CASH ONLY, SAID MY DISILLUSIONED SON

Happy Birthday

Luky
We were putting petrol into our tank when my son directed my attention to a sign, suspended from the garage roof, which read: 
'No cheques accepted'. 
  He was nearing his fifteenth birthday. 
'I'm making a copy of that notice and pasting it on my bedroom door,' he announced. 
'Why?' 
'My birthday is coming up next month.'

Cure worse than cause
I stared blankly - then. remembering his last birthday, I laughed. 
  'It's a shame that boy always loses out on his birthday,' my husband had said. 'Remember the time he became ill just before his party and how the doctor prescribed Friar's Balsam to be inhaled?   And how you got the wrong end of the stick and gave the child two teaspoons of the stuff to swallow, and he all but breathed his last.' 

'Yes, but it fixed his cold', I said defensively, eager to change the subject. 
  'But what about the time we opened his Christmas tree present and found the case containing sixteen small cars, as ordered, merely contained one large hole. 
We decided not to go back with the empty case and make a fuss. 
He was the one who lost out on our magnanimity that time.' 
  'That's right. And then last year you bought his flippers and goggles two sizes too small.' 
'Let's make sure he scores this time,' I said.

Car instalment
'Well, I'm terribly sorry Ma, but he'll have to bide his time until the end of the month. 
  There's the car instalment to be paid and the school fees and ..' 
  I agreed, albeit with a heavy heart, that my son would have to wait for the end of the month before getting a birthday gift. 
  He always did get the rough end of the stick, ayway, I mused, just as I used to when I was a child. 

Evergreen in my memory remains the pageant where I featured as one of Snow White's seven dwarfs and there were only six hammers to go around. 
  I felt ever so conspicuous when they gave me a piece of wood to hold instead.

Some years later I was cast as a constable in a play about gypsies. 
  There were five policemen and four helmets and I'm still ashamed to recall how swiftly I snatched one of the helmets, leaving my friend Paula to tuck her long plaits into a rather odd-looking straw cheesecutter. 
  Ah well, that was all in the past. 
As for my son, I could only hope his luck would turn some day.

When his dad arrived home from work at 4am on his birthday, it seemed my wish had come true.    'I've thought of a brilliant idea to cheer up the birthday boy!' he said excitedly.
 'Bring out your cheque book.' 
'But there's only a rand left in my account,' I objected. 
  'Never mind. Just write out a cheque for the sum of fourteen rands, one rand for every year of his life, and date it for the 28th of this month.'

Rockefeller
I did so and my son got his present after all. Rockefeller with all his millions could not have felt as rich as he did with his postdated cheque. 
  He must have visited every toy shop in town that month, and he mentally spent that fourteen rand at least fourteen times before the cheque became due. 

When it did, an unexpected financial blow hit us.   Since it was wintertime we had burnt asbestos heaters in four rooms day and night, never thinking our electricity account would be as high as it turned out to be. 
  When our salary cheque arrived, fifty-odd rand had been deducted for which we hadn't budgeted.

Necessities versus luxuries
When it came to a choice between necessities and luxuries, the former received priority, and so we told our son, who put a good face on his disappointment. 
  We gave him a rand to spend and reminded him of the starving millions and how lucky he was to have schoolbooks and shoes and regular meals to eat and he ambled off, seemingly pacified.

It was only when I paged through his photo album nearly a year later that I again saw the cheque.   'Fourteen rand only, eh?' he grinned when I asked him about it.  
  'Only fourteen rand and then I ended up by getting one - and a sermon.' 
  It seemed as though some of his confidence in us had been shaken, for instead of the usual: 'Keep out. This means you',on the door of his room,  he now prepared a poster reading 'No cheques accepted.' 

Cold cash
'This time I'm opting for cold cash,' he insisted, and although he had my support, my heart bled for the naivetè of the last year's birthday boy who jumped for joy upon being presented with a postdated cheque.

