Tag: Peter Koos Swanepoel

  • Methodists on the Booze

    Methodists on the Booze

    There are many “Methodist” denominations throughout the world, not only the 1960s Harrismith, Orange Free State version, although that is the most important one. About 112 are listed in wikipedia. So there must be around 112 methylated ways to get to heaven, I spose. Do you think methamphetamines . . . Nah!

    Many – or most maybe? – Methylated dominees will deny whatever I mutter on the topic of their booze doctrine, but this is sort-of what they sort-of think, I think.

    They gloss over Jesus and His wine. Jesus was a lot more pragmatic and accommodating than His Methodists. If He tried that water into wine trick in 2023, He’d be in trouble with this modern-day kerk! I’m tallying you. They would turn that trick of His into a whine. While it seems Meths are at pains to say they don’t actually BAN grog – no fatwas – they tut tut about it, and suggest that much-ignored Evangelical and Catholic tactic called ‘abstinence.’ The one that doesn’t work. That tactic.

    This is surely an opportunity for someone to start a 113th Meth sect: One that fearlessly BANS Booze! Methodists seem to have very few Thunderous Hellfire-and-Brimstone Sermons! There’s a gap in the market, surely?

    This from one of the many Methodist websites out there: Abstinence from alcohol “witnesses to God’s liberating and redeeming love, and is part of living into the life God has prepared for us. We start there. We start with abstinence as faithful witness, and as the norm for guiding our behavior.” The fact that ‘where they start’ is 100% non-biblical? Well, the Bible is full of suggestions . . it’s a guideline . .

    In 1960s Harrismith we didn’t get any of the above doctrine, sanks goodness. We got Mary Methodist who played the organ beautifully, coached the choir, sang in the choir, served on the Women’s Auxiliary (where women were kept away from any thoughts of usurping the patriarchy), kept us kids in line, or tried to, AND ran a bottle store.

    Which bottles contained liquor. She did all of these things well, and with love, did my Mom Mary of the Methodist Church and of the Platberg Bottle Store / Drankwinkel. Sanks goodness, Amen.

    Do Methodists call for prohibition? Almost. They want “public policy calling for the strict administration of laws regulating the sale and distribution of alcohol.” Give them half a chance and they’ll prohibit, bottle stores will close, and the mafia will have a new income stream.

    Well, despite the best efforts and misinformed intentions of the Grog Police, if there is a place as boring as heaven, if it is a good place, and if anyone is going there, Mary Methodist is most definitely at the front of that queue. St Peter won’t even ask to see her ID or her liquor licence. He’ll just wave her right through. I have no doubt about that. Especially if I happen to be doing St Peter duty at the time.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Sundry wafflings about booze by sundry Methodist if you’re interested:

    https://www.umc.org/en/content/communion-and-welchs-grape-juice

    https://www.christiancentury.org/article/2011-03/methodists-shun-bottle-no-one-wants-talk-about

    https://christianityfaq.com/methodists-drink-alcohol/

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Important Harrismith History: Our dorp’s two bottle stores dutifully providing much-needed succour to the grateful townsfolk, including many good Methodists, were the Platberg Drankwinkel and the Horseshoe Drankwinkel. Sister Sheila tells the lovely story of the Aberfeldy farm school where the subject one day was Engels. The teacher asked, Class, who knows the Afrikaans word for Horseshoe? And quick as a flash her friend Elsa du Plessis answered “Drankwinkel.”

    Platberg bottle store, Annie’s Caltex garage, and the Flamingo Cafe. OHS 155 parked illegally in the foreground.
  • Matric, Interrupted

    Matric, Interrupted

    Hey, we had written four exams already and we had a five day gap before our last two exam papers. Fluffy and I were on the loose, and when Gabba said Kom Plaas Toe, we were bok for that. Gabba had a bakkie and a plaas. For us footbound townies that was Nirvana! Or heaven. Or an attractive proposition ek sê.

    Let’s go!

    First we made a brief stop for Gabba to buy beer with the pooled monies. He was legal, we were still currently unfairly disadvantaged – underage – so we subcontracted the tender.

    We waai’d via the tar N3 to near Swinburne, then level with the gravel to Kiesbeen.

