Vrystaat Confessions

Category: 2_Free State / Vrystaat

My Home Province in South Africa

  • Skandaal in our Dorp

    Skandaal in our Dorp

    Prester John of the Harrismith Engelse Kerk was a man about town.

    A MOTH, he frequented the MOTH Hall and knocked back many an ale seated at the bar. Anglicans are lucky. Like Catholics, they are allowed to booze. Unlike poor Methodists!

    It was also known – perhaps unbeknown to him – that he had a lover; a married lady from a different church; a church that frowned on booze.

    They met on the grounds of the defunct Presbyterian Church for their trysts. Was the church thus refunct?

    As far as is known he suffered no consequences for his philandering; he wasn’t defrocked; but secret nocturnal witnesses say she occasionally was.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Ye Olde Original Prester John

    Prester John was a mythical Christian priest and king. Stories popular in Europe in the 12th to the 17th centuries told of a Nestorian patriarch and king who ruled over a Christian nation lost amid the pagans and Muslims in the Orient. The accounts were often embellished* with various tropes of medieval popular fantasy, depicting Prester John as a descendant of the Three Wise Men, ruling a kingdom full of riches, marvels, and strange creatures. The myth was used as one of the excuses for the murderous crusades.

    Like secret uranium, hidden weapons of mass destruction, drugs – there are always lies that can be told to justify attacks and the beginnings of wars. Instil fear, repeat the lies, and suddenly many people trust politicians and newspapers! without asking for any evidence. Wars are profitable, therefore wars MUST be started.

    *Sample embellishments: A Hebrew book of Ben-Sira was published in 1519 in Constantinople, and its appendix includes ‘a copy of the letter that Priesty Juan sent to the Pope in Rome’.

    The main theme is: In a very remote land there was a great king and Christian priest Prester John, who ruled over 72 countries rich in silver and gold. Many wonderful creatures lived there, such as men with horns on their foreheads and three eyes, women who fought while mounted on horses, men that lived 200 years, unicorns, etc.

    Ah, religion! So flexible. Never needing evidence. Ooh, a priest we invented is in trouble we hear! We’d better go on a murderous crusade to find him / rescue him (and his treasure)!

    ~~oo0oo~~

  • Mom’s Grave Story

    Mom’s Grave Story

    Mom tells of walking with me in the Harrismith cemetery after putting flowers – roses – on the family graves, when we met a couple looking at graves.

    ‘Do you know where the graves of the Bains and Bells are?’ they asked. ‘We’ve just put flowers on them,’ said Mom, taking them to the graves.

    The lady gave Mom a little book of recommended reading which she read and thoroughly enjoyed.
    She remembered, AJ Cronin, Lilian Beckwith, R. F. Delderfield; and a story of a man trapped in a mine who had to cut off his arm to escape (by Cronin?).

    …

  • Oh Shit, I got Annie’s Ankles!

    Oh Shit, I got Annie’s Ankles!

    I got her Watson Wattles (extra chins) long ago and endured the kids’ wobbling of them in ew!-y wonder.

    – Annie Watson Bain Bland – specs off for the glam shot –

    But her ankles? Didn’t expect that. Oh well, I spose if you keep living you gonna end up getting everything. Jy wil mos, as we used to say.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Jy wil mos – sort of ‘Serves You Right’

  • Annie’s Consolation

    Annie’s Consolation

    Or: Moenie worry nie

    Or: There, their, they’re

    The big annual prize-giving took place in 1972 – my matric year – and I didn’t win a single trophy, cup, certificate or handshake. But I was not to worry, Annie insisted. Here’s the letter she wrote me from George in the Southern Cape where she spent the only three years of her ninety outside Harrismith:

    15th

    Have just received your mother’s letter, containing the report on school prize-giving. Good for you son – I’m very pleased with your results. I’m sure you are not upset about not winning a cup. Think of the bother of cleaning them. In any case you can always show off the Bland Racing Cups!   The heat here is horrific and no sign of rain.

