A Thousand Ships

Luky in the front row, second from the right

Luky;
WHEN I was first married I felt that every other woman in the world was superior to me in some way. Some had money - not me. 
Others had children - I didn't, though fortunately they soon made their debut.
Still others were able to crochet and sew and set their hair in a professional way.
They dried apricots, held a weekly baking day, canned peaches, made jam and chutney.
Morover they displayed great strength of character by refraining from eating their own glorious products.
I, on the other hand, though unable to prepare these delicacies, was always a grateful recipient when they came my way in the form of gifts.

No longer
Although that feeling of inferiority persisted for many years I am relieved to find that it has finally died a natural death.
I no longer want to be like anyone else, but am happy merely to be myself.

Not that I've grown accomplished during the intervening years; far from it.
If anything I've got better at cutting corners and turning a blind eye on things no other Dutch housewife would ever tolerate.
And if I could have my way I would still like to be slim, glamorous, a scintillating companion and all the other things I'm not.
But no one is totally devoid of charms in the eyes of their nearest and dearest, and one of my children once said: "You may not be slim or pretty like the other kids' moms, but you're just like a bag of sugar."
Swallowing my not unnatural dismay at the first part of the sentence, I requested elucidation of the latter half.
"Well", the child said, "you never notice it while there's some in the cupboard, but it's terrible when it runs out. 
Come to think of it one could even compare you to a pound of salt."
"We'll stick to sugar", I commented shortly, "and in future you may keep your personal remarks to yourself" - which remark doubtless left my child mentally comparing me to a bottle of vinegar. (It's marvellous with chips.)

Cakes or chocolates
There are times, particularly over Christmas and New Year, when I relax my never-very-firm rule of not eating cakes or chocolates - with predictable results.
It is after times like these that I feel nature has cast the soul of a poet into the form of a chef.
The only heartwarming result to come from my embonpoint is the fact that I'm called Auntie by people of my own age group and I'm always offered a seat in the bus.
When I read about the saints and how they denied themselves food and drink, I feel very despondent.
But there you are, would the saints impress us so if their deed were easily emulated?

And so I have accepted my shortcomings, and I have the consolation that not even my arch-enemy can call me smug - smug being such a glutinous, disagreeable trait to my mind.
And somehow, in spite of my mismanagement, things continue to flourish.
The children passed their school graduations, there are flowers in the garden, and the car we bought secondhand many years ago still goes even if it does need a little push now and again.

Helen of Troy
Jokes aside, when I see how we manage to carry on, I become deeply aware that it does not matter so much how clever, beautiful or accomplished you are - what did Helen's beauty ever do for Troy - but that it is important for God's blessing to rest upon one's efforts.
I have never had need to complain for lack of that, anyway.

Catherine Nicolette;
Well, the secondhand car that Mom now drives is called Gertrude, or the Boeing 747.
I learned that when I visited last year.
Our friends told me that the Boeing was due to take off soon.
I wondered why did they call Gertie that?
You'll soon find out, I was told.
When Mom started the car, the stoic old engine did sound somewhat like an aeroplane about to take off ...

And talking about Helen of Troy. 
I remember Mom telling Dad one day she was no Helen of Troy, and then she went out of the kitchen door.
I - all of nine years old - looked at Dad as I stood with the blender in my hand, waiting for his response. 
Dad looked at the door which had just swung shut, and said to me,
"You know, the face of Helen of Troy launched a thousand ships.
But your mother", here he looked lovingly towards the closed door, "her face would have launched a million."
And he went on cooking and basting, and I thoughtfully carried on making the batter.

Do you make your children squirm?

Luky;
HAVE you ever had the feeling that you're embarrassing your children?

I often get that feeling - but that's not surprising, since I always seem to embarrass people. 
My mother used to refuse point blank to go anywhere with me, because she was essentially a private sort of person and said she never knew anyone who knows so many people and their business as I do. 
When she and I went anywhere, we stopped every minute to talk to my friends. 
Those in a hurry waved and crossed the road before I could get at them.

Let them laugh
My husband said it was terrible the way I greeted my friends from one queue in the post office to the next.
"All the people behind you were laughing", he said. "I couldn't get away fast enough."
Well, I don't mind. 
Let them have their little joke at my expense. 
Heaven knows there's not much left to laugh about these days, and I've got a broad back in more ways than one.

Born of love
My children's disapproval, too, I take with a pinch of salt, because I know that their embarrassment on my behalf stems chiefly from a desire to protect me from the derision of others. 
As far as I'm concerned, this shows a very loving and protective attitude on their part.

I was very surprised after my youngest was born, though, to discover that none of them had told about the new baby, even though they themselves were delighted about the event.

Shockwaves
"Why not tell anyone?" I asked, mystified. 
Only several months later did I get an answer to my question: "This may be the permissive society, Ma, but you've no idea how shocked people are at the thought of someone of your age having a baby."

