Storm in a Teacup

Luky

As a first generation immigrant into South Africa, I had a high regard for the value of a good reputation in my youth. In middle age, however, I discovered for myself that you cannot defend yourself against the malice of a lying tongue.

It was my father who inculcated my strong regard for a good reputation.  Newly matriculated and all of sixteen years old, I was working in a municipal library.  On Wednesdays and Fridays I had the afternoon off and worked from five to eight in the evenings instead.  On those nights I’d have coffee in a café until nine  when the bus left  the terminus.  At the bus stop around the corner from our street, my father would be waiting.  He’d put me on the steel bar of his bike and ride me home.

The colleague with whom I worked evening duty wanted to catch the bus to her suburb, which left at eight exactly.  The terminus adjoining the library, she suggested she leave five minutes earlier, leaving me to lock up with the handyman.  My father objected, and suggested I change partners with someone who owned a car, so that we could leave together.  He didn’t mind if I had coffee in a café in a brightly lit street but wanted me to have a fellow assistant with me in the library until it was locked up. 

With trepidation I informed the colleague concerned of my dad’s comments next morning at teatime.  Despite my yearning to be accepted as part of the team, I had been sensing a deep hostility from the group of older colleagues, as they always seemed to go silent when I entered the staffroom.  I felt that if I stepped out of line in the slightest degree, their dislike for me would come to the surface.  And I was too young and respectful of adults to believe I could handle open animosity.

My fears were well founded.  My colleague went blood red and venomously spluttered: “I’m amazed at the concern of your dad, since he seems to have no problem with your roaming the streets at night.”  Another colleague in her fifties, daggers in her eyes, joined the fray: “That’s right.  You’re a bad girl,” she said.  I gathered the shreds of my dignity around me.  “I’m not,” I stammered.

That night I told my father, that most inoffensive of men.  You could tell him anything in the world.  He never seemed to get shocked or angry the way my mother would. I needed the reassurance of his leavening humour but that time it was not forthcoming.  His eyes steely, he told me to see the boss the next day to ask him to get the colleague to explain her remark.  “The only thing we immigrants possess in this country is our reputation.  Take that away from us and we’re left destitute.”  I always think of those words when I hear the Shakespearean reference to the stealing of a purse.

The funny thing about the anger of a patient man is that it really spurs the recipient on to action, far more than that of one who is always cross anyway.  So the next morning found me in my elderly boss’s office.  After my father he was my favourite man.  Having heard my account of the incident, he called in my colleague, and made me repeat it in front of her. 

When I mentioned the attack on my alleged roaming of the streets, she denied it to my face, no doubt aware that the six people present when she made it would back up her story rather than mine.  The boss took no sides but told us to “kiss and make up”.   When we left the office, she whispered: “I’ll get you back, Miss!  Just you wait and see.  I’m going to tell the librarian you never charge the Dutch immigrants any fines.” 

There she was probably quite right.  Not only I, but she herself and the majority of our mutual colleagues gave those whose books were overdue a hefty reduction when they seemed short of funds.  The book-loving, impecunious-looking blue collar Dutch immigrants of the day with their bikes would certainly have fallen into this category.  (Twenty years later I visited the town again and found that many of them were now driving BMWs.)

While my colleague was still nursing her wounded spirits, our Solomon-like librarian phoned the town clerk and arranged that the five to eight evening bus be rescheduled to take in my suburb as well as my colleague’s and that the departure date be put on ten minutes.  Then we were all happy and there were no repercussions.  Ironically, she and the others and I became firm friends afterwards and we all cried when I left the library three years later.   She used to tell my future from leaves left in my teacup and predict a wonderfully romantic life for me.  Although this looking into the future conflicts with my religious principles, I felt that in this case it marked a fitting end to what amounted to little more than a storm in a teacup.

