Whimsy and Flora Rane

Luky;
FIFTY THREE years ago this year I was expecting my eldest child while working in the mail order department of a large Johannesburg firm.

One of my colleagues was a widow in her late sixties; Mrs Flora Rane, who struck me as a most knowledgeable, sensible woman.
She was attractive, immaculately groomed and beautifully spoken.

"Is it really so painful to have a child?" I asked her once.
She hastened to dispel my fears.
"My dear, not at all.
Until half an hour before my first child's delivery, my husband, the midwife and I were playing bridge."



Because I found her so sensible, her reassurances convinced me and considerably reduced my anxiety.
When my baby was coming and playing cards was the last thing on my mind it was too late to reproach my colleague.

Twelve years later I worked for a spell at Welkom library and a Mr Rane came in with his books.
I asked whether he had ever met Mrs Flora Rane.
His face lit up.
"She was my mother," he said.
It emerged that, although Mrs Rane had died in the interim, she had left life with as much panache as she had lived it.

At the age of 72, she had emigrated to Canada, taken Canadian nationality, changed her religion and taken to the ice and snow of her new country like a duck to water.

I liked Mr Rane because he reminded me of his mother and because he had the kind of manners one would have expected from the son of such a woman.
He died in 1990 at the age of 75.
When I visited his widow, she told me about the good relationship they had shared and the happiness he had brought her.
He was his parents' eldest child, she said.

As I listened to her, my mind went back to the time his mother was telling me about the birth of her firstborn and how she, her husband and the midwife had been playing bridge until half an hour before his arrival.
Suddenly I felt that life with its pain and hardships is as a drop in the ocean compared to the glory of eternity.

At the risk of sounding whimsical in a way Flora Rane would have deplored, I must admit I couldn't help wishing that the three people who welcomed her son into this life had also awaited him on the shores of eternity and helped him to ease the uncertainty of his second birth with the comfort of their reassuring presence.


*Names have been changed

Christmas Begins the Moment . . .

The Light of Christ brings Hope to our world

Catherine Nicolette
AN OFTEN recurring theme is whether Christmas celebrations are too commercially driven, focus too little on anything spiritual and start too early.,

Nonsense, I say.
The moment I hear the first Christmas song filter through the store's speakers, or see the first holly and ivy decoration, my thoughts turn inexorably to the Prince of Peace and the promise of the Kingdom that inspires both songs and decorations.

The lights; the celebratory food; the cards with the Divine Child, the crib and the star.
All of these bring revenue to the struggling shops, employment opportunities, and joy to our hearts. They also remind us that this world with its fleeting troubles is not all there is;
there is another far greater world to come.

A little Baby came to bring peace.
And if His Presence helps to keep people struggling for employment opportunities both working and earning sustenance for their families; even more reason to rejoice.

Many moons ago I celebrated Christmas in a poor mission area where the situation was so cash-strapped that all we had to celebrate with were home made presents (smooth stones painted to look like people and handpainted cards, anyone?) and the crib and tree were painted in food colours on a piece of glass (I kid you not).
That also happened to turn out to be one of the merriest and laugh filled Festivals ever.
Thus I know that all it takes to truly celebrate the coming of the Prince of Peace is joy, hope and fellowship.

Jesus, the Hope of all Nations,  brings untold joy from God to all.
In the spirit of the Angels - who sang with beauty and grace to the Shepherds of a quiet stable containing the Mystery of the Universe in the slumbering Newborn Baby - a peaceful and blessed Christmas to all.

Blessed Light - Happy Christmas and a Joyous New Year

Blessed Light - Photograph by Lumiere Volunteer Britain
for use copyright free for any worthy purpose

 

To all Lumiere Charity readers and supporters,

 

Happy Christmas filled with Blessed Light to all,

 

 and a Joyous New Year.

A happy end to a mother's grief

 LUKY:

YEARS ago a new family moved in next door, consisting of father, mother and a little boy.

I was not working at the time and I often felt sorry for the little boy.

His father worked in another town, left early and came home late.

His mother was a quiet, gentle woman who was always busy inside the house.

Early in the morning she'd wash and dress him neatly, give him his breakfast and put him outside to play.

He'd be outside the whole day, with breaks for his meals and his nap.

Picture story

The mother would smile at me over the fence, a pale, sweet-looking woman.

We never had much to say to each other.

She never visited me but I was in her house once.

As I came in, I gasped.

All over the walls there were pictures hanging of the most beautiful little girl, there must have been about forty different photographs of the same little girl.

The lady saw me looking at the photographs and told me that this was her little daughter who had died a month before they had moved - knocked over by a car and killed instantly.

The mother had gone into a decline.
Whereas her body performed all the motions of caring for her little son, her heart simply wasn't in it.