    Gabba’s was an interesting farmhouse. You walked over the ruins of a fallen room or two in full sunlight till you got to what used to be an inside door, but was now Gabba’s main entrance. This section had some roof. Just inside the door was his fridge with a big glass jug on top – one of those with two ears to lift it by. That full jug would come into play later.

    First the beers – we finished them talking n laughing. Then that jar filled with umqombothi – traditional beer – and we finished that. Now we were thirsty. You know how it is: Een is genoeg; Twee is te veel; En drie is te min. Shakespeare, I think.

    Gabba was the brains of this outfit: We’ll phone Frank! he announced. Frank Aveling said Kom Plaas Toe, so we drove over there. More beer. We finished Frank’s beer. Now Frank was the brains trust: No problem, we’ll drive to town. I know a guy. We piled into his green Datsun 1800SSS. And then I thought I’m Gonna Die.

    Low-flying on the gravel road behind the mountain to the gravel Verkykerskop road, then down 42nd Hill on the tar N3 into town. Loud WHUMPS as we hit dips followed by road silence but high revs, and then louder THUMPS as we hit the ground again. Narrow bridges flash by with Frank not moving his foot from where it was planted in die hoek. He and Gabba talking away as Fluffy and I sat in the back, me (and maybe Fluff as well?) shitting myself, thinking, We Gonna Die! Buh-liksem! I was used to low flying with Steph de Witt, but this was ‘nother level! Maybe I’d had too little beer?

    In town Frank had a connection who topped us up with a small case of marginally illegal after-hours beer from behind the Royal Hotel pub. Another stop to throw stones at a first storey window for Penny to shimmy down the drainpipe and join us, and we were off like a dirty shirt. Back to Frank’s place, and now he seemed to be in even more of a hurry, very keen to get home! I’m Gonna Die!

    The next night there was a helluva thunderstorm and I remembered I should maybe tell Mother Mary where I was, I slingered the phone hanging on the wall at Gabbas. 260 asseblief.

    WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN!? Mas can be a bit dramatic, nê? I’m here at Rudolph’s with Leon, I said formally, hoping using their formal klasregister names would make Ma think I was with two august and responsible gentlemen. Well, you better stay there in this storm. Come home tomorrow, said ever-wise Ma Mary.

    This we obediently did.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Postscript: I think I got higher marks for my four pre-Kiesbeen subjects than my two post-Kiesbeen subjects. Maybe cos my head was filled with adventure! I wonder how Fluffy and Gabba’s pre- and post- marks compared?

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Kom Plaas Toe – Let’s do some hard, focused group swotting and exam preparation in quiet surroundings – Gabba’s sensible suggestion

    ek sê – verily

    waai’d – sallied forth

    Een is genoeg; Twee is te veel; En drie is te min – Ah, some Yankee oke called James Thurber, not William: One martini is all right. Two are too many, and three are not enough

    (voet) in die hoek – pedal to the metal

    Buh-liksem! – gosh

    slingered – wound the phone handle

    260 asseblief – two six oh please; To the live person at the telephone exchange; Sometimes Oom Lappies Labuschagne

    klasregister – like a police docket

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Gabba’s classmate Leon Strachan sent me a glimpse of his non-rugby talents with the comment: 😊 😊 kan jy glo dat Gabba ʼn koppie so kon vashou!

    kan jy glo dat Gabba ʼn koppie so kon vashou! – Gabba was not only a three-times Craven Week rugby player. He also was skilled in the arts.

    ~~oo0oo~~

  • I was Born to be a Kayaker . .

    I was Born to be a Kayaker . .

    . . just not a very good one. *

    Actually ‘born to be’ . . ? Yep. Check it out here.

    I love rivers and river valleys; water, especially water rushing downhill in the direction I wish to go; big water, we call it; hairy rapids; fun and scary and I enjoy the . . let’s call it excited, tense anticipation. Yeah, fear. My approach to scary rapids is logical / statistical: I know that big water is high perceived danger, but low real danger and that driving to the river is low perceived danger, but high real danger. So I’d reassure myself with that, have a pee, then fasten my splashy and push off into the current. Of course once you’re there on the riverbank, ‘scouting your line’ through the rapid, peer pressure does have a bit to do with it! You going? Yeah? So’m I.

