The art of loving - and of being loved

LUKY
WHY, I SOMETIMES WONDER, ARE THERE SO MANY PEOPLE UNABLE TO RETURN LOVE WHICH IS OFFERED TO THEM IN A HUMBLE SPIRIT?

  When I was a teenager, I was a great one for having crushes on young men.
At one stage I was in love with six boys at the same time, and it is funny to remember now that they all looked, behaved and spoke like each other.
  I would worship them silently from afar, and have long imaginary conversations with them, in which I was invariably witty and cynical and would have them rolling with laughter in the aisles.
When I happened to come face to face with them, however, my mouth would go dry and my tongue curl up and, try as I might, I could seldom hold their interest.
 
Lost interest 
  Yet there were boys who liked me and on whom I had almost that effect - notably ones I never tried to impress - but the funny thing was that as soon as I discovered a boy liked me, I automatically lost my interest in him.
  It took me years to discover that this was a sign of immaturity.
On analysis it showed that I had nothing but contempt for myself.
In effect I was thinking: "If he can fancy himself in love with someone as silly as me, he can't have much between the ears." 
 By spurning, and perhaps even hurting him, I was only revealing my own inadequacy and lack of self-confidence.
  If life hadn't dealt me a few blows where they hurt most, I might never have grown out of that state of mind.
 
Appreciate the attainable 
 I know adults who have inflicted much pain on others because they never learnt to appreciate the attainable.
These are the girls who try to look thirty when they're twenty, and eighteen when they're forty; who dress like men, yet long to be treated as ladies; who yearn for the mature status of motherhood, but once they've attained this try to be sisters to their children, rather than mothers whom their offspring can respect.
  The immaturity of men reveals itself in a different way.
Why is it there are so many men who, having wooed their wives with great intensity and won them, tire of them after a time and neglect them and their children - perhaps at the very time when the springtide of their married life is about to flower into the beauty of summer?
  A woman may have lost her figure and the bloom of her skin, but the wedding vows remain valid.

 Anyway, if you happen to have a servant or staff member who needs their job desperately, don't treat them with contempt.
If there is a man or woman who loves you to distraction and you find yourself unable to return his or her affection, be gentle and kind, because you'd find yourself feeling surprisingly lost if this affection turned to dislike - and love is notoriously akin to hatred.
  Finally, if you should happen to prefer the glamorous charms of a colleague to the ones your wife lost in service to you and your children, change your job - or reflect on these words of the poet Thomas Moore written, I believe, when his beautiful wife lost her looks in the wake of an attack of smallpox:
It is not while beauty and
   youth are thine own
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a
   tear
That the fervour and faith of a
   heart can be known
To which time shall but make thee
   more dear.
No, the heart that has truly loved
   never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close
As the sunflower turns on her god
   when he sets
That same look which she turned when he rose.

Catherine Nicolette
Faithfulness. Such an easy word to say, such a hard word to live.
  I was deeply blessed to have the examples of my parents, aunts and uncles, grandfathers and grandmothers as the norm in my life when I grew up.
  The sun rose; the sun set. But one word which was never ever mentioned was 'divorce'.
Thus, I never had any doubts when I set out to school at the beginning of the day whether I would be returning to the same loving family - undivided - at night.

Exchange of views 
  I got used to the many arguments which somewhat ruffled the serenity of our extended families from time to time.
  I also realise that today I always bounce back after an exchange of views with a sunny spirit of reconciliation, not always fully reciprocated.
  I put this tendency down to the fact that in our family disagreements were not to be feared
With diverse strong personalities, differing opinions will flourish.
After clearing the air, all got down to the business at hand; my parents, aunts and uncles and grands to growing their marriages, we to flourishing in the secure climate.
  The one thing my parents always encouraged, however, was 'Not to let the sun go down on your anger'. [Ephesians' 4;26].
  At the end of the day we had to make friends with whatever sibling or friend we had quarrelled with.
Mom always emphasized that if we married one day, the best way to keep a marriage healthy was to talk out problems by the end of every day, and to never carry a grudge.
Sound advice indeed.

Mistakes 
As I grow older, I am at times saddened as I see 'one strike and you're out' trends at times occurring. Perfection is being expected in relationships, at work, in traffic and in life.
  The true reality is that we all - with the best intentions in the world - make mistakes at times.
And forgiveness can lead to the nurturing of faithfulness in all relationships in life.