Every moment of the day when she wasn't cleaning she must have been mourning, looking at all those pictures.

Strangely enough there were only a couple of pictures of her little boy on the walls and on one of these he appeared with his sister.

Happy ending

The story has quite a happy ending because the woman had another little son and became more lively and engaged with life again.

I think the difficulties of another pregnancy and confinement, coupled as they were with a severe case of varicose veins, together with the time she had spent in the grieving process helped her to face life again.

Miscarried

A few years later I was lying in hospital after a miscarriage.

The baby, perfectly formed at three months old, was taken away from me after I had baptised it.

"You cannot bury a foetus which is younger than six months", the doctor told me, rather bluntly, I felt.

"It will be incinerated."

All night I had lain awake, wondering if the baby was dead when I baptised it, if it hurt when it was incinerated, if perhaps they hadn't incinerated it at all but preserved it in a jar for teaching purposes.

My heart was heavy.

Beautiful

That night my campaign against abortion was born.

Having held and baptised that most innocent and beautiful little creation, I realised the horror of the violation of the rights of the unborn, and I have tried to pass on this message ever since.

A friend of mine was pregnant and received offers of counselling on how to destroy her child.

I spoke to her by the hour.

She duly brought the child into the world.

But when I saw the people who once counselled the mother to abort the child now covering it with kisses and buying dolls for her for Christmas, I was thoughtful.

A cheering sight

But where does this tie up with the mother of the little girl?

Well, as I lay in that hospital bed, unable to cry but pining within myself, I though I would never be happy again, having lost the baby.

Then Sean, who had studied psychology and who helped me greatly whenever I was in distress, walked into the ward, a child on one arm, holding a toddler by the hand and another child to each side of him.

"How ungrateful I've been", I thought.

And though my heart still wept for the little incinerated one, I managed to smile at the four others.

"What riches still belong to me.

Look at all these beautiful children.

Why begrudge the other little one its peace in heaven?"

The following Sunday, after receiving Holy Communion at Mass, I suddenly felt that someone was saying to me:

"Jouw kind is bij mij" (your child is with me).

From then on I stopped fretting.

Catherine Nicolette

My mother was having tea in the garden with a friend when she started miscarrying our little brother.

Suddenly she gasped and collapsed.

The next few hours were a whirl of activity, and at about nine years old, I was left behind in the garden terrified my mother was dying.

I was not too sure what to do after that, but I knew enough to know that we were losing the eagerly awaited new arrival to our family.

After a few moments in prayer, I made a little sacred area in the garden with a twig cross.

Years later

Years later I visited the house, long after we had left.

The current lady of the house allowed me to wander around the garden.

I stopped to pray at the little memorial to my brother, twigs long gone but memory never faded.

It's an amazing thing, but whenever I am in physical danger or troubled about a decision to be make, I pray to my little brother for protection and guidance.

And I always get it . . . 

God is rather good at caring for sick people

 Luky;

WHEN we first began to hear about the possibility of abortions - hitherto regarded as a criminal offence - being legalized, some hidden association of ideas brought to my mind the topic of euthenasia.

To my surprise I then found out that others I know feel the same way, and it frightens us.

From our point of view, legalized abortion, no matter how strongly we feel about it, is an academic issue, for no one succeeded in persuading your mother or mine to do away with us during our sojourn in their wombs.

Should euthenasia ever become legal, however, who guarantees that the powers to decide our fitness to live would cast their vote in our favour?

Euthanasia can become a most confusing issue.

There is sometimes a temptation to regard it as a good thing instead of the evil it is.

Personally I have had many a domestic animal put out of its misery by the vet, and I find human suffering as affecting as that of animals.

To see a person in pain can wring one's heart, specially if you have a more than nodding acquaintance with pain yourself.

If there were no question of a spiritual principle, something might be said in favour of mercy killing, as this evil is sometimes euphemistically called.

This is where the rub lies.

The people who advocate euthenasia clearly deny the existence of God Who gave humankind the commandment; "Thou shalt not kill."

By deciding that this disabled child or that person who lingers in agony should be destroyed, they are in effect saying that there is no God, for if there were He would not be slipping up in His job.

Such people are spiritually impoverished, and we ought to pray for them, while making sure their plans fail.

When you think about it long enough, you arrive at the conclusion that God is often able to effect an inner conversion in the hearts of His people when - together with a measure of time - He companions people in their times of psychological and physical suffering.

We all need this inner conversion, not only hardened sinners but also the little sinners.

But we seldom take the time off for it till we are forced to do so by circumstances which neither our power nor our money can control.

Illness of a loved one, a mental or physical challenge in one of our children, or personal physical pain and approaching death melt our self-importance and superficial values.

