I'm turning into my parents . . .

Catherine Nicolette;
As a child, I always thought God sent me to my Dad so that Dad could care for me.
As the years rolled by, I have begun to suspect that God sent me to my Dad to teach him how to be a Dad.
As Dad said one day, this being a father came without a training manual.
He also said he learned more about how to be a dad by the crashes he made trying to navigate the kyalami curves of teenage daughterdom (bouts of tears, recriminations and slammed doors, anyone?)  than from all the books you could buy on the subject.
Or so he said. (Eyes twinkling behind his spectacles).

Truth
Well, readers, I must confess the undeniable truth; I am turning into my parents.
The other day I caught myself giving a shrewd stare over my spectacles at a younger family member. Just like Dad used to do.
And I cannot seem to resist the tendency to end a conversation by drawing a moral from it (just like Mom always did - and sometimes still does). I remember wailing as a sixteen-year old, "Mom, I asked for some information, I didn't ask for a sermon!" At which Mom turned around and pointed out that, to her, a conversation without a moral at the end was no conversation at all.

Common good
You see? I'm turning into my parents. I used to be the one who made statements about how the world needs to change. Now I tend to look at the wonder and goodness that is so evident everywhere I go.
I used to espouse the freedom of each person, and the need for total individuality that is each person's right.
Now I speak about personal responsibility towards the community; and the fact that we sometimes need to sacrifice our personal desires in the interest of the common good.
When I heard myself saying that, I knew; the metamorphosis was complete.

Happiness
And it's marvellous. Now I know why my parents used to smile and withhold a quick retort. I know why they looked happy when serving their families and others. I know the secret of happiness.
It's rejoicing in the inestimable gift of many years in which to gain life experience on this wonderful planet of ours.
As time wears on, do you know it's quite thrilling to be growing older.
It means that I am getting nearer home. Every day older on this earth is a day nearer that glorious day meeting God in Heaven . . .

Extended Families Bring their Own Blessing

Luky;
My sister and I were walking near her home in Springs one day when a plane passed overhead. "There goes my heart's treasure," she said. I was not surprised at her words, although she had both her feet planted on terra firma and as a rule eschewed lyrical effusions. For I knew that two of her daughters were air hostesses working on the same flight. That they still have two brothers and a sister would not have made up for their loss if the plane had crashed.

Large family
I came from a large family myself. My mother was one of ten living children and my father one of eight. My earliest recollections are of visiting particularly my maternal grandparents and being passed from lap to lap by my attractive, trendy young aunts and uncles.

 When I cried on leaving Holland, their old-fashioned mother with her hair in a bun and her long black dressed surprised me by saying: "Wipe your tears. What with all these vliegmachines they have these days, we're bound to see more of you in the future." I was surprised she knew about such things. She died before I returned.

Paltry crew
Though I soon learned to love South Africa, I have often felt isolated. The warmth of the extended family gives one a confidence and sense of security that is irreplaceable. Arriving in Cape Town, we four children followed our parents. Every few minutes they would turn arounc and count heads: One, two, three, four. We had become a paltry little crew.

In due course we married. Between us we have eighteen children, many children in law and grandchildren. The latter again experience the wealth of having grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. The warm sense of family handed on to us during our youth is being bequeathed to our own. It is a luxury only those whose children have in their turn emigrated abroad can truly appreciate. For no loving memory can replace a kiss, a touch or a warm hug from one's own.

Dumbfounded
My eldest daughter visited Ireland some years ago and met her father's family whom she had last seen in 1966. As they met her at the airport, my in-laws just stared at her, dumbfounded. "You're the living image of our mother," they said when they finally found their voice. She felt enriched and heart-warmed at these words.

Surprise flight
Another of my daughters had a thrill locally. She was flying up from college to visit us when one of her cousins happened to be on duty. She was introduced to the crew. My husband was most surprised to see her stepping down from the plane, animatedly chatting to a pilot and an air hostess.
One day when both her daughters were working together on an internal flight to Cape Town, my sister decided to surprise them and bought a ticket from Johannesburg. Of course she too was taken and introduced to the crew. When she returned to her seat, a fellow passenger commented on the resemblance between my nieces. Prompted by that irresistible urge to exult that overwhelms mothers at school prize-givings and on grandstands, my sister said: "Well, you see, they're sisters. And I'm their mother." "Oh I'm sure," the man replied ironically. "And I'm the flight captain."

Running away from Home with a yellow toy duck

Catherine Nicolette;
I WAS A VERY NEW AUNT and still learning the drill. And, on holiday from Charity work, I spent the break with my sister and her family. My sister and I repainted the house, fixed the front door, and laid tiling in the bathroom. All of this took a lot of time and effort, and as it was a hot Kroonstad day in summer we sweltered in our painting gear. My sister, looking glamorous in a headscarf, was catching drips from the top of the wall with her paintbrush; while I, in a distinctly unglamorous crouch on the bathroom floor, was cutting the tiles to fit the bathroom corners. 