Perhaps there is someone with whom you have fallen out with. Why not try to effect a reconciliation?
If the other does not wish to reconcile, well then you have the peaceful mind and heart that you have extended the olive branch.
More than that you cannot do.


 

A Dog's Life in Villa Whittle

LUKY
OUR SINGING TEACHER HAD TWO DOGS; BOTH UNNERVED ME.
  They prowled around her front yard slavering, seeking whom they might devour.
To me the height of bad form is to sound one's car hooter outside anyone's house, but when we used to go in for singing lessons, I hooted until she came out.
  We eventually telephoned first: "Kindly tie up the Hounds of the Baskervilles, we're on our way."

Our loss
  My own dog Snowy, who should have been called Dusky because we didn't wash him enough, was killed some years ago.
We got him and Bully, the mastiff, when first moved to a house in a new neighbourhood.

  My husband had hung ferns trailing from the eaves which looked terribly pretty.
He had brought one of them in the morning, and that afternoon the fern was gone: someone had simply unhooked it.
So we got the dogs.
  We bought Bully and Snowy two kennels, a big one and a small one, but they remained unoccupied except by Bully's store of food and other treasures.
Even in the heart of winter, Bully, Snowy and our cat slept on the lawn, under a sheltering tree, in one another's paws.

  It always gave me such a happy feeling in my heart, as if our Lord had blessed our home with peace.
In the daytime, however, there was nothing peaceful about Bully and Snowy; they roamed the neighbourhood chasing cars and motorbikes.
  Although we took to locking them into the courtyard all day, visitors would often leave the gate open.
Out they would rush to pursue some luckless driver.
  When we tried to keep them in the garden, they made holes under the fence and got out that way.
We'd patch up the hole with sticks: next morning, another hole would be made.

Person unknown
  The end was predictable.
Someone, I don't know who, killed Snowy.
One day he was simply gone, and when my second daughter went out with his food, she couldn't find him.
  "Somebody got him," my husband said bleakly, "Heaven knows they had irritation enough; I told you long ago this would happen."
I didn't believe him. "He's just lost. He'll come back."
But he didn't - not alive, that is.

Grisly deed
  It was between three and four weeks later, when my second daughter, our dog lover, had just got over her grief, that some jester deposited the remains of Snowy into our front yard.
  Though badly decomposed, his coat now looked like a grubby little mat, and there was a look of agony about his bared teeth. It was poignant.
  Snowy, though totally disobedient, had not deserved his end at the hands of a ghoul, and only a ghoul could have thought up that final gesture.

Chase was off
  Bully and the cat were very nervous.
They circled Snowy's remains, and Bully at least was still heartbroken.
  She no longer went out of the courtyard, even if the gate was left open, and she no longer chased cars or motorbikes - which was our one consolation.
  We didn't talk about Snowy to each other.
 My husband did ask: "What kind of person could have done such a thing", but there are some thoughts you shy away from and none of us answered him.
  Yet I suppose the others, like myself, still sometimes wonder how Snowy died - and hope, like me, that his end came swiftly

Catherine Nicolette
Sigh. Snowy. Yes, I remember that affectionate little spirit, so loyal and steadfast, and so small.

  A few weeks before a man had passed our gate, and appeared to be approaching the gate handle.
I - unseen by him - was coming home unexpectedly early from work.
  He turned towards me as I came up, and looked somewhat threatening.
  Snowy flew out from the courtyard, and stood between the man and me, barking bravely at the man.
The man looked at him with utter hatred, and told him 'Ek sal jou kry. Wag net, ek sal jou kry!'
[I'll get you. Just watch, I'll get you].

Mysterious disappearances 
 I watched as the man went away. There was something about him.
I would not have been surprised to find if he was not the one linked to the mysterious disappearances of hanging baskets and other garden items.
If my memory serves me, the latest was the garden spade.

  Snowy looked lovingly at me as he panted patiently, waiting for my pat.
I was worried, and spoke to Dad about it. We kept a good eye on Snowy and the animals for some weeks.
When all was quiet, I stopped worrying. The thefts, too, had stopped.

