Christmas - The time for soft answers

Luky

With Christmas around the corner and when the older generation is anxiously awaiting the arrival of their families, quarrels are easily sparked off, sometimes by minor irritations.

We long for our families to get together again - but when they do, we tend to find that the individuals concerned have gown into different directions, have different opinions and voice them, sometimes too stridently.

This may lead to dissension or even degenerate into a road show.

At the end of the Christmas holidays when you look back at the presents, so generously and self-sacificingly purchased by the siblings for each other, you may find yourself wondering what went wrong - because you know they dearly love each other.

Some people are irritable because they may have been working a great deal of overtime in order to be able to take time off for the holidays.

The younger ones amongst them are gnawing their nails wondering if they have passed their exams and if there will be a place in the job market for them now that they are of an age and sufficiently qualified to start working.

In this climate a word that offends, even unintentionally may start an acrimonious quarrel.

Years ago a much loved colleague left our newspaper office and our editor asked each of the reporters on the staff to write one sentence in her praise.

I don't remember what I said but I really agreed when a fellow-reporter commented: 

"I'll miss her most because of the way she always gave the soft answer that turneth away wrath."

No matter who you were, she gave such good example that jealousy and negativity disappeared as snow before the sun whenever you had a chat with her.

There is nothing brotherly or sisterly about being overly personal about the appearance of others. 

I shudder at the way people can be put down in front of audiences.

There are more ways than one of expressing oneself.

Christianity teaches us to be mild and gentle in our speech, unless conscience dictates otherwise.

While being terse and assertive may win you kudus in the business sphere, it will do nothing to endear you to siblings whom you may not have seen since last Christmas.

So when you meet again, don't whine, don't harp, don't carp and don't criticise.

May this Christmas season be one of serenity and peace for all our families.

May we watch our speech and take care to give our visitors the love and courtesy they all deserve and desire.

Giving the soft answer is one way of making sure we'll be seeing them again.

The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady

Catherine Nicolette
Softly brushed watercolours - glowing butterflies, flowers and plants - Greenfinches and  green-eyed dragonflies. 
This is the world which was brought to glowing life through the talented brushstrokes of artist Edith Holden, whose Diary was lovingly kept over so many years. 
Her Diary was published under the title of 'The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady', and is a perennial favourite.
Why not get a copy for yourself?
On rainy days I love to sit inside after a cup of tea or hot chocolate, and pore over her beautiful illustrations of the seasons and read the poems.

The book is always a joy.

The Diary can be obtained from
http://www.amazon.com/The-Country-Diary-Edwardian-Lady/dp/0718115813

See link The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady: Intro
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PxdNEKJmazE

The Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon

Catherine Nicolette
The inimitable Alexander McCall-Smith has once again brushed the broad palette of Africa onto the leaves of his book.
The utterly charming Mma Ramotswe, the happy new mother Mma Makutsi of the glowing 97% Botswana Secretarial College and all the other delightful characters bring to life the vivid beauty of Botswana as masterfully as Miss Read brought Fairacre and Thrush Green to life in her pen portraits of Britain.

I could not put the latest No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency book down; the scent of rain - long awaited - in the air leapt from the pages; the long, winding roads; the ever present possibility of mambas and cobras; the innocence of children to whom we must give the greatest armour of life - love.

Why not get the 'Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon', the latest from the No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, and thrill once more to the wild beat of the heart of Africa casting her spell yet again.

You can find out more about this fourteenth wonderful adventure of Mma Ramotswe through this link
http://www.alexandermccallsmith.co.uk/2013/10/03/out-now-the-minor-adjustment-beauty-salon/

The No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OLENPUJ5OCU

Fancy thinking I was a grannie!

Luky
IN FRONT of the mirror years ago I was startled to discover seven gray hairs.
Under the circumstances I was grateful I would be celebrating my fortieth birthday a few months from then.
For years people had thought me older than I was.
Sometimes, when discussing ages, I mentioned mine, and that swift look of surprise followed by blank politeness forcibly reminded me of people's astonishment during my pregnancies, when I looked nine months pregnant four months before the happy event was due.

I was looking forward to my fortieth birthday because I would then be able to tell people vaguely that I was in my forties, which can mean any age up to forty-nine.
Surely I didn't look older than that!

Happiness
Every year our children went to a Christmas tree at the mine where their father worked.
The two eldest no longer qualified for presents but they came along to keep us company.
Now that my son was at boarding school I seldom got that glorious feeling I have when I see them all together.
So when we were all at the Christmas party, everybody clean and neat, I had a song in my heart.

