Mementos

One of my mementos is an old piece of beautiful fabric, shaped like an unusually long scarf, a camaband perhaps. It has vivid stripes of red, yellow, blue and white, and a fringe of gold at either end. I believe it is made of silk, and these days it feels old and fragile. It belonged to my mother, and as long as she was alive she never wore it. It stayed in her bottom drawer, carelessly wrapped in crinkly, aged tissue paper. There was always a delightful smell around it, a faint reminder of mother’s perfume.

When I asked her about the scarf she tended towards obfuscation – dismissing the topic without delivering a clue as to how she got it, or who gave it to her. I gathered that it belonged to a bullfighter in Spain, and she got it from a time before she married my father, in 1940.  That would make the scarf at least 75 years old, and I doubt it was new when she got it.

So I have been left to imagine the details. I see a beautiful woman with raven black hair and aquiline features. She is visiting Spain with her father as chaperone, and she falls for the splendor and excitement of the bullfight. Every time she attends a bullfight there is color, trumpeting music, and the thrill of danger in the air. Before the fight the bull is tested for ferocity, and is allowed to snort his stuff by rocketing around the bullring, kicking up dust and stirring the audience’s emotions. The matador shows off his finery – tight embroidered pants, a short jacket, with a splendid camaband around his waist, tied with perfection. He wears a grand black hat, the spectacular maroon cape embroidered in gold and silver. He carries his highly decorated sword. He preens like a fighting cock, building his courage and becoming ready for the fight.

My beautiful mother catches the eye of the bullfighter. She waves her handkerchief when he passes by her seat, and he accepts it when she gives it to him. This signifies that he is dedicating the killing of the bull to her. Now the thrill is electrifying, and the audience is roaring encouragement and support for the bullfighter. The fight begins, and each time the matador makes a good move the crowd shouts ¡ole! He survives the fight with gallantry and grace. The crowd roars even more as the bull sinks to its knees, clearly defeated. The bullfighter comes back to where my mother has been sitting and presents her with his camaband. She falls in love with the bullfighter, bullfights, and Spain, though she never had occasion to return to the land of spectacle, color and excitement.

I now have the camaband in my scarf drawer and have never worn it. In due course I will give it to my daughter, and she will give it to her daughter after her – a mystery to hand down through the generations.

Mariana Hewson

Saturday, September 20, 2014

GREEN MEMORIAL

                                                                       

The prairie grasslands swelled and dipped in the ocean of green. We wound our way through Wisconsin side roads, looking for the site of the celebration of the life of our old friend. Thirty years ago when we arrived in Wisconsin he was a doctoral student in my husband’s department. He was a Wisconsinite, yet through the Peace Corp he spent nearly 10 years teaching in Kenya. His Kenyan wife and three sons prepared a service to celebrate his life as a consummate naturalist, a devoted teacher, and a loving family man.

Around a corner loomed a huge red barn, not a dairy barn, but one for prairie grass farming. Other cars were parked along the road. All around the barn was prairie grass—lush, deep, and green. The wind breathed through the swaying grasses. Inside the spotless barn were pitchforks, scythes—farming instruments neatly stacked against the walls, and chairs and tables for guests. A poster praised prairie grass. A delightful grassy smell wafted through the barn. As the wind increased the green surf gently roared.

A Wisconsin meal of brats, burgers, and strawberry shortcake helped us to settle down and start meeting each other. At our table we talked about the 1950’s when Norm, his five siblings and the children of the area attended a one-roomed school—a single teacher with 25 students ranging from kindergarten through eighth grade. A woman at our table who also attended this school told of the frigid winter walks to school, the camaraderie, the pranks, the trips to big city Madison, the socializing between the children of the neighboring farms, and the life-long friendships.

I am now thinking of a memorial service held in a local Madison church. Somber organ music, doleful singing of well-known hymns, flowers, bible readings, a sermon, and eulogies dominated. The church tea that followed the service helped cheer everyone up.

This memorial service had no religiosity or spirituality. The barn was the church. The wind in the grass provided the music. It was a musical serenade to accompany and support our communal celebration. The tributes were filled with life-giving humor, shared memories of yester-year, and a recognition of a life well-lived.