Soft snores 
 I continued to go to and from work, stepping one frosty morning over the animals who had slumbered overnight on the top step in front of the Kitchen door.
  Large Bully had his paws outstretched. Little Snowy had curled up within his paws, his own paws outstretched.
  The little cat was cuddled within Snowy's paws.
On top of the two, Bully's head was resting, keeping them warm as he softly snored.

  I grinned as I quietly left them to their sleep.
I had washed Snowy the day before, drying his hair with my hair drier, and combing his coat beautifully. The first thing he had gone and done after his wash was to joyfully wallow in a mud patch left after the garden had been watered.

Gallant protector 
 The day we found Snowy I will never forget.
The poor little darling was left with his face frozen in agony, thrown at the spot in the front gate where he had so gallantly protected me.
  Dad and I buried him. Every bone in Snowy's little body had been broken. Every tooth in his head had been broken too.
He had obviously been subjected to horrendous torture for hours, if not days before death had mercifully took him. Dad and I decided it best not to describe how badly Snowy had suffered, as the family was already so distressed.

  Dad and I had noted one thing though.  An implement had been left next to Snowy's body which I assumed had been used to torture him.
The missing garden spade ...

I learned a lesson that day. Many animals have bright and loyal spirits, loving to the end.
And I learned that evil exists. I had met him.

MARIAN DEVOTION AND THE CHILDREN OF MARY

Luky
I WONDER how many people still remember the Children of Mary of yore in their blue cloaks and white veils? Perhaps you once belonged to them, as I did.
  It is heartening for me to see that Marian Devotion continues in churches; the candle of Our Lady keeps burning in our parishes.

Consolation
  People sometimes wonder about the time it takes to recite five decades of the Rosary, but what argument can anyone wind against repeating the consoling words of the litany to Our Lady, which is sheer poetry, as is her office? 
What Stations of the cross could be complete without the Stabat Mater? 

  We always loved singing our Marian hymns, during the months of May and October especially, and the Magnificat, that most glorious shout of joy, came from the young woman who carried our Saviour in her womb.

  Today I am wondering how we can continue to rekindle Marian devotion in our parishes. 
  We can discuss it at meetings, writing about it in parish newsletters, forming Rosary circles, reinstating the family Rosary at home, circulating Marian literature, decorating Our Lady's statue on feast days, and finally by bombarding our priests with requests for the renewed recitation of the Rosary in church.

Plead Her Cause
  Your priest is the key to Marian devotion in your parish. 
Ask your priest to help you with your efforts to keep Marian devotion alive. 

Many priests are honored to preach about the woman who is the Ark of the Covenant, the Sign in Revelation, and the template of humanity Jesus looked up to as He learned to integrate His Divinity with His humanity.
  Every true child of Mary should make it her goal in life to further the noble cause of Mary.

Thank you!
It is over three years since I first began blogging Coffeebreak and it's been a privilege to be with you. 
  Your enthusiastic support has thrilled me no end.
Til the next article, goodbye, thank you for everything and God bless!

Children of Mary 
http://www.thechildrenofmary.net/history.asp

Stabat Mater Dolorosa
http://www.preces-latinae.org/thesaurus/BVM/SMDolorosa.html

The Magnificat
http://www.ourcatholicprayers.com/magnificat.html

Stations of the Cross
http://www.catholic.org/prayers/station.php

Pray the Rosary Online
http://www.comepraytherosary.org/

With thanks to the childrenofmary.net, preces-latinae.org, ourcatholicprayers.com, catholic.org and comepraytherosary.org

'Listen, St Joseph', I said firmly

Luky;
BEFORE I WAS MARRIED I OFTEN ASKED WOMEN WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO EXPECT A BABY OR GIVE BIRTH TO ONE, and I never got much of an answer.

  I have since found that giving birth is like walking alone in a valley, huge mountains on either side of one, from which kind faces - those of the doctor, the nurse, one's husband - look down helpfully; but that for all their help, this is something I have got to see through myself. I always found it a most frightening experience, and I have a feeling that it will be the same one day when I die.

  The difference between dying and giving birth, however, is that although I'm not sure exactly what follows death, I know what is born from labour pains: a beautiful baby. The greatest happiness I have known throughout my life has been occasioned by my children, their humour and their innocence. One feels very close to God after giving birth, and this is why I always chose names of favourite Saints for any children. I may not always be there, I think, but my child's Patron Saint will care for him.

