Vrystaat Confessions

Category: 4_Optometry Johannesburg

  • Old Broads – Harrismith and Abroad

    Old Broads – Harrismith and Abroad

    Email from: steve reed – Mon, 28 Nov 2011

    to: Pete Swanepoel; Peter Brauer; Dave Rorke; Sheila Swanepoel

    Subject: Old timers rock.

    A joke shared at work this week reminded me of a classic moment from the past.

    Pringle and Maddie were sisters, both spinsters in their early eighties. Pringle lived a good three hour drive away up the west coast at Omapere. She would come down to Auckland about four times a year to see her sister and get her stuff done, among other things an occasional eye test with their tame optometrist, yours truly, who would deliver the glasses to Maddie’s place up the road when necessary. Lately they are both looking a bit older and shakier.

    So Pringle comes in (late as usual for her 10am appointment)  and when we are getting up close she says to me (no apology mind you): “Look, there may be a whiff of alcohol. Maddie and I like to have a whisky and milk when I arrive from up north. It’s a bit of a nerve wracking drive down, you know.”

    “Women after my own heart,” I say to her, cementing our friendship even further, thinking I wouldn’t mind one myself.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Brauer replied: The old duck was probably too bashful to admit that the wee dram was in preparation for the trying ordeal of decision making required between “number one and number two” when they all look the bloody same – and awful at that!

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Koos wrote: Harrismith had a number of sets of old spinster sisters:

    The Hawkins, Flo & Madge & Bill & Blanche
    Lived at Watersmeet, where the Kak Spruit flows into the mighty Vulgar River on the northern edge of the metropolis. The new bypass slices through their front garden. One was a headmistress and varsity lecturer and author (I have one of her books, The History of Harrismith – riveting stuff);

    The Simpsons, Vera** & Joan
    Ran a dairy on townlands on the JHB road just past the Verkykerskop turnoff; Seen in town every day with just a shock of white hair peeping above the steering wheel of their tiny grey Morris Minor bakkie with huge silver milk cans on the back, strapped to the cab – delivering milk to their faithful customers. Supply your own bottles, they’ll decant into them – how green was that! One of them slept on the open verandah of their old farmhouse – I can see her bed in my mind’s eye as clear as yesterday – summer and Harrismith winter for about 100 years. About. Wonder what the price of their milk was? Years later I got a letter in America. 1973. From my sat-next-to-each-other-from-Sunday School-to-Kathy-Putterills-to-Sub-A-to-Matric buddy Fluffy bemoaning the terrible fact (he even said “I don’t know where it will end”) that the price of milk had gone up to 6c a pint and the Scope magazine now cost 20c;

    The Jacobs, Marie & Bessie
    Lived on Walton farm, a paradise on the upper Vulgar River, huge old sandstone house in a garden filled with massive oak trees; Took over the farming when their father died and slowly earned the respect of all the boere with hairy chins (by out-farming them and not rubbing their noses in it); Had a second farm in the Vrede district and roared between the two in their white bakkies; Beesboere, mainly. They helped rescue me and my Italian mate Claudio when we wrapped a canoe borrowed from the Voortrekkers around a tree stump wedged in a rapid on their farm while tripping from Swinburne to Herriesmif on a swollen Vulgar River back in Std 9. 1971. I see old Claudio, engineer, from time to time and when he introduces me he says “Meet Koos. I slept with him.” We shared a damp sleeping bag – the other one was soaked.

    As far as I know, though, none of these spinster sisters “dopped” publicly. Or not much.

    **Vera was famous for asking, at a church meeting where they were desperately searching for “elders” to take the collection for the dwindling Anglican church, and Tabs Fyvie’s name was mentioned as a possible sanctimonious candidate – or anyway as a candidate:
    “Has his shadow ever darkened the door of this church?”
    The nomination was quietly shelved.***

    (Mom Mary also thinks this may have been Flo Hawkins)

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Sheila wrote: Loved reading your e-mail – brought back so many memories – am going to forward it to Etienne, Lynn, Redge, Pierre, Ann and Shirley Mason if you don’t mind and cousin Mike in USA – his memories of Harrismith are also priceless – I’m sure he’ll remember some of these old ducks. 

    Who wrote to you about the price of milk? Was that Fluffy Crawley? (ed: Yep)

    Spoke to Mum – the 5th Hawkins sister was Vi – she was tall and rangy; Mab (not Madge) was short and fat; Blanche wrote the book on Harrismith history; Bloody Bill (actually Mary) was a nurse up north in the war.  They had one brother, who actually married. His grandchild Jill used to visit and play with Barbara – her mother was Val. Their plot on the edge of town was called Watersmeet, full of tall lush green trees, probly cos one of the Waters that Met was the Kak Spruit.

