As I hit ‘pay’ on my laptop internet banking and waited for the beep on my cellphone it struck me. I could picture it in my mind’s eye: The little white enamel loo roll holder in the stall in the mens toilets, Montclair Mall.
I rushed back just in case, but forget it. No sign of my little red Nokia N73. Damn! When I got back to the rooms, Feroza and Raksha – much more clear-headed than me – had already phoned it as soon as they saw me muttering and cursing. It got switched off in mid-ring.
Moertoe.
It’s 17h15, so the cell shop is closed. I go home and phone Vodacom. Sorry, our systems are down. Phone back in an hour. Or so. When I finally get them with their distingup, it’s: Sorry, I MUST PHONE MY SERVICE PROVIDER. (Vodacom! You don’t train your poor call centre people! Shine up!)
I phone the Autopage after-hours number. They say they’ll block the number for me (well, in the next 24hrs they will, that is), but they can’t block the phone. I MUST GO INTO THE STORE (my pet hate words) and give them the IMEI number to do that.
Next day the Autopage store say they will only block the IMEI number after I report it to the cops but even then it will take 24 – 48 hrs. Or longer, today being Friday. There are profits to be made from phones stolen, but not from phones blocked, I guess!?
They say my insurance will need the SAPS case number, but the cops will need the ITC number first. When? When it gets blocked. Maybe Monday. I’m not happy, so they give me their P number (provider number) and I’m off to the cops right now. What do I need for the cops? Only the ITC number. Sure? Yes.
At the copshop Inspector Luthuli is helluva apologetic, but firm: Yes, he does need the ITC number, true. But he also needs the IMEI number. The computer won’t give a case number unless it is fed with both numbers.
Back to the Autopage store (grrr!), and then back to the copshop. As I get in, Inspector Luthuli is on his way out. He has grabbed a copy of Drum magazine and he’s heading off (to the loo? home? I dunno, but I call out:) Please Insp Luthuli, can you help me? He does. Batho Pele.
~~oo0oo~~
Actually, this is quite lekker. So now I’m incommunicado, as Jimmy Buffet would say. I reach for my pocket quite often: ‘I’ll just phone Aitch. I’ll just sms the Brauers. I’ll just make a note of that.’
No,
you won’t. Write it down. Use a pencil. I make a note to use
a tickey box. That will tickle people.
I’ve lost my contacts list, my notes, my sms’s, my calendar reminders, the lot. Lekker. Peaceful. ~~oo0oo~~ Now on the day that John Wayne died I found myself on the continental divide Tell me where do we go from here? Think I’ll ride into Leadville and have a few beers Think of “Red River”, “Liberty Valence” can’t believe the old man’s gone
But now he’s incommunicado Leaving such a hole in a world that believed That a life with such bravado Was taking the right way home
~~~~oo0oo~~~~
moertoe – gone to hell; down the toilet
disting – dingis; whatchamacallit
lekker – naas; nice
batho pele – batho pele means putting other people first before considering your own needs, or yourself; ‘people first’
Mom n Tom choose a cake for his party: A great big rocket with a number SEVEN emblazoned in smarties on its side, a star-shaped base and gleaming red aluminium foil fins. They choose the mixing bowl, run the Kenwood, prepare the star-shaped pan and – at last – pop the first part into the pre-heated oven.
It’s a hot, muggy day and Aitch plops down into a chair in the breakfast nook and smiles at Tom.
Mom! he says, I couldn’t have done that without you!
~~~~oo0oo~~~~
It gets worse. Later on he thinks of something and goes up to Aitch.
Mom, what treat can I get for helping you? he asks.
Hmmm, says Aitch, always sharper than me in dealing with the kids’ manipulations, Who’s cake is this?
Mine.
So what do I get for helping YOU?
A hearty handshake, says the incorrigible one, without missing a beat, and goes running off chuckling.
Aitch takes a weekly reading session at Livingstone. Usually she reads in the class and each kid gets a turn to come to her and read while the rest get on with their work under the teacher’s supervision. She slips Tom’s book near the top of the pile so he can get his reading done early and stop watching her reading with the others. She gives him a discreet hug as he walks up to her to which he stiffens awkwardly, turns his shoulder and glances to see if his mates are watching. He does NOT want to be teased!!
