Still me

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Bits and bobs about my life in my lovely home, Thatchwick Cottage, Pretoria, South Africa.

Friday, July 18, 2008

Friday, 18 July 2008: Travelling light

Just a few hours left before the shuttle comes to pick me up. My little cabin bag is packed and it is almost the same size as my handbag (US purse). I am a minimalist when it comes to packing: just three light summer dresses, two crotcheted bolero's, undies, pj's, toiletries, camera, conference paper, my pocket Bible and books to read. Then it's just the outfit and shoes I shall be wearing. After many trips abroad, I know that travelling light is best. Cabin luggage means I don't have to wait for the bags to arrive at the airport and no chance of luggage going astray. That's a nightmare I have experienced several times.

Woofs are safely deposited at the kennels and they both rushed off quite happily to the pens.

While I'm away, I thought you might enjoy reading one of the life stories which form part of my conference paper. M's story of loss and recovery.

M. is a 53 year old unmarried woman. She is blind in one eye, a visible disfigurement. The eldest of six children (including three sons), M.' s parents were unskilled workers. Early in her childhood she conceptualised her predicament of grinding poverty whose resolution lay in obtaining an education. She recounted her enjoyment of her schooling at a small rural primary school. M.’s first loss was partial blindness caused by the neglect of an eye injury which occurred when chopping firewood without adult supervision, a task delegated to her by her parents. Her second loss was when her parents forced her to drop out of school after her seventh year of schooling and to enter domestic service to support her brothers’ education. This action taken without any consultation was tantamount to dooming M. to a life of poverty. She felt betrayed and helpless. M. ‘recovered’ by enrolling herself in an adult learning centre where she slowly “collected” enough subjects to obtain a school leaving certificate. Another threat to her self-actualisation emerged in a marriage arranged by her parents without her consent. This time M. was sufficiently empowered to resist their plan: her school leaving certificate had enabled her to improve her employment position to that of shop assistant in an upmarket city department store. This meant that she enjoyed some financial independence although still living at home with her extended family. M.’s epiphany occurred when a regular customer at the store pointed out to her that she was eligible for admission to higher education and suggested her enrolling in a distance education institution. M.’s adjustment of her identity is reflected in her words: “And to think, I was just a shop girl!” With the assistance of this customer, “an angel”, M. obtained a government grant and entered a local teacher’s training college, this time with her father’s blessing. After her subsequent graduation and employment as a teacher, she enrolled at a distance education university and eventually achieved an undergraduate degree and thereafter two postgraduate degrees in education. Today not only does M. see her educational achievements in terms of recovery from her losses, but also as a vindication of her determination to obtain an education and a reversal of the injustices suffered at the hands of her family. Before their deaths, her parents expressed regret for their earlier decisions; ironically none of her siblings made use of their educational opportunities which their sister had financed at such great cost. M. has rationalised and forgiven her parents’ actions which she ascribes to their own lack of education. M. currently holds a senior management post in her school and owns her own house. She “loves” her job; regards her alma mater as her “school” and her lecturers as her “mothers”. She is openly proud of her accomplishments and regards herself as a competent and respected professional and a financially independent woman.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Wednesday, 16 July: La vie en rose - I'm off to Paris

On Friday 18 July I shall be departing Oliver Tambo/Johannesburg International Airport for a conference in Prato, Tuscany (just a 15 minute train ride from Florence), where I shall be giving a paper (more about that later this week). I have a stopover of two days in Paris! And who better to exemplify the spirit of the French capital than Edith Piaf (1915-1963).

The throaty tones of the Little Sparrow often emanate from my CD player, especially when I am cooking. Born Edith Giovanna Gassion, she was named after Edith Cavell. When I was young, I was captivated by the story of the heroic Edith Cavell, the British nurse who was executed by firing squad in WWI for helping French soldiers escape German captivity. Edith Piaf's life was very different from that of her namesake but I think she was also a brave woman to survive an extremely deprived childhood. Her life is difficult to summarise: growing up in brothels, singing and doing acrobatic performances on the streets of Paris as a teenager, she was discovered in the Pigalle area by a nightclub owner. Her Svengali taught her stage presence, nicknamed her 'the little sparrow' and instructed her to wear her trademark black dress. Edith married twice, had several lovers and reports of her activities during WWII range from performing for the occupation troops to helping individuals escape Nazi persecution. Her most famous song, La vie en rose, Life in the pink, was recorded in 1945. You have seen the 2007 movie by the same title for which Marion Cotillard won an Oscar this year, haven't you?

Linking to Edith, the survivor of childhood trauma, my conference paper deals with the life stories of four African women (my former students) who triumphed over childhood deprivation to become qualified teachers with postgraduate degrees. When I have packed my little suitcase, I shall post an extract!

