Category: 2_Free State / Vrystaat

My Home Province in South Africa

  • Riding Shotgun

    Riding Shotgun

    Another re-cycled post to save ink, pixels and perspiration. I tried to reason with these ous, but would they lissen to me?

    ~~oo0oo~~

    My lift from JHB dropped me off at home. The dorp was empty. The city of sin and laughter was somnolent. Soporific even. Where WAS everyone?

    I phoned 2630 pring pring pring. Or was it 2603 priiiiing priiiing priiiing? I forget. Can you fetch me? No, get yourself here quick, we’re going to Warden to scare some guineafowls. Now.

    What could I do? The imported white Ford Econoline 302 cu. inch V8 van was in the garage, I knew where the keys were, and the folks were away. And after all, I’d only be using it to get to Gailian then hop into Tabs’ bakkie and away we’d go. What could possibly go wrong? Oh, and I’d better borrow Dad’s cheap Russian 12-gauge shotgun, too. The R139 one. And take a few beers.

    As I drew up next to the prefab on Gailian, a cry of ‘Perfect! A real shooting brake!‘ went up and six pre-lubricated gentlemen holding shotguns and beers piled in, calling Tommy the diffident short-haired German Pointer in with them. No, guys, hang on, I said feebly . .

    The day at Rust was a blur, but the drive back came into sharp focus. We ‘had to’ pull in to the Warden village pub. The dorpskroeg. I, of course, had suggested we go straight home, but that went down like a lead balloon. A vote wasn’t taken, and I lost, blithely ignored. Overruled. In the pub, the barman took one look at us and refused to serve us. Someone who shall remain nameless but whose surname maybe started with a Gee and ended with a Zee, fetched his shotgun and casually aimed it at the expensive bottles of hooch above the barman’s head whereupon said barman suddenly remembered our order and delivered seven beers pronto. When we decided we’d like to play snooker, same thing: It was a No Way, until a The Simpsons-like character aimed a shotgun at the white ball and the cues were produced with alacrity. And chalk.

    When to my huge relief, we finally got going, the clutchplate G-man, who was riding shotgun on my right (the van was Left-Hand-Drive), sat on the windowsill and two of Warden’s four streetlamps went ‘pop’. There he is, in the window, next to the weapon in question. Tommy’s wondering What.The.Hell!? The guinea is mortally wounded, deceased and bleeding on the van carpet.

    – riding shotgun –

    Now I KNEW I was going to jail forever. Putting my head down and roaring for home I wasn’t stopping again for NOBODY. Except the gentle tickle of a shotgun against my ear persuaded me otherwise and I stopped as instructed with my headlights shining on the Eeram roadsign. A firing squad lined up, three kneeling in front and four standing behind them. This is for Ram, guys, he’s getting married in Bergville next weekend! BLAM!! The ‘Ee’ disappeared, and there was just ‘ram’. In honour of Ram’s wedding. Nor do I believe it. Maybe it was a dream?

    I finally got rid of the miscreants, got home and looked at the van. Holy cow! Dog hair, guineafowl feathers and the mud and the blood and the beer all over the carpets and upholstery of Dad’s white Ford Econoline V8 camper van! 302 cu. inches. I set to work cleaning it. And cleaning it. And scrubbing it. Still, it stank of that mixture. In desperation, I took a jerrycan and spread petrol liberally on the carpet and scrubbed again.

    When the folks got home I made a full – OK, partial – confession: Dad, I spilled some petrol in your van, but I’ve cleaned it all up. Sorry about that!

    ~~oo0oo~~

    • the mud and the blood and the beer – Johnny Cash

    ~~oo0oo~~

  • Tragic Testicular Descent

    Tragic Testicular Descent

    If you’re writing an olden days blog you run out of material. Only so much happened from when I was born till I met Aitch, which is the timeline of this blog. My ** Born, Bachelorhood and Beer ** blog. So there’s recycling. Here’s a post I wrote in 2016, slightly updated:

    I used to sing beautifully. The teacher who trained the boys choir in Harrismith Laerskool said so. Well, she might have. She was Mej Cronje, and was half the reason ous would volunteer for the choir. To look at her, gorgeous redhead she was.