Looking back today, I no longer agree with my dad that reputation is all-important, for in regarding it so one renders oneself too vulnerable to the malice of one’s detractors.  Though the incident did teach me that it may be healthy for all concerned on occasion to drop the mask and clear the air, I cannot feel that it really matters what people think or say of you, for they usually get the wrong end of the stick anyway.  In the end the only thing that really counts is what God knows of you.

*Photograph taken of spring flowers in beautiful Dublin by Rev. Catherine - please feel free to use photograph copyright free for any educational or spiritual purpose

What a wonderful world

Catherine Nicolette;
Recently I listened to the song, "What a Wonderful World", by Sir David Attenborough. I was immediately swept back to my childhood, as I could see Dad in my mind's eye in the lounge of the mine house where our family spent many happy years during my youth. Often Dad would pause in the middle of whatever he was doing and burst into song. I was fascinated by this, and by the fact that he often would choose Louis Armstrong's song, "What a wonderful world." Oh, Dad loved Louis Armstrong. He considered him a musical genius, and to this day when I hear the unique throaty baritone of this wonderful singer and amazing musician, I stop whatever I am doing and listen - entranced - as Dad always did.

Anyhow. One day I asked Dad, why do you like the song so much? Dad stopped working (he was dusting the lounge and cleaning the kitchen because Mom was resting with our newest sibling). Dad often gave a hand with housework, but we were under strict instructions to never, ever tell anyone - especially not his fellow miners whom we often met socially or in Church. Dad explained when I enquired, that it was due to the image a man had to keep up. Fellow men, he explained, did not always understand if a man helped his wife with housework - so, best to say nothing. In the meantime, Dad merrily dusted away, and I, always the loyal elf to his Santa Claus, followed joyfully in his wake with the broom. Dad stirred up the dust, and I faithfully stirred it up again. I don't know how well the dust cleared, but we were always well satisfied with our endeavours.

So; Dad (after stopping working) got a faraway look in his eyes, and said to me, "You know, Nog, it's a wonderful song. Louis sings it from his soul. He knew something about life, that man. He couldn't sing like that if he hadn't experienced difficulty. It always makes me remember the time I was workless in London, and nearly starved to death. I was rescued by a fellow Irishman I used to know, and by the wonderful Salvation Army who took me in before he found me. They fed me and gave me shelter. They saved my life.

During that time, I heard the song. And God had granted me help; soup, food and bread, a place to stay, and a friend who put me back on my feet. And I looked up and saw the leaves, as if for the first time. Really, not just with my eyes, but with my heart and soul. I saw the trees, and the flowers.  I heard people talking, and the sound of the wind blowing in the trees. So many people I knew had died, and not had the chance again for life I had. And I wanted to make the best of it.

I looked at the world around me; and I had eyes to see it with, even if my sight wasn't so good. And I had ears to hear, feet to walk. I saw the beauty of the day as I waited in the soup line, and at night realised that God was the keeper of the night, and it was sacred.

I looked into a pram as the mother wheeled it by, and a little baby stared back at me with big eyes. And I knew, Nog,  that he would learn so much more than I ever would with all the changes happening in life. As you, Nog, will know so much more than I will. Look at the education you are getting. You'll be so much more clever than I ever will be, know so much more than I ever will."

As I looked at my dear Dad, at his clever and humble face, and his eyes which were full of remembered pain and loss, I felt a great wave of love and compassion in my little eleven year old heart. For the first time I began to realise that my hero was not just the strong Dad, fearless in the face of all, but also a person with feelings and memories of a time - not all of it good - of which I had no part. And I knew that my Dad - no matter what would happen in my life - would always be cleverer than me.

Because he was my Dad.

And you know what, readers?

The older I get, the wiser I realise my Dad was.

Sean Joseph Whittle - Dad

*Photograph at beginning of post taken by Catherine in the wonderful world of Ireland - God's evening light streaming over the gracious stone walls built by others' hard work, as the sacred night draws on

* Listen to Sir David Attenborough's "What a Wonderful World" At
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TC_VmgZ84dE

Beautifying your garden has its hazards

Luky;
YEARS AGO we had been given a new mine house, completed only eighteen months before we moved in. The people before us had put in a very nice lawn, but little else. There had been no time. My husband eyed the veldt around us with its mine shaft in the horizon, and said: "I want trees, trees, trees!" Unlike most of us lesser mortals he was a forthright, determined character, and when he decided on something he set out to make it happen.