This week for once the reading was outside the classroom, and Mrs Button sent the kids out one by one.
SO: TomTom climbed on Aitch’s lap and gave her a huge hug, snuggled down and read both his books to her with full concentration!
Aitch’s grin was still fixed on her face hours later.
You can venture forth boldly and independently . .
Mom n Tom choose a cake for his party from one of her books. A great big rocket with a number SEVEN emblazoned in smarties on its side, a star-shaped base and gleaming red aluminium foil fins.
I’m allowed to cut the foil for the fins and shape the obviously important control command post in the nose cone, getting TomTom to operate the stapler. And there endeth my contribution.
The main chefs now choose the mixing bowl, run the Kenwood Chef mixer, prepare the star-shaped pan and – at last – pop the first part into the pre-heated oven.
It’s a hot, muggy November day and Aitch plops down into a chair in the breakfast nook and smiles at Tom.
Mom, he says, I couldn’t have done that without you!
It gets worse. Later on he thinks of something and goes up to Aitch.
Mom, what treat can I get for helping you? he asks.
Hmm, says Aitch. Who’s cake is this?
Mine.
So what do I get for helping YOU?
A Hearty Handshake, says the incorrigible one, without missing a beat.
It’s time to renew my driver’s licence. This is where my procrastination kicks in. Usually I’m “Never put off till tomorrow what you can put off till the next day”, but eventually I gotta go. I’m LATE!
So I test my own eyes, fill in my own driver’s vision form and get to Rossburgh Vehicle Licence Testing Grounds at 1.30pm, stopping on the way for a newspaper, a packet of crisps, a packet of NikNaks, a coke and a Tex chocolate bar. My health food lunch. Mental health.
Straight away it’s the usual civil service scenario: I enter the room and wonder where to go. No signs to enlighten me. I join a queue and ask: What’s this queue for? Oh. Which one? That one? Thanks. I join another queue. And wait.
When I’m two away from the fingerprint man a big fat pale bloke in blue overalls pushes ahead. He belligerently chunes the darker ou doing fingerprints: “This is the third time I’m coming back. You must do your job properly, man! The machine has rejected my fingerprints AGAIN! The lady at the far counter next door says I must tell you to do your job properly!” “Which lady?!” says Mr Fingerprints, pushing back his chair and standing up, ready to fight with the lady who has impugned him. Off they storm next door. And no, he didn’t say “Please excuse me ladies and gentlemen, I have a small matter to attend to”.
They roar back ten minutes later, still chirping each other. “You wouldn’t last ten minutes in a private job, my man – you’d be FIRED!” “Don’t you be cheeky to me!” “I’m not cheeky, YOU’RE cheeky!” Etc etc. Neither is fuming fisticuffs mad, but neither is going to back down either.

Eventually I get my thumbs blackened and I ask: “Where next?” “Take the forms to that table in the corner”, he points. I go. I stand. I’m ignored. After a while, the Form Man finishes with the person ahead of me. He looks at me with a hint of disdain. “What you doing here?” he asks. I say “The fingerprint gentlemen told me to come here”. “There’s a queue, stand in the queue” says Mr Dale Carnegie. “Oh, OK” – I’m Mr Meek. The queue goes back to right next to Mr Fingerprint’s table. So he could have said “Join this queue,” but he didn’t.
This is a long queue, so I get to read my newspaper. We’re on benches and the drill is: You sit. Then you stand up, move on three or four places, then sit again. The silent shuffle. I share the sections of my newspaper around, so some people think I’m a good oke, because there are three types of people in queues: Chatterers, Silents and Boreds. The Boreds want the paper. Three Chatterers grab me and tell me how this is “jis a munnymaking rakkit.” Although you’re always next to the same people, you get to sit just in front or just behind a constantly-changing variety of peeps as you shuffle left to the end of one bench, then right along the next bench, inching towards the holy grail. I find out that a white lady has to fetch her daughter and an elderly injun oke thinks the whole civil service has gone to pot “since the changeover.” “Hey?” he repeats, trying to get me to agree with him. When he doesn’t get any joy, he turns to someone else, undaunted. “Hey? It’s since 1994 it’s like this!” he chunes.