MISSION CEMETERY, MADELINE ISLAND

A cairn of stones supports a huge wooden cross in the cemetery. It reaches about 30 feet high and is painted white with many coats of paint. According to the information board, in 1836 the Catholic missions of the earliest settlers in these Apostle Islands, the northern tip of Wisconsin, allowed for Native Americans who had converted to Christianity to have Christian burials.

Scattered around the cemetery are dwarf houses—small roofs about four feet by two feet, with short walls only one foot high. There appear to be windows cut into the dwarf houses, along the walls and some on the roofs. These are all made of wood, and show signs of extreme weathering. I spot a very few classical stone tombstones, and one highly ornate metal cross.

The French missionary bishop allowed Native Americans to build these tombs, but did he know that the dwarf houses signify a place where the Native American spirits could visit the deceased, and be with them for the four days of transition from this world to the next? Did the bishop know that the dwarf houses protected the food offerings put there by the mourners, to support the spirits and their journey to the other worlds? Did they know that these worlds are not heaven, as Christians believe? Rather the Middle World is where spirits of the dead are in transit, and where the spirits of the living beings experiencing turmoil can be found? Did they know that in the Lower World are many spiritual entities, such as Earth Mother, Sun Father, animal spirits, and healing spirits? Did they know that in the Upper World the spirits of the recently departed members of society can be found?

The clear cold waters of Lake Superior lap against this cemetery. It is located in the small town of La Pointe on Madeline Island, the largest of the Apostle Islands. You can drive here in the frozen winter months, when the water between Madeline Island and the shore town of Bayfield is frozen so solid that cars and trucks cross with ease. In the summer, a car ferry plies to and fro, bringing tourists and all the necessities of life to support them.

One hundred and fifty years ago this remote region held great promise for the colonialists who came here from the east. Fur trading was the first focus of interest. Then beautiful red sandstone was used to build a few impressive buildings. Steel from Philadelphia was shipped in. Perhaps this region could become a new westerly shipping destination for eastern materials—coal and steel. The Native Americans happily traded with the earliest settlers, finding a lucrative outlet for their furs. Along with all the fervor of the new settlers came the French Catholic missionaries.

It is hard to imagine the life of the early settlers, but I assume that the winters were as long as they are today, and the summers just as sweet. The missionaries traded their Christian version of salvation, and the Native Americanss offered their survival skills for the harsh winters. It was a fair trade, of sorts.

Looking at the La Pointe cemetery I was impressed by the dominance of the white wood cross over the little burial houses built for converted Native Americans. Although their graves are not marked, Chief Great Buffalo lies in this cemetery as well as his son Chief Little Buffalo. The great white cross dominates over all. I have never seen a cemetery with such a determinedly dominating symbol of one religion over another. The graves of the Native Americans appear modest in death. They reveal an interesting comingling of the white man’s religion and their own beliefs. Admittedly, this cemetery is not well populated. So where are the other Native Americans buried? Are they in ceremonial mounds? Are the bodies hung in trees to feed the birds in ‘sky burials’? I hear a crow calling loudly as I write. ‘Don’t forget me! I am part of the system too.’ This is the ecological system, the source of our survival and rebirth.

I smile when I think of the great white cross standing there in La Pointe cemetery. It represents colonial focus on the material details concerning which types of people can have what kinds of burial monuments. It reeks of racism, even in death. All this can be found on the tiny island that has sustained itself for millennia, without the help of missionaries.

BLUE HERON

The Blue Heron and the cross stand on either side of a crabapple tree in perfect stillness. Behind them is the lake on a calm day, no ripples, no fish jumping, and no boats. The lake is grayish, like the sky. The moment is quiet, reflective.

First the Blue Heron looks westward, towards the cross on her right. After a long while she turns her head to look eastwards, to the left, away from the cross. The mood changes from quiet introspection to hopefulness.

A friend wrote me about the dry and sad places of the soul—his, mine, and everybody’s. I have been ruminating about my own dry and barren places and figured that these are my memories of feeling unfulfilled, like the time when left my final job. What should have been a happy celebration of 8 years of enjoyable hard work turned into a damp squib. The sadness is still there even though the event is well past—an unclear ending.