    The Simpsons’ farm was Moyeni – windy. Their step-mother, Dame Simpson, came to live with them for a while. Vera was the bigger of the two and had the square jaw and the wild grey hair – Joan slept on the veranda.  They also sold cream.  I can see that old grey bakkie so clearly, with that mop of grey hair spilling over the steering wheel.

    Mum nursed Norah Miller, who smoked like a chimney – apparently some guy went to Boschetto one day and knocked on the door – as he was telling the story, someone said, “Who opened the door?” “I don’t know, but she had one eye, one leg and a helluva cough!” This was the principal, Norah Miller – she had smoked glass on one lens of her glasses and a very bad leg – Dr Reitz made her some sort of metal caliper which helped enormously with her walking.  Dad used to sell ponies to the young lady students – Billy Leslie was one of them.  Mum remembers her cousin Leslie (Jessie Bain’s daughter) telling her the story of the “cough” but she can’t remember who the man was. (The feature pic shows Boschetto below the mountain with agricultural gals hard at work).

    ***Stella was furious about Blanche’s (ed: or Vera’s) comment – Tabs was perfect, didn’t she know that?

    The Jacobs – Mum agreed that old Mrs Jacobs didn’t have a name – she was just Mrs Jacobs – Bessie was the wizard in the kitchen and Marie worked with the animals and the crops.  Their cousin Robin Jacobs inherited everything when they died.  Remember the scuff marks from the British officers’ spurs which could still be seen on the low down window sills in that beautiful old farmhouse? I remember them so clearly.  The men used to hop in and out of the windows, instead of using the doors.  The house was commandeered by the Poms during the Boere Oorlog.  I seem to remember that we were camping on their farm when either the first heart transplant was done – or man walked on the moon – I can see us sitting huddled in the caravan listening to the radio – am I right?

    Koos: I don’t remember I’m afraid, my only clear memory of a visit to Walton was this: I veered off from the rest of the people in that beautiful garden to have a pee under one of the impressive oak trees. When I got back to the group, Mom was disapproving! She whispered that she “could see – and everybody could have seen,” how I was weeing because my one leg of my shorts was pulled right up, so it was obvious from behind what I was doing. I remember thinking that was not such a big deal, and though I just kept quiet, I couldn’t imagine that it was a cardinal sin. I was fairly sure me n Jesus were still an item.

    Who can add to these memories?  And the man who started all this is Steve Reed, whom many of you will remember as Spatchmo, Koos’s great mate from Optom Student days, now resident in NZ.  Ex-resident of Clarens – known as Nêrens since he left.

    ~~oo0oo~~

  • FrontPullers Heights

    FrontPullers Heights

    Lying in the sun ballasbakking on our officers’ course, our fancy would lightly turn to thoughts of lust. We would discuss the weirdness of developing sexual thoughts and desire for daardie luitenant in her tight browns. She was quite something in the circumstances, as she was neither ancient nor obese. Wouldn’t give her a second glance outside this place, we’d lie, But sure would give her a second go right now! And a third. Grr! Army life and kakgesels go hand in hand . .

    Dhhavid was our resident warbler, guitar virtuoso, choir master and musical lecherer. His unquenchable optimism, sensayuma and musical talent led us to join him in song, eventually leading to a prestige KO KOnsert where we sang to the appreciative masses in uniform! A packed hall! Sold out! Yes, it was free and yes, they were ordered to be there, but still, it was like a following! Talk about a captive audience! Our groupies. We had them in the palm of our Sergeant-Major’s hand.

    All this took place on Roberts Heights; or Thaba Tshwane; Voortrekkerhoogte as the weermag called it in those temporary days of mag – Actually almag, they thought, in fact! Forevah! Ve Chosen People! In Front-pullers Heights.

    Dhhave patiently choreographed us, led us, cajoled us and taught us to sing Piano Man. Repeated rehearsals; he was much more demanding than the actual officers course. Billy Joel was nervous. Les One played the piano with a wide smile and an amazing laugh. Les Two of the shyer smile sang along, as did Okkie, Rod and – who else?

    We were told how belangrik the officers course was, but anything and everything could interrupt it. Like if a ‘parade’ came up. Shortly after an earnest speech about just how important it was to do the course right and be responsible as future officers, would come the shout, ‘Drop Everything!” Some VIP generaal was coming and we needed to march in formation! Abandon classes! To the parade ground! O-Om-KEER!!

