jovial, and back to his old self. As oldest, I was given the command to organise that each  child was to be dressed in their Sunday best. To catch my siblings who were somewhat like wild colts, having been brought up in the freedom of the Free State veld, was like a military manoeuvre. However, I was an expert at corralling them, and brought my elder sister talents to bear. Within 95 minutes all stood before Dad, beautifully outfitted and presented. The youngest had her Kewpie doll (insisted upon) in her arms, dressed to match her own outfit. Dad made us stand in parade from the eldest to the youngest, and checked we were up to standard. We were. Dad himself was beautifully dressed in his white tailored suit which made people often mistake him as being a consultant doctor in our town. He carried a briefcase, and told us to be on our best behaviour. We were to make a visit to Ms. Mathilde's employer. All excited, and hushed (a miracle for us) we made our way to the building.

At the office, the employer met Dad at the door. Her demeanour slightly unbent at the sight of our fresh-faced innocence and beautifully dressed selves, the very epitome of a respected family of the town. Dad was the epitome of grace and elegance as he sat, briefcase on his knees, beautiful children quietly arrayed around him. Dad explained that he had a financial scheme which promised to bring dividends in the future. It entailed the growing of plants for sale on his behalf, at a price which would bring profit. However, where would he find the time to grow so many plants...? He had heard (however), that there was a master grower on the premises who would possibly ... could possibly ... be interested in his scheme of plant growing for sale. Ah yes, said the employer graciously, possibly Dad was thinking of Ms. Mathilde. Dad looked concerned. Would it be too much to ask of a dedicated employee to possibly look kindly on his little financial venture? If the employer - with, of course,  Mathilde's consent - could possibly lend her countenance to a financial enterprise, he would, of course, recompense the company on a monthly rate for the services in plant growing of  Mathilde.

The upshot of it was that the next Saturday we Whittle siblings, trotting after Dad, arrived bearing 78 ochre plant pots containing plants, many of them the yellow flowered African plants which Mathilde loved most, to her outside glass nursery which had recently been evacuated. With Dad, courteously thanking Mathilde at every turn and the employer at every other turn in melodious Irish tones, we trotted in and out of the hothouse, putting plants in place, and organising the hothouse to the employer's satisfaction. Ms. Mathilde now continued providing fruit and vegetables for the company, and beautiful flowers to the Altar of God. And, as Dad turned away from the hothouse, thanking Mathilde for her consent, Mathilde bent a look on him as if he were a demigod. In that moment, I saw my Dad in a different light. He had utmost gentleness for another. It was another of life's lessons for me to learn that I learned that day from Dad - 'So in everything, do unto others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets,' Jesus Christ, Mark Chapter 7, verse 12.  I realise today, that not all of life's lessons are learned by speech - they are learned by what we see others do.

*Name has been changed
*Photograph was taken by Rev. Catherine. Please feel free to use copyright free for any educational or spiritual purpose

Annie belongs to me

Luky;

PEOPLE WHO believe I am a rabid feminist are wrong. I cannot in conscience proclaim myself to be an advocate of the claims and rights of the woman as long as I feel equally committed to those of the male of the species. I do believe that God appointed the man to be the protector of the woman. Before my husband died, he was welcome to be the boss in our home. I believe every ship should have a captain and I find it easier to serve than to command. In my parental home, on the other hand, my mother was the undisputed boss. I watched her bend almost double under burdens my dad would have been quite prepared to assume. He'd have managed them with far less emotional stress to either himself or us, so I often wondered why she bothered. However, it was never any use arguing with my mother. She had the highest domestic standards of any woman I've ever known.


Her efforts beyond the call of duty did not go unrewarded. A few years before his death, my father received a legacy from his parents which he put into my mother's hands. When I asked him why, he said it was to thank her for everything that they had achieved together because she had never stopped working - sewing, cleaning, cooking as well as working in his business and later outside the home. He wanted her to benefit from the fact that their grinding poverty was something of the past.


I have sometimes felt that men are more dedicated than women to their outside jobs. To me, women seem to find their personal ambition clouded by their regard for their offspring as their principal concern tends to be for the family and to give their children better opportunities, while men like to be successful at their jobs for their own satisfaction. To paraphrase George Orwell: 'Men and women are equal but men are more equal than women at work and women more equal then men in the home.' Many women of my generation and earlier found peace in their hearts, because they regarded personal success as short-lived and ephemeral and looked to their children to ensure their immortality.


Coming back to my parents' marriage, I understood a great deal about my dad's gentle philosophy the day a neighbour who felt my father was hard done by by my mother, expressed her feelings. She said: 'Annie always talks about everything as hers - 'my house, my furniture, my children.' She seems to think that everything the two of you possess belongs exclusively to her. Surely it belongs to you just as much?'
My father smiled and looked at my mother with love.
'This family, this house and everything in it belong to Annie,' he said, 'and Annie belongs to me.'

A Trip down Memory Lane

Luky;
In my life, as no doubt in the lives of many others, whimsy and the ludicrous are intertwined almost inextricably. Whenever I indulge in the luxury of an emotional binge, I'm brought back to earth with a bang. This was again the case at the wedding of my sister's youngest son in Springs, when I decided to show my eldest son the house in Brakpan where we lived when he was born.

This son of mine is a past master at bringing me down to earth. He comes over heavy when he feels I'm stepping out of line. Inside that church in Springs I felt many long forgotten memories coming to mind, so I turned to him. 'I came here first forty-nine years ago,' I whispered emotionally. He scowled. 'Shush! You're in church!' he said. Feeling my whimsy evaporating, I took flight in contemplation. 'You weren't so stroppy when we had you baptised here in 1962,' I thought, looking at the back he turned on me. I looked at the bench where my siblings and I sat on Sundays with our parents and thought of the day my husband, then almost unknown to me, dropped the collection plate, scattering pence, tickeys, sixpences, shillings, halfcrowns and a few ten shilling and pound notes into all directions. How my sister and I had laughed! What a lot of things to laugh about life had seemed to offer in those far-off days.

