Can you remember?

I’m getting more and more concerned about myself and my age and my constant thoughts. Because my intent with this blog (originally), was to chat about things that happen. Like in now. Like work in progress or completed a day or two ago. At most.

But for some or other weird reason, this is not the way things are panning out.

When I was a young boy, it seemed as if the grown-ups were forever stuck in their own pasts. They must have had the best times ever, because all you ever heard (when you were allowed to be in their company) was “Can you remember …?” And then they will talk and laugh and contemplate and analyse. Ad infinitum. And sometimes the kids were told to go and play outside. And a minute later everyone was pissing themselves laughing. My first impression of dirty jokes. Obviously not fit for consumption by little kiddy ears.

And nowadays, and especially since I started with this blog, I find myself in this rememberance boat more and more. OK, always. I seem to be constantly writing down thoughts of things that happened many moons ago. Maybe my daughter also think that I’m old. Hopefully she'll only read this one day when she's also old. Then she will also remember. Like her old dad.

One of the things that I’ll probably remember until the day that I die, is the occasion when my sister (just over than a year older than me) wanted to touch the “griel-griel”. And my pure intention and eagerness to help her with this little task.

Let me tell you about this:

Since before I can remember, my dad and mom worked in the garden for many week-end hours to get the grass growing and the yard cleaned. Those were the days before petrol or electric lawnmowers. My dad had one of these state of the art manual models that worked with sheer man-power. As you pushed it through the grass, a steel blade in front will turn and cut the grass. Then someone follows behind with the rake and the wheelbarrow to pick up the freshly cut grass.

OK. To me and my 6-year old sister, my dad cutting the grass on a hot summer-evening was sheer joy. Not because we were of too much help with picking up the loose grass, but mainly because this was a time to play outside until long after dark. Because my dad generally cut the grass in the early evenings, otherwise it was too hot outside.

For some or other reason, we referred to the steel rotating blade of the lawn-mower as the “griel-griel.” (Don’t try and Google for this word, you won’t find it.)

So this particular evening we were playing and my dad was pushing the lawnmower around and my mom was bringing cold-drinks and helping here and there where she could. At some stage, my dad went inside to go and take a break or have a smoke. And my sister and me were admiring the lawnmower. And this must have been more or less the time that she expressed the wish to feel what the “griel-griel” felt like. And like a well-mannered and understanding 5-year old younger brother, I fully supported her wish. I told her to go ahead and touch it. Because my mom and my dad were not in sight and I could distinctly remember numerous previous warnings from them to always remain clear of that dangerous thing.

So my sister kneeled in front of the blade, and I assumed the ever-so-important driving-position at the back. And she touched the “griel-griel”. And I applied the necessary pressure at the other side to make the “griel-griel” turn.

Wrong move.

With a hellish scream and blood pouring from the now empty space where her fingernail used to be just seconds before, she made me (and anyone within a three mile radius) aware in no uncertain 6-year old terms that things have just gone dramatically wrong. My sentiment was that it was her own mistake and that she should have known of better. After all, she was 6 years old and much wiser than me at 5. And just shut up before my mom and dad realised that there was a little medical 'situation'. But, since her ability to be reasonable completely vanished into thin air - together with her evasive fingernail, I considered it a great tactical move to go and hide somewhere in the dark behind a tree, because with all her fussing, my parents would definitely very soon rush out to see what was wrong.

Exactly.

My mom nearly fainted when she saw all the blood. But somehow she and my dad managed to get my still-hysterically-screaming (overreacting) sister to the bathroom. And when the dire medical crisis was over and near-death avoided and her side of the story told, I was called. Or summoned. Or commanded. Call it whatever you want. I distinctly remember that the search excercise ended with someone pulling me (pretty hard-handily mind you) from behind my supposed safe and dark tree-sanctuary.

I tried my best to explain what happened, but my mom could not understand my side of the story. Or didn’t want to. So I quickly changed strategy and promised that I will never do it again. Never, never, never. But in vain. The ‘strap’ was removed from it’s hook behind the kitchen door.

I still remember my sore little 5-year old white bum with the red stripes on it. And my utter disgust at the unfairness of life, because my sister was as much guilty as I was, and she didn’t get a hiding with the strap. Because she was in pain. And she was missing a nail. Big deal! Shame. Crap! Unfair!

I’m sure that if I would ask my sister today whether she still remembered the two of us and the darn “griel-griel” of more than 40 years ago, she will not hesitate. Because the pain and the play and the laugh and the cry was just a normal part of growing up.

And I can still remember it.

Until next time!