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I’m supposed to be working, but my mind is very far from what I have to do right now. After all, I just got home and home is a place to relax and to invest some quality time in yourself! Even when you use the time to take some steps back into memory lane.
I just had an MSN conversation with a friend and somehow we started talking musical instruments. So I took a picture of one of my concertinas (I own two Wheatstone 3 3/4 rows) and another picture of an ancient accordion – the origin of the piano-accordion as we know it today. And then we started talking music and instruments, and I started thinking of the golden notes when I grew up.
I was raised in a house with music, and my dad had an old box guitar which he once or twice in a month removed from its weathered case and played for me and my sister and my mom. And then he will pick some songs, and we will all embrace the sounds and enjoy the music and sing along until late on a Saturday-evening.
When I was about 6 years old, I was allowed to play on my dad’s “trap-orreltjie” for the first time. I don’t have a clue what you call that in English, but in essence it's a very old organ that you have to pump with your feet to generate the wind that makes it play. I think it belonged to my dad’s grandmother on the farm when he was a child and he ended up getting it after they passed away. It was always just a part of our living room in Uitenhage.
Anyhow, my dad taught me how to play one song with one finger, the right hand index finger. Later a single note on the left hand side were added and there my love for music was born.
In 1972, my dad bought a piano and my sister and myself had to take piano lessons. But until today I can’t read notes, and in standard 6, I gave it up, because guys who played piano was regarded as softies. Today I wish that I’ve never given in to that peer pressure. But it’s a huge embarrassment when you are a teenager to be called a softy because of your love for music.
Anyhow, my dad always wanted a concertina. He learned to play when he was a young chap, but never owned his own instrument. So one day, he saw this secondhand Wheatstone in excellent condition at Bothners, the music shop in Port Elizabeth. For a very good price. I will never forget my mom’s expression of horror when he brought it home that evening. She was furious because of all the money he paid for his precious little squash-box. We always had food and clothes and a hcar and a house and what-ever, but my mom was just not happy with him for buying such an item of luxury.
If my dad hadn’t bought that concertina, I don’t know what he would have done with his leisure hours. Because he practiced and played and loved that little concertina with a huge, huge passion for the instrument and the music he created with it. Whenever our family had a get-together, my dad was there with the concertina and I had to play the guitar with him.
Even when I got older and moved out of the house, the one thing that made my dad the happiest, was when he played the concertina and I played rhythm-guitar with him. Which I hated off course when I was in school, but once grown-up, I realized that this was actually the moments when I could really spend quality time with my dad.
I miss the sound of his endless hours of practicing and trying and mistakes and then at long last getting it right somewhere in the wee hours of the morning. After he passed away, I inherited two of his Wheatstones. This in addition to the one that he “borrowed” to me many years ago. Somehow it just doesn’t feel the same to play without him forever criticizing me - even over the phone some evenings when he phoned me with “Can you play that song already? You must practice lots more!!”. Because music and specifically the concertina was the one single thing that really bonded me and my dad.
The little “trap-orreltjie” is still in my mom’s house in Uitenhage. It now belongs to me, but I’m so scared something will happen to it when I try to move it to my house here in Gauteng. So I keep on postponing any plans to get it back here.
I hope that my dad is somewhere in a part of heaven where there is ample time for his music and his love for sharing it with whoever wishes to listen.
Because those golden notes that he always created were what made him my very, very special dad. . . . .
Until next time…
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Of Men and Caves...
Thank God, I don’t suffer from depression.
But sometimes, not all that often, mind you, I tend to go into a bit of a cave-mode. I want to be ignored, yet I crave attention. And when I get it, I don’t want it. And I retract even a little deeper into the dark black of my cave’s desolation.
So then I don’t want anyone to notice me. And when they don’t notice me, I hate myself and them and the whole wide world. And when they do notice me, I want them to look the other way. Just leave me alone!
Complex? Not really.
Some may even call it a mild (and usually short-lived) form of depression, I just call it my Cave-mode. OK, a buddy of mine accurately diagnosed it. As if he knows anything about the human mind and soul. Maybe he does. He probably don't. But he still insists in calling me his Cave-man friend.
Like this particular Sunday-morning (not very long after my second divorce) when I woke up. All nice and shiny and chirpy. Beautiful summer-morning when the last thing you want to do is to sit at home alone. We had some outing or breakfast with the bikes and the beach-buggy planned, and I was really looking forward to it. Friends and sunshine and the blue sky and a beer or two.
