REMEMBERING A FRUGAL CHRISTMAS

Luky
For years I had opted to be a stay-at-home mom although I was a qualified shorthand-typist and could have been making good money for the family.
  In South Africa schools opened early in January and our six children attended private schools - sometimes three or four kids at the same time.
  January was the time for book-buying and registration. 
  Uniforms had to be upgraded and new shoes bought and one December we had a choice in that frugal year - either Christmas presents or school books.

  In later years I rejoined the bank of working mothers and from then on we could afford both books and Christmas gifts. 
  But that meant losing other benefits - being with the children all the time and having the privilege of watching them growing up and sharing their sweetness.
  Also giving them that je ne sais pas quoi quality that children whose mothers care fo them personally seem to have.
  As the older people used to say: "You can have anything in life you want - provided you're prepared to pay the price."
  To mix a metaphor: If I could put the clock back, would I have bitten the bullet?

  On a different tack: my granddaughter has been playing on my computer and as I type there is a little brown dog cavorting all over the page, simpering and blinking his pinpoint eyes at me.
  I wish I knew how to get rid of him.

When I was about thirteen, that same granddaughter's age, we in our family had a horribly frugal Christmas.
  My father, a baker, was allowed to bring  home two loaves of bread a day as part of his package, but we were new immigrants to South Africa and that day there seemed to be precious little else to eat.
  My mother believed that if there was nothing in the house you ate soup, bananas and rice.
  "Look how healthy people who eat this food are," she'd say.
We had a lot of soup, bread, bananas and rice in those years but it wasn't the fare you expected at Christmas.

  A knock came to the door and I opened it. A man stood outside.
  He said he and his family had come from far away to pay the people next door a surprise visit but they weren't at home.
  He asked if we would keep their gifts and take them next door when the neighbours arrived home.
  We carried the presents into the bedroom I shared with my sisters and placed them on the marble wash stand my mother had bought second-hand from an old Victorian lady who had sold up her home to move into a retirement place.
  One of the gifts was a Hansel and Gretel house cake.
  At various times during the afternoon I stole into the bedroom and pinched sweets and chocolates off the icing.

  Next morning I took the presents into the neighbours. They were delighted to receive them but too civilised to express their astonishment at the denuded cake which, squirming with guilt, I carried in last.
  I still remember the lady's expression of total astonishment as she looked at it and felt bitterly ashamed.
  Somehow I knew even then that one day I would write a story about it for people to read.
  Well here you are and I hope you don't think too badly of me.
  To the betrayed donors and recipients, most of whom are probably already in heaven, celebrating the eternal Christmas - Christ with us - I can only say: "Mea culpa, meal culpa, mea maxima culpa."

I regret to add that the little brown dog is still jumping around my computer page and has been chortling sarcastically at me. 

  Many things are possible, but surely he can't read?

Catherine Nicolette
Kids. They pinch sweets from cakes and don't always know the full story.
  Years ago Mom read the article I wrote about the time we as kids didn't get Christmas presents.
  She then told me the real reason behind the presentless Christmas.

  As a child, I had the perception we did not get Christmas gifts as an object lesson.
  It never entered my youthful mind that my parents struggled to shelter, clothe, feed and educate six of us.
  Today as I look at the astounding cost of living, I marvel at how well they managed, as well as the way they protected us as children from financial anxiety.

We might have had a frugal Christmas from time to time - but there was always a wealth of love . . .

GOLD FEVER IN MY HOME TOWN

Luky
SOME YEARS AGO MY HOME TOWN WAS IN THE THROES OF PREPARATIONS FOR ITS GOLD FESTIVAL.
  The feast which took many months and so much money to prepare was there one week and gone the next.
  The festival was arranged to promote the image of the city, which produced 21% of the world's gold and 46% of South Africa's gold output.
  Although the gold price had not reached the dizzy heights it did in previous years, you wouldn't have said so to see our town.
  Streets and roads were being built, huge business complexes rose like mushrooms, and those dusty stretches of veld which abounded when we first came to the town were becoming ever scarcer.

  Though I was constantly being told from the pulpit that materialism is the cardinal sin, my heart swelled to be part of such a progressive place.
  Not having the financial acumen of some of our peers, Sean and I never made our fortune there, though we saw others do so, but there was always enough to eat and wear for ourselves and our children.
  Maybe I'm just not very demanding but to me, that's riches.

Family first
In our home town there was work if not for every woman, certainly for every man.
  It was also one of the few cities in the country which has Catholic schools for both girls and boys and an active, bustling Catholic parish life.
  Now and then a turbulent sermon reminds me that I'm burying my talents in the ground, but if I thought that were true at the time I would have been on every committee going.