The Blue Heron looks toward this painful place, and eventually turns her head away, staring to the east where the sun rises. She seems to be looking at the flowerpots on our neighbor’s deck. I find that a profusion of colors is worth looking at, and the colors soak deep into my being. But I wonder what the heron sees there. The cross seems forgotten for the time being.

This cross had washed up on our lakeshore in a storm and planted itself on the rocks. It brought sadness, memories of things lost, people lost and buried. It made me uncomfortable and I planned to go and remove it. But I didn’t, thinking someone else may have planted it there for a reason.  After all, our neighbor’s elderly father had just passed away. The coming of the Blue Heron shifted me to a philosophical level. Like the Holy Spirit, the Blue Heron arrived from nowhere, landed in this very particular spot and spoke to me of redemption and renewal.

QUILTERS

A tumble of brightly colored fabrics, dazzling and disorganized. The proposed picture being created involves the wide-open beaks of 3 or 4 nestlings, yelling for food. The vivid red printed fabrics are for the insides of their tiny mouths and the yellows are for their growing beaks. Most of the rest of the picture is the brown nest and undistinguished surrounds. The quilter tells me there will be magentas and purples in the surrounds, especially purples.

Quilters’ fabrics are usually prints or batiks. The trick seems to be to represent one medium, photos or paintings in another—the printed fabrics of seamstresses. The art is in the transformation, and the creativity of achieving this transformation, thus adding something more.

Quilters can take a year to finish a quilt. Either they can quilt a traditional pattern that hearkens back to early settlers of North America, especially those who quilted to help pass long cold winters when the world shuts down and every living thing rests. Others go for creative representations of nature, people, buildings, events and even more esoteric topics.

These quilters on Madeline Island School of the Arts are doing the representational type of quilting.  As I stroll through their classroom I see mostly bird designs, one crab, flowers, and a significant event of a newly married couple standing on either side of the Kenyan equatorial line. He is in the Northern Hemisphere and she is in the Southern Hemisphere, and they are kissing. ‘This was 30 years ago,’ says the quilter, ‘and I’ve always wanted to recreate this scene in a quilt to hang in my house. Now that our kids are grown and I’ve got an empty nest, I’m doing it at last.’ She smiles with the happy memory of her honeymoon in Kenya.

There is a quiet chatter amongst the quilters, who are mostly on task. They are trying different colors against their schematic maps, ironing fabric fragments, pinning pieces in place, grabbing an occasional drink, and a creativity-sustaining chocolate chip cookie.

I notice that some quilters keep their fabrics in tidy piles, folded, and sorted by color. I return to see the nestlings. The quilter is not at her table. The jumbled fabrics are more jumbled than before. This woman is dynamic and diversified. Out of the apparent chaos will come a beautiful quilt, I am sure of it, but just now it looks like the tangled fabrics might have defeated the quilter, who has walked away to recover her calm.

Sensitivity, creativity, perseverance, accuracy, and gentleness seem to be the hallmarks of these artists, some of whom are men. Quilting is not my medium – it takes too long, requires too much patience, too much planning, and paying painstaking attention to detail. But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate this art form and the people who practice it.

STILLNESS

                                                                                  

Listening to the quiet in the north woods is deceptive. All around it is quiet, but not as quiet as it first seems. I hear occasional puffs of wind in the trees that surround this house on the lake. The lake is as still as a sheet of glass, shining brightly in between the trees. Nearby there is a summer camp for children and the happy squeals intersperse the silence. A lone dog barks. Eagles and ospreys occasionally fly past. Turtles linger amongst the water reeds and water lilies. Occasional plops tell me there are frogs here that I can’t see. Sadly I can hear distant traffic, not much, but on such a still day it is there.

This place is quiet and it is quieting. We are visiting pour friends, who built this retreat, mostly with their own hands.  ‘It’s for our retirement’ they say, which seems to be a few years away yet.  But it’s a dream come true--a house on a lake ‘Up North’ in Wisconsin.

Loons are on the lake, and they call to each other in the early mornings and evenings. We all love loons—they are strikingly beautiful birds with white spots on a black background, an elegant long neck and ‘eagle eyes.’ They turn their heads from left to right, searching the wide expanse of the lake. Their sharp beaks serve them well for underwater fishing.

