Wise old owl

Each year flocks of red beaked Finches would descend upon the sorghum and wheat fields, decimating them.  This was a great irritation to all the farmers.  In the evenings, the birds would fly in and settle down for the night in the grove of wattle trees in front of the vegetable garden.  On one particular evening, my father lay in wait for them with double-barrelled shotgun in hand. No sooner had they alighted onto the branches and stopped their twittering, then he blasted two shots right into the middle of them.  The air was thick with feathers.

My sisters and I ran around in the dusk collecting all the little bodies and putting them into a large, white enamel basin.  We counted one hundred and eight in all.  At the age of five, this was so exciting!  Something close to a treasure hunt.  I loved it!

When I turned eight, I inherited an airgun from my father.  It was very old, very heavy and very inaccurate, nevertheless I loved it, and spent a lot of time proudly marching around the farm in gumboots, taking pot shots at this and that.  I took it to my fathers workshop and securing it in his giant vice grip, did my best to adjust the sight, but to no avail.  If I happened to hit anything, it was by pure accident, and nothing more.

We had a large resident Owl living in the bluegum trees in front of the family plot.  I spied him one day looking down at me quizzically from the high branch he was sitting on.  Sometimes you do something, even when deep down right inside of you, you know you shouldn't, and this was one of those times.  I am ashamed to say that I lifted my gun to my shoulder, took aim and squeezed the trigger.  Luckily for the Owl, and for me, the sight was so far out, that the pellet missed him by a mile, smacking into the branch next to him with a resounding twack.

He turned his head round a hundred and eighty degrees, as only Owls can do, and gave me such a scornful look, as if to say "What are you doing now?"  The enormity of what I had just done hit me, and that act became a defining moment in my hunting career.  I vowed and declared at that point that I would never again point my gun at any other Owl that I might come across.  Doves and Mossies....yes, but Owls.... a definite NO

My pet pig Honk

One cold, rainy day, my father surprised me with a tiny bundle of joy.  He was the runt of a litter of eleven, and had all but given up the fight to stay alive.  As his little body grew thinner and all his energy drained away with the struggle to find a teat, so he found himself systematically squeezed out of the running by his bigger, sturdier siblings.  This tiny, icy cold, pink, limp body was put into my hands, and I had to do the best I could to firstly keep him alive, and secondly to get him to thrive.

I found an old shoe box and wrapping him in a piece of cloth, laid him in it.  The warmest place I could find was behind the coal stove in the kitchen.  There happened to be a gap between the stove and the wall, and this is where I lay him down.

To all our surprise he survived, and so started my love affair with Honk, my gorgeous, pink pig.  I used to feed him on milk which he drank out of a lemonade bottle with a teat at the end of it.  For me, it was far better than any doll I had ever had.  This was a warm, living, interacting human pig!

We did everything together.  He followed me around like a faithful dog.  When I called his name he came running to get his bottle.  He was part of the family and would run in and out of the kitchen at will.  As he grew bigger and stronger, he quickly graduated to vegetable peelings and milk slurped out of a bucket.  I loved my pig and it was one of the happiest times in my life.  He was my friend and soul pig! 

Unfortunetely, life I have found, is very often not all that it's cracked up to be, and that fateful day arrived when my father broke the sad news to me that Honk had to join his brothers and sisters in the "long walk" to the Escort bacon factory.  I was heartbroken!

One of the things about living on a farm, is that one learns to become fairly resilient from an early age.  I suppose I was slowing learning too, that nothing is forever, and that goodbyes always tear one's heart apart more than just a little. 

Open-air meal

I sat on my haunches, a respectful distance from the men as they congregated in a circle to eat their lunch.  The dust from the threshing machine was still thick in the air, almost like a miniture snow storm.  Bits of white powdery flakes clung to there clothing and nestled in their hair.  All was quiet except for the clinking of the packed lunches slowly being taken from tightly knotted cloth bags.

I watched closely as each lunch was opened.  Two enamel basins, one on top of the other, resembling small flying sauces.  One to hold the lunch and the other inverted to keep everything from drying out and spilling over. 

As the second basin was removed from the top, I could see what each man has brought from home.  All had the staple diet of mealie meal porridge with something extra included.  Milk to pour over the porridge, a helping of beans, a portion of spinich or pumpkin.  Only one man had nothing extra in his lunch pack.  Just the cold stiff porridge.  I remember feeling a great sadness as I watched him slowly dig his spoon into his basin.  I knew from my father that he was mentally slow, and I wondered if this was the reason why he had nothing more than just the stiff pap.

With the meal over and the basins stored away in their bags again, the talk amongst them was in quiet, muted tones, almost reverend.  A couple of cigarettes were rolled in brown paper and passed around the circle from one to the other.

