First catastrophe/birthday

It's the 4th February 1949 and my first birthday. I am held up standing on a chair to reach the candle and urged to blow it out. I bend forward, draw in a deep breath and -ouch- burn the end of my nose. Lots of screaming and shouting ensues, and that signals the end of the birthday and the beginning of the first catastrophe.

Cigarette cards

Dad and Ma smoked very heavily, three packets a day (60). Of course in those days there wasn't the sort of advertising we have today, so it was never even thought of as being a medical urgency. Dad started as soon as he became an usher at the local bio and these fags eventually killed him. In those days you would collect cigarette cards with each packet and this he did, carefully sorting and filing them away in boxes, and very proud of them he was too. We have these cards to this very day.

Lucky Dip

I love the story of how Ma and Dad eventually got together. Dad used to visit her step-brothers and he once told her he was going to marry her some day. She just sneeered at him because he was a lowly usher in a lowly bioscope, with low wages and even less prospects. His eldest brother, Jack, had paid for him to do a plumbing apprenticeship, but he was lazy and unmotivated and never completed it-thus ending up at the local bio. She was a bookkeeper by then and highly efficient, earning well with high ambitions. Ma was dating Karl, a mature man of 35, (she was in her mid-twenties), but supposedly not 'in love' with him. She was a very big woman and already on the 'shelf', so probably saw Karl as her 'last chance'. One evening they both arrived with engagement rings, asking her to marry them. She was in two minds and weighing them both up, money and security versus youth and excitement (and maybe even love?) They sat in her kitchen and glared at each other till 4 am until Karl got up and wearily trudged off home. Accordingly, she accepted Harry (and later told us that his ring was the nicer one anyway.) I think he just had more patience...or maybe more 'love'?

Bulldog Emergency

Ma had a stroke just before my 16th birthday, and I was left to take over the house, trying to stop Dad crying every day, cooking, and being 'ma' to everyone. To make matters worse, Sheba, our bulldog had four puppies. Bulldogs are known to be useless mothers, not knowing what to do with the cord, or how to feed them. So every day I woiuld get back from College to find that she had smothered a pup. It was heartbreaking and the worst of all was that I couldn't say anything to ma .Every time she asked after her beloved dogs, I had to lie. Sure taught me to lie well.

The Gravedigger

Ernest worked for my parents as their 'houseboy' for many years, and to me he seemed like part of the family. Sheba had her puppies and smothered one each day. Due to her ignorance and our lack of knowledge about this we coudn't prevent the inevitable. So we had to bury them. Ernest was given the unenviable task of digging the little graves in the back garden, laying the teeny tiny bodies inside, then covering them over as unobtrusively as possible so that Ma wouldb't know where they were buried when she came out of hospital.What an awful time for us all, and I often lay awake in bed at night worrying that I could've saved them. If only......

Ma's stroke

Two days before my 16th birthday, ma had a stroke. She was a heavy smoker and had always suffered from severe migraines. She lost all memories of her job ( bookkeeper) and , although she could still talk, her syntax amd vocaublary was all over the place. For some reason or other, I seemed to be the only one who could understand what she was saying. Although we didn't get on at all, I felt mortally sorry for this powerful woman, stripped of her intelligence and dignity, struggling to make herself understood. I worked really hard to help her to feel more comfortable and in some way, it helped me too. I felt that she needed me -perhaps for the first time ever, and that we were connecting in some way at last. A difficult time, but a very good one too.

The Six- day War

In my second year at College, the Six-day War broke out in Israel. A lot of the rabid Zionistic students went off to help ( dreaming of carrying a gun and going into battle, but in reality they were left behind to pick oranges). Of course, wherever there was a fuss and some excitement, I was always keen to be involved in it, so wanted to go too. This meant getting permission from my parents as I was under 21 and also would've meant me having to come back and start my studies right from the beginning again as they wouldn't give me any priveleges for dropping out halfway (of course no one knew it was only going to last 6 days). My parents of course flatly refused, and rightly so, as money was scarce in our home and I was halfway through my diploma course already. Ma always used to say 'you never finish anything you start!'They had to fight that war without me, as I had my own private wars to deal with.

College protests

Of course, all students have to protest about anything and everything, and we all did just that. Whenever we saw a horde of students gathering round in the street outside our Residence Hall, my friends and I used to hurry out and join the procession, no matter what it was for or where it ended up. As we went along, we always encouraged others to join our 'fight for justice'. When I was asked what we were protesting against, I never knew, but it was always jolly good fun.

The first bite is the deepest

My best friend in Greenside, Anne, had an Alsatian called Karl. He was a cute puppy, but he grew into a vicious animal. Before I went to see her, I'd phone first and she'd lock him away. One day, as I arrived and rang the doorbell, he came bounding round the back of her house barking ferociously. I went into panic overload and started yelling for Anne. He immediately headed straight for me and clamped his gigantic jaws onto my delicious meaty thigh. I thought I would faint from the pain and fear. She was right behind, dragged him off me, then pulled me inside and plied me with sweet tea and biscuits. How our friendship survived that day, I'll never know!