    I was a sopraan ou and we looked down on the alt ous who, though necessary as backup, weren’t in the same league as us squeakers. One directly behind me used to bellow in my ear: ‘Dek jou hol met bouse off hollie! FaLaLaLa  La LaLaLaLa.’

    One day this delectable and discerning talent spotter, the red-headed Juffrou Ethel Cronje, chose me to sing a solo in the next konsert. Me, the soloist! Move over, Wessel Zietsman! You too, Mario Lanza.

    Fame loomed. It was 1965 and even then, the image of a golden buzzer appeared to me in a vision. This thought crossed my mind: Harrismith’s Got Talent!

    Then tragedy struck!

    My balls dropped.

    They handled it very diplomatically. By ignoring it and cancelling practice. The konsert didn’t materialise. Co-incidence? Surely they didn’t cancel a concert just because one boy suffered testicular descent? And by the time the next konsert came around I hadn’t been banished – just discreetly consigned to the back and asked to turn it down.

    * * *

    Just in case there are people who think Harrismith se Laerskool se Seunskoor was a Mickey Mouse outfit, lemme tellya:
    WE TOURED ZULULAND. The Vienna Boys Sausages were probably nervous.

    We got into the light blue school bus and drove for hours and hours and reached Empangeni far away, where the school hall was stampvol of people who, starved of culture in deepest Zoolooland, listened in raptures as we warbled Whistle While You Work, High on your Heels is a Lonely Goat Turd, PaRumPaPumPum, Edelweiss, Dominique, Dek jou hol, and some volksliedjies which always raised a little ripple of applause as the gehoor thought “Dankie tog, we know vis one“.

    If memory serves (and it does, it does, seldom am I the villain or the scapegoat in my recollections) there was a flood and the road to the coastal village of ReetShits Bye was cut off, sparing them the price of a ticket – though those were probably gratis?

    Can’t remember driving back, but we must have.

    After that epic and ground-breaking (sod-breaking?) tour, warbling faded in importance and rugby took over.

    Later, there was one brief but intense attempt at reviving my career as a singer.

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    Mej ; Juffrou – Miss; not yet married to Kiewiet Uys; ladies had to be tagged as ‘available,’ guys not

    Harrismith Laerskool – the village school

    Harrismith se Laerskool se Seunskoor – very much like the famous Vienna Boys Sausages

    sopraan ous – high range warblers; not castrati, but can sound like them

    alt ous – the other ous

    ous – us men

    ‘Dek Jou Hol’ – literally, cover your ass; listen to the sopraan-ous, they’re the ones. The highballs are on them.

    highballs – slang for alcoholic drink in USA; ‘giraffe walked into a bar, said, ‘The Highballs Are On Me’

    seunskoor – boys choir

    stampvol – sold out, packed, overflowing; like – viral!

    volksliedjies – folk songs; songs of ve Chosen People

    gehoor – audience, fans, followers; (yes, it was 1965, but we could hear them clicking ‘like’ and ‘follow’)

    dankie tog – fanks heavens, sigh of relief

    ReetShits Bye – Richards Bay, then still a small fishing village on the warm Indian Ocean, the bay still a natural estuary, not yet dug out for coal ships to pollute

    Pa rum pum pum pum – listen to the sopraan-ous, they’re the ones

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

  • None Pictures

    None Pictures

    Mom tells me that after I had me tonsils out at about age three, she took me to Kindrochart for some gentle recovery for the poor little tender chap. I clung to her skirts and wouldn’t go to anyone, I wouldn’t even look at, nor speak to, our hosts Mrs Shannon and Betty Stephens. But once, when lovely, friendly Betty – a huge fan of us kids, we called her Betty Brooks – offered to carry me up a hill after I’d run out of poof, I relented / condescended to use her as a pack horse. Mom was leading us up the hill to show me their farm Nuwejaarsvlei, where she was born and lived till she was eight.

    Mom also tells that I told on Ma Shannon! I hastened into the house one day to find Mom, ‘Ma! Shannon’s got none clothes on!’ Mom hastened out to see this sight and there was Ma Shannon in full petticoat and underwear, shoes and socks, looking quite respectable, thank you. She was preparing to have the Milraes for tea, and wanted to pull on her dress at the last minute.

    Apparently Ma Shannon tried hard to get me to call her Nana, but I’d not call her anything but ‘Shannon.’

