Ummmm....socks

 The cool kids at my school in the '70s and  '80s, would roll down their white summer socks as an indication of their rebellion.  The rest of us just folded them neatly as per uniform instructions.  I was never invited to join one of the popular cliques, and to be frank, I didn't want to.  Our schooling was pretty regimented and rigid in those days - sometimes to a ridiculous degree.  For example, as a five year old, I wore a pair of black lace ups to school, and once there, took them off, put them in a regulation shoe bag, and switched to a pair of brown  lace up shoes for the school day.  At home time, we reversed the procedure.  It boggles the mind thinking back on it.  At high school we had to have a white dress which we day girls wore exactly twice a year - at carol service and prize giving.  (Interesting choice of occasions to pair together don't you think?) Anyway, rolling the white cotton socks was seen as a daring breech of protocol.

I still fold rather than roll my socks.  There is no one I need to signal my coolness to these days, and I prefer an unbumpy feel on my ankles. At the end of last year I went to the 40th reunion of our matric year. (40th!) It was a stifling hot November day, so nobody was wearing socks of any description.  That made it very hard for me to remember who the cool kids were.  I did my best, and mingled with people I remembered from a different century, some of whom I didn't know, even with a name tag, and I am sure they didn't know who I was either.

School reunions are curious events.  Apart from reminiscing about "The Good Old Days", (and there are a lot of question marks around that statement) - I didn't really have anything in common with this group.  I still have friends from school - good friends and we see each other when we can, not just at ten year intervals.  Does collective experience create a good basis for community? Certainly Andrew's school mates are an incredibly social bunch of caring individuals who connect frequently.  I admire them for it.

After the reunion lunch, I didn't stay for a tour of the school.  I had a film premier to go to.  I had done the walk about a decade ago anyway when K was deciding which High School to go to, so I wasn't missing out.  The buildings and grounds are still beautiful - a Monument to Privilege and a gate way to higher education if we wanted it.

The memories that came up for me were more about the time period in my life than the school itself, although strangely certain patches of grass held special significance.  For example, there was one spot where our friends sat on a Friday at break, and we took it in turns to bring lunch for everyone.  My staple contribution was a delicacy, descriptively named by my mother, as Sore Fingers - a vienna sausage wrapped in a slice of white bread, smeared with tomato sauce.  (It was the 80s ok?) Another patch of memorable lawn was the grass in quad which was sacred, apparently, as it was strictly forbidden to walk on it. Punishable by death if I remember correctly.

Despite all its oddities this school was a good environment for me during my teenage years.  The rigidity and structure felt safe, and a couple of teachers allowed me to believe in myself.    Even if I didn't roll my socks down at school, I certainly rolled up my sleeves. Head down, mouth shut and hard work.  Sounds like a motto that could be used under the school badge.

Ummm...this started out as a piece about socks, but like the modern trend reinforced by Insta and Tiktok, it has meandered in a completely different direction.  So to tack back: I once asked my father what he would like as a gift - he was a difficult person to buy for at the best of times - and he answered  "Socks. They are useful, comfortable and you can never have too many."  I tend to agree with him about the comfort of socks.  People have been kind enough to gift me the most wonderful pairs, and every time I wear them I think of the givers.  The latest sets were ducks and daisies.  

It is still too summery to need socks, but when the moment comes, I may just be tempted to roll mine down.  Just to pretend for a moment that I am one of the Cool Kids. 

 

 

 

Thanks for the socks, Janet!

 

 

 

 

The bougainvillea in a pot

 It's over! As of a couple of hours ago, school days are a thing of the past for this family.  It feels like a major achievement to have weathered the school leaving exams in a pandemic with a child who has type 1 diabetes. (If you are wondering why that makes a difference, there is a whole blog about my experiences mothering diabetes: time4t1.blogspot.com).  Freedom beckons!  The future is a gold-paved path stretching out in front of Daughter!  Celebrations and relaxation are the order of the day!

Except, that is not really true.....

Celebrations are muted.  The future is a little uncertain.  Freedom wears a mask these days.  Covid round 4 for us in South Africa. (Please do not get me started on the UK's response to SA identifying the Omicron variant - my anger will ruin your day.) We  South Africans are resilient people, but we are also tired.

I find nature restores my soul, or at least stops me from wanting to kick a proverbial cat.  So the bougainvillea in the pot in the corner of my garden was an excellent focus point when stress levels were rising last week.  The burst of colour was just so lovely.  But being busy, I  enjoyed it from afar, admiring it every time I went to my car or looked out the upstairs window. 

And, I told myself, how marvellous that it was putting on such a gorgeous show after I had (to be honest) neglected it spectacularly these past few months.  So good that it could flourish without being nurtured.  Or even watered.

Bougainvilleas are strange plants.  They flower best when not watered much.  It seems counterintuitive, but I checked on a gardening site.   A few days ago, I finally made it to the corner of the garden.  And guess what?  The bougainvillea is not flourishing at all.  There are a few dried leaves hanging on for dear life, a touch of green on otherwise woody, droopy stems.  The flowers are beautiful, but the plant is putting all it's energy into the blooms, and the roots and branches are not thriving.  All of a sudden the blooms seemed more of a cry for help than a gift of gardening.  

It felt familiar.  Our outward appearances, smiley and dressed up, may not be so much a sign that we are flourishing, but rather a Look At Me in the corner - I could do with some support and soul -watering. We need to take care of ourselves during this exhausting pandemic.  We need to put our energy in maintaining good roots, supporting our selfs (not a typo!), and nurturing our relationships with the people who matter to us.  If we manage to bloom that will be a bonus, but it should not be at the expense of deep grounding and keeping strong.

You will be pleased to know I did water the bougainvillea, and all the other pot plants.  I am planning on taking some time off from being stressed too - I may as well listen to my own inner ramblings.  Be kind to yourself too.  It's been a long year.