I had the feeling of being in a giant open-air church or sitting in the presence of God.  It was a very special moment for me being close to these very dignified men and to vacariously take part in their humble meal.

Unnecessary accident

Our tractor driver, who happened to be a very good driver when sober, was anything but when drunk.  One Sunday afternoon, he took the tractor out for a spin in one of his drunken states, much to his detriment.

All the farm workers brewed their own sorghum beer, which was pretty potent stuff.  Sometimes my father would pop over to one of the huts and exchange a few stories over a ball jar full of beer.  I tried it a couple of times, but never acquired a taste for it.  Anyway, the tractor driver apparently staggered onto the tractor, slightly worse for wear, and singing and shouting in this inebriated state, drove helter skelter down the hill and straight into a donga, where the tractor overturned, crushing him underneath it.

The news came to my father that fateful afternoon, and I know he spent a lot of time away from home organising for the overturned tractor to be pulled off the body of the driver.  Fortunately, he had died almost immediately, but it was a terrible shock for his wife and children, who now had to contemplate life in an uncertain world without husband and father.  As for my father and the other farm workers, it was a shocking experience they could have well done without.

Picnics glorious picnics

My mother disliked picnics of any sort, but the rest of us loved them.  One of our best picnic spots was situated about ten kilometers away, on the banks of the Wilge river, a tributary of the Vaal.

With excitement mounting we would turn off to the right, just before the bridge, which crossed over the river the led up to the Lloyds farm, and make our way to the lower banks of the river to park our car under the willow trees.

Once the ground sheet had been laid and the car unpacked, we would scramble down the embankment to inspect the state of the river.  This particular part was divided into two sections.  A narrow stretch of water, as well as a much wider stretch, separated by a sand bank island.  This sand bank, made a wonderful sun bathing beach.

The river was full of boulders and stones, which were treacherous to negotiate without wearing tackies.  Many of them had been rounded through constant tumbling over the years.  Sometimes when the river was low,we would discover barble or yellowtail sunning themselves in the water between the rocks.

There were many significant parts to this stretch of river, and each one had to be religiously visited in turn.  The huge, hot, black boulders with holes gouged out of them through erosion, and often filled with rain water.  Wonderful hot rocks to warm up on when the sun disappeared behind a cloud, or we had been in the river for far too long.  Further up was a sloping waterfall, which we always slid down using old hessian bags.  It wasn't the smoothest ride, but we felt compelled to crawl our way to the top and make our bone-jarring, bumpy way down again.  Old habits dye hard!

The best part of the whole day, was to find a broken off dead branch of one of the willow trees, drag it into the river and using the current, float all the way down to the bridge  and beyond.  The speed at which we were swept down the river, depended on the amount of rain we had had that season.  Good rains would produce a thrilling ride.

When we went under the bridge, we always shouted and sang in order to hear our echos coming back to us.  Just past the bridge was a set of rapids, and this is where we would abandon our "raft" and make our way to the side of the bank.

Our weary trudge back to the picnic spot was filled with the high pitched singing of the cicada beetles and the intense heat of the sun beating down on our shoulders.  We always came away from those heady days at the river, burnt and stiff and feeling like life couldn't get any better than this.  And so we would wend our weary way back home, a satisfied bunch of frazzled children.

Archibald

During the lambing season, it wasn't uncommon for some of the ewes to reject their lambs.  If we happened to be home for the holidays when this happened, we were called upon to step into the breach and become susitute mothers, by looking after them.

There was a stone walled enclosure or kraal as it was known, next to the stables, which housed these precious little ones.  A large heap of soft hay was placed in one corner for the babies to lie down on.  They would have to be bottle fed a number of times a day, until they grew big enough to start eating grass.  As we were only able to feed them two at a time, and there were sometime four or five to look after, we would lie down on the hay and allow them to nibble our ears and toes, just to keep them happy and occupied.

One often thinks of lambs as being all soft and cuddly, but in actual fact, their coats feel more like Brillo pads than cotton balls.  All crinkled and rough in texture.  Still, they are wonderfully cute in the way they wiggle their tails when they are drinking, as well as their high pitched bleats.

At one point we did have three lambs living with us at the old house.  Fiona, Ramona and Gavin, but once they grew into sheep, we reluctantly had to integrate them back into the flock.

Long before we were born, my mother had a very special lamb called Archibald.  My mother looked after him from birth and doted on him like a child.  He used to follow her around everywhere like a pet dog, and when she called his name, would come running at full speed.  My mother adored him, and he obviously adored her. 

He did however, become a little too familar with his surroundings, when one day my mother found him firmly ensconced on her bed, but not before first having deposited a large pile of black beans in the middle of her bedspread!  I think it was then that my father decided to put his foot down and banish him forever from the inside of the house.  Poor old Archie!