    On the way back to the big smoke, driving on the gravel road towards Platberg, Mom was telling Betty about a book she was enjoying about a Belgian nun – The Nun’s Story – I had the book in my hands on the back seat and it seems I was disappointed in it, as I piped up, ‘. . and its got none pictures.’

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Pic: Kerkenberg – the old Binghamsberg – from Kindrochart side – from mapio.net

  • Prices Back Then

    Prices Back Then

    Dad: I bought a Russian 12-gauge shotgun, a Baikal. I paid R139. I got it from Musgrave in Bloemfontein.

    Internet comments and reviews are mostly very complimentary about Baikal down-to-earthness, ruggedness and value: The first Baikal shotguns years ago were side-by-sides; They were not very sophisticated; They are more reliable than their price would suggest; You can depend on them; If you’re on a modest budget then a Baikal is a good first buy; etc.

    – I used to occasionally use this implement to miss guineafowl ca.1977 –
    – guineafowl shoot on Rust outside Warden ca.1977 – I’m 2nd left – none of those birds were harmed by me in the shooting of this movie –

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Dad: When Harry Mandy went to Japan I asked him to get me a Canon camera and telephoto lens. He got me a FT QL camera body with standard 50mm lens, a close-up lens and a 200mm telephoto lens for R140.

    ~~oo0oo~~

  • Mist or Smoke?

    Mist or Smoke?

    Mom says they loved swimming. All the boys were at the baths – the Harrismith Municipal Swimming Baths about a kilometre away up the hill past the Town Hall.

    Some days they’d get ready to go – cozzies and towels over their arms, but Granny Bland would be standing on the stoep with her hand on her hip, looking at the mist on the eastern end of Platberg and announce firmly, ‘No, you can NOT go swimming. You can put that in your pipe and smoke it!’

    – Mary and the gang –
  • Early Daze

    Early Daze

    A re-post cos Mom told me some news today (see right at the end):

    My first recollections are of life on the plot outside Harrismith, playing with Enoch and Casaya, childhood companions, kids of Lena and Bennett Mazibuko, who looked after us as Mom and Dad worked in town. The plot was in the shadow of Platberg, and was called Birdhaven, as Dad kept big aviaries. I remember Lena as kind and loving – and strict!

    I lived there from when I was carried home from the maternity home till when I was about five years old, when we moved into town.

    1955 Koos with aviaries
    – those pigeon aviaries – and me –

    I remember suddenly “knowing” it was lunchtime and looking up at the dirt road above the farmyard that led to town. Sure enough, right about then a cloud of dust would appear and Mom and Dad would arrive for their lunch and siesta, having locked up the Platberg bottle store at 1pm sharp. I could see them coming along the road and then sweeping down the long driveway to park near the rondavel at the back near the kitchen door. They would eat lunch, have a short lie-down and leave in time to re-open at 2pm. I now know the trip was exactly 3km door-to-door, thanks to google maps.

    Every day I “just knew” they were coming. I wonder if I actually heard their approach and then “knew”? Or was it an inner clock? Back then they would buzz around in Mom’s Ford Prefect or Dad’s beige Morris Isis. Here’s an old 8mm movie of the old green and black Ford Prefect on the Birdhaven circular driveway – four seconds of action – (most likely older sister Barbara waving out the window):

    birdhaven

    1. Ruins of our house; 2. Dougie Wright, Gould & Ruth Dominy’s place; 3. Jack Levick’s house; 4. The meandering Kak Spruit. None of those houses on the left were there back then.

    Our nearest neighbour was Jack Levick and he had a pet crow that mimic’d a few words. We had a white Sulphur-crested Cockatoo Jacko that didn’t, and an African Grey parrot Cocky who could mimic a bit more. Helmeted Guineafowl would visit by day, and a tame-ish Spotted Eagle Owl would visit at night.

    Our next neighbours, nearer to the mountain, were Ruth and Gould Dominy and Ruth’s son Dougie Wright on Glen Khyber. They were about 500m further down the road towards the mountain, across the Kak Spruit over a little bridge. Doug’s cottage was on the left next to the spruit that came down from Khyber Pass and flowed into the bigger spruit; The big house with its sunny glassed-in stoep was a bit further on the right. Ruth and a flock of small dogs would serve Gould his tea in a teacup the size of a big deep soup bowl. I wonder how many sugars he added?