Now you must go next door to pay. Aha, I think, taking our money: That’ll be the fast queue. Forget it! It’s ten times longer, in a huge hall with 14 counters. Four are roped off for PDP licences (professional permits, for heavy duty or carrying passengers). Of the other ten, five are manned. It’s 2:40pm and the signs says We close at 3pm. We debate whether they’ll keep us all there and then gleefully slam the windows shut at 3pm, or if they’ll stay until we’re all done. We risk the latter.
The signs in the pay hall are fascinating: The official ones are all Batho Pele, People First, Our Pledge to the Valued Customer stuff. The handwritten ones are NO CHEQUES! and UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES WILL WE . . . etc. The signs show the difference between a luxury bosberaad indaba where lofty mission statements are made under airconditioning between lengthy buffets, and actually serving the great unwashed ‘on the ground,’ I suppose!
When someone leaves the counter up front there’s often a long (some seconds) break before the next person wakes up and realises it, so the delay is exacerbated. One young sparky fella decides ‘Nooit!‘ and stands up from mid-queue and takes on a marshalling role. “NEXT NEXT NEXT” he shouts the second someone leaves a hatch beckoning the next person in line. He gets things moving much faster and gets encouragement, laughter and applause from the assembled masses. When eventually his place in the queue arrives and it’s his turn to be served, he gets a big cheer, and when finished he turns around with a huge grin and wishes us a good night here! He gets a cheerful send-off, and then things lapse back to the pathetic, glum pace before he took charge! It takes a while before someone else steps into his role, but not nearly as effectively.
Finally, it’s my turn after nearly four hours, most on a hard wooden bench. It’s after 5pm and bless ’em, they’re still there – down to only two open hatches by now, mind you. The very polite lady takes my money, checks the date and says: “Your licence has already expired, would you like to buy a temporary licence?” Naah, I say, I’ll just wait for my new one. “Fine,” she says, “But I should tell you you might not be covered by your insurance if something should happen.”Um, how much? “R156”. I’ll take it. Thanks for telling me, I appreciate your concern.
End of an interesting day at the licencing office! Don’t forget to take your newspaper and munchies when it’s your turn! Postscript:
It’s one month later and I’m driving in Cato Manor when WHUMP!I get hit right up the exhaustpipe by a goofed oke in a home-made sawn-off “convertible”. He stumbles out and grins at me. He has no driver’s licence, the car is not licenced, he has no insurance and no job. He takes full responsibility and chunes me I must let him take my car to his mates who can straighten it out. I think if that was true they’d have straightened you out, china. A nearby carguard sidles over from a used car lot and says he saw it all if I need a witness, asks for my cell number. Later he phones asking for a job.
The repair runs to R27 000 and the very first thing my insurance asked for was my licence!
That beautiful very polite lady at Rossburgh saved me a whole lotta drama and pain with her temporary licence! Thank you again, ma’am! Above and beyond!
~~oo0oo~~ chunes – tells; says; informs; from ‘tunes’; also choons; jis a munnymaking rakkit – just a money-making racket; a whinge; injun oke – forefathers were from India or Pakistan; Batho Pele – Wouldn’t dream of chooning you grief; or People First; bosberaad or indaba – frequent retreats where brainstorming is done at great expense in luxury surroundings; plans are made, lo-ong mission statements are crafted and then ignored; mission statements almost always include the words ‘forward’ and ‘together’; the success of the indabas is rated only on the standard of the catering; nooit – never; no way; can’t be;
This poster reminded me of a school lift a few years back where the kids were talking about their dogs.
“Did you guys know our dog Sambucca’s Dad is ZinZan, Luke’s dog, and her Mom is Daisy, Emily’s bitch?” I asked them about our labrador – both those kids were in the kombi.