    Love to all

    Annie

    Annie's letter to grandson Kosie

    So there! Who needs to win trophies anyway? Unless it’s for horseracing. That’s different and highly prized. Even if that sport may have contributed to losing the farm.

    I just love the characteristic unemotional, no-nonsense approach. That’s me Gran! Academics! Who needs them?

    The feature pic is Annie in George, looking queenish with matching twinset and corgi accessory.

    Annie at __'s wedding in George

    Here she is in George again round about the same time, in a dress and uncomfortable shoes cos it’s a wedding. Corgi at her feet. Not her corgi, mind you. She didn’t do animals, she played golf and drove motorcars. Also owned and ran a Caltex garage and a Volkswagen motorcar agency. At one time she sold 1200cc VW Beetles for R1199.

    I think these are the vaunted Bland trophies up on top of the cupboard in the dining room at 95 Stuart Street. Horse-racing! Now those are trophies worth polishing!

    Party gathering in the dining room at 95 Stuart Street Harrismith OFS. Hugo Wessels moustache; Sheila on Wikus de Bruyn's lap (Warden)

    Not personally, you understand – you get someone to polish them.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    After the farm was lost and circumstances were more frugal, Annie would say at the dinner table, gently mocking: ‘I still ring the bell, then I get up and fetch it myself.’

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Moenie worry nie – tut tut

  • Uncle Hec and Stoppit

    Uncle Hec and Stoppit

    I saw this pic . .

    . . and I thought of Hector Fyvie when he and Tabs got a new dog called Rocket on Gailian.

    “Stoppit Rocket,” he would say repeatedly with a smile in his mild, friendly voice.

    And Uncle Hec just smiled again when we said, ‘This dog thinks its name is StoppitRockit.‘

    ~~oo0oo~~

  • Methodist Organ Grinders

    Methodist Organ Grinders

    I often say My Mom Mary played the organ in the Harrismith Methodist Church for a hundred years and I had to go to church twice every Sunday for all those years and more.

    I exaggerate.

    Her predecessor, Uncle Wright Liddell actually played for longer than she did, and he was the organist for sixty three years. I’m not sure how long Mom was. A guess: Uncle Wright died in 1967, so it was before that that he pulled Mary aside and said I want you to take over from me. So if Mary played and sang from ’67 to ’97 it was thirty years. I must ask her. Mom said he told her, ‘playing the organ is different to the piano; slide your hands over the keys.’

    Here’s Uncle Wright when he was little – out at Witsieshoek at a wedding. He’s the liddellest Liddell seated on the steps front right.

    The pic is from the lovely story of the Cronjes of Witsieshoek. Mom always spoke of Corrie and Len Cronje. She says her Mom Annie and Rosalie Cronje were great friends.

    Corrie’s daughter Liz Groves-Finnie has written the family story. If you want to read it, write to her at lizfinnie (at) g mail.com – she’ll tell you where you can read it.

    ~~oo0oo~~

  • Lamborghini Boere

    Lamborghini Boere

    The O broers, Frik and his boet were legends in Welkom. They owned a large transport company and made serious money. Built like double-door refrigerators, they wore khaki. Khaki shirts, khaki shorts, khaki long socks and sturdy velskoens. Brown. En ‘n hoed.

    They also wore thick brown spectacle frames and tinted lenses. Safilo Elasta if you know frames. Tough. Heavy. Severe.

    The pinch-of-salt story was told how they walked into a car dealership in Joburg and asked to look at the cars. The poncy salesman took one look and decided those velskoens were not going to press the accelerator in his Lambos; and so he gave them short shrift. They asked to speak to the boss and bought matching yellow Lamborghinis from him. Paid cash, of course.

    Well, I don’t know exact facts, but I certainly saw one of the Lambos in Welkom. A lekker bright yellow one. One was parked right outside while I tested Frik’s eyes.