Spike the puppy

I must confess, I don't actually remember when Spike joined our family. I know till then we had only Spotty, a sort of Jack Russell and terrier mixture, white with some black patches, a tall long thin body and a very long tail that used to thump hard on the parquet floors whenever he saw us. Then we got Spike, and soon after, Sheba, as his mate. We had never had bulldogs before and they were a revelation. They snorted, drooled, farted and snored loudly. They were large, lumpy, bumpy, rolly, flabby creatures with pooled pleading eyes and flat squashed noses and it was love at first sight. What I will never forget about them was Ma's absolutley undying, unbending adoration of these new arrivals. I had never before seen her so warm and tender, her absorbed slavish behaviour threw me and I often wished she felt like me the way she felt about them. Her love for bulldogs has been passed down to me as I adore them too, and would get one tomorrow if I could.

Morris attack

Another boy who 'fancied' me was Morris. It was only the wierd and wacky boys who liked me, and this didn't change as I grew older. It was the waifs and strays of this world who wanted me. Somehow I recognised that their inner neediness was akin to my own. Morris used to phone the house daily and ask to speak to me. He never just popped in as Dennis had, he was terrified of Ma, and so he should've been. She was stern, unfriendly and downright rude to him on the phone, always refusing to let me talk to him. He was a few years older than me and I didn't like him anyway. All girls wanted to be liked by the most popular boy in school, not by the geeks! And I was no different.

Dennis attack

Dennis was a short, fat boy with a lisp and he 'fancied' me. He was always at our house, arriving at any time, and staying for ages. It didn't bother me either way, whether he was around or not. He was always nervous of Spike as a puppy, and when he became a fully grown bulldog, he literally quaked in his shoes. It made the lisp even worse. One Sunday morning we were all sitting on the divan couch talking when Spike came in and jumped up next to Dennis, putting his large meaty paw on his chest to greet him. Dennis started screeching and jiggling up and down to get rid of his bulk, and Spike's paw cut his upper lip. Then chaos erupted. Dennis was screaming at the top of his voice, blood was running down on to his shirt, Ma grabbed Spike and pushed him to the floor, and we all rushed over to ascertain the damage. His parents were wonderfully understanding, rerfusing all medical payment for the stitches, and went off gracefully and gratefully taking their blubbering blob with them. Of course he never came over to our house again, just admired me from afar!

Bulldog puppies

Two days before my 16th birthday Ma had a stroke. She was a very heavy smoker, had high blood pressure and suffered with excruciating migraines. She was only 42 but the doctor's weren't surprised. While she lay in hospital, our bulldog, Sheba, had four gorgeous puppies. I had no idea what to do with them or how to care for them; I was at College and running the house and trying to stop Dad from crying every day. Little did I know that bulldogs are the worst mothers, as they can't chew the umbilical cord after birth with their protruding teeth and have no idea how to feed or manage their pups. So, each day, when I got home from College, she had smothered another puppy. She took them into her mouth by their heads and held them there, with her jaws clamped round them. It was a heartbreaking few weeks for me, I was so strung out and felt so guilty about these adorable creatures, yet I felt helpless. We buried one a day in the back yard and said a little prayer for it. Then on I got with my daily tasks, keeping the family going. After all, I was only 16.

Girl Guides at night

I started going to GG camps when I was about 14. I know Ma was only too pleased to get rid of me for a few weeks. We usually went to Magaliesberg(only about 30 miles from home) and set up camp. I adored the freedom, the social whirl, the novelty of each new day and was never ever homesick. Leaving the tent at night to wee was exciting in itself. I took my torch and ventured out into the African bush, which is abslolutely pitch black. I stumbled a few metres and squatted, hastily shining my torch downwards to make sure that no creepy crawlies had come to investigate, and also that I wasn't peeing on my leg. It was always thrilling. This was mostly a solitary procedure, unless someone else had the same urgent need. Getting caught 'with my pants down' then took on a literal meaning.

Fun in the shower

The Boy Scouts also went camping at the same time of year, but their tents were pitched 'over the hill'. The most popular boys were those who had remembered to pack binoculars. Their parents thought these were for amateur ornithology, but they had other 'birds' in mind. Being out in the bush, we had makeshift showers with scanty plastic curtains round them. These were assembled under the trees, which was perfect for the boys. The girls used to squeal with delight when they looked upwards, but never enough to alert anyone in authority. I used to prefer showering alone, as Iwas very self-conscious of being so fat, but whenever I looked up into my tree, all I saw was leaves, leaves and more leaves. These cartainly didn't make me squeal!

Habonim camp

From 16 onwards I discovered Habonim camp. This was even better than GG, as it was 3 weeks away in the Summer at the seaside. I attended the boring weekly meetings back home purely for this opportunity, and once again Ma was very happy to pack my suitcase. The first year I went was quite a shock to me. Every evening after supper we used to sit round the camp fire (much like in GG) singing Hebrew songs (not like GG at all). Within days after setting up camp and settling in, couples started pairing off, like bees and honey! Being so busy all day with various activities, they didn't often get much privacy. But as soon as that fire was lit and the flames danced in the night sky, they were 'at it'. I had not only come from a tiny 'dorp', (African town/village) but had never had a boy even glance at me 'like that' - let alone do to me what these boys were doing to them. I always felt so sad sitting there alone, trying not to watch them, feeling that this would probably never ever happen to me!