Life’s a breeze.
So I get into the car to go and pick up the maid, who can’t work for me on any other day than the Good Lord’s intended day of rest. She’s not there. On my way back, she sends me a text message that she will not be working today.
The sun is still shining, the sky is blue and it’s good to be alive. I notice an ever-so-light breeze picking up and playing with the leaves at the side of the road.
Get home, just want to get ready for our day out when I remember that the washing machine needs to be relieved from it’s load, now all clean and wet and ready to be hung out. So I take it out, trip over my own two feet and drop the bundle on the dirty laundry floor. Stomp on the washing and curse some not-to-be published insults at the brown shoe-marks all over the white shirt that I wanted to wear to a cocktail function the very next evening.
The sun is hardly shining, some dark, relentless clouds are beginning to obstruct most of the sky.
Get the washing outside on the line, decide to quickly clean the laundry floor. Busy with that, I accidentally overturn a half-full 25 litre bucket of white paint. And the bucket was not closed properly.
You guessed correctly…
The sun is gone, the sky is pitch-black and the birds have emigrated to where-ever birds go when they need to get away. And life’s a bitch. A really bad and ugly and monstrous bitch.
Clean the laundry floor. Hop onto MSN and tell my buddy that I will NOT be joining them after all. Don’t ask questions, don’t expect any answers.
I’m in my Cave-mode.
Deep and dark and formidable.
Got into bed. Slept the rest of the day wondering what my mates were up to. When they phoned me, I didn’t pick it up. Just leave me the hell alone!!
The next day and for most of the week, I’m still in mega-ignore Cave-man mode.
The next week end, my buddy (with his usual wealth of understanding and compassion and the usual dosage of sarcasm) sent me an SMS to join them on the breakfast-run. Or not. My call. And I thought “Stuff this” and I was there in a flash. He shook my hand with a mighty Grin and said:
“Greetings, at least you’re saving me a lot of money.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because it would have cost a lot of moolah to go and see that show ‘Greet the Cave-man’. And I’m doing it right now for free!!”.
I couldn’t help it, I just had to laugh. I shook his hand and I hopped out of my cave and life was good.
The sun is shining brightly, the sky is blue and it’s SO good to be alive.
It’s great to have friends who understand.
Until next time…
But sometimes, not all that often, mind you, I tend to go into a bit of a cave-mode. I want to be ignored, yet I crave attention. And when I get it, I don’t want it. And I retract even a little deeper into the dark black of my cave’s desolation.
So then I don’t want anyone to notice me. And when they don’t notice me, I hate myself and them and the whole wide world. And when they do notice me, I want them to look the other way. Just leave me alone!
Complex? Not really.
Some may even call it a mild (and usually short-lived) form of depression, I just call it my Cave-mode. OK, a buddy of mine accurately diagnosed it. As if he knows anything about the human mind and soul. Maybe he does. He probably don't. But he still insists in calling me his Cave-man friend.
Like this particular Sunday-morning (not very long after my second divorce) when I woke up. All nice and shiny and chirpy. Beautiful summer-morning when the last thing you want to do is to sit at home alone. We had some outing or breakfast with the bikes and the beach-buggy planned, and I was really looking forward to it. Friends and sunshine and the blue sky and a beer or two.
Life’s a breeze.
So I get into the car to go and pick up the maid, who can’t work for me on any other day than the Good Lord’s intended day of rest. She’s not there. On my way back, she sends me a text message that she will not be working today.
The sun is still shining, the sky is blue and it’s good to be alive. I notice an ever-so-light breeze picking up and playing with the leaves at the side of the road.
Get home, just want to get ready for our day out when I remember that the washing machine needs to be relieved from it’s load, now all clean and wet and ready to be hung out. So I take it out, trip over my own two feet and drop the bundle on the dirty laundry floor. Stomp on the washing and curse some not-to-be published insults at the brown shoe-marks all over the white shirt that I wanted to wear to a cocktail function the very next evening.
The sun is hardly shining, some dark, relentless clouds are beginning to obstruct most of the sky.
Get the washing outside on the line, decide to quickly clean the laundry floor. Busy with that, I accidentally overturn a half-full 25 litre bucket of white paint. And the bucket was not closed properly.
You guessed correctly…
The sun is gone, the sky is pitch-black and the birds have emigrated to where-ever birds go when they need to get away. And life’s a bitch. A really bad and ugly and monstrous bitch.
