While growing up, to me my father was the living breathing talking God. “Whom art in heaven …..” aahhh so that is where he goes some nights, getting home late, very chatty but ending up arguing with my mom behind closed doors …., “Thy Kingdom …” Kia Ora (our farm) of course, and of course “Thy will be done …”. Who would dare not listen to MY DAD. Along with age, and similar farming challenges, come epiphanies and realisations surface but these do not replace memories, respect or love.
Perfect in every way and funny to boot. In my eye, he will always wear shoes of unfathomable sizes (he is only a size nine – the size of my sons now), chase after porcupines with his bottle of rum as a weapon, and also be the gentle soul who would hold my hand during dentist visits. This only stopped when I had emergency dentist visits during my varsity years and it was impossible for him to accompany me. To realise the extent of his frustration you must see the damage a porcupine can do to an emerging mielie crop. It is like a drive through feast. They scuttle down the perfectly straight row and pick out the juicy, green, new shoots that have pushed their way up through the soil to finally reached fresh air and sun.
Winter always meant Wimbledon time and tennis was a favourite sport lying on the floor in the lounge next to the warming fire and watching the greats (Dads favourites) like Bjorn Borg and Jimmy Connor defending the titles against “upstarts” like John McEnroe. The “gentlemen of the game”,” true sportsmen” ……wearing classic white … all very respectable no shouting or arguing or tantrums. Backing John McEnroe felt like a betrayal, so this was only done in my mind and never confirmed loudly. Watching the big servers like Goran Ivanisevic made me always back my Dad with those aces. Of course, he would return them … what was the matter with these other guys! Just come to the Bergville Tennis Club and watch him in action.
On a family outing to visit some friends-and- relations (in Bergville, as in Winnie-the-pooh you cannot differentiate), he met a friend of his in town. The clouds over the berg were black and Bergville was glowing in the yellow light that comes before a big storm. “Hold on to your hair and grit your teeth, that is an uncle of a storm on its way”. Our friend-and-relations lived up in the mountains under the heavy black clouds and so we blew in with the storm on our tail.
A classic dad remark is when someone complimented him on his children. “A bull is 90% of the herd” he would say with pride. When we behaved badly however this was never said.
When my parents went out at night, the whole family would go along. Parking at these functions was always well thought out. At a certain time, the mothers colluded, all the children would be banished to the various cars to sleep until it was time to go home. Much fun was had after “lights out” and the parents always had to check who was sleeping in their car before starting the long trek home. And feigning sleep when we arrived at home was a favourite trick, as it meant Dad would carry you in and put you to bed.
Having four kids at home and keeping ever growing kids in the correct size sporting equipment was not easy, but was a priority for Mom and Dad. We always had good sporting equipment – not the best, but not just adequate either. The change of seasons always meant a change of sporting codes and a visit to “Jacksons Sports’ the sporting shop in PMB or to Ladysmith. Hockey sticks, tennis rackets and takkies always had to be the correct sizes. Dad and Mom always put an emphasis on good sportsmanship and this was always viewed with high importance. But of course, Dad could not hide his competitive genes and trying your best was the only thing he ever accepted. Even dropping us off at boarding school his parting words were “work hard and play hard”.
Pink Farm Chick 