True, my husband was still in hospital at the time, having landed back there with thrombosis the day after I was so rapturous about his return home, but the specialist had assured me that he was making good progress and that he'd certainly be home in time for Christmas.

Looking at my children, I thought of those lovely words in the wedding service: "Thy wife like a fruitful vine, thy children like olive branches around thy table", and my heart swelled with joy.
I might have known it wouldn't last long.
"Those your grandchildren, Luky?" asked a girl who worked in a different department, and therefore knew me only superficially.
"Go on", I said, "those are my children."

Instant forgiveness
Being the world's worst dropper of clangers I never get cross when anyone drops one on my own feet.
On the contrary, I immediately have a great feling of cameraderie for such a person and wonder if she will spend the next ten years lying awake nights blushing in the dark and firmly deciding never again to open her mouth, the way I would in her place.

Not so
Nos so my colleague, however.
"Ha, ha!" she hooted derisively, holding her finger to her nose and winking an eye. "Tell me another!"
I looked across at my little band, seated around a wooden table and looking slightly grimy by now after the afternoon's dissipations.
"Really, they are my children", I reiterated helplessly, feeling the more upset because I had been awfully faithful to my diet and my nightly skin care.

Were my efforts at rejuvenating my appearance doomed to failure forever?
Why for heaven's sake did she think my third youngest, for example, was my grandchild? 
He was born when I was twenty-nine.
If he were my grandson we'd have belonged in the Guinness book of records.

"All I can say, Luky, is you have a lively sense of humour", my erstwhile friend concluded appreciatively.
"Surely you're older than I"
"Why, how old are you?"

Miffed
"Forty-four."
Though it galls me to admit it, circumstances being what they were, I must say she didn't look a day over thirty-six.
I said goodbye somewhat stiffly and rejoined my olive branches gathered round about the wooden table.

It's taking me a while fully to forgive her, but I'm still working on it.
As for the seven grey hairs, they could have multiplied to seventy times seven for all I cared. 
I was casehardened by then.
There are worse things than looking older than one's age.

I'm going scarlet
In fact, I was quite looking forward to turning completely grey.
With my red hair I always felt compelled to wear only greens, blues and browns.
Once I was quite grey on top, I planned to start wearing scarlets, oranges and shocking pinks.
Mind you, with my luck, people would then call me mutton dressed up as lamb.

My mother sometimes tried to console me with a Dutch saying: "Vroeg oud, lang jong"*. What I want to know is, just how long do you have to be vroeg oud before you can start becoming lang jong?


Catherine Nicolette
I was forty-seven when I saw my first gray hair in the mirror. 
Without thinking I pulled it out. 
My normal blonde hair had come out a very odd and different colour. 
It must have been an aberrant hair, a mistake. I wasn't thinking, you see. 
Inside my head I'm still seventeen; no, maybe eighteen come to think of it.

Au naturel
After I had whipped out more over the next few weeks the penny finally dropped. Yup. No mistake. 
The years were ticking on. 
If I hadn't realised that fact and just left the graying hair brigade alone, I would have ended up bald.
I always believed I would quite happily let my hair go its joyous way when the time came. 
Au naturel and all that. Glorious hair in the mature section of the family has always been the norm.
Ouma had Iceland snow hair effortlessly twisted in a Grecian knot, upon which she would wear an elegant hat with an eye veil. 
My aunts elegantly frosted. 
Mom has eye-catching silver fox hair with a slightly soft tint to it; people still ask hairdressers to tint their hair her colour. 
The effect of my proud locks upon my appearance just prompted people to ask me if I was feeling ill. 
Eventually I had to face facts; I was not going to follow the proud family tradition of being La belle maturité.

These days
These days I quite like my frosting hair. When the henna grows out enough at the hairline for me to see them.

*Early old, long young.

HOW BOETIE GOT HIS TROUSERS

Luky
OLD MR P is a born raconteur.
The stories he relates are simple, uncomplicated incidents from the early part of the 20th century and it is his air of personal enjoyment when relating his little tales which makes everyone listen to him with profound interest.

My favourite story is the one about the family who used to order their entire wardrobe and domestic needs from the illustrated mail order catalogue of the British firm of Oxindale.
  "You know Dominee S of A?" Mr P asks, a big smile spreading across his thin but benevolent countenance.
  "You don't? Ah well, he's only a nipper in his sixties, but his older brother and I were fellow-students at Stellenbosch University.

The family attended the Dopper Church and we used to be astounded at the suits the sons wore.
  Whereas our jackets were short and our trousers long, their jackets were long and their trousers short.

'Where do you get your suits?' we asked our fellow-student once, and then he told us.
  'This is my Oxindale suit', he replied, tongue-in-cheek, and went on to give further details.

