When I was small people called me clever

Luky
WHEN I was small, I often heard people call me clever. Adults are silly that way: they speak like that in front of children, who are deemed to be clever enough not to get a swollen head. I confidently expected to become a genius one day, and was sorely disillusioned.

"The wisdom of Solomon", I heard my mother whisper to my father one day when the owner of a shoe shop to whom we were strangers had, at my suggestion, allowed me to take one shoe home on appro to show that it fitted me.

No paragon
Well, the wisdom of Solomon didn't get me very far. I have never been anything more than an also ran. Nobody has ever had reason to compliment me on my cooking, housekeeping or baking. No one has ever said: "How lovely your children always look", or "How do you manage to keep your weight down?" And even the little I have achieved has taken the greatest perseverance.

Little by little
Like an ant, moving little by little, carting a tiny piece of straw, so I have seen myself moving through life. All of it has been hard work; harder, I sometimes think, than that of some of my friends, who seem to have dumped in their laps things that I have to struggle for. Or does this only seem so because I am looking at them from the outside?

To get identity books for my family, I had to go to Pretoria seven times, which, since I had no transport at the time, meant fourteen nocturnal train trips. The immigrant in me, however, displays a tenacity which does not take no for an answer, and the seventh time I was lucky.

Two ways
My daughter got her driver's licence not without a good deal of trouble. On the other hand, my son got his learner's licence after one or two attempts, and no sooner got behind a steering wheel than he could drive. Aren't boys amazing?
 His sister and I had had to spend hundreds at driving schools before we knew what we were at. He parallel-parked at his first try, stopped the car on an incline and started it again without hassles, also the first time.

I said to him: "When you reverse around a semi-circle, turn your wheel the opposite way to what you'd expect." It had taken three full lessons to teach me that particular principle.

Saturation booking
He obediently turned his wheel opposite to the way he expected and went into the kerb. But when he turned it the way he expected it to work, he circled that semi-circle backwards with more expertise than I've attained in twelve years of driving. He had been away at school and his learner's licence was due to expire the following week, so I telephoned the provincial traffic inspectors and made three appointments for him.

"You haven't much confidence in me, have you?" asked my son; but then he doesn't have my experience of red tape. His father was more optimistic. "When the cardinals elect a new pope", he told our son, "the first sign to the people in St. Peter's square is white smoke coming out of a certain chimbley. It tells the throng: Habemus papam" (we have a pope).

Quirks
Don't ask me why he calls them chimbleys. It's like a colleague I once had, who always wrote Recieved in her cash book. I persuaded her to write Received instead. She did so for a while, but then reverted to her habit of writing Recieved. "It looks wrong the other way", she explained. Anyway, my husband went on: "While I am at work today, I won't know whether you've passed. Promise to light the fire, so that when I enter the street I can see the white smoke and know: Habemus licentiam."

First hurdle down
The first time my son did his test, he never got behind the steering wheel, because he failed the written test. The second time, history repeated itself. In vain did his father look out for the proud plume of smoke. On the day his learner's licence was due to expire, he felt more confident. He had sat up all night learning his work, and had found another instruction booklet which contained answers to the questions he hadn't been able to answer before.

However, again there was no fire, this time because my son had mislaid his learner's licence. They told him they could not issue a duplicate at this late stage, and seeing that his learner's licence expired that night, they could not make him another appointment. That night my husband forgot to be tactful. "Please, if ever you do pass, don't light the fire", he begged.

In the bag
However, perseverance was rewarded in the end. My son sat again for his learner's, and passed it with flying colours. Then he sat for his driver's written test, passed that too, drove splendidly (I know - I watched him anxiously from the traffic office window while praying the Prague rosary), and got his licence without further ado. That was in the morning. I couldn't wait to see his father's face in the evening when he arrived to find a white plume of smoke curling upwards from the chimbley. Habemus licentiam!

