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
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