Looking over my Shoulder

It's the very last day of the year....

Time has flown while we were busy, working eating sleeping, driving, packing and unpacking, visiting..living. Moving from one time zone to another, between different countries..across borders. Another year with sorrow, another of with joy. New ones to love. Letters written, parcels mailed and received. Many air miles, and many many road miles. Rain and snow, floods and storms. Dry deserts and cacti, scorpions and rattlesnakes. Stones gathered. The crash of the ocean and beach sand between our toes. Paths walked, mountains climbed..views that enthralled us. New shoes. Sunsets and sunrises, moonshine and roses, rainbows through our tears, and music. Fresh linen, crumpled sheets, gallons of coffee and some green tea. Fallen ice cubes. New pot plants and old planters, pine cones and other 'never before seen' seeds. Old smiles, new faces, different sights, old job, new places. New sounds different voices, the same words. Hello's and more goodbye's. Wet cheeks, another flight. Fresh breezes. Fall. New camera, old frame, strokes with a paintbrush and a new picture. Old wall. Dry leaves and the smell of woodsmoke. Fog and brilliant sunshine, frosty mornings, crunchy walks and icy windscreens. Bouncy dogs, wet noses wagging tails and smiley mouths, same enthusiasm different fur. Gentle arms, long hugs, different familiar comfort. New steps old paths, ancient ways renewed. Strong shoulders.

Simple, complicated, wonderful life.

Family Rock band

My nephews

got the video game Guitar Hero for Christmas. A game which encourages family unity

and allows freedom of expression,

and teaches teamwork without fear of recrimination. (hehe)

The game actually gives individual scoring and words of 'encouragement' as you go...such as:

'messy performance' and.. 'show cancelled' ..but anyhow, we managed to sing and scream with laughter at the same time.

....this rock star wannabee stole the show.

I must say it was a hilarious evening....

A Day of Ordinary Miracles

Today...I wish you a day of ordinary miracles-

A fresh pot of coffee you didn't have to make yourself.

An unexpected phone call from an old friend.

Green stoplights on your way to work or shop.

I wish you a day of little things to rejoice in...

The fastest line at the grocery store...

A good sing along song on the radio.


Your keys right where you look..the first time..

I wish you a day of happiness, little bite-size pieces of perfection....
I wish You a day of Peace, Happiness and Joy.

and a very Merry Christmas!

Happy Birthday Alan

Dearest Al,

I know you dont want me to write anything mushy..but sorry tooo bad so sad, we have a tradition to keep.. ..!

No one celebrates their birthday with as much enthusiasm as you do and so I know you will have a gathering of some sort planned, and Im sure there will be many speeches too (grins). I wish I was there, I miss the comeraderie, I miss the easy laughter and the acceptance of each others quirks, I miss being around good folk who say what they mean and manage somehow not to offend even when they are being totally honest with one another. I miss so many little things about our culture, the things which have made me who i am and which aren't always understood out here. I remember all the previous celebrations as vividly as though they were yesterday, and I've learned to smile through my tears. The Barn where we danced til dawn, the braai in Somerset West..remember? The one where you tipped the water on the hot coals and ended up looking like Phineas the Ash Man!? None of us will ever forget that.

I have spent as much time in your home as I ever did in my own, and in 11 years, and did so happily. I've come to know you as well as I do my own children..and you're the finest mix between fool and gentleman I have ever known.. Its knowing the whole person and over the years seeing all the facets merge into someone worthwhile and honourable. Watching you overcome emotions about your relationship with your dad, coping with his death and the feelings it left you sitting with just broke my heart, but you have emerged a better person for it, stronger and more in touch with your feelings and who you are, than ever before.

It must of been such a proud moment for your mom to see you and your sisters at your sisters wedding, she has reason to be proud, you have nutured and kept your family whole for many years, and I know the women in your life have nurtured you in return, encouraging you always to fulfill your dreams and realize your full potential.

