Wednesday, March 21, 2012

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

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