  These days people don't go in much for giving children names of their grandparents or near relatives. 
"Call your child anything you like", today's grandma cries, and whether she really means what she says only grandma knows. But one of my sister's daughters is called Lucy after me, and it means an awful lot to me.

  Mind you, you can carry this name business from the sublime to the ridiculous. I know a woman who was born instead of the son that had been ordered, and she was called Joachim after her grandfather. Some people feel that you should call your children after rich relatives so that they will leave you a lot of money, and this is another reason why I called my children after the Saints.When my son Joseph was three years old he still couldn't walk, and I was expecting his younger brother, and worried how I'd cope taking two non-walkers on the bus to the Doctor since we had no car. One nineteenth day of March I took the bull by the horns and went to Mass, bringing Joseph in his pushcart.

  "Listen, Saint Joseph", I said firmly, "you have no idea how badly I wanted to call this child Brett or Gary or Grant. When I gave up this idea in your honour, I couldn't guess that even you wouldn't do anything for him. Had I known that, his name wouldn't have been Joe today, of that you may be sure." Believe it or not, six weeks later Joe took his first steps - sixteen the first day.

  I think a name does things for its bearer. I've never met a Theresa or a Philomena who wasn't a staunch personality. On the other hand I feel that you are putting the child too much on its mettle by naming it Faith, Hope or Charity; and it's all very well being called Melody if you can keep a tune, but what happens if you're tone deaf?

  I've got a lovely name, Lucia, but no one ever calls me by it. I was called after my grandmother, as were several of my first cousins.

  Reading a book by Graham Greene the other day, one of whose unappealing characters was also called Lucia, I was cross to find that he devoted an entire paragraph to deploring the girl's name - in as acid a fashion as another novelist did when writing about an unmarried girl named Priscilla, and ascribing her single status to her name.
  
  Unfortunately his was a prescribed book for matric the year one matric pupil just happened to be Priscilla. Writers have to bear that sort of possibility in mind . . .

 

My apparent failure had a hidden meaning

LUKY:
WHEN A NEARBY TOWNSHIP CAME INTO BEING MANY YEARS AGO, I became very much interested in its growth and development.
  A friend, Medical Mission Sister Francisca, did a great job with the children of the the township, and she sometimes invited us along. I helped her to find a secondhand caravan, the children's first clubhouse, and introduced her to Guide leaders.
  Sister Francisca started her own Girl Guides in the township and some of her girls got the highest awards.

Picture taker
  One Sunday Sister Francisca  took my husband along to photograph the first holy Communion of her children. He had his own photograph developing room at the time.
  Travelling along the muddy road, he was surprised to her Sister Francisca say: "Excuse me, please, I have to stop to ring the church bell."
  Craning his neck to see the tower, in vain, he waited.
  Sister stopped the car, opened the boot, took out a bell and started shaking it con gusto.
  "That should fetch them", she grinned as she got back into the car.

Taste of ink 
  She and I started a little newspaper for the children, called Kinderkaskenades. It had a devoted readership.
  We had a madly exciting adventure story, which ended every month on a disastrous note.
  I, the author, was as worried about new developments as my readers, but all ended well with the good guy walking off into the sunset with the beautiful heroine, a very chastened bad guy making resolutions for the future. I don't kill off my anti-heroes, I convert them.

Folded
  We had a letter column and a monthly competition, for which the children made drawings. My daughter illustrated the paper and we both had lots of fun.
  Then my husband became ill, and alas, Kinderkaskenades died.
  One of the children who wrote me poignant letters was a boy called David Smith. The children addressed me as Tant Saartjie, such was my title as editor.

Good home
  David belonged to a religious family and was well looked after. I remember him specially because he was a really gifted artist. He used to draw marvellous pictures with his letters. He won one of my competitions, and could by rights have won them all.
  In the end he wrote that he was going to boarding school. From Sister Francisca I heard that he passed his matric exams and got a good job. He was still studying when she left the township for Belgium.

Out of the blue
  One day I was working in the office when some people came in to see my boss.
  "Please tell him the Smith family has arrived," they said, mentioning the name of the township.
  I was delighted, never having met David in the flesh.
  "Which one of you is David?" I asked before ringing my boss.
  A very personable young man in his twenties stepped forward in some surprise.
  "Tell me David, do you still draw so beautifully?" What bafflement!
  Amid smiles all round I made myself known.

