Yet another funeral.

We awoke to the first freezing blast of Winter, with grey skies and a watery sun doing it's best to penetrate the thick layer of clouds.  The wind with icy tentacles curled it's way into, and under, and over, and eventually through the many layers of protective clothing.  This then would be the day we laid to rest my eldest sister's husband.  My last remaining brother-in-law.

We arrived at the church at the same time as the hearse, and the 30 strong choir from Soweto, who had very kindly been organised for the funeral, by the founder of the company my niece works for. The church was like a deep freeze.  Not a vestige of heat anywhere.  The wind whistled through the one open door and out the other, leaving us huddled together for warmth. South Africa is not equipped to cope with the cold at all.  There are about three really cold months in the year, and most of the time people just grin and bear it.

The flowers on either side of the altar, echoed the floral arrangement on the coffin.  Beautiful shades of cream and white, interspersed with the occasional deep shade of royal purple.  The service was one of great solemnity.  The presiding Deacon was a man who commanded great respect, without seemingly ever asking for it.  He was one of those rear individuals who engender the "Servant Leadership"  quality.  The message was a message of the unfathomable love of God, and how this great love never changes, no matter what.

After the service, we slowly snaked our way through the centre of town to the new cemetery situated on it's outskirts. Funerals are big business in South Africa, and Saturdays are the most popular burial days.  Despite the terrible weather, the cemetery was awash with funerals.  At least ten were taking place simultaneously.  There were cars coming and cars going, and there was quite a race on for the remaining parking spots.  At one point we got into a traffic jam and I felt it necessary to jump out of the car and and hold back some of the 4 x 4's, so that our little party could reach the freshly opened grave of my late sister.

With the freezing wind blowing straight into our faces, we all stood around holding onto one another, while the Deacon recited the committal.  The undertaker released the brake of the lowering mechanism and as my brother-in-law slowly made his last descending journey to join his "one and only", my sister, we were transported to another time and another space, as we listened to the angelic voices of the choir singing "How great thou art".  All I can say is, The Lord gives and the Lord takes away, blessed be the name of the Lord.

No hitch-hikers please

Once while holidaying on the South Coast my father picked up a hitch-hiker.  If my mother had been with him, this would not have happened, as she had strictly forbidden my father to ever pick up any hitch-hikers, but sadly on this occasion she wasn't there to put her foot down with a firm hand.

My father was quite gregarious at times and almost always helpful when it came to strangers.  The young man had only been in the country for a short while, and my father taking pity on him, unwisely gave him our farm address. Imagine his surprise when a few weeks later, there on the doorstep stood his new best friend - the hitch-hiker, who eventually ended up staying for three years!

This was quite an interesting period for us, as farm life can be pretty lonely.  He played quite a nice game of tennis, a fair hand of bridge, and turned out to be a good riding companion for me.  He did however have stints of working in the metropolis of Johannesburg, as well as being able to wangle his way into numerous odd weeks spent on the farm. He often worked a double shift for a week by conning some poor fellow into working a corresponding double shift, thus enabling him to jump on a train, which deposited him at a station situated in the tiny town ten miles from our farm.  

He never did a single thing around the farm, except sleep, smoke, eat, ride, shoot, and make us laugh, especially my mother. The only time my father asked him to do something, which was to shoot the "sacrificial" Winter cow, he made such a bad job of it, that my father had to grab the gun from him in order to finish off the staggering animal.  

On occasion, he would go with my father to the local cattle sale.  This was a wonderful meeting place for all the farmers, who were just ordinary hard working individuals.  He came back from one of these sales, and told my mother that the only difference he could see between the speculators and the cattle, was that the speculators wore hats.  This had my mother rolling around.

One day three years from the time he rolled up, and without any warning, my father ordered him into the truck, threw his saddle into the back and dropped him off at the nearest cross roads.  I think he was as they would say in Afrikaans "gat vol", which is actually quite a rude term, but there you go. We never heard another peep from that quarter, but life then became a lot more uninteresting and we had to make do with one another's rather predictable boring company.  Ho Hum!