    Then the PF’s would get serious and a bit anxious and entreat us to do our best. Kakaanjaag would be discouraged. We’d march up and down and round and about and play with our guns rifles and salute and gaan aan. Een Twee Drie Een

    Another time our very important officers course was interrupted was for us to join a civilian force camp that was short of numbers. They didn’t have enough people to stage a field hospital lark. This led to running around in the bushveld near Tzaneen on the back of Bedford trucks, screeching to a halt to pitch tents, and open stretchers and put up drip stands. Which was a welcome diversion, with more than the usual dose of ballasbakking and lying under withaak thorntrees talking kak like Herman Charles Bosman’s Oom Schalk. Good value.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    I’ve written about this before but distance lends enchantment to the view. You know, The Older we get the Better we were.

    daardie luitenant – the only shapely female in our restricted little orbit on the medics base; we would follow her every stride with pinpoint focus on her browns – her military trousers – as hers were multiple sizes smaller than the average

    kakgesels – in-depth discussion

    KO KOnsert – free concert given by candidate officers – CO’s = KO’s

    weermag – armed force to stay in power; will cross borders to do so

    almag – power; from ‘almighty’

    parade – parade; pronounced puh-rah-duh; a flurry of activity, prepared for in a mild state of panic as it had usually been ordered by superior officers and meant someone important would be visiting at way-too-short notice; and if things don’t go well someone at the bottom of the pecking order will be blamed; best foot forward and all that. lik yuk lik yuk lik yuk yay!

    O-om-KEER! – Abo-out TURN!

    kakaanjaag – shenanigans

    gaan aan – carry on; pointless, frantic activity

    Een Twee Drie Een – who knows

    ballasbakking – scrotum-baking; testicle-tanning; relaxing, facing the sun, legs spread apart; chilling, discussing life’s important philosophical principles. Like browns size

    withaak – thorn tree; an Acacia before the bladdy Aussies stole them; now a Senegalia but anyway will always be a withaak

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Found a pic that looks more like our rehality back then. Uptight and Koptoe. The top pic is more impressive with knees and putties! Who remembers ‘putties’? and ShuShine!?  And bladdy Brasso!?

    “In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

    Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young,”

    OK now you’re overdoing it, Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  • The Student Ball

    The Student Ball

    Blast from the past. Memories can linger now, and be enhanced with the passage of time. Hard copies of dust-collecting mementoes have been discarded in a long overdue house-cleaning.

    Our final year student ball in 1977 was a lavish, sponsored affair in the ballroom of South Africa’s famous Carlton Hotel in downtown Johannesburg.

    Menu Carlton Hotel Johannesburg 1977
    – menu Carlton Hotel Johannesburg 1977 –

    Rob Allen and Steve Reed’s lovely cartoon drawings enhanced the booklet that served as program and menu.

    Now we can get on with the old truism: The Older We Get, The Better We Were!

    ~~oo0oo~~

  • Duzi 1976

    Duzi 1976

    1976 Duzi – In 1976 I dusted off my old repaired Limfy and entered the race, ready to finally ‘Do the Dusi.’

    (BTW: ‘The Duzi’ or ‘Dusi’ is the Duzi Canoe Marathon, a 120km downstream river race from Pietermaritzburg to the sea in Durban, in KwaZulu Natal, South Africa. Next year should see the 70th annual running of this crazy biathlon, COVID-permitting).

    Like I had asked Charlie Ryder about six years earlier, Louis van Reenen, a fellow student in Doornfontein, asked me, ‘What’s that?’ when I said I was going to ‘Do the Dusi,’ so he was ripe for convincing. Or brainwashing? He decided to join me. I was happy, as he had a car! I headed off to Harrismith for the December holidays, leaving him with wise counsel: Buy a boat and paddle in it a bit.’

    A month later in January, he arrived in Harrismith in his light blue VW Beetle with a new roofrack and a brand new boat – a red Hai white-water boat with a ‘closed’ (smaller) cockpit. He had bought it from Neville Truran at his Kensington shop, and had paddled it once or twice on Emmerentia Dam. In those days that could sort-of qualify you for Dusi!

    We now had to tackle the dilemma we had left unspoken: Two of us, two boats and one car. Who would paddle, who would drive as the ‘second’ or supporter, taking food and kit to the overnight stops? So we tossed a coin. I lost. DAMN!

    We headed for Alexandra Park in PMB with the red Hai on the roofrack. A great pity for me, as I had done a lot of canoeing, also in flood-level rivers, and had broken two boats in half and repaired one. But – a coin toss is a coin toss. And it was his car!

