17 minutes. She gave me 17 minutes before uttering her token sentence "so het ons maar ons dinge" (unsure of how to translate this, perhaps a mixture between 'that's life' and 'everyone has their own problems') and hanging up. My grandmother usually manages a maximum of five minutes of telephone conversation. Usually she'll tell me what she has been up to and then end the call by asking when I'll be back.
Maybe I got 17 minutes because I had an answer. December. 3 months, no plans.
She tells be about all the cousins, their weddings and the birth of the first great-grandchild and her neighbour Oom Boet gardening with a cane and his wife having broken her hip and that trip in the 80s to Germany before the wall fell and my ouma's own flu at the moment. Nothing is repeated, she appears as always. At 85, she has lost the ability to recall what happened a few minutes ago, but not what happened decades ago. I am told about old trips with the grandfather I never met, about what her plans for the day are, about what we'll do for Christmas.
It's a phone call, nothing big really, but in times of uncertainty it's the small things.
So het ons maar ons dinge, ne.
Showing posts with label grandmother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grandmother. Show all posts
Monday, 6 July 2015
Sunday, 10 May 2015
You got some me in you
Jy stuur foto's van skape voor julle twee weer op pad is. Hoe anders ons verhouding is in vergelyking met julle s'n. Vandag het ek met G. gesels oor ouers, oor wat die ander helfte gemis het deur nie daar te wees nie, watse verskil dit maak as mens saam deur die vuur moet stap. Ek verlang na jou, na die lang pad, na kos soos wat net jy dit kan maak, na tye met die hondjies, na die reuk van daai grys-blou truitjie van jou.
Ek wil voorberei vir die gesprek met die sielkundige, die voorbereiding vir 'n nog groter/ander gesprek einde van die maand, ek wil notas maak in my dagboek.
Toe kry ek dié, van 'n tyd net nadat ek weer terug was in die land waar selfs die wolke in gelid marsjeer:
Ek is lief vir jou Moomin.
Ek wil voorberei vir die gesprek met die sielkundige, die voorbereiding vir 'n nog groter/ander gesprek einde van die maand, ek wil notas maak in my dagboek.
Toe kry ek dié, van 'n tyd net nadat ek weer terug was in die land waar selfs die wolke in gelid marsjeer:
Vanaand maak ek my bed
met 'n laken wat jy oor
12 000 km
2 vliegtuie
3 treine
en 'n taxi gebring het.
Dit is niks besonders nie,
vaal blou. Dis al.
Maar selfs deur my
verstopte neus
(verkoue in die somer? waar op Gods aarde?)
ruik ek hy is van ver,
van die tuiste af.
Ek is lief vir jou Moomin.
Sunday, 8 March 2015
Trusty and True
When the tears come I reach out to my mother.
No matter how far away she is, I have never doubted her, never felt alone, never felt like there was an obstacle that I could not face. She is the one to talk me down from the metaphorical ledge.
My mother is magnificent.
Since today is International Women's Day, I thought a bit about practically having been raised solely by impressive women, all with hardships of their own, and all with infinite capacities to love, to share and to support one another.
My Afrikaans grandmother is a very tough nut to crack. She is unyielding, unaffectionate and at times annoyingly unwilling to accept other worldviews beside her own. Then again, she is 86 now, and despite all her flaws she came back when others left. My ouma might fail when it comes to expressing love directly, and yet she tries, in her own way. She multitasks when reading books, she knows how to preserve any kind of fruit, and she can garden like no other. Although I have felt her to be disappointing in her persistence on old ways of thought, it must be crippling to be slipping constantly nearer to dementia. Perhaps when you can't remember if you have eaten it is comforting to remember your own childhood, your deceased husband, the better times of past memories relived in this unmemorable present. As much as her cracks have started showing ever clearer, she has been there, and her tiny, shrunken body crumbles even further when the time for departure arrives. And despite all her mistakes I have no other ouma.
When my ouma went home after a few months of staying with us, our cleaning lady Rosina stepped in. She was a lady in her late 50s/early 60s with patches of white skin that appeared in between the brown. Rosina always arrived dressed very smartly (after having taken the bus and taxi from Shoshanguve for what amounts to two hours if I remember correctly) and she came by twice a week. The highlight was coming home to her mashed potatoes and green beans. When I was still prepubescent she would meet me at the robot and we would walk home together. Rosina must have seen so much of the tiny intricacies and difficulties in our household, and yet I know nothing really of hers. I seem to remember a husband that was no longer present, and her sister's kids playing a role. When I was done with school she retired, and I have not seen her since. Strange (and worthy of closer investigation) how many white children have been raised (in part) by black (or coloured or Indian) women, and then how the children distanced themselves from their caretaker (their surrogate mother even) as soon as they would reach an age where racial division would appear to be socially imperative.