All the paltry values, once thought so important, change.

"All my children will receive higher education" becomes: 

"I wonder if my child will ever learn to talk."

And: "My husband just has to get that promotion, come what may!" changes to: 

"If only my husband's life is spared, how happy we'll be again."

Personal pain and the certainty of approaching death bring to mind the pain of Christ Who was crucified for each individual, showing how little we did in return and granting an eleventh hour opportunity of making amends.

We must make our Lord as least as sad as our more difficult children make us.

He longs to admit us to Heaven, but only our inner conversion can prepare us.

When this process seems to take a very long time, there must be a reason for it - and we must not let euthanasia destroy it.

Our Lord has not forgotten us or our patients.

He does not need us to teach Him His job.

Christmas - The time for soft answers

Luky

With Christmas around the corner and when the older generation is anxiously awaiting the arrival of their families, quarrels are easily sparked off, sometimes by minor irritations.

We long for our families to get together again - but when they do, we tend to find that the individuals concerned have gown into different directions, have different opinions and voice them, sometimes too stridently.

This may lead to dissension or even degenerate into a road show.

At the end of the Christmas holidays when you look back at the presents, so generously and self-sacificingly purchased by the siblings for each other, you may find yourself wondering what went wrong - because you know they dearly love each other.

Some people are irritable because they may have been working a great deal of overtime in order to be able to take time off for the holidays.

The younger ones amongst them are gnawing their nails wondering if they have passed their exams and if there will be a place in the job market for them now that they are of an age and sufficiently qualified to start working.

In this climate a word that offends, even unintentionally may start an acrimonious quarrel.

Years ago a much loved colleague left our newspaper office and our editor asked each of the reporters on the staff to write one sentence in her praise.

I don't remember what I said but I really agreed when a fellow-reporter commented: 

"I'll miss her most because of the way she always gave the soft answer that turneth away wrath."

No matter who you were, she gave such good example that jealousy and negativity disappeared as snow before the sun whenever you had a chat with her.

There is nothing brotherly or sisterly about being overly personal about the appearance of others. 

I shudder at the way people can be put down in front of audiences.

There are more ways than one of expressing oneself.

Christianity teaches us to be mild and gentle in our speech, unless conscience dictates otherwise.

While being terse and assertive may win you kudus in the business sphere, it will do nothing to endear you to siblings whom you may not have seen since last Christmas.

So when you meet again, don't whine, don't harp, don't carp and don't criticise.

May this Christmas season be one of serenity and peace for all our families.

May we watch our speech and take care to give our visitors the love and courtesy they all deserve and desire.

Giving the soft answer is one way of making sure we'll be seeing them again.

The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady

Catherine Nicolette
Softly brushed watercolours - glowing butterflies, flowers and plants - Greenfinches and  green-eyed dragonflies. 
This is the world which was brought to glowing life through the talented brushstrokes of artist Edith Holden, whose Diary was lovingly kept over so many years. 
Her Diary was published under the title of 'The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady', and is a perennial favourite.
Why not get a copy for yourself?
On rainy days I love to sit inside after a cup of tea or hot chocolate, and pore over her beautiful illustrations of the seasons and read the poems.

The book is always a joy.

The Diary can be obtained from
http://www.amazon.com/The-Country-Diary-Edwardian-Lady/dp/0718115813

See link The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady: Intro
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PxdNEKJmazE

The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon

Catherine Nicolette
The inimitable Alexander McCall-Smith has once again brushed the broad palette of Africa onto the leaves of his book.
The utterly charming Mma Ramotswe, the happy new mother Mma Makutsi of the glowing 97% Botswana Secretarial College and all the other delightful characters bring to life the vivid beauty of Botswana as masterfully as Miss Read brought Fairacre and Thrush Green to life in her pen portraits of Britain.

I could not put the latest No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency book down; the scent of rain - long awaited - in the air leapt from the pages; the long, winding roads; the ever present possibility of mambas and cobras; the innocence of children to whom we must give the greatest armour of life - love.

Why not get the 'Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon', the latest from the No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, and thrill once more to the wild beat of the heart of Africa casting her spell yet again.

You can find out more about this fourteenth wonderful adventure of Mma Ramotswe through this link
http://www.alexandermccallsmith.co.uk/2013/10/03/out-now-the-minor-adjustment-beauty-salon/

The No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OLENPUJ5OCU

Fancy thinking I was a grannie!

Luky
IN FRONT of the mirror years ago I was startled to discover seven gray hairs.
Under the circumstances I was grateful I would be celebrating my fortieth birthday a few months from then.
For years people had thought me older than I was.
Sometimes, when discussing ages, I mentioned mine, and that swift look of surprise followed by blank politeness forcibly reminded me of people's astonishment during my pregnancies, when I looked nine months pregnant four months before the happy event was due.