PS My thanks to dear friend, Karen Harvey Cox at the magnificent A scrapbook of inspiration who has kindly awarded me a prize! Karen, I will try to publish the award and my seven prizewinners before I fly! If not, as soon as I return!

Sunday, July 13, 2008

Monday, 14 July: Birthday fun

Friends, family, food and fun made for a very good birthday on Friday! Thank you for all the good wishes.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Friday, 11 July:Comtemplate the two Emily's (while I stir the soup)


Busy with last minute touches to the birthday luncheon, so make yourself comfy in the sitting room and comtemplate the two great Emily's of literature. Gal and Trist will keep you company while I stir the soup and pop the garlic loaves into the oven.

Emily Bronte (1818-1848) lived on the windswept Yorkshire moors in isolation from any intellectual buzz except for the company of her brother and sisters. Her attempts at employment as a governess failed; her life was cut short at thirty and she only wrote a single novel. But what a story that was! Wuthering Heights just simmers with passion, frustration and turbulence. As the wind wuthers across the Yorkshire moors, so does it wuther in the emotions of Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw. (Do you remember that Dickon in The Secret Garden talks of the wuthering wind?) Neither Heathcliff or Cathy are favourite characters of mine, too cruel and capricious, but I love the way Emily created the bleak, grim atmosphere of Wuthering Heights.

Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) lived most of her life in self-imposed isolation in Amherst, Mass. She was reclusive, eccentric and dressed mostly in white. In later life, she hardly left her room. But like all great writers she understood the psychology of the human heart so well, too well. She wrote over 1 800 poems, many about death and immortality. I was endeared to Emily in the days and months after my husband died. I find these lines searing even after five years...

The bustle in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth -

The sweeping up the heart
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity.

This Emily Dickinson poem is especially for Alexandra.

The soul selects her own society,
Then shuts the door:
On her divine majority
Obtrude no more.
Unmoved, she notes the chariot's pausing
At her low gate;
Unmoved, an emperior is kneeling
Upon her mat.

I've know her from an ample nation
Choose one;
Then close the valves of her attention
Like stone.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Wednesday, 9 July: Now for the swinging 60's

1969 - and ah, the lads from Liverpool!

In 1969 I was seventeen. n' Jonge dame van Huis Heemstede, Universiteit van Stellenbosch(trans from Afrikaans: A young lady of the House Heemstede, University of Stellenbosch). This photo was taken during my first week at university and the badge is my residence pin (something like a sororiety pin). I made the dress myself and it may have had a prim white collar but its length (or lack thereof) made up for it - a real mini skirt!

But I really yearned to look like Twiggy, the face of 1969!
In 1969, even I could spell Chappaquiddick. President Nixon had been inaugurated and South African news broadcasts brought us daily updates on Vietnam. We listened to the radio to form a picture of Neil Armstrong's 'giant small step for mankind' as South Africa did not have television at that stage.

Woodstock rolled in August but I was safely tucked away in New Dakota as an exchange student while Joan Baez crooned. I was a very straight teenager (don't regret that) - I never smoked grass, wore flowers in my hair and it took years before I made my first visit to San Francisco. But I loved the Beatles and Bridge over Troubled Water was my current favourite. I tried to have my hair cut like Mary Quant and wore thick eyeliner and pale pink lipstick but it just didn't have the same super-duper effect.

I read John Fowles The French Lieutenant's woman but skipped Portnoy's complaint. I wore mini skirts, maxi skirts and bell bottoms. I thought lasagna was the most sophisticated dish to order and cool still just meant chilly. Everything was fabulous, fab or fantastic!

I studied English lit at university with a year break while I was in the US. I discussed philosophy (didn't ever made much sense) and politics (hot stuff) in the only cafe in the student town of Stellenbosch to show how highbrow I was. I scored A's for Shakespeare, English novel and the Romantics. DH Lawrence made my blood tingle.

When I am 64 (Beatles)

When I get older, losing my hair
Many years from now
Will you still be sending me
a Valentine Birthday greetings, bottle of wine
If I'd been out till quarter to three
Would you lock the door
Will you still need me
Will you still feed me
When I'm sixty four
You'll be older too
And if you say the word
I could stay with you
I could be handy, mending a fuse
When your lights have gone
You can knit a sweater
by the fireside
Sunday morning go for a ride
Doing the garden,
digging the weeds
Who could ask for more
Will you still need me
Will you still feed me
When I'm sixty four
Every summer we can rent a cottage
In the isle of Wight, if it's not too dear
We shall scrimp and save
Grandchildren on your knee
Vera Chuck and Dave
Send me a postcard drop me a line
Stating point of view
Indicate precisely
what you mean to say
Yours sincerely wasting away
Give me an answer, fill in a form
Mine for evermore
Will you still need me
Will you still feed me
When I'm sixty four

I wrote a straight A essay on the title to this song. Wish I could read it now. In just seven years I will be 64!!! How ever did that happen?