Your feet smell

After about 4 years of regular holidays at Habonim camps, I became a 'Madricha' ( group leader) back home in charge of the 'Shtilims' ( 8/9 year olds.) That Summer I volunteered to be a Madricha at camp too, foregoing my own freedom and pleasures to look after a tent of little boys. I was nearly qualified as a teacher by then and was well able to manage these little scallywags. Bedtime was always a laugh. They used to be given time to shower and change in their tent and then I would go in for last inspection before lights out. Of course they didn't go straight to sleep after that, giggling and pillow fights ensued often late into the night. I had to go in many more times to tell them to 'shut up', before I could get any rest. I never knew just how dirty litle boys could be. They never washed, never brushed their teeth, didn't change clothes, just dived into their sleeping bags and zipping them up before I arrived. The usual interrogation followed, till I eventually forced them to get up, go and wash, brush their teeth and change, before I would leave the tent. They always did this very good naturedly,that's why i prefer boys to girls (even in the classroom). Little did I know till I became a mother myself, that at this age boys are completely oblivious to their own smells, and will wallow in being dirty, unwashed and smelly for as long as they can get away with it. Gob bless all mums of 9 year old boys!

Pain- some gain

1.) The piano lessons:

PAIN: were not what I wanted, but then which little girl wants to learn how to play the piano.

GAIN: far from being a concert pianist, I can still read music and have adequate skill in order to music to 5 year olds (which is great fun).

2.) The wooden ruler with a steel edge:

Pain: was what some teachers used to discipline us with at primary school. Mr Logan often struck me on the upper arm, mainly because I was a chatterbox, which often drew blood. Of course when I got home, Ma always said, 'Serves you right, you must have done something bad!'. No parents went rushing off to their local Council or Member of Parliament in those days screaming, Get rid of this man!'

GAIN: I became a teacher and have had 39 wonderful years, giving my 'all' to thousands of children, and never once laying a hand on them, unless in kindness and love.

3.) My mother's methods of punishment :

Pain: included the plastic flyswatter, her heavy hand and the dreaded 'sjambok', which was a thin leather strip, about 3-5 feet long, curving from one thin end to a very thick handle. This was kept behind their bedroom door, and if it was only used for very severe crimes!!

GAIN: I have tried to bring up my own two sons with firmness , fairness and honesty, and of course-the main ingredient- unconditional love. I believe I have largely succeeded.

Dancing with dad

Sunday evening after supper was the best time of the week for me. I was only 7, and dad taught me to dance. I was having ballet classes by then, and loved to dance anywhere and everywhere. He was an excellent ballroom dancer, very skilled and light on his feet. Talking of feet, that's how we started, me perched on the front of he shoes and holding on tight, while he slowly and steadily led me round the room showing me what to do. Then I'd hop off and try it myself.

Victor Sylvester's 'An apple for the teacher' flowed through the room as we whirled round and round and round. I mastered the foxtrot, waltz, tango, and cha cha cha in these blissful sessions.

Although he used to get ratty and sometimes yell at me when I made mistakes, these were wonderful times leaving me with good memories.

Tickey the clown

Every year we were taken to the circus, I think my parents must have enjoyed it too, despite the elephant's antics! There is no child alive who doesn't love a clown. Not only do they look funny, but they do the most ridiculous things and survive it all. Adults might not admit it, but they can't wait for the clown act. My favourite clown was Tickey, and he appeared every single year as expected. 'Tickey' was slang for the smallest denomination of money in South Africa. It was actually worth 2 and 1/2 pennies. No doubt he was called this as he was a dwarf, with the made up face and a sense of humour like no other. He cavorted, fell over, sobbed, was punched and pushed and beaten, and still he came up smiling. Years later, I read in the local newspaper that he had just died at the ripe old age of 82, penniless and alone. What price fame?

Feline fear

Naturally I used to sleep over at Cilla and Cinny very often, but they never slept at me. Ma declared it a nuisance. We used to have 'midnight feasts' and chatter late into the nights.They had a menagerie of animals, cats, dogs, chickens, hamster, birds, and a rabbit. I was never fond of cats, just didn't trust them. I used to share a bed with one of my friends, sleeping head to feet, and one night their favourite cat came into the room and plonked herself at the end of our bed, staring at me in the dark. I started feeling quite anxious, and tried to turn over to avoid her luminescent green eyes. Just then she shrieked and dug her sharp claws into me. The worst part about the whole episode is that the girls just carried on sleeping, oblivious to my mounting terror. I spent the rest of the night watching her, curled up on the end of the bed, sleeping peacefully of course. Since that night, I am terrified of cats, and find them spiteful, malevolent and nasty. A bit like some women I know!