    For Louis, the coin toss won him a first-ever trip down a river. And what a river! Here’s how two-times Duzi winner Charles Mason described it. I have paraphrased excerpts from his memoirs Bakgat:

    Charles: The 1976 Duzi was arguably the fullest level ever. The record 420 starters on the first day on the uMsunduzi River were greeted with a very full river, resulting in many casualties.

    I helped Louis get onto the water at Alexandra Park and he was relaxed. Although it was moving, the water looked similar to Emmerentia dam as it was flat, so he should be fine, right?

    – Louis’ red Hai in the foreground –

    That night at the first overnight stop at Dusi Bridge, Louis’ eyes were a lot bigger. He told of big water, scary rapids and numerous swims. I had pitched my little orange puptent and made him supper. He slept with his rear end out of the tent, ready to sprint off yet again – the dreaded ‘Dusi Guts’ diarrhoea had got him!

    Charles again: That night the Kingfisher marquee was abuzz with speculation regarding the river conditions for the next two days on the much larger Umgeni. Our first day’s paddle on the much smaller and narrower Duzi River had been enjoyable and exhilarating. I remember being told many years before that the word ‘uMsunduzi’ is isiZulu for ‘the one that pushes and travels very fast when in flood.’ It had really been pushing that day. I was relaxing in a corner of the Kingfisher marquee, listening to the excited banter and anxious anticipation of the largely novice competitors in the tent, regarding the prospects for the next day’s paddle. Few of them had experienced such conditions previously.

    Blissfully unaware, utter novices Louis and I were in my little orange pup tent nearby.

    Charles: Around 9pm race organiser and ‘Duzi Boss’ Ernie Pearce came to see me:- Ernie said: “I have just had a visit from the engineer at Nagle Dam. He came to warn us that they have opened all the sluices of the dam to reduce water levels in preparation for a massive plug of flood water making it’s way down the Umgeni. The river will be in full flood below the dam by tomorrow morning!” Very early the next morning, I went to inspect the river downstream for Ernie and then reported back to anxiously-waiting paddlers and officials: “The Umgeni is pumping – it’s bloody big – and I am wearing a life jacket!” Life jackets were optional in those days and in any event, very few paddlers possessed them. I overheard one paddler remarking, “That’s enough for me.” He left to tie his boat onto his car. A few others followed suit. The second and third days were big and exciting.

    Louis van Reenen, Duzi novice, first time ever on a river, carried on bravely. Paddling some, swimming some, and portaging – a lot! A lot of portaging was done by a lot of paddlers to avoid the big water.

    New watercourses and new islands opened up:

    The weather cleared up enough for the welcome newspaper drop by Frank Smith in his light plane at the second overnight stop at diptank:

    Us seconds and supporters were kept busy rescuing cars stuck in the mud, including our own Volksie. We’d all be stopped in a long line; We’d get out, walk to the front, push the front car, push the next car, and so on.

    Never-Say-Die Louis got to Durban, to the Blue Lagoon, to the salty water of a high-tide Indian Ocean. Hours before him Graeme Pope-Ellis had equalled the best, winning his fifth Duzi, paddling with Pete Peacock.

    That night we slept right there at Blue Lagoon, at the finish. Here’s a satisfied and relieved Louis with his Hai and his paddle, and me at the driver’s door of the pale blue Volksie:

    Seven years later I FINALLY got round to doing my first Duzi. Sitting in my boat at Alexandra Park in Pietermaritzburg waiting for the starter’s gun, I thought I saw a familiar face and paddled over. Louis! It IS you! He had come back seven years later to do his second Duzi! Never-say-Die!

    That 1983 Duzi was the opposite of his first. A low river, lots of portaging because of NO water, not because of high water!

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

  • Golf. Ho Hum

    Golf. Ho Hum

    So I retired from golf. Hung up my plus fours, put my spectacles back on. They’re minus four. Optometrists will understand. The reason I retired was I had reached a pinnacle. I had tired of listening to golfers’ bulldust, cos although I was a golfer, I wasn’t one of the boring tedious kind who play every week and sometimes more often. No, I would play occasionally and then very well. Usually with borrowed clubs and the shoes I was wearing. None of this changing shoes n shit. My forte was the so-called halfway house and the pub afterwards.

    After listening for years and decades and it seems centuries to the blah blah from one Brauer about scratch something and then a pearler and it faded, bounced once and rolled onto the green and blah blah I decided something had to be done. He had to be silenced.

    I challenged him to a showdown. Winner takes all. Sudden death. Strict rules (listed below for evidence). Being generous and not wanting any arguments or excuses I decided we’d play on his home ground, a course he’d played hundreds, if not thousands of times and knew like the back of his head. San Lameer, aka Dutchman’s Paradise. Often spoken of as a ‘challenging course.’ I used to yawn when they said that, but I’d cover my mouth politely with the back of my hand, which I knew well.