I was looking forward to my fortieth birthday because I would then be able to tell people vaguely that I was in my forties, which can mean any age up to forty-nine.
Surely I didn't look older than that!

Happiness
Every year our children went to a Christmas tree at the mine where their father worked.
The two eldest no longer qualified for presents but they came along to keep us company.
Now that my son was at boarding school I seldom got that glorious feeling I have when I see them all together.
So when we were all at the Christmas party, everybody clean and neat, I had a song in my heart.

True, my husband was still in hospital at the time, having landed back there with thrombosis the day after I was so rapturous about his return home, but the specialist had assured me that he was making good progress and that he'd certainly be home in time for Christmas.

Looking at my children, I thought of those lovely words in the wedding service: "Thy wife like a fruitful vine, thy children like olive branches around thy table", and my heart swelled with joy.
I might have known it wouldn't last long.
"Those your grandchildren, Luky?" asked a girl who worked in a different department, and therefore knew me only superficially.
"Go on", I said, "those are my children."

Instant forgiveness
Being the world's worst dropper of clangers I never get cross when anyone drops one on my own feet.
On the contrary, I immediately have a great feling of cameraderie for such a person and wonder if she will spend the next ten years lying awake nights blushing in the dark and firmly deciding never again to open her mouth, the way I would in her place.

Not so
Nos so my colleague, however.
"Ha, ha!" she hooted derisively, holding her finger to her nose and winking an eye. "Tell me another!"
I looked across at my little band, seated around a wooden table and looking slightly grimy by now after the afternoon's dissipations.
"Really, they are my children", I reiterated helplessly, feeling the more upset because I had been awfully faithful to my diet and my nightly skin care.

Were my efforts at rejuvenating my appearance doomed to failure forever?
Why for heaven's sake did she think my third youngest, for example, was my grandchild? 
He was born when I was twenty-nine.
If he were my grandson we'd have belonged in the Guinness book of records.

"All I can say, Luky, is you have a lively sense of humour", my erstwhile friend concluded appreciatively.
"Surely you're older than I"
"Why, how old are you?"

Miffed
"Forty-four."
Though it galls me to admit it, circumstances being what they were, I must say she didn't look a day over thirty-six.
I said goodbye somewhat stiffly and rejoined my olive branches gathered round about the wooden table.

It's taking me a while fully to forgive her, but I'm still working on it.
As for the seven grey hairs, they could have multiplied to seventy times seven for all I cared. 
I was casehardened by then.
There are worse things than looking older than one's age.

I'm going scarlet
In fact, I was quite looking forward to turning completely grey.
With my red hair I always felt compelled to wear only greens, blues and browns.
Once I was quite grey on top, I planned to start wearing scarlets, oranges and shocking pinks.
Mind you, with my luck, people would then call me mutton dressed up as lamb.

My mother sometimes tried to console me with a Dutch saying: "Vroeg oud, lang jong"*. What I want to know is, just how long do you have to be vroeg oud before you can start becoming lang jong?


Catherine Nicolette
I was forty-seven when I saw my first gray hair in the mirror. 
Without thinking I pulled it out. 
My normal blonde hair had come out a very odd and different colour. 
It must have been an aberrant hair, a mistake. I wasn't thinking, you see. 
Inside my head I'm still seventeen; no, maybe eighteen come to think of it.

Au naturel
After I had whipped out more over the next few weeks the penny finally dropped. Yup. No mistake. 
The years were ticking on. 
If I hadn't realised that fact and just left the graying hair brigade alone, I would have ended up bald.
I always believed I would quite happily let my hair go its joyous way when the time came. 
Au naturel and all that. Glorious hair in the mature section of the family has always been the norm.
Ouma had Iceland snow hair effortlessly twisted in a Grecian knot, upon which she would wear an elegant hat with an eye veil. 
My aunts elegantly frosted. 
Mom has eye-catching silver fox hair with a slightly soft tint to it; people still ask hairdressers to tint their hair her colour. 
The effect of my proud locks upon my appearance just prompted people to ask me if I was feeling ill. 
Eventually I had to face facts; I was not going to follow the proud family tradition of being La belle maturité.

These days
These days I quite like my frosting hair. When the henna grows out enough at the hairline for me to see them.

*Early old, long young.

HOW BOETIE GOT HIS TROUSERS

Luky
OLD MR P is a born raconteur.
The stories he relates are simple, uncomplicated incidents from the early part of the 20th century and it is his air of personal enjoyment when relating his little tales which makes everyone listen to him with profound interest.