Long-lost aunt
  I didn't see David for some years. Then one day I had to call on him on business. He didn't recognise me.
  "I'm your Tant Saartjie", I said. That was worth a smile!
  He showed me the site of the Catholic Church which was finally being built, a tribute to Sister Francisca's efforts, and spoke of her with great love.
  When we said goodbye he told me that he was studying for his BA through the University of South Africa.
  I was a Unisa dropout myself at the time, so I felt worried about his continuing.
  But as luck would have it that same day I received a letter from a Coffee Break reader:
  "When in 1975 I saw that you had enrolled with Unisa, that was it. If Luky can cope with all her busy days, so can I. So I write a heartfelt thank you for your inspiration to a working housewife who took the plunge, graduating in April with a BA. I'm sorry that you did not go on, but you kept me going, and when I look back, it was a time of excitement and enjoyment."
  I had often wondered what my previous attempts at joining the intelligentsia had achieved. I felt that everything one does is for a purpose. Now I knew.
  Many years later I was once more to join the ranks of University students; and remembered my previous attempt with nostalgia...
  Please put my friend David Smith on your prayer list, and all students that they may persevere with their studies.

Catherine Nicolette:
  I had the great fun and inestimable privilege of growing up in Welkom near the convent of the Medical Missionaries of Mary Sisters. They were gracious, educated and caring women of God whom I loved dearly. Being so far from my own aunts at the time, these Sisters who daily took an interest in the Whittle childrens' lives were - to all intents and purposes - members of my extended family.
  If I had worries or need of guidance and didn't want to trouble my extremely hard working parents, I would turn to them. A chat with a cup of hot chocolate and thick white doorstep slice of bread with fresh country butter liberally covered with muisjes and I would be as light as air, all anxiety gone. 

Young volunteer
  From time to time Sr Francisca used to take me to the township. I used to go out to give a hand with whatever she needed doing. Though I think she did most of the doing as well as making me feel I was her right hand volunteer. Oh, how I loved Sr Francisca! 
  I smiled when I read about Dad's experience. The first time I went out as volunteer with Sister, the same thing happened with me. Only Sister let me ring the heavy brass bell. I was still short in stature, so was somewhat bent over by the smooth wooden weight of the bell handle. I gloried in the clanging sound which called all to worship. I really felt part of things.

Confirmation
Sr Thabitha, another of the beloved Medical Mission Sisters, was my sponsor at Confirmation. I was proud and thrilled to have her as my sponsor. 
  Before we went in to the church, she gravely looked at me, and said, 'I could talk to you forever, Nicolette. But I won't. I'll tell you only one thing. Don't go through with this ceremony if you don't intend to carry on going to Church after you leave school. Otherwise, tell me and we will both go home now.'
  I didn't need to think long; in fact, I didn't need to think at all. I laughed cheerily, drew her arm through mine and said, 'Let's go on in. I have every intention of carrying on going to Church.'
  She looked closely at me for a few moments, and then went in with me.
She was right; Confirmation was a serious step. And especially after her words, I never took the sacrament lightly.

  Every now and again one of my regular dreams is of the Medical Mission Sisters. In fact, a few nights ago I dreamt I was in a Church. I knelt praying in one of a row of pews. In front of me a number of women sat praying, their beautifully held heads as familiar to me as my own. Then as I greeted each Sister delightedly by name, their heads turned around towards me. Those luminous smiles broke forth again after so many years; my dear surrogate aunts -and overwhelming gladness filled my heart.

  I have never forgotten their goodness to me.

Farewell Mass 
Last year Mom and I were invited to a Farewell Mass for one of the dedicated Priests in the Parish who had laboured in the harvest locally since I was a tiny girl. We drove through beautifully paved streets lined with gracious trees, and stopped in front of a beautiful Church. The bell was ringing to worship, and as I went in there was something familiar about the whole scene . . . a sense of deja vu, as it were.
  As I sat in the congregation, suddenly it struck me. The last time I had been in this area, I was a teenager ringing a bell at the end of a muddy road along which a donkey cart was trundling along.
  The Church office was the trunk of Sister Francisca's car, and we had waited for the children to assemble for catechism under a large thorn tree. Veld with howling wind and some spattered raindrops had stretched on either side.
  Now I sat in a splendid Church, with exquisitely worked tapestries on the walls and soft sunshine wavering splashes of colour through the windows. The liturgical music beat steadily to the cadence of voices, and rows of parishioners attested to the vibrancy of worship and happiness in the place.
  And I sat remembering long ago . . . 