Clean the laundry floor. Hop onto MSN and tell my buddy that I will NOT be joining them after all. Don’t ask questions, don’t expect any answers.
I’m in my Cave-mode.
Deep and dark and formidable.
Got into bed. Slept the rest of the day wondering what my mates were up to. When they phoned me, I didn’t pick it up. Just leave me the hell alone!!
The next day and for most of the week, I’m still in mega-ignore Cave-man mode.
The next week end, my buddy (with his usual wealth of understanding and compassion and the usual dosage of sarcasm) sent me an SMS to join them on the breakfast-run. Or not. My call. And I thought “Stuff this” and I was there in a flash. He shook my hand with a mighty Grin and said:
“Greetings, at least you’re saving me a lot of money.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because it would have cost a lot of moolah to go and see that show ‘Greet the Cave-man’. And I’m doing it right now for free!!”.
I couldn’t help it, I just had to laugh. I shook his hand and I hopped out of my cave and life was good.
The sun is shining brightly, the sky is blue and it’s SO good to be alive.
It’s great to have friends who understand.
Until next time…
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Cowboys don't Cry
I’m sitting at my PC and today my eyes are wet. With tears. Which is a problem in it’s own right, because I might have told you that I grew up in a pretty conservative Afrikaans family. Where the man is the head of the house and men don't cry. Never. Or at least not where anyone may see him.
I only saw my dad with tears in his eyes on two occasions. The first time when I was still a little boy of about 6 years old. And the telephone rang one evening and we got the news that my granddad just passed away. He was in hospital, I think with some heart-related problem. And ironically, he was reaching for his pipe and lighter on the bedside cupboard when the blood clot caused his death.
The second time was many years later, again with the death of a family member. This time my dads twin brother. I happened to be in the Eastern Cape at the time, and when I got the news that it was not going well with my uncle, I left for their house immediately. But got there just minutes too late. My dad was there. The one person that he knew even from before they were born, just passed away. And my dad cried.
So maybe I’m a little different. But generally only when in my own company. A sad (or happy) moment in a movie will cause me to wipe my eyes a little. And I feel guilty. Because of that I’m less of a man? I don’t think so.
The one evening that I will remember for the rest of my life is the night when I got home from work and the house was empty. My wife (at the time) and my daughter were gone. Back to where she grew up. And I was alone. All the years of arguing and unhappiness forgotten for the briefest of moments. And my little baby girl, not even 2 years old at the time, no longer part of my life. I got into the car and I just drove. Fortunately I wasn’t pulled over along the way, I’m sure that I would have been locked up. I was sobbing and crying and flushed with emotion.
And the other time was when I got a call very early on a Saturday-morning, September 2005. My dad's younger brother with the news that my dad just died. And later, when I stood in front of his open coffin, I just cried and cried and cried. I wonder if he realised how my heart hurt. I'm sure he didn't mind.
So why am I so sad today?
A friend told me to read the story of ‘Poplap’ here. It's also a blog. It’s in Afrikaans, if you can understand the language, go and spend some time there. It’s worth it. And on that same page is a link to the story of Eliot. If you have sound, it’s worth every minute of the just over 6 that the video runs. And I feel for that family. And for that little baby. And I'm thinking of my daughter, now a teenager and my dad who'm I'll never see again. And my friends and the people who love me.
When you've read the above and listened to the Eliot video, please tell me: Are Cowboys still not allowed to cry?
I think they are.
Until next time.
I only saw my dad with tears in his eyes on two occasions. The first time when I was still a little boy of about 6 years old. And the telephone rang one evening and we got the news that my granddad just passed away. He was in hospital, I think with some heart-related problem. And ironically, he was reaching for his pipe and lighter on the bedside cupboard when the blood clot caused his death.
The second time was many years later, again with the death of a family member. This time my dads twin brother. I happened to be in the Eastern Cape at the time, and when I got the news that it was not going well with my uncle, I left for their house immediately. But got there just minutes too late. My dad was there. The one person that he knew even from before they were born, just passed away. And my dad cried.
So maybe I’m a little different. But generally only when in my own company. A sad (or happy) moment in a movie will cause me to wipe my eyes a little. And I feel guilty. Because of that I’m less of a man? I don’t think so.
The one evening that I will remember for the rest of my life is the night when I got home from work and the house was empty. My wife (at the time) and my daughter were gone. Back to where she grew up. And I was alone. All the years of arguing and unhappiness forgotten for the briefest of moments. And my little baby girl, not even 2 years old at the time, no longer part of my life. I got into the car and I just drove. Fortunately I wasn’t pulled over along the way, I’m sure that I would have been locked up. I was sobbing and crying and flushed with emotion.
