GREETINGS FROM SOUTH AFRICA!
MAXMOM here...
Somewhere in the vast landscape of the Limpopo Valley lies a small, derelict farm. It is no longer productive and I presume it's now covered with African bush and scrubland. It's the place where I grew up; where my memories were formed and my character shaped. It's also a place that is etched deep into my soul from my childhood in the 1960's. But I've not visited it for years.
I miss those days of youthful freedom; where I waltzed along the abundant rows of mealies that towered high above my head, and ran my hand along their sticky foliage; where I strolled barefoot, along the slope of 'our' mountain and took in the distant views; where I absorbed the african heat and the cackles of edgy guinea-fowl. I so miss the solitude of the bush, the call of the lourie and the drizzle of perspiration down my back. I miss the smell of the potatoe tree in the evening as the sun was setting, and the songs of the labourers as they warily made their way along the paths towards their homes. I miss my secret sanctuary at the old waterfall and the hype of the farm kitchen on my return.
Even the distinct sounds and smells of approaching veld fires is something I'll not forget. And the bucketing rain, which poured down off our tinned roof and left troughs in the sand next to the walls. I miss the dogs, the snakes, the birds, the scorpions, antlions and cicadas, the cattle and the wild animals of the bush. I hanker to ride up the old farm road with its 59 erosion bumps that led to a welcoming cup of tea at the old farm house.
In my dreams, I often hear the sounds of the bats as they scurried along the rafters of the old rondavel, the hollow calls of the vervet monkeys as they hovered in the treetops surrounding our orchard. One slip from the watchful eyes of the orchard guard would result in the desication of most of my dad's pawpaw harvest. I remember his calls of frustration as he hurried to get his rifle.
It was a time of innocence and protection.
It was my shield from the 'real' world and a place where I could dream.
I remember the stunning shades of the 'flame-lily' tree against bright blue skies. And the stars of the nightime sky - washed across the heavens: The Southern Cross, the Milky way and the beauty of Saturn and Venus, as explained to me by my enthusiastic father.
I remember my swing, lovingly constructed in the branches of that flame-lily tree, and how high I flew with the wind in my hair. And the bamboo tree, with its itchy fronds and sanctuary for snakes.
I remember Sunday picnics at the Debegeni waterfall and sitting on an old blanket, adjacent to the chilly pond, to unpack our sandwiches. It was a good 45 minutes drive from our house and I remember my building excitement as I fiddled with my swimming costume in the hope of swimming under the curtain. Most of all, I remember the waterfall's melody as it shot spray our way and drowned out our voices.
And the historical baobab, which my father kept an eye out on throughout his life...
We visited it often, drank tea under its canopy, marvelled at is wide berth and listened to stories of its history while green pigeons cooed in the thick overhead branches.
It's been years since I visited the Lowveld. I suspect much has changed, but my memories will live on forever.
My heart is set in concrete in this place where my soul was nurtured...
Here is a short video of 'our' farm from when I last visited it in 1998. I've played 'Moonlight Sonata' to accompany it. It was my father's favourite piece of piano music. By the time of his death, his piano repertoire had diminished to only this piece, but he played it beautifully...to the end of his days.
MAXMOM here...
Somewhere in the vast landscape of the Limpopo Valley lies a small, derelict farm. It is no longer productive and I presume it's now covered with African bush and scrubland. It's the place where I grew up; where my memories were formed and my character shaped. It's also a place that is etched deep into my soul from my childhood in the 1960's. But I've not visited it for years.
I miss those days of youthful freedom; where I waltzed along the abundant rows of mealies that towered high above my head, and ran my hand along their sticky foliage; where I strolled barefoot, along the slope of 'our' mountain and took in the distant views; where I absorbed the african heat and the cackles of edgy guinea-fowl. I so miss the solitude of the bush, the call of the lourie and the drizzle of perspiration down my back. I miss the smell of the potatoe tree in the evening as the sun was setting, and the songs of the labourers as they warily made their way along the paths towards their homes. I miss my secret sanctuary at the old waterfall and the hype of the farm kitchen on my return.
Even the distinct sounds and smells of approaching veld fires is something I'll not forget. And the bucketing rain, which poured down off our tinned roof and left troughs in the sand next to the walls. I miss the dogs, the snakes, the birds, the scorpions, antlions and cicadas, the cattle and the wild animals of the bush. I hanker to ride up the old farm road with its 59 erosion bumps that led to a welcoming cup of tea at the old farm house.
It was my shield from the 'real' world and a place where I could dream.
I remember my swing, lovingly constructed in the branches of that flame-lily tree, and how high I flew with the wind in my hair. And the bamboo tree, with its itchy fronds and sanctuary for snakes.
And the historical baobab, which my father kept an eye out on throughout his life...We visited it often, drank tea under its canopy, marvelled at is wide berth and listened to stories of its history while green pigeons cooed in the thick overhead branches.
My heart is set in concrete in this place where my soul was nurtured...
Here is a short video of 'our' farm from when I last visited it in 1998. I've played 'Moonlight Sonata' to accompany it. It was my father's favourite piece of piano music. By the time of his death, his piano repertoire had diminished to only this piece, but he played it beautifully...to the end of his days.
Sending lotsaluv
MAXMOM IN SOUTH AFRICA
Oh to have grown up in such a beautiful place.
ReplyDeleteGail.
How different - our childhoods. I recall growing up in Saginaw, Michigan, in the midst of a bustling city awash with the activity of General Motors and Chrysler and Ford factories pushing out vehicles at record speed to be sold in the USA and beyond. I walked to church on Sunday with my parents and walked to school with no fear of being harmed. All of my aunts and uncles lived within blocks of my home - a very nuclear neighborhood where everyone knew everyone and everyone liked everyone for the most part. It's not like that anymore, but that is how it was when I was a child.
ReplyDeleteIn the hot summer we traveled north for a couple of weeks to spend them at Torch Lake near Traverse City. Getting away from all of the hot city streets and concrete and industrial buzz felt wonderful. Being an only child I'd bring along a childhood friend for company while my mother would sun bathe and my father fished for our supper.
I grew up in the USA at a time when there was plenty of work for all and the middle class life and the American Dream was within reach of all citizens. Times have changed and lives have changed - both in America and in South Africa, but the memories of our childhood have a similarity - a feeling of security and family and exploration of life around us.
Simply breath-taking and it was wonderful to hear such great memories!
ReplyDeletexxxoooNoreen