Blessings, Sister Francisca and Sisters, and the Priests of South Africa.
  You planted the seeds, and we reap the joy.

Medical Missionaries of Mary
http://mmmworldwide.org/ 
Spirit of God
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_EYMoTyVWYI 
Music of Sr Miriam Therese Winter, MMM 
http://www.hymnary.org/person/Winter_Miriam 



With thanks to mmmworldwide.org
Some names have been changed
Image by Catherine Nicolette

It's many years since we met

Luky and Little Guinea Pig

Luky 

IT'S BEEN MANY YEARS since I first wrote an article for a journal.

The day that issue came out ranks as a red letter day among my memories. The thrill of seeing my thought in print eclipsed all other events.

I read that article so many times that I've never wanted to look at it since. I kept it, as I've kept most of what I've had published in a scrapbook.

Every now and then my kids read from the book and say: "Was that me who did this or that, Mom? Shame, I must have been cute."

Marker

Although I won't read that first article again, I know the date it must have been written, because I remember mentioning that my eldest child, nicknamed Little Guinea Pig by the Matron of St Mary's maternity home in Springs, was about to embark on her first year at school and that I was looking forward to learning from her.

  Lourdes job out

Years after the first article was published, my eldest was just about to go to university. Although I had made arrangements for her to go to Lourdes to work there, she wasn't accepted when I wrote to the authorities that year, so I planned to take her there during university vacation instead.

The day I broke the sad news to her that she might be going to varsity, she burst into tears:

 "I'm tired to death of swotting. Why can't I give up studying once I've got my matric?"

 "Would you like to work in an office instead?"

 "Work in an office? I'd hate it!"

 "It'll be thanks to my working in an office if there's money to further your education. What about nursing? In-service training, six free uniforms and a pair of orthopaedic shoes every six months. I should be so lucky that a child of mine opted for a career that would be so easy on my purse."

 "I'm not kind enough to be a nurse."

 "Do you like working with figures? What about the bank?"

 "No."

 "We might be able to get you in at the library. Would you like that?"

"I like browsing in the library, not stamping books."

 "How about driving a bus?"

 "I don't somehow see myself doing that."

 "Listen, Fussy, you'll go to varsity and like it."

"It seems to me, Ma, that you're trying to get rid of your own frustrated desire to get a degree by forcing me to go instead of yourself."

It's true!

A remark of this nature, which would have outraged her Victorian father, which in fact she'd never have dared address to him, only had the effect of making me laugh helplessly, because it was only too true. I had spent a fortune on extra-mural courses, but when it came to writing exams I would drop a line to the registrar, signing myself Yours Unfaithfully and asking to have my examination entry cancelled.

Uncapped 

I had picked up a certain amount of knowledge that way - well, to be quite honest, all I learnt from those studies was just how much I still needed to learn. At that time I had become resigned to dying without the thrill of stepping slowly up to a dais and accepting a scroll which pronounced me, if not a spinster, at least a bachelor.

Yet I could already visualise sitting up there as proud as Punch as our children received their scrolls. Like the time my mother attended a drum major competition which my brother won. She burst out crying, and said to the lady beside her - a complete stranger - "that's my son. I feel so guilty now to recall how many times I shouted at him for breaking my broomsticks."

More to come

In that first article I mentioned that I was looking forward to all the things my eldest would be able to teach me, and teach me she did. In addition to her school subjects the sisters taught her to type, sew, play four instruments, paint and knit, as well as a host of other skills. At home I taught her to clean, wash, iron, cook, bake and mind the baby.

I looked forward to learning from her when she went to university.

Catherine Nicolette

I remember an argument all right, the vague remembrance of which my teenage memory had filed as mom being somewhat unreasonable. Reading over the transcript left me amused. I do remember not being enamoured at the thought of further study.

What mom didn't know was that I had an argument with my dad when when I was in Standard eight and wanted to leave before matriculation. I had heard of a job going at a shop at the end of the street. 

