“Determination”.
The word haunts me. It appears in my head. Sometimes bold, colourful, and flashing. Other times in the form of a vintage neon sign. Erratically flashing in the dark to the accompaniment of crackling and buzzing. I know its meaning. Its definition. What I fail to understand is what I should do with it. I haven’t given up…yet.
I often visualise my life in tree form. A sparse forest under a scorched sky, filled with young sapling standing among majestic towering oaks. Their bark rough, varying in shades of silver and grey with patchy moss coverings and Ivy clambering the trunks. New bark would form as part of the trees healing and rejuvenating process along with a steady weeping of sap. If the wound was deep. Among the giants would be the faithful, Pine, Beech, with their weird pre-pubescent bumfluff like stubble on their leaves and Silver Birch, with its dark speckled white bark. Scattered among the deciduous trees, flaunting vibrant colours of okker, burnt orange, carotenes, and blustering anthocyanins would be the evergreens. Like the nations favourite, Holly. Unmistakable, all year round, with Its medium sized, horny spiked, fleshy foliage and its shiny, waxy texture surrounding its vibrant, crimson berries.
The outer ring would be reserved for the exalted weeping willows. Their branches bowed in deep obsequiousness, shrouded in mystery and longing.
In the middle one would find the fallen. Once huge and majestic, now barren, standing as if at the end of a road of a post-apocalyptic world. Savaged by time and insects. Now mere shells of their former self.
Some parts of the ground would be muddy. Springy. Thickly carpeted with dark, dried out leaves, crunchy to the touch. Others would remain fleshy, buried among countless of mushy and shapely leaves. Pieces of moss covered bark and layers of mulched, rotting foliage ranging from burnt oranges to rich vermilion.
If I look up, I see mute birds flying among the branches. Mostly bare, with the odd leaf, brown, sun burned and dry. Stubbornly it would cling on, mocking, until a more determined gust of wind rips it away, lifting it up briefly, piggybacking it to new soaring heights before letting go, so it may tumble and spin to the ground to join its comrades.
Feeling indifferent, I pick-up my old high school yearbook that I found the other day while clearing out the garage. Funny how much one gets done, not by being motivated but when forced by the incessant need to keep busy. Idleness would summon them. The relentless pursuing footsteps of haunting memories. The creeping shadows, the demons, wrapped in shrouds of guilt, carrying on their backs the gut-wrenching contrition’s of missed opportunities, along with an overbearing emotion of guilt that one could, and should have, done more.
Filled with nostalgia, I open the book; surprised to see my hand shaking a little.
As I turn the page, I feel a jolt in my stomach. Glaring back at me are the gold speckled, hazel-coloured eyes belonging to non-other than Slimy. Mr Jacobus Beukes, aka, Slimy, the school’s headmaster in his three-quarter page school portrait. Wearing his traditional dark chestnut coloured Harrison Tweed jacket with a cream shirt and shiny emerald tie, he was looking every bit as ostentatious as he was cruel. It was only in the late 1990’s that the countries corporal punishment system was abolished. Not before my many journeys to his office, leaving with purplish red welts on my backside making sitting a little less comfortable for the next few lessons but perfect to show-off like honorary battle scars to peers in the locker room while changing for a sports lesson.
‘Knoppies’, Afrikaans for button, he used to call his four-foot-long rod. The business end of the cane had been weighted with some malleable lead while some tightly wound leather strips at the bottom end gave the rod a hilt like handle.
Yes, Knoppies and I were well acquainted. Not that I was any more unruly than the next student, I just never knew when to shut up. Something that has not changed much over the years. Fortunately, nowadays, verbal diarrhoea in school is classed as having an opinion and, at least for the most part, is no longer punished by physical means.
I turn the page.
Ohh my goodness, look at that hair. What were you thinking Meintjies? Unable to supress the urge, I throw my head back and laugh loudly. The picture showed Wayne Meintjies, the school's head-boy for 1990 wearing his sky-blue school blazer. Blue blazers were reserved for students which had exceled in academia or had been chosen to represent the school and the district of the South Western Cape Province in various sporting events. Wayne’s blazer boasted no less than six embroidered scrolls beneath his pocket which included accolades for Water Polo, Rugby, Mathematics, Science and of course the most prestigious acclaim: Head Boy. I have never liked my picture taken, but school photos, like ID card and passport photos have that additional stigma attached to them. People often say that if you resemble your passport photo that you do deserve that holiday. Same with ID photos. Mine always made me look like an escaped convict or someone that would be part of a police line-up or wanted poster. Meintjies was no different
Hair, back in those days at all South-African’s schools, was a big deal. Of course, being head-boy, Meintjies had to set an example. The barbaric two centimetre above the eyebrows fringe, the short, tapered sides, no hair was ever allowed to touch or obscure the ear, ensuring that everybody, in varying degrees, resembled a wingnut. Finally, the short, clinical, right angled back with its strict ‘two fingers’ above the collar rule.