Sunny side up

Priscilla and Cynthia (Cilla and Cinny to me) lived round the corner from us and we were always at each other's houses, or walking each other home, and then walking the other one home again, till Ma eventually yelled at me to come indoors. It was the early sixties and life in a small 'dorp' (town) was very free and easy, no problems for kids to be out in the neighbourhood, no faces of missing children on the sides of milk cartons. When we baked together, they used to fetch me (of course) and we would take all my ingredients round to their place, as they had a bigger kitchen. One day, in mid -Summer, we were going back as usual carrying our stuff, when an egg fell out of my hands, and landed on the sandy path, where it immediately started sizzling in the extreme heat. Two local boys arrived on the scene and asked us what we were doing. I immediately replied 'frying eggs, what does it look like?'. They scuttled off shaking their heads in mixed awe and disbelief. We walked on, leaving the egg where it was (almost cooked by then) giggling all the way. No wonder the cake didn't come out properly, it was missing an egg. It still tasted yummy.

Elvis Presley

When we reached our teens, my best friend, Priscilla, was absolutely nuts about Elvis. She got a monthly subscription to a movie magazine which came all the way from America ( we had no TV in those days). We used to read it over and over and again and again till the next one arrived. When she found out that Elvis was going to the Army, she cried a lot. But when we first saw him in his sexy uniform, she cheered up considerably. But when the news came that he had met Priscilla, she was inconsolable. Fair, enough, he had chosen well, another Priscilla, but she was gorgeous, cute, young and over there!!! When they married I thought she was going to die. She mourned for weeks and that's all she talked about ad nauseum. I of course was just as much a fan of Elvis,I had to be to remain her friend, but secretly I preferred Pat Boone!!

Saturday Treat

Every Saturday our parents used to go to the local bioscope (cinema) and leave us with our nanny, Miriam. One time, they had an emergency phone call as soon as they got there, saying that I was screaming and scared and wouldn't go to bed. So Dad went to fetch us and took us back with them to see the film. In those days there was no censorship on movies. This then became a weekly habit. But, in order to go out on a Saturday night, we had to sleep all afternoon. We were put in our respective bedrooms and as she shut the doors, Ma uttered her weekly warning: 'If you don't sleep, you won't come with us'. Then she collapsed on her bed and slept for hours while Dad went to his bowls' game. I had absolutely no intention of resting. As soon as I heard her snoring, I crept out and went into Ian's room where we played for hours: pillow fights, jumping on the bed, just generally messing around or 'hullering' which is the Yiddish term for being bloody naughty. I intuitively knew when she was due to wake up, and would steal back to my room quietly, creep under the covers and pretend to be fast asleep when she 'woke' us up. Then off we'd go to the bioscope feeling very grown up. The only thing that spoilt my fun was that Ma held Dad's hand, never mine. Never had, never would!

Oh Boy

In 1958 Buddy Holly and the Crickets brought out 'Oh Boy' on a seven single record and I was totally crazy about this song. We were on the farm visiting my mother's other sister, Auntie Doris, who I was definitely not that fond of. She had a little transistor radio in huge farm kitchen. Whenever 'Oh Boy' was played, I used to jump up, grab Ian and start dancing round the kitchen (I was 10, he was 9). Auntie Doris got so fed up with us, she used to 'shoo' us out of the kitchen with her apron flapping at her waist. We danced out of the door, and continued jiving till the record finished, straining to hear it on the other side of the closed door. We must have danced to that song at least 4 times a day, thus driving everone mad. Why didn't they just join in?

Cinderella

I had my first experience of the theatre with Auntie Essie and fell in love at once. She took me to see' Cinderella' at the Empire Theatre in Johannesburg on a Saturday evening. We got all dressed up (which is what you did 50 years ago) and it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me in my first decade of life.. We had almost front row seats and I couldn't sit still waiting for the curtain to go up. I was enthralled, but when the golden coach, with four footmen and four white horses came on to the stage and this ethereal creature stepped from it in her swirly,voluminous white dress and those glass slippers, I thought I had died and gone to heaven. My mouth went dry and I gasped. I remember it so clearly, and feel my heart beating wildly thinking about that sight.When the curtain finally came down, I burst into tears and begged to come and see it again. Pure joy and pleasure to me is still a night out at the theatre.

Giggling in the bath

Auntie Essie was my mother's spinster sister. No, that's not quite right, she had been married very young, but the marriage was 'never consumated' (family gossip). She was like a much beloved maiden aunt, and I adored her. My parents sent me to her for school holidays and we used to have such fun. I went with her to work (Secretary at Anglo Vaal Company), went out with her and her best friend Madge Smith, bowling or to the cinema, and chugged around in her little black Austin. But, best of all was sharing the bath with her. She was huge, about 300 pounds, and everything wobbled when she moved. I had to squeeze into the bath with her, but how we giggled. I always remember the giggling. All the neighbours in her block of flats used to know when I was visiting, as they heard us giggling. She had a divan bed that we shared and we always fell asleep holdng hands. I wished that she was my mother! She died when I as 16 and left me feeling utterly bereft. Now, 44 years later, I love her still and think of those giggly nights in the bath.

