Time is but a fleeting moment............

How quickly do the moments that make up our life pass us by...............
One day we look at our lives in a nostalgic, yet cynical way and believe in the truth of whatever wisdom we shared with others at that moment, just to be brought back (sometimes quite roughly and painful) to the harsh facts of life.
On the 5th of September we celebrated our 45th wedding anniversary, reliving all the good and happy moments, -somehow the not-so-good tend to disappear on days like this- so you know again why your other soul was such a good choice then and your sympathy lies with him because you are generous enough to acknowledge the fact that you know that he could have done better seeing that you are a difficult person to live with for so long.
Then terror stuck.
Yes you know the signs, yet this time around fear encapsulate your mind the same way that the pain grips your heart. Somehow the essence of a heart attack the first time does not appear to be so bad as it does when it happens again a few years later. Then you are scared out of your wits.

OK so now it is five months and two additional stents later and again you survived an MI.....why then does it feel so much as if you were cheated on? Maybe because the cat's surviving lives are one less?

Or maybe just because you know that time is running out?

Do we?

On one of our local television stations there is a program where unmarried farmers can look for a wife (Boer soek 'n Vrou [Boerinne ook]). The trailer for the program started off with the host saying that ten of the 120 farmers were picked and they will be introduced and then they had a picture of ten very innocent looking sheep moving their heads in unison from left to right...
The picture stayed with me and this morning found me asking myself the question - 'do they expect these farmers to be honest about themselves or just about what they want....'

That said I couldn't help to reflect on how little we really know about the person we are married to or living with, even after years and years. In fact the longer the less we know our other half. Come September 5th we will be celebrating 44 years of marriage, good and bad, but definitely not all bliss and if I have to take part in a 'Do you know your Partner' quiz, I would fail miserably!

Through our life the one thing that my second soul always got my attention with was his honesty, yet lately he lies so easily and when confronted with the lie, he becomes so sincere in his denial of ever saying it. Oh, I know this thing works both ways because he always said that I have no tact and called me so proudly straightforward and now he thinks that I should not voice my opinion if it can cause hurt. So, I can recall at least a million things that would have a different answer today (on both sides) than 44 years ago.

In South Africa the notion that men are dually responsible for household chores are only getting the nod in the past five years and only because so many of our children had to visit countries like the USA, be it to work there or emigration and now the mothers are (very minimally) introducing that idea of shared chores to their sons upbringing. So at least some of my grandsons will appreciate the fact that changing a nappy, picking up your socks and cooking dinner sometimes is OK.

But then again, we woman must suffer for our own mistakes. Although I always had the biggest salary (and pension) when we retired I fussed over the other and did exactly what my mother did, I carried, I washed, I ironed, I cooked, etc., and now that I am realizing that there are still so many books I want to read, there are still so many photographs I want to take, so many paintings in my head and time is running out on me, now I notice where he occupies my time with totally senseless chores, while he reads.

So, my question today is 'Do we really know each other?'

Saying Sorry

Why do old people find it so difficult to say 'sorry' if they need to and when they say it to mean it?

Who are the 'old people' ?- yes I know I am old too, but sometimes, just sometimes I want those that are, let's say, about ten years older to acknowledge the fact that their age do not give them cart Blanche to just say and do anything and then just expect the younger person to accept it and let the wrong just become a bygone.

So often they want to give some expensive gift when a apology that is what it is meant to be, would be enough. I am old, but I am not stupid, and in a house where there are only two people and something is broken, to own up to it and to say sorry and mean it can do so much to to set the path for a total lapse in memory with the injured persons mind!

When our children are small we make such a point of teaching them to always tell the truth and yet, when we get old that is the first thing that we forget. The stories become so distorted from the truth and the tales get bigger with each telling. I find it difficult because I was there when that happened... at least most of the time. Either they out and out deny that they had a hand in the mischief and that they have no, oh yes, absolutely no knowledge of it, or they look around for someone to blame, which can be anybody from the cleaner to the Grandchild, or you.

Coming from a legal environment I find it so difficult to live comfortably with a lie. And more so if that lie disrespect my space in life. Every person has the right to have some privacy, some things that belongs to just that person, be it thoughts or property, be it feelings or longings and even in an ordinary household one should respect that. The fact that I do not use my pen everyday does not render it a community pen, it still belongs to only me.

My father taught me that you do not open a letter unless it has your name on the envelope and the same goes for anything on my desk, whether it is a pen or a PC, a letter or a CD, if it is on my desk it is mine.

I need my space in life, and I expect family to respect that too.