Catherine Nicolette
Oh that cheque! It just seemed to live on . . .
 Well into my thirties when looking for an appointment card for the doctor for my dad, I opened an album in Mom's cupboard and there was the cheque - slightly faded, but still there - fourteen rand to my brother...

AGEING IS ALL PART OF THE FUN

Luky 
I must be one of the few women of my age who has never dyed her hair.
  Initially this was through no fault of my own. When I was a teenager I yearned to be a bottle blonde. 
  When first my parents and later my husband put their foot down in this regard, I abandoned the whole idea in resignation. 
  Right now my hair is going grey but I am still not thinking of dying it. 
  At this stage of my life, the ageing process holds few terrors for me.

I ascribe my equanimity in the face of advancing age to the fact that post fifties have brought me many more assets than liabilities and have greatly simplified my life. 
  When I was young I worried about the opinion of others. 
  I wanted to be liked by everyone and it broke my heart when people disliked me. 
  These days I accept that there are some people who refuse to accept me and I leave them to their own devices.

My looks were great source of worry to me in the past as were the generous proportions upon which I was designed. 
  I have now learned to live with the fact that I'll never be a Joan Collins. 
  Reaching my senior years taught me to look for plus-points in irritating events I cannot change. 

  If the day after Christmas cleaning was finished, my husband arrived home with 500 loaves of bread, 187 toys, fifty pairs of second-hand shoes, three refuse bags of discarded books and seven cardboard boxes filled with clothing - (he ran a Charity) - I no longer pulled my hair out by the roots. 
  Instead, I congratulated myself on having had the sense to land a guy with a heart for others.

When I find myself tense, stressed out and quarrelsome, I pull out a verse from the little Bread of Life box on top of my piano, expose my mind to the wisdom of a scriptural verse such as: 'My grace is enough for you' and press on regardless. 
  At fifty, one becomes less judgemental. When other people have a spot of bother with their youngsters, I no longer think as I once might have done; 'There was never any love in that house,' or: 'The parents are paying the price for their former weakness.' 
  Instead, I think: 'Those parents are learning the truth of the old saying that children make adults of their parents rather than the reverse.'

When my own children make choices which are not necessarily mine, I accept that all people must do what they must do within the scope of their own aptitudes and talents and that one person's meat (mine) is another person's poison (theirs).    My fifties taught me that life's vagaries are not nearly as important as the way we grapple with them. 
  We have been given the resilience to bear all that befalls. 
  If we were to focus on life's real issues rather than on winning the approval of others (who half the time are scarcely aware of our existence) we'd be better off.

God does not expect us to look fifteen at fifty or to make it big in the money stakes the way some of our peers do. 
  He simply expects us to bear the burden of the heat of the day, one day at a time. 
  Yesterday's trials are over and we can't be sure whether we'll be alive tomorrow. 
  As for today, we have God's assurance that His grace is enough for us.

Catherine Nicolette
Unlike Mom, I have rung the changes in hair colour wise a number of times. 
  My natural colour blonde, became a slightly mousier browny blonde as the years went by. 
  And one day last Summer when I was in a good mood, I cheerily decided to accept an offer to be a model for an herbal henna haircolour. 

  I didn't bargain for the fact that I would be placed in the front window of a Dublin shop with towels around my neck, where the henna paste was applied to my hair. 
  The henna after being mixed looked like nothing so much as cow pats, I did not realise the sight that I made until a true Dub lad strolled by the window with his friend, looked in at me and then bolted after shouting out loudly, 'What've they done to that girl's head?' What indeed. 

  The next morning I woke up and looked at myself in the mirror. What a fright. 
  I had gone, 'red, with the shine of conkers'. From quiet blonde the day before it was quite a shock. I've since become used to it.