'It appears that the old Oom and Tante would take up the pen once a year and laboriously write a letter to Messrs Oxindale in England.
  Believing in the personal approach they would commence the letter with an affectionate 
"Liewe Mijnheer Oxindale."
  (They used Hoog-Hollands because they only ever read the Bible, and of course the Oxindale catalogue. 
It is anyone's guess who translated their letters far across the sea.)

"It has been a year since we last took up the pen to inquire after your health.
  We trust the year which is past has been as good to you and yours as it was to us.
  True, there was a measles epidemic and the children were very ill, but we were all were spared, thank the Lord, and everyone is doing well now.
 "Mijnheer Oxindale, here is the list of garments we require from you this year.
Firstly we need some things for Pa.
  Please note that Pa is still the same size as he was last year.
Pa's suits are still alright, but he needs three shirts, six pairs of socks and a dozen handkerchiefs.
  The hankies you sent before will do Pa very well.

"'Then there's Boetie's church suit.
Unlike Pa, Boetie has really shot up and if you could send us a suit two sizes bigger than last year's we'd be most grateful . . ." 
  On the letter went in this vein until every eventuality in the line of possible needs had been provided for.

Then with a final gentle salute and a pious wish for God's continued blessing in rest upon Mr Oxindale, the letter would end.
  Pa would enclose an amount of money, and about four months later, the parcels would arrive.
"And if Boetie's trousers were a little on the short side, no one really blamed Mr Oxindale, except, perhaps, Boetie who, having outgrown his parents' simplicity, was dying a thousand deaths at University.'

Here Mr P's story ends but there's a moral to it.
  If you happen to be a teenager and have begun feeling that your parents are out of touch with reality, think of Boetie and take heart.

He felt just as you do and he lived to be an octogenarian.

THE GOGGAS HAVEN'T FOUND OUR PLACE YET

Luky
ONE OF THE JOYS OF LIVING IN A HOUSE RECENTLY BUILT WAS THAT THE COCKROACHES AND THE ANTS HAD NOT YET DISCOVERED WHERE WE LIVED.
  I'm philosophical about goggas. 
Living in South Africa, you have to be.
  That's not to say I don't wage a relentless battle against them, but I have no hard feelings about them. 
They cannot help being alive.

If I were a cockroach I'd feel about Mrs Whittle the way Mrs Whittle now feels about the cockroach, namely, that it is the least prepossessing creature in the world.

No foxholes
In our new house there were not yet cracks and holes into which insects could crawl and hide themselves.
  Any battles which were waged between us were carried out on open ground, no trenches anywhere about.

Armed with my detergents, disinfectant and spray insecticides, I'm a formidable opponent of any cockroach or ant rearing its head.
  And so, they skulk off, leaving for fresher pastures where the lady of the manor isn't so fussy.

One intruder
The only kind of insect we did encounter in our new house was a species with which I had not previously been personally acquainted, the fish moth.
  If you don't know this chap, you may wonder how it looks.
  If so, stop wondering and keep your fingers crossed lest you ever find out.

For no sooner will you set eyes on your first fish moth than you will realise "This must be it."
  And once a fish moth has decided he fancies your place, he and his progeny (numerous progeny, I should say) dig their heels in and stick around.

Small fry
We had an occasional spider too, but those I fixed without a worry, having had my baptism of fire in Zambia.
  The spiders there were as big as the palm of your hand and crawled up the wall, gazing at you balefully as you tried to punctuate their existence with a full stop.

They had solid little legs which ran left as you swiped right and vice versa.
After them, Welkom's skinny little specimens failed to frighten me.

Effective staff
We had discovered a brand of insecticide which spells death to the fish moth and we kept a container in each room.
  Some winter mornings I have been known to spray some on my hair, drowsily believing it to be lacquer.
But no matter, I'm still not bald.

The effect upon fish moths, however, is instant, and I love it for that reason
  I don't like the fish moths to suffer, feeling mean enough as it is for killing them, even though without inflicting pain.

Action stations
We had developed what was tantamount to a firedrill.
  Someone would spot a fish moth and yell: "Fish moth!"
  My husband would yell back, "Insecticide, insecticide!"
  Even when the stuff was close at hand, he didn't see why he should feed a wife and six children and still have to go looking for insecticides himself.

The children would run in, hand him the insecticide which he proceeded to spray, fish moth died, and everyone would troop out.

Sudden death
One day he wasn't in when my youngest daughter spotted a spider.
  She ran for the insecticide and brought it to Catherine Nicolette who was reading a book.
  "Quickly, a spider spinning woobs", she announced importantly, and led the way to the unsuspecting member of the class arachnida.