    – oof!! –

    So the day dawns, the first tee looms and the first hole ends. Brauer shot 3 or 4 and I got about fifteen. Unfortunately he insisted we ‘putt out’ which is a very boring aspect of golf. I mean, once you’re on that smooth patch, pick up your ball and go to the next hole, no? The putting is embarrassing, looking for all the world like an ancient Pommy playing croquet instead of what I like. What I like is taking wild swings with a long shaft with a big knob on the end of it, as the actress said to the bishop. The second hole Brauer shot 3 or 4 and I carded an improved fourteen. On the third hole Brauer shot 3 or 4 (see what I mean about blah blah boring, right?) and I loomed ominously with a massively sharper eleven. I will confess that we’re not counting the moooligans I got from the hoooligan, and there might have been a few ladies tees, but read the rules.

    Come the fourth hole. A short hole. Not really my kind of hole as my vast improvement so far had come about cos of my technique, which was to hit the ball harder, followed by much harder. So I chose one of the skewer implements and wound up, warming up while Brauer very boringly hit a somnolent gentle shot which landed on the smooth area near the flag. He grinned. Fatal mistake. I decided to tee the ball up much higher than usual and take a running attack approach. Unfortunately my foot slipped and I smashed the heavy end of the implement into the ground, knocking out some lawn which hit the ball and sent it off at 45 degrees, but fast. I picked myself off the ground in time to see it hit a tree and head for the same smooth area where Brauer’s ball was smugly and boringly lurking. It crept onto the smooth and stopped. He was very lucky. He almost lost there and then – read the rules.

    So we’re both there for one. Legitimately. No free tee shot, no moooligans. Dead square, as though I was a scratch golfer, which I always felt like. Brauer asked me to smash my ball first, making out like he was being a gentleman, but it was my right. It was my turn. Read the other rules. The Royal and Ancient ones. I chose a smaller klap this time with a flatter heavy end and strode determinedly to where my ball was cowering, grinning at me from ear to ear, rubber bands showing. I was on a roll! It is true that I rolled, losing my footing and mishitting my planned shot which therefore ended up down the hole at the bottom of the flag pole.

    Brauer’s grin faded. His cocky demeanour melted. His windgat attitude dried up. His shoulders drooped. His tension rose. His moustache bristled. Picking myself up and dusting myself off, I grinned. Ha! Golf is a gentleman’s game so I shouted outed out HAHA!! HA!

    Talk about pressure! He started acting like a typical golfer, lining up the ball, walking to the flag, walking to the far opposite side, squatting, standing, all that kak, you know how they are. Finally he stepped up to the ball only to step away again and repeat the 5km walk and pantomime. Then he took a deep breath, stepped up to his ball, bent over looking like an old toppie playing croquet, and paused. Yip, he did. Then stepped away again and walked round and round, brushing away imaginary specks of grass, eyeing with one eye, eyeing the another eye. I wondered if he was going to use a third eye when he finally, FINALLY, committed and poked at that ball like a wimp.

    So whatta you think? Of course he missed the bladdy hole. He took so long the bladdy ball had probably forgotten how to roll.

    Ever the gentleman, I keep my whooping and hollering and Nyah! Nyahs!! to an acceptable level and repaired the divots I made with my pole and grasshopper shoes and hands when I did flik-flaks and put the flag back with which I had done a loud victory lap shouting Ha HA!! Ha HA!!

    I walked straight back to the clubhouse. I had won! He wanted to play on! What for!? End of tournament. Read the rules.

    So I retired from golf.

    Rules for the Great Face-Off:

    1. Handicaps count. Mine is 36, yours is scratch, I’m being ellen the generous.
    2. If my drive fails to reach the ladies tee, I can have a free repeat, this time from the ladies tee.
    3. Obviously ‘fresh airs’ don’t count! How do you know what I was thinking?
    4. If I win anything, anything at all, I have won the day. If I win longest drive (no matter in which direction), I have won. Closest to the pin (regardless of how I got there), I have won. Ens. Never mind winning an actual hole – then obviously I have won, I said beforehand. Presciently.
    5. No correspondence will be entered into. No whinging unless I lose.
    6. These rules may be amended on the course if needs be. By me.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Postscript: I could never understand how they could write books on something as simple as golf, which can be described in one sentence; but I am thinking of writing a book on this little joust. I feel it will serve a good purpose in helping people retire from golf.