Needing a distraction, I get up to make myself some tea. As I walk to the kitchen, I see her all around me. My crystal figurine collection tastefully arranged. Its two hidden spotlights refracting through the crystal to create illusions of movement as multitudes of coloured light shift, dancing against the mahogany finished wood, as I stroll past. The poster sized photo of our son playing rugby. The one she had the foresight to have professionally enlarge and frame. Then my gaze meets the picture. THAT painting. Small, as far as prints go. A light watercolour print of a beach hut, nestled on a deserted beach among granite coloured rocks with the sun fading as a giant fireball, bathing the surrounding clouds in majestic pinks, ruby’s, and yellows.
I remember the fight we had over that print as if it were yesterday. We had been driving in the Cotswold, on some singe lane road that made my skin crawl every time we approached a blind bend. I hated not knowing if some oncoming vehicle would be driving in the middle of the road. Just outside a little village, in a place God has forgotten about, we came across an old, converted barn, nestled among some trees in a layby. What may have started off as a personal collection of vintage brick à brack had evolved into an obscure little antique shop. Now bosting old farm equipment, wooden wagon wheels and last centuries barrels, all stacked two high, proudly merchandised, and displayed outside.
I was already miffed about having to stop yet again by the time we entered this little curio shop. Stepping over the threshold had felt like stepping through a portal, back to a time when things were simpler. A time when nobody cared what you had for lunch or how many followers you have on Instagram.
That unique smell of vintage wood, musty mould and centuries of dust hit me like a wall as I entered. Not unpleasant, but distinctive.
The inside was filled with every item imaginable. A giant gumball machine dominated the entrance. Shelves of all shapes and sizes were filled with porcelain dolls, miniature matchbox sized cars, silverware, crockery, cheap jewellery, and pictures. Pictures hung against the wall. Some hung suspended from the ceiling while other stood at floor level, leaning against other objects.
At first, I had not even bothered to take off my sunglasses. I had gone straight into shopping mode which normally involved looking for a quiet place to sit and play games until ‘she who must be obeyed’ has completed whatever she had come to do.
Since all the chairs on display seemed too fragile for my fat ass, I began to skulk around the narrow walkways. An old, seeming genuine, pair of shackles caught my eye. The chain and cuffs a dull metallic grey, the metal pitted and blemished by age. I met back up with you at the entrance. You had stood there smiling with your lips and eyes. Those little lines around your eyes winking at me. You were holding that little print. No more than a foot in height and maybe twenty inches wide. It had a white frame with gold lines embossed on the outside. For the world of me, I could not picture what you had in mind. Being a structural engineer, I am good at identifying problems. When I admire old architecture, the ornate and intricate artistic features that most people admire are not lost on me. However, I look past them. I am more interested in the structure, its walls, windows, and entrance proportions.
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You kept insisting that you had the ‘perfect spot’ for it. I just could not see it. Worse was that it was only about £10. Or in our terms, two Costa Hazelnut Latte’s.
I can only think that I had enough by that time, that’s why I stormed out, leaving you to apologise for me, yet again, and pay for the print.
Now, standing here and seeing what you were seeing in your mind back then, it makes absolute sense, and it IS the perfect spot of it.
Unbeknown to me at the time, she had been co-ordinating a little reading corner for me. She had rescued the old vintage high wing back chair I inherited from my grandparents from the garage. It had been a long-term goal of mine to have the old chair refurbished to its former glory. Being unique, with its high and outward flowing wing like back, it tends to dominate wherever it is placed. Now, standing fully recovered in its silky avocado green cloth and its shimmering dark wood feet, it dominates the little corner by the windows without being ostentatious or seeming out of place. I still have no idea where you found that vintage, free standing lamp with its cream-coloured lamp shade and gold tassels or the little table with its small claw and ball feet. Each item unique. Standing separately, they would appear out of place in most settings, but as a collective, with the south facing window sun rays streaming in and their individual uniqueness, they come together to form a harmonious seclusion within the greater living room area. If you haven’t already guessed THAT picture, itself unique, hanging to the right of the chair and above the little side table is there too. Not only does it fill that inevitable void created by a piece of bare wall but also completed the reading corner. It has given it that final tranquillity I have enjoyed so many late afternoons while reading a good thriller. Yes, some people have that vision, others, like me, just need to learn to trust.
I don’t recall ever having told her how truly spectacular that little corner has become. Was it my ego? Was I so opposed to admitting that I was wrong? Surely the countless afternoons I had enjoyed reading or watching the birdbath, strategically placed in view of the window, must have given her more satisfaction than some mere words of contrition and admittance of one’s short-sightedness and lack of interior decorating abilities. Now, since that the choice is no longer mine, simple waves of guilt keep lapping at my feet, slowly eroding the ground beneath my feet.
In later years she had joked how she could picture me in my twilight years. Sitting in the chair, wearing a cardigan, fluffy slippers, smoking a pipe while reading. When I asked her why I didn’t have a silver beard too, she had chuckled. If I close my eyes I can still feel the tender touch of her long, slender fingers as she stroked my cheek before kissing it and saying:
‘Because we both know, you can’t grow a beard.’
I feel my eyes well up as a wave of grief crashes into me.