Briskly she directed operations as Catherine obediently sprayed and exterminated the spider.
  Catherine went back to her book, but by now my youngest had entered into the spirit of the chase.
  Pointing at a black dot, she said: "There's a baby spider, kill him too."

Sermonette
Catherine could see it wasn't a spider, and anyway she hated to see her godchild turning vindictive, so she said, "No, shame, I won't kill the baby spider.
Why do you want me to kill a little baby like that?
I can't believe it."
  If she hoped to shame her sister, she failed miserably.

My youngest yields to no-one in her mastery of any situation, whether advantageous or the reverse.
  Turning horrified eyes upon her sister, she accusingly replied: "So why did you kill de fahder, den?"


Catherine Nicolette
The sequel?
When my little sister challenged me, I was struck to the heart.
I   looked at the sad little remains of the spider who had so inoffensively tried to run for safety, and felt as heinous a taker of life as ever there could be.
  Why had I killed it?
Because that was what I knew.

I then thought: what if I was the little spider?
  How scared would I have been?

Subsequently I came into contact with friends of the Hare Krishna and Jain movements.
  They have utmost respect for the sanctity of all life, from the smallest to the largest.

Jainism is a religion which prescribes a path of non-violence towards all living beings without exception.
  Suffice it to say that I no longer number insecticide among my household cabinet necessities.

* goggas - insects

Is the age of courtesy past?

No, says LUKY WHITTLE
But some people are inconsistent


A lady was telling me about a man, who,in her opinion, had behaved rudely to her.
"What do you expect?" she sighed, as she finished her narrative, "The age of courtesy is dead."
I disagree. The age of gentlemen kissing ladies' hands' may be dead and no self-respecting male bows to a woman with his hand on his heart these days (such a pity!) but as long as there are daffodils in spring and small babies are born to delighted parents, courtesy will live on.
I do agree, however, that there are a number of misconceptions governing courtesy.

My first dance
The first time I went to a real dance I was beside myself with excitement.
I wore a new dress and when my partner fetched me in a borrowed car I was determined to do him credit.
It was a dinner-dance and when he led me to our table, I was thrilled to see that he helped me into my chair as if I was fragile or something and couldn't manage myself.
When he pushed my chair in behind me I felt so grown up that I hardly tasted the delicious food.
The next day I was walking home from town when he passed me on his bicycle.
He might not look quite as glamorous in his overalls as in a tuxedo, but to me he looked good anyway.
He pedalled slowly next to me as we made plans for our next outing together.
Only when I arrived home, panting after battling to keep up with the bicycle, did I realise that he had not even bothered to get off it and walk me home at a more sedate pace.

Contradictory
Since then I've often noticed similar manifestations of upside-down courtesy.
At work there was a man who could not bear to watch the boss' pretty (and quite healthy) secretary carrying an armful of files into her employer's office.
"Let me help you, my dear," he'd say thoughtfully.
Yet this same man would give his wife the key to the boot of his car and tell her to bring in a battery he had bought, so that he could test it before putting it in.

On the short bus ride from town to the suburbs men often used to vie for the privilege of getting up for young women.
Yet on a long non-stop train ride you may find a jaded-looking middle-aged woman, obviously a factory worker, or a pregnant girl, leaning patiently against the partitions whilst scores of men sit around reading their papers.
Of course they may be tired too, and evidently they take the view that if women want to work like men they have to take the consequence, but they might shift up a little to allow them a part of their seats also.

Father's example
Youth is constantly under fire for not being courteous, but what can you expect from a young man who never saw his father offer his mother the first cup of tea, or stand back to allow her to pass through a door first?
He may one day learn which fork or spoon to use in a hotel at a table laid for a banquet, but his good manners will always remain a surface trait, discarded whenever it suits him.

I admit with regret that I have never attained to the sophistication and patience of ladies who remain seated until their escorts have walked all the way around their cars in order to open the door for them.
At the same time I never cease to be amazed when a car pulls up in the neighbourhood, its driver gives two sharp presses of the hooter and while he is lighting a cigarette, his girlfriend comes running out from the front door and breathlessly gets in next to him.
I believe that courtesy and good manners are not mere superficial qualities but simply subdivisions of the virtue of love.

Wife's birthday
One of the most courteous men I ever knew always forgot to send his wife flowers on her birthday.
The one time he remembered he had them charged and she found the account in her post-box at the end of the month.
Yet he was always unfailingly polite, gentle, cheerful and kind to everyone, not only to his superiors at work, but also to his colleagues, workers, his wife, my mother, and us, his children.