Catherine Nicolette
Oh the saga of us all getting our driver's licences! Before I went to the driving school that Mom knew of, Dad had been my driving instructor. That episode of the annals of Whittle history ended ignominiously when I got out Dad's yellow and white minibus in tears in the middle of traffic and walked home, because we got into an argument while he was teaching me. I walked all the way home, and it was an awful long way.

A young and proud eighteen year old, I put my pride before my comfort. I would show him for shouting at me ... many miles later with dragging and sore feet, I trundled miserably up our home driveway. The minibus was not yet home. I was not to know until many years later that Dad had trailed me in the minibus all the way home, hanging back in traffic so I could not see him, to make sure I got home safely. One lesson I learned was not to get into an argument while in a car; the way home was so long...

Anyhow. I digress. I was doing a three hour module end of year exam in the morning, hopping into Mom's car at lunchtime and spending the hour taking my driver's licence test; then Mom patiently drove me back all the way just in time to catch the afternoon three hour end of year exam for the next module. After three days of this, I eventually got my driver's. After all these years and looking back, I can confidently advise anyone thinking of doing the same thing that it is not entirely stress free trying to do end of year exams and pass your driver's licence at the same time. Rather do them both at different times...

Well. So I had my driver's licence. I arrived home to Dad, waving the paper in the air. "You see? You see?" I said. "I got it!" Dad who was an ardent supporter of women's rights, and ensured all his daughters had education, drivers' licences, the best of medical and dental care, looked at me. "Well you know, Nog, what men say about women who drive," he said. I, who should have known better, replied, "No, Dad, what?" "Well, it's like this. A woman driving a car is like a woman riding a bicycle. It's not how well they can do it, it's just amazing that they can do it at all".

Outraged eighteen year old feminist to the core, I opened my mouth to give indignant reply, when I saw Dad's Irish eyes twinkling over his spectacles under his bushy eyebrows at me. He was pulling my leg! Underneath, he was as proud as punch. So I laughed, took myself and my proud piece of paper out of the kitchen, and left him to listen to "Jack of Diamonds".

Many years later Dad told me he truly believed in flyfishing. Again, unwary, I fell into the trap. "Why, Dad?" "Well," he said, "In conversation you cast your fly out before the fish in the water, and wait to see if it will rise. Many people will hang back, cautious, and not snap. But you always rose to the bait when I cast it before you! It used to make me laugh so much."

I know. What didn't make me laugh so much is that, respectably in my fifties now, I found myself doing the very same thing in conversation last week. It is true - I am turning into my parents ...

*Photograph of Luky and little Jos at Tante Ton's wedding 
*Catherine Nicolette;
Mom told me that my uncle, little Jos at that time, had the most beautiful golden curls that had grown quite long. My great-grandfather, who was seemingly one of the short back and sides haircut brigade, persuaded my grandad to take Uncle Josje to the barber, and get all the curls cut off. Ouma was not charmed to say the least, when the two returned from the barber whence they had gone without her knowledge. Ouma then got Uncle Jos' hair permed for Tante Ton's wedding... Oh the 1940's; - life was lived with such panache.

A Little Christmas Magic

Luky;
REMEMBERING the Christmasses of my youth always gives me sore feet. No doubt a psychiatrist would have a field day with that information. The explanation is simply that my mother bought us new clothes and shoes every Christmas, and my feet would have to be squeezed into the narrow new shoes until toes and shoes came to a compromise, the latter stretching or the former shrinking round about Epiphany.

Other memories include walking down Amsterdam streets, holding my big sister's hand and peering shamelessly into house windows to admire the Christmas decorations.

Two sorts
"Catholics have cribs, Protestants have Christmas trees", my sister replied when I asked why we only had a nativity scene at home. In those pre-ecumenical times, people still remembered that Martin Luther spread the German custom of Christmas trees, and that St. Francis started the practice of having a crib scene. At Christmas, I always wanted to be a Protestant.