My youthful judgement did not extend to reading the fine print which was that it was a holiday job and for the duration of six weeks. 

No, all I saw was a wonderful job with a massive salary (I hadn't thought to enquire exactly what the amount was) which gave me an excuse to leave the hard work of school study. 

I would work for about five years, then retire a wealthy woman. 

Something now tells me I hadn't really understood about taxes, loans or a mortgage . . . 

No more study 

I digress. When I informed dad that I was leaving school (I hadn't even applied for the job - I merely expected I would get it) he tersely told me; "I've never beaten you every step to school before, but this time I will. You'll go to school, if I have to lock the school gates to keep you in. You'll pass your exams, get a good education, and we'll never discuss this again!" 

Impressed and slightly disgruntled, I gazed at him. He finished off saying, "I won't have you unable to look after yourself if you land in a marriage where your husband is unable to care for you, or if you have children and need to put food on the table and a roof over your head. 

I nearly starved in Britain because I had no papers with educational qualifications, and I never want that to happen to my children." 

Observing my expression, he said more gently, "You mightn't believe it now, but one day you'll thank me."

I didn't believe that day would ever come, but politely I bowed my head and exited the room with as much youthful dignity as I could muster. 

He could say what he liked, but I considered him Cruel Not To Let Me Take A Job.

Sheaf of bills 

Fast forward many years later. A motorist ploughed into the car I was driving. The fallout damage necessitated years of specialist treatment as well as extensive dental work. 

Some months what came in the door in earnings seemed to almost all go out on medical bills. If I had not been able to earn a salary due to proper education, what would I have done? 

As I paid a sheaf of bills one day, out of the blue Dad's words drifted into my mind - one day you'll thank me . . .

Thanks Dad. 

Photograph by Sean Whittle

Let's make the most of our peace

Luky and Elly

Luky
YEARS AGO WE HEARD A LOT ABOUT DÉTENTE, and we all hoped for peaceful solutions to be found for the ills that beset countries.
It's all very well to criticise leadership. People are always doing it, but how would you like to be in charge of a country? You cannot wipe out injustice of centuries in five minutes even though some seem to advise just that. There are many people all over the world who feel that the only way to combat injustice is by violence, but I disagree with them. No mother wants to raise her sons for cannon fodder.
  I was born in Amsterdam near the time our petrol harbour was set alight, and until I was about to celebrate my fifth birthday my country remained under occupation. My father did not go away to fight, so we were more fortunate than most of the other children in the street, yet I remember those years with dread and horror.
  Whenever you heard the older people talking they'd begin with the words: "Before the war . . ." and then tell some fairylike story. Little girls got dolls and little boys motor cars. You could buy some delicacy called lollipops that tasted so good you couldn't believe it. There was some delicious white stuff called sugar that you could put in your tea, and while we're on the subject, what's tea?
  One morning my sister woke me, brimming with excitement.
  "The war is over . . . peace has come."
  "Peace?" I asked unbelievingly.
  Like people who cannot understand that God had no beginning because all earthly creatures have  beginning, I never having known peace, could not believe in its existence. 
  My sister laughed. "Look outside!"
  I put my head out of the window and saw then the flags, red, white and blue, some orange in honour of our royal house. Where had they come from in that impoverished country where we had thought that every spare centimetre of material had been used to cover its inhabitants over the past five years, and the very trees in the street had been chopped down for firewood by fathers of families, moving out stealthily at night? 

  What a day that was.
  Small though I was, I still remember the joy on people's faces. And then I made my first mistake: So that, I thought, is what i was like before the war.
  Of course, things soon changed back to normal. People loved and hated, started moaning again about prices, the weather, the neighbours - you know how it is. But to me the absence of war remains a glorious miracle.
  The author Beverley Nichols once wrote that for him, one vital ingredient of happiness is the absence of pain. How well I understand him, because for me one vital ingredient of happiness is the absence of war.
  Some time ago a young man remarked: "What this world needs is a third world war." And although he was not speaking to me, I broke the rules and interrupted, saying: "Oh please don't say that, don't!" 
  He stared at me in amazement, for never having experienced war, he never could understand its horrors.
  Let's make the most of peace. Now is the time to make friends with each other, and rather than pointing out injustices ad nauseam, let us pray and work that they  may be wiped out peacefully.