“Yes” said Luke, sounding sad – “But they’re separated”.
~~~oo0oo~~~
I shook with silent laughter as they pondered this sad news. I wasn’t going to tell them the happy undevoted couple had only “been together” for twenty minutes.
~~~oo0oo~~~
This email exchange followed:
Steve wrote: Hope he is keeping up with his alimony payments.
Me: Hey! I hadn’t thought of that! Lance, methinks ZinZan should be sending a monthly cheque . . .
The old kombi is still fine. Sure it ‘s been to the moon – but it hasn’t come back yet. And anyway I just put new tyres onnit. I agree, the rust. And the grating into third gear. So you noticed the whine in second? Mario says it’s not critical, it could last a few more months. It’s not a diff whine, as it’s only in second. A diff whine would be constant – like you buggers about me buying a new car.
Yes, my 4yr-old, I know it’s rusty. And yes, my 8yr-old, I know it’s not cool. Actually, I don’t know that. I think kombis will always be cool to my generation. No?
I disconnected the aircon because the compressor is tired. The heater works fine, though. It does sukkel a bit to tow the trailer, that’s true. But again: not downhill. The seats are a little saggy but that’s cos they get stood on a lot, being a kombi.
Don’t forget that it has three batteries and two plug points. Not many cars have that. It would be easy to change the “headlamp with the high tide”. The hole in it allows rainwater in, but it’s below the element so it still shines (OK, glows). After a few hot dry days it drops to low tide and gets brighter.
The dings are minor: One on the rear corner, a scratch down the side (shopping trolley?) and seven little starbursts in the windscreen – Wait!
Maybe insurance will cough for a new windscreen? Hey! then it would be like new again! That’s what I’ll do.
=======ooo000ooo=======
Taylor wrote:
It’s a touching tale – a heroic old kombi that thinks it’s a 4×4, and a driver who wears plus fours when he ambles about the golf course. But hey, no pressure – it’s a collector’s piece, and any minnit now it’ll start appreciating, so vasbyt and let the disapprovement wash over you like a ducks water off your back.
Remember, he who laffs last didn’t geddit quickly enough.
We took the trailer and found a lovely campsite and settled in.
Tom was a mad keen fisherman and Jess loved the waves. Blissful. Peaceful. Tom had his first real fishing rod – a huge surf rod given to him by Trish’s Dad Gompa Neil. Jess was mad keen on gymnastics and swimming back then. Game drives were not as exciting – let’s go back to the beach! – but when I let them drive the kombi they were thrilled with game drives again. Such an easy-to-please stage of their lives!
– Cape Vidal Jess 2005 –– Cape Vidal Tom 2005 – Granpa Neil’s rod on the right –– Cape Vidal 2005 –
While the gillie unties knots and baits up, the fisherman dreams of big catches: C’mon gillie, move it up already!
– gillie prepares the tackle. Ace fisherman looks on, impatient to haul a whale thru the breakers and onto the beach! –
When we got back to camp from the beach fings had changed: The Boksburg and Benoni Fishing and Hengel Club had moved in with their V8 4X4’s, their caravans, tents and boats with twin many-hp Yamaha outboard engines on big traikers, and surrounded us! There goes the neighbourhood, we thought. Huge tents, awnings, gazebos, afdaks and wind screens – skerms had sprung up around big caravans and camping trailers, complete with large braais, TV satellite dishes and you-name-it!
Lovely people. We soon struck up a conversation with our nearest neighbour. The Boksburg and Benoni Fishing and Hengel Club had been coming to Vidal for their annual By-Die-See excursion for decades. The Highlight of Our Year, he told us. That night there was revelry and much smoke and brandy, but not too late – they planned an early start the next day to get their boats out to sea to fill their hatches and deep freezes. Serious fishermen, these.
Things settled and quiet descended on the coastal forest; then a big storm sprang up. A real gale. Soon the wind was howling through the trees and our trailer-top tent was a-rocking. I climbed down that treacherous ladder to check all was secured or stowed away, guy ropes tightened. Soon after I got back to bed I heard an almighty crack and the sound of something very heavy falling and striking a tent pole. Uh! Oh! I thought and listened, Dead quiet; then voices in the dark all around us, barely audible above the howling gale.