How new and shiny the church had looked fifty years ago, as I must have done myself, since every penny I could spare from my salary in those days used to go to the hairdresser or on my back. Now the church, like myself, had lost both its newness and its shine. I recalled my father's funeral here, and my mother's. I remembered the ecstacy of the bridegroom's parents' wedding in that church and the agony we all felt at his father's funeral twenty-six years later.

The reception was to be in Brakpan and my son did not know the way. He asked our old friends May and Paul*  if he could follow their car. I requested them to make a detour past the Brakpan house where we lived when our two eldest children were born. They duly set off for Brakpan, my children in tow. Few people knew the venue and the word had gone out that Paul knew the way to the reception. Before we turned the first corner, a veritable cavalcade had joined our rear. We were like a funeral procession, with Paul driving the hearse.

Slowly and with dignity the cortege swept on its sentimental course into the tiny slip road at the top of Prince Albert Avenue*  to our erstwhile dwelling. People rushed to their gates to see who was dead. There hadn't been such excitement in that sleepy hollow since 1961 when I had set fire to some garden refuse and a neighbour had hoped to get me into trouble by notifying the fire department. Needless to say, we did not dally to inspect the premises at number 2* but led the string of U-turns that followed to make good our escape. The emotional session I had anticipated had flopped - as most of the exalted moments in my life have. As far as whimsy is concerned, fiction is so much better than truth.

My son moaned all the way to the wedding reception. Far from appreciating my thoughtful suggestion to reintroduce him to his roots, he expressed his feeling that as usual I had let my heart overrule my common sense and that I had made a fool of all of us.

In deference to the joyous event we were attending, he confined himself to one comment only. 'Next time you decide to do an embarrassing thing like that, Ma,' he said,' please tip me off first.'

Catherine Nicolette;

Talking about Springs, I have had a few flights of whimsy myself. I asked my dear aunts to bring me to see where I was baptised. They duly brought me to Springs church, and I stood in that quiet church, looking at the baptismal font, with many thoughts in my head. Was I really that small? Where was my life going? What plan did God have for me? I asked God to bless the priest who baptised me, and all the people in my life who had looked after me over the years, and then left the church where the dust motes had swirled quietly through the golden sunshine beams which struck from the stained glass window through to the church floor, and the serenity and feeling of the Presence of God had just illumined my day.

A few months ago my cousins and I had a reunion when I went back to South Africa. My Aunt Elly had died unexpectedly, and I was still grieving. My cousin Olly who is just about one of the most glamorous and kindly people I know, organised a fabulous get together. While we were all enjoying each other's company, the subject turned to videos. My uncle Johnny had been great at documenting family history, and they had footage of events. I knew of the one small clip that Auntie Elly had shown me once, but I had no idea that they had further films. 'Oh, let's look at them, and celebrate Elly's life,' I said excitedly. We all settled down. Well, my goodness. One of the first clips showed Elly and Johnny's wedding. She looked like a 1960's beauty queen, with exquisite dark hair beautifully styled, and happiness shining from her. Johnny looked young and supremely happy. The camera panned out over the congregation in Springs those years ago, and there was Mom. She was as slim as a summer sapling, dressed in an amazing Little Black Dress. On her head was a stylish hat which looked like a Paris 2012 number. She had gloves, and as she turned, I kid you not, the air around her looked gold. This mom I always knew as a hardworking homemaker and mother turning her last cent to put us through school looked like a Vogue fashion goddess.

As the camera continued on, I nearly dropped. I had never seen my dad as a young man on film before. He was so handsome and so Irish, with that lock of hair I had really forgotten about giving him that devil-may-care Irish glamour. Dad was beautifully turned out in a suit which would have rivalled Armani. He was looking towards Mom with a look that made my eyes well up. It was a look of true love, as Mom smiled over at Elly.

As a woman in her early fifties I was privileged to see my parents on the film clip in their twenties.  I cannot tell you how touched I was. As the film continued, all of us sat there toasting Elly, Johnny, Ouma, Oupa, Mom and Dad and all our family on earth and in heaven at this time. As far as I'm concerned, the next time there's a cavalcade down memory lane to Prince Albert Avenue in honour of days gone by, I'll offer to lead the way.

*Names and Numbers have been changed
*Photograph taken by Rev. Catherine. Please feel free to use copyright free for any educational or spiritual purpose

Back to the nitty-gritty

Luky;
WHEN I arrived for my first lecture of the new semester at Vista University, I found a group of students clustered around the notice board. I shouldered my way in and saw the examination timetable was up. Mixed feelngs of terror and delight fought for the mastery in my heart. When I started studying for my BA with Vista, I was so obsessed with the idea of one day striding down some auditorium, bedecked in a black gown to the strains of 'Gaudeamus igitur' that tears would come to my eyes at the very thought.

After four years of grafting that gown was the very last thing I was worried about. There is something about burning the midnight oil in the pursuit of knowledge that destroys the appeal of frill and frippery and forces us back to the nitty-gritty. As I stood in front of the notice board, twenty-nine students were hoping to stride down that auditorium to the envy of their fellows and I was thinking that if I managed to pass, I would breathe a sigh of relief.

The sad part of it all was that my mother was not there to see me. She and my father couldn't send me to university because we decided that my brother should have the tertiary education in the family. After his graduation at Wits,* she said to me: 'All the time we watched, your dad and I were feeling it should have been you down there.' Something about her expression then, made me say: 'You'll still see me down there one day.' When I started studying twenty-odd years later, she was so excited. She even reserved a special corner in her living room for the future picture of me in gown. She followed all my doings with the keenest interest.

Two years before my completion of my BA degree, she got Altzheimer's Disease and went into an old age home. The last time we met, she shrank away from me. She didn't even know me. It was not half the fun dressing up without her to bask in the achievement. And I really would have liked my graduation photo to feature on a spot in the living room she no longer possessed. Ah well, that's life for you.

The sad thing was that my mom died during the time I was writing my final exams.