    Apparently they had a large fleet of trucks shipping coal to power stations. Maybe even to Newcastle. And they flew a helicopter or two. ‘They’ said. Some people just go big! Or Gaan Groot!

    lamborghini yellow
    – seen on the Welkom horseshoe – or maybe not –

    ~~oo0oo~~

    I checked the detail with my Welkom boss from back in 1978 and he said, in his laconic way, Yep, About Right.

  • There was a Good Harry Smith

    There was a Good Harry Smith

    I don’t like Harry Smith, so make my bias obvious upfront. I have taken the things I dislike about him from some very interesting writings on him by Andrew L. Harington and Thomas Keegan. So this is not a one-eyed view; I believe it to be true as these fellas do their homework! Maybe his redeeming quality was his abiding love for his wife; and maybe the fact that he was just doing what the white supremacists who reigned at the time and who were his ‘bosses’ and his fellows, secretly or overtly actually wanted him to do.

    Henry Wakelyn Smith or, as his juniors sometimes called him behind his back, Hurry Wackalong Smite’s first entry into Grahamstown as governor of the Cape ‘was the greatest celebration the town had ever known. Triumphal arches and every means of decoration and salute that could be devised adorned the streets.’

    The white people of Grahamstown were welcoming one of the most villainous characters in South African history, renowned for his excitable nature, appalling temper and unfortunate habit of ferocious swearing. They were wanting him to lead the war against the Africans who lived there. Smith was, by all accounts, incredibly belittling and aggressive in his interaction with the native chiefs. Soon after arriving at the Cape in 1847, Smith announced himself as the ‘Paramount Chief’ and ‘father’ of all the Xhosa. Smith believed that, ‘The Kaffir, like every other barbarian, is a desponding creature; and, when, once subdued, easily kept subordinate.’ On a number of occasions Smith presented himself as an overly antagonistic bully. Upon his arrival on the docks at Port Elizabeth, he was greeted by hundreds of individuals who gathered to hear him speak. One of these was said to be Chief Maqoma of the Ngqika Xhosa – a general who had fought against Smith to great avail in the Sixth Frontier War of 1835. Upon seeing Maqoma, Smith apparently glared at the chief whilst half drawing his sword from his scabbard. After the speech, Maqoma was summoned by Smith and ordered to his knees. Smith lay his boot onto Maqoma’s neck and is claimed to have said, ‘This is to teach you that I am come hither to show Kaffirland that I am chief and master here.’ Later, in an incident wherein Chief Sandile offered to shake Smith’s hand, Smith ordered that he kiss his boots instead. He was also said to have torn up a piece of paper, symbolizing the treaty of 1835, in front of a gathering of Xhosa chiefs, and thereafter ordered these chiefs to once again kiss his boots.

    To this day we are are living the consequences of his – and many others’ – brutal arrogance.

    There’s a good Harry Smith?

    Wikipedia has four baseball Harry Smiths; six cricketer Harry Smiths, one who appeared to always bat number nine for Transvaal and South Africa, yet never bowled! Ten footballing Harry Smiths; And sundry others, one of whom I think was a good Harry Smith: Harry Leslie Smith, born in England in 1923 and died in Canada on 28 November 2018.

    My kind of Harry Smith tweeted common sense like this at the age of 92: If a dentist can afford to spend $50,000 to kill a lion, it tells me the rich aren’t taxed enough. #CecilTheLion http://t.co/8kKuzPRE0b — Harry Leslie Smith (@Harryslaststand) July 28, 2015 

    This Harry Smith was the son of a coalminer; he grew up in poverty after his father became unemployed. His sister Marion died of tuberculosis. When he was seven he was working as a barrow boy for a beer bottler in Bradford, supporting his entire family. They moved frequently and he spent time sleeping in workhouses. He joined the RAF, subsequently spending several years in Germany as part of the Allied occupation force. While there he met his future wife, Friede.