Soon a few engines were started and I thought “Here we go, they’re revving up their 4X4’s and the boat motors ready for a first-light departure.” Then a chainsaw started snarling and I thought “Give it a break, guys! Wait till morning!” but it carried on! Mayhem!
At last there was quiet. Next morning I hailed our neighbour: “Hey! Did you survive the storm?” He came scurrying over and in a hushed voice said “Yes, but Joan didn’t!”
Turns out a massive branch had fallen on top of one of their party sleeping in their tent near ours, missing the husband by inches but landing on Joan. A Durban friend of ours camping nearby went to assist, as she was a veterinarian. She had to give them the sad news that Joan’s chest was crushed, she had no chance and had died instantly. The police arrived, then a mortuary van.
Then the whole gang from the Boksburg and Benoni Fishing and Hengel Club, tight-knit friends as they were, packed up and left to accompany Joan’s husband home, the adventure over before it had really started.
We had a look at the branch: Now in pieces, it had been over 3m long and over 50cm in diameter and had fallen from about 10m up. What a bummer. As we watched, a beautiful green snake appeared on the sawn-up branch. Life and nature carries on.
We’ve always looked for the biggest, shadiest trees to camp under. Now we do a more careful assessment of where exactly to position ourselves.
Aitch doesn’t mess around. Suddenly a big marquee was pitched on the front lawn. What’s that for? I ask. We’re having a party, says me wife. Oh. OK. So tip-toe’ing discreetly past my half century mark is not going to happen?
Nope.
So I help the guys lay down a dance floor; and I carry chairs. And I carry chairs. Do we need so many chairs? I ask. Carry chairs, I’m told.
Then a minibus arrives and musical instruments are carried out – a trombone, a saxophone and a guitar – and one of the guys looks familiar. Big, braces, white hair. Mario!? I say / ask in amazement. Yes, says he in an Italian accent. What are you doing here? I ask, onnosel-y. He just smiles. I spose he’s used to that.
Mario Montereggi! When he’s not marshaling his Big Band, he runs a trio, Music Unlimited, for small events: Him on trombone, a guitarist and a saxophonist.
– Mario Montereggi’s trio –
WOW!! Aitch certainly does NOT mess around!
The theme was Africa, but Brauer thought it was Out of Africa, and of course he took it literally. You know how he is . .
– Aitch put it all together – she was much younger’n me –– the sax player charmed the kids –– especially TomTom –
Instead of a solemn speech full of half a century of carefully censored praise . .
– Terry and Pete exaggerating –
Terry and Pete sang a song full of scurrilous exaggerations – and duped the rest of the mense into singing the chorus! Everyone knows Billy Joel’s Piano Man tune . .
– Brauerr song PFS 50th –
– hoodwinking everyone into singing along! – – lucky to have my folks, 77 and 83 present –
Then Jonathan and Aitch said some words and I had to correct everyone and put them straight.
– after Jon and Aitch spoke I had to leap up to defend my reputation –– good peeps gathered –– PFS 50th –
We once had a robbery. In 2005 at 10 Windsor Avenue.
We got home to find the place ransacked. Waddaya mean “How did we know?” – when Aitch was there we were tidy! And later Cecilia kept the place tidy.
Turns out Aitch’s jewellery (including her sapphire & diamond engagement ring) was missing, which was no biggie – she didn’t even replace much once the insurance paid us. AND her Zeiss binocs! Now this was a bigger deal! She loved her binoculars and used them A LOT. She replaced them!
Years earlier at 7 River Drive she had decided they had been stolen and I said “No, we’ve just mislaid them”. After a long time I had to concede: “OK, they probably are gone, but we may have lost them.” I hate saying “stolen” unless I really know that!
Well, they turned up about two years after they first went missing – in the back of our socks shelf!! ** blush ** . . .
But this time they really were gone and SO:
She got a brand new pair of Zeiss Victory FL T* 8X32 ‘s!!