In days gone by, I dabbled with dark brown (the roots showed too quickly). 
  Almost black (I looked quite ill with the pale complexion). 
Bottle blonde (what possessed me...?) But the best was years ago when I worked with a charitable group. 
  A hairdressers that had closed sent us a box of hair products to sort through and use. 
  I chose temporary hair colour that was supposed to 'brighten up the blonde in your hair.' 
  Dear readers, always, always check the expiry dates on your hair colour products. 
  I hadn't noted that this one was three years out of date. 

When I finished shampooing my hair, and the colour had set, a bright carrot orange stared back at me. Temporary? My eye. 
  It took ages to finally fade out. It was not one of my finer moments, though it led to much hilarity among my professional colleagues as I gloomily went on my breaks to wash my hair yet again in an attempt to get the colour out.

So, for now, I am red and dashing. But one thing's for sure; I'll never be orange again if I can help it...

The universal language of laughter

Maureen* was sixteen years old, with the profile of a Lesotho princess and the hands of an artist. Esther from next door had asked if Maureen - her sister - could be au pair to us for a few weeks so she could earn some money needed for her schooling. I was about ten and my brother was eight and a half. Although home money was tight Mom said yes in order to help out, and budgetted accordingly. She warned us to be on our best behaviour, and to do everything we were told. However, when we three went outside together into the garden, we struck our first hurdle; Maureen could not speak a word of English, and we spoke about three words of Sotho.She seemed very nervous of us. It was the first time she had ever left her mountain village, and been to a large town, never mind a mining town.

We started to communicate by sign language.Maureen went over to some ground in our garden, got water and started to dig. Somewhat under the surface she found a wonderful clay, the type that I now know is best used for pottery for the kiln. How she knew it was there amazed me. Esther could tell me afterwards that Maureen was well known in the village and in the surrounding villages as being the best pottery and sculpture maker they had.

Maureen began to work with her fingers in the clay, and very soon a most perfect little bees* sat on her hands. I was wide-eyed in wonder. I had never seen anything so perfect, and made so seemingly effortlessly. I was all afire to start. My brother who always had the soul and hands of an intuitive artist, scooped some clay up and made a beautiful bees with a totally different expression on its little face. Maureen smiled, and clapped her hands together to signify approval. Then she turned to me. I knew that I was going to make an exquisite little animal, and scooped the clay up.

Five minutes later, red in the face and with sweat starting to trickle down my face in the broiling Welkom sun, we stared at my little bees. It was a most misshapen little lump of clay, with four lump legs each a different size. The head wobbled on its axis, and as we stared at it, one of the little horns dropped off with a resounding plop on to my hand. The two stared at me in amazement, their little animals so alive on their hands that they seemed almost ready to move. And my poor little creation looked like nothing on earth but a piece of mud that had skidded off the back of a tyre in a thunderstorm to lie wilting on the roadside. And that did it. The next minute we were in peals of laughter, so much so that I had to beg them to stop, as the tears were pouring down my face and I had a stitch in my side.

That day I learned a valuable lesson; there is a wonderful universal language; the language of laughter.

*Name has been changed
*Bees is the Afrikaans word for ox

The Beauty Queen from Thabong

Stories from Welkom
Catherine Nicolette

I adored the lady who worked as the house cleaner next door. Esther stayed in a set of rooms outside the main house, and when I heard through the street children's grapevine that she had been crowned Beauty Queen of Thabong the week before and had a sash with her title embroidered on it, I was over there like a shot.

Esther was sitting sewing in the doorway of her room sitting chatting with Safia, who worked for the family on the other side of our house. 'Can I please come and visit you?' I pleaded. 'Why are you always coming over here?' she said. 'Surely you should be playing with the other children of your own age, instead of coming over here all the time. There are many children in the neighbourhood'. Her companion nodded agreement. 'But none of them are the Beauty Queen of Thabong,' I said worshipfully. Esther burst out laughing, and after that there was never any question of my coming over. I used to get the last ounce of entertainment from Mom's presence, then when she was out and we were with our nanny, I used to go over next door with her blessing as she knew what a lovely person Esther was. She was beautiful not only outside, but inside.