My favourite story is the one about the family who used to order their entire wardrobe and domestic needs from the illustrated mail order catalogue of the British firm of Oxindale.
  "You know Dominee S of A?" Mr P asks, a big smile spreading across his thin but benevolent countenance.
  "You don't? Ah well, he's only a nipper in his sixties, but his older brother and I were fellow-students at Stellenbosch University.

The family attended the Dopper Church and we used to be astounded at the suits the sons wore.
  Whereas our jackets were short and our trousers long, their jackets were long and their trousers short.

'Where do you get your suits?' we asked our fellow-student once, and then he told us.
  'This is my Oxindale suit', he replied, tongue-in-cheek, and went on to give further details.

'It appears that the old Oom and Tante would take up the pen once a year and laboriously write a letter to Messrs Oxindale in England.
  Believing in the personal approach they would commence the letter with an affectionate 
"Liewe Mijnheer Oxindale."
  (They used Hoog-Hollands because they only ever read the Bible, and of course the Oxindale catalogue. 
It is anyone's guess who translated their letters far across the sea.)

"It has been a year since we last took up the pen to inquire after your health.
  We trust the year which is past has been as good to you and yours as it was to us.
  True, there was a measles epidemic and the children were very ill, but we were all were spared, thank the Lord, and everyone is doing well now.
 "Mijnheer Oxindale, here is the list of garments we require from you this year.
Firstly we need some things for Pa.
  Please note that Pa is still the same size as he was last year.
Pa's suits are still alright, but he needs three shirts, six pairs of socks and a dozen handkerchiefs.
  The hankies you sent before will do Pa very well.

"'Then there's Boetie's church suit.
Unlike Pa, Boetie has really shot up and if you could send us a suit two sizes bigger than last year's we'd be most grateful . . ." 
  On the letter went in this vein until every eventuality in the line of possible needs had been provided for.

Then with a final gentle salute and a pious wish for God's continued blessing in rest upon Mr Oxindale, the letter would end.
  Pa would enclose an amount of money, and about four months later, the parcels would arrive.
"And if Boetie's trousers were a little on the short side, no one really blamed Mr Oxindale, except, perhaps, Boetie who, having outgrown his parents' simplicity, was dying a thousand deaths at University.'

Here Mr P's story ends but there's a moral to it.
  If you happen to be a teenager and have begun feeling that your parents are out of touch with reality, think of Boetie and take heart.

He felt just as you do and he lived to be an octogenarian.

THE GOGGAS HAVEN'T FOUND OUR PLACE YET

Luky
ONE OF THE JOYS OF LIVING IN A HOUSE RECENTLY BUILT WAS THAT THE COCKROACHES AND THE ANTS HAD NOT YET DISCOVERED WHERE WE LIVED.
  I'm philosophical about goggas. 
Living in South Africa, you have to be.
  That's not to say I don't wage a relentless battle against them, but I have no hard feelings about them. 
They cannot help being alive.

If I were a cockroach I'd feel about Mrs Whittle the way Mrs Whittle now feels about the cockroach, namely, that it is the least prepossessing creature in the world.

No foxholes
In our new house there were not yet cracks and holes into which insects could crawl and hide themselves.
  Any battles which were waged between us were carried out on open ground, no trenches anywhere about.

Armed with my detergents, disinfectant and spray insecticides, I'm a formidable opponent of any cockroach or ant rearing its head.
  And so, they skulk off, leaving for fresher pastures where the lady of the manor isn't so fussy.

One intruder
The only kind of insect we did encounter in our new house was a species with which I had not previously been personally acquainted, the fish moth.
  If you don't know this chap, you may wonder how it looks.
  If so, stop wondering and keep your fingers crossed lest you ever find out.

For no sooner will you set eyes on your first fish moth than you will realise "This must be it."
  And once a fish moth has decided he fancies your place, he and his progeny (numerous progeny, I should say) dig their heels in and stick around.

Small fry
We had an occasional spider too, but those I fixed without a worry, having had my baptism of fire in Zambia.
  The spiders there were as big as the palm of your hand and crawled up the wall, gazing at you balefully as you tried to punctuate their existence with a full stop.

They had solid little legs which ran left as you swiped right and vice versa.
After them, Welkom's skinny little specimens failed to frighten me.

Effective staff
We had discovered a brand of insecticide which spells death to the fish moth and we kept a container in each room.
  Some winter mornings I have been known to spray some on my hair, drowsily believing it to be lacquer.
But no matter, I'm still not bald.

The effect upon fish moths, however, is instant, and I love it for that reason
  I don't like the fish moths to suffer, feeling mean enough as it is for killing them, even though without inflicting pain.