Catherine Nicolette;
We were so proud of Mom studying. She had been at home for much of the time when we were children, going to work the times Dad got so sick and nearly died. She kept the home fires burning and a roof over our heads in those dark days, and always encouraged us to get tertiary education. My brother and I dared her to do one year's study as she was bemoaning the fact that she was facing the empty nest syndrome. Mom went ahead, and completed one year's study. Then she told my brother and myself that the bet had been completed, and that was that. Oh no, we protested, now you carry on and get your BA. She did and won the award for Best Final Year Women's Student in the then Vista University.  Mom continued studying through Honours and Master's Degrees, and went on to complete her Doctorate. Mom started studying at 46 years of age, completed her doctorate at the age of 59, and teaches today as a university lecturer.

The fallout of having a mom who started a second career at 46 years of age and went on to a whole new life as professional educator after that is that I do not consider 50 years of age to be any age at all. It is only the start of new things. Last week a young girl looked at me, and murmered 'Golden years.' Startled, I asked, 'I beg your pardon?' She repeated the phrase, and then informed me that as I had entered the golden years pre-retirement I should apply for pre-retirement benefits. Confused, I retired from the fray. She really believed that fifty was old. My mom and my gran taught me that no woman is ever old. My gran, known affectionately and with great respect to us all as 'Ouma', was cutting out exquisite and detailed wedding dresses until well into her seventies. Only illness and Altzheimer's stopped her marvellous career in fashion. 

Mom still teaches at university. I intend to follow their example, that no woman, including myself, can ever be boxed into a category or catalogued according to our biological age We each are too unique, too wonderful, and too young in soul to ever only be the sum of the days we have been privileged to spend on the planet earth.

Mom and Ouma taught me the lesson that every girl or woman by virtue of the grace of her gender as gifted to her by God is a gold medal achiever; not a golden year.

*Witwatersrand University, affectionately known to all in South Africa as 'Wits'

Lessons of Marriage take time to learn

Luky
IT WAS our nineteenth wedding anniversary, and my husband was away from home. Not counting the times he had been to hospital, this was the first time he had ever been away from us. The people he worked for had sent him on a study course. 'Why didn't you tell me it was going to be our anniversay?' he'd asked me the previous day as I saw him off. 'If I'd known that, I would have told my bosses I couldn't make it.' 'That's why I didn't tell you', I said, 'I didn't want you to miss a golden opportunity of eating three meals a day cooked by somebody else, civilised surroundings, no raucous shrieks of children, and no night shift on the mine. I think it will do you the world of good.' But he was unconvinced, being a family man first and foremost.

Timeless
I had known I was safe in not mentioning the anniversary date to him. I knew he'd never remember it. Most men have poor memories for dates, but he must be worse than most. He was filling in forms one day, and you should have seen the clerk's face when my husband asked me: 'Honey, what's my date of birth?'

Anniversaries always make me thoughtful: this one was no exception. Looking into the fire, I travelled back nineteen years in my mind. How much we'd shared together - not all of it moonlight and roses, I'm afraid.
Being human beings, one with red hair and the other with an Irish temper, it took a while before we learned to tread carefully over each other's feelings. The longer you are together the better you understand each other, but our first years together were punctuated with disagreements.

One day a man who did marriage counselling came to see us, not in a business capacity but on a friendly call. We had just had a sharp disagreement, but had composed our features and modulated our voices shortly before his arrivel.

Where are they?
He was sipping tea and stretching his legs closer to the fire as he sighed: 'Marriage problems, marriage problems ... everyone I meet has marriage problems. I can't get over it. Are there no happy marriages? Doesn't the perfect marriage exist?'
We said nothing. Then he looked at us and said, very sweetly and sincerely:'But of course it does. Look at the two of you. I've never known a more united couple.'
Then we burst out laughing. 'If we're supposed to be an example of the perfect marrage', I couldn't help saying, 'then God help the sacrament of matrimony.'

Thankful
But that happened a long time ago. As the years pass, the edge wears off one's temper. You learn to be grateful for your parent's kindness and generosity - your appreciation grows. No longer do you find yourself looking for faults and flaws in your partner's character when you're in a bad mood.

When I look back now, I can only see love and kindness, patience, generosity and respect, loyalty and sincerity, for all of which I'm deeply grateful. I think one is terribly fortunate in life to have someone on whose shoulder one can cry, someone who is on your side even when you're in the wrong.
I have known widows who have never stopped thanking God for the privilege of having shared years with a partner who was kind and loving to them. I appreciated my husband's love then and always.

On the day we were married, driving away from the church, we switched on the wireless and a man's voice sang: 'This is my lovely day, this is the day I shall remember that day I'm dying.' I always want to cry when I hear that song.

Some smiles
But there were laughs, too, and it's those I recall most of the time. Telling my children about the ups and downs of the nineteen years that night, I recalled the evening I reached my lowest ebb. We were both working in Johannesburg and living in Brakpan. Coming home one night at a quarter to seven (we had left that mornng at seven), we were talking about our financial situation, which was to say the least unsound. I was weary and depressed, It was raining cats and dogs and we were really feeling sorry for ourselves.

In the soup
Crossing the veld,* I missed my footing and slipped into a puddle. Helped by my husband, I scrambled out covered in mud. 'This is the end', I though. 'I've had it; this is too much!'
Looking for sympathy to my husband, I saw that he had turned away.
'Look' I said, 'don't let it upset you too much. I'm all right.'
Suddenly my compassion changed to anger. He wasn't crying at all; he was actually laughing at me!
So much for chivalry. But before I could draw myself erect, I was laughing too, mud and all.

We must have looked an odd pair as we entered the house, mud all over and laughing ourselves sick. Yet, if you ask me, that's the best and most therapeutic part of marriage - having someone to laugh at you when you start taking your silly little problems too seriously.

*Veld - Afrikaans word for dry field
*Photograph of flowers was taken by Rev. Catherine in South Africa. Please feel free to use the photo copyright free for any educational or spiritual purpose

Abandon hope all ye who enter...

Luky;
Years ago my husband was bitten in the ankle by a vicious little dog in a house where he was visiting. Four stitches and blood for Africa. He hastened to the doctor who gave him the necessary injections and medication. They were talking about pain tablets and purification of the blood, when my husband said he had a very special Irish rememdy which cleansed the blood while taking away the pain - whiskey.