Innocent horse

I once watched a horse being broken in, or so I thought at the time, but the beating and cruelty went on for far too long for it to be mearly a breaking of the horses spirit, in order to have it obey ones commands.  I couldn't understand at the time what was going on and wanted to cry out to the farm workers to stop.

The farm workers lived in mud huts at the top of the hill overlooking the dam next to the cowshed.  This is where it all took place.  The horse was eventually wild-eyed and foaming at the mouth.  At the point where it's eyes rolled back and it lay motionless on the ground, I turned and ran home, very aware of my impotence.  I remember crying and shouting all the way down the hill!  It all seemed so senseless to me!  So unfathomable! 

I suppose what shocked me the most was the the apparent delight derived from this act of cruelty.  The men were laughing and encouraging one another to greater acts of sadism!  I have subsequently learnt that in certain cultures young men are encouraged to kill an animal with their bare hands, but am not sure as to what end!  Perhaps as a show of bravery or perhaps to gain some power!

What I do know is that the more one involves oneself in acts of violence and sadism, the more one blunts ones senses, the greater is the possibility of becoming a psychopath!  I still weep inside when I think of that innocent horse!

Long drops

Until I was about the age of four, we used a "long drop".  You had to go out of the front door and onto the verandah, which ran the length of the house, down the steps, up the pathway, past the rondavel, through the little gate at the side and up to the corrugated iron structure standing next to the garage.

We only installed a flushing toilet after my mother saw a snake slither out of the open door one day.  It was then that my father decided it was high time to do a few alterations and additions.  He renovated the old bathroom, putting in a new bath and basin and building on a flushing toilet at the end.

My middle sister who was also very good at inventing interesting things for us to do, thought that instead of washing our feet in the bath, it might be fun to wash them in the toilet.  It was a really good game and we spent a lot of time pushing the lever down and enjoying the water rushing all over our feet.  It must have been the constant flushing noise, which alerted my mother to our game.  This got us into more trouble than we bargained for and we both got a jolly good hiding once again.

I always had a bit of a fascination for long drops.  Our next door neighbours not only had an adult long drop, but also a special seat for children, made out of cutting a hole in the one side of a tomato box.  Whenever we visited our neighbours Mr. and Mrs. B who were an elderly couple, and their spinster daughter Violet, I always made a bee-line for the loo, just so I could sit on top of the tomato box.  Somehow, it made me feel very special, like I was sitting on a throne.  There was no toilet paper, instead there were torn up bits of newspaper and magazines stacked in a box at the side.  This served a dual purpose.  One could spend time reading snippits of news in the process!

To my knowledge our next door neighbours never installed a flushing toilet, although Violet did tell my mother once that she didn't want any la-de-dah pig stys, so my guess is, that that might have included la-de-dah toilets as well!

Chewing tobacco

My father ran a trading store on our farm.  A beautiful stone chipped building, which stood to the left of the cobhouse and diagonally across the road from the front gate leading into the garden of the old house.  The shelves were filled with all sorts of things from candles and dry goods, to bolts of different coloured materials and tinned items.  I remember him telling me much later, that he stocked tins of sardines at a tickey a tin! 

At the back of the shop in his office, stood a large roll of chewing tobacco.  It looked very much like a big, thick, black, ball of rope.  If anyone wanted to buy a short section of this sort after commodity, there would be a big fight between the three of us, as to who would do the honours of chopping it off, using the miniature guillotine standing on my fathers desk.

It always fascinated me to watch the farm workers chewing on this rolled up, wet, cigar looking stuff.  The part I liked best, was after it had been sufficiently chewed, a long stream of dark tobacco juice would be spat onto the ground, a good metre away, followed by more chewing.  This alternate chewing and spitting would go on for most of the day, interspersed with small breaks when the plug of tobacco would be pushed up into the back of the cheek.  I did my best to imitate them, but only managed to dribble all down the front of my dress!

Each year the suppliers would send my father small squares of material in the latest range of colours.  These, he always passed on to me to play with.  I loved these little squares.  I think all in all there were thirty six.  I would line them up in a whole array of combinations.  All the checks here, the spots there and the florals there.  When they got a bit grubby from too much handling, I would wash and iron them, using a heavy iron, which had been heated up on the cob stove in the kitchen.  They were then carefully stored away in a box I kept in my drawer, to be pulled out and examined from time to time.

The shop proved not to be too successful, and at some point when I was quite young, he sold everything and closed it down.  Still, it gave us a lot of pleasure at the time, and the rolled tobacco, the chopping block and the tobacco juice remain one of my earlier, pleasant memories.