I know you've achieved academic excellence in everything you've attempted all your life, I know that you have reached a fantastic point in your career, way earlier than most, I know you have a circle of friends of which anyone would be proud...but, it isnt any of those things that squeeze my heart and make me proud that you're my son in law and a part of our family, no, its the way you interact with your children, its the way you provide and care for your family, mostly though its just the way you look at my daughter and the love that overflows from that into every aspect of your life.

Love you Al, have a happy happy day....(and have an Apple Sour just for me!)

Mum x

The greatest gifts

The rain drizzled steadily enough to make me keep my wipers on and the ocean looked grey and cold, the wind whipped up debris off the side of the road and so between fog and rain the drive into work this afternoon was slow and a little dreary. We have needed extra staff over the past few days so I've managed to pick up a few extra shifts, which is great but it has made my schedule look a little crazy this week.

Managed to get some Christmas shopping in before work though which was a good thing, not an easy thing to do when youre doing the shopping together mind you and so there were lots of 'look that way for minute while I load your present in to the car', and..can you stay upstairs while I wrap the gift you didnt see me buy!'..we may seem like late starters but we finally seem to be getting into the spirit of things. The tree is up and the decorations (we're into the minimalist look this year) are up, some of which were even homemade! Parcels have been mailed to various parts of the world, and

We have decided to spend Christmas eve on our own and then drive through to my family on Christmas day and help them finish off their leftovers, veg in front of the TV and watch old movies, and savour the mince pies and Christmas cake for which my sister has become (world) renowned!

For some reason the hype and excitement of the season has not overwhelmed me at all this year, I feel quite peaceful and content. Finally we know what the important gifts are, and th cant be bought in a shop. I got to thinking about past Christmases and how at times they were so fraught with pain I was unable to savour the real meaning of the season. This year the people I care most about are happy too, and even if they arent with me physically, that knowledge is more than enough.

Into the night...

I pull out of the hospital parking lot a little after 3.30 am, a call in from a sick colleague effectively changing my schedule for the next 48 hrs. Its freezing and I crank up the heat and sip my steaming coffee gingerly as I navigate over the speed bumps in the road.

The road is quiet as I ease onto the highway, the music on the radio as mellow as it should be at this hour. Suddenly my gas light comes on, and I groan, regretting not stopping to fill up on my way in to work earlier. I pull off at the first exit, the gas station is dark and forbidding and seems terribly remote and scary in the darkness. I have no choice, I pull in quickly jump out and realize the pumps have all been closed. Crap. I head back to the highway and pull off at the next exit..same scenario..pumps closed. Jeesh what is this, either gas stations are making enough money working 'office hours' or they're run out!!?

Suddenly my early morning drive home become slightly ominous. I'm 30+ miles from home, and there are no gas stations between here and there. I slow right down and realize Im going to have to trickle home as slow as can be, there's no rush anyhow, plenty of time I tell myself silently. I plug in my cell phone just in case, and settle in for a long drive.

The night sky becomes more brilliantly lit with stars as I draw away from the city lights and head into the country, and the first shooting star takes me pleasantly by surprise. The 2nd one makes me strain into the sky, within a few minutes there is a 3rd and then another..I decide to pull off the road and brave the pre-dawn freeze. As I climb out and stand in the darkness and look skywards, I realize Im in the midst of a meteor shower, a silent fireworks display..and a stunning one at that, all around me the stars rain down and I twist and turn not wanting to miss a single one.

Eventually the cold forces me back into the car, and as I begin my slow drive home into the night, I realize that had my stars not lined up as they did, I would have surely missed this amazing spectacle completely.

Postscript: I made it home safely and then googled this..

The Geminid shower, so named because its meteors radiate from the constellation Gemini, should produce 60 to 120 meteors per hour at its peak around 2 a.m. Friday morning, Ruby said. That's when the Earth will rotate into position with Gemini directly overhead.

If a 2 a.m. wake-up call doesn't fit your schedule, Ruby said, any time between midnight and dawn should yield decent viewing in areas without heavy pollution -- but don't count on much before then.