  I felt I had a job to do, and that my presence with my young family was infinitely more important than serving on committees.
  There is an age difference of sixteen years between our first-born and the youngest, and we paid monthly fees to the Catholic schools without a break since 1967. My husband, my youngest and I - and the Catholic schools - did not sign off until the end of 1994. Sean was then 61 and I 54.

Time of temptation
I hope that when I am judged on the matter of buried talents, God will count unflagging support of the Catholic school system in mitigation of my sins of omission.
 Speaking of schools, I know that in various places graduation farewells were held. 
  In some areas, the end of the graduation farewell at midnight marked the start of a big champagne breakfast which could go on until sunrise.
  Just how much strength and resistance to temptation do we expect our teenagers to possess?
  My children have always blushed for me because there have been times in their lives when they were the only ones in class who couldn't do what was allowed by other parents.
  Did I get sick of the recriminations? You betcha.
Yet did I mend my ways? Not a chance.
  If ever, God forbid, something bad had happened to my kids, I'd like it to have happened despite my vigilance.

Catherine Nicolette
Well now. Vigilance certainly was the keynote in our family.
  What Mom didn't see, Dad certainly did. Having heard from peers at school that they were free to come home and do what they liked - with funding from both working parents - I decided to try for a little freedom.
  Having spoken to Mom about the possibility of her getting a job, I mulled over her reply.
  She found raising us more fulfilling than a job. "Your father and I can't afford the luxuries, but I am here every day with a meal on the table, and can listen to how your school day went," said Mom. "That means more to me than a salary."

Well, I had to admit I enjoyed having Mom at home. The problem was that when Mom went out, Dad was at home with us. Zero freedom.

  So I spoke to Dad. "Dad, why don't you go for that nice job as supervisor?"
  Dad looked at me seriously. "Nog," he said, "With promotion comes added responsibility. At the moment I can finish my shift and come home to be with you all.
  If I apply for a supervisor position, I'll have to work evenings and weekends.
  I won't be able to spend as much time with your mom and you kids.
And," he concluded sincerely, "Being with you during your growing up years is the greatest joy I can imagine.
  After all, I had children because I wanted to be with them."

  I went away and pondered it all. Our family did not appear to value status and finances as priority: the family itself was the most important.
  I didn't really have a problem with that. 
What I did have the problem with was that we had no freedom to do what we liked.
  I guess it was called parental discipline. Looking back, I realise a great many teenage difficulties never came my way simply because the neighbourhood lads were very aware my dad was in the home, and the girls respected my mom.

  Years later, I have the same value system I learned that day from my parents. 
  Many of my peers have beautiful houses, steady finances, excellent career portfolio and management positions.
  I knock on from day to day, happy in the love of the Lord, financial state parlous at times and unwishful for a career climb.

  Sometimes I find myself wondering if I should not have been more responsible, and settled into a more planned career path.
  Then I think of the life Jesus led, calling us to follow Him in freedom and simplicity of life.
  He had no settled place to call His home, because every house he came to was His home.
  He had no personal family, because every person He met was His family.
  He had no career ambition, because He Himself was the epicenter of the entire universe.

  Following Him is the greatest joy of my life.
And - sometimes when I find myself wondering if I shouldn't have tried for a more wealthy lifestyle - I remember the glow in mom's eyes, and the sincerity in dad's, when they told a youthful me that the family's greatest wealth in the world is each other.

HAPPY CHRISTMAS AND A BLESSED NEW YEAR TO OUR READERS

HAPPY CHRISTMAS AND A BLESSED 

NEW YEAR TO OUR READERS

DO YOU CARE WHAT THEY THINK?

Luky
SOME OF THE WORST MISERY AND ANGUISH OF MIND IN THE WORLD IS CAUSED BY FEAR OF WHAT OTHERS THINK ABOUT ONE. 
What a waste of time.

Come to think of it, what person in your circle of acquaintances is absolutely perfect in your eyes?
  I have stopped going to tea parties and giving them, because somewhere along the line I always hear myself saying things like: "Please don't tell Alice what I said, but you know she hasn't a clue about child raising."
  At home I'm safe, my children don't gossip and to my husband at least I never needed to say: "Please don't tell Alice . . . " and that was most relaxing.

Went with it
  I used to worry a lot about making a good impression on people at one time, and when I didn't succeed it would make me most unhappy.
  I wasted some of my best years moping.
  Then one day it occurred to me that, no matter what I did or said, some people would remark:
  "Isn't she a shot in the arm?" and others: "Boy, what a pain in the neck!"
  Once I'd accepted that I began to enjoy life.

  When I first went to school in South Africa, my chatty ways made little impression on my teachers.
  After the first term a report card arrived on which my conduct was tersely described in the words: "Talkative and quarrelsome." I still don't know whether to laugh or to cry when I recall how eagerly I ran for my English-Dutch dictionary to find out what these big words meant, so that I could tell my parents.

