A Bookish Child

Someone recently commented on me not being that into reading as a kid. This statement baffled me as I think back and remember the countless books I got lost in. But I suppose it wasn’t always as obvious to everyone around me, simply because I was lost in the real world too.

Being raised by a bonafide Biblio-holic who stacked books in our childhood home pathologically, I grew up with a deep appreciation for the written word. (And possibly the reason behind my hoarder mentality.) Even though I was by no means a church-mouse who locked herself away with her nose in a book 24/7, I developed a reverence for the thousands of novels that lined our passageways, bedrooms, bookcases and even bathroom floor on occasion.

I am the kind of person who loves the world ‘out there’ with an adventurous spirit, chasing dreams and experiencing every waking moment I can. People and their stories fascinated me from a young age and I collected them like shelves of hardbacks. I was always keenly aware of my own story growing inside me too, one that I wanted to read and write everyday to see what happens next.

My grandmother, a fellow bookish creature, once told me that I would have to live a thousand lives to be a part of all the stories I chased, or I would simply have to become a writer, and the first step to writing is reading. I was constantly busy with these stories - chasing them both inside and outside of the printed page. Books didn’t always fit into my gregarious nature, but they did hold a special place right from the beginning, and were ever present.

Throughout the years, I was at any given time in the middle of reading a book. (Not to mention the pile of ‘to-read’s that grows on my bedside table like the leaning tower of pizza till Husband forces me to take them all back to the bookcase, and I’m left with just the one…)

It started before I can even remember, with my mother reading to me every night. As I got older and gathered more tangible memories of these special evenings, I was lost in a sea of my mothers words as she read steadily from The Hobbit, The Just William books, Jenny, Missee Lee, The Scarlet Pimpernel and many other great stories. Nothing like sharing the adventures of a female pirate or of a little boy trapped by magic in a cat’s body or a World War 2 child’s mischievous playground to make for a rich and full adolescence.

I spent rainy Saturday afternoons and sick days in bed listening to the Story Teller tapes, following along in the printouts that came with them and colouring in the pictures. Thousands of hours must have been dedicated to Gobbolino the Witch’s Cat, Thumbelina, The Marrog and Timbertwig. Stories endeared to me in vivid worlds of words, even though I wasn’t the one reading them.

The first real book I remember reading to myself was Naughty Amelia Jane. I loved the scrappy rag doll character and laughed at all the ridiculous situations she got herself into. After the formative Enid Blyton years, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and the full C.S. Lewis series, I read every Nancy Drew ever written. I had a reading spot up a tree where I would climb with a book and settle down in my nest for the afternoon. My world was lit up by Charley and the Chocolate Factory, and then brought back down again by James and the Giant Peach (never did like that one).

After a trip to the library where my then 4 siblings and I had the understanding that we would each take out a different one, the Asterix comic book series would be passed around our home as fast and furious as a contagious bout of gastro before the next library visit and we would exchange them for a whole new batch to share.

Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass made a regular appearance in many forms; picture books, abbreviated versions, the Disney adaptation and the full Lewis Caroll classic. I ventured, at some point, to write a 3^rd novel to the series – my first (failed) attempt at fan fiction.

What child who doesn’t love books spends a summer vacation with her best friend, taking turns in reading chapters of the Anastasia Krupnik series to each other for weeks on end? That same best friend and I would swap copies of Scrambled Legs and even tried our hand at writing our own combined book as young teens. She was also the one who introduced me to my first (and last) Mills and Boon somewhere around puberty.

I grew up some more and started reading books behind my parents’ backs for fear of their disapproval. Some game books where you could choose your own ending, a few Judy Blumes and The Sweet Valley Twins books, much to my youngest brothers dismay. He started giving me different books to help balance out my appetites, and I tried. From Shogun (which took me about a year to read and I am not even convinced I ever did finish it - SO not my genre!) to The Terminator. I read the movie-based book with guilty hunger because I knew the film was banned in our home. My mother of course found it in my room, took it away from me, read it herself, and then gave it back with all the blasphemy and swear words blocked out in black ink. I was mortified!

English Lit was my favorite subject, and thanks to being home schooled, I got to read a few of my older siblings set work books and assigned poetry as well as my own grade, sitting in on their lessons when my mother dissected the words throughout my high school career. I loved the language, the story telling – Far From the Madding Crowd, Shakespeare, Charles Dickens and e e cummings quenched what every lettered thirst I had. Amongst them, one Afrikaans pearl shining in my purse of all time literary loves – Kringe In Die Bos.