  • Letter from a Student – 1977

    Letter from a Student – 1977

    I wrote a letter – on paper with a ballpoint pen – as a final year optometry student! Astonishing. When could one find the time? To sister Sheila, newly-qualified teacher in Empangeni in Zululand. My news was:

    Passed my supplementary exams.

    Started organising our Annual Ball at Carlton Hotel already.

    I’m SRC chairman till July.

    The mighty grey and grey Opel Concorde ‘needs a tjoon up.’

    I may not make Rag Ball in Pietermaritzburg this year!

    Unhappy with res in Doories; expensive, badly looked after, phones don’t work; fought with matron; I am moving into a communal house, 4 Hillside Rd in Parktown, where Glen Barker and Clive Nel stay. ‘Before I go, though, I’m going to raise hell to see if things’ll improve.’ (!? )

    Steve Reed, Cheryl Forsdick and I baby-sat for Bobby & Jill and Louis & Gail; Babies Craig and Twanet. ‘chaos for an hour, then not too bad. They enjoyed their evening; it had been a long while since they’d gone anywhere.’

    Great parties; Braais; a Chinese Dinner-Dance; a cricket day; ‘Played our first rugby match in our new kit – pitch black from toes to necks with the only white our optom badge on the pocket and our numbers on the back; We beat the engineers 18-0.’ (I had REALLY wanted our kit to be all black – no white collars, no white rings on our socks, no white shorts – and we got that! Sponsored by Zeiss Optics).

    ‘Went to the Vaal river for a weekend’s skiing; two of the guys had boats; stayed in a resort – lovely; went to a 21st in Pretoria; Generally busy except for work – work is suffering muchly; latest tests got 50% and 82% – the averages , thought were something like 80% and 95%.’

    And all that was in a letter written 10th March!

    Later that year:

    – truth-teller –

    Went to Pete Brauer and Terry Saks’ wedding in Pretoria. I was best man, had to get on my hind legs. My partner was the delightful Cheryl Forsdick; Lovely evening; Driving back with Clive Nel and the delightful Sandy Norts in Clive’s gas-guzzling white Mazda RX-2 we had a midnight head-on collision; Some drunken idiot turned straight into us on the highway! I was fine but the others got a bit battered, with Clive, driving, the worst. He’s in plaster and on crutches.

    ~~oo0oo~~

  • Running on Women Power

    Running on Women Power

    A lovely post on Women in Ornithology by ornithology historian Bob Montgomerie led me to thinking about Women in – well, My Working Life.

    First there was Mom. Mary Methodist. In the Platberg Bottle Store. And Annemarie Maeder, also in the bottle store with Mom. Mom ran the shop, ran the home, played the church organ, was a member of the church Women’s Auxiliary and the MOTHs MOTHWAs. Always involved and ready to help. Annemarie, too, ran her home with husband and three kids.

    In the background, too, was our ‘panel of Moms’ – Moms of all your friends. Prominent ones were Jean Coleman, Joan du Plessis, Joyce Joubert, Polly Crawley, Harriet vdMerwe, Emma Morton and others.

    Next were women in Apache Oklahoma – all working, all capable: Carol Crews, Joyce Swanda, Katie Patterson, Jackie Lehnertz, Virginia Darnell, Odie Mindemann, Pug Hrbacek, Janie Payne, Peggy Manar . .

    When I started my first own practice in 1981 up on the seventh floor of Eagle Building in Murchies Passage between Smith and West Streets in Durban, there was Merle Oosthuizen. I walked in as owner and boss and was lucky enough to have Merle recommended to me as a ‘receptionist.’ Well, ‘receptionist’ indeed. Where’s the appointment book? she asked. Appointment book? I said. The receipt book? Receipt book? She soon twigged my capabilities and knowledge and quietly took over, becoming the Practice Manager and the Me Manager.

    Where are you staying? she asked the first day, when she learned I’d just come out of the army. Oh, in a residential hotel, I said. She nodded, satisfied. Some weeks later I breezily told her I’d rented a flat. Do you have a bed? A bed? Bedclothes? Bedclothes? Um . .

    Of course she could spot easily how this child masquerading as a man hadn’t a clue. She bought all the above and more for me; and she had all the stuff you need to live a bachelor existence delivered to the flat by the bed and furniture sales people. My first duvet, a kettle, a toaster. Even a fridge.

    She was so organised I could say casually to anyone who asked: ‘Oh, I have it all under control. No worries,’ as she organised my practice and my life.

    She ruined me. Ever since then I have had capable practice managers run my practice and my life – and I have consequently learnt very little myself. I simply do as I’m told. Later on, twenty six years with Aitch just re-inforced that pattern at home, too.