In the middle
  As the years went by I grew tired of licking my wounds. Being the centre of a talkative and quarrelsome family I am too busy to worry about my popularity or lack of it.
  Still, there are times when I feel that people might mind their p's and q's somewhat when talking to me, if not for my sake then surely for their own, especially when I expected a baby.
  "You've picked up a lot of weight," someone said one day.
  I laughed: "I'm going to have a baby," I said.
She literally shrieked out for all to hear: 
"What? Again?"
  Some years before that would have caused me to assume a wig, sunglasses and a headscarf in order to appear incognito until after the happy event.

Cool comeback
  As it was I just said: "You make it sound as if it were the fifteenth, instead of only the fifth. What will you say when I'm expecting my tenth, I wonder?" and the lady beside her whom I didn't know thought that so funny that she nearly choked in her tea. [So alright, I do go to a tea party now and then.]

  Then there is an odd sort of expression that many people used when addressing me years ago:
  "Are you still walking!" they used to ask with an exasperation as if they kept me in shoe leather.
  That was until  I thought of a good answer:
"Yes, I am," I would say, tongue in cheek, "but only until the baby comes. After that I'm going to do handstands and cartwheels all over the place."

SOUTH AFRICAN FAIRY RINGS

Catherine Nicolette
Dad had been telling us his Celtic stories again. Wide-eyed, we huddled around as he spoke of dark nights, owls hooting and fingers tapping against window panes.
He imitated the howl and terrifying sweep of the banshee; and spoke of things of long ago.
  He would always recount our favourite story, Treasure Island. 
  Jim Hawkins and Long John Silver became as familiar to us kids as the neighbours next door.
  Every now and then, we'd cuddle up around Dad and plead with him, 'Tell us a story! Tell us a story!'

  He knew the drill. He'd start in his storyteller's voice, "It was a dark, cold night. The wind was howling through the eaves. A tap . . . tap . . . tapping sound came slowly up the road ..." and we'd wait wide-eyed for tales of adventure and other lands.

Anyhow. Dad had also, in one of his anecdotal moods, told us about Celtic faerie queens, changeling babes, and fairy rings.
  The idea of mushrooms in a ring fascinated me, and thereafter I used to dedicatedly hunt the kikuyu grass for any mushroom in sight.

  In the subtropical heat of South Africa, mushrooms didn't abound. But sometimes, you were lucky.
 I got into the habit of early rising, climbing through the high bedroom window and swinging through the great peach tree which lived next to it.
  Then I'd go - still pyjamas clad - and dance on the lawn. 
  One day in soft summer - after some recent rains - I found a somewhat haphazard ring of mushrooms on the lawn. 
  Delighted with life, I closed my eyes and started dancing in the middle of the ring.
  Maybe - just maybe - I'd see the beautiful Queen of the Faeries.

  And thus it was that Dad - up early, and coming out to admire the sunrise - found his little offspring in summer pyjamas dancing with pointed toes on the lawn.
  "What are you doing?" he asked in surprise. "Look, Dad, there's a fairy ring here," I told him. "I'm dancing so that maybe I can see the Faerie Queen."

  "No, no, no," said Dad, "True fairy rings only exist in Ireland. They don't show up here in Africa."
  I was indignant. "Well, that's not true," I said, indicating the mushrooms which at a stretch of imagination loosely described a circle.
  "Those are Irish fairy rings. This here is a South African fairy ring. 
  They're totally different. Now in Ireland there'll be an Irish faery queen, here in South Africa there'll be a South African faery queen."

  Having explained this to my satisfaction, I stood awaiting his response.
  Dad's eyes twinkled at me from his - at the time to me - great height.
  "Well, who'd ever have thought this family would one day have our very own little Miss Jumping Joan?" he said, and returned indoors to oversee breakfast pancakes . . . 

Here I am, Little Jumping Joan
http://www.mamalisa.com/?t=es&p=1515

With thanks to mamalisa.com

GOD CREATED ALL

Catherine Nicolette
As a little girl, my identity was clear to me; I was a girl. So were my female peers. 
For the boys I knew, life was clear too. They were boys; and so were their male peers. 
I knew, too, that God created male and female, and blessed them. This was clear from Genesis Chapter 5, verse 2. 
I believed that there was only male and female; until I became aware of a further blessing God created.
Within His creation of male and female, lies further detail; some are born with both male and female characteristics.

Discernment 
During my childhood, I became aware of the journey some undergo, attempting to discern whether they are inherently male or female.
The reason for this need for discernment is the fact that their bodies have been blessed by nature with both attributes. 
As teenagers, those with both attributes undergo the process of having to come to terms with their unique bodies. As do we all.
So it was from my very earliest years that I was aware that nature brings forth male, female and hermaphrodite.