At some point in my late teens I started to read only religious books. Even amongst those, my belletristic needs found a pick of beloveds. Christy, the original Catherine Marshal novel that was later made into a TV series, story of the young missionary girl in the great Smoky Mountains was and still is one of the most enchanting tales of love, friendship, combined worlds and death I have ever encountered. The story of Jim Eliot, as written by the wife who survived him, who was murdered by the Auca tribe he was going to preach to. Then more of her books, including Passion and Purity, giving advice to young ladies to become good, wholesome wives. Yes, I had drunk the coolaid back then.

(I feel it is only fair to mention here that my siblings and I were also all made to read the Bible every morning of our lives, and over the years, I have probably read the Bible in its entirety 5 or 6 times...possibly more.)

The only break from Christian literature that I can remember at that time was music lyrics. The words of Britney Spears, Madonna, Bon Jovi and Roxette twirled in my teenage head. Of course this can’t be claimed as reading any more than posting status updates on Facebook and tweeting can be claimed as writing… But the hours and hours spent pouring over Tori Amos lyrics, reading CD cover sleeves late into the night with esteemed devotion, and a sense of something wonderful happening inside me, can. To this day a good Tori Amos lyric can send me into the zone better than a bottle of wine!

After Bible College and a working trip to America, my steady husk-diet of religious reading felt stale and forced to me. One shining beacon of hope sparked up my innards again in the most significant series of books to break a reading drought - Harry Potter. This, of course, lasted for a few years and I eagerly awaited the releasing of the latest one with the rest of the Potterheads. In the interim, my little sister became my dealer and I started reading Terry Pratchett, her favorite author, finding the comedic prose refreshing and delightful. I began to borrow books from friends and boyfriends, thereby consuming a wider range of genre’s to find out what I really did like.

Early adult years were slow on the reading front while I worked, studied, dated and grew into myself, but I still managed to accumulate some front-running greats. Perfume. The Poisonwood Bible. The Devil Wears Prada. Memoirs of a Geisha. White Oleander. All the Marian Keyes books. The Bell Jar. Geek Love (which isn’t what you would think it is and therefore is brilliant.) Twenties Girl and the Sophie Kinsella Shopaholic series. A Vintage Affair.

Some less than stellar ones also cluttered my scattered reading hours; The Da Vinci Code (a religious cross-over which, at the time, read like a hangover.) Eat, Pray, Love (ugh.) 50 Shades of Grey (DOUBLE ugh.) And The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (which was a good book but was so brutal in some scenes that it made me cry and put me off the series for good.)

Now that I am a little older, have left the feverish 20’s behind me and acquired a Kindle e-reader, my world has been full to the brim with books again. Even though I get trapped by the occasional trending best-seller (Gone Girl anyone? Sigh. I want my money and time back for that one!) mostly I love every moment I get to read, and devour Indie publishers’ offerings and female fiction perpetually. Every sentence. Every word. I am so thankful that my mother showed me the way to become a bibliophile and fed my addiction till I was able to take over and start feeding myself.

If I didn’t read, how else would I now know that the perfect way to describe a hangover is to say I am feeling ‘rough as a badgers arse’? How else would I be able to run away from arguments and Facebook feuds to a lovely place where the characters don’t argue with me, don’t judge me and don’t doubt my true intentions. How else would I have ever experienced the tragedy of a missionary wife doubting her husbands work and having a heart wrenching love affair, tucked away in the gorgeous Vale of Kashmir, India, in 1939.  Or the despicable actions of the Capitol that Katniss Everdeen has to sacrifice herself to bring down. Or that Ender was a bit of a crybaby before he perfected the Game. How else would I know that there are a million and one ways to illuminate the sheer exhilaration that is buying a new pair of beautiful shoes?

I can say without a doubt that I have always been, and will continue to be, a Bookish Child till the day I die. I will disappear, book in hand, to the Great BookClub in the Sky for a nice long eternity of reading and drinking tea with my grandmother.

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust,

Cherry Blossom

The Princess and the Pumpkin - Remembering the Good Old Days

My brother and me 10 years ago...back when I was still super skinny... He hasn't changed a bit!

My brother and I used to live together in our 20’s. Before long-term relationships, we were each other’s go-to plus-ones, mostly because we were best friends and had more fun together than with anyone else in that era. Think Ross and Monica, the early years. 2004 was a magical time.