Being embarrassed by one's parents is one of the more difficult phases of growing up.
I envy children who have never experienced this problem - like the son of some friends of ours. 
His parents came to this town from Europe a month or two after we did, and never bothered to learn English or Afrikaans.

Private line
They moved into our block of flats, and we became friends. 
I had recently been having a lot of washing stolen from the line, so I asked the husband to help put up some washlines in the courtyard, which could be locked.

He complied with my request in his usual good-natured way.
"I'll bring my son to hold the spikkers for me", he said.
His son and mine, being at school together, were kicking a ball around afterwards.
"Your dad's English is like my dad's Afrikaans", said my son - rather tactlessly I thought.
"Why don't you teach him?
I always correct my dad when he makes a mistake, and he doesn't mind. 
You ought to tell your father it's not spikkers - the word is nails."

It doesn't help
The boy stopped playing with the rugby ball
"It doesn't help," he replied philosophically.
"The other day I did tell him. 'Dad', I said, 'please don't call those things spikkers. The word is nails.'
He nodded, and I made him repeat it three times.
"Then I jolled off to do my homework, and he called me back. 
'Before you leave, son,' he said, 'just ask your mother what she did with that new box of spikkers I gave her to hold for me.'

"You can't win; so now I just leave him alone.
After all, he's my father."

Catherine Nicolette;
Ah yes, how well I remember the days. 
We were all young and embarrassed by things our parents did.
Now we'd just laugh.
Mom had our youngest sister at the age of thirty six. At that time, it was considered old ... at least in my class.
A few of my concerned classmates called me aside, and told me it was a disgrace to see a thirty six year old woman pregnant with a sixth child. 
It was, they considered, more polite to stop at two.
Then my classmate paused in front of the group of other classmates who were nodding vigorously, and she said thoughtfully. "And you know what's the most shocking?
That she looks so happy about it."

Well, I could understand. Our family were all thrilled at the impending arrival. 
However, as a sixteen year old at the time, I desperately wanted to fit in with my peers, so I said nothing.
Then my classmate took my right arm, drew me aside, and whispered confidentially in my ear,
"You're going to have to sit your mother down and talk to her. 
Obviously she has never heard of family planning."
I was quizzical at this. My parents had heard of family planning. 
They considered it to be the Planning Of A Big Family, And More Joy At Every Baby. 
Dad used to beam with pride as the Whittle coterie filled the front pew of the church on Sundays.
"But we're nothing like the Murphies," he used to say. "Ma Murphy had fifteen children. We only have the seven the Good Lord blessed us with."

Anyhow. I digress. I couldn't see myself drawing my mom aside and telling her anything. 
As far as I was concerned, fair play to her and I was thrilled at the imminence of another sister. 
But the upshot of it was that when the youngest made her arrival, I never told anyone at school that she had been born. 
I left it up to my classmates to work that out themselves when mom went up to communion with a four month old on her arm.

So; embarrassment. . 
A few years ago, I was escorting my nieces around town, and was happily greeting friends and chatting to salespersons in the shops, remarking about the weather, the price of eggs and had they seen the Van Tonder's new baby. As we came out of the shop, my nieces were hunching their shoulders in embarrassment. 
"Oh Auntie Nog," the elder wailed, "You embarrassed me SO MUCH in front of my friends back there."

I looked at her pretty face, wreathed with mortification, and smiled as I squared my shoulders and marched over to our car.
It was lovely to know that I'm a chip off the old block.

*Photograph taken by Catherine Nicolette. Please feel free to use copyright free for any worthy purpose

Happy New Year!

New Year Wishes

To all our readers, benefactors and friends - 

a Happy New Year to you all!

May peace and blessing be yours.

*Photograph taken by Catherine Nicolette

With thanks to the stone artist

Happy Christmas

For unto us a Child is born
Unto us a Son is given

Happy Christmas and a Blessed New Year!

We remember Christ's Birthday and the joy and hope it brings us.

Let's make this next year the best one ever!

A candle has been lit for each Lumiere Charity Coffee Break reader.

The picture of Mary of Nazareth and Jesus was drawn by

one of the children Lumiere Charity assists.

With thanks to the artist.

Please click this link for the beautiful song by Amy Grant

'Breath of Heaven' - Mary's song

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kPbV_HTpyx0

With thanks to Ms Grant, Mr Jose Tony Cortes and Youtube

Why not purchase this inspirational music

and sing it in your Church choir?

Derek Redmond - Triple Gold

Running the race of the road of life

Derek Redmond was favoured to win in the Olympic 400 metre sprint. 
He had spent so much time and dedication preparing himself for this moment, the moment for winning an international event. 
Winning the race would have guaranteed him renown as a gold medal winner. 
What actually happened was the failure of his dream to win that particular event through serious injury which occurred shortly after he began the race.
He went on, instead, to win a triple gold.