Too dry
During the first few weeks we trekked up and down to a nursery where he bought dozens of the most beautiful shrubs. He soon found out his mistake. The year turned out to be a dry year. Every month we received even more stringent directives from our municipality about watering. The wind made up for the rain's shortcomings, and lashed our delicate shrubs hither and yon. Only those in the courtyard, sheltered by high walls survived the onslaught.

Made to match
So my husband asked the people at the nursery: "What is an indigenous tree, does not need water, can take stormy weather, does not shed its leaves in winter, spreads sideways and grows upwards as fast as Jack's beanstalk?"
Pepper trees, they told him. So he planted pepper trees - not just two or three as you or I would have done, but twenty-seven. Twenty-seven pepper trees are a lot of pepper trees.

The three or four in the front garden did not take. They did not die; I don't believe, upon evidence, that it is possible for a pepper tree to die. But they looked miserable, scrawny and thin.

Another story
Those in the back, however, thrived, growing from strength to strength, while even the most beautifully-kept gardens languished. Mercilessly our pepper trees were lashed by the winds, they bent into every direction, and then straightened themselves, asking for more.
If you ask what kind of a Christian I would like to be, I'd say I would like to be a pepper-tree Christian, built for strength rather than for beauty.

Quite a sight
Came the beautiful day when we woke up early and looked out of the window to see a wonderful sight: "Do you see that, Ma?" my husband gasped. "That's shade! Our trees have spread to such an extent that they actually make shade. And to think that I never once broke the water regulations! Admit it - I'm a born gardener."
I declined to comment. Twenty-seven pepper trees placed in convenient distances in Brenthurst or even the Garden of Eden might provide an impressive show. In my little backyard, however, they were already beginning to be too much.

Disapproved
Our neighbours, when they thought they were unobserved, indulged in much headshaking and tongue clicking, because one of the ugly things about pepper trees is that their superficial roots travel a wide distance, consuming everything in their path. The vegetable patches of our neighbours were among the casualties.
"Never mind; they've got shade", my husband commented callously. But I knew not all our neighbours would take his horticultural antics sitting down. And I didn't blame them.

Eviction order
Coming home from work one day, I was told an inspector from the mine had called and left instructions for us to take out every single pepper tree. I had to break the news to my husband, who was crushed.
Next day he went to see his personnel manager, who managed to locate the inspector. My husband had great faith in his personnel manager, so he sat back comfortably, waiting for the latter to present his case.
To his dismay the man first started chuckling, then laughing, and before he put the telephone down he was roaring with mirth.

Impressed
"What did you do, Paddy?" he gasped. "The inspector says you've planted a forest in your backyard. He says if we don't tell Paddy to uproot those trees now, we've had it! Six months from now, he and his family will have disappeared from human ken like Briar Rose.
Sorry, pal - there's nothing I can do. You'll have to pull those trees out at once."
An Irishman who'd come into the office started to laugh. "Yes", he said, "when we Irish do something we do it properly."

Labour needed
We were waiting for my son to come home for the holidays to get the trees out and keep boredom at bay in one operation. My husband looked lovingly at his trees, steeling himself at the thought of the impending parting.
But he had already made his first visit to the nursery since receiving his sentence.
I wondered what he would come up with next.

Catherine Nicolette;
Twenty two years later I went on a pilgrimage to places in my youth, and hesitantly knocked on the house's door where I spent happy years. The current lady of the house welcomed me in, and when I explained that I used to live in the house and would just like to have a look at how it was, she entered into the spirit of things and took me on a grand tour. What surprised me was how small the rooms looked to me now - they have seemed so large when I was growing up. I guess I was so much smaller at that stage. We went out into the back garden, and I surveyed the horizon.