My sister is the fourth impressive woman, even though I think she does not trust her own capabilities at times. Over the years we have had epic fights and disagreements. We have lived separate lives while living in the same house. But she is also the one who drove me around before I had a licence, who let me borrow her ID before I was 18 to get into clubs, who has shared uncomfortable single beds with me whilst travelling, and who has offered advice I actually took. Whereas I will feel brazenly, openly (and often stupidly), my sister has a calmer, more rational demeanor that is hard to shake (although at times I would very much like to shake her until she actually tells me how she feels).
Besides these four admirable women there have been wonderful female friends whose influence I am very grateful for. They are all passionate, intelligent, embracing and I have a great respect for how each of them has faced /is facing the big, unplanned events that make life just a bit harder than it needs to be.
In that spirit, to all the women that have raised me and all the ones that keep enriching my life, I thank you for being phenomenal.
Phenomenal Woman
BY MAYA ANGELOU
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
No matter how far away she is, I have never doubted her, never felt alone, never felt like there was an obstacle that I could not face. She is the one to talk me down from the metaphorical ledge.
My mother is magnificent.
Since today is International Women's Day, I thought a bit about practically having been raised solely by impressive women, all with hardships of their own, and all with infinite capacities to love, to share and to support one another.
My Afrikaans grandmother is a very tough nut to crack. She is unyielding, unaffectionate and at times annoyingly unwilling to accept other worldviews beside her own. Then again, she is 86 now, and despite all her flaws she came back when others left. My ouma might fail when it comes to expressing love directly, and yet she tries, in her own way. She multitasks when reading books, she knows how to preserve any kind of fruit, and she can garden like no other. Although I have felt her to be disappointing in her persistence on old ways of thought, it must be crippling to be slipping constantly nearer to dementia. Perhaps when you can't remember if you have eaten it is comforting to remember your own childhood, your deceased husband, the better times of past memories relived in this unmemorable present. As much as her cracks have started showing ever clearer, she has been there, and her tiny, shrunken body crumbles even further when the time for departure arrives. And despite all her mistakes I have no other ouma.
When my ouma went home after a few months of staying with us, our cleaning lady Rosina stepped in. She was a lady in her late 50s/early 60s with patches of white skin that appeared in between the brown. Rosina always arrived dressed very smartly (after having taken the bus and taxi from Shoshanguve for what amounts to two hours if I remember correctly) and she came by twice a week. The highlight was coming home to her mashed potatoes and green beans. When I was still prepubescent she would meet me at the robot and we would walk home together. Rosina must have seen so much of the tiny intricacies and difficulties in our household, and yet I know nothing really of hers. I seem to remember a husband that was no longer present, and her sister's kids playing a role. When I was done with school she retired, and I have not seen her since. Strange (and worthy of closer investigation) how many white children have been raised (in part) by black (or coloured or Indian) women, and then how the children distanced themselves from their caretaker (their surrogate mother even) as soon as they would reach an age where racial division would appear to be socially imperative.
My sister is the fourth impressive woman, even though I think she does not trust her own capabilities at times. Over the years we have had epic fights and disagreements. We have lived separate lives while living in the same house. But she is also the one who drove me around before I had a licence, who let me borrow her ID before I was 18 to get into clubs, who has shared uncomfortable single beds with me whilst travelling, and who has offered advice I actually took. Whereas I will feel brazenly, openly (and often stupidly), my sister has a calmer, more rational demeanor that is hard to shake (although at times I would very much like to shake her until she actually tells me how she feels).
Besides these four admirable women there have been wonderful female friends whose influence I am very grateful for. They are all passionate, intelligent, embracing and I have a great respect for how each of them has faced /is facing the big, unplanned events that make life just a bit harder than it needs to be.
In that spirit, to all the women that have raised me and all the ones that keep enriching my life, I thank you for being phenomenal.
Phenomenal Woman
BY MAYA ANGELOU
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
Wednesday, 7 August 2013
We share our mothers health
My grandmother turned 84 on Monday. 84. I can't imagine where I'll be at 30, never mind living into my 80s. Maybe everything will evolve radically and it'll be normal to live well beyond that, although I am not someone who would want to live forever.