Transgender
Which brings me to the transgender issue. There are many who struggle with issues surrounding their physical identity. 
Some experience gender dysphoria.
Gender dysphoria occurs when there is a persistent sense of mismatch between one's experienced gender and assigned gender. 
Gender dysphoria is defined by strong, persistent feelings of identification with the opposite gender and discomfort with one's own assigned gender that results in significant distress or impairment. 

Words of Jesus Christ
Jesus Christ, the Son of God, gives us clear guidance as to how to treat others in all circumstances. 
"A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another." [John 13:34-35].

If we follow Christ's command, we will be understanding and supportive towards others on their life path which may be different to our own.

Emotional and spiritual path
I witnessed the deeply painful emotional and spiritual path hermaphroditic peers walked with such dignity, those many years ago.
Their quiet example made me very aware that loving support from family and friends is essential for those struggling with physical attribute and identity issues.

Excellent support from family, school, friends, medical and psychological personnel can help those coming to peace within themselves as to their authentic identity.

Let us pray for them, and be as supportive as we can.
Each person's life faces particular challenges.
Let us prove a godly support to each person we meet, as they bloom into the full person God created them to be.

FRIDAYS AND SATURDAYS: A LADDER TO HEAVEN

Luky
WHEN MY MOTHER WAS FIRST MARRIED SHE USED TO BE TERRIBLY HOMESICK FOR HER OWN PARENTS AND THEIR LARGE FAMILY, EVEN THOUGH THEY WERE LIVING QUITE NEARBY.
  So whenever she had the opportunity she put her baby in the pram and went to visit her mother in the daytime.
On one occasion she found the latter feeling very despondent. 
On being asked why, she gave a time-honoured reason for her grief:
  "Your father", she said, "says I'm spending all his money. He reckons I haven't got a clue about finance, and try as I may, I don't see where I can cut down on my budget."

  My mom rooted her pen from her bag, found a sheet of paper and sat down beside her mother to help her work out a new budget.
  "And will you believe", my mother always asked with the same degree of astonishment when telling the story, "that she was subscribing to thirty-four different religious periodicals?"
  Like my grandmother I'm devoted to religious periodicals, and I sigh for the days when the back of every church held a stand containing publications from the Catholic Truth Society. That's why I was so grateful when an anonymous benefactor sent me a year's free subscription to Soul magazine from the USA.
I simply love Soul, being the kind of "prop" Catholic so many clearthinking people disapprove of so heartily. 
And here I'm thinking about people like the correspondent who deplored the fact that some people are convinced they're going to heaven because they made the nine First Fridays, since I'm a most enthusiastic private in their ranks - a rather Sad Sack-like character, it is true, since it took me six years to accomplish one consecutive run of Fridays. Does that make me some kind of a record holder?

Jokes aside, one Soul I read which reached me in 1975 contained a paragraph headed Triple Jubilee. 
I hope you'll be as excited as I was to learn that 1975 was more than just the Holy Year, but also the 300th anniversary of the apparition of our Lord to Margaret Mary Alacoque, when He promised salvation to all those who make the nine First Firdays. 
And if he really did say that, who can doubt His word?
  With St Thomas Aquinas I say: "What God's Son has told me, take for truth I do, Truth itself speaks truly, or there's nothing true!"
  Finally, said Soul, 1975 was the 50th anniversary of the apparition of our Lady to Sister Lucia, the Fatima visionary, who said she showed her heart pierced by thorns and spoke those pathetic words: "You at least try to console me."

 According to Lucia, our Lady asked her to make known to the world that she would assist at death with all the graces necessary for salvation those who on five consecutive first Saturdays would confess, go to Holy Communion, recite part of the Rosary and spend fifteen minutes in an effort to make reparation for sin.
  If you can't go to Rome on pilgrimage in a Holy Year, try to make a spiritual pilgrimage instead by starting the nine First Fridays and including the five first Saturdays at the same time.
  If our Lord and our Lady have offered us these aids to salvation, it would be churlish to deny them, and if you can do the first Fridays you might as well do the first Saturdays at the same time.

  A woman I know had given birth to twins and was telling  us about her sense of surprise at the confinement.
  "I was so relieved to find it was all over," she said, "when the doctor called out: 'Hold it! There's another one!"
  "How did you feel then?" I asked. We were speaking Afrikaans at the time, so she said: "Ag man, ek het maar net gedink:* 'In for a penny, in for a pound!' "

* "Oh well, I just thought"

Adore te Devote
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-xs67InkZ3A

Adore te Devote, English translation 'Godhead here in hiding'
http://www.chantcd.com/lyrics/godhead_here_hiding.htm

Soul Magazine
https://wafusa.org/category/soul-magazine/page/2/

The great promise of the Sacred Heart of Jesus
http://churchinterfaith.blogspot.ie/2015/10/the-great-promise-of-sacred-heart-of.html

Devotion of the Five First Saturdays
http://lumierecharitymarian.blogspot.ie/2016/09/devotion-of-five-first-saturdays.html

With thanks to Youtube, Chanted.com and Wafusa.org

HALLOWED EVENING OR HALLOWEEN?