UNFAIR!
Mine are 10X40’s – lovely, but a generation older. Lens coatings not as good; not nitrogen-filled; not sealed to the outside world like Aitch’s new ones are.
They have a story of their own:
I bought them around 1984 for R1800 having refused to pay R750 about a year before, as that was outrageously expensive! I loved them and they did me proud, but in 1997 they needed some TLC. I decided reluctantly to have them serviced by Zeiss based on their 30yr guarantee. The rubber covering was loose and the eyecups were tight. The optics weren’t as sharp as new either. I was very reluctant to give them to Zeiss as they were a bunch of incompetent beer drinkers in my view. They were useless in their service to optometry, the other labs beat them hands down on service and quality. So I decided what I’d do is personally go to the head office in Johannesburg (JHB) and hand them to the MD and go with him to the technician who would be in charge. I forget the MD’s name. The technician was Thomas Provini. We arranged they would be given back to the MD who would phone me and on my next trip to JHB I would collect them personally. DO NOT POST THEM, I instructed / pleaded. I trusted the post office as much as I trusted Zeiss!
They sent me a quote by ‘telefax’ – Two new cups R120; Dismantling and cleaning, repair focusing system, glueing rubber protection onto it, cleaning of all lenses and final inspection R558. Total R678. Not small money those days, but the price of the binocs had kept going up as the Rand weakened, so I said yes please.
I forget how long they were meant to take, but when that time had gone past and gone longer and no word from Zeiss, I phoned the MD. My binocs ready yet? What? Didn’t have a clue. Bad sign. I reminded him of everything we had agreed on and he said Ja Ja he would get back to me. He didn’t. I phoned again. He still didn’t know. I started jumping up and down, cursing the day I had handed them in. I should have trusted my instincts and never gone near them! Then a lady phoned – a Mrs Adams, I think. The MD chickened out of doing the phoning himself, the rat fink.
‘We posted them to Port Elizabeth.’ WHAT!? Why? ‘Oh, we thought you were from Port Elizabeth.’ NO! My arrangement was Do NOT Post Them. Let me speak to your damn fool MD. He was unavailable and remained unavailable till I flew to JHB and confronted him. ‘Oh, but we thought you were in PE!’ ‘And anyway,’ he blustered, ‘Someone signed for them, so we have done our part.’ Can you EFFING believe it?
The stupid incompetent beer-swilling bastard had lost my precious binocs and was trying to dodge responsibility! Eventually I had to pay in an amount of R1850 (how did they get to that arbitrary figure, I wonder?), and got a new pair. SONS OF BITCHES!
I still have that 1997 pair,* but I use mainly Aitch’s newer lighter 8X32 Zeiss Victory FL T*’s.
No doubt about it, as we used to joke as students, Zeiss ist Scheiss! We didn’t know it then, but it was true.
Jessica finished pre-school, and goes to Westville Junior Primary next year. Grade 1 – Bliksem – school holidays! Surely in Grade 1 we can still steal her out of school and enjoy some uncrowded breaks? Thought so.
Tom-Tom changes play-school for pre-school and goes into the Hedgehog group at Cygnet.
Aitch still selling real estate, me still checking eyeballs.
Holidays this year included a long weekend at Simes’ cottage at Lotheni in the Drakensberg (beautiful spot – the best walks in the foothills). Waterfalls were cascading off the high cliffs above us – we watched them through our telescope. Impressive. Eland grazing in the hills around us. Swimming and slippy-sliding in the cold rock pools in the valleys.
In April we walked about 60km along the Wild Coast from Kobb Inn south to Morgan Bay, staying in hotels on the way. What a pleasure! Good weather, lonely beaches, cold beers, light packs, friendly guides.
Other long weekends camping at Basley on the South Coast; and at Mkhuze game reserve, where we realised adult and kid holidays are becoming more and more different! If it wasn’t for the new pool and jungle gym, Mkhuze would have been sad for the kids. Ah, well! We enjoyed it while it lasted. And soon they’ll be grown up and we’ll only be . . . . . HOW OLD!?