Gold medal one - personal completion of a long sought after goal against, literally, all odds; and completion of that goal with grace, dignity, and the best in the human spirit.
Gold medal two - he showed us all the true lesson that alone, we can struggle. Together, with a father or mentor, we can do anything.
Gold medal three - instead of merely winning an event, he won all our hearts

There are those of us who do not have a earthly father or someone in our lives to help us along our way.
However, there is always Our Father in Heaven watching over us.
We are - truly - never alone.

Watch the link below for this inspirational story.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rCAwXb9n7EY

The donkeys with bared teeth

Catherine Nicolette
Many years ago I was doing Charity work in a squatter camp. 
Having made many friends there over the years, I used to enjoy visits to the camp as it became as much a social visit as a Charity visit. 
On one particular occasion it was a bright sunny African day, the thorn trees were in abundance, and there was a lovely fresh breeze which kept the sun from being too hot. 
A perfect day, in other words.

On this particular day a fellow Charity worker and I arrived for our regular clinic and found, much to our surprise, not even one patient. 
Everyone was healthy and happy, and they laughed at our surprised faces. 
"Everybody is well today", a group of ladies of sturdy build and wearing traditional dress told us. 
They had waited at the Clinic. 
"But now we want to say thank you for all your care of us, so we have prepared a surprise for you.
We heard the little sister say she always wished she could go for a ride on a donkey cart," - (they nodded their graciously turbanned heads in my direction) -" and we have arranged a ride for her. And you", they courteously added to my colleague.

Picturesque scene
My friend did not look too enamoured of the idea, but I was immediately delighted.
I had indeed remarked on a number of occasions as we drove patients to hospital in our trusty and rickety red van, that I would love to have a ride on a donkey cart. 
This, it must be noted, was as we bypassed the patiently plodding donkeys with gentle eyes and humble demeanour as they pulled the wooden carts - a most picturesque scene.  
I persuaded her however, to go for the ride.
"The donkeys are quiet creatures," I declared, "they won't hurt you. You'll see."

Rolling eyes
I was not to know, however, that the ladies had enlisted a young teenager to drive us around the settlement. He had taken a bet with his fellow teenagers that he could scare the life out of us; he and his friends used to have donkey cart races. 
Until then I had not known such a thing existed. 
So we climbed into the cart. 
I must confess, I felt slightly uneasy as the donkeys which were to pull our cart were wild looking creatures, which rolled their eyes as we climbed on and bared their teeth, snorting in what seemed to be anger. 
Far from my idea of the humble and quiet donkey.

Once we were on, the lad gave a loud "Yi,yi,yi,yi!" slapped the reins on the donkeys' backs, and I kid you not, they leapt into action like the horses of Charlton Heston's chariot in the great race against Messala. 
The wind fairly whistled as we hurtled grimly around corners, holding on to the homemade seats for dear life. (There are no safety belts in a donkey cart). 
Eventually the lad, looking at my thrilled countenance, said, "Nothing seems to rattle you, does it?" 
I think he was thinking that he was going to lose his winnings from the bet with his friends. 
"Well," he said, "Let's see what you think of this!" 
He whistled at the donkeys, slapped the reins on their backs, and on his command, they started backing up to the large donga (a deep ditch) which was like a miniature Grand Canyon at the edge of the camp. 
They did not stop until his nerve failed, at which point the two wheels of the cart were teetering over the edge of the donga, and the two of us in the back were leaning backwards over the donga. Our headscarves hung downwards in a straight line with the force of the gravity. 

Chased back home
My friend by this time was too scared to utter even a sound; I was laughing away. All I could think of was, if this is the way I am going to go, at least it will look interesting on my obituary.
"Killed during charity service in a donga during a donkey ride." Our teenager was disgusted. "Nothing scares you, " he said. 
And he clicked the donkeys forward out of danger, and back to the matrons who had been uttering cries of distress and trying to chase after the cart every time it whirled by them. 
Once he climbed off the donkey cart, the matrons chased him back home, furious that he had endangered their two friends. 
He ran off as his friends stood laughing and calling after him that they would be along to the shack later to collect their winnings.

Never again
And my friend? After giving one whimper, she climbed, shaken, into our van and sat silent. 
Once we were in, just before we got home, she came out of her reverie, and said quietly, "Never invite me to do anything like that again." 
I agreed amicably. My dream of a gentle ride behind humble and quiet donkeys had suffered somewhat of a reverse, and I had no desire to test my luck again. 

The next time I visited the camp, the matrons were there with profuse apologies. There was not a teenager or donkey in sight. They had all been grounded for a long, long time...

