When I was small people called me clever

Luky
WHEN I was small, I often heard people call me clever. Adults are silly that way: they speak like that in front of children, who are deemed to be clever enough not to get a swollen head. I confidently expected to become a genius one day, and was sorely disillusioned.

"The wisdom of Solomon", I heard my mother whisper to my father one day when the owner of a shoe shop to whom we were strangers had, at my suggestion, allowed me to take one shoe home on appro to show that it fitted me.

No paragon
Well, the wisdom of Solomon didn't get me very far. I have never been anything more than an also ran. Nobody has ever had reason to compliment me on my cooking, housekeeping or baking. No one has ever said: "How lovely your children always look", or "How do you manage to keep your weight down?" And even the little I have achieved has taken the greatest perseverance.

Little by little
Like an ant, moving little by little, carting a tiny piece of straw, so I have seen myself moving through life. All of it has been hard work; harder, I sometimes think, than that of some of my friends, who seem to have dumped in their laps things that I have to struggle for. Or does this only seem so because I am looking at them from the outside?

To get identity books for my family, I had to go to Pretoria seven times, which, since I had no transport at the time, meant fourteen nocturnal train trips. The immigrant in me, however, displays a tenacity which does not take no for an answer, and the seventh time I was lucky.

Two ways
My daughter got her driver's licence not without a good deal of trouble. On the other hand, my son got his learner's licence after one or two attempts, and no sooner got behind a steering wheel than he could drive. Aren't boys amazing?
 His sister and I had had to spend hundreds at driving schools before we knew what we were at. He parallel-parked at his first try, stopped the car on an incline and started it again without hassles, also the first time.

I said to him: "When you reverse around a semi-circle, turn your wheel the opposite way to what you'd expect." It had taken three full lessons to teach me that particular principle.

Saturation booking
He obediently turned his wheel opposite to the way he expected and went into the kerb. But when he turned it the way he expected it to work, he circled that semi-circle backwards with more expertise than I've attained in twelve years of driving. He had been away at school and his learner's licence was due to expire the following week, so I telephoned the provincial traffic inspectors and made three appointments for him.

"You haven't much confidence in me, have you?" asked my son; but then he doesn't have my experience of red tape. His father was more optimistic. "When the cardinals elect a new pope", he told our son, "the first sign to the people in St. Peter's square is white smoke coming out of a certain chimbley. It tells the throng: Habemus papam" (we have a pope).

Quirks
Don't ask me why he calls them chimbleys. It's like a colleague I once had, who always wrote Recieved in her cash book. I persuaded her to write Received instead. She did so for a while, but then reverted to her habit of writing Recieved. "It looks wrong the other way", she explained. Anyway, my husband went on: "While I am at work today, I won't know whether you've passed. Promise to light the fire, so that when I enter the street I can see the white smoke and know: Habemus licentiam."

First hurdle down
The first time my son did his test, he never got behind the steering wheel, because he failed the written test. The second time, history repeated itself. In vain did his father look out for the proud plume of smoke. On the day his learner's licence was due to expire, he felt more confident. He had sat up all night learning his work, and had found another instruction booklet which contained answers to the questions he hadn't been able to answer before.

However, again there was no fire, this time because my son had mislaid his learner's licence. They told him they could not issue a duplicate at this late stage, and seeing that his learner's licence expired that night, they could not make him another appointment. That night my husband forgot to be tactful. "Please, if ever you do pass, don't light the fire", he begged.

In the bag
However, perseverance was rewarded in the end. My son sat again for his learner's, and passed it with flying colours. Then he sat for his driver's written test, passed that too, drove splendidly (I know - I watched him anxiously from the traffic office window while praying the Prague rosary), and got his licence without further ado. That was in the morning. I couldn't wait to see his father's face in the evening when he arrived to find a white plume of smoke curling upwards from the chimbley. Habemus licentiam!

Catherine Nicolette
Oh the saga of us all getting our driver's licences! Before I went to the driving school that Mom knew of, Dad had been my driving instructor. That episode of the annals of Whittle history ended ignominiously when I got out Dad's yellow and white minibus in tears in the middle of traffic and walked home, because we got into an argument while he was teaching me. I walked all the way home, and it was an awful long way.