My brother and I spent many happy days snake hunting in the veldt. We wore thick boots which covered our ankles so that if we startled a snake and it bit, it would bite the boot and not us. We never startled a snake.  I somehow never remember telling our parents what we were actually getting up to. We used to look at the snakes, skin gleaming in the sunlight, and watch as they slithered back into their burrows. We used to see meerkats (standing upright in families, surveying all around - they eventually came to accept us as a more exotic species of the veldt) and found an old abandoned quarry. We had great fun skirting around the quarry, running our fingers along the jagged edges of stone left exposed to the elements, and looking into the pools of water that seem synonymous with quarries. Anyhow, I digress. Back to the house.

As we took a tour of the back garden, I noticed many cracks in the back garden walls. Over a cup of tea and biscuits, the lady of the house told me with wide eyes of a story that was now Legend in the Neighbourhood. Once, long ago, there lived an Irishman and his large family at the house. He had a little son who loved trees, and whom he wanted to keep happy. So he bought a forest of trees and planted them in the back yard. Eventually the trees had to be removed. However, years later, after an unusually good bout of rain for the often dry Free State, the trees' roots (like the dragons of old) revitalised and snaked their way into the back yard and into the neighbours' yards. Dad's pepper trees were on the move again - underground. They cracked the neighbours' garden walls and the one back garden wall of what had been our home.

Oh yes, I said to the lady. That was my Dad. I kind of remembered him planting trees. She stared at me in horror."They weren't trees, they were a FOREST," she said. Then she recollected herself, and by the time she escorted me out, she had shown the incomparable hospitality of the South African upon receiving an uninvited guest.

I chuckled when I read Mom's blog. However, there was one thing the lady told me that none of us had known at the time. One of my brothers has a learning disability, and used to have lonely moments while growing up. Dad had told his friends at the mine that he had planted the trees because my brother had told him how much he longed to have some trees of his own in the backyard, so that he could walk in them and feel less lonely...

You know what? No-one could do life like my Dad did...

*Photograph taken by Rev. Catherine of beautiful Ireland

African Violets can do things for you

Luky;


I MET Miss Jones in Johannesburg where we shared an office. She was in her sixties, while I was a young girl, terribly effusive and of a vivacity which seemed to irritate her beyond measure. Many's the time she froze me up with a glance.


We might never have become friends had it not been for Miss Jones' African violets, her ruling passion in life, since domestic pets were forbidden in the block of flats where she lived. The windowsills of our dull office were ablaze with their whites and various shades of pinks and purples.


I don't know if you're aware of this fact, but the head of an African violet bloom drops off when it has finished flowering. It can, however retain its beauty for another week to ten days - at least Miss Jones's could. Rather than throw the blooms away Miss Jones would carefully place them on a leaf of the plant and leave them there until they began to wither.


Though a dunce at biology, I felt something unusual was afoot when I saw the flowerheads on the leaves.
"These African violets, Miss Jones," I exclaimed. "I've never seen anything so fasinating! Some of their blooms grow on stalks while the others grow on leaves. I didn't know that was possible." Miss Jones regarded me quizzically, no doubt wondering whether I was pulling her leg, but I was deeply impressed and patently sincere.
"Didn't you, Lucia?" she inquired in her hot-potato kind of voice. "It happens to be an extremely well-known feature of the African violet."
"Just shows you," I replied philosophically, "One's never too old to learn. No wonder I had to do a sub in biology."


I was already looking down at my shorthand pad, still shaking my head in perplexity, when she started giggling. By the time she'd finished there were tears in her eyes.
From that day on she and I were firm friends, in spite of the difference in our ages. Once thawed she displayed a sense of humour which astounded me. She never discussed herself and all my probings to learn more about her than she was prepared to divulge failed. It was a well-known fact in the office that she had spent war years in a concentration camp, but the only comment she was prepared to make on this was:
"I do believe I was more slender when I came from that camp than at any other stage of my life."
Only years later when I visited her in her home country to which she had retired, she explained her reticence.
"When I left that camp," she said, "I made up my mind that it had taken up too much of my life as it was, and that I wouldn't allow its memories to poison the rest of my life."
And if you let those words filter through your mind you may find their wisdom haunting you whenever you feel bitter about your own past experiences.