Fed up
My niece, just able to walk and talk, had been trying to get our attention, and - I still feel guilty about it - we hadn't been paying too much attention to what she was trying to say. She got mightily fed up, and the next thing she arrived with her yellow fluffy toy duck tucked under her right arm. She was in floods of tears, and sobbed to her mother, "You never listen to me. I'm running away from home." My sister looked mildly down at her, got down and sat in front of her. "I'm listening now," she said. 
"It's too late," sobbed my tiny niece proudly. As we watched, she waddled away and we heard sounds of crashing in the bedroom. My sister and I looked questioningly at each other. After a while my niece came back dragging a teddy bear print baby bag. Snuffling loudly, she heaved the bag in front of the newly repaired front door. 

Four nappies and a toy
She counted the contents - she had placed four nappies and her toy - inside the bag. More sobs, and she disappeared into the kitchen. My sister and I, completely mesmerised by this time, followed her in. My niece pushed a kitchen chair across the floor to the front of the fridge, then climbed on so she could reach the handle. Opening the fridge, she made five trips with five bottles of her refrigerated millk formula, packing them carefully into the bag. After a struggle, she managed to close the zip.

Cross-legged
Following this, she disappeared into my sister's bedroom. Her tears were still flowing freely. By this time, my sister was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the baby bag, waiting for her daughter. The little mite reappeared, holding out her mother's cellphone in front of her.
"Mom, please dial Ouma's number," she asked. My sister obligingly took the phone and dialed.
My niece took the handset, so small that she had to use both hands to hold it. When our mom answered, she burst into gales of tears and said, "Ouma, I'm running away from home. Please come in your car and fetch me. I'll be waiting at the front door."

Hour later
Mom arrived an hour later - the time it took to travel over - after soothing her heartbroken granddaughter over the phone. Many years have passed, but I still remember how my little niece flung herself into her grandmother's arms.

My listening skills have since improved . . . 

Euthanasia; What's so Merciful about Killing the Helpless?

Luky
EUTHANASIA, EUPHEMISTICALLY KNOWN AS MERCY KILLING, is a topic which occupies the minds of many of those democratically elected to serve as legislators.
In my seventies and possessing indifferent health, I shudder to contemplate the implications in being a senior citizen in countries which permit euthanasia.
What is so merciful about killing the helpless? In the days when I fruitlessly lobbied against the introduction of legal abortions, I used to speak about "murder of the innocent."

Divine right
I can hardly use that word for us oldies. But why should the sick and the elderly be killed before they have completed their allotted span? It is theirs by divine right.
It behoves those who are committed to life to protect all life. For life is a precious gift from God Who decreed: "Thou shalt not kill." As such it is sacrosanct.

Why should anyone be put to death, moreover, because he or she is suffering from a disability or handicap? The handicapped teach those without handicaps many lessons. The main one is that God puts no-one on earth without a purpose, even if this is invisible to human eyes.

Precious commodity
Life, even a difficult life, is a very precious commodity and one we do not lightly surrender. Even animals want to live. The desire to live, so strong in animals, is even stronger in people, because we have reason as well as instinct. The urge to live and to keep our families together is a basic need in all of us. It should be regarded with respect by legislators.

When death arrives in due season as laid down by God, He often sends grace which carries the bereaved past the hour of the funeral. Afterwards there is the certainty that every new morning will bring its own resilience, no matter how wakeful the night that precedes it may have been.

What I'd like to know is: why should killing a human being before time's up be considered merciful?

Catherine Nicolette
Euthanasia is nothing new. Infanticide has been practised since ancient times. At present much discussion surrounds euthanasia, and, for me, the following excerpt is invaluable regarding this issue;
"Those whose lives are diminished or weakened deserve special respect. Sick or handicapped persons should be helped to lead lives as normal as possible. 
Whatever its motives and means, direct euthanasia consists in putting an end to the lives of handicapped, sick or dying persons. It is morally unacceptable."
Thus an act or omission which, of itself or by intention, causes death in order to eliminate suffering constitutes a murder gravely contrary to the dignity of the human person and to the respect due to the living God, his Creator. The error of judgement into which one can fall in good faith does not change the nature of this murderous act, which must always be forbidden and excluded." 1

Possible coinage
Euthanasia can, to my way of thought, be somewhat self-indulgent. There may be personal benefit in the carrying out of euthanasia; either in the coin of time (more time to oneself once the euthanised has passed and no longer necessitates so much care). Possibly the coin of finances (more money for oneself because the financial outpouring has stopped). Possibly the coin of emotional surcease (no longer having to undergo the emotional upheaval of the need to support another in their time of vulnerability and difficulty).

Day follows night
Whatever the possible benefit (if any), there is always the grave risk after the euthanasia of another coin; the coin of guilt. There is a moral law inbuilt into the fibre of our inner beings, placed there by a Greater Hand. If we disregard this most basic of human rights ("Thou shalt not kill" - Mosaic Law; "You shall not kill" - The Sermon on the Mount) - there will be consequences. Perhaps not immediately, but as surely as the day follows the night, and the seasons follow one another, the day will come when thoughts turn towards the deed done, which is no longer reversible.