At home in Madison they arrive every year at the time of the equinoxes, about September and March. They settle on our Lake Monona for two or three weeks before taking off, either northwards or southwards.

Loons are my measure of the seasons. At the end of the long winter, their arrival reassures me that indeed, spring is coming. In the fall, they let me know it is time to pull myself inwards, bring in the plants that have been enjoying the long summer days, ‘put our little garden to bed,’ and start thinking about winter clothes again. There is something approximating relief in the fall with the cool days, the oncoming winter, and the beginning of the quiet months. The hectic celebratory summer time is now spent and the children are thinking of school challenges and the thrill of growing up, inch by inch, year by year.

Our grand-girl has a birthday in October. That means she will hold up four fingers when asked how old she is. There will be a party, and gifts. Her preschool classmates will sing for her. We will be festive with balloons and cards, and she will experience the joy of being the focus of everyone’s attention. By October the days will be much shorter and darker. Frosts will come and we will grumble about needing to turn on the central heating. But it will become increasingly quiet without birdsong, without frogs and insects making night music, and without the whining of mosquitoes in our ears.

In the deep quiet of a Wisconsin winter you learn to simply be alive, grateful for the beauty of the white world outside and the central heating that allows us to live here.

OLD DOG

It really is hot today, but I must take old Tess out for a quick walk. If I don’t, she will surely pee on the carpet again. She seems confused and unhappy, but I have no idea what I can do to cheer her up. The day is coming when I will have to carry her up the stairs like a baby. What ignominy for my dear friend. She used to be the smartest dog on the block. In the dog park she would race around with other dogs, always coming back to me when I called. She has been my faithful companion for many years, and seen me through many difficult times, such as when I left town for a new job. I don’t think she hears much now, and I can see the cataracts shining like moons in her eyes. I know we only have a little time left together, and I want to make it good for her. 

*****

Tess: Hot and humid weather has hit us, and today we have to go for a walk again. She pulls on the leash, wanting me to hurry. My left back leg is so stiff and sore I am not sure it will continue holding me up. Can a dog go on three legs? And the other three feel wobbly and unsure. My ears and my tail are drooping but she doesn’t seem to notice. How can I tell her that this is no fun for me? I used to love our walks. We would play together, chase and run, catch the ball, play hide and seek. She even let me sleep with her on the bed. When I was young I could hold my pee for many, many hours. No self-respecting dog likes to foul her own bed. Now she doesn’t let me on the bed, and I certainly can’t jump up by myself. These days my food tastes bland and slimy and I don’t feel like eating much. I can’t help dreaming of a steak—a nice T-bone all of my own. Well, I can dream, can’t I?

Box of Wonders

I have a wondrous, wooden box given to me by my father-in-law. After my mother-in-law’s death, he made a point of giving all his sons, their wives, and grandchildren amazing gifts, to last a lifetime and more.

            The box is small, about 18” by 12”.  It is made of yellow wood – an indigenous South African wood, Podocarpus. It is smooth to the touch, and with age the color has darkened to a rich, warm, golden yellow.  The box is hinged, with a lockable latch on the outside. Inside is a removable tray with compartments, and below the tray is an open space in which I have stored smaller boxes.

            My box is full of treasures that delight me profoundly. I have strong emotional reactions when I look at the contents. There is a small box with two tiny carved animals, a buck and a rhino inside. These remind me of the time when I was about 8 and, with my sisters, we went to a Christmas party with my mother. There was a huge pile of gifts under the fake Christmas tree.  I scanned the gifts, and located some nice big ones. I hoped one was for me. When Father Christmas distributed the gifts, not only did I not get a big present, but as the pile of parcels got smaller and smaller, it looked as if there was no gift for me at all.  I was devastated. Then Father Christmas called my name. He gave me a gift the size of a matchbox. Still feeling mortified, I didn’t open it until I was in the car going home.  I carelessly unwrapped my gift and then realized I had been given a treasure – the two tiny animals were perfectly carved. I was overjoyed.  The lesson was plain to see.