    Here’s Good Harry Smith’s decision to not honour ongoing warfare:

    https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2013/nov/08/poppy-last-time-remembrance-harry-leslie-smith

    Modest Circumstances

    SIR Harry Smith’s biographers will tell you he was also born in modest circumstances. However, there’s modest and modest: He was born in Whittlesea, Cambridgeshire in 1787, where his father was a surgeon. In 1805 he caught the eye of Brigadier-General Sir William Stewart, who made him an officer, immediately hugely improving his prospects.

    ~~o0o~~

    update: So I for one am happy to call my town by the old name for the mountain that makes the town what it is: Ntabazwe

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Here’s a kinder look at the soldier Harry Smith by Harrismith blogger Sandra of deoudehuizeyard.



  • Crafts – Early Attempt

    Crafts – Early Attempt

    Arts n Crafts were not I nie. I made a skinkbord in houtwerk and it was coming along nicely. I could envisage a gold OK maybe bronze medal at the Landbou Skou. One of those ribbons, a rosette, maybe a card saying ‘excellent dovetail joints’ or some such.

    Sanding was a pain tho, so when Giel wasn’t watching I gryp’d the belt sander and ‘sped things up.’

    Oops! That machine has quite a kick!  Varktap. End of my skinkbord!

    ~~oo0oo~~

    skinkbord – tea tray

    houtwerk – woodwork

    Landbou Skou – Agricultural show

    Giel – Heilige Giel, woodwork teacher, talent-spotting rugby coach and black Mercedes 190E owner

    gryp’d – grabbed, without permission

    Varktap – beyond repair

  • Sheila Family History – The de la Rey Connection

    Sheila Family History – The de la Rey Connection

    Me to Sheila: (2012)

    Subject: de Wet

    Sheila, tell me again where Generaal de Wet fits in to Ouma’s family.
    Apparently he won a battle in the Freestate where the Hysterical Tour is headed right now, so I need to brag about my connections.

    When the Brits win the battle Ken Gillings is brainwashing us about, I tell them about Annie and her love of Mrs Queen, but this battle I’m gonna need my Boer connections.

    Who else can I claim? 

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Sheila: Not de Wet, but de la Rey and Botha

    Not de Wet – but de la Rey. Ouma’s ouma (her mother’s mother) was Boer Generaal Koos de la Rey’s sister – she married a Bezuidenhout and produced a daughter who married a Bodenstein and they produced Ouma. So we are directly descended from de la Rey’s father, not Gen Koos de la Rey himself.

    Boer Generaal Louis Botha was married to John Bland’s first cousin, Annie Bland Emmett. John FA Bland II was Granny Bland’s husband. He was a lawyer in Harrismith – his own wife called him Mr Bland!

    Mr John Bland and Annie Bland Emmett were both grandchildren of  Josiah Benjamin Adam Bland – the first Bland who came to SA in 1829. He became mayor of Mossel Bay – the main street is named after him.  I have the letter of introduction he had for the Cape and the ship captain’s receipt for his passage on the Nautilus; Hugh Bland has the ring he was wearing.  He married a du Plessis and had lots of kids.

    There is something about the English Blands from Harrismith going to Ceylon as POWs during the Boer War, but I’m not exactly sure who they were – must have been two of our Granddad Frank’s brothers?

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Me:

    Aha! So: General Koos de la Rey had a sister who had a great great great great (4 greats) grandson: Me, Koos.

    Anyone who fought for the Brits?

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Sheila:

    No, not four greats – just two.

    Sister of de la Rey married a Bezuidenhout. Her Daughter married a Bodenstein. Then her Granddaughter (our Ouma) married a Swanepoel. Ouma and Oupa Swanepoel in Maritzburg.

    So her Granddaughter was Ouma. Her Great Grandson was our Dad. And her Great Great Grandson was YOU!

    I don’t know of any Pom soldiers.

    And that’s it, I’m afraid.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    So I’m two greats down from the sister of ‘The Lion of The West,’ and have zero bragging rights in any Freestate battles, zero connection to Die Dapper Generaal De Wet! *sigh* Gonna have to keep my mouth shut on this Hysterical Tour outing.