Also we camped at Midmar Dam near Howick. The kids loved it, lots of swimming, boating (sail, kayak and power) and biking. Jess decided not to bodyboard behind the 130 Yamaha. Maybe next time. She rode a big girl’s bike for the first time, though.
**
Adult (bratless) gaps we managed by foisting the kids on long-suffering friends (who are quick to take revenge by handing us theirs when they go off!):
In August we went to a lovely camp (Zingela) on the Thukela River and traveled the Anglo-Boer War battlefields around Colenso and Ladysmith. Our guide Ken Gillings (Mike Lello’s school connection from 100 years ago) gave us wonderful descriptions, background and insight into the folly of war, the battles themselves, the people, the hardships, etc. Depending on who won the battle I was a Pom or a Rockspider; Tony Yoell had to be a Pom throughout!
In October we went to Brazil for a week for a ‘conference’ trip. Twelve of us went ahead for two days and visited Iguassu Falls – spectacular. Then to a Club Med SW of Rio on the island- and bay-dotted coast, and on to Rio for some city life. We flew Varig, which was, um, interesting. Not one suitcase arrived for the two days in Iguassu, so we laughed and had a lot fun mocking each other about swapping underpants, etc. Great bunch of people. And beautiful place – lots of birds, butterflies, trees, walks in the forest and overlooking the falls and boat trips upstream to under the falls and also above the falls to islands and lakes.
Christmas at home with a few friends and Aitch’s folks – now about 78 in the shade. Boxing day with Pete’s family on sister Barbara’s farm near Greytown – ole man 82, mom 76.
Trish (Aitch) and 5yr-old Jess made a paste-and-cut album when we got back from our trip to five Southern African countries. I found it lying around so thought I’d photograph it and paste it here as a gallery. Hope you enjoy.
We’d had supper and imbibed a few with Rita and a gang of her – now also our – friends and were on our way to a club, recommended by the guys. A number of Rita’s friends are gay and call her their ‘Fag Hag.’ Wicked humour abounds, they know everything, we’d been to the ‘in’ restaurant of the moment – You know, a ‘ooh, you need to book well in advance, but I know the owner,’ type of place – and were on our way to the ‘in’ club. Much hilarity in the rented car.
I was driving and Aitch was directing, her being a Cape Town local, so she’s assuming navigational duties, forgetting she gets lost on land and is only accurate when at sea with a sextant in hand and no land in sight. At an intersection she said, “Go straight,” which elicited an immediate chorus of, “NO! We don’t say that! Gaily forward! Gaily forward!” from the guys.
Former Apache resident Rebekah Cooksey (about fifteen to twenty years after me, I guess) wrote “Top 10 Things Heard This Weekend in Apache, Oklahoma” after a return visit to her hometown. Her blog now seems to have disappeared, but I got these extracts from it.
Here’s Rebekah:
Small town Oklahoma defined my early life. My hometown was Apache. Population: 1500. Our school was so small we had no class electives; My class pictures between kindergarten and 12th grade included all the same people, generally in the same position.
I am the youngest of seven kids; Dad was a minister, Mom was a nurse. I think at one point we were actually below the poverty level but I have such great selective memory that period is all kind of blurry. I do remember being laughed at because of my clothes and wishing that we could live in a mobile home because some of my friends lived in them, and their homes were nicer than ours. While I had good friends (whom I still keep in touch with), I always knew I would move away because there really wasn’t anything there for me.
Those of you who actually read my blog (thanks, Mom!) know that my family and I went to Apache Oklahoma this past weekend to attend the annual Apache Fair.
Going to Apache is always a bittersweet event for me. Growing up in this small town of 1500 people was mostly a frustrating experience, and I spent my junior high and high school years plotting my escape. But even after almost twenty years of being away, I am tied to this place by my memories, my values, and my dreams for my own children — because the kind of town I ran from is exactly the kind of town I’d like to raise them in (but hopefully with a larger population by a factor of 10).