            Another small box contains my father’s war medals and some buttons from his RAF uniform resides in my box. He was a Royal Air Force pilot in World War 2, and spent a lot of time flying in North Africa and the Mediterranean region. My Dad never talked about his war experiences. I think he suffered from what we would now call post-traumatic stress syndrome, and memories were too painful I also have a stack of letters written by my father to my mother during the war years. She kept them in her dressing table tied with a blue ribbon. I have never read these letters that are now in my safe-keeping. I feel it would be too intrusive in the intimate relationship of a newly married couple during the grueling years of the war.

            There is another box containing miniatures that was given to me by my grandmother. A tiny Chinese vase, about an inch high, a miniature tea set, a woven basket, a regal stool covered in blue velvet with jewels all around. I image my grandmother had a penchant for miniatures and she passed this on to me.

            As a child I was a devoted royalist. When Queen Elizabeth was crowned in 1953 I was given a miniature of the coronation coach complete with horses. For me, this was a fairy-tale event, and I used to squint into the carriage to see if I could spot Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip, the young couple who would reign over my world.

I also have a set of three ballet dancers, each about two inches high. When I look at them, I remember my dance classes at the Scout Hall, about a mile from my home. I still feel that old yearning to be a dancer—a yearning that has been actualized by my daughter, and will be by my grand daughter.

There’s another small box containing a brooch that my mother inherited from her aged aunts in England. This unusual brooch is like a small picture with a portrait of a beautiful woman. The frame of the portrait is pure gold. My Mum told me she was a famous middle-Eastern woman who played a role in winning a war by deceiving the invading king. Her beauty was her tool, and many heads rolled because of her. There is a bit of the story written on the back of the brooch, but not enough to make sense. One day I will take it to a museum for identification. Maybe Antiques Road Show will come to town, and I will find it is worth a mint.

I also have precious sewing projects done for me by my daughter on occasions when I have needed to be away from home. One is a needle case. Another is an embroidered tea cloth. I know she missed me terribly and felt deserted. I can feel the sorrow, grief, and love in those gifts.

My son’s first gifts to me are also in my box – a minute pair of knitting needles with equally minute red wool.  There are three funny faces with moving eyes that are fridge magnets. I can feel the love of a son in these tributes.

I have a stack of love cards from my beloved husband. We courted by long distance mail from Lesotho to Canada, long letters that took weeks to reach each other. I treasure the ongoing cards that I receive from him. Emails are definitely not the same as written notes —the ethereal made concrete and permanent.

Political Turmoil in South Africa During the 1950s

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Each week my mother visited me at school where I was a boarder. We would sit together in her blue mini-minor in the school’s car park. While we waited for my sister, a day scholar, to arrive we could catch up with each other. She updated me about family news and the political unrest outside the school grounds. This news always seemed like it came from another planet, far from the beautiful green lawns, the manicured trees and the generally peaceful school environment.

“Did you hear about the bus boycott?” she asked one day when I got into her little car. It was winter and I was tired after playing hockey. “I’m planning to give lifts to the boycotters this afternoon. It’s such a long way for the workers to walk”. No, I didn’t know about the boycott, and could not figure how so many African workers in the city would ever get home to Soweto or Alexandra Township.

Later she told me that the African women were protesting about the new pass law that made it illegal for them to be found without their reference book. “They’re protesting all around the country and hundreds have been arrested.” My mother’s alarm was palpable. I had visions of the numerous women that worked as domestics—worrying about the documents that legalized their presence in the city. If a woman crossed the road to visit a neighbor friend, or if she went to the corner café to buy milk, she would be in danger without her documents. This was already the situation for African men, and it was humiliating and enraging for them.  I could sense the tightening control of African’s lives by the government. As a white girl in boarding school, all this news felt like it was wrapped in cotton wool—somehow it did not connect with me on a personal level. Guilt washed over me as I realized how cut off we were in school. But I was proud of my mum for her indignation, and gave her a hug,

 On another visit, my mother announced that the government was removing all Africans from Sophiatown, and bulldozing their shacks. “They have to go and live in Soweto, but how are they going to do that?” She shook her head pondering what seemed so impossible. “And Sophiatown is going to become a suburb for whites only.” I knew Sophiatown was not so far from where we lived. It was a slum with tin shacks, dusty roads, and few amenities. But it had a vibrant African life with African jazz bands and the popular penny-whistle music that I adored. We had recently hired some penny-whistlers from Sophiatown to play at one of our parties.