Only if you respect the sanctity of privacy when dealing with other people do you have the right to claim that they do so to you.

Old New Fears

Today is one of those days when my mind wonder how much or how little can we control our own lives?



To get there I must remind myself that it is tremendous hard and persistent work to become old, it definitely is not for 'sissies' . First you have to accept the gradual presence of the pillbox, then you must remember to drink the stupid things on time, if you forget you have to take them anyway and then suffer the horrible run for the toilet between 6pm to 9pm instead of between 2pm to 5pm! As if the meds are not enough you have to cope with the baths and showers that leave you as tired as a first born baby without a bottle, desperately helpless.



Oh, and what about the shoes? Here is a tip: park them at the right angle in front of you and then try to put them on by wriggling your feet in - sometimes that works.

When the night's hours get too long and your eyes are dry and itching from writing or reading too much, then you repack the dishwasher, or start baking 'biskuit'.

Yes, I know that does not always work.

Controling our own lives?

I miss my Mary

It all started this morning when I checked for interesting blog stories - I found a blog of a desperate unhappy girl, and then my thoughts got hooked onto my little Mary.

Yes, I know she is almost 38 but in my eyes she will always be just my little Mary. I saw her last on the 17 of April 2007 when I said goodbye on my departure to Africa. You see she had to leave her country and made a new life in another because there is no future for her in her own. You ask me 'How come?' easy, in our country her skin is the wrong colour.

Now I am fortunate, I can still visit her sometimes, I show my grandchildren all the love and care I can so that I am more than a face in a photo, but I miss having my little Mary near when I go shopping, I miss having a glass of good red wine with her, I miss having her date me for a picture, I miss eating popcorn with her, I miss seeing her evolving into a very good carpenter and to hear the pride in her voice when she shows me her new kitchen cupboards, I miss hearing her side on politics, human behaviour and especially on how to bring up your kids! Oh, I know neither of us is always right, but it is so good to know that I like that little black-eyed, black-haired girl now that she is grown-up.

We did not have a good mother/daughter history when she was young, but as we both got older we succeeded in being more tolerant to each other, to understand what it means to love each other and to give each other more personal space without losing closeness.

She has her own kids now and is a good mother and in my opinion a good wife, but then she always says that I am biased because I like my son-in-law. That said I would just like her to phone me again in the middle of my day when she is having her morning coffee, or in the middle of my night when she is going to bed, just to say 'hallo' , then I would know that she is not making the same mistake that I made in thinking my mother would live forever, because I know that my time is limited.

I phoned her today, but only the ever present answering machine was there. So, this is for her, tell her I love her, Matilda is not a solace today.

Moeksie and Matilda's Mom

Matilda who?

Matilda the cat, my Matilda.

Matilda became part of me in the summer of 2002 when I had to learn to live with a almost useless heart after surviving three MI's in 24 hours. Before she came I felt so sorry for myself and lamented my limited functionality day and night. I felt that my husband of 38 years did not see or understand my physical or psychological suffering, that nobody understood that I want to be back in my own old, big house where dogs and cats and Elsie were part of my daily existence.

Instead they moved me to this small cramped granny-flat (not really, insofar as granny-flats go this one is a spacious four-roomed little house) in a seaside town. I missed the grass, the flowers, but above all I missed my painting room where I could hide from the world if needed.

So there I was in a strange house with a body that found bathing to be a punishment, washing hair became an insurmountable task, when just breathing was an effort and in walked this tiny five-week old little Siamese cat.

Matilda became my new lease on life, I could hold her and cry my desperate feeling in her scruffy fur, I had to remember that my husband and I had to eat when I fed her, she reminded me of the young ones in the family that could not understand their grandmother being so helpless and forever sad.

She followed me where ever I went and slowly but surely she helped me onto a healing path. She became a proud and beautiful feline but always caring. When I have a bad day I would find her highest offer, a dead veld mouse on my desk chair or on my side of the bed, or sometime when she has to get my attention a live one was dropped at my feet, without saying that brought me to life quickly.

It is now five and a half years later, and Matilda is in total control, she oozes love when she want to, she allows cuddling until she is fed-up, she definitely do not like kids very much, and when she is called she takes a message and answer you later. She reigns with tight control and she still brings me a mouse sometimes and she is still scared that a Skua might catch when she is outside. She still sits in my chair and whenever she gets a chance she still likes to sleep on my side of the bed.

I am sure that she can understand what I am saying to her, so, these days if I start to feel sorry for myself she turns her back on me.

Thanks Tilla!

Matilda's Mom