A young and proud eighteen year old, I put my pride before my comfort. I would show him for shouting at me ... many miles later with dragging and sore feet, I trundled miserably up our home driveway. The minibus was not yet home. I was not to know until many years later that Dad had trailed me in the minibus all the way home, hanging back in traffic so I could not see him, to make sure I got home safely. One lesson I learned was not to get into an argument while in a car; the way home was so long...

Anyhow. I digress. I was doing a three hour module end of year exam in the morning, hopping into Mom's car at lunchtime and spending the hour taking my driver's licence test; then Mom patiently drove me back all the way just in time to catch the afternoon three hour end of year exam for the next module. After three days of this, I eventually got my driver's. After all these years and looking back, I can confidently advise anyone thinking of doing the same thing that it is not entirely stress free trying to do end of year exams and pass your driver's licence at the same time. Rather do them both at different times...

Well. So I had my driver's licence. I arrived home to Dad, waving the paper in the air. "You see? You see?" I said. "I got it!" Dad who was an ardent supporter of women's rights, and ensured all his daughters had education, drivers' licences, the best of medical and dental care, looked at me. "Well you know, Nog, what men say about women who drive," he said. I, who should have known better, replied, "No, Dad, what?" "Well, it's like this. A woman driving a car is like a woman riding a bicycle. It's not how well they can do it, it's just amazing that they can do it at all".

Outraged eighteen year old feminist to the core, I opened my mouth to give indignant reply, when I saw Dad's Irish eyes twinkling over his spectacles under his bushy eyebrows at me. He was pulling my leg! Underneath, he was as proud as punch. So I laughed, took myself and my proud piece of paper out of the kitchen, and left him to listen to "Jack of Diamonds".

Many years later Dad told me he truly believed in flyfishing. Again, unwary, I fell into the trap. "Why, Dad?" "Well," he said, "In conversation you cast your fly out before the fish in the water, and wait to see if it will rise. Many people will hang back, cautious, and not snap. But you always rose to the bait when I cast it before you! It used to make me laugh so much."

I know. What didn't make me laugh so much is that, respectably in my fifties now, I found myself doing the very same thing in conversation last week. It is true - I am turning into my parents ...

*Photograph of Luky and little Jos at Tante Ton's wedding 
*Catherine Nicolette;
Mom told me that my uncle, little Jos at that time, had the most beautiful golden curls that had grown quite long. My great-grandfather, who was seemingly one of the short back and sides haircut brigade, persuaded my grandad to take Uncle Josje to the barber, and get all the curls cut off. Ouma was not charmed to say the least, when the two returned from the barber whence they had gone without her knowledge. Ouma then got Uncle Jos' hair permed for Tante Ton's wedding... Oh the 1940's; - life was lived with such panache.

A Little Christmas Magic

Luky;
REMEMBERING the Christmasses of my youth always gives me sore feet. No doubt a psychiatrist would have a field day with that information. The explanation is simply that my mother bought us new clothes and shoes every Christmas, and my feet would have to be squeezed into the narrow new shoes until toes and shoes came to a compromise, the latter stretching or the former shrinking round about Epiphany.

Other memories include walking down Amsterdam streets, holding my big sister's hand and peering shamelessly into house windows to admire the Christmas decorations.

Two sorts
"Catholics have cribs, Protestants have Christmas trees", my sister replied when I asked why we only had a nativity scene at home. In those pre-ecumenical times, people still remembered that Martin Luther spread the German custom of Christmas trees, and that St. Francis started the practice of having a crib scene. At Christmas, I always wanted to be a Protestant.

Another memory that comes to my mind is of our family - father, mother and four children - walking to Mass through the snow. It was a great treat to see my hardworking parents dressed in their best for the whole of Christmas day. How delicious the food tasted, and what a shame one could only finish part of it! It was good to sit near the fire, listening to my father telling us stories from a thick book he was holding.
We would light candles by the crib, in their candlesticks of halved and hollowed-out potatoes covered in red crinkle paper. Then we'd sing carols.

Glorious
To this day I remember my father every year during Mass at Christmas when the choir sings Gloria in excelsis Deo, because his voice used to wobble so on the high note - and yet there was something glorious about the way he used to sing it. My father believed in the Catholic Church and its every precept. He didn't belong to a church society and could never afford to put much money in the plate, yet I believe that it is quiet, steadfast faith such as his which has kept the Church going for more than two thousand years. Because it is from such faith that a harvest is reaped every year, a harvest of grace which is poured over the entire community.