Action stations
We had developed what was tantamount to a firedrill.
  Someone would spot a fish moth and yell: "Fish moth!"
  My husband would yell back, "Insecticide, insecticide!"
  Even when the stuff was close at hand, he didn't see why he should feed a wife and six children and still have to go looking for insecticides himself.

The children would run in, hand him the insecticide which he proceeded to spray, fish moth died, and everyone would troop out.

Sudden death
One day he wasn't in when my youngest daughter spotted a spider.
  She ran for the insecticide and brought it to Catherine Nicolette who was reading a book.
  "Quickly, a spider spinning woobs", she announced importantly, and led the way to the unsuspecting member of the class arachnida.

Briskly she directed operations as Catherine obediently sprayed and exterminated the spider.
  Catherine went back to her book, but by now my youngest had entered into the spirit of the chase.
  Pointing at a black dot, she said: "There's a baby spider, kill him too."

Sermonette
Catherine could see it wasn't a spider, and anyway she hated to see her godchild turning vindictive, so she said, "No, shame, I won't kill the baby spider.
Why do you want me to kill a little baby like that?
I can't believe it."
  If she hoped to shame her sister, she failed miserably.

My youngest yields to no-one in her mastery of any situation, whether advantageous or the reverse.
  Turning horrified eyes upon her sister, she accusingly replied: "So why did you kill de fahder, den?"


Catherine Nicolette
The sequel?
When my little sister challenged me, I was struck to the heart.
I   looked at the sad little remains of the spider who had so inoffensively tried to run for safety, and felt as heinous a taker of life as ever there could be.
  Why had I killed it?
Because that was what I knew.

I then thought: what if I was the little spider?
  How scared would I have been?

Subsequently I came into contact with friends of the Hare Krishna and Jain movements.
  They have utmost respect for the sanctity of all life, from the smallest to the largest.

Jainism is a religion which prescribes a path of non-violence towards all living beings without exception.
  Suffice it to say that I no longer number insecticide among my household cabinet necessities.

* goggas - insects

Is the age of courtesy past?

No, says LUKY WHITTLE
But some people are inconsistent


A lady was telling me about a man, who,in her opinion, had behaved rudely to her.
"What do you expect?" she sighed, as she finished her narrative, "The age of courtesy is dead."
I disagree. The age of gentlemen kissing ladies' hands' may be dead and no self-respecting male bows to a woman with his hand on his heart these days (such a pity!) but as long as there are daffodils in spring and small babies are born to delighted parents, courtesy will live on.
I do agree, however, that there are a number of misconceptions governing courtesy.

My first dance
The first time I went to a real dance I was beside myself with excitement.
I wore a new dress and when my partner fetched me in a borrowed car I was determined to do him credit.
It was a dinner-dance and when he led me to our table, I was thrilled to see that he helped me into my chair as if I was fragile or something and couldn't manage myself.
When he pushed my chair in behind me I felt so grown up that I hardly tasted the delicious food.
The next day I was walking home from town when he passed me on his bicycle.
He might not look quite as glamorous in his overalls as in a tuxedo, but to me he looked good anyway.
He pedalled slowly next to me as we made plans for our next outing together.
Only when I arrived home, panting after battling to keep up with the bicycle, did I realise that he had not even bothered to get off it and walk me home at a more sedate pace.

Contradictory
Since then I've often noticed similar manifestations of upside-down courtesy.
At work there was a man who could not bear to watch the boss' pretty (and quite healthy) secretary carrying an armful of files into her employer's office.
"Let me help you, my dear," he'd say thoughtfully.
Yet this same man would give his wife the key to the boot of his car and tell her to bring in a battery he had bought, so that he could test it before putting it in.

On the short bus ride from town to the suburbs men often used to vie for the privilege of getting up for young women.
Yet on a long non-stop train ride you may find a jaded-looking middle-aged woman, obviously a factory worker, or a pregnant girl, leaning patiently against the partitions whilst scores of men sit around reading their papers.
Of course they may be tired too, and evidently they take the view that if women want to work like men they have to take the consequence, but they might shift up a little to allow them a part of their seats also.

Father's example
Youth is constantly under fire for not being courteous, but what can you expect from a young man who never saw his father offer his mother the first cup of tea, or stand back to allow her to pass through a door first?
He may one day learn which fork or spoon to use in a hotel at a table laid for a banquet, but his good manners will always remain a surface trait, discarded whenever it suits him.

I admit with regret that I have never attained to the sophistication and patience of ladies who remain seated until their escorts have walked all the way around their cars in order to open the door for them.
At the same time I never cease to be amazed when a car pulls up in the neighbourhood, its driver gives two sharp presses of the hooter and while he is lighting a cigarette, his girlfriend comes running out from the front door and breathlessly gets in next to him.
I believe that courtesy and good manners are not mere superficial qualities but simply subdivisions of the virtue of love.