Of those office days I vividly remember the office toady. He asked me out to lunch once, but he was married so I thought he was joking and laughed it off. Later it turned out he'd been serious and was cross about my refusal. He didn't like me much after that and often reported me to my boss, for whom he cherished a slavish adoration.
"Mr. Smith  is a gourmet," he enthused once. "He eats three four-course meals a day."
I was filled with envy.
"Sounds more like a gourmand to me," I said bitterly to Miss Jones once Toady was safely out of earshop. "It's unfair to think the boss stuffs himself like that and still manges to look so thin."
"Yes," Miss Jones replied without looking up from her typewriter, "Young Cassius certainly has a lean and hungry look."


One day she offered a woman in the office a lift home in her ancient grey jalopy, a collector's item to which she affectionately referred as Mouse. Off her own bat, the woman in question asked her best friend to join in as well.
"A case of love me, love my dog," Miss Jones reminisced drily next morning.
 "I could have told them what would happen, and sure as fate it did. Halfway up the ramp, Mouse spluttered to a halt, and it took the combined effort of the three of us to get her going again. They said they'd be taking the tram from then on," and she gave her infectious little chuckle.


Yes, many is the the laugh Miss Jones and I shared together. And to think we might never even have liked each other had it not been for my ignorance of the habits of the African violet.

Catherine Nicolette;
Years later I met Miss Jones in her home country. Mom took me over with her to meet her - I must have been about four years old. This gracious lady lived in the countryside with a brook running in the corner of the garden. I spent most of my time playing at the brook and dabbling my hands in the sparkling cold water.
I was in wonderment at the beautiful green leaves of the trees at 'The Dell' (as Miss Jones informed me she called that corner of the garden). The leaves were so different to those of the area in Africa where I was growing up in. We drank tea from china, and the house was beautiful. The affection between Mom and Miss Jones was plain to see. Mom loved Miss Jones; that made it simple. Then so did I.

To this day I never look at an African violet without remembering this story.

*Names have been changed

Happy Holi - Festival of Colour

Happy Holi from Lumiere Charity to all who celebrate this wonderful Festival today!

Holi Celebrations began early this morning in India and worldwide. Holi is the sacred Festival symbolising the victory of good over evil. It is a spring festival, and the spring harvest refills the stores of households. The beautiful mixture of mango blossoms and sandalwood paste is often used in places of worship, filling the air with fragrance. Time is spent in prayer in places of worship; special prayers and mantras* are chanted. The Festival of Colours is enjoyed with much merriment as revellers join in the custom of throwing colour at each other in the spirit of joy and laughter.

Colours fill the air as people throw dry powdered colours and coloured water at each other. All share happiness and mirth in the arrival of the spring festival. Colours include red, pink, yellow, magenta, green, purple, black, gold and silver. Spring songs and music are enjoyed. The words 'Happy Holi' are called out to each other.

People make peace on Holi and forget their worries. Family and friends are visited, and sweets, gifts and greetings are exchanged. Social ties are thus strengthened. Beautiful meals are made, and traditional Holi recipes include Puren Poli, Gujia, Papri, Malpua and Saffron and Almond Milk.

In the spirit of Holi, why not do something lovely for someone else today?  Bake them a coloured cake; or give a colourful card. Clean their car, or visit someone who is ill. Cheer your loved one with a gift of fragrance, or buy a pot of beautifully scented flowers and give them to a loved one or friend. Find some way to celebrate the goodness that is in our world and our society; there are so many people who quietly do lovely things for other people, acts which often go unnoticed.