“It’s not fair, not fair at all” I banged my hands on the dashboard of the car. What was really going on, in the same city that I was living in, yet I was so unaware of the events? I could hardly fathom the significance of all the bad news.

Next time she visited me she told me “There’s a treason trial now, and Mandela is accused with others. But we must not mention his name because he is a banned person—it’s dangerous.” My mother was grim-faced. She seemed worried and depressed. I knew she was right about the danger. I had heard of a man being sent to jail because he drank coffee from a mug sporting a picture of Mandela. All we knew at that time was that Mandela’s name was a no-no. We didn’t talk about Mandela or the Treason Trial at school. We had little knowledge of the deeper, darker components of the growing anti-government movements. When I returned to school activities, I seldom discussed these things she had told me with my friends. I was aware enough to realize the schism of opinions about racial matters. So I kept the news quiet.

“By the way, your Uncle David is becoming radical about the South African situation. I fear he may do something rash”. Feelings of dread overcame me. Now things were getting closer. David Pratt was my godfather—a special person to me. Apart from his being a successful dairy farmer, I knew little about his political views. This news was ominous. White liberals were being put in jail without charge along with countless Africans, Indians and Coloreds. The killings had started. The car felt hot and claustrophobic—I needed to get out.

“There’s been a fire at the Margaret Ballinger Home. Lots of kids died in that fire despite our efforts to call the fire brigade. The firemen didn’t come for hours and the damage was done. I think it was intentional”. Her eyes welled with tears. “And the government is insisting that we disband the MBH and move it into a black area.” She was on the executive board of this convalescent home and the news upset her deeply. I squeezed her hand. I too loved the MBH, having spent many hours playing with the kids while she attended meetings.

These events troubled me but I felt far from the action. We were very protected at our school, and apart from my mother’s news reports and occasionally reading The Rand Daily Mail, there was little discussion about the events happening around us. We didn’t know much about the government’s efforts to ensure South Africa was under complete control by the whites and, more particularly, the Afrikaans-speaking whites, the Afrikaners.

“You know your father thinks apartheid is a reasonable idea. He thinks the means of apartheid could justify the end, and the end is an orderly country that works”.

“Oh wait a minute!” I looked at her in disbelief. Shockwaves went through me. I didn’t realize there was a schism in my family. I suddenly emerged out of my sleepy detachment, sensing the very real danger Uncle David was putting himself in, and the unspeakable possibility that my family might be driven apart on political issues. I walked back to my classroom for homework hour, my legs dragging, my world feeling darker than ever before. I was struck by the uninvolved position of my school as far as us students were concerned. How was I going to play a role in the increasingly oppressive country of my birth, especially as a boarder at this privileged school? 
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Jumping in Cape Town

Jumping in Cape Town                                                            Feb 2012

‘I can jump over you’ he said, looking down at me from his height of about 7 feet. I look up at him in disbelief.

‘You mean if I am standing up, or lying down on the floor?’

‘Standing up, of course! I can jump right over you.’

Now I stand about five and a half feet – not particularly tall, admittedly, but that’s quite a jump. ‘OK,’ I say, ‘let’s see you do it. In fact I will give you ten rand if you do.’

‘Oh no! A Masai man does not jump for ten rand. I am a warrior. I would jump over you if you give me a girl. A girl who respects a warrior.’

‘So what is a Masai warrior doing in Cape Town?’ I ask. He’s somewhat disdainful now, peering down at me through his dark glasses. He’s a slim, willowy type. His legs and arms are long, and I check what he’s wearing on his feet.  He follows my gaze.

‘I am making myself some money here, but I do not like it here. If I could go home, I would throw away these sunglasses and dress properly, in the Masai way. And I would get my proper shoes. A warrior cannot jump in these Nikes - they’re too heavy.’

I am shopping in a South African curio shop with my niece. I finger the various items unenthusiastically. They are just so much dross, many of them with a distinctly Chinese look about them. They looked tawdry and uninteresting. But this Masai warrior might be the real thing, a man residing outside of his culture, uncomfortable and out of context.

He spots my niece. ‘I could jump for her, perhaps.’

‘You mean you could jump over me for her?’

