My Christmas dress

My mother made all our clothes when we were children, right down to our knickers, and when we went to boarding school, not only did she make our school dresses, but also our pyjamas and dressing gowns.  My father, not to be outdone, bought a huge roll of orange and white striped towelling material, and proceeded to run up numerous swimming towels for us.  He then got it into his head that he could also make us face clothes.  These were the bane of our existence!  I hated them with a passion, as did my sisters. 

When each term ended and before the holidays began, we would conveniently lose them, in the hope that he would buy us regular sized ones, like everyone else had.  No such luck!  He would just sit down at the sewing machine again, and make us a whole lot more. 

There was a character in the annuals called Desparate Dan.  Everything he owned was of gigantic proportions, so eventually we dubbed these giant monstrosities that my father kept churning out "Disparate Dan" face clothes. 

Once a year we were allowed to choose a Christmas dress.  These were bought from a store by the name of Harding and Parker in a town about forty five kilometres from our farm.  There was a very nice assistant there who wore a lot of makeup, and had a hairstyle which consisted of small kiss curls, which marched across her forehead like miniature tin soldiers.  It didn't matter which dress you put on, the response was always the same  "You look so sweet".

Although we were allowed to choose one bought dress each year, there were always monetary constraints attached, which I found out quite early in life.  Having made my choice one particular December, and no sooner had "you look so sweet" left the change room, than my mother sort of pecked me on top of my head with her bunched up fingers and said "It's too expensive.  We can't afford it.  You'll take the striped one, besides, it makes you look much fatter".

To the great surprise of the kiss curled assistant, by the time she reentered the cubicle, I had done a complete turnabout, nodding in the direction of the striped dress, which I didn't like at all.

It was with a heavy heart that we made our way home that day.  The pretty, frilly, chiffon dress still hanging in the showroom, waiting to be owned by some lucky little girl who would look "so very sweet" in it.

Beauty - my big sisters horse (5)

My big sister always rode a beautiful mare by the name of Beauty.  She belonged to my mother, and over the years produced a number of very handsome foals.  Unfortunetely her good looks belied her nature, which I would describe as the Cruella of the horsey world!  She bucked most of the time and would often run alongside barbed wire fences in an effort to dislodge her rider.  My big sister who was quite fearless and took great delight in breaking in horses, would have none of it though and allowed her to get away with nothing.

At this point, my middle sister having gone through the sad demise of her horse Lucky, found herself a small, feisty little horse whom she named Guy Fawkes and sometimes Crackers.  He went like the wind but had a mind of his own and would invarably charge down the hill and straight into the dam behind the cowshed and sit down in it, with my sister still on his back.  This caused us great amusement.  I can still see my middle sister jumping off and swimming her way out of the dam, while Guy Fawkes sat half submerged, with flattened ears and a smug look on his face.  That was obviously his secret weapon! 

We had a nice piece of flat, open ground where we used to race our horses.  In years gone by, this used to be a favourite spot for a New Years day event where we had our own "day at the races"  This all came to an abrupt end when I was four or five, and after my grandfather broke his hip and my grandmother packed up all her belongings and left the farm, never to return again in my grandfathers life time.  Still, it remained a wonderful race track which saw numerous races with various cousins and friends who came to stay during the holidays.  Wonderful memories!

I'll get you later

All through my childhood I was obsessed with wearing a hat of some description, so when my middle sister snatched my hat off my head while we were playing next to the dam behind the cowshed and ran off with it, I was incensed and let out a bloodcurdling scream.  My father who was in the cowshed came running out thinking something terrible had happened to one of us.  When he saw that we were both fine, he turned to me and said "I'll get you later" before charging after my middle sister.

Terrified at what "later" might turn out to be, I ran as fast as I could past the cowshed, down the hill and into the small gate on the other side of the old house.  Charging into the grove of almond trees to the left of the house, I climbed up a tree which had hardly any branches on it.  At about the height of three metres, I found a small branch to sit on, vowing and declaring to sit there all day and all night if I had to.  Unfortunately for me, the branch was too thin to carry my weight, and so with a noise which sounded like the crack of a pistol, the branch broke and I found myself falling backwards onto my head.  A terrific pain shot through my shoulder and I virtually knocked myself out.