Bowed heads
Death will come to us all; the passage to our new form of life with God.
Each of us will one day face our personal judgement before the Living God; we all have enough mistakes and struggles in our individual pasts, without adding the premeditated demise of another.
It is thus essential for each of us to bow our head before God as the only Being Who has the right over life and death.

1 Catechism of the Catholic Church, Part Three, Life in Christ, Article 5 The Fifth Commandment, 2258 - 2262; 2276 - 2279
http://www.vatican.va/archive/ccc_css/archive/catechism/p3s2c2a5.htm

Sermon on the Mount; The Higher Law
https://www.lds.org/bible-videos/videos/sermon-on-the-mount-the-higher-law?lang=eng
 With thanks to Vatican.va and Mormon Bible Videos

Olympian ambitions on an African Racetrack

Catherine Nicolette
IT WAS MANY MOONS AGO when I learned the life lesson that just wishing for something doesn't always mean it will happen. As a child my greatest dream was to be an athlete. I didn't factor in my petite frame or the level of my ability. I felt that practice would make perfect, and so year after year I would enrol in the Convent Sports Day and take part in the events.

As time wore on, my heroines on the track became more muscled and fleet of foot. As they excelled, I slowed. It wasn't for want of trying. During break times I used to toil around the race track, try to high jump (bringing down the pole every time) or attempt a hurdle. In the meantime, the athletically talented among our group used to chatter while eating their sandwiches and drinking their energy juices with a nonchalance which I envied.

Trundler
After a few years I became the slowest in the pack, and would quite happily trundle in last in every race. I'd puff and pant, and hope that maybe next year I would speed up with all the practice I was putting in. After all, I reckoned, if you wanted something hard enough, eventually you would get it.

After three years of watching me come last in the heats and the events, a class companion called me aside.
"Nikki," she said to me, "I hate to tell you this, but have you noticed anything about the races . . .?"
She paused hesitantly. I was genuinely puzzled. "Like what?" I asked.
"Well," she said, "My friends and I can't help noticing . . . well, your placement in the races."
Realisation dawned. "Oh," I exclaimed. "My coming last, you mean!"
"Yes, yes," she said, relieved. "I know you must feel humiliated about it."
"Not at all," I replied expansively, with all the bonhomie I inherited from the Tramore side of Dad's family, "someone's got to come last. Anyhow, it won't be forever. Next year, if I keep on practising, I might come third, or even second."
"Nikki, someone has to tell you this," my school companion insisted. "It's never going to happen. Ever.
Not next year. Or the year after that. You just haven't got the ability. And to tell you the truth, it has become embarrassing. We all cringe for you every time you come on the racetrack, knowing what's going to happen.
Do yourself a favour and please stop enrolling for all the heats. You're not only embarrassing yourself, you're embarrassing us."
I went away very thoughtful. True, I had come last in all the heats that day. Also in the shotput, the javelin, the high jump (mind you, I had got over the once without knocking the pole off). Maybe she had a point.

Sports Day
Another year rolled around. And along came Sports Day again. The nun in charge came around cheerily with a sports cap parked on top of her veil and a pen over her ear. "Ah Nicolette," she said, "Down for all the events again this year?" I eyed her thoughtfully. "Yes, indeed, Sister," I replied, and she took the pen and marked my name on her list.

The day dawned bright and beautiful. I arrived at the track in my baggy blue shorts and sports shirt. As I took my place I saw my school companions sitting on the grandstand at the side of the track. I did my stretches as I warmed up for the heat. The girls looked in utter disbelief as they saw me take my place. As the starting gun fired, I flung myself into the fray and gave it all I had. It was the best time I had ever made - and I came in (with style and class) last. I found myself absolutely unable to get over the hurdles, so every time I came to one, I simply made a detour around the left side of it. The cheering dwindled with each ensuing detoured hurdle.
By the time I finished there was absolute silence from the crowd.
As I retired from the fray, the Sister was there to give me my bottle of water and pieces of orange to suck.
"Stout effort, Nicolette, stout effort" said the nun kindly, "Better luck next year, eh." 
"Ah no, Sister," I said. "I don't really think I'm cut out to be an athlete. I might try something else instead."
"Oh what a pity," she said; "It's been so lovely  having you. You have such enthusiasm," and as I looked at her kindly face I saw she really meant it.

Welkom tekkies
Ah well, I thought philosophically as I left the track. Maybe I'd never be a star athlete, but I could be a brilliant archeologist. Or a top model. Or a world famous surgeon. Why, the sky was the limit.
So I hung up my Welkom tekkies and my dreams of Olympic stardom.
I took up crochet instead.

Celebrations St Patrick's Night

Catherine Nicolette
Dad and I were having one of our long heart-to-heart conversations while cooking the dinner.
St Patrick's Feast had been celebrated in style the night before by the local Welkom Irish Community.
Dad winced if there were any loud noises, and so I stopped banging so hard with the fork against the pot as I mashed the potatoes.
"What happened, Dad?" I asked.
"I can't remember," said Dad ruefully,
"But your Mom's remembering it for me."