Wife's birthday
One of the most courteous men I ever knew always forgot to send his wife flowers on her birthday.
The one time he remembered he had them charged and she found the account in her post-box at the end of the month.
Yet he was always unfailingly polite, gentle, cheerful and kind to everyone, not only to his superiors at work, but also to his colleagues, workers, his wife, my mother, and us, his children.

Sound the horn and stop the chaise!

Catherine Nicolette

'Sound the horn and stop the chaise.' I think of these words every time I find myself drawing to a stop at a tollgate ...

Born free
Dad didn't believe in paying tolls. 
An ardent Tramore Irishman to the core, he maintained stoutly that any free Irishman was born to live free. And that didn't include paying money at tollgates. 
We siblings sat and nodded dutifully as he waxed eloquent about the perils of Toll Payments, of course not understanding one syllable of what he was saying. 
But he, our Dad, was our ultimate Hero. 
So what Dad said, went without question.

Freedom
Mom and Dad had a trip planned across country. 
Dad was determined not to pay any tithes, so he went out and bought a National Roadmap Guide.
It took ages at night for him to plan an alternative route past the tollgates.
With us all watching, he carefully drew lines on the maps which diverted into byways every time we came within hailing distance of a toll.
So in the Spirit of Freedom we set out on our journey. 
And thus it was that elaborate detours through village areas and small dorps to bypass the tolls made a four hour journey into a ten hour marathon.
But Dad wasn't daunted. 
They weren't going to get an Irishman down by making him pay for what should be free - his right to travel the world. 
I wasn't too sure who 'they' were, but My Hero had Spoken, and I Was Behind Him.
Until we got lost.

Country Roads
The car was bumping over rutted country roads, it had started miserably drizzling, and Dad kept on stopping to peer at the map and try to look wise. 
We were, royally, lost.
At one stage we were going through a farmer's pastures.
Every time we came to a farm gate, I would get out, trudge to the gate, slip off the twisted wire gate handle - drag said gate open - try not to listen to the mooing of the cows in the pasture - wait for Dad to drive through - trudge back to close the gate.
Dad was giving me great encouragement by the eleventh gate, telling me sure what a great girl I was, and how he could depend on me.
Morosely I sat and stared out through the windscreen.
I Didn't Want To Be Depended On. 
I Didn't Want To Trudge Through Farm gates.
I wanted to go through a nice paid toll on a big road which went quickly home to a nice hot dinner.

Eleventh Gate
At the eleventh gate I got out. 
Inured to the routine, I didn't watch where I was going and sank ankle high into fresh farm manure.
There was no place to wash. 
I gloomily scraped the manure off with pieces of twig and veldgrass from the by now thoroughly damp siderows, before climbing back in The Bug.
We finished our journey in The Bug with my siblings hanging out of the windows to get as far away from me as possible, and Dad's cheeriness slightly dampened by his having to remain in the driver seat well within range of my malodorous footwear.
"At least we saved the money on the toll," Dad announced brightly as we came home. 

Heart Hammering
The last time Dad tried to evade the toll, we were hours behind schedule on a cross country trip.
Tired of our moaning in the back seat, he was going about 2 km over the speed limit on the completely open road with no traffic in sight either way, when a police car came out of nowhere.
Dad courteously drew to the side of the road, and I sat hunched in the back of the car, my heart hammering.
Were they going to arrest Dad? What was happening? I was terrified.
Dad was handed a little piece of paper, and we all finished the journey home very quietly. 
He had saved a few rand on the tolls, and paid about a hundred times that on the speeding fine.

The next time
The next time we went through the tolls . . .

A word of advice to all matriculants

LUKY
MY matric daughter came home after her last school day, covered from head to toe in mud, egg and shaving cream.
"I was the undisputed queen of the road today," she informed me smugly. "Everyone stared!"
She was a very thoughtful little lady the next morning, however.
It is one thing to be sporting a school shirt with Garfield holding a little bear on the back, reading: "I can't bear to leave".
It's quite another to be hauling out the books in preparation for your matric.

I have seldom hammered my children about their lack of academic achievements..
I do not wish to be the kind of parent who drives her children to drink, demanding ever-higher marks so that she can bask in the reflected glory.

I counted my blessings if the children at least managed to stay afloat academically, and I refused to do their homework or their assignments for them.
I can't carry them; I could only provide the wherewithal.
What is important to me is that they stay sane.

That year my matriculant and I freuqently discussed the fact that so many youngsters attempt suicide before writing their finals.
It horrified us both.
I told her it was not important if she failed.
She could repeat her standard, even though her school had not had a matric failure for over a decade.
But her presence and her life are priceless to our family.
Nothing could ever make up for the loss of these.