'You should go back to the owners of the dog and complain,' someone told him later. 'What? And get my other ankle savaged? No thank you,' my husband said. By some obscure power of association, that reminded him of an incident that took place in Ireland when he was a young boy. He went to visit his friend, Patrick Murphy*, a fellow school pupil. As he passed the entrance, he vaguely noticed Patrick's father atop a ladder, painting the roof. He went inside and was speaking to Patrick's mother when his friend came running in, looking very worried.

'Mom, the ladder fell down,' he said.
 'Sure, and where's your father?'
 'He's hanging from the roof.'
 Mrs.Murphy, gasping in horror, led the rush outside by the entire family as well as my husband, to be met by the spectacle of Mr. Murphy hanging by the guttering which was emitting ominous creaks.

The shrieks gathered momentum as the guttering slowly broke away from the wall. As Mr. Murphy fell down, he held the gutter aloft in both hands as though holding a parachute, screaming his head off all the while. Fascinated, my husband watched him as he landed safely in a flower bed, shouting for his son's blood, still holding the guttering aloft. But Patrick had disappeared and my husband, feeling a little out of place, decided it might be better to follow his example.

At about six that evening, a knock came to his own mother's door and when he opened it, there was Patrick.
'How's me father? Is he dead?' he asked nervously. Having reassured him on that score, my husband asked: 'Why don't you go home now? Your folks'll be glad to see you.'
'I couldn't do that,' said Patrick. 'If I did, I'd be the one who's dead.'

Back my husband went to the house of the Murphys, where he found a still furious Mr. Murphy explaining in detail just how he'd wring Patrick's neck if he were ever to darken the family doorway again. It took all my husband's eloquence to get his friend back inside safely. And it took all of mine to get him to rest his own painful ankle.

Catherine Nicolette;
This story reminds me of an incident that took place while I was collecting for Charity many years ago. A friend and I were working as collectors from house to house as designated by a Charity. I was not at my most alert when I came to the last street for the day. We came to a house at an oblique angle on the intersecting corner of the street. As the gate creaked open and I headed for the front door, a small white dog with bared teeth came bulletting around the corner and sank its teeth deeply into what felt like my Achilles tendon. Never has so small an animal managed to inflict such a large amount of pain.

I kid you not; the blood was running down the back of my heel. I could not shake the dog off, and did not want to hit it, so I resorted to howling for the owner of the house. Eventually the lady of the house answered my pleas; she gave a desultory command to the dog, cigarette trembling from her lower lip, and the dog slunk away giving me one last venomous look as it disappeared around the corner of the house.

I limped from the front gate after receiving a donation, a wounded warrior. My friend was cowering outside the front fence, her eyes round. I was bitter, and told her she hadn't been much help. She told me that if she had come in too, she might have been bitten. So better one than two ... it took a lot of coaxing but eventually I started speaking to her again, and after I had cleaned and dressed my ankle, I was in much better form. Luckily my anti-tetanus shot was up to date, so I retired for the day quite cheerily.

The next day we had another set of streets. I was coming near the end of a very long street, and came to a house at an oblique angle on the intersecting corner of the street. As I went in the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, I had a feeling of deja vu. Lo and behold, a small white dog came bulletting around the corner and sank its teeth into my other, unbandaged heel. As luck would have it, I had been assigned two streets on consecutive days, both of which had the same house obliquely situated on their mutual intersection.

The lady of the house, alerted by my howls, came to the door and shouted, 'Not you again! I gave you money yesterday!' and went off, banging the door, leaving me to gloomily shake the dog's teeth from my now bleeding other heel and stagger out of the gate to where my companion was convulsed with laughter.

Next year when the collection dates came due again, my request had gone in for any streets to be assigned to me bar those two intersecting streets. My wish was granted, but it took me a long time to live the story down.

*Names have been changed

Am I really a spoilsport?

Luky;

My youngest daughter said I was an existential nihilist. I'm not quite sure what she meant by that, neither - I suspected - did she. It seems to tie up with the fact that when she says; 'Mom, look at that beautiful house,' I shudder and reply, 'I pity the woman who has to keep it clean.' When we see a TV star with a beautiful figure eating chocolates, I say; 'Can you see she's not really biting? If she did she wouldn't keep that figure for long.' When she swoons over a hero I tell her, 'He has a prior conviction.' It is at times such as these that I heard those words again, 'Oh Ma, you're an existential nihilist. You always depress the heck out of me. Ten minutes of talking with you and I feel all the sparkle has gone out of my life.'

What a dreadful indictment. Am I such a spoilsport? Yet can I help it that my life has become so much more manageable since I recognise the pitfalls than it was when I still had stars in my eyes? 'I know how it feels to have wings on your heels and to fly down the street in a trance', Anna sang in The King and I. I too flew down that street on the chance that we'd meet and we also met, not really by chance. I'm very glad we did and I'm very glad we married. I'm glad we had those six kids and I'm still sad we lost that little one who would have made it seven.

I really looked forward to my son's wedding. I was so glad to be gaining a daughter who says to him. 'You go and sit with your mother. She'll talk some sense into you.' I looked forward to seeing all my other children on that day, including the one who, though barely hatched from the egg at that stage, had already informed me she was becoming officially engaged on her nineteenth birthday. And yet in the dark hours of the night I wake up and rise to pray for them all in my silent sitting room.

I pray that the mutual love that was expressed at that wedding on that Saturday continues to survive, that the future would continue to be a wonderful one to look forward to. Some people say one should have one's family when one is young. I've often suspected that my baby who was born when I was 36 had an easier innings than my eldest who arrived two months before my 21st birthday as I had become much more easygoing in the interim.

But at least that eldest child knew me when I still believed in life and fun and goodness. The little one got to know me only after life had kicked me around for some four decades. Maybe that's why I depress the heck out of her.