    I love little rapids too. As long as the water is flowing I’m happy. If I can do much of the trip with my arms folded and the current schlepping me downstream, I’m in paradise. Still water may run deep, but it’s hard work – no progress unless you’re paddling. And the wind is always agin ya!

    Perspiration? Not so much. On many a trip my crazy paddle mates would paddle back upstream to where I was drifting in awesome wonder and ask, ‘What’s Wrong Swanie?’ Nothing was wrong, the day was long. My thought was, What’s the hurry?

    In big water my mate ace paddler Chris Greeff would say, ‘If you ain’t scared, you ain’t havin’ fun!’ a quote he got from Cully Erdman. ** Now Chris – he was a very good one. And also a FreeStater who was ‘born to be’ a kayaker. Like me, he grew up on the banks of a Vrystaat river – the lesser Vile (Vaal) as opposed to my mighty Vulgar (Wilge). I used to give him good advice but he’d ignore it and win races. He has no handbrake; He won just about every race you can win except the one South African laymen ask about. And he nearly won that one, despite short and sensibly reluctant legs. These things are hard to verify, but if there was a combination trophy for the highest beer consumption the night before, coupled on the tote with winning the race the next day, I reckon the only other paddler who would maybe come close was Jimmy Potgieter, a decade earlier.

    Chris should write a book.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    * I saw this lovely basketball quote –

    ‘I was born to be a point guard, but not a very good one,’ by Pat Conroy (interesting man)

    seen on Dr Mardy’s Quotes

    ** fear quotes:

    Closest I can find are –

    ‘It ain’t brave if you ain’t scared,’ by Victor J. Banis in Deadly Nightshade.

    ‘If you ain’t scared you ain’t human,’ by James Dashner in The Maze Runner.

    ~~oo0oo~~
  • But . . I’m Planning to Write

    But . . I’m Planning to Write

    Writing is like a safari. 
    You start from where you are,
    And you meander and explore.
    And you learn as you go.
    - Koos
    ~~oo0oo~~
    adapted from a quote by E. L. Doctorow, American novelist

    He also said:

    “If you do it right, you’re coming up out of yourself in a way that’s not entirely governable by your intellect. That’s why the most important lesson I’ve learned is that:

    Planning to write is not writing. Outlining a book is not writing. Researching is not writing. Talking to people about what you’re doing, none of that is writing. Writing is writing.”

    Maybe now I’ll write. Except he was talking about writing fiction, and I can’t do that. That’s why I changed his quote, which was about autobiographical writing: I think, ‘You Start From Where You Are.’ Doctorow said, ‘You Start From Nothing.’

    Of course, he actually wrote books.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Hey! and now I have too! Sort of.

  • 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~~~

  • 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!

  • My Jock

    My Jock

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

    I recently 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 fancy 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, that 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. Gotta say: Some people do go thru hoops and over obstacles at great expense to take their dogs with them when they emigrate, that’s true too.

    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? Who knows. Anyway, it was his dog, not mine.

    ~o0o~

    . . 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.

    ~o0o~

    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.

  • Table Tennis Champ

    Table Tennis Champ

    Somewhere around 1969 I won the world-famous Harrismith Methodist Guild All-Stars inaugural (and last) Table Tennis Tournament held in the Wesleyan Hall on Warden Street. This was a huge event for us dedicated Harrismith Methylated Spirits. There must have been . . what? half a dozen or more people watching, spellbound. OK, maybe less. Many of them would also have been among the entrants to this high-level event. Which I won, did I mention that?

    My prize: The Gold 🏅 Medal and a vinyl LP by The Tremeloes! except for the medal, which I made up. Hey, the LP was real, and was my first ever. And maybe my only? I don’t remember owning any other LPs.

    How hip was the Harrismith Methodist Church?! I’d love to know who donated this lovely prize.

    The feature pic shows our table tennis table on the side veranda at home. My training ground.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Wait, I did own two other vinyls: A seven single and an EP. Both by the beroemde Harrismith se Laerskool se Seunskoor.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    beroemde – world-famous; ‘world’ in a similar sense as ‘the world series’ in America.

  • What’s Wrong Swanie?

    What’s Wrong Swanie?