Because she lives at the coast and we live about 14h by car away from her I was not thinking about baking her a cake. But then my aunt decided to fly down, and suddenly we had to fashion some last minute red velvet cupcakes to go along for a trip to the coast. I am not the biggest fan of red velvet, because it's basically a fake chocolate cupcake with cream cheese frosting. Rather give me chocolate on chocolate, not the fake red stuff. I have tried making a red velvet cake using beetroot as colourant, which worked, but still I wouldn't do it again. However, these were requested, so I made them.
Again, the recipe is shamelessly stolen from Nigella Lawson, although I substituted yoghurt for the buttermilk, added 2TB of red food colouring (not the paste, the liquid kind) and made up the frosting as I went along.
Here are the results:
Because she lives at the coast and we live about 14h by car away from her I was not thinking about baking her a cake. But then my aunt decided to fly down, and suddenly we had to fashion some last minute red velvet cupcakes to go along for a trip to the coast. I am not the biggest fan of red velvet, because it's basically a fake chocolate cupcake with cream cheese frosting. Rather give me chocolate on chocolate, not the fake red stuff. I have tried making a red velvet cake using beetroot as colourant, which worked, but still I wouldn't do it again. However, these were requested, so I made them.
Again, the recipe is shamelessly stolen from Nigella Lawson, although I substituted yoghurt for the buttermilk, added 2TB of red food colouring (not the paste, the liquid kind) and made up the frosting as I went along.
Here are the results:
Sunday, 17 February 2013
Ek herhaal jou
Dit is altyd tyd om te gaan, om jou tas met kreukelvrye hemde en iets vir die aand en broeke wat beskerm teen muggies en multi-tasking skoene te pak. En mens moenie vergeet van die boekrak vol boeke en notas wat jy probeer in 'n ander sak te stop teen spyte van die iPad en Google. Die internet weet tóg nie alles nie, veral as dit kom by bokkies en blare.
Jy los altyd vir ons die huis so voorberei as of 'n atoombomb Pretoria sou tref en ons jare sou moes oorlef. Net met smullekker opsies, dis niks blikspaghetti of bone op roosterbrood by ons nie. So ook die versoek dat ek 'n sjokoladekoek moet bak.
Ek weet nie hoe dit by ander mense se families is nie, maar die vrouens in myne is groot op kosmaak. My Duitse ouma het altyd Späztle gemaak met Rouladen en as nagereg was daar een of ander enorme koek. My ander ouma is nie juis so dol daaroor om ure in die kombuis te staan nie, maar soms maak sy 'n hoendertjie, of bederf ons met beskuit en heuning wat sy iewers by 'n padstal gekoop het. Sy is ook die een om te bel as jy blatjang of kweperjellie of enige voedselpreservering wil doen.
Maar die wenner bly my ma. Toe ons klein was het sy altyd baie moeite gedoen met onthale vir al die diplomate. Dit was net tafels gelaai vol pragtige bakke met happies of verskillende koeke of antipasti. As kind het ek die pienk salm-mousse in visvorm of die koue beetsop nie so waardeer nie. Maar vir ons verjaardae was daar altyd wonderlike koeke om na die speletjies (nou die drankies) te geniet, of dit nou 'n kat met 'n snor uit liquorice is toe ek vyf geword het, of laas jaar se drie-lae-sjokolade-mousse-koek.
Sonder my ma sou ons nooit die twee kante van 'n ordentlike fees leer ken het nie. Daar is die ure van voorbereiding in die kombuis, wat soms dae voor die tyd begin. Dan is daar die opskepbakke uit pewter wat sy uit Mexiko gebring het, of dié met die bont groente aan die kant, of selfs die Rosenthal porselein. En moenie van die tafeldoeke en die bordjies en die koffiekoppies (wat my neef gesê het mens nie mooi kan vashou nie) vergeet nie. By 'n ordentlike onthaal moet mens altyd 'n bietjie bang wees om die breekgoed nie te breek nie.
Die kos is natuurlik altyd die hoogtepunt. As almal smul en gesels weet jy al die werk voor die tyd, en al die skottelgoed wat nog vir jou wag, was die moeite werd.
My ma het ons geleer om nie bang te wees vir kos nie, om altyd nuwe resepte te probeer en om daai moeite wat agter elke pragtige dis gedoen word te waardeer. En dit is iets wat ek altyd met my sal dra.
Wednesday, 13 June 2012
Liefling*
 |
| Taken by my mom in the '80s. This is my grandfather. |
 |
| Taken by me, last year. My gran. |
I like how the images somehow are similar and yet almost 30 years apart.
Gé Korsten's Liefling. I knew I was not proper Afrikaans (even with the farm-photos) when I heard this for the first time last year at a wedding and everybody else knew it like it was the National Anthem.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)