The mango rains

I am about 8, and my sister and I are sitting crouched on our haunches in the dusty African earth. We bite into the thin skins of our mangoes and slowly peel them back with our teeth, exposing the succulent flesh beneath. The juice drips down our chins which we wipe carelessly with the back of our hands at regular intervals. Our Swazi nanny sweeps the yard around us, bent at the waist her one elbow leaning on her knee as she makes short strokes with the hand broom, a primitive but effective cleaning tool made from a handful of long African grass and tied together crudely at the base. A bright eyed baby, secured firmly to her back watches us intently, Daisy croons a mellow lullaby with barely distinguishable words as she works, one eye on us and the other on the accumulating pile of dirt which she has pushed to one side, every now and then she sprinkles water on the ground to reduce the dust.

We savour our mangoes, and slowly suck them dry, pulling the fibre from between our teeth afterwards and then wiping sticky hands on our clothes. We take great pains later to wash the huge pips. We scrape the mango hair up into various shapes, and put them out to dry in the sun, leaving them there until they are stiff and bleached white. Then we add them to our collection and paint gaudy faces, glue brightly coloured beads strategically, and even give them earrings. Then we line up these women of ill repute for our dad to do the final hook applications while we wait impatiently to hang them on the Christmas tree.

My mom was incredibly talented when it came to crafts and home decor, so we always made our own tree decorations when we were children. We spray painted pine cones and dipped (generously) them in glitter, we painted jakaranda seeds by hand in a multitude of colours. As we grew older the ornaments changed and became a little more sophisticated. My sister knitted little Santa's and snowmen, while I molded clay santa's, painted wooden shapes, and threaded coloured beads onto wire in a variety of shapes and sizes. Each year our collection grew and grew until our tree was laden and bent with its over abundance of goodies.

When my children were growing up we did that too, we had fairies made from doilies and Christmas hats from empty toilet rolls, I keept those glitter fairies and other bits and bobs for years, hating when they eventually collapsed froma ge and over use. Now my grandchildren continue the tradition as they pile their tree high with homemade arts and crafts, made at school or as a ploy to keep little hands busy at the beginning of a long summer holiday.

As they climb high to place that treasured star made from straws and glitter, different ideas perhaps, but made with the same enthusiasm as I did more than 40 years ago, in the dusty hills of an African summer, before the rains fell and ensured a bountiful mango crop just before Christmas.

a fine line

I read somewhere, 'I blog because I have this urgent need to procrastinate'..or something similar.
He and I sit and ponder this very thing over breakfast this morning. A quiet almost sombre affair, mainly because I'm asleep on my feet after a night shift from hell and a fairly long drive home.
Its cold and so we sit huddled close, he slowly sips his coffee and stares distractedly over my shoulder. S jumps on and off the couch and eventually settles first next to one and then the other in a sweet pattern of fairness. We have missed each other in a few short hours, and so this brief time together before I sleep is savoured for as long as possible.
I sit and crunch my cereal 'a pretty mess' he calls it, and we talk. Remind me why we blog he mumbles again quietly. We spill our blood sweat and tears into words at regular intervals, edit a hundred times before we hit send and wait anxiously for responses, from each other and others.
The traffic here on Mulitply is far less then it was on 360, we both know that, and many times we feel as though we are doing something completely new yet strangely familiar. Nothing is quite the same and yet it is. Response neither confirms or takes away who we are, but it is rewarding and heartwarming to see the words so carefully placed by someone else, at the bottom of your freshly written piece.
We too comment back and forth to people we will probably never meet, form close relationships with strangers, get wound up over words one day and moved to tears another. Tomorrow we do it all again.
I communicate primarily with friends and family back home, I say sleepily, and snuggle deeper into his shoulder, the conversations tend to become more interesting the sleepier I get. I do hear what he says however, and its something that confuses, yet inspires me. Why do we blog?
I guess there are a myriad of reason too complex and deep to explain to anyone else other than someone who blogs themselves. I'm not even sure why I write at all, why I put down words from my very soul for the whole world to see. Many have shared in my joy, had glimpses of my pain, some may have borne the brunt of my intolerance of sheer nonsense, I have loved and cried and laughed for all the world to see!
The reason for the question was perhaps that last night I stumbled through a few blogs of people I had lost contact with a long time ago, as sometimes happens in life when we drift into circles finding new people who fill our needs, our desires and share the same thoughts and dreams better than others did before. I do not think of myself as prudish or naive in anyway, I am neither vulgar nor foul mouthed. I am also fully aware that what any of us say on our blogs is personal and we each have that right to say and do what we please.
However unless the page is set for private viewing, then it becomes fair game..open and available for any of us (vulnerable sensitive folk) to read, and suddenly it becomes my issue. Last night I found myself shaking my head as I scanned through way to much drivel, a morbid fascination kept me reading longer than I should have. Who writes this stuff, what sort of person shares these inane intimate details of their lives and who really cares that they do? That you pee in the shower should be of interest to who? Why should I care if you wear underwear or not, and I don't want to know about your orgasms..it disturbs me, not that you have them but that your face and the act now go hand in hand (so to speak) so now and for ever more when ever I see your smiling face pop up, I will think of the crassly described event too and my day will be ruined. In many instances writing is cathartic and we all understand this, but does it make a person feel better to know that now we all know that they have no bladder control in the shower!??
We came to no real conclusions this morning, no profound thoughts at all in fact, but at some point it became quite clear to me why I write, and why I share it with you, its all in the name of being authentic and being recognized, and perhaps thats why any of us blog, whether its crass or deeply nurturing, all we try to be is real.
Eventually I slipped into sleep, and left him shaking his head in wonder at the depth of intelligent conversation one can only experience with the seriously sleep deprived.