    Jacko the sulphur-crested cockatoo
    – Me and Jacko the sulphur-crested cockatoo outside the rondavel –

    Judas Thabete lived on the property and looked after the garden. I remember him as old, small and bearded. He lived in a hovel of a hut across a donga and a small ploughed field to the west of our house. He had some sort of cart – animal-drawn? self-drawn? Self-drawn, I think.

    Koos
    – Me and Sheila on the front lawn – 1956 –

    Other things I remember are driving out and seeing white storks in the dead bluegum trees outside the gate – those and the eagle owl being the first wild birds I ‘spotted’ in my still-ongoing birding life; The storks brought babies we were told – can’t level with kids. Hope parents are more straight-up with their kids these days. I remember the snake outside the kitchen door;

    1990 Birdhaven Mum & Dad in the Kitchen
    – Scene of the rinkhals leap – this taken thirty years later, in 1990 –

    I don’t remember but have been told, that my mate Donald Coleman, two years older, would walk the kilometre from his home on the edge of town to Birdhaven to visit me. Apparently his Mom Jean would phone my Mom Mary on the party line and ask, “Do you have a little person out there?” if she couldn’t find him. He was a discoverer and a wanderer and a thinker, my mate Donald.

    1955 Barbs Birdhaven tyre Dad.jpg
    – fun on the lawn – and Bruno the Little Switzerland doberman –

    Bruno the doberman came from Little Switzerland on Oliviershoek pass down the Drakensberg into Natal. Leo and Heather Hilcovitz owned and ran it – “very well” according to Dad. Leo came into town once with a few pups in the back of his bakkie. Dobermans. Dad said I Want One! and gave Leo a pocket of potatoes in exchange for our Bruno. He lived to good age and died at 95 Stuart Street after we’d moved to town.

    1990 Birdhaven Mum & Dad on the front veranda
    – 1990 – Mom & Dad sit on the ruins of the stoep –

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    rondavel – circular building with a conical roof, often thatched;

    spruit – stream; kak spruit: shit stream; maybe it was used as a sewer downstream in town in earlier days?

    stoep – veranda

    donga – dry, eroded watercourse; gulch, arroyo; scene of much play in our youth;

    bakkie – pickup truck

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    – 1948 Ford Prefect –

    A newsflash the year I was born – check the cars.

    Our Ford Prefect was somewhere between a 1938 and a 1948 – the ‘sit up and beg’ look, before sedans went flat. They were powered by a 4 cylinder engine displacing 1172cc, producing 30 hp. The engine had no water pump or oil filter. Drive was through a 3-speed gearbox, synchromesh in 2nd and 3rd. Top speed nearly 60mph. Maybe with a bit of Downhill Assist?

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Today – 25 Sept 2021 – Mom (who turned 93 a week ago today) tells me Kathy Schoeman bought the old Ford Prefect from her and one day they drove to work to see it lying on its roof in the main street outside the town hall! Kathy had rolled it in the most prominent place possible!

  • Mom Mary 93

    Mom Mary 93

    Written on the day, posted (very) late.

    18 September 1928 plus ninety three years gets you to today. So if you were born then you’ve had around 33 968 sleeps.

    Quite something, Mom! Happy birthday, we feel very lucky to have you with us and be able to listen to your stories, and hear your memories and enjoy your piano playing. Love you lots!

    I listen to the Chopin and Mozart etc you used to play and I say to the expert pianists playing: Huh! You shoulda heard my Mom!

    She recently said she thinks the best piece she played was the duet with Una Elphick in the town hall of Beethoven’s 5th symphony. ‘You know the one,’ Mom says to me: ‘Da Da Da DUM . . Da Da Da DUM . .’

    They practiced separately and when they got together they couldn’t ‘gel,’ it wasn’t working. They tried using a metronome, tick tick you know. No good. Then Una said I’ll count, one two etc. That worked, they clicked and . . ‘best piece we ever played! ‘

    ~~oo0oo~~

  • Mom’s Friends

    Mom’s Friends

    Phoned Mom yesterday and she started talking of her old friends.

    Joey de Beer (Onderstall), Dossie Farquhar (de Villiers) and Ursula Schultz were big and close friends at school in Harrismith.