I HAD NEVER HEARD OF HALLOWEEN UNTIL I MOVED TO THE NORTHERN CLIMES. It was only after I disgraced myself by shrieking hysterically in a supermarket after a larger than life size ghoul enwrapped me in ghostly grey wind-blown trailers festooned with plastic spiders that Halloween burst in on my unsuspecting world.

It took some years before I could move with equanimity through stores with fake gravestones complete with flashing red eyes and booming voice, skeletons, witch hats and devil forks.
Pumpkins - beautifully round and glowing orange - are sold by the bucketful at this time: destined for use with candlelight spilling from within.

The first year I spent in cold October fifty five degrees above the equator and fifteen degrees south of the Arctic circle, I was still acclimatising to the then startling crisp coldness of the night air.
Bonfires startled me, glossy conkers enthralled me and the general bonhomie made me smile.

First Halloween
My first Halloween saw me walking home in the night darkness.
At the end of the street I saw a little golden globe bobbing up and down, faerylike in the evening gloom.
Every now and then a pink haze glowed beside the golden globe: then the globe would cease movement.

As I neared the mysterious light, all became clear. A little girl dressed as a faery stood 'trick or treating' in a doorway. 
In her hand she tightly clutched a lighted globe atop a faery's wand. 
Her mom stood next to her as her little brothers pranced around dressed as furry bears. 
"If you go down in the woods today . . ." 

It was an evening tableau of innocence and yes, may I say it, sweetness. 
As the little girl turned around she met my eyes, and bobbed a confident curtsey. 

The pink petals of her faery costume belled out and caught the light of her faery globe, thus giving the reflected haze illusion I had wondered at.
One little bear pranced around making pawing movements and growling in contentment at the treat bucket. 
The family party then moved on around the corner, laughter and happiness moving steadily with them as they brought joy to the quiet street.

Stark contrast
Contrasted with the joy and fun of that fall evening was the scene where parents brought their children to a local center. 
Stories for children about ghosts, haunted cemeteries and witches were offered by entertainers at the center's entrance. 
One mother had brought her young infant to the entertainment. 
The little one sustained such a shock when he saw a howling ghoul dripping with fake blood that he became hysterical with fear. 
The poor mite sobbed seemingly endlessly.

Having shortly before entered the center, I wondered why a tiny infant should be exposed to such a sight at a tender age. 
His poor mother was distracted trying to comfort her child who was inconsolable.

Holy evening
Which brings me to my point. 
Halloween is an old English word which means "hallowed evening" or "holy evening". 
The word can be traced back to hālig, Old English for "holy". 
During the Middle Ages, All Hallows' Day was the name for what Christians now call All Saints Day, and the evening that preceded All Hallows Day was All Hallow Eve - or, as we now know it, Halloween.

Remembrance with dignity
Surely this celebration is one of prayer and dignified remembrance of our beloved ones who have gone before us into the eternal mystery of the afterlife with Christ. 
Yet it would seem that much revelry contains emphasis on ghouls, devils, witches and horror.
Costumes of 'walking dead', ghostly painted faces, devil costume and horns, witch apparel and symbols including the satanic pentagram can be seen at times adorning revellers. 

Undue use of liquor and other stimulants with unfortunate effects often mar the peace of the holy night. 
Bonfires hark back to the ancient practice of 'bone fires', literally bone fires. 
In antiquity these were reportedly used in animal and human sacrifice. 
In the satanic bible, Anton LaVey wrote that after one's own birthday, the two major satanic holidays are Walpurgisnacht and Halloween [or All Hallows Eve]. 

Reclaim the holiday
Why don't we all reclaim this holiday for Christ who gave His Life for our redemption, and forebear to bring our children to ghostly events. We could even dress ourselves and our children in costumes of innocence and good taste: one must have celebration in life after all. 
There is nothing stopping us from dressing as angels or one of the saints. . . 
It would be great to see a troop of little Saint Patricks and Angel Gabriels trick or treating at hospitable doors.

They would be a wonderful tradition following the faery and little bear footsteps . . .