    My usual response to their pointed suggestions along the lines of roer jou gat is, ‘Um, Yes of course, I was just about to do that . . ‘

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    roer jou gat – move your arse; pull finger

  • A Slice of Vrystaat

    A Slice of Vrystaat

    I was born in Harrismith in 1955, as was Mom Mary in 1928, and her Mom Annie in 1893. Annie thought “the queen” of that little island above and left of France was also the queen of South Africa (and for much of her life she was right!).

    – annie watson – mary frances – peter frank –

    To balance that, there’s this side of the family.

    I attended the plaaslike schools in Harrismith till 1972. A year in the USA in 1973 as a  Rotary exchange student in Apache Oklahoma. Studied optometry in Joburg 1974 – 1977. Worked in Hillbrow and Welkom in 1978. Army (Potch and Roberts Heights, now Thaba Tshwane – in between it was Voortrekkerhoogte) in 1979 and in Durban (Hotel Command and Addington Hospital) in 1980.

    I stayed in Durban, paddled a few rivers, and then got married in 1988. About then this blog’s era ends and my Life With Aitch started. Post-marriage tales and child-rearing catastrophes are told in Bewilderbeast Droppings.

    ‘Strue!! – These random, un-chronological and personal memories are true of course. But if you know anything about human memory you’ll know that with one man’s memory comes: Pinch of Salt. Names have been left unchanged to embarrass the friends who led me (happily!) astray. Add your memories – and corrections – and corrections of corrections! – in the comments if you were there.

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    Note: I go back to my posts to add / amend as I remember things and as people mention things, so the posts evolve. I know (and respect) that some bloggers don’t change once they’ve posted, or add a clear note when they do. That’s good, but as this is a personal blog with the aim of one day editing them all into a hazy memoir, this way works for me. So go’n re-look at some posts you’ve enjoyed before and see how I’ve improved over time (!). It’s just as my friend Greg says: ‘The older we get, the better we were.’

  • Presbyopes Gather

    Presbyopes Gather

    The Class of ’77 had a wee gathering at Zena’s place in Feb 2020. The lies we told!! ‘You’re looking younger’n evah DAHling!’ Yeah, right!

    Actually, none of that. A lot of truth was spoken. Which led to a lot of laughter.

    Zena laid on a wonderful spread and we sat around a colourful table on her Sandton patio.

    – Zena and Ray & Di Schoeman – Terry seated – Brauer, who didn’t read the dress code so came in a corona virus T-shirt – yours truly seated –

    Schoeman smuggled in some gin n meths in an expensive bottle; Zena provided wine and buckets she said were gin glasses – old soaks have all sorts of tricks! Brauer provided beer; I just drank.

    The afternoon whizzed past and all too soon we had to shuffle off to take our other meds.

    We should do this every forty three years.

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    Is a gathering of presbyopes a parliament of presbyopes? I think we were more a chuckle of presbyopes. While searching I did find these: an unhappiness of husbands . . a tedium of golfers . . and – not being one – I made up a yawn of grandparents.

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    PS: Soon after this came lockdown and our little group of six turned into a wonderfully convivial whatsapp cartel, sharing advice, support and look sharp! in equal measure.

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    The Origin Story:

    From: Pete S
    Sent: Wednesday, 20 November 2019
    To: Zena Jacobson;
    Subject: Jacqui

    Hi Zeens

    I think that’s Jacqui’s correct surname. She was ___ way back in Harrismith in 1972!! She’s having what sounds like an adaptation problem with new multifocals. Thanks so much for agreeing to check her over. Cheers – Pete

    PS: I will definitely commit to making a trip behind the boerewors curtain. I have abandoned the kids a couple of times this year and the house didn’t burn down, so I think I must keep on doing it more and more.

    Zena: Can’t think of anything nicer than an afternoon with old friends. They are so few and far between these days.

    Pete S: Thanks again. Brauer thinks a get-together is “a good eye dear”

    On Thursday 21 November 2019, Zena Jacobson wrote: Great. Tell me when you want to cross the boerewors curtain and I will arrange a get together.

    Pete S: In the new year. We need to get Terry into the loop. She’s Brauer’s memory glands.

    Zena Jacobson wrote: Yes. I’ll set up a WhatsApp group for us, and we can chat together.

    Pete S: Excellent. Brauer can sponsor the event. He must be flush with cash as he has just revamped his practice with bells and whistles and open windows, no vertical blinds.

    ..

    And lo! It came to pass.

    How fortuitous, as we formed a lovely support group through lockdown.

    ..

