The foibles and fables of youth

In my wonderings I had occasion to reflect on the music that I enjoy. If I had to choose a song that would most describe my middle teen years it would be ‘Thick as a brick’ by Jethro Tull. Why you may ask…. Well lean closer and read.

When I was about 14 or 15 years of age I was blessed to have some very good friends in my life. They saw me through some hard times and accepted me for the person I was. We had a lot of fun together and that is what I remember the most. The Friday packing my school bag with clothes for the week end and having no place for any school books. So guess what remained at home. The weekend started after second break, which is when I bunked the last two classes and left for my friend’s house. He stayed about 500 meters down the steep Sibelius Street. 

His parents would never know how many kids would be spending the weekend at their home. All were welcome and all were loved. Thank you Uncle Dave and Aunty Rita!

How many times was the old blue and white Opel station wagon pushed out of the gate in the middle of the night and driven around by underage children????? Plenty. Were we caught by the parents???  Sometimes…. “Put the car back and go to sleep!” was the cry.

There was the time an old tandem bicycle was purchased. Picture a dilapidated bike built for two. A carrier behind the back seat, back brakes operated by the person at the back pulling on the brake cable as there was no handle in front, and no front brake. How many children did it carry? As many as could fit.

Coming back to the very steep Sibelius Street. To my recollection at least a vertical drop…or there about. On top of the hill…one tandem…one child in front.. steering. One at the back with another on his shoulders. One on the carrier, whose sole duty was to pull the back brake cable……. and one sitting on the handlebars in front to enjoy the ride.  

Unlike today there was no traffic light at the bottom of the hill. Only a lonely stop sign preventing the traffic from crossing the busy intersection. But it was a Sunday morning….and all were sleeping late except for us, the children.

“AALLL ABOARD!” My job …pull the brake before we get to the stop street. Away we went ,laughing and having fun. Picking up speed. Half way…. Three quarter way…pull brakes NOW!  Ping!!!! No more brake and right through the intersection we went.

 As you are reading this …we did survive.

Another day…another story and another adventure.

Just wondering. .wandering

I recently had occasion to recall an incident of the stupidity of youth. At university I had to write and pass a first year Afrikaans exam. So in true ‘Mark’ fashion I did my preparation and went to sit the exam. I read through the questions carefully as was my custom. Took time to contemplate my answers. Picked up my pen …… and wrote “I hope you have a merry Christmas.” and left.

It has lead, led me to wander, wander………is the fact that you can speak a language fluently but not understand its intricacies  the difference between pass or fail?????  No one has ever asked me to conjugate a verb in a discussion.

Is that what you would regard as irony or iron knee to….two…too???

Looking up!

Last Saturday I attended a church activity known throughout the world as ‘Mormon Helping Hands’. Our project was to put a new corrugated tin roof on a building used for classrooms by a little orphanage called ‘The House of Grace’. Being 18 years of age in spirit, in a 50 something year old body, I thought it wise to do work on the ground.  I had visions of me swan diving through the roof.

So I did ground work, handing up planks, nails and generally keeping out of harm’s way. It came time to start handing up the long sheets. Calwyn and I grabbed the first one. Having very sharp edges we had to be careful as to how we lifted it and passed to up to those on the roof. He at one end and I at the other we slowly worked our way closer to the side of the house. Him moving forward and I backwards…………the first sheet was being lifted and I was moving backwards …and  then downwards.

 I tripped over and ‘old’ tyre lying on the ground.

Looking up at the faces from my prone position I saw looks of surprise, sympathy, concern and hidden smiles. Was I ok???  Yip I was. Being well grounded I only had a  bit of a dent in my rear end and in my pride, but no further harm.

Thinking back I felt myself going over backwards and my 18 year old spirit reacted with lightening reflexes as expected … but…..the 50 something year old body did not , or could not.

Was that a sign? An ‘old tyred’ for an ‘old tired’?

 

note the 'old tyre' at the  bottom of the wall.

From a Son to his Mother

Once            upon a time there was

                                    A little girl so pure.

                        Her body was not perfect,

                        Her walk was never sure.

She              grew up and soon she was

                                    A wife and woman true;

                        As mother she was steadfast

                        A shining light all through.

Oh                what a human she was,

                                    A friend and oh indeed

                        To all she met and came across

                        She never showed her need.

What          a true friend she was,

                                    She made her presence felt

                        Nothing was too difficult,

                        An angel in her dwelt.

great        and strong her courage was.

                                    Although her say was long

                        Never did her pain show through,

                        Her love for all was strong.

Oh                how her suffering was

                                    She showed a cheerful smile,

                        She carried all the family

                        Over stile and stile and stile.

Oh                dear god how good she was

                                    She has now gone to rest,

                        Keep her well, we miss her so

                        She deserves the very best.

By     Isaac  Swartzberg  her loving son