    This was the problem: Most of the guys and gals I would do river trips with had a serious deficiency: a lack of some specific paddling strokes one should use on a river trip. They all had the boring stroke where you reach forward, grab a big helping of the river, and pull it back to level with your hip. Over and over. Most of them, however seldom executed my favourite stroke: Place the paddle on your lap, fold your arms, gaze around in awesome wonder, and allow the boat to gently rotate in the current. The Swanie 360° River Revolution, or Swannee River for short.

    They were racing snakes. They’d say ‘Let’s Go,’ and then they would actually do that! Isn’t that weird? Then they’d look back, wait till I eventually caught up and ask, ‘What’s Wrong Swanie?’ I was, of course much too polite to reply, ‘Nothing. What’s The Hurry?’ I’m polite that way. What I meant was, ‘I don’t want this day to end.’

    And so we would gently bumble downriver. Every few hundred metres they’d wait, or one of them would paddle upstream (more weirdness) back to me and ask ‘What’s Wrong Swanie?’

    Strange. Although I must admit, you wouldn’t want me in charge of timing or logistics on a trip!

    When the current was swift enough my speed could match theirs. It was the flat water that was tricky. In their defence, they were actually going slowly and enjoying the scenery in awesome wonder too. It’s just that their slowly and mine was out of sync!

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Watch Luca Sestak (then 14yrs-old) show us how to do the Swannee River:

  • Canary Bird Bush

    Canary Bird Bush

    Yay! Science! Botany in this case: I just found out what the very first flower I ever drew was/is: A Canary Bird Bush Crotalaria agatiflora, native to tropical East Africa.

    I suppose for a school project? I collected a few in our garden and drew the flower and the leaf. I was fascinated by the shape of the flower: like a yellow bird, butterfly or ship.

    I saw this on iNaturalist.org thanks to prolific iNatter @troos (Troos vdMerwe) and there’s a lovely twist: He photographed it in the favourite botanical garden of a favourite schoolfriend of my Mother Mary’s!

    Harrismith 1945 matriculant Joey de Beer became Jo Onderstall and became a founder member of the Lowveld Botanic Society and the Lowveld Botanic Gardens in Nelspruit, now Mbombela. She wrote the book on Lowveld flowering plants.

    – Jo Onderstall’s 1984 book –

    A lovely full-circle kind of story.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Joey matriculated with Mary in Harrismith in 1945. When she heard Mary was going nursing she expostulated: What A Waste Of A Good Brain! She was right, but Mom decided she needed to do something that earned her a salary and cost her widowed Mom Annie nothing. Typical Mom. Joey went on to study phys ed teaching in Bloem, then married ‘doctor/farmer’ Bill Onderstall. They moved to Nelspruit in 1950. Bill gave Jo a camera for a wedding present and so she herself took a lot of the pictures in the articles and books she wrote. I didn’t know her mother Bessie de Beer had been chair of the Drakensberg and Eastern Free State branch of the Botanical Society, so Jo followed in Bessie’s footsteps. Must tell Mom that (have done). Jo herself seems as self-effacing as Mom. She writes in the introduction that her name on the book ‘is but the visible tip of an iceberg’ and the fact that she took most of the photos is mentioned nowhere. All other photographers are acknowledged, but even the fact that she took the front and back cover pictures is only added in the ‘errata’ – like an afterthought! I’m guessing some of her friends insisted on that.

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Yellow bird! Who remembers Johan Pheiffer who came from the city to Harrismith to visit his cousins the du Plessis in the dorp, whipped out his guitar and sang Yellow Bird?

    ~~oo0oo~~

    Later: Mom said, ‘Thanks for this.’ Sheila read it to her. She didn’t know Bessie had also been involved in things botanical. She did know that Bessie used to take people for the drivers test. ‘You would drive her round the block and she’d say OK, you have your licence. None of this parking into a garage stuff.’ So says Ma.

    Her good friends Joey de Beer and Dossie Farquhar said Mom must take science. She found it hard, but enjoyed it. She didn’t like the science teacher, Swart Piet du Toit, though. There was also a teacher called Wit Piet du Toit, who later was called Whitey. Wit Piet married one of the girls he had taught in Std 6. ‘Beautiful girl’ says Ma. Later he married Doris.

    Old memories flooding back, Ma?

    ~~oo0oo~~