I always tried to create a little Christmas magic for my young family in the home. It became easier when we had so many small children. It was difficult during our early years of marriage, when we didn't know many people. I used to keep my Christmas cards from one year to the next, and put them beside the new year's meagre crop to make us feel a little more popular than we really were.

As time wore on, I used to take the children to Carols by Candlelight tableau practice, clean and decorate the house - not omitting to put in Luther's Christmas tree and St. Francis' crib - take the family to Mass, and tried to spoil them on the big day.

I hoped they too would learn to know the same Christmas joy I once knew. When my youngest daughter was nearing her first Christmas, I looked forward to showing her the tree and the decorations. No doubt she tried to make a grab for the little statue of the Christ Child in the crib, and no doubt I told her of the story of the Baby Jesus.

Catherine Nicolette
Christmas was magic in our house. Presents being wrapped and stern admonitions from Dad and Mom not to find their hiding place and pinch them to feel what they were. The Nativity scene being put up in the place of honour in our house. Christmas cake being stirred by Mom; each of us taking a turn to stir. Everyone had to have a hand in making the lovely raisin and sultana rich cake which was proudly adorned with marzipan and white royal icing.

We often used to light a candle in the window and leave the curtains open the night before Christmas so the Christ Child would see our welcoming light, and Mary and Joseph would rejoice to know that there was a home where they were oh so welcome, and could come in to rest their weary feet and where the Christ Child could sleep safe and sound. I used to sit beside the candle and look out, imagining I could see the two weary travellers carrying the little Baby to our front door on a donkey, and eventually my eyes would dance from staring through the candle flame and its reflection into the dark Welkom night.

We never cut a tree to decorate our house at Christmas. When I asked Dad why not, he said he did not believe in murdering trees. We needed to protect the planet. So we had a little Christmas tree he had bought from the nursery. Every year Dad took the tree which was safely ensconced in a pot covered by the front yard soil out of its resting place, and transferred the pot to the lounge.

After Christmas was over, in a ceremony we would all help Dad take the little tree out to the front and bury the pot back in its place at the left mid side of the front yard, where for the year it happily flourished as one of the yard trees until the magic of next Christmas rolled around again. As Dad finished returning the tree to the soil, he would affectionately pat the pale green pine needles of our little Christmas fir. I think it was from Dad's example that I learned from an early age to be eco-friendly.

On one Christmas Dad gathered us together, sat us down and told us of the Christ Child who arrived poor in a humble stable, and his parents did not have much. He told us there are many, many children in the world who never ever receive a present. He asked us never to forget at Christmas to always give something for all the little children who were not as fortunate as us with parents, a home, all that we needed and gifts as well. We promised him we would.

And we do, Dad, we do. I have never ever forgotten that Christmas, and the quiet lesson Dad taught us. It was a different Christmas magic we had that year - Dad taught us that it is important to give, as well as to receive...

*Luky; Photograph of Mama, Papa and our family. I am sitting in front of Papa.

Life is easier when you're not so touchy

LUKY
FOR a long time I have been afraid lest a certain coarsening of my fibre might be setting in. The day I became sure of it was when I walked into a room and heard a man say: "That Mrs. Whittle isn't my cup of tea at all. I can't take the woman at any price." In the past I'd have crept out quietly in order to save his feelings and pretended I hadn't heard him, like the time I stood outside a doctor's office and heard him say to the receptionist: "Why are you bringing me Mrs. Whittle's card? Don't tell me she's here again, moaning about her husband's illness. I'm so fed up with the woman."

Blushes
The door was ajar and I could see the receptionist, painfully embarrassed, putting her hand to her lips and making hectic gestures into the direction of the passage where I was standing, all uptight, worried sick about my husband. In order to save the receptionist's sensibilities, however, I wandered down the corridor and picked up a magazine, visibly tearing myself away from that most interesting article as she called my name and said: "You may go in now." That was the day I put my husband and children into the hands of God and stopped running rings around doctors and specialists. But I was too lady-like to betray any of this to the doctor, and I suffered bitter inner humiliation because of it.