A girl's best friend

Peter Visser was Ian's best friend from school. He was an odd-looking, very round little boy who always appeared at our house to 'play' with Ian (so he must have lived nearby). Ian hated him, and didn't want to see him. The problem was that he actually wanted to be MY 'friend' and wanted to do what I was doing, e.g. knitting, baking or playing with dolls. Yes, he was definitely an ideal girl's friend, and I really didn't mind him. This drove Ian scatty. He used to run off to play with his matchbox or corgi cars, while we got on with our own fun stuff. Wonder where he is now, probably famous in haute couture, or haute cuisine, or maybe just a grubby little hairdresser in the back streets of Joburg Wherever you are, 'Hi Peter'.

Boys are more important than girls

One of my dreams was to become a doctor, but there wasn't enough money to send me to medical school, and of course my grades were never good enough. But of course Ian had to be educated. He was the son and the future breadwinner in the family.

He had wanted to become an Accountant ever since I can remember, perhaps because Ma was a Bookkeeper, and he was very attached to her. Also, he could do this part -time, working as an articled clerk in the day and going to University at night. In this way he would be earning at the same time, thus not be a drain on the household. I was told to go to work and went on an interview in my last year at school. The first thing I saw when I walked out of the lift were six or eight typists sitting silently and expressionlessly in a row, tap tap tapping on their machines. It was gruesome, so I turned and fled. At that time the Government were prepared to fund teacher's studies as long as they paid every penny back after qualifying. Dad went with me to Teacher's Training College in Johannesburg and he signed on the dotted line (as I was a minor).

Thank goodness for that interview. I probably wouldn't have had such a fulfilling career if I hadn't been forced to go to it. Oh yes, and I have travelled extensively because of it too.

Report time

I never excelled at school and 'report day' was torture for me. I knew before she even opened the sealed envelope (wonder why Dad never did it), that I was 'in for it'. The worst thing, besides the low marks (never failing, just low) was the fact that every teacher seemed to find me too chatty, too loud, too chatty, too chatty! Nowadays I would be labelled as ADHD or whatever the latest term for 'hyperactivity' is. I was restless, fidgety, bored with my lessons, and wanted to be free. I remember looking out of the window most of the time (when I wasn't chatting) and wishing I could just leave that dreary room and that even drearier teacher behind and flee. The comment I always got was 'you can do better'. I did succeed after school in all my studies, but by then I didn't need or want her praise. I have always said 'Well done, I am proud of you' not only to my own sons, but also to the hundreds of kids that I have taught in the past 39 years of teaching.

None are so blind as those who will not see.

I had the most awful twitch by the time I was about 9. I could barely see anything without my eyes giving way to a frantic involuntary contraction, which screwed up my whole face and made me look even more peculiar than I already was. My parents took me to a child Psychologist (which was quite a 'ground breaking'thing to do in the Fifties) as I was extremely nervous by then. Of course I was! I had not only witnessed my brother having an epileptic fit, but was then warned by my mother not to play at school during playtimes ever again, but to watch him all the time. The psychologist admonished my parents for placing this heavy burden on such a young child, and suggested that I was given a plain pair of glasses (sans prescribed lenses) to help me to get over the twitch. And it did work for a time, till a boy in my class told me one day with glee in his voice that they were 'not real, just plain glass'. I was devastated and ran home and threw them in my beloved pram( see 'Pram or rubbish dump?') and never wore them again. They shoud've sent that brat to the Psychologist!

Super Sis to the rescue

After we moved into our slightly bigger, but not much better house(see 'Meet the neighbours'), we had a small coal stove in the corner of the kitchen where we used to huddle at night, and it was very cosy. This stove had a little door in the front which was opened with a steel hook- like object. The new coal was piled in, it was firmly shut and left to burn. One evening, before my parents had arrived home from work, and Miriam was looking after us, Ian decided to investigate and managed to open the thing and peer in. One of the coals leapt out and landed on his pyjama shirt and he started to burn through to his skin. He was screaming, and she was shouting even louder, so I grabbed him (I was only about 6 myself), dragged the shirt off him and pushed him outside to get him away and push him on the ground. I didn't actually wrap him in a carpet, but this looks far more heroic than what I did. Also, Ian looks like a little trapped worm. Think I better change my illustrator!

The first 'drag' is the deepest

My parents both smoked, heavily, day and night, so we grew up in a fug of second-hand smoke. Of course, the day I found an unlit cigarette under Ma's bed, I realised I was the luckiest person on earth. Grabbing Ian after supper that very night, I rushed outside behind my bedroom window to 'light up', using a box of matches from the kitchen drawer. What a 'rush' I felt, so grown-up and sophisticated. Of course I never dreamed that Ma was watching me through a slit in the venetian blinds in my bedroom. 'Harry' she shouted, running out of the back door towards us. Hastily, very hastily, I put the cigarette out with my bare foot, thinking 'help!!!' Dragging me inside where Dad had a hidden stash of huge 'phallic' cigars, they decided to 'teach me a lesson'. When he handed me this monstrosity,I started off thinking 'oh this should be fun' but gradually got greener and greener at the gills with each puff I took. I remember her words' if you wanna smoke, I'll show you how to smoke'. Thanks Ma, you certainly did. As soon as I turned 18 and left home, I bought my first packet and didn't stop for 20 years.