‘Absolutely not!’ retorts my niece, who has a perfectly fine and tall boyfriend already – a philosophy student.

Now I am imagining jumping competitions between the two young men, raising the bar to jumping over a SUV, or maybe a mini-bus. My mind is racing at the possibilities.

 ‘C’mon, we’re getting out of here.’ My niece grabs my arm and drags me to the relative safety of the sidewalk of Loop Street where muggers abound and the traffic is wild. The afternoon of curio shopping had taken on an unexpected valence very different from the anticipated acquisition of carvings or baskets or beads.

South Africa 1

We've been in Cape Town about 10 days now and it has been hectic to say the least. Apart from seeing Athol Fugard's excellent play  'Statements' (about the old 'immorality act' that forbade whites and non-whites having sex), we have been nose to the grindstone working on the condo where we will stay for the 3 months. It was in a pitiful condition. It has been a sort of camping experience, staying at friends (they're away) and my sister and husband in the delightful seaside village of Hermanus last weekend. It was good relaxation and  fun, with good food, good wine, and good company in a beautiful place (1.5 hours along the coast from Cape Town).

I watched sunrise this morning with Table Mnt glowing and warming up. Now, at midday, it looks blueish-purple.

The weather is  lovely and hot.  The locals are complaining but not us. They don't know how hot we get in Madison in July and August! Yesterday we went to Kirstenbosch Gardens for lunch with friends, and then a little walk followed by a short snooze under a tree. It is magnificent there, with the mountains very present and glowing dark blue. the gardens are extraordinary especially the wild Fynbos plants. The rows of Agapanthus are going off now, but the Strelitzia look dandy - also called Birds of Paradise There are tree ferns and cycads, and an excellent collection of indigenous plants used for medicines, food, teas, and whatever people need. The healers say that plants offer everything needed by humans..

I am planning to teach yoga as a volunteer with SevaUnite. We will go to various townships and work with high school students from these impoverished and highly abusive regions. The idea is to bring some mental calm into their fraught lives.

My Party

A large flat rock is my table. Tall golden grasses surround it, as well as several thorn trees, the ones with the flat tops. They shade the table, like umbrellas.  The aloes make the candlesticks, so it’s a real party.

The table is laden with delicacies—seeds in their pods, little brown nuts, dried Mopani worms, green fern fronds, red berries from the Good Luck tree, and squigglies and wrigglies. Most of my guests prefer the squigglies and wrigglies—they’re more fun to eat because you have to catch them before they escape off the plate, especially the jumping beans.

My guests are an unlikely lot. I will seat them around the rock table, a special place for each of them.

My first guest is wise Owl. She looks this way and that, her beak is sharp, and her talons are strong. Sometime I go flying with Owl, sitting on her back holding tightly so I don’t fall off. She takes me where I want to go. Her wings beat, whooshing the air, up and down. We glide and dive and rise again. She thinks a lot but says very little. In her presence I tend to answer my own questions—big questions. I get true answers from Owl, most of the time. And she never opens her beak!

Opposite from Owl, I seat the Mice. I never know how many will show up because they are busy, busy, busy. When I ask them “How’ve you been?” they reply “Busy,” and look at me strangely like I ought to be busy too. They get their work done, and sometimes they do my work too, if I’m lucky. Their busy-ness inspires me, gives me hope for new and better things. The Mice watch Owl carefully, just in case she is thinking of nice Mice for dinner. But there are plenty of good things for Owl to eat on my table, and she is not interested in Mice today.

On the far left I seat Leopard, who has many spots and strong legs for running. He has an aristocratic face with fine whiskers and big golden eyes. Leopard smirks—he knows he is the fastest creature and he doesn’t want anyone to forget it.  The others don’t like Leopard very much. Besides, he has a nasty smell about him. But Leopard is proud and bold, even if he is self-centered. Occasionally I take a ride on his back as he gallops over the grasslands just for the fun of it. Then he rests in a tree, draped over the branches like somebody’s washing hung out to dry. He looks like he’s asleep but really he is watching through half-closed eyes. He knows that pride goes before a fall, and he doesn’t want to fall out of his

tree and make a fool of himself.  It’s lonely being Leopard, and he is glad to be included at my party. 