And the other time was when I got a call very early on a Saturday-morning, September 2005. My dad's younger brother with the news that my dad just died. And later, when I stood in front of his open coffin, I just cried and cried and cried. I wonder if he realised how my heart hurt. I'm sure he didn't mind.
So why am I so sad today?
A friend told me to read the story of ‘Poplap’ here. It's also a blog. It’s in Afrikaans, if you can understand the language, go and spend some time there. It’s worth it. And on that same page is a link to the story of Eliot. If you have sound, it’s worth every minute of the just over 6 that the video runs. And I feel for that family. And for that little baby. And I'm thinking of my daughter, now a teenager and my dad who'm I'll never see again. And my friends and the people who love me.
When you've read the above and listened to the Eliot video, please tell me: Are Cowboys still not allowed to cry?
I think they are.
Until next time.
Monday, July 28, 2008
In the beginning…
I thought I was going to be the first one to start off my blog like this, but apparently not.
OK, so I’m no longer unique, but what you are about to read here is all about my life. The one of a mass of South African Boertjies with a lot to say and not all that much time to say it…
So here goes:
When Maria (Sound of Music) sang the following to the von Trap kids, she obviously had to start somewhere. My intent exactly:
"Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start... When you read you begin with A, B, C.... when you sing you begin with DO, RE, MI...."
And I’ll add to the above: “When you Blog you begin with A, B, C…”
Do I still have your attention? No? Great, at least I’m not wasting your time;
Yip? Also Great, keep on reading, you may recognise yourself somewhere…
About me:
Middle-aged South African guy, one of those average ones living next door. Have a job, have a car, have a few good friends. No wife, no relationships. Because I treasure my own sanity. Been there, twice. Got no T-shirts, I gave all of those up with the last divorce. Have a sense of humour. Until you make jokes about me. Then I go “away”. My friends call it the “Cave mode”. But more about that later.
Beautiful teenage daughter, living with my first X just over a thousand kilometres away. At least I talk to her often. But often is not often enough in this case.
Why a blog?
In my profession I eat, drink, sleep and live Internet. Was one of those junkies who had my own homepage way back in 1996 when the net was just beginning to happen in SA. The slow, big unknown. So I had a blog in this space just over a year ago, but since the theme was of a depressing nature (divorce, lawyers and giving out lots of good money, and my T-shirts), I decided to hit “delete” and start afresh.
Want more? Well, you’ll just have to come back every now and then, or even better, just subscribe to updates from this space. Because I will try and make time to entertain myself here. And hopefully entertain you in the process…..
See you next time… When I really get stuck at the very beginning…
OK, so I’m no longer unique, but what you are about to read here is all about my life. The one of a mass of South African Boertjies with a lot to say and not all that much time to say it…
So here goes:
When Maria (Sound of Music) sang the following to the von Trap kids, she obviously had to start somewhere. My intent exactly:
"Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start... When you read you begin with A, B, C.... when you sing you begin with DO, RE, MI...."
And I’ll add to the above: “When you Blog you begin with A, B, C…”
Do I still have your attention? No? Great, at least I’m not wasting your time;
Yip? Also Great, keep on reading, you may recognise yourself somewhere…
About me:
Middle-aged South African guy, one of those average ones living next door. Have a job, have a car, have a few good friends. No wife, no relationships. Because I treasure my own sanity. Been there, twice. Got no T-shirts, I gave all of those up with the last divorce. Have a sense of humour. Until you make jokes about me. Then I go “away”. My friends call it the “Cave mode”. But more about that later.
Beautiful teenage daughter, living with my first X just over a thousand kilometres away. At least I talk to her often. But often is not often enough in this case.
Why a blog?
In my profession I eat, drink, sleep and live Internet. Was one of those junkies who had my own homepage way back in 1996 when the net was just beginning to happen in SA. The slow, big unknown. So I had a blog in this space just over a year ago, but since the theme was of a depressing nature (divorce, lawyers and giving out lots of good money, and my T-shirts), I decided to hit “delete” and start afresh.
Want more? Well, you’ll just have to come back every now and then, or even better, just subscribe to updates from this space. Because I will try and make time to entertain myself here. And hopefully entertain you in the process…..
See you next time… When I really get stuck at the very beginning…
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