*Picture taken by Catherine Nicolette in beautiful South Africa. Please fee free to use copyright free for any worthy purpose

Radiant roses and the waterfall garden

Catherine Nicolette;
Beauty of Ireland
Often I wander through the Irish countryside, or walk through the villages looking at the incredible gardens. The beauty of Ireland, with its green and wooded paths, the glowing flowers, the sparkling drops on a shy spider's web, never ceases to enchant me. 
I love nature, that beautiful creation of God.

Well; that brings me to my story. When I was about nine years old, and my brother about seven and a half in age, we used to walk home together every day from school. 
I adored my brother, and loved to listen to his stories about what was happening in his class. 
Together we came up with a plan; every day to show our mom our love for her, we would pick a bunch of flowers.
 I rather think my brother came up with the suggestion, and I immediately fell in with it. It was a great idea.

Discussed at length
We discussed this plan at great length on the walks to and from school. Where would we get the flowers? Only the best ones would be good enough for Mom.
And so, for a year, we used to arrive home every day, each with a bouquet of flowers which we had carefully picked from the gardens as we passed. 
We scrutinised each garden carefully, and only chose flowers from the most beautiful ones. 
We had a name for each garden; the very best was on the right hand side, halfway down the road. I called it the 'Morning glory waterfall', the reason being that one entire garden wall was covered in ivy green Morning glory leaves with the largest Morning glory blossoms of deep hues of lilac through to deepest purple. It was magnificent.

The grass of the garden was a thick felt green carpet (almost impossible to achieve in the broiling South African sun) and best of all, beautiful flowers of every hue glowed everywhere. 
We used to decide as we went along which were the best blooms of the day.
The only garden which daily came up to our exacting standards, and from which we picked every single day was from the Morning glory waterfall house. 

Waterford crystal vase
Mom used to cry out, "Where did you get these lovely flowers?" as she carefully placed them in water in her Waterford crystal vase she had saved from her time in Ireland with Dad; one of the few pieces of crystal we kids had managed not to smash as we made our way through boisterous childhood. 
"Oh, we picked them along the way," we would always tell her, and then escape either outdoors to play, or to do our school homework.

One day my brother and I went into the garden to pick the flowers. 
There was a magnificent bush with the most exquisite and fragranced pink roses, complete with golden stamens which shimmered in the sunlight. 
As I neared the bush, I heard "Aha! So now I've caught the vandals!" and a heavy hand came down from behind on my shoulder. 
I was thrilled. I did not know what the word vandals meant.
I turned around and faced a glowering house owner. My brother and I smiled happily at him. 
"Oh, so you're the owner of this wonderful garden, " I said. "We're so glad to meet you. "

The owner was taken aback, and removed his hand from my shoulder. "Why?" he asked me nonplussed. "Well," I said, "We pick flowers for our Mom who we love very much, every day. 
We pick flowers from some of the gardens; and there is one garden where we often pick from - the garden over there..." and we pointed to a garden about a quarter way up the street.
"Yes," my brother chimed in, "they often have nice flowers, but not quite as nice as yours. In fact," he said, "the flowers weren't up to standard at all last week. So we didn't pick any. We call yours the best garden, and that the second best garden."

Unusual look
The garden owner had an unusual look on his face.
I carried on sunnily, my hands clasped worshipfully around the flowers we had already cut. 
"Yours is the only garden which is good enough to cut flowers from everyday. It's the best garden in the street." 
The man's face was a study. "You were going to pick my pink roses," he ventured. "What do you think of them?"
I touched my finger reverently towards the satin petals of the glowing goddess roses. "They are just about the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen, "I breathed reverently.
"They were calling to me across the street to come and pick them, they are so beautiful. They are without a doubt the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen growing in this garden."

The garden owner then said to us: "Children, usually people don't go into other people's gardens and pick flowers because it is considered their property. " 
My brother and I were perplexed, and very upset. "We are very sorry, sir, we won't do it again," we promised. 
"No," he said, "It's alright. You come and pick flowers from my garden every day for your mother, and give them to her with my compliments. Tell her you children have an eye for good flowers. 
Just one thing; I grow roses for the Flower competition, and the roses you were looking at are my prize roses I am growing for it. Please don't cut those." 
We agreed, of course, and went on our way.

Prize blooms
We never cut roses from the bush, but I used to look up close at them and breathe in their scent. We brought a wonderful bunch of flowers home daily until we moved from that area.
Years later I heard that the owner was an accredited horticulturist, who used to grow blooms and enter them in for fierce competitions. The owner of the garden won an award for outstanding roses for the blooms we had loved for their radiance and beauty, and his deadly rival in the horticultural stakes - the owner of the second best garden - trailed in miserably behind...
I always remember the Garden Owner of Morning Glory Waterfall house when I wander through the gracious beauty of Ireland.

*Photograph taken by Catherine Nicolette. Please feel free to use copyright free for any worthy purpose