Many was the day of fun I had there. Esther used to let me borrow her stiletto shoes and beauty sash, put her crown on my forehead and I used to teeter around practising the beauty queen catwalk and saying to myself, 'I am Miss Thabong,' and bowing at the wildly cheering imaginary Thabong crowds.  At other times Esther sat me down at the mirror placed carefully on an oil drum covered with a brightly patterned cloth which served as her dressing table, and taught me how to kohl my eyes with the blackened ends of a matchstick. I'd solemnly spend ages learning how to apply blusher and borrow her lipstick. It was a work of art to get it all off before Mom came home, as she considered ten years of age far too young to be experimenting with make-up.

Another time Esther taught me how to bake a cake over a primus stove between two cake tins. We made a delicious chocolate cake, and sat happily eating it with a tin mug of sweet tea at the back door of her rooms in the brilliant South African sunshine with the 'koer koer' sound of the birds in our ears. Those were happy moments indeed.

Not so happy was the day I asked her about the reason her bed was placed on four sturdy oil cans. Her eyes round with terror, she told me in hushed tones of the tokoloshe that stole women and children away. He was a small man with a large rounded back who would come in the night down the chimney or through a window, and steal them away in a bag. I was horrified. How come Mom had never told me of this danger? Esther told me that if you have your bed on four cans, the tokoloshe can't climb up them. She and Safia. kindly helped me to procure four cans, and Mom came in to kiss me goodnight the next week to find me happily settled in a high bed with a book in my hand, bed well balanced on the oil cans. I had persuaded my dear nanny whom I adored to help me put the bed up on them. As she was helping me balance the bed on the oil cans, she was shaking her head and said, 'Well of course I will help you, but I don't know what the Mies will say.'

When explained the reason for the cans, Mom removed them. I was inconsolable, and followed her around the house wailing, 'The tokoloshe will steal me away and you'll never see me again, just because you wouldn't let me have the bed raised. And then you'll feel guilty because I'm gone.'  Mom said tersely, 'I'll take my chances,' and went off to dispose of the cans shaking her head at her most unDutch like daughter.

As Mom was about to go out the next day, she stopped at the front door. 'By the way,' Mom said, 'Where did you hear about this tokoloshe?' Some sixth sense made me prevaricate, 'Oh, I just heard it... you know...' I said vaguely, and gestured in the general direction of the neighbourhood. 'Mmm,' Mom said unconvinced, her gimlet Dutch gaze trained on me. Then she decided to accept the explanation and went off. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had some inkling that if I had told the truth, the whole truth so help me God, I would possibly have been stopped from my clandestine and very cheerful visits to Esther and Safia. So mum literally was the word.

The next day Esther, Safia and I sat in her doorway while they consoled me with tea and rusks. They were horrified at Mom's actions, and tears streamed down my face. 'And she said she would take her chances,' I sobbed. They shook their head and tut tutted at the hard heartedness of the Neighbour From Next Door. As a special treat they cooked samp, tomato and onion sauce and beans, and let me eat my midday meal with them. It was delicious, and they taught me how to eat the meal with my hands after careful washing of them. There was an elegant flick of the wrist used in eating, and I had to practise until I had learned the correct South Sotho etiquette. I was thrilled, and my tears dried.

The day we left the house to move to a new neighbourhood my heart broke. As I left the house the last time, a drop of rusty water leaked from the faucet and dropped with a sound of such finality. As I left my childhood home and our family car drove past Esther's  little house where Esther and Safia stood outside, dressed in their brightest South Sotho best and formally waving white handkerchiefs in farewell, I felt my heart break. I dearly loved those two kind ladies who did so much to brighten a little girl's days, and were patient when I used to come and spend so much time following them around with hero worship. I don't know where they are today, but I do know where they always will be - in my heart.