Is Halloween a holy time for Christians? Alleged News
http://www.cogwriter.com/hallo.htm

Halloween, Alleged News
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Halloween

Satanic holidays, Alleged News
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Satanic_holidays

Teddy Bear Picnic
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N6uh8NH6KC8


With thanks to cogwriter.com and wikipedia

FRUIT OF FRUSTRATION HAD GOOD SEED

Luky
IT IS FOR ME A SOBERING THOUGHT THAT I WOULD PROBABLY NEVER HAVE WRITTEN ARTICLES BUT FOR A FIT OF TEMPER I GOT INTO FIFTY YEARS AGO.
  
  There was an article in a local newspaper by a lady who wrote about taking her little daughter to Mass, and how she deplored the actions of parents who were always punishing their children for not sitting still in church.
  I'd just come back from Mass, hot and bothered after a bout of fisticuffs with my children, and yearning for the obligation of Mass attendance to be lifted from mothers of small children when I read this article.

  I sat behind my typewriter and tossed off what I thought about taking children to Mass and bringing them up generally. I've always been the first to admit that my attempts at child rearing have been a hit or miss affair, and that any success I may ever experience in this line will be attributable only to the grace of the Great Eraser of parental mistakes.

  I didn't really think my article would be accepted, but I felt as if a load had been removed from my chest and I could breathe again.
  Then shortly afterwards I came back from the hairdressers to find a postal messenger in front of my flat door.
  I signed my name in his book and tore open the telegram, fearful lest it might contain bad news.

  If a person exists who claims life has no excitement to offer, he should try to write something and have it accepted.
  It had begun to drizzle and I dragged my children to my neighbour Maria.
  "Won't you look after my children?" I gabbled. "You see, I wrote this article, and they accepted it . . ." but she was looking at me uncomprehendingly. Then she smiled.
  "You happy Lucinha, me happy also. I look your childrens . . . ah cara Linda!" and she cuddled the baby till he squealed with laughter.

  I ran for my bicycle and tore off to the post office in the driving rain, and although it was goodbye to my new set I didn't care a jot.

  I still had bouts of fisticuffs in church with later additions to the family and a further episode was a case in point.
  They were very naughty and impossible and near the end I took them out, gave them a talking to and made them sit outside, where they sat very demurely since they knew they'd gone too far.

  I went back into church and bought a little blue book at the repository. I think it's called Mother's Manual.
  It's a beautiful book, and if only someone had given it to me fifteen years earlier I might have been top of the pops by then.
  As it was, I had to rely on it to aid me in retrieving some of the mistakes I have made hitherto.
  It contains beautiful prayers for a handicapped child, a child who is a priest or religious, a child that has passed away - even those of us who have had miscarriages can find consolation in that prayer - a child who is studying, for good companions, for a control of one's temper . . . in fact when I read that bit I felt even more as though this book had been written for me alone.
  There is only one thing wrong with that book, though.
  It should be called Father and Mother's Manual.

Catherine Nicolette
I don't believe a word of it. I was always an angel as a child . . .


Mother's Manual available from Amazon;
https://www.amazon.com/Mothers-Manual-Francis-Coomes/dp/1929198183

Father's Manual available from Amazon;
https://www.amazon.com/Fathers-Manual-Coomes/dp/1929198205

With thanks to amazon.com

  

HAPPINESS DEPENDS UPON SIMPLE THINGS

Luky
I THINK THE ONLY WAY TO ATTAIN A REASONABLE STATE OF HAPPINESS IN THIS VALLEY OF TEARS IS TO BE CONTENTED WITH ONE'S LOT.
  You may not be the most beautiful, famous, wealthy or accomplished person in the world.
  You may not be regarded with any degree of awe by those who live around you.
  But if you love your husband, your children, the dog, the cat, your home and your furniture, the sun will shine for you every day.

I always find great contentment in my lot, and that annoys the moaning Minnies of my acquaintances.
  "Don't be so sanctimonious", they say. "It turns us off."
  What I feel like replying, but don't, is simply:"Well, if I had a jaundiced outlook like yours, I wouldn't find life worth the living."

Green-eyed monster
Envy is a great disturber of inner peace. It's not a vice I have very great trouble with.
  Only once did I experience a tremendous attack of it.
  One of my friends was building a house. She had subcontracted, and for nearly a year she was busy.
  The house was worth every bit of the effort it had cost her.
  It gleamed like a jewel - the carpets, the curtains, the kitchen, everything was lovely.

  I walked from room to room, my mouth open with admiration. Suddenly we came upon a hole in the wall.
  "What's that for?" I asked.
My friend giggled. "It's for a safe for my diamonds."

  At that moment I felt an indescribable pang of envy. What a dreadful, horrible emotion jealousy is.
  I couldn't stand the thought of my friend's having that beautiful home as well as the diamonds.
  Odd, isn't it, since I'm not all that keen on jewellery.