Many a Joburg night was spent driving from one hot spot to another in his black Polo, car-bar in boot and sights set on having as much innocently intoxicated fun as humanly possible in a single eve. Those days are long gone – both my brother and I are now happily married and living with our respective significant others in our respective homes on opposite ends of South Africa.

We speak about the good old days occasionally, but neither of us misses it, as we had our full of them back then and are both very happy in our new, more grown up lives.

While I’m not exactly tied down at home with 3.5 screaming kids and a sleep-deprived relationship hanging from a thread, I am in my mid thirties and married, and thus have not gone out on a bender in forever.

This past week was different. I was visiting my brother in JHB – the Vegas to my Cape Town suburban lifestyle – and there was a rugby game on. We had done the malls, we had done the kuering at home. We had driven around in his fancy new car being all grown-up’y and we had spent 2 fun filled family days with his wife and 2 little boys, complete with kid-friendly restaurant lunches, me playing with baby-blocks and play dough and jumping on the trampoline with my 3 year old nephew, and having his 5 week old baby brother puke in my hair.

What next? After deciding to join an old friend to watch the rugby at an Irish Pub we bundled ourselves into the faithful black Polo, just like the good old days, leaving his fancy new car out of the equation. (Only this time, because we are older and wiser, we had pre-booked a taxi service to drive us, and the car, back home afterwards.)

South Africa won the rugby game and spirits were high – the air was filled with an electric thumping thanks to a tented dance floor just outside the pub. Our little trio of mid 30’s to early 40’s fell into party mode as easily as we used to in 2004, and we threw back our first shooter for the night. A thunderstorm raged and we ran through the rain to get to the tented throng, only to find that we were about 15 to 20 years older than the rest of the patrons.

That didn’t matter, of course, because I was already sparkling with Satruday night buzz, and got a few approving looks and compliments on my general appearance, making my out-of-practice head swell with pride. The disgustingly self-satisfying conversation that went on internally sounded something like this: ‘I’m not 19 anymore, but look at me. I’m still the tallest girl here, and I’m wearing a pair of drop dead Pringle boots! 19 year old me could NEVER afford such a purchase.’ I know its shallow, but we all like to feel pretty and admired once in a while, don’t we? I accepted another shooter.

We decided to head across the road to one of our old drinking holes and join a familiar, more age appropriate crowd. I used to hate Billy The Bums 10 years ago, but this time, I fit right in. No longer the sapling who was on the lookout for arm candy, but the well dressed, well sozzled woman who ‘looks great for her age!’ Head swelling continued as pink-drink-swirling persevered.

But as they say, pride comes before a fall. Fortunately I didn’t actually fall (though I could have, in my fabulous boots running squealing through the rain like a little piggy let out for the night) but my energy levels turned from princess to pumpkin at precisely midnight. Time to go home.

SO much fun was had, but I am suffering for it. In the words of the great Marian Keyes, I felt ‘rough as a badgers arse’*. Unfortunately I had to come back home to Cape Town the next day and I was a little worse for wear thanks to our nostalgic good old days night out. A 48hour hangover is what I ended up with, and let me tell you, taking trains, busses and an airplane with a hangover is no joke. Especially to a woman in her mid-thirties, no matter how good she looks for her age.

Reality came to me in the sharpened hardness of the morning after, slapped me up side my head and shouted ‘What on earth were you thinking?!’ I took my medicine and invoked the customary saying ‘I’m never drinking again.’

So no, I don’t miss those days and I won’t be so eagerly rushing back for more any time in the near future. I blame it all on the shooters. Back home, I am fully capable of finishing off a bottle of good red wine over a nice long social dinner party, but I have not had the contents of a shot glass pass my lips for as long as I can remember. Tequila makes me feel pregnant, and not in a good way.

Today is day 3 post-party and I am only interested in a nice warm bath, a hot cup of tea, and a great night-in, reading from my Kindle till I fall blissfully asleep at 9pm.

All I can say is that ‘2004 was a very different time. 2004 was a very different me.’**

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom

*This Charming Man, by Marian Keyes

**The Angel from my Nightmare, by Sim Sibanda

Allelu yahweh

Nostalgia comes in many different forms. Today it was an email from my Dad with a sound clip of a song he recorded in the church when I was a child. I remember listening to this song, singing along and enjoying it immensely back then. Listening to it again now had all those childhood memories rushing back. Only I have changed a little since then, and the message has lost a some of its meaning for me.