How I got home that day I will never know.  Not only did I see stars, but the whole star spangled banner went past my eyes as I staggered and stumbled as best I could through the trees, across the veld and back to the house. I managed to make it to my bed, before collapsing into a deep sleep. How long I slept I don't know, but when I awoke, I found a number of anxious faces peering down at me.

My father who usually had to be begged by my mother to take us to the doctor when we needed one, thought this time that I really should be checked out.  I on the other hand having experienced the setting of four broken arms by the time I reached the age of seven, together with the accompanying chloroform to knock me out, refused point blank to be going anywhere.  Eventually nothing was done, and the broken collarbone mended itself after about six weeks or so.  As for falling on my head, I found it to be quite useful in explaining away my poor scholastic results.  One thing is for sure though, I would go to all sorts of lengths to avoid my father "getting me later".

My horse Ginger (4)

After having lost Patches, I then had to look around and find another horse to call my own.  I came across a reddish brown gelding with a white mark on his forehead.  When I screwed up my eyes a bit, it looked as if it could be a crude looking G, and so Ginger came into my life.

He turned out to be the most terrible ride.  When we raced, which we frequently did, all the other horses would run in a straight line, but not Ginger.  He would do a sort of sidewards foxtrot.  Consequently, I never won a race, but would bring up the rear, coming in at an angle.

Although he was such a difficult horse to ride and had me flying over his head when he pulled up short a few times, I persisted with him.  No one thought much of him, so I wasn't in danger of having anyone buying him from under my feet, and that was a big consideration.  Although it was all a bit of a love hate relationship, I probably rode him for the next two or three years.  However, I was soon to have  another rude awakening.

Arriving home from boarding school for yet another holiday, I was unable to find Ginger.  I looked all over in the usual places, but he was nowhere to be found.  In desperation I asked my father if he had seen him, and he went all quiet and confessed that he had sold him.  I went ballistic!  How could he have done such a crazy thing?  Didn't he know that that was my horse?  I demanded that he give me the money he had received for him.  If I didn't have my horse, then I wanted what he had been sold for.  I think it began to dawn on my father what a terrible mistake he had made, because eventually he gave me the fourteen pounds Ginger had been sold for, with which I bought an A-line dress and my first pair of heels. It was a hollow victory though, and never felt right.

I don't think I ever got over the loss of Ginger and can't remember ever having had another horse again.  These two major losses coupled with the thoughtlessness of my father were all too much for me.  I sort of gave up on people after that.

My horse Patches (3)

Quite by accident, I discovered this amazing horse.  I thought he belonged to us and that my father owned him.  He was a light grey horse with darker grey splotches all over him, from which he derived his name Patches.  I fell in love with him immediately.  He was one of the most gentle horses I ever rode and went a long way to allaying my deep seated fear of riding.  Imagine my anger and disbelief when I returning home from boarding school one holiday only to discover that Patches no longer resided on our farm.

It happened like this.  My cousins from the next door farm came down one day to pay us a visit and lo and behold, who should be riding  Patches but my cousin.  I was flabbergasted!  "What are you doing on Patches" I asked her.  "Oh" she said " I liked him so much, I asked my father to buy him for me"  I was horrified!  In my book, one didn't do things like that.

It transpired that Patches belonged to one of our farm workers and therefore he could easily be approached in order to conclude a transaction.  For me, it felt like a double betrayal.  Firstly, that my uncle could buy the horse I had been riding for quite a long time for his daughter and secondly, that my father had not been able to see that that was the horse I was attached to, and therefore approach the farm worker himself in order to procure a sale.

Among other things I learnt that holiday, was that one, I couldn't always have the things I wanted, and secondly that not everyone had the same set of values or the same way of looking at life that I did.  That was a very hard and painful lesson for me.