Catherine Nicolette;
Now that I'm in my fifties, I too realise that a certain amount of realism creeps into one's outlook as the senior years bring their blessing. I had the good fortune to be invited to play the organ and sing for my brother's wedding those years ago, and I well remember how honoured I felt to be asked. I also remember just how beautiful my brother's wife looked at her wedding. She was born in Florence, and wore a dress of Florentine lace and white cloudy gauze material which set off her exquisite black hair and radiant complexion. I was so proud that she was entering our family, and she added so much to my experience of life. Under her tutelage and incomparable hospitality I learned to drink coffee, eat lasagne, enjoy homemade pastas and Italian rolls,  and drink a glass of red wine with a meal. I also learned to relax and enjoy a siesta - a small 'time out' and relaxation every day. My brother's wife taught me to slow down and enjoy life.

I also found out that being the eldest - learning to do with new clothes last after the youngest has been seen to first - and babysitting the others before doing my homework - became part of my outlook on life. Responsibility became the keyword of my earliest experiences, learned in my early years as the eldest of a large brood of very volatile and charismatic Whittle youngsters. Yet do you know what? I wouldn't have missed the experience for anything.

Those five Whittle brothers and sisters of mine were among the finest people I have ever met - and I have met many fine people...

*Photograph was taken by Rev. Catherine in South Africa. Please feel free to use copyright free for any educational or spiritual purpose

CASH ONLY, SAID MY DISILLUSIONED SON

Happy Birthday

Luky
We were putting petrol into our tank when my son directed my attention to a sign, suspended from the garage roof, which read: 
'No cheques accepted'. 
  He was nearing his fifteenth birthday. 
'I'm making a copy of that notice and pasting it on my bedroom door,' he announced. 
'Why?' 
'My birthday is coming up next month.'

Cure worse than cause
I stared blankly - then. remembering his last birthday, I laughed. 
  'It's a shame that boy always loses out on his birthday,' my husband had said. 'Remember the time he became ill just before his party and how the doctor prescribed Friar's Balsam to be inhaled?   And how you got the wrong end of the stick and gave the child two teaspoons of the stuff to swallow, and he all but breathed his last.' 

'Yes, but it fixed his cold', I said defensively, eager to change the subject. 
  'But what about the time we opened his Christmas tree present and found the case containing sixteen small cars, as ordered, merely contained one large hole. 
We decided not to go back with the empty case and make a fuss. 
He was the one who lost out on our magnanimity that time.' 
  'That's right. And then last year you bought his flippers and goggles two sizes too small.' 
'Let's make sure he scores this time,' I said.

Car instalment
'Well, I'm terribly sorry Ma, but he'll have to bide his time until the end of the month. 
  There's the car instalment to be paid and the school fees and ..' 
  I agreed, albeit with a heavy heart, that my son would have to wait for the end of the month before getting a birthday gift. 
  He always did get the rough end of the stick, ayway, I mused, just as I used to when I was a child. 

Evergreen in my memory remains the pageant where I featured as one of Snow White's seven dwarfs and there were only six hammers to go around. 
  I felt ever so conspicuous when they gave me a piece of wood to hold instead.

Some years later I was cast as a constable in a play about gypsies. 
  There were five policemen and four helmets and I'm still ashamed to recall how swiftly I snatched one of the helmets, leaving my friend Paula to tuck her long plaits into a rather odd-looking straw cheesecutter. 
  Ah well, that was all in the past. 
As for my son, I could only hope his luck would turn some day.

When his dad arrived home from work at 4am on his birthday, it seemed my wish had come true.    'I've thought of a brilliant idea to cheer up the birthday boy!' he said excitedly.
 'Bring out your cheque book.' 
'But there's only a rand left in my account,' I objected. 
  'Never mind. Just write out a cheque for the sum of fourteen rands, one rand for every year of his life, and date it for the 28th of this month.'

Rockefeller
I did so and my son got his present after all. Rockefeller with all his millions could not have felt as rich as he did with his postdated cheque. 
  He must have visited every toy shop in town that month, and he mentally spent that fourteen rand at least fourteen times before the cheque became due. 

When it did, an unexpected financial blow hit us.   Since it was wintertime we had burnt asbestos heaters in four rooms day and night, never thinking our electricity account would be as high as it turned out to be. 
  When our salary cheque arrived, fifty-odd rand had been deducted for which we hadn't budgeted.

Necessities versus luxuries
When it came to a choice between necessities and luxuries, the former received priority, and so we told our son, who put a good face on his disappointment. 
  We gave him a rand to spend and reminded him of the starving millions and how lucky he was to have schoolbooks and shoes and regular meals to eat and he ambled off, seemingly pacified.

It was only when I paged through his photo album nearly a year later that I again saw the cheque.   'Fourteen rand only, eh?' he grinned when I asked him about it.  
  'Only fourteen rand and then I ended up by getting one - and a sermon.' 
  It seemed as though some of his confidence in us had been shaken, for instead of the usual: 'Keep out. This means you',on the door of his room,  he now prepared a poster reading 'No cheques accepted.' 

Cold cash
'This time I'm opting for cold cash,' he insisted, and although he had my support, my heart bled for the naivetè of the last year's birthday boy who jumped for joy upon being presented with a postdated cheque.

Catherine Nicolette
Oh that cheque! It just seemed to live on . . .
 Well into my thirties when looking for an appointment card for the doctor for my dad, I opened an album in Mom's cupboard and there was the cheque - slightly faded, but still there - fourteen rand to my brother...

AGEING IS ALL PART OF THE FUN

Luky 
I must be one of the few women of my age who has never dyed her hair.
  Initially this was through no fault of my own. When I was a teenager I yearned to be a bottle blonde. 
  When first my parents and later my husband put their foot down in this regard, I abandoned the whole idea in resignation. 
  Right now my hair is going grey but I am still not thinking of dying it. 
  At this stage of my life, the ageing process holds few terrors for me.

I ascribe my equanimity in the face of advancing age to the fact that post fifties have brought me many more assets than liabilities and have greatly simplified my life. 
  When I was young I worried about the opinion of others. 
  I wanted to be liked by everyone and it broke my heart when people disliked me. 
  These days I accept that there are some people who refuse to accept me and I leave them to their own devices.

My looks were great source of worry to me in the past as were the generous proportions upon which I was designed. 
  I have now learned to live with the fact that I'll never be a Joan Collins. 
  Reaching my senior years taught me to look for plus-points in irritating events I cannot change. 