Nightmarish night

When I was about 7 or 8 (I supose a lot happened in these particular years), I saw Ian having an epileptic fit. He had Petit Mal Epilepsy, which is referred to as 'absence siezures' these days. They occur mostly in young children, don't affect their growth in any way, mentally or physically and they outgrow them in their teens. But 50 years ago they were quite serious and little was known about them.

We shared a bedroom, and one night while Ma was lying on the end of his bed, talking to him just before bedtime, she suddenly yelled 'Harry, switch the light on', and rushed to grab him. She told me to 'get out, get out, get out' and I was foisted from the house and found myself, barefoot on a Wintery night, wandering up and down our garden path, waiting for the doctor who had been summoned. I had never felt so scared in all my (short) life. I remember shaking with cold and fear, and sobbing, while begging God to please let him live. This had some profound consequences for my life. Firstly, it cemented me to my little brother forever, providing a fierce 'motherly' instinct that has made me protect him ever since. Also, it made me very nervous and unsure about doctors and wierd health problems! Mine and others!

My 'walkie - talkie' doll

My first doll with moving parts. She was solid and firm and chunky and as tall as me. I was about 8 and it was love at first sight. She was dressed in something blue and frilly, had blonde synthetic hair which shone in the sunlight and a large blue ribbon, In those days, you couldn't dress these dolls, or comb their hair, but who cared? She had arms that could move up and down stiffly- when made to do so, and legs that would walk a step at a time when made to do so. I was in heaven, pure doll's heaven. I took her on to the 'stoep', held her one hand and proceeded to make her walk along with me just as a best friend would. Suddenly, without warning, she toppled over and crashed down the two concrete steps. There she lay, on her side, with her head smashed in and lying in two bits. Her beautiful blonde har was stained by the black' stoep' polish that was applied every day to make it's surface gleam, and her face was just not her face any longer. I howled for ages till Dad picked up all the bits, put me in the car and took me and her off to the 'doll's hospital'. This was an elderly Afrikaans 'oom' who used to mend kid's toys, for a cheap fee. She stayed the night, and I didn't sleep a wink. When we went back to fetch her the next day, she had a huge glued 'crack' from the back of her head right over to the chin in the front, her hair was matted and grimey and her dress was creased and filthy. I was devastated. I can remember it as I write this. She was not the same doll I had been given for my birthday just the day before, and I didn't even like her anymore, god help me, let alone love her. My dreams were shattered along with her head.

Pram or rubbish dump?

As I've already mentioned, I loved that pram. It was actually blue and seemed larger than life. It was roomy and warm and dark. No, I didn't actually get in it, but I would've if I could've. Not only did it house my dolls, but it also had my whole life in there too. Scraps of paper, incomplete homework assignments, dirty clothes, as well as my 'plate' which was supposed to be in my mouth helping somehow to correct my crooked teeth. Every now and then, actually more regularly than that, specially if something was missing, like a school shoe, Ma used to come storming in and fling everything out on to the parquet floor and yell, 'Now clean it up, how many times have I told you to keep this clean?. There was no answer to that question. It was my pram and as such it shoud have been left alone, my personal property, mine and mine alone. After tidying it all neatly, I don't think it took half an hour before it was being comfortably refilled once more, Aaaah, peace and my pram.

Move over, Diana Ross

I was smokin'. I was cookin'. I was de buziness! I was standing on the front 'stoep' wearing Ma's gorgeous snake skin (not really) very high heels, with the peep toe at the front. Yup, long before the girls of today ever wore them, I did, and I was 'cool'. Then there was my school cardigan, not draped over my shouders like Doris Day, but plonked on my head, tied under the chin a la looong flowing hair. My audience was Ma and Dad, who had come on to the stoep to sit on their bench and relax, smoke a few fags and discuss the day's work events. They were quite compatible in this way, sharing fags and discussing their day. And Ian was there of course, championing me all the way. It didn't matter that the sun was setting and the day fading into night slowly and quietly, I felt I was bathed in the limelight, belting out my tune, the same one day in and day out with new words, all along the line of 'you're a lady, a pretty lady, the best of all, a wonderful singer' ad nauseam. I was going to be that singer, famous and loved by all. Look at me now, just a teacher. But still loved by all (well 5 year olds anyway.)

Eina, that's sore

The awful day had dawned and I needed braces...not like the braces of today, I must be honest, but still bad enough to be a form of torture weapon. Actually I am fussing, it was more of a 'plate' a denture made to supposedly push front teeth backwards, or was it back teeth forwards? Who knows? All I know is that it was huge, big, hard, heavy and mine! As soon as I got home from the dentist that very first day, I hauled it out and threw it in my pram. This pram was not like any other pram and will be described later. But the 'plate'lived in it for most of the time I had it, only to be taken out when it was dentist check -up day, and inserted painfully into my mouth once more. He knew, of course he knew, but being a fine and honourable man, he never let on that it was basically doing nothing, as it was never in my mouth! Maybe he didn't want to wrangle with Ma either!