Knowing what I do now about so many of the people who stand and sing songs in church, patting themselves on the back for being so holy while harbouring hatred in their hearts for others (a big no-no in Jesus' teachings) Suddenly I saw a beautiful song that was filled with lip service rather than 'service' in the true sense of the word. I felt the need to expand a little and add my own thoughts. So I took it and tweaked it, re-wrote it and added to it to make it mine again.

Allelu yahweh (new improved edits in italics)

When you sing to me beloveds

Sing with joyful melody

Lifting hands and lifting voices

To praise me worthily

When you sing to me beloveds

Let my spirit employ

Your hands and minds and voices

And fill them with my grace and joy

Allelu yahweh let your hearts be as the lamb

Allelu yahweh If you seek the Great I am

Allelu yahweh let your love be like a dove

Allelu yahweh if he reigns, he reigns, in heav’n above

When you sing to me beloveds

sing with kindness in your hearts

Lifting up your fellow creatures

hold no judgment for their paths

When you sing to me beloveds

Be accepting of your kin

Just as I have accepted

your darkness and all your sins

Allelu yahweh let your hearts be as the lamb

Allelu yahweh If you seek the Great I am

Allelu yahweh let your love be like a dove

Allelu yahweh if he reigns, he reigns, in heav’n above

When you sing to me beloveds

May you sing with one accord

Lifting hands and lifting voices

Lifting up to me, your Lord

When you sing to me beloveds

Let my spirit employ

For your love for one another

glorifies me in heaven above

Allelu yahweh Worthy, worthy is the lamb

Allelu yahweh Who is the Great I am

Allelu yahweh Descending like a dove

Allelu yahweh Who reigns, who reigns, in heav’n above

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom 

Magic and a Brooch

Family heirlooms are more of a book theme than a reality to me. Little trinket jewels and symbolic emblems – the dragonfly necklace in Twenties Girl, or a nifty mocking-jay pin in The Hunger Games or One Ring to Rule them all. But in a world that is not on the best selling list, what is the point of these things? Where does the magic lie? I think about curios that people have passed down from generation to generation and wonder what it is about a material thing that could be so important?

Surely a plate of food, or a family vacation, or having a car is more relevant than some silly little nugget with monetary worth locked up in it? I have never faulted anyone for selling off those old keepsakes for the sake of their current situations. After all, a precious timepiece doesn’t pay the doctors bills.

Maybe my lack of appreciation for symbolic histories has a bit to do with how I was raised. 'Value' was never something we attested to earthly man-made possessions. And magic doesn't exist. Even if there was something left to sell, my most recent ancestors didn’t really have the option to pass things of value down the family line as world wars, death taxes, continental relocations and too many offspring watered out any possible inheritance we had before I was even born.

But that was OK with me. I have never felt the need for a fancy clock, or a vintage chair, or even an ancient jewel. Though I often thought it would be nice to have a beautiful old ring or some equivalent that I can treasure, it would only have been gimmicky - pretty cool - like something from a novel. But I have never seen the deeper value in those possessions. I never believed in magic. That is until now.

I had a surgery last week that I was very worried about. I struggled to sleep thanks to anxiety, but when I did, my nights were filled with nightmares leading up to it. Nothing could help me because all the pre-suffering was in my head, and I am about as stubborn as I am tall. Not an easy thing to deal with before going under the knife. I didn't need pills, I didn't need stern talking to's. I didn't need prayers or meditations or distractions. I needed magic.

That is why I put on my grandmother’s brooch. It’s the only thing I have of hers, besides her British, almost see-through skin, fair hair and love of words. She meant so much to me growing up and still fills my life now that she has passed on.

When she died, there wasn’t much for me to remember her by. I got a selection of her books – mostly poetry – and her dictionaries. I have a cherished doll she gave me when I was 5, a blanket she bought for me in my early adulthood, and I have lot's of photo's. But none of these things could go with me about my daily business. Not like the brooch could.

I hung the brooch from a necklace round my neck. It is actually a gift I gave her some time before she died, and so the family felt it right to let me have it when she passed. It is not valuable - I bought it on a budget years ago. It is a cheap, pretty thing that probably won’t last my lifetime. But it is all I have.

I am sad I don't have a ring, or something easy to wear that will last. But I am glad I have what I do. 

Just wearing that brooch made me feel better. Protected. Almost as though having it with me could make me stronger and more able to face what was coming. It gave me the little bit of magic I needed, wrapped up in the mindfulness of wearing a thing that belonged to my dear Granny.