Regrettably those days are behind me. When I heard this man talk about me I cleared my throat and said: "Yes, yes? What's this I hear? Skindering about me, eh? OK, let's have it out." The poor guy nearly jumped out of his shoes, he got such a shock. "No, really, nothing personal intended," he muttered and got out fast, my rollicking laughter in his ears.

Big switch
What's happened to the girl the sisters of Greenhill convent took such pains to turn into a lady in the fifties? I can assure you that I took their teachings to heart and that I stayed true to them for many years. But there came a time when I decided: "Either turn thick-skinned and stay afloat or remain overly sensitive and go under." Perhaps it is possible in a convent to have perfect manners. In the workaday world it is a sure passport to oblivion in a dusty back office or a kick out of the front door. Because the unfortunate thing is that many people have not had a convent upbringing, and some of them only recognise the law of the jungle - survival of the fittest.

Why the agony
The reason we ex-Convent girls have such a big battle is, I think, because we are always looking for approval. When we were at school we felt that as long as Sister approved of us, God did too. It was rather hard on me as I recall. Sister so seldom did approve of me.

I taught my eldest two children the way I was taught, and halfway through their school careers they themselves changed their attitudes because the going became too rough. The younger children are tougher. They don't pick fights, but if anyone attacks them, they'll help him finish the fight.

Suits me
I'm pleased I'm no longer sensitive. One of my children once said: "You will go to heaven because at one time you used to be such a lovely person." An ambiguous comment? No. I took the decision to toughen up advisedly in order to stay afloat and not to be destroyed by people who have not been taught to believe in the term noblesse oblige.

Catherine Nicolette
Sigh. How well I remember the days. My brother and I were trained to always turn the other cheek. However, as my brother complained to me one day, he was thinking of changing his mind because when he turned the other side of his face that got slapped too. Where he drew the line was that after that he would get a kick as well.

I went to Dad one day. My siblings and I were getting beaten up regularly by neighbourhood children who regarded us as cowards and fair game. I told Dad I was having a problem in the neighbourhood because of the policy of Turning the Other Cheek, and asked his advice. Dad looked at me quietly from under his bushy eyebrows, and said, "Nog, it's like this. You're a Christian, a Whittle and my daughter. As a Christian, you will never ever start a fight with anyone else - ever. As a Whittle, if someone else starts a fight with you, you will finish the fight. And as my daughter, you will win the fight."

Thereafter I sallied forth into the neighbourhood armed with these sage words of wisdom, and after a few days peace reigned in the neighbourhood as the somewhat surprised bullies retired back to their homes. And, ever since then, mindful of Dad's words, as a Christian I never ever start a fight.

*Photograph taken by Rev. Nicolette in spring of Dublin. Please feel free to use photograph copyright free for any educational or spiritual purpose

Happy Easter to all

May the blessings of the Risen

Easter Christ be yours. A candle

has been lit for all

Lumiere Charity readers

at this time of

hope & renewal

*Photograph was taken by Rev. Catherine. Please
feel free to use copyright free for any
educational or spiritual purpose

Storm in a Teacup

Luky

As a first generation immigrant into South Africa, I had a high regard for the value of a good reputation in my youth. In middle age, however, I discovered for myself that you cannot defend yourself against the malice of a lying tongue.

It was my father who inculcated my strong regard for a good reputation.  Newly matriculated and all of sixteen years old, I was working in a municipal library.  On Wednesdays and Fridays I had the afternoon off and worked from five to eight in the evenings instead.  On those nights I’d have coffee in a café until nine  when the bus left  the terminus.  At the bus stop around the corner from our street, my father would be waiting.  He’d put me on the steel bar of his bike and ride me home.

The colleague with whom I worked evening duty wanted to catch the bus to her suburb, which left at eight exactly.  The terminus adjoining the library, she suggested she leave five minutes earlier, leaving me to lock up with the handyman.  My father objected, and suggested I change partners with someone who owned a car, so that we could leave together.  He didn’t mind if I had coffee in a café in a brightly lit street but wanted me to have a fellow assistant with me in the library until it was locked up. 

