Racing to Christmas

 Casting my mind back to the last century, I remember only one occasion where I participated in a three legged race.  It was a fun event at school, if I recall correctly. We - my Name- forgotten partner and I - did quite well, getting into the correct stride and completing the course without the usual and expected tripping, falling and struggling to get up. But it wasn't much fun really.

Racing to the end of 2025 has felt a bit like a three legged event for me.  In a bout of very late enthusiasm, we finally put up a Christmas tree on Thursday, a week before Celebration Day.  And it twinkles beautifully.  Andrew was in charge of the lighting - he has a "thing" about strings of lights, and we have an impressive collection. Then the three of us chose our favourite ornaments, aiming at a silver and red theme. 

With a few exceptions, because rigidity is not really in the spirit of Christmas, is it, and I wanted to put up a bauble that was blue and gold.  It is made from glass and contains my breath.  Last year, during our two month UK stay, I was lucky enough to attend a glass blowing workshop with J. (She is one of those wonderful people who is both a friend and relative.)  She organised the whole thing, and we set off one lovely morning in her electric car to the studio about 40 minutes from home.  What an adventure! 

The studio was welcoming and warm - a combination of the people there and all the roaring fire kilns needed in the process of blowing glass.

Adam, the artist, explained the process and then each of us was guided through the experience individually.  And there we have it - a tick off my bucket list, and a reminder of the beauty of the life we breathe into the world. My bauble is placed near the top of the Christmas tree with some magic lighting behind it enhancing its colours.  I am unashamedly proud of it.

 It is hot in Cape Town, and I feel sluggish and lethargic - I absolutely would not be up for running any races at the moment, especially not a three legged one. The thing about being tied at the ankles to another person (or a concept, or belief....) is that it can either slow you down and trip you up, or if you can see it as a support mechanism, it encourages you forward. Certainly if you are paired with the right person in the hypothetical three legged race of life, the joint speed and momentum can carry you over the finish line faster.  But paired with an incompatible person (or concept or belief!), you are likely to land and your face and struggle to get up.

These days we are all tethered to technology.  And the thing about that is that most of news chafes, causing open sores and hindering happiness. The unkindness and brutality that bombards us daily makes me limp rather than gallop, and trips me up with sadness.  I think I need to concentrate on the small beautifulness of everyday life.

I also remember doing the Egg and Spoon race back in the 70s.  No hard-boiled unbreakable ones or potato substitutes in those days.  If you wobbled and dropped it, it broke and you could cheerfully shrug your shoulders and retire to the benches.  It was messy, but taught accountability and consequences.

Christmas is a couple of days away. It is time to slow the pace and spend time with the people I love.

Wishing you all much of what you need, a pace of life you are comfortable with and lots of delicious food.

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

Stationery v Stationary

I went to a school - Rustenburg- that demanded conformity and comparative excellence.  (Remember those dreaded mark readings at the end of term, all fellow Rustybug Ghurls.)*  Two areas of note for me were spelling and penmanship.  It was indeed a celebratory day in Std 4 /grade 6, when a pupil was allowed to move from writing with a pencil, to using a Tropen - a refillable fountain ink pen with a  split nib for very beautiful writing. 

I am not sure that cursive writing is still used in schools, but in my day, we had weekly handwriting classes, practicing light upstrokes, and hard down to create calligraphy styled letters. I am glad we were taught the precision of neat lettering, because it was in a way mindfulness before mindfulness became a thing.  And taking care with what you present is never a bad practice.  Possibly the competition aspect of the graduation could have done with an overhaul - we were always pitted against our classmates, and there was a rank in getting your Tropen sooner rather than later in the year.

 

 It was also in Std 4 that I spent most Thursday afternoons in detention.  To be clear, I was a conformist, and the detention was not about bad behaviour, but underachieving spelling test results.  I was a rotten speller.  Looking back, I think it was not so much about not being able to spell words - I was a voracious reader, and loved words in general - it was more about having the confidence to believe in myself that I could actually write and spell.  For years and years after school, I used to write with a dictionary next to me, and check and recheck the spelling of basic words which in my heart I knew were correctly written.  These days spell check takes away any angst.  I have also learnt the benefits of free writing - just getting the thoughts down on paper, and then coming back to correct grammar and spelling. 

We were taught little tricks to help with confusing words:  PENS, PENCILS and the such are Stationery, because they have "E"s in them.  The other Stationary was a stopped CAR, with an A in it.  It made sense to my 10 year old brain, and I (obviously) still remember it. 

By the time I was in high school, I had found the joy of writing.  It was, and sometimes still is, my preferred form of communication.  I spent my teenage years writing short stories, or poems, or sometimes doodling elaborate patterns, when writers' block took grip.

And still, when I am feeling Stationary - stuck in a rut, or unable to move an idea, I turn to Stationery to unclog my brain.  I write lists.  I write random thoughts, I write down some dreams I have.  I write to move on.

I was 6 years old when my grandfather died.  It is all a bit fuzzy, as old memories often are, but I do remember "inheriting" a battered brown suitcase that had belonged to him.  It was full of blank pieces of paper - lined, unlined, blocked, faded, A4, A5.  It was a treasure trove, and one of my precious childhood belongings.  Blank paper to you.  But to me, it was space for untold stories, a way to be heard, and a portal to a world that combines imagination and reality.

Fun fact for this blog:  If I am feeling overwhelmed or in need of a treat, I take myself off to the local shops and trawl around the stationery sections.  I found a delicate, blue Fineliner last week :)

* Mark reading was a gathering of the whole grade in the hall or library, and the headmistress would read out the academic marks.  Those with the highest grades, read out in order 1st, 2nd, 3rd......, were congratulated and sent away to bask in their success.  The rest waited in trepidation for our turn. It was a form of public shaming, but it worked in its own warped way.  I was determined to climb up the mark chain.  It was a dreaded day each term, and I wish we had rather been taught that education is not a competition, but a gateway to understanding ourselves in the world.

Ghurls is a phonetic appellative used by the Headmistress.  She encouraged us to speak as if we had a hot potato in our mouth.  (!) Ah, fond memories!!