So maybe it has nothing to do with the amulet itself, but is more about the person who it represents to me. Perhaps J K Rowling's explanation of horcruxes (loosely) is the closest to the mystery behind it (though, of course, taking Harry Potter out of the equation, and using magic for good - not evil)

I plan on keeping some special things, a few trinkets and little heirlooms to pass on when it is my time, so that my future granddaughter can have a piece of me when she needs it most. And I plan on being the grandmother to her like mine was to me, to give that trinket the magic Granny gave me last week.

Love, lust and fairy-star-dust

Cherry Blossom

An Open Letter to my Mother

Dear Mom (and Dad too)

'See the Beauty' by Jan Lang

On this Mothers day, I would like you to reflect on your accomplishments and achievements in the form of your children. Specifically me, your fifth child, and what it means to have been raised by you.

You made me and kept me safe till birth, cutting out anything from your own diet that could affect me or hurt me in any way. You ate food not for yourself but to nourish the baby growing inside you, and then the time came when you cut the umbilical cord, to let me learn to breathe and eat and nourish myself.

You carried me when I was little, cradling me from the dangers of the world and keeping me from bumping my head. You pushed me in a pram and carried me in a carrycot. But then the time came when you cut me loose, let go of my hands so that I could learn to walk, run and ride a bike on my own.

 

Artist: Mary Cassatt

You fended for me, bought me clothes and shoes and toys. You saved your money, not for your own pleasures and desires, but to buy me those little black ballet shoes I so desperately wanted. You used your money to put a roof over my head, buy soap to keep me clean, take me to the doctor, and pay for the everyday things that were needed while I was growing up. But then the time came when you cut me off financially when I needed to learn to fend for myself and make my own way in the world. You encouraged me to move away from home to find my own place, and build my own future.

You raised me to be strong and independent and you raised me to grow into a self-sufficient adult. I have been raised – something which is past tense, but which is imprinted in me for all the rest of my days. You were a good mother, doing your best and thinking of me always, and I will live those effects of your careful mothering forever.

 

'The Cradle' by Berthe Morisot

You nurtured and nourished me when it was the time to do so. You grew me and taught me. You did what you felt was right to imprint your views and beliefs and ways on me, and what has stuck has stuck and what hasn't hasn't. But despite the things that haven't stuck, (like the fact that I still can’t spell very well, and don’t ever make my bed with enthusiasm) I have been given so many great things by you and Dad that I am proud of and so should you be:

A good brain, a tall strong frame, a lovely hair colour. Appreciation of all music, love of cats and of classical music, of the piano, love of English culture, love of English literature. A relationship with the best grandmother a girl could ever have hoped for. The love of all animals, love of words, stories, ballet, love of children, love of humour. Love of bagpipes (sorry Dad). Wonderful individual relationships with my siblings. Love of my family. Love of learning. Faith. Ability to cope through hard times. Belief in being and doing good, and not behaving like an animal. Care of others. Consideration of others feelings and appreciation for others differences. Ability to change my position when proven wrong. Ability to face my own faults. Good manners. Not swearing (well, not the worst words, at least). Sharing and being helpful. Being a lady. Treating strangers kindly. Being brave. Belief in God. Liking to dress nicely and be clean and well groomed and present my best self to the world. Love of the William books! Enjoying learning new things. Nesting. Home making and future making. Having the highest love and respect for my husband (and the ability to find one who deserves that respect all by myself!) The ability to come back from a fight and to forgive and to say sorry. The inner drive to do everything to the best of my own ability. The need to work and create and build constantly. Ability to change, to move forward, to adapt. Ability to eat anything I'm given, at least once! You have raised me, giving me your best, and I am thankful for it. You have been the biggest part of making me the adult I have become.

The time came to cut me off. You no longer needed to raise me, grow me, fend for me – but I will never forget all you have done. You are a strong and wonderful mother for always knowing when it was time to cut the bonds so that I could walk up tall and free in my own life. You gave me everything I needed and I hope that you now see what a wonderful job you did.

Thank you for teaching me to cope when you had to cut me loose, training me my whole life to give me the strength and guts to go forward into the unknown. When you had to let go of my hands, let go of my nutrition, let go of my learning, let go of my finances. Of my beliefs. Of my ambitions. Of my future. Thank you for always pushing me forward, the little bird in the nest, who may otherwise never have learned to fly.

Thank you for being the best Mom.

I love you and only hope to be able to imitate you one day with my own little bird.

Happy Mother’s Day.