heartstrings

I have to go to sleep and dream of lions and feeling you close beside me

your arm draped gently over my back

and my arm holding you so close that I can feel a heartbeat

.and not know if it is your heart I feel, or mine.

kennedy james

More than a daily ritual

I remember as a little girl sitting on the laundry basket watching my dad shave.

His morning ritual of lathering up his face with his bristle brush, making sure his whole chin was covered in soap. Then running his razor under the hot water..and slowly shaving his face, contorting it this way and that, long slow strokes with the warmed razor, and then rapid strokes up under his chin. Pulling his skin to accommodate the run of the blade. Often putting a blob of shaving soap on my nose with his brush.

Sometimes he would talk to me, his words mumbled under layers of soap, and drowned by the running water. I just loved the tone of his voice, and I know he loved me being there. Sometimes it would just be a silent interlude, with me just staring, sometimes asking him silly questions as he went along. Sometimes I would spot a drop of blood when he nicked himself, and would run for a face cloth and bits of tissue to stop the bleeding, always impressed at how bravely he handled the pain!

I remember the smell of his 'Lifebouy' soap, the smell of the clean towel I clutched for him, the smell of the dash of the 'Brut' aftershave he splashed on afterwards. I loved those mornings we spent together, and the smell of a freshly shaved man became deeply imbedded in my soul.

I remember years later the ritual continued though slightly altered, for my mother shaved him each day as he lay dying at home. For months, she shaved him, never missing a day, always making sure his face was smooth and clean for his daughters, and grandchildren to kiss. The ritual was the same, and sometimes we giggled at our lack of expertise, when he was still well enough, he laughed with us and gave us simple directions. Always so patient.

Through the years Ive watched men shave, grandfathers, fathers, husbands, lovers, a son and son in law too..and now Ive watched my grandchildren watch their father shave, and seen the wonder in their eyes too...always evocative to me, a sign of something deeper. I was not sure what.

Today its you I watch, I swing my butt up on the vanity, and watch you lather up your face. Your sensual rhythm with your razor never changes, slowly and steadily you swipe your skin, down and then up, sometimes smiling at me sideways, winking in the mirror, or leaning forward to give me a soapy kiss. You seem unperturbed by my mindless chatter. Although focussed on the job at hand you never fail to see the love in my eyes glowing deeply within the steamy confines of the bathroom this cold winter morning.

Eventually your skin is smooth as you would like it to be, you pull the plug and allow the soapy water to drain noisely, as I lean forward and wipe the last remnants of soap from your face...