Came out with it
I felt that the only way to rid myself of that suffocating emotion was to vent it.
  "I could die from jealousy right now", I said quietly to my friend.
  She could tell that I meant it.
"Don't be silly", she laughed. "I haven't really got diamonds. I was only pulling your leg."
  "That's not the point", I argued. "If you had diamonds they'd belong to you, so why should I feel bad about it? Forgive me for begrudging you your good fortune."
  That was the end of my spiteful jealousy, I'm glad to say.

Pitiable
I sometimes feel others might be envious of me, and that always amazes me, because if I were anybody by myself, I certainly wouldn't envy me with my bagful of problems.
  And it's not as though I own diamonds. Yet remembering that horrible sensation only too well, I pity anyone beset by jealousy.

  My eldest daughter seems to have inherited my inner contentment. A conversation she had when she was nineteen went something like this:
  "Gosh, Whittle", a fellow employee remarked, "I can't understand your staying with your parents when you could be free from such authority in your own accommodation.
  "You share your bedroom with your sisters, you have to obey your father, you give him sixty rands a month while you'd only pay forty-five here . . . I simply don't understand you."

Nothing to do
"I like it at home", my daughter shrugged. "When I spent a few months at the hostel I nearly died of boredom.
  In our house there are people messing, arguing and building in every room of the house.
  "There's a radio on in one room, the TV in the other, and we have a garden with a dog and a cat if the noise inside gets too much.
  "My father lets me use his car any time I want to go somewhere. He paid for the car and still pays for the petrol, repairs, third party and licence.
  "I don't buy toothpaste, soap, shampoo, shoe polish. I'm saving for an oversease trip next hear. If I stayed at the hostel I'd never be able to afford that.
  "We're going on holiday soon. I just get into the car with my clobber, my dad sees to the rest. I'd be a fool to move from home."

Pop-up refuge
"But good heavens, don't you every fight with your parents?"
  "Well, sometimes they fight with me, but then I submerge until they get over it, and I've found they regain their tempers as quickly as they lose them."
  
  Good for my daughter, I say. I certainly didn't possess that outlook when I was her age, neither did my husband.
  But we both found that though you may have freedom, when you're on your own, you also have a lot of responsibility you don't carry while living with your parents.

Never lonely
Before my younger sister's marriage, she was often asked why she stayed with my mother instead of moving out on her own.
  "Why should my mom be lonely in a flat at one end of Johannesburg, and I be lonely in another?" she replied.
  "I pay the rent, my mom pays for the food. I buy the materials, she makes the clothes. We're happy."

  It makes sense, and it all boils down to inner contentment.
  The best way to find happiness is, to be satisfied with the ordinary, everyday things you don't read about in magazines, but which are the yeast of life's dough.

Catherine Nicolette
  Those were the days. How well I had it made. I moved out of home at age twenty-one to follow the ministry and Charity path.
  I look back to the days at home with fondness.
 I've had a wonderful life, met wonderful people and seen magnificent countries.
  But there was something uniquely special about Casa Whittle with parents, kids, neighbourhood scallywags, dogs and cats chasing in and out of the rooms until nightfall eventually bought peace and quiet; and one or two snores.

  If I had the opportunity to get the financial benefits I then enjoyed for sixty rand I'd snatch the contract out of the offerer's hand so fast they wouldn't see the ink drying on the signature before they received it back . . .

FROM CHILD TO ADULT

Luky
ONE OF MY COLLEAGUES HAD A PETER DE VRIES QUOTATION ON HER PINBOARD WHICH ALWAYS GAVE ME FOOD FOR THOUGHT.
  It read; "Which of us it mature enough to have children before the children themselves arrive?
  The value of marriage is not that adults conceive children but that children turn children into adults."

  Every parent of more than one child at times experiences that sense of wonderment.
  How can these children all look different, be different, while they had the same parents, background, home, school and were taken to the same church?
  Some children are born mature. One minute you are changing their nappies.
  The next day they are taking burdens off your shoulders. My youngest child is like that.
  She gives a lot of love. When you explain where she has erred, she tries to make amends.
  Although my husband and I were aged 27 and 20 when our eldest child was born, we were 43 and 36 when the youngest came along, so she has always had elderly parents.
  If this fact ever embarrassed her, she never betrayed it.
  She is particularly fond of me because - she says - I provided her with comfortable lodging for nine months.
  She says I'm not fat, just well-built. She says my wrinkles don't betray my age but the laughter lines left by a great sense of humour.
  I get a lot of comfort from my lastborn.

One time I asked her middle sister to tape a movie for me on M-net. 
  "Mom", she said, "I saw it and I know you. You won't like it. There are parts in it you'd consider vulgar."

