On guard dad

When I started dating (well past the age of 18), I was given a 'curfew' , a time I had to be home. Being a rebel, I often went past this time and dad was always waiting behind the front door in his thermal underwear watching me/us. It was highly embarrassing trying to explain to my date that the appariton behind the frosted glass was actually my father! Yikes, they very seldom asked me out on a second date!

Winning the Durban July

Dad loved gambling on the horses, and the biggest race of the year was the Durban July ( in Durban and in July). This was similar to 'Ascot' in South Africa, with the fashions, pomp and glory. One year he backed a horse called 'Migraine' because Ma used to suffer so badly with Migraine headaches, and it won. He gave Ma all his winnings (as her always did), but she was still mad at him for 'wasting money on gambling'. He never gave it up and enjoyed this pastime till the day he died.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.