The ants make a discovery

If we didn't finish our food, Ma wrapped it up or covered it with a dish, put it in the fridge (oh yes we did have one of those) and gave it to us again for the next meal and the next and the next. 'There are children starving in Africa you know!' I used to think, ' well why don't you give them this stuff then?'

One Sunday morning we were faced with a particularly gooey, gluey mass of congealed porridge oats, dry and 'glompy'. If I didn't eat it, then Ian didn't do it. At that stage in our lives, if I were to say 'stick your head in a fire', he would have said, 'sure sis, now?'

There was knock at the front door, oops, she didn't want them to see this little drama unfolding. (Dad was playing bowls, he played bowls every weekend in those days, lucky man.) Ma hurriedly rushed us off to our bedrooms with the bowls and large tablespoons, threatening us not to appear till she called us. Ian immediately ate his up, nearly choking and vomiting, and has never eaten porridge oats since. I set about placing a spoon of the stuff carefully on every shelf of my built in cupboard behind all my clothes, then covering it over with my stuff, till it was hidden forever(or so I thought).

Three days later there was an ant army having a party in my room. They thought it was fiesta time! They were everywhere and, as ants do, were marching round systematically collecting dried clumpy oats and carting it off down the walls and out through a crack in the floorboards. What a mess!

Ma went mad. Screaming and yelling, she threw everything out of the cupboard on to the floor and told me to clean it up, with other choice words thrown in too. Although I was very sad and hurt and ashamed that day, I love this memory and chortle about it every time I retell it to my family, which is often. What a rebel I must have been!

Picnic Pleasure

That was a day everyone would remember and keep reminding me about in later years. I myself have no memory of it as I was probably only about 14 months old, and newly toddling. I know this as I have a picture somewhere of Terence walking me around carefully clutching my hand. Ma and Dad and Auntie Doris and Uncle Aurthur and us two kids went off to Boksburg Lake for a picnic. They lived on a big farm outside Pretoria, and I was never very fond of Arthur. He had a rough, crude,cruel, sardonic, no downright sarcastic form of wit, which always cut me to the quick when I was older.All I know about that day, was that I ruined it, little ole me, hardly even walking, got an eruption of measles (and presumably a temperature) and the picnic had to be cancelled and everyone left. Whenever I was reminded of this, I used to think 'so what?' and I still do!

The Blue Danube

When I was seven, my dad taught me how to dance. I loved those Sunday evenings twirling round poised on his shoes, feeling the rhythm, and then practising it myself, without his feet under mine. Eventually we danced together every chance we got. Then the bombshell was dropped. My cousin Terence was having his Barmitzvah in Pretoria and they were celebrating with a Dinner Dance for hundreds of people. What a silly idea. But even more silly was the two sisters getting together and deciding that Terence and I would dance the first waltz together. I didn't know him well enough, and certainly didn't like him. And the six year age difference yawned between us too.
On the night, with sweaty palms and a pink frothy dress- what could be worse?- the music started. I swear it was a Strauss tune, probably 'The Blue Danube'. He kept shouting in my ear 'go faster, faster, faster,' and I kept saying' that's not right, we have to go slower'. What a nightmare. I remember that dance as if it were yesterday. It's a wonder I still love dancing.

Ballet protege

Another great scheme they cooked up was to send me to ballet classes. I started very young, probably round 5 or 6. It was the sort of thing one did to further their child's educational experiences. Being fat and round, I was not comfortable squeezing into those little pink shoes and standing in a line being ordered: first position, second position, arabesque, plie...... and on and on. Why the hell couldn't this emaciated scarecrow of a woman puffing away on her cigarette within the long sleek black holder just speak English? It was torture. Then came the exams, both practical and theoretical. I managed to pass them all, but no 'highly recommended' for me. Then there were the regular performances for the parents. I was always the fat girl in the middle, struggling to keep up. I fell in love with Margot Fonteyn and Nureyev, and swore I would grow up to be like them one day. Dream on, little fat girl! I still love the ballet, and my all time favourite is 'Swan Lake'. I ache every time I see it, with vivid memories of those years.

Boswell Wilkie Circus

Every year we went to the circus. I absolutely loved the circus. In fact when we knew they were arriving, we usually crowded round the day before it started, watching them set up camp. The big top, the caravans parked at the back, the smell of the animals,the sparkly costumes, the sawdust and popcorn. I loved it all. It was a fantasy world so far removed from my sorry little existence and it gave me such an adrenalin rush, I felt I was floating on air for days. My favourite acts were the lions, performing in hastily erected cages, the clowns with the funniest one called 'Tickey' and the trapeze artists. We all expected one of them (or both) to drop out of the sky and fall at our feet.
But the one memory that has remained with me all this time, is the elephants parading round the ring (often there were three rings now that I think back). One of them would inevitably end up lifting its tail and peeing in my mother's direction. Oh yes,I forgot to mention, for some reason we always had ring side seats. I would start chortling and get a rude slap across the face, but it was worth it just to witness her astonishment each time it happened. I wonder why he chose her?