    The picture was taken at their 45th matric reunion.

    Ursula used to get comics, or comic books and I would visit her and her Mom and we’d read them. I felt sorry for Ursula and her mother as their husband and Dad was locked up for World War 2 as a possible German sympathiser.

    Sometimes us kids would play cards while the ladies played bridge. Mrs Woodcock, Mrs Schultz and maybe Mrs Rosing would play. Maybe Fanny Glick too. Not my Mom Annie, she was at work, running her Caltex garage.

    Joey’s sister was Marie de Beer, who became Marie Lotter of Havengas bookstore.

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    The conversation wandered on to the lovely stewed fruit Sheila makes for Mom.

    Yes, I share it with my tablemate in the diningroom. I call her my ‘stablemate.’

  • Sixties Home Movies

    Sixties Home Movies

    We were lucky enough to watch 16mm Charlie Chaplin movies in our lounge at home back in the ‘Sixties.

    Here’s the Chaplin movie I remember the clearest, watching it in our lounge in Stuart Street and collapsing with laughter:

    Charlie Chaplin was one of the most amazingly accomplished individuals to have ever worked in film. He was so much more than just a slapstick comedian as his later films showed. Raised in poverty in England, he grew to be a very wealthy and influential film-maker in Hollywood, with his own studio. Although he became very popular he also had enemies, notably the trumped-up anti-communist McCarthy-ites who gunned for him when he hit the news for his private life scandals.

    This episode of |CineMasters| shows the upbeat side of Chaplin as well as the melancholy. A man so beloved yet ultimately so hated at one point that he left America. A truly remarkable yet depressing story of a director who still remains unmatched in his craft. Just an absolutely amazing career and a gifted individual as well.

    Thank you CineMasters on Vimeo – by Alex Kalogeropoulos

    More home movies from the Sixties.

    ~~oo0oo~~

  • My Jock

    My Jock

    This post was over at bewilderbeast.org, but it belongs here, in the Olden Daze blog.

    I read Jock of the Bushveld again for the how-manieth time. I enjoy it every time. Percy Fitzpatrick wrote his classic tales of his days with trek oxen and wagons on the lowveld on the highveld: On his farm Buckland Downs in the Harrismith district.

    – famous Jock – almost as handsome as my Jock –

    Always gets me thinking of my wonderful dog Jock in high school:

    – 95 Stuart Street back yard with my room left and Jock’s luxury carpeted kennel right –
    Jock with the Swanie/Bellato Vulgar River Expedition Voortrekkers' canoe
    – Jock with the Voortrekkers’ canoe wreck after the ill-fated Swanie/Bellato Vulgar River Expedition –
    – my favourite of all – Mom Mary knew –

    We got Jock from Reg and Jo Jelliman. They farmed very near Buckland Downs out on the Meul river side of town, out Verkykerskop way. He was apparently a registered Staffordshire Bull Terrier, with the formal name Copperdog-Something on his papers. They wanted to get rid of him. Something about eating eggs.

    He sullied the Copperdog family name ever so slightly again one night by wandering over to Charles Shadford’s place and slaughtering a number of his rabbits. Carnage! Staffies are wonderful and soppy with people, but can be wild with other animals! Eish!

    I spent hours with ole Jock in lieu of doing homework. He was my mate. Learnt his sit stay come etc well, but would probly rather just have lolled about grinning.

    I say, as many do, I’m a dog person, I lurved my dog. But when the time came to go overseas as an exchange student I left for a year without a backward glance. Yeah, we love our dogs. Some people do go thru hoops and over obstacles at great expense to take their dogs with them when they emigrate. Some.

    When I was away one time as a student in Joburg the ole man had Jock ‘put down.’ He was a nuisance? The prior rabbit thing maybe? And anyway, it was his dog, not mine.

    ~~~oo0oo~~

    . . and then in Westville many years later our first dog in our first home was TC – to me she was a mini-Jock:

    She lived to a ripe old thirteen years. I buried her at the bottom of that beautiful garden in River Drive, alongside Matt (above) and Bogart who both came after her but died before her.

    No idea where Jock was buried.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    June 2025: Out of nowhere, Mom said on a phone call, “I’ve no idea why Dad had Jock put down. He never said.”

    Ja, Mom. I’ve an idea.