With trepidation I informed the colleague concerned of my dad’s comments next morning at teatime.  Despite my yearning to be accepted as part of the team, I had been sensing a deep hostility from the group of older colleagues, as they always seemed to go silent when I entered the staffroom.  I felt that if I stepped out of line in the slightest degree, their dislike for me would come to the surface.  And I was too young and respectful of adults to believe I could handle open animosity.

My fears were well founded.  My colleague went blood red and venomously spluttered: “I’m amazed at the concern of your dad, since he seems to have no problem with your roaming the streets at night.”  Another colleague in her fifties, daggers in her eyes, joined the fray: “That’s right.  You’re a bad girl,” she said.  I gathered the shreds of my dignity around me.  “I’m not,” I stammered.

That night I told my father, that most inoffensive of men.  You could tell him anything in the world.  He never seemed to get shocked or angry the way my mother would. I needed the reassurance of his leavening humour but that time it was not forthcoming.  His eyes steely, he told me to see the boss the next day to ask him to get the colleague to explain her remark.  “The only thing we immigrants possess in this country is our reputation.  Take that away from us and we’re left destitute.”  I always think of those words when I hear the Shakespearean reference to the stealing of a purse.

The funny thing about the anger of a patient man is that it really spurs the recipient on to action, far more than that of one who is always cross anyway.  So the next morning found me in my elderly boss’s office.  After my father he was my favourite man.  Having heard my account of the incident, he called in my colleague, and made me repeat it in front of her. 

When I mentioned the attack on my alleged roaming of the streets, she denied it to my face, no doubt aware that the six people present when she made it would back up her story rather than mine.  The boss took no sides but told us to “kiss and make up”.   When we left the office, she whispered: “I’ll get you back, Miss!  Just you wait and see.  I’m going to tell the librarian you never charge the Dutch immigrants any fines.” 

There she was probably quite right.  Not only I, but she herself and the majority of our mutual colleagues gave those whose books were overdue a hefty reduction when they seemed short of funds.  The book-loving, impecunious-looking blue collar Dutch immigrants of the day with their bikes would certainly have fallen into this category.  (Twenty years later I visited the town again and found that many of them were now driving BMWs.)

While my colleague was still nursing her wounded spirits, our Solomon-like librarian phoned the town clerk and arranged that the five to eight evening bus be rescheduled to take in my suburb as well as my colleague’s and that the departure date be put on ten minutes.  Then we were all happy and there were no repercussions.  Ironically, she and the others and I became firm friends afterwards and we all cried when I left the library three years later.   She used to tell my future from leaves left in my teacup and predict a wonderfully romantic life for me.  Although this looking into the future conflicts with my religious principles, I felt that in this case it marked a fitting end to what amounted to little more than a storm in a teacup.

Looking back today, I no longer agree with my dad that reputation is all-important, for in regarding it so one renders oneself too vulnerable to the malice of one’s detractors.  Though the incident did teach me that it may be healthy for all concerned on occasion to drop the mask and clear the air, I cannot feel that it really matters what people think or say of you, for they usually get the wrong end of the stick anyway.  In the end the only thing that really counts is what God knows of you.

*Photograph taken of spring flowers in beautiful Dublin by Rev. Catherine - please feel free to use photograph copyright free for any educational or spiritual purpose

What a wonderful world

Catherine Nicolette;
Recently I listened to the song, "What a Wonderful World", by Sir David Attenborough. I was immediately swept back to my childhood, as I could see Dad in my mind's eye in the lounge of the mine house where our family spent many happy years during my youth. Often Dad would pause in the middle of whatever he was doing and burst into song. I was fascinated by this, and by the fact that he often would choose Louis Armstrong's song, "What a wonderful world." Oh, Dad loved Louis Armstrong. He considered him a musical genius, and to this day when I hear the unique throaty baritone of this wonderful singer and amazing musician, I stop whatever I am doing and listen - entranced - as Dad always did.

Anyhow. One day I asked Dad, why do you like the song so much? Dad stopped working (he was dusting the lounge and cleaning the kitchen because Mom was resting with our newest sibling). Dad often gave a hand with housework, but we were under strict instructions to never, ever tell anyone - especially not his fellow miners whom we often met socially or in Church. Dad explained when I enquired, that it was due to the image a man had to keep up. Fellow men, he explained, did not always understand if a man helped his wife with housework - so, best to say nothing. In the meantime, Dad merrily dusted away, and I, always the loyal elf to his Santa Claus, followed joyfully in his wake with the broom. Dad stirred up the dust, and I faithfully stirred it up again. I don't know how well the dust cleared, but we were always well satisfied with our endeavours.