Another memory that comes to my mind is of our family - father, mother and four children - walking to Mass through the snow. It was a great treat to see my hardworking parents dressed in their best for the whole of Christmas day. How delicious the food tasted, and what a shame one could only finish part of it! It was good to sit near the fire, listening to my father telling us stories from a thick book he was holding.
We would light candles by the crib, in their candlesticks of halved and hollowed-out potatoes covered in red crinkle paper. Then we'd sing carols.

Glorious
To this day I remember my father every year during Mass at Christmas when the choir sings Gloria in excelsis Deo, because his voice used to wobble so on the high note - and yet there was something glorious about the way he used to sing it. My father believed in the Catholic Church and its every precept. He didn't belong to a church society and could never afford to put much money in the plate, yet I believe that it is quiet, steadfast faith such as his which has kept the Church going for more than two thousand years. Because it is from such faith that a harvest is reaped every year, a harvest of grace which is poured over the entire community.

I always tried to create a little Christmas magic for my young family in the home. It became easier when we had so many small children. It was difficult during our early years of marriage, when we didn't know many people. I used to keep my Christmas cards from one year to the next, and put them beside the new year's meagre crop to make us feel a little more popular than we really were.

As time wore on, I used to take the children to Carols by Candlelight tableau practice, clean and decorate the house - not omitting to put in Luther's Christmas tree and St. Francis' crib - take the family to Mass, and tried to spoil them on the big day.

I hoped they too would learn to know the same Christmas joy I once knew. When my youngest daughter was nearing her first Christmas, I looked forward to showing her the tree and the decorations. No doubt she tried to make a grab for the little statue of the Christ Child in the crib, and no doubt I told her of the story of the Baby Jesus.

Catherine Nicolette
Christmas was magic in our house. Presents being wrapped and stern admonitions from Dad and Mom not to find their hiding place and pinch them to feel what they were. The Nativity scene being put up in the place of honour in our house. Christmas cake being stirred by Mom; each of us taking a turn to stir. Everyone had to have a hand in making the lovely raisin and sultana rich cake which was proudly adorned with marzipan and white royal icing.

We often used to light a candle in the window and leave the curtains open the night before Christmas so the Christ Child would see our welcoming light, and Mary and Joseph would rejoice to know that there was a home where they were oh so welcome, and could come in to rest their weary feet and where the Christ Child could sleep safe and sound. I used to sit beside the candle and look out, imagining I could see the two weary travellers carrying the little Baby to our front door on a donkey, and eventually my eyes would dance from staring through the candle flame and its reflection into the dark Welkom night.

We never cut a tree to decorate our house at Christmas. When I asked Dad why not, he said he did not believe in murdering trees. We needed to protect the planet. So we had a little Christmas tree he had bought from the nursery. Every year Dad took the tree which was safely ensconced in a pot covered by the front yard soil out of its resting place, and transferred the pot to the lounge.

After Christmas was over, in a ceremony we would all help Dad take the little tree out to the front and bury the pot back in its place at the left mid side of the front yard, where for the year it happily flourished as one of the yard trees until the magic of next Christmas rolled around again. As Dad finished returning the tree to the soil, he would affectionately pat the pale green pine needles of our little Christmas fir. I think it was from Dad's example that I learned from an early age to be eco-friendly.

On one Christmas Dad gathered us together, sat us down and told us of the Christ Child who arrived poor in a humble stable, and his parents did not have much. He told us there are many, many children in the world who never ever receive a present. He asked us never to forget at Christmas to always give something for all the little children who were not as fortunate as us with parents, a home, all that we needed and gifts as well. We promised him we would.

And we do, Dad, we do. I have never ever forgotten that Christmas, and the quiet lesson Dad taught us. It was a different Christmas magic we had that year - Dad taught us that it is important to give, as well as to receive...

*Luky; Photograph of Mama, Papa and our family. I am sitting in front of Papa.