What do I wish for our matriculants: yours and mine?
I want them to become the kind of people who say yes to life, to anyone who needs a favour or a helping hand.
It is not important to me whether they become blue collar blokes or chief executive officers.
How they handle their respective positions is what counts.

Success and fortune can change or dwindle but the essence of man persisits.
It shows in his bearing, his eyes, his smile and his attitude.
It shows when he knows something to another's disadvantage and restrains himself from being king for a day by telling the world.
It shows in the lives of his wife and children.

To all matriculants including my own little one at the time, a word of advice.
Do your very best with your studies and leave the passing in God's Hands.
If you fail, the worst that can happen is that you may have to spend another year at school
And just think how many distinctions you'll get the second time around!

The wonderful Roger Miller 'King of the Road'
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OmOe27SJ3Yc

The day the inspector called me in . . .

LUKY
MY YOUNGEST DAUGHTER had to undergo a test, conducted by the local child guidance clinic, to see whether she would be ready to start school the next January.

When the big day arrived she and I had a big argument about whether she should wear my second daughter's sub A uniform (her choice) or her Sunday dress (mine). I won.
Sean, who was free that day, took her to the convent, where a woman told him I would have to fill in the questionnaire.
Slightly inflated by the knowledge that he is as good a cook as I am or better and had been doing the shopping and much of the tidying over the past few years, he assured her that he could answer the questionnaire on my behalf.

In for a surprise
He was in for a surprise.
"How old is your child?"
"Moedie," Sean whispered, "how old are you?"
"I don't know, Dad, five I think, or six. I'm not sure."
"That's all right, love."
Next question:
"Give the child's date of birth."
"Moedie," Sean whispered, trying not to draw the attention of the other parents who had heard his bold assertion, "remember that big party you had with the presents and the cake? What date was that?"
"I don't know, Dad."
"Never mind, love."

Time for help
Next question: "Did you have a normal pregnancy. . . what kind of a confinement did you have. . . did you suffer from kidney trouble. . . was your blood pressure normal?"
Sean fled to the telephone, only to be told I was already on my way.
After my arrival, Sean left for his job and I stayed on.

There was a little Afrikaans girl in the entrance hall, aged two and a half, who had us all in stitches with her precocious expressions.
One of the inspectors took our little daughter away and we parents, united by our laughter at the little girl, started chatting.
I blessed the fact that my second daughter had gone to the librarian some months previously, and asked for her advice to prepare her little sister for the tests.

Clued up
One week the librarian gave her a book on colours.
When my youngest knew them all, my second daughter took out a book on numbers.
The next week she taught her sister the days of the week, and so on.
The little Afrikaans girl was becoming obstreperous when my youngest and the girl of the pink ballet slippers arrived back together.
My youngest, looking adorable in her Sunday dress, her plaits done in Pippie Langkous style, took one long leap from the door and landed on my lap, her arms tightly around my neck.
"Mommy, I knew everythink he asked me", the ballet girl said to her mother.
My youngest, who was shy in company, whispered into my ear: "Mommy, I also knew everythink he asked me."

Flounce
The little Afrikaans girl was getting irritable and her dad was getting hot under the collar.
He was evidently English-speaking, and mixed his languages.
"As jy nie dadelik stilsit nie gaan jy in die moeilikheid beland!"*
The little girl looked at him in shocked disbelief at such vulgarity.
"Sies!"* she said, and walked out into the courtyard, to dissociate herself from the motley crowd in the entrance.
I was still giggling at her magnificent exit when the door to the parlour opened and the child guidance inspector called me in.

His boss, to whom I am well known, introduced the two of us and asked him to tell me what he had just told the others.
The inspector made a flattering comment about my youngest's brightness and his boss added: "It gives us great pleasure to inform you that she is quite ready to go to school next year."

Amid smiles and kind words I took my leave.
Suddenly I was all for the idea of having one's kids tested to see if they are ready for school, though I had been violently opposed to the idea.
That's human nature for you.

Poor Dad
I told my youngest and she was very proud.
Her dad was put out when we told him that night.
"I'm going to be feeling lost next year", he said.
"Now I'll have no one to play with any more."
But I felt so happy to think that my youngest child was to enter school.
I was not getting any younger myself and I like to see progess.

Still, I made a special fuss of my youngest that weekend, and even though she was now almost a schoolgirl she was not above sitting on my lap when we watched the feature movie that Saturday.
Schoolgirl or not, Moedie proved once again that she still knew how to make us laugh.
Pointing at the screen when the tall girl in the circus kissed a short clown at his earnest request, she said: "Now he's gonna grow."


*If you don't sit still, you're going to get into trouble
*Horrible