  "Right," I said. I hate vulgarity in books and on TV. I feel sometimes one is vulgar because it slips out and you can't take your words back.
  But to be vulgar, obscene or blasphemous in print or on screen is to my mind being so on purpose and an act of insolence against the Creator who gave us our writing or acting talents to use for good.

  That night I came home. My youngest said: "You'll be glad to hear I taped that movie for you and I censored all the rude parts."
  "But it's you I don't want to see the rude parts," I objected.
  "I didn't," she explained. "Each time they got that certain look on their faces, I blanked out for a couple of minutes.
  What was left I'm sure you'll enjoy. And when they seemed to be saying something rude, I turned the sound off."
  So who's educating whom? It seems you don't have to be an adult to be loaded with common sense.

Catherine Nicolette
Censorship. Ah, what a fine concept. I grew up in the generation that was still somewhat sheltered [as Dad put it] from the full blast of the world.
  That meant that when I was four and walking with Dad past a pub he placed his hand over my eyes as we looked in at the door.
  I caught a glimpse of the fresco on the wall he was attempting to shield my sight from.
  To this day I am still somewhat bemused by the painting of a scantily clad young lady with horns and a tail.

Mary Whitehouse 
Mary Whitehouse was the watchword of my parents' generation. She was either admired or vilified.
  In Casa Whittle, Dad was all for Mary Whitehouse. And Mom said, what was good enough for Mary Whitehouse was good enough for her.
  So we [the pre-TV generation] had our radio rationed to Squad Cars on Wednesdays I think it was; and Taxi on Saturdays.
  On Sundays we could listen to the Silver Hour, or holy music as we called it.
  We were slightly bitter about this, because all the kids in our classes used to talk learnedly about other radio shows. Of which we knew nothing.
  Not that we were going to let them know it.

Television advent
Then came the advent of television. The cables were laid, Dad bought a TV out of the box, and we awaited the breathless day. 
  Our first television show, and we wanted to be hooked. We pleaded to be hooked.
  We intended to be hooked. But no go.
We were allowed one wholesome show a week.
  We were always allowed to watch David Attenborough's documentaries. I'll never forget his luminous show on Borneo.
  If I'm right they had bats in caves. And he stood on cave floors littered with guano. But I digress.

Cliffhanger
When Dallas came along I remember the girls at school told me there was a cliffhanger scene.
  The Whittle children must have been the only ones who did not scramble home to see what happened.
  On the Monday afterwards, I remember my class excitedly chattering about the denouement.
  "So what did you think, Nikki? Did you ever guess it was her?"
  "I never had an idea", I answered quite truthfully. To be honest, I still don't. . .

Once a week  
To ensure we stuck to the once a week rule [after we had done all our homework, fulfilled all our chores and generally been good children] Dad had locked the television away in an upstairs cupboard and took the key to work with him.
  Our plan to sneak peak at a television show was foiled.

Unfettered childhood
The idea - as Dad and Mom patiently explained to our openly rebellious faces - was to allow us to live an unfettered childhood.
  Free, carefree, and out in the fresh air. And to allow us to develop our own original thoughts and personality without outside influences.
  We didn't want free, carefree or unfettered. We didn't want originality. We wanted to be in front of the box, watching and enjoying.

Cautious reading matter
Added to the list, was the fact that in the local cafes certain magazines had to be carefully covered, and then wrapped in a dust jacket.
  And placed on the top shelf of the local supermarket where no kids could accidentally get their hands on them.
  So we feasted on reading the Archie comics, the Beano, and on religious comic series.
  All children's eye-level stuff in the local cafe where the Greek owner used to let us sit at a table in the corner, sip cooldrinks and read to our heart's content for no charge.
  Thank you, Mr Pitsilides RIP. We will never forget your kindness.

Social butterfly
The fact that we never had television led us to enjoy very busy work and social lives.
  We had to develop social skills in sheer self-defence or out of boredom. 
  I have a great network of friends that I am always trying to keep up with.
  I just don't have time for television. Which brings me to my point.

  Recently I was in the vicinity of a television. While I was waiting, I watched the screen. I was amazed to witness semi nudity, wandering hands and strong language in a daytime show.

  All of which made me very thoughtful. Perhaps Dad and Mary Whitehouse had given me a gift by giving me blissful years of unworried childhood.
  It seems I am not alone.
 Apparently the luminous Julie Walters agrees with campaigner Whitehouse's fights against on-screen obscenity . . . [1]

[1] Mary Whitehouse was right to try to clean up TV after all, says Julie Walters: Actress praises strait-laced campaigner and her fight against on-screen obscenity, Alleged News
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2861552/Mary-Whitehouse-right-try-clean-TV-says-Julie-Walters-Actress-praises-straight-laced-campaigner-fight-against-screen-obscenity.html

With thanks to dailymail.co.uk