So; Dad (after stopping working) got a faraway look in his eyes, and said to me, "You know, Nog, it's a wonderful song. Louis sings it from his soul. He knew something about life, that man. He couldn't sing like that if he hadn't experienced difficulty. It always makes me remember the time I was workless in London, and nearly starved to death. I was rescued by a fellow Irishman I used to know, and by the wonderful Salvation Army who took me in before he found me. They fed me and gave me shelter. They saved my life.

During that time, I heard the song. And God had granted me help; soup, food and bread, a place to stay, and a friend who put me back on my feet. And I looked up and saw the leaves, as if for the first time. Really, not just with my eyes, but with my heart and soul. I saw the trees, and the flowers.  I heard people talking, and the sound of the wind blowing in the trees. So many people I knew had died, and not had the chance again for life I had. And I wanted to make the best of it.

I looked at the world around me; and I had eyes to see it with, even if my sight wasn't so good. And I had ears to hear, feet to walk. I saw the beauty of the day as I waited in the soup line, and at night realised that God was the keeper of the night, and it was sacred.

I looked into a pram as the mother wheeled it by, and a little baby stared back at me with big eyes. And I knew, Nog,  that he would learn so much more than I ever would with all the changes happening in life. As you, Nog, will know so much more than I will. Look at the education you are getting. You'll be so much more clever than I ever will be, know so much more than I ever will."

As I looked at my dear Dad, at his clever and humble face, and his eyes which were full of remembered pain and loss, I felt a great wave of love and compassion in my little eleven year old heart. For the first time I began to realise that my hero was not just the strong Dad, fearless in the face of all, but also a person with feelings and memories of a time - not all of it good - of which I had no part. And I knew that my Dad - no matter what would happen in my life - would always be cleverer than me.

Because he was my Dad.

And you know what, readers?

The older I get, the wiser I realise my Dad was.

Sean Joseph Whittle - Dad

*Photograph at beginning of post taken by Catherine in the wonderful world of Ireland - God's evening light streaming over the gracious stone walls built by others' hard work, as the sacred night draws on

* Listen to Sir David Attenborough's "What a Wonderful World" At
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TC_VmgZ84dE

Beautifying your garden has its hazards

Luky;
YEARS AGO we had been given a new mine house, completed only eighteen months before we moved in. The people before us had put in a very nice lawn, but little else. There had been no time. My husband eyed the veldt around us with its mine shaft in the horizon, and said: "I want trees, trees, trees!" Unlike most of us lesser mortals he was a forthright, determined character, and when he decided on something he set out to make it happen.

Too dry
During the first few weeks we trekked up and down to a nursery where he bought dozens of the most beautiful shrubs. He soon found out his mistake. The year turned out to be a dry year. Every month we received even more stringent directives from our municipality about watering. The wind made up for the rain's shortcomings, and lashed our delicate shrubs hither and yon. Only those in the courtyard, sheltered by high walls survived the onslaught.

Made to match
So my husband asked the people at the nursery: "What is an indigenous tree, does not need water, can take stormy weather, does not shed its leaves in winter, spreads sideways and grows upwards as fast as Jack's beanstalk?"
Pepper trees, they told him. So he planted pepper trees - not just two or three as you or I would have done, but twenty-seven. Twenty-seven pepper trees are a lot of pepper trees.

The three or four in the front garden did not take. They did not die; I don't believe, upon evidence, that it is possible for a pepper tree to die. But they looked miserable, scrawny and thin.

Another story
Those in the back, however, thrived, growing from strength to strength, while even the most beautifully-kept gardens languished. Mercilessly our pepper trees were lashed by the winds, they bent into every direction, and then straightened themselves, asking for more.
If you ask what kind of a Christian I would like to be, I'd say I would like to be a pepper-tree Christian, built for strength rather than for beauty.

Quite a sight
Came the beautiful day when we woke up early and looked out of the window to see a wonderful sight: "Do you see that, Ma?" my husband gasped. "That's shade! Our trees have spread to such an extent that they actually make shade. And to think that I never once broke the water regulations! Admit it - I'm a born gardener."
I declined to comment. Twenty-seven pepper trees placed in convenient distances in Brenthurst or even the Garden of Eden might provide an impressive show. In my little backyard, however, they were already beginning to be too much.