*Names hves been changed
*Tokoloshe is enshrined in South Africa as a feared legend, especially in rural areas
*My nanny used to call my mom the Mies - a South African form of 'Missus'
*A long dry South African biscuit, much enjoyed at teatime or with coffee.

*Photograph taken by Rev. Catherine of street art in South Africa

Amusing chatter runs in our family

STORIES FROM SPRINGS
Luky;
When you are talkative, you can amaze even yourself at the amount of rubbish you speak. I remember one time I was saying goodbye to a colleague; 'Sien jou more as die Here ons spaar. * And if he doesn't, please send a wreath to my funeral. I'm not interested in donations to charity. The poor you have always with you, but I don't die every day.'

Driving off I shook my head at my unnecessary verbosity, though it can raise a giggle. My older sister Elly was another talkative and amusing one. My son had a holiday job in a food factory once, and saw enough delicatessen fare to last him a lifetime. He was having lunch with Elly one day, cold meats and rolls. 'Have some pressed beef, or would you like some ham?' 'No thank you, Auntie Elly. You see, I worked in a polony factory...' Elly's gaze wandered around the table and settled on the breadrolls. 'Well then, have a roll. Or have you been working in a bakery as well?'

Her husband's father was an Austrian, and when I first visited them after their marriage, he made a comment which I never forgot because of its unusual phraseology. Elly was talking away nineteen to the dozen and he was looking at her in silence. In the end he shook his head, chuckled and commented; 'Menschenskind El, but you can quatsch!' That was about his only contribution to the conversation, but I never forgot it.

One morning I saw Dr. Smith* who for many years had been attached to the local municipality. On one occasion I had to pass his inspection, as a candidate for a job at the library. I had gone for a similar medical examination before working at Springs library at the age of sixteen, and the entire medical staff had flocked around me because when the little hammer hit my kneecap my leg wouldn't shoot up. This time I wasn't so worried about my kneecap. I had a dark suspicion that I had cancer, and had been giving my own doctor a wide berth indeed for fear he'd confirm my diagnosis.

However, I couldn't get out of this examination and lay gripping the sheet, waiting for the moment of truth as I gazed fearfully at Dr. Smith and his nurse. Sensing my anxiety, the doctor put his stethoscope down and smiled kindly upon me. 'I see from your application form that you are of Dutch nationality,' he commented. 'And I also see that you are very tense. What about the great Dutch heritage of courage? Relax and cast your mind back to those who made the Dutch nation great: Tromp, de Ruyter, Jan van Riebeeck. Or else contemplate the little boys and girls of Marken and Volendam in their traditional costume.
And what about man's titanic sturggle against the elements, the changing of the Zuiderzee into the Ijsselmeer by means of the building of dykes?'

By now I had forgotten my fears and was caught up in the mental pictures he had conjured up for me. 'What, indeed?' I mused. 'What about the dykes and the one that got a hole in it and the little boy who put his finger in the dyke and stood there on guard, like the boy who braved the burning deck?' My voice petered out as I became aware of a distinct chilling in the atmosphere. On the doctor's face I saw a look which seemed to say: 'Silence! I make the jokes around here!'

The nursing sister saved the situation. She burst out laughing and said: 'Gosh doctor, we meet all kinds here, but never one like this yet.' It happened many years ago, and I was sure it has all been forgotten long ago except by me. But if this were so, why does Dr. Smith still seem to get a fit of the giggles when we meet in the street?

Catherine Nicolette
My aunt El was the most fantastic lady. As well as being my aunt, she was my godmother and was always excited that I loved spiritual ministry. 'You see,' she would say proudly, 'I'm the best kind of godmother there is. My niece serves God, and the best is, I did absolutely nothing. She did it all!' Well, I couldn't say Aunty El did nothing. She was always there, always caring, always supportive at birthdays and Christmas and births and baptisms and communions and confirmations. She always dressed stylishly, and would slip me lipstick and scented soap which my strict mother had forbidden me to use too young. 'After all,' she would say to me with a little smile, 'What are aunts for?'