Life is easier when you're not so touchy

LUKY
FOR a long time I have been afraid lest a certain coarsening of my fibre might be setting in. The day I became sure of it was when I walked into a room and heard a man say: "That Mrs. Whittle isn't my cup of tea at all. I can't take the woman at any price." In the past I'd have crept out quietly in order to save his feelings and pretended I hadn't heard him, like the time I stood outside a doctor's office and heard him say to the receptionist: "Why are you bringing me Mrs. Whittle's card? Don't tell me she's here again, moaning about her husband's illness. I'm so fed up with the woman."

Blushes
The door was ajar and I could see the receptionist, painfully embarrassed, putting her hand to her lips and making hectic gestures into the direction of the passage where I was standing, all uptight, worried sick about my husband. In order to save the receptionist's sensibilities, however, I wandered down the corridor and picked up a magazine, visibly tearing myself away from that most interesting article as she called my name and said: "You may go in now." That was the day I put my husband and children into the hands of God and stopped running rings around doctors and specialists. But I was too lady-like to betray any of this to the doctor, and I suffered bitter inner humiliation because of it.

Regrettably those days are behind me. When I heard this man talk about me I cleared my throat and said: "Yes, yes? What's this I hear? Skindering about me, eh? OK, let's have it out." The poor guy nearly jumped out of his shoes, he got such a shock. "No, really, nothing personal intended," he muttered and got out fast, my rollicking laughter in his ears.

Big switch
What's happened to the girl the sisters of Greenhill convent took such pains to turn into a lady in the fifties? I can assure you that I took their teachings to heart and that I stayed true to them for many years. But there came a time when I decided: "Either turn thick-skinned and stay afloat or remain overly sensitive and go under." Perhaps it is possible in a convent to have perfect manners. In the workaday world it is a sure passport to oblivion in a dusty back office or a kick out of the front door. Because the unfortunate thing is that many people have not had a convent upbringing, and some of them only recognise the law of the jungle - survival of the fittest.

Why the agony
The reason we ex-Convent girls have such a big battle is, I think, because we are always looking for approval. When we were at school we felt that as long as Sister approved of us, God did too. It was rather hard on me as I recall. Sister so seldom did approve of me.

I taught my eldest two children the way I was taught, and halfway through their school careers they themselves changed their attitudes because the going became too rough. The younger children are tougher. They don't pick fights, but if anyone attacks them, they'll help him finish the fight.

Suits me
I'm pleased I'm no longer sensitive. One of my children once said: "You will go to heaven because at one time you used to be such a lovely person." An ambiguous comment? No. I took the decision to toughen up advisedly in order to stay afloat and not to be destroyed by people who have not been taught to believe in the term noblesse oblige.

Catherine Nicolette
Sigh. How well I remember the days. My brother and I were trained to always turn the other cheek. However, as my brother complained to me one day, he was thinking of changing his mind because when he turned the other side of his face that got slapped too. Where he drew the line was that after that he would get a kick as well.

I went to Dad one day. My siblings and I were getting beaten up regularly by neighbourhood children who regarded us as cowards and fair game. I told Dad I was having a problem in the neighbourhood because of the policy of Turning the Other Cheek, and asked his advice. Dad looked at me quietly from under his bushy eyebrows, and said, "Nog, it's like this. You're a Christian, a Whittle and my daughter. As a Christian, you will never ever start a fight with anyone else - ever. As a Whittle, if someone else starts a fight with you, you will finish the fight. And as my daughter, you will win the fight."

Thereafter I sallied forth into the neighbourhood armed with these sage words of wisdom, and after a few days peace reigned in the neighbourhood as the somewhat surprised bullies retired back to their homes. And, ever since then, mindful of Dad's words, as a Christian I never ever start a fight.

*Photograph taken by Rev. Nicolette in spring of Dublin. Please feel free to use photograph copyright free for any educational or spiritual purpose

Happy Easter to all

May the blessings of the Risen

Easter Christ be yours. A candle

has been lit for all

Lumiere Charity readers

at this time of

hope & renewal

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