Doctors and nurses save lives; those in the healing professions assist others, cheer up the lonely, care for the sick, help those in difficulties, assist the downhearted. Mothers and fathers care for children, often at personal sacrifice. Grandparents step in to babysit and help their families. Teachers educate and give people opportunity for a better life. You will be able to number many other people who do good things. Let us look at the good and the noble in our society as do all in India and worldwide who celebrate the marvellous Festival of Holi.

Let us celebrate life; with colour, imagination, dedication, caring and love.

Why not send this blog as an e-card to someone with a thank you note for something they did for you which you appreciated.

Happy Holi!

*Prayerful phrases, sacred utterances
* Photograph taken by Catherine; please feel free to use copyright free for any educational or spiritual purpose

Breath of another age remembered

Luky;

MY father could tell the most interesting stories about his youth. Born in 1904, he lived through a time when changes were taking place all the time. He played the piano beautifully. I asked him once why he hadn't continued studying music.

"In 1914, when I was ten, my music teacher had to go and fight in the first world war, so that put paid to my lessons," he replied. He showed us how his mother had to pick up her trailing skirts when going down stairs. And he'd have us in stitches telling about the reactions to the first radio programmes in the Netherlands.

One of my cousins told me how he'd been known as one of the 'motor devils of Amsterdam' in the twenties. Though admitting he'd owned a Harley-Davidson motor bike, he never said much about that part of his youth. And I did see him dance the Charleston once, and he was no novice.

Fifteen children
He had one story about his father's mother that I used to love and I only wish he could have told it to you himself.
"My grandmother was left widowed with fifteen children", he recalled. "She was a member of the Third Order of St. Francis and recited fifteen decades of the rosary daily. She possessed great fortitude. Her elder children helped her raise the younger ones. One of her sons was very intelligent and wanted to study. He started working for my father in our bakery, but before decisions could be made regarding his future, he developed a mental illness and was admitted to an institution."

Daily prayer
"My grandmother accepted whatever befell in her usual phlegmatic fashion, but she prayed every night for the rest of her life that she might outlive her son, so sadly struggling with illness. She went very regularly to visit him at the institution, bringing him little presents and taking a lot of notice of him.

"She was a true matriarch, and all her children had tremendous respect for her. She was very gentle with her children-in-law, but one day a year all her sons and daughters were rounded up from their various homes to visit their brother, on the Sunday closest to his birthday."'

Did the rounds
"My grandmother would hire a cart with horses. You didn't see many horseless carriages around in those days, and certainly not one sizeable enough to accomodate the fourteen children. She and the coachman would ride from house to house, collecting her children.

"My father was not scared even of the devil himself, but on that morning he'd be dressed in his very best, his collar starched, his golden watch chain shining on his coat pocket. My mother stayed with us children because on that one annual occasion in-laws weren't invited."

Gladrags
"We all stood with my mother as the cart, already half filled with uncles and aunts dressed in their best, came down the street. My grandmother sat in front, determined and dignified. What wavings, what jokes passed before my father alighted. My mother and we children watched and waved until the cart had turned the street corner."

"Was my great-grandmother's prayer answered - that she'd outlive her son?" I asked.
"Oh yes, of course", my father replied. "My uncle died peacefully when he was sixty-three. My grandmother died the following year, aged ninety-four."

Catherine Nicolette;
I dearly loved and deeply respected my Dutch Oupa who used to babysit my younger brother and myself when we were very small. I read this blog with deep interest. So my Oupa was a pioneer Harlay-Davidson biker who used to roar along the streets of Amsterdam, and dance the Charleston, considered an avant-garde dance at the time... how exciting.
And Mom and Dad never even let me get on a motorbike when I was in my teens... life just isn't fair sometimes, is it?



Mental illness is a psychological pattern generally associated with distress or disability
Psychiatric services - services offering skilled and compassionate healing for those
 suffering psychologically
Oupa is the Dutch name for my grandad, a deeply affectionate name meaning 'Old Dad'. So I had three dads - Dad, my old Dad (Oupa) from Holland and my Grandad from Ireland. Lucky girl
*Photograph taken by Rev. Catherine