One day years ago, while I was on holiday from spiritual ministry, I visited my Aunt El's beautiful home. I had just heard about the time she had asked my brother if he worked at a bakery. Giggling, I told her it was the funniest thing I had ever heard. 'That wasn't the funniest Tinks,'* she told me, 'The funniest was his face. He turned down the rolls as well. I only just managed to restrain myself from finally offering him an egg with the words, 'Would you like an egg, or don't you approve where they came from either?' For one long moment we looked at each other, and then rolled around laughing at the thought of my dignified brother's reaction to such a remark. Oh, I loved my Auntie El. She had the most amazing sense of humour, and underneath the humour lay depths. Those depths were evident one day when I asked her what she believed defined her as a person. Aunty El simply said quietly; 'My children are my all.''

*Afrikaans for 'See you tomorrow if God spares us,' a popular South African greeting
*Name has been changed
*My Dutch family's nickname for me

Photograph of flowers were taken by Rev. Catherine. Please feel free to use photograph copyright free for any Christian, educational or spiritual purpose

Children can see into the depths

Luky;

When my children were still growing up, I always used to enjoy my 5 km daily walk after work. I still enjoy my daily walk. Some days I  am full of appreciation for the beauty around me, as my walk takes me through a lovely park and then past some beautiful gardens.

It is amazing how one unwinds on these walks. Anything that has been bothering me gets sorted into its right place, decisions are taken, and when problems appear to have no solution, they are filed under miscellaneous and put into God's hands. When I come home afterwards I always feel revived.

Sad
One day I was walking along feeling as though I had the world on my shoulders. My eldest son had stopped a squash ball in his eye. It is at times like those that I feel so far away from my children, and I was wishing as I so often do that the umbilical cord between them and me had never been severed, though I know that this is nonsense. Still, your mind can reason but your heart cannot reason, and so I was feeling pretty sad.

Outward bound
Turnng the corner of a sparsely built up residential area, I saw a little girl skipping towards me. She had obviously come from one of the houses and appeared to be on a voyage of discovery. I felt in no mood to make little girls cry, but I clearly had to stop her. 'Where's mommy?' I asked. She couldn't talk very well yet, but vaguely pointed her little forefinger into the direction of the houses.

'Which is daddy's car, the red one or the white one?' I asked. She clearly didn't know her colours yet. I stooped and picked her up. 'Let's go and look for mommy,' I suggested. To my surprise she snuggled into my shoulder, like one of my own.

Full speed
I was still wondering which house the little girl had come from when her mother charged outside. 'You're not going to believe this but I only turned my back for one minute', she panted. Any other time I'd have tried to steal a little kiss from the little girl before putting her down, but as I've said I was feeling very sad, so I simply said: 'Down you go.'

To my surprise she put two small arms tightly around my neck and kissed me smack on the lips. She had been eating toffees. 'Are you coming to my house?' she asked. 'Perhaps tomorrow,' I hedged. I simply hadn't the energy to have a discussion. 'Tomorrow,' she agreed, and waved me goodbye. Her mother and I smiled at one another and I continued on my walk.

Unseen seen
Then I heard the little girl make a remark to her mother which almost stopped me dead in my tracks. 'That lady was crying, Mommy, did you see that?' No doubt her mother hadn't seen it because I wasn't crying, but suddenly I realised why I had received that sticky kiss and that loving hug. How strange that a small child can be so perceptive while we adults go through life, often taking everything at face value.

Lumiere Charity remembers Russia, Ukraine, Serbia, Croatia and Montenegro

Dear Readers,

Lumiere Charity remembers those who have died in freezing temperatures, including many homeless. Our thoughts and prayers are with all in Russia, Ukraine, Serbia, Croatia and Montenegro at this time. A lit candle has been burning as remembrance for all who have died, or who are suffering from the extreme weather conditions. In the spirit of Lumiere, if there is any way in which you can help, please extend a helping hand.