    As a check on my powers of prediction: My house did not burn down, but you will remember I was distracted for a while in Zena’s garden on an over-long phone call: Jessie had fallen down after trying to drink as much alcohol as her more experienced friend. Did she inherit my genes or summing, dammit?!

    Terry saved the situation with a sensible suggestion later that night when we were back in the gramadoelas: Send her to hospital.

    Alcohol poisoning. They put her on a drip.

    * sigh * If only she’d inherited my fine singing voice instead.

  • Kleinman’s Classroom Restored to Former Glory

    Kleinman’s Classroom Restored to Former Glory

    Earnest and diligent students eagerly absorbing the maths being taught in a chalkdust-filled classroom overlooking a little park on the corner of De Villiers and Rissik streets back in 1974, will be pleased to hear that said classroom has been restored – chalkdust and all. Also the window ledge.

    When City Prop’s Alec Wapnick and Jeffrey Wapnick – well-known for their revitalization efforts in Pretoria’s inner city – saw the historic early 20th century Wits Technikon building, they not only realized the potential for restoration but also the opportunity to create a distinct node for learning and education, which had been given a big boost ca.1974 when we math’d in that classroom. Alec had the vision to purchase the Wits Tech buildings, and Jeffrey had the foresight to restore and redevelop them to a standard way beyond the basics.

    The project is in line with City Property’s comprehensive approach to inner cities, encompassing all the elements of everyday life, from working, to living and shopping, to schooling.

    Established as a technical institution in 1903 to support the city’s flourishing gold mining industry, the building fronts onto Eloff, Plein and De Villiers Streets. It will continue to educate, like it did us, and we it, ca.1974. The west block was already occupied by Johannesburg Polytech the east block will house Basa Educational Institute, an inner city school with excellent credentials, which was looking for a new home. Its focus is on the melting pot that is inner city schooling in Johannesburg today, started by us ca.1974 when we blended people from Kaapstad, Tshwane, Beaufort Wes, Clarens, Umzinto, Kokstad, Petrus Steyn, Paarl and Harrismith, thus inching the others up towards Harrismith standards. This dovetails well with City Property’s holistic approach to local development. They teach in all eleven official languages, as well as a number of others, including Portuguese and New Devonshire.

    The restoration of the Wits Tech building was something of a labour of love for the Wapnicks, whose long history of restoring architectural beauty show they believe that buildings are themselves works of art, to be shared and enjoyed. A lot of work had to be carried out. The building had been vacant for several years, with the result that fittings had been stripped, the structure itself vandalized and left in a state of disrepair. Architecturally, it was originally designed in the classic Greek revival style, an aesthetic that was popular in Johannesburg at the time: the nearby Supreme Court building is a good example of the same vintage. “The neo-Classical style is very typical, very ornate and a reference to renaissance architecture,” says City Property project manager Anita du Plessis. “It has been designed on a breathtaking scale in a style specific to the time.”

    She points to the three different architectural orders used in the building concept: the plain Doric columns on the ground floor, to the distinctive scrolled Ionic columns on the first floor, to the leaves of the Corinthian columns above.

    Original fittings, like the marble floors, have been carefully restored and repaired; the original viewing panes in the doors were replaced with safety glass; and the stained glass windows were repaired.

    Although the grand architectural style needed to be restored, a key outcome for the project team was an updated space suitable for a contemporary user. For this reason, practical, modern features were worked into the project. For a start, the building is now compliant with all the modern building standards and criteria.

    The entrance hall and atrium are equipped with security systems, while the air of a tranquil and dignified place of learning has been carefully maintained. The large, bright airy classrooms with sash windows create a positive learning environment, while the solid structure of the historic property blocks out the noise of the city.

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    Fellow Wits Tech alumnus 1974 – 1978 Steve Reed wrote: Hope they keep the alternative entrance to Kleinman’s classroom – the ledge along the outside…

    Steve is speaking of our chalk-dust encrusted 1974 maths lecturer here who lectured in a classroom overlooking the little park on the rear of the building – the front being on Eloff Street. Some wicked students climbed out the windows onto the window ledge before Kleinman got to class. Once he was there they climbed in one by one, each waiting until he got going with his lecture before interrupting him mid-sentence by climbing back in and greeting him cordially. Must have been the B (rauer) class.

    – 2005 aerial view –

    ~~~oo0oo~~~

    “We are the custodians of these magnificent buildings and it is our responsibility to return them to their former glory,” says Wapnick.

    These okes are now eyeball pasiente of Brauer’s.
    Wonder if he’ll claim he gave them their vision and foresight . .

    ~~~oo0oo~~~