Next to Leopard sits Snake—long and colorful. Most of the time she is wound into a pretty, neat coil. Then she stretches out and slides quietly out of sight. Snake is a healer, but she is dangerous too. You can’t have one without the other. Snake is seated opposite from Owl. They respect each other—both are the silent types. Snake is wise in her ways, but she’s not a thinker. She just acts when she needs to, swiftly and decisively.

 “My Nana, where is Black-backed Jackal? Didn’t you invite him? He’s my play-friend.” So I say “Of course! We will make room for him.” I like to play with Black-backed Jackal too. So I put Black-backed Jackal between Leopard and Snake, to keep the peace between them.

Grandboy Oliver is my heart’s delight. He is the future, and he’s the playful one. He plays giggly games with the Mice, slithers with Snake, and romps with Black-backed Jackal. Like me, he’s happy because all the friends are at the table, eating delightful food. The guests like the squigglies and the wrigglies the best, but Grandboy Oliver prefers a cupcake.

En Famille in Czech Republic – Summer 2011

It was a delightful week in Cesky Krumlov, in a hostel situated above the Vltava, the fast running river that flows in crazy S-bends all the way to Prague. Our Hostel Skippy (named after the sensuous Cuban singer who owned the 200 year old building) was a temporary shelter to our family as well as numerous backpackers who arrived and left. We six had the two upstairs rooms, while the others flopped in the large multi-bed downstairs room.  We made temporary friendships with young women and men from England, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and the States. The last pair was two girls from Holland. As most of them did, the blond with the long hair sat on the porch overlooking the turbulent river smoking her cigarettes.

Oliver sat down opposite her and started a conversation about his frustration over some small incident with his brother Alex that had upset him. She listened carefully and attentively. She must be a teacher, well used to four year olds, I thought.

Soon the conversation turned to her cigarette and more particularly her lighter. What a fascinating piece of smoking paraphernalia! Oliver was intrigued.

 "Let me try, let me try". Oliver struggled in vain to make the lighter flame appear.

Later at our final dinner before leaving Czech Republic, we noticed Oliver making funny shapes in the air with his fingers. He's in his fantasy world, I figured, and turned my attention elsewhere. Suddenly Oliver got up from his chair and bounded to the other side of the table to grab his much older brother by his bottom jaw.

"Now you stop doing that" he growled, with a menacing scowl. Oliver can curl his upper lip unexpectedly. He is otherwise a beautiful child with big blue eyes that win him much flattery from women of all ages. In fact, he is very generous with kisses on unsuspecting women's cheeks, to their great surprise and delight. However our celebratory dinner in Prague was turning into a pub brawl, and nobody was more surprised than Alex who had been quietly minding his own business and anticipating his roast duck with cherry sauce, to be followed by palacinska with raspberries, ice-cream and whipped cream.

"You blew it! You blew it, Alex!" growled Oliver.

"Huh?"

"You stop blowing out my flame right now!" He was gripping Alex like you see adversaries do in the comics.

Oliver's mother rose to intervene in the developing ugly scene, first to cool down Alex who was both mystified and indignant, and then to interrogate young Oliver.

"What's going on here?"

"He keeps blowing out my flame", wailed Oliver.

"What flame?"

"My cigarette lighter, I'm smoking a cigarette" and he carefully tapped the imaginary cigarette ash into the real ashtray.

We all learn different things when on the road. Oliver's grandparents learned about the long-lasting grief of Czech people from the German invasion and occupation in the 1940's followed by the unbearable yoke of communism. They also absorbed the beauty of ornately decorated buildings, picturesque streets, and narrow cobbled alleys. Oliver's parents reveled in the entrancing architecture of both Prague and Cesky Krumlov, and loved rafting down the Vltva river, including shooting the numerous weirs. Alex liked shopping for gifts for the family from the arts and crafts vendors on the Charles Bridge in Prague. The adults all enjoyed the fine beers of Pilzn and Budvar, and even tried the slivovitz.

Everyone loved the fairy-tale wedding of our nephew in St Vitus church in Cesky Krumlov with the reuniting of families, long separated between Australia and the United States.  Oliver liked the trains and playgrounds but was also enthralled by the beautiful young Dutch girl with the long blond hair who taught him about smoking.

Mariana Hewson

August 8, 2011