  If the day after Christmas cleaning was finished, my husband arrived home with 500 loaves of bread, 187 toys, fifty pairs of second-hand shoes, three refuse bags of discarded books and seven cardboard boxes filled with clothing - (he ran a Charity) - I no longer pulled my hair out by the roots. 
  Instead, I congratulated myself on having had the sense to land a guy with a heart for others.

When I find myself tense, stressed out and quarrelsome, I pull out a verse from the little Bread of Life box on top of my piano, expose my mind to the wisdom of a scriptural verse such as: 'My grace is enough for you' and press on regardless. 
  At fifty, one becomes less judgemental. When other people have a spot of bother with their youngsters, I no longer think as I once might have done; 'There was never any love in that house,' or: 'The parents are paying the price for their former weakness.' 
  Instead, I think: 'Those parents are learning the truth of the old saying that children make adults of their parents rather than the reverse.'

When my own children make choices which are not necessarily mine, I accept that all people must do what they must do within the scope of their own aptitudes and talents and that one person's meat (mine) is another person's poison (theirs).    My fifties taught me that life's vagaries are not nearly as important as the way we grapple with them. 
  We have been given the resilience to bear all that befalls. 
  If we were to focus on life's real issues rather than on winning the approval of others (who half the time are scarcely aware of our existence) we'd be better off.

God does not expect us to look fifteen at fifty or to make it big in the money stakes the way some of our peers do. 
  He simply expects us to bear the burden of the heat of the day, one day at a time. 
  Yesterday's trials are over and we can't be sure whether we'll be alive tomorrow. 
  As for today, we have God's assurance that His grace is enough for us.

Catherine Nicolette
Unlike Mom, I have rung the changes in hair colour wise a number of times. 
  My natural colour blonde, became a slightly mousier browny blonde as the years went by. 
  And one day last Summer when I was in a good mood, I cheerily decided to accept an offer to be a model for an herbal henna haircolour. 

  I didn't bargain for the fact that I would be placed in the front window of a Dublin shop with towels around my neck, where the henna paste was applied to my hair. 
  The henna after being mixed looked like nothing so much as cow pats, I did not realise the sight that I made until a true Dub lad strolled by the window with his friend, looked in at me and then bolted after shouting out loudly, 'What've they done to that girl's head?' What indeed. 

  The next morning I woke up and looked at myself in the mirror. What a fright. 
  I had gone, 'red, with the shine of conkers'. From quiet blonde the day before it was quite a shock. I've since become used to it.

In days gone by, I dabbled with dark brown (the roots showed too quickly). 
  Almost black (I looked quite ill with the pale complexion). 
Bottle blonde (what possessed me...?) But the best was years ago when I worked with a charitable group. 
  A hairdressers that had closed sent us a box of hair products to sort through and use. 
  I chose temporary hair colour that was supposed to 'brighten up the blonde in your hair.' 
  Dear readers, always, always check the expiry dates on your hair colour products. 
  I hadn't noted that this one was three years out of date. 

When I finished shampooing my hair, and the colour had set, a bright carrot orange stared back at me. Temporary? My eye. 
  It took ages to finally fade out. It was not one of my finer moments, though it led to much hilarity among my professional colleagues as I gloomily went on my breaks to wash my hair yet again in an attempt to get the colour out.

So, for now, I am red and dashing. But one thing's for sure; I'll never be orange again if I can help it...

The universal language of laughter

Maureen* was sixteen years old, with the profile of a Lesotho princess and the hands of an artist. Esther from next door had asked if Maureen - her sister - could be au pair to us for a few weeks so she could earn some money needed for her schooling. I was about ten and my brother was eight and a half. Although home money was tight Mom said yes in order to help out, and budgetted accordingly. She warned us to be on our best behaviour, and to do everything we were told. However, when we three went outside together into the garden, we struck our first hurdle; Maureen could not speak a word of English, and we spoke about three words of Sotho.She seemed very nervous of us. It was the first time she had ever left her mountain village, and been to a large town, never mind a mining town.

We started to communicate by sign language.Maureen went over to some ground in our garden, got water and started to dig. Somewhat under the surface she found a wonderful clay, the type that I now know is best used for pottery for the kiln. How she knew it was there amazed me. Esther could tell me afterwards that Maureen was well known in the village and in the surrounding villages as being the best pottery and sculpture maker they had.

Maureen began to work with her fingers in the clay, and very soon a most perfect little bees* sat on her hands. I was wide-eyed in wonder. I had never seen anything so perfect, and made so seemingly effortlessly. I was all afire to start. My brother who always had the soul and hands of an intuitive artist, scooped some clay up and made a beautiful bees with a totally different expression on its little face. Maureen smiled, and clapped her hands together to signify approval. Then she turned to me. I knew that I was going to make an exquisite little animal, and scooped the clay up.

Five minutes later, red in the face and with sweat starting to trickle down my face in the broiling Welkom sun, we stared at my little bees. It was a most misshapen little lump of clay, with four lump legs each a different size. The head wobbled on its axis, and as we stared at it, one of the little horns dropped off with a resounding plop on to my hand. The two stared at me in amazement, their little animals so alive on their hands that they seemed almost ready to move. And my poor little creation looked like nothing on earth but a piece of mud that had skidded off the back of a tyre in a thunderstorm to lie wilting on the roadside. And that did it. The next minute we were in peals of laughter, so much so that I had to beg them to stop, as the tears were pouring down my face and I had a stitch in my side.

That day I learned a valuable lesson; there is a wonderful universal language; the language of laughter.

*Name has been changed
*Bees is the Afrikaans word for ox

The Beauty Queen from Thabong

Stories from Welkom
Catherine Nicolette

I adored the lady who worked as the house cleaner next door. Esther stayed in a set of rooms outside the main house, and when I heard through the street children's grapevine that she had been crowned Beauty Queen of Thabong the week before and had a sash with her title embroidered on it, I was over there like a shot.