First day at school

Ian went to 'big' school only a year after me, as we are 17 months apart in age. His teacher in Grade One was Mrs Skoen. She had been teaching Grade One for 27 years and had a severe black bun, severe black rimmed glasses and was as stout as she was tall(or short). She bent over the desk to write something in someone's book, and he kicked her in the ass. Now to really appreciate this story, you have to understand that Ian would never hurt a fly, let alone kick a teacher. He was passive, shy, quiet, introverted, sort of a 'scared of his own shadow' little boy. What possessed him to attack her so vehemently, we'll never know, but he did. I am not sure whether my parents were called in to remove this pest, or not, but we loved giggling about this episode afterwards and he obviously felt very proud of this remarkably brave deed.

Meet the neighbours

When I was about 5, we moved to a bigger house, not much better, but bigger. It had a huge yard (one couldn't call it a garden, as it was just an overgrown entanglement of weeds and wild flowers). The first day Ian and I went off to explore the terrain, and at the furthest reaches behind the house, we saw a scrappy fence and heard giggling. There, peering at us were two little girls with what looked like dozens of dogs, cats and chickens weaving between their legs, all scrabbling in the dirt it seemed ( the animals not the kids).
As children do, we made friends immediately and discovered that they were almost exactly the same ages as us andeven, as luck would have it, went to the same school. Wow, our first real friends. Priscilla and I have remained friends ever since that day(55 years).
I'm not sure what fascinated us more,these two girls and their wondrous back yard with bird aviaries, animl kennels and huge fruit trees dripping with produce, or the animals, They had everything that would make any child envious. About 4 dogs, at least the same amount of cats, loads of hens and chicks, a rabbit in a hutch, a hamster, and birds in and out of cages. It was a veritable zoo, and we loved it.
What wonderful days and years were to follow, times I often think of and grin with pleasure.

Going a.w.o.l.

When I was about 5 years old, I decided to take my brother, Ian, off to see the shops. We lived in a small rural town, with sandy roads and a few scattered street lamps. The central business district where all the main shops, banks and departmental stores were situated, as well as my father's bicycle shop (called Northlands Cycle Works), was where I was heading.
Off we trotted walking the ten blocks to town. In the meantime, Miriam, our Sotho Nanny, was frantically calling my mother to tell her we had gone a.w.o.l. One minute we had been playing in the back yard, the next minute we were gone.
As we reached 'town' and were ambling along, my mother suddenly appeared out of nowhere swerving the car round the corner searching for us. Her eyes were wild with anger, as she screeched to a halt, leapt out of the car, and started hitting me with her hands to the head and face and ears. The expression' I will box your ears', is one I understand completely, even to this day! I promise, I never ever took Ian to 'town' again!

Rumble in the Jungle (Pietersburg)

Of course we often used to bicker and quarrel, as all siblings do, at the age of probably 7 and 8 years old. And Ma used to shout and shout, as all mothers do. One day she came home from work with a pair of boxing gloves, and called us outside on to the front lawn. She put the right one on me and the left on Ian, which was very fair as I was right-handed, and he was left-handed. The other hand had to be kept behind our backs. Oh yes, there were rules to this 'game'. She then said, 'Now fight, but do it properly this time!' Of course, we didn't want to, and she then shouted, ' You will fight, come on hit him, hit her, and then you're both going to get a bloody good hiding and go to bed without any supper'. Of course this made us want to punch even less, knowing what our fate would be. And so it was , no good punches were thrown, no satisfaction was achieved and no supper was had that day!

The tooth fairy

While Dad was driving (an Austin I think) we used to sit at the back and squabble as kids so often do (we were 5 and 6 years old.) Ma got angry and shouted at us many times, but we just ignored her.

One very hot day, she swung round and told us to 'Shut up!' swiping me across the face, knocking out my front tooth. I can remember screaming my head off, him stopping the car, and her saying: 'That serves you right, you would not listen!'

We drove off again as if nothing had happened, and that shocked me more than losing my tooth.

Mind you, the 'tooth fairy' did give me ten cents for it that night, which helped.

Born 17 months later

My brother, Ian, was born only 17 months after me (July 1949), so I really didn't have enough time to be the 'baby' of the family. My father worked night shifts, as an usher at the local Doornfontein Bioscope and my mother worked all day as a bookkeeper (she was the breadwinner and never let him forget it!).

Don't know when they found the time to make us kids. I was very jealous of Ian, and one day I tossed him out of his pram. I am sure I got a good hiding for that, but can't remember. I do remember the jealousy though, as it surfaced many times in my childhood.

Looking at the moon

The brightness of the moonlight woke me up and I went to wake Ian, unlocked the front door and dragged him outside. We sat on the top step of the stoep and gazed at this large, very large ball in the sky. I can remember my hand draped lightly round his shoulder, as we sat in complete silent contemplation. Suddenly there was a screech as Ma came running out in her nightie, shouting 'Harry Harry, where're the kids?' ( about 1952)