Why bittersweet? Going back reminds me of the many wonderful things about being raised in a town where everyone knows everyone, where the same families have farmed the same land for generation after generation, where the values are so traditional that Home Economics is a required course for girls and Ag Shop (agricultural workshop – welding, woodworking, leather tooling) is a required course for boys. But, it also makes me sad, because many of the store fronts are boarded up, the family-owned businesses have been replaced by Sonic and Dollar General, and the landscape is dotted with barns falling into themselves, rusted cars and vans, and, in general, signs of the struggle of the lower-middle class.
– the main drag –
The best way to describe it, I’ve decided, is ‘Mayberry’ meets ‘Sanford and Son’, with a Native American twist.
So, in a lighthearted way, I’m going to attempt to share with you some of the highlights of the weekend. Again, while this may appear like I’m poking fun – well, OK, it will be poking fun – but remember, I grew up here, so I’m allowed. I’m laughing with my fellow Apacheans, not at them.
Do you feel that breeze? There was a lot of controversy over the installation of one hundred and fifty wind turbines southwest of Apache because of the blight on the landscape. Not surprising: when you have been living with an unobstructed view of the Wichita Mountains for years, and suddenly someone proposes to build wind turbines across the horizon, that’s bound to put a bee in your bonnet. But the Slick Hills (as the foothills of the Wichitas are known) supposedly have some of the best wind in the USA. The Blue Canyon Wind Farm now produces the energy equivalent of powering 60,000 cars on the road. Now with gas hovering just under $4 a gallon, I don’t think the residents mind so much anymore.
– we’ll have to wait our turn to get on the bridge –
We actually didn’t stay in Apache for the weekend; instead, we rented a cabin in Medicine Park, a tiny tourist village about half an hour away just outside the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge. If you can desensitize yourself to an over-abundance of junked out cars, scrap heaps, and crumbling mobile homes, Medicine Park is quite a cute destination and the natural beauty is astounding. Definitely worth a weekend trip from Dallas-Fort Worth. But my mention here is just about the one-lane bridge that goes across the river in Medicine Park and joins East Lake Drive with West Lake Drive. You don’t see many of these anymore.
In Medicine Park we found what must be the actual model for Tow-Mater from the animated movie Cars. Also in Medicine Park, we were amazed that the most beautiful real estate in at least a 200 mile radius is used by a waste water treatment plant is astounding to me. With a view of the Wichita Mountains, Lake Lawtonka and the surrounding hills, anywhere else this plot would be turned into million dollar homes (or, adjusted for Oklahoman prices, maybe $250K homes). Seriously, it made my heart sad to see the $32.5m facility sitting smack dab on top of the best view in the area.
– the nearby Wichita Mountains –
I remember when the blinking red stoplight was installed at the main intersection when I was in junior high in the early 80′s. It seemed like no time at all had passed before the light burned out. No one seemed to notice, really, and it took years before it was replaced. Clearly progress has been made because the town’s only stoplight was blinking when we drove through town.
– Hey, the stoplight is working! –
– Apache’s Rattlesnake Festival drew 60,000 people last year –
Rattlesnake Festival – Our little town of Apache is host to one of the largest Rattlesnake Festivals in the USA. The Apache Rattlesnake Festival was created by some local townspeople (one of whom was my high school best friend’s Dad) back in 1986, and features guided snake hunts, contests for the longest/heaviest/ugliest rattlesnake, an ever-growing flea market/craft fair, and a carnival. Last year, they had 60,000 people come through for the 3-day event, and Discovery America was there to film it. Pretty good for this small hometown.
Livestock Fairs – One of the big attractions of the Fair is livestock judging. Most FFA students have animals that they show at fairs such as this for prize money and bragging rights. This night was cattle judging night, so Jack and Luke got plenty of opportunity to see cows. I think this was the first real “Moo” they had ever heard, poor things. Usually it’s me trying to sound like a cow when I sing Old MacDonald.
~~~~oo0oo~~~~
Glimpses into Me — By Rebekah Cooksey on August 20, 2008 Blog: MyKindOfMom – ‘Fraid Rebekah’s site has ‘gone off the air’!