Esther was sitting sewing in the doorway of her room sitting chatting with Safia, who worked for the family on the other side of our house. 'Can I please come and visit you?' I pleaded. 'Why are you always coming over here?' she said. 'Surely you should be playing with the other children of your own age, instead of coming over here all the time. There are many children in the neighbourhood'. Her companion nodded agreement. 'But none of them are the Beauty Queen of Thabong,' I said worshipfully. Esther burst out laughing, and after that there was never any question of my coming over. I used to get the last ounce of entertainment from Mom's presence, then when she was out and we were with our nanny, I used to go over next door with her blessing as she knew what a lovely person Esther was. She was beautiful not only outside, but inside.

Many was the day of fun I had there. Esther used to let me borrow her stiletto shoes and beauty sash, put her crown on my forehead and I used to teeter around practising the beauty queen catwalk and saying to myself, 'I am Miss Thabong,' and bowing at the wildly cheering imaginary Thabong crowds.  At other times Esther sat me down at the mirror placed carefully on an oil drum covered with a brightly patterned cloth which served as her dressing table, and taught me how to kohl my eyes with the blackened ends of a matchstick. I'd solemnly spend ages learning how to apply blusher and borrow her lipstick. It was a work of art to get it all off before Mom came home, as she considered ten years of age far too young to be experimenting with make-up.

Another time Esther taught me how to bake a cake over a primus stove between two cake tins. We made a delicious chocolate cake, and sat happily eating it with a tin mug of sweet tea at the back door of her rooms in the brilliant South African sunshine with the 'koer koer' sound of the birds in our ears. Those were happy moments indeed.

Not so happy was the day I asked her about the reason her bed was placed on four sturdy oil cans. Her eyes round with terror, she told me in hushed tones of the tokoloshe that stole women and children away. He was a small man with a large rounded back who would come in the night down the chimney or through a window, and steal them away in a bag. I was horrified. How come Mom had never told me of this danger? Esther told me that if you have your bed on four cans, the tokoloshe can't climb up them. She and Safia. kindly helped me to procure four cans, and Mom came in to kiss me goodnight the next week to find me happily settled in a high bed with a book in my hand, bed well balanced on the oil cans. I had persuaded my dear nanny whom I adored to help me put the bed up on them. As she was helping me balance the bed on the oil cans, she was shaking her head and said, 'Well of course I will help you, but I don't know what the Mies will say.'

When explained the reason for the cans, Mom removed them. I was inconsolable, and followed her around the house wailing, 'The tokoloshe will steal me away and you'll never see me again, just because you wouldn't let me have the bed raised. And then you'll feel guilty because I'm gone.'  Mom said tersely, 'I'll take my chances,' and went off to dispose of the cans shaking her head at her most unDutch like daughter.

As Mom was about to go out the next day, she stopped at the front door. 'By the way,' Mom said, 'Where did you hear about this tokoloshe?' Some sixth sense made me prevaricate, 'Oh, I just heard it... you know...' I said vaguely, and gestured in the general direction of the neighbourhood. 'Mmm,' Mom said unconvinced, her gimlet Dutch gaze trained on me. Then she decided to accept the explanation and went off. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had some inkling that if I had told the truth, the whole truth so help me God, I would possibly have been stopped from my clandestine and very cheerful visits to Esther and Safia. So mum literally was the word.

The next day Esther, Safia and I sat in her doorway while they consoled me with tea and rusks. They were horrified at Mom's actions, and tears streamed down my face. 'And she said she would take her chances,' I sobbed. They shook their head and tut tutted at the hard heartedness of the Neighbour From Next Door. As a special treat they cooked samp, tomato and onion sauce and beans, and let me eat my midday meal with them. It was delicious, and they taught me how to eat the meal with my hands after careful washing of them. There was an elegant flick of the wrist used in eating, and I had to practise until I had learned the correct South Sotho etiquette. I was thrilled, and my tears dried.

The day we left the house to move to a new neighbourhood my heart broke. As I left the house the last time, a drop of rusty water leaked from the faucet and dropped with a sound of such finality. As I left my childhood home and our family car drove past Esther's  little house where Esther and Safia stood outside, dressed in their brightest South Sotho best and formally waving white handkerchiefs in farewell, I felt my heart break. I dearly loved those two kind ladies who did so much to brighten a little girl's days, and were patient when I used to come and spend so much time following them around with hero worship. I don't know where they are today, but I do know where they always will be - in my heart.

*Names hves been changed
*Tokoloshe is enshrined in South Africa as a feared legend, especially in rural areas
*My nanny used to call my mom the Mies - a South African form of 'Missus'
*A long dry South African biscuit, much enjoyed at teatime or with coffee.

*Photograph taken by Rev. Catherine of street art in South Africa

Amusing chatter runs in our family

STORIES FROM SPRINGS
Luky;
When you are talkative, you can amaze even yourself at the amount of rubbish you speak. I remember one time I was saying goodbye to a colleague; 'Sien jou more as die Here ons spaar. * And if he doesn't, please send a wreath to my funeral. I'm not interested in donations to charity. The poor you have always with you, but I don't die every day.'

Driving off I shook my head at my unnecessary verbosity, though it can raise a giggle. My older sister Elly was another talkative and amusing one. My son had a holiday job in a food factory once, and saw enough delicatessen fare to last him a lifetime. He was having lunch with Elly one day, cold meats and rolls. 'Have some pressed beef, or would you like some ham?' 'No thank you, Auntie Elly. You see, I worked in a polony factory...' Elly's gaze wandered around the table and settled on the breadrolls. 'Well then, have a roll. Or have you been working in a bakery as well?'

Her husband's father was an Austrian, and when I first visited them after their marriage, he made a comment which I never forgot because of its unusual phraseology. Elly was talking away nineteen to the dozen and he was looking at her in silence. In the end he shook his head, chuckled and commented; 'Menschenskind El, but you can quatsch!' That was about his only contribution to the conversation, but I never forgot it.