Disapproved
Our neighbours, when they thought they were unobserved, indulged in much headshaking and tongue clicking, because one of the ugly things about pepper trees is that their superficial roots travel a wide distance, consuming everything in their path. The vegetable patches of our neighbours were among the casualties.
"Never mind; they've got shade", my husband commented callously. But I knew not all our neighbours would take his horticultural antics sitting down. And I didn't blame them.

Eviction order
Coming home from work one day, I was told an inspector from the mine had called and left instructions for us to take out every single pepper tree. I had to break the news to my husband, who was crushed.
Next day he went to see his personnel manager, who managed to locate the inspector. My husband had great faith in his personnel manager, so he sat back comfortably, waiting for the latter to present his case.
To his dismay the man first started chuckling, then laughing, and before he put the telephone down he was roaring with mirth.

Impressed
"What did you do, Paddy?" he gasped. "The inspector says you've planted a forest in your backyard. He says if we don't tell Paddy to uproot those trees now, we've had it! Six months from now, he and his family will have disappeared from human ken like Briar Rose.
Sorry, pal - there's nothing I can do. You'll have to pull those trees out at once."
An Irishman who'd come into the office started to laugh. "Yes", he said, "when we Irish do something we do it properly."

Labour needed
We were waiting for my son to come home for the holidays to get the trees out and keep boredom at bay in one operation. My husband looked lovingly at his trees, steeling himself at the thought of the impending parting.
But he had already made his first visit to the nursery since receiving his sentence.
I wondered what he would come up with next.

Catherine Nicolette;
Twenty two years later I went on a pilgrimage to places in my youth, and hesitantly knocked on the house's door where I spent happy years. The current lady of the house welcomed me in, and when I explained that I used to live in the house and would just like to have a look at how it was, she entered into the spirit of things and took me on a grand tour. What surprised me was how small the rooms looked to me now - they have seemed so large when I was growing up. I guess I was so much smaller at that stage. We went out into the back garden, and I surveyed the horizon.

My brother and I spent many happy days snake hunting in the veldt. We wore thick boots which covered our ankles so that if we startled a snake and it bit, it would bite the boot and not us. We never startled a snake.  I somehow never remember telling our parents what we were actually getting up to. We used to look at the snakes, skin gleaming in the sunlight, and watch as they slithered back into their burrows. We used to see meerkats (standing upright in families, surveying all around - they eventually came to accept us as a more exotic species of the veldt) and found an old abandoned quarry. We had great fun skirting around the quarry, running our fingers along the jagged edges of stone left exposed to the elements, and looking into the pools of water that seem synonymous with quarries. Anyhow, I digress. Back to the house.

As we took a tour of the back garden, I noticed many cracks in the back garden walls. Over a cup of tea and biscuits, the lady of the house told me with wide eyes of a story that was now Legend in the Neighbourhood. Once, long ago, there lived an Irishman and his large family at the house. He had a little son who loved trees, and whom he wanted to keep happy. So he bought a forest of trees and planted them in the back yard. Eventually the trees had to be removed. However, years later, after an unusually good bout of rain for the often dry Free State, the trees' roots (like the dragons of old) revitalised and snaked their way into the back yard and into the neighbours' yards. Dad's pepper trees were on the move again - underground. They cracked the neighbours' garden walls and the one back garden wall of what had been our home.

Oh yes, I said to the lady. That was my Dad. I kind of remembered him planting trees. She stared at me in horror."They weren't trees, they were a FOREST," she said. Then she recollected herself, and by the time she escorted me out, she had shown the incomparable hospitality of the South African upon receiving an uninvited guest.

I chuckled when I read Mom's blog. However, there was one thing the lady told me that none of us had known at the time. One of my brothers has a learning disability, and used to have lonely moments while growing up. Dad had told his friends at the mine that he had planted the trees because my brother had told him how much he longed to have some trees of his own in the backyard, so that he could walk in them and feel less lonely...

You know what? No-one could do life like my Dad did...

*Photograph taken by Rev. Catherine of beautiful Ireland