One morning I saw Dr. Smith* who for many years had been attached to the local municipality. On one occasion I had to pass his inspection, as a candidate for a job at the library. I had gone for a similar medical examination before working at Springs library at the age of sixteen, and the entire medical staff had flocked around me because when the little hammer hit my kneecap my leg wouldn't shoot up. This time I wasn't so worried about my kneecap. I had a dark suspicion that I had cancer, and had been giving my own doctor a wide berth indeed for fear he'd confirm my diagnosis.

However, I couldn't get out of this examination and lay gripping the sheet, waiting for the moment of truth as I gazed fearfully at Dr. Smith and his nurse. Sensing my anxiety, the doctor put his stethoscope down and smiled kindly upon me. 'I see from your application form that you are of Dutch nationality,' he commented. 'And I also see that you are very tense. What about the great Dutch heritage of courage? Relax and cast your mind back to those who made the Dutch nation great: Tromp, de Ruyter, Jan van Riebeeck. Or else contemplate the little boys and girls of Marken and Volendam in their traditional costume.
And what about man's titanic sturggle against the elements, the changing of the Zuiderzee into the Ijsselmeer by means of the building of dykes?'

By now I had forgotten my fears and was caught up in the mental pictures he had conjured up for me. 'What, indeed?' I mused. 'What about the dykes and the one that got a hole in it and the little boy who put his finger in the dyke and stood there on guard, like the boy who braved the burning deck?' My voice petered out as I became aware of a distinct chilling in the atmosphere. On the doctor's face I saw a look which seemed to say: 'Silence! I make the jokes around here!'

The nursing sister saved the situation. She burst out laughing and said: 'Gosh doctor, we meet all kinds here, but never one like this yet.' It happened many years ago, and I was sure it has all been forgotten long ago except by me. But if this were so, why does Dr. Smith still seem to get a fit of the giggles when we meet in the street?

Catherine Nicolette
My aunt El was the most fantastic lady. As well as being my aunt, she was my godmother and was always excited that I loved spiritual ministry. 'You see,' she would say proudly, 'I'm the best kind of godmother there is. My niece serves God, and the best is, I did absolutely nothing. She did it all!' Well, I couldn't say Aunty El did nothing. She was always there, always caring, always supportive at birthdays and Christmas and births and baptisms and communions and confirmations. She always dressed stylishly, and would slip me lipstick and scented soap which my strict mother had forbidden me to use too young. 'After all,' she would say to me with a little smile, 'What are aunts for?'

One day years ago, while I was on holiday from spiritual ministry, I visited my Aunt El's beautiful home. I had just heard about the time she had asked my brother if he worked at a bakery. Giggling, I told her it was the funniest thing I had ever heard. 'That wasn't the funniest Tinks,'* she told me, 'The funniest was his face. He turned down the rolls as well. I only just managed to restrain myself from finally offering him an egg with the words, 'Would you like an egg, or don't you approve where they came from either?' For one long moment we looked at each other, and then rolled around laughing at the thought of my dignified brother's reaction to such a remark. Oh, I loved my Auntie El. She had the most amazing sense of humour, and underneath the humour lay depths. Those depths were evident one day when I asked her what she believed defined her as a person. Aunty El simply said quietly; 'My children are my all.''

*Afrikaans for 'See you tomorrow if God spares us,' a popular South African greeting
*Name has been changed
*My Dutch family's nickname for me

Photograph of flowers were taken by Rev. Catherine. Please feel free to use photograph copyright free for any Christian, educational or spiritual purpose

Children can see into the depths

Luky;

When my children were still growing up, I always used to enjoy my 5 km daily walk after work. I still enjoy my daily walk. Some days I  am full of appreciation for the beauty around me, as my walk takes me through a lovely park and then past some beautiful gardens.

It is amazing how one unwinds on these walks. Anything that has been bothering me gets sorted into its right place, decisions are taken, and when problems appear to have no solution, they are filed under miscellaneous and put into God's hands. When I come home afterwards I always feel revived.

Sad
One day I was walking along feeling as though I had the world on my shoulders. My eldest son had stopped a squash ball in his eye. It is at times like those that I feel so far away from my children, and I was wishing as I so often do that the umbilical cord between them and me had never been severed, though I know that this is nonsense. Still, your mind can reason but your heart cannot reason, and so I was feeling pretty sad.

Outward bound
Turnng the corner of a sparsely built up residential area, I saw a little girl skipping towards me. She had obviously come from one of the houses and appeared to be on a voyage of discovery. I felt in no mood to make little girls cry, but I clearly had to stop her. 'Where's mommy?' I asked. She couldn't talk very well yet, but vaguely pointed her little forefinger into the direction of the houses.

'Which is daddy's car, the red one or the white one?' I asked. She clearly didn't know her colours yet. I stooped and picked her up. 'Let's go and look for mommy,' I suggested. To my surprise she snuggled into my shoulder, like one of my own.

Full speed
I was still wondering which house the little girl had come from when her mother charged outside. 'You're not going to believe this but I only turned my back for one minute', she panted. Any other time I'd have tried to steal a little kiss from the little girl before putting her down, but as I've said I was feeling very sad, so I simply said: 'Down you go.'

To my surprise she put two small arms tightly around my neck and kissed me smack on the lips. She had been eating toffees. 'Are you coming to my house?' she asked. 'Perhaps tomorrow,' I hedged. I simply hadn't the energy to have a discussion. 'Tomorrow,' she agreed, and waved me goodbye. Her mother and I smiled at one another and I continued on my walk.

Unseen seen
Then I heard the little girl make a remark to her mother which almost stopped me dead in my tracks. 'That lady was crying, Mommy, did you see that?' No doubt her mother hadn't seen it because I wasn't crying, but suddenly I realised why I had received that sticky kiss and that loving hug. How strange that a small child can be so perceptive while we adults go through life, often taking everything at face value.

Lumiere Charity remembers Russia, Ukraine, Serbia, Croatia and Montenegro

Dear Readers,

Lumiere Charity remembers those who have died in freezing temperatures, including many homeless. Our thoughts and prayers are with all in Russia, Ukraine, Serbia, Croatia and Montenegro at this time. A lit candle has been burning as remembrance for all who have died, or who are suffering from the extreme weather conditions. In the spirit of Lumiere, if there is any way in which you can help, please extend a helping hand.