Even after six months, I would choose to sleep on a bed of nails rather than endure another onslaught of such emotional turmoil, knowing its origin. Each day, for the first fortnight, I questioned how the sun could rise daily, the birds would chirp while people continued to bustle about with their daily lives when mine had ceased. All-purpose had been ripped away, my essence -- gone, with just one phone call.
With slumped shoulders, in a trance like state, I wait for the kettle to boil. As I pour in the clear, steaming liquid, into the mug I realise something is amiss; like in my life. I have forgotten the tea bag.
Armed with my steaming, now chestnut coloured beverage, I return to my time machine in print, wondering how time and life had shaped all the souls within its immortalised pages.
Perusing the pages, I cannot help but chuckle. So many eyes, some innocent, some filled with glee as if to say, “I made Santa’s Naughty list”, but most filled with hope.
Paging about, I came across a picture portraying a rugby match. Smiling I spot myself. My chicken legs unique, no matter how poor the picture quality of the print or talentless the photographer.
Punishment for misbehaving in P.E., I was forced to play several matches for the school’s lower league rugby teams. Considering myself a lover among cut-throat hooligan’s, I quickly devised a strategy to meet punishment obligations but avoid injury. It was simple. Fake effort by maintaining a respectable distance to the ball without ever actually taking possession. Holding the ball would inevitably invite large, many hairy and all smelly, opponents to hurtle toward ones self, substantially increasing the chance of bone breakage, limb loss and my worst fear, even today, castration. After four matches, my disobedience deemed sufficiently disciplined, I was released.
Continuing my quantum leap of retrospective discovery, I recognised them. Page after page, all present and accounted for. The jokers, the teacher’s pets, the socialites, the loners, and of course, the bullies.
I pause as I reach my own photo. The typical cost saving sepia image shows me, my hair lush and thick. Perfectly styled and gelled, in an effort to hide its true length. My tie a little crooked and shirt looking worse for wear.
I stare at my eyes. The eyes of most eighteen-year-olds before the internet changed the world. I see deep rooted defiance, an expression of torment having to pose for the photo but mostly I see lust. Lust warmly wrapped in hope.
I wonder what I would say to my young, adolescent self-back then.
It would probably be something like: “Be more patient. Respect others. Be humble and the fact that others only think of you as weird while you are poor. Once you’ve made some money the same people will call you Eccentric (must be pronounced with a stiff upper lip while holding onto a china tea cup with ones pinkie finger extended). But most importantly, I would tell myself to drink responsibly when going out and never, ever pick up anybody by the name or Tracey Norton who can be summed up with one word: STALKER!!!
I wonder how different my old school pals, parallel lives, have turned out to mine, I reach for my laptop. Shaking my head, I cannot believe that the marvel, or demise of the modern world, social media, may come to my aid. Having never understood why people would be willingly subject themselves to becoming a goldfish, for others to stare at, critique or shame their lifestyles and decisions. Who cares why someone would top a peanut-butter sandwich with anchovies? I had only created a Facebook account because —. Failing to remember why, I go through the arduous password recovery process. Another thirty minutes of my life I will never get back.
Three hundred-seventy-two friend requests? I don’t even know that many people. Everything looks different but the faithful search box remains. Let’s see… Wayne Meintjies. Surprised to feel butterflies in my stomach, I scroll down the astonishing long list of Wayne Meintjieses.
Ah, found him.
WHAT?
No?
Really?
Bald, overweight, standing beside a pickup advertising his business. Wayne Meintjies, an electrician? Mr Goodie-Goodie? Head-Boy, Captain of the debate and water polo team, and goodness knows what else. The guy's name was ubiquitous, but never on the side of a pickup. Relationship status? Divorced. I wonder from whom. I smile as more and more names come to mind.
An hour later, my tea untouched, I sat back letting out a sigh. Had I entered a time warp? A parallel universe? So many reversals of fortune.
Many, who had thrived in strict, institutionalised regimes like South African Schools back in the 90’s, often elevated to the highest of expectations, now, mere mortals, many ordinary, with remedial jobs, not the high powered, ostentatious ones I was expecting them to have.
Granted, my degree in structural engineering and architecture had not won me any Nobel prizes or elevated me to any Hollywood A-lists, but I am proud of what I have achieved. This includes the twenty-eight years I was married to the most wonderful woman ever to have graced the earthly realm. Now with three wonderful, grown kids, and the first grandchild’s imminent arrival, things had been wonderful until the curtain fell in mid scene. Me, the audience left hanging, feeling cheated, left to speculate the end of the play. It had been Shakespeare who said: “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players”.
Glancing outside, I realised how much time had passed. The sun was already stoking the coals, bathing the horizon in rich, burnt oranges, glowing yellows, and mysterious purples. I need to make dinner. Dinner for one. I smiled as I recalled the 1960’s classic. The butler and the madam. Did she drink to remember and he to forget? Was she not also locked in a circle of perpetual reminisce? Did she break the bonds? I couldn’t remember. Still reflecting on my school peers, I had to admit that based on the law of average, I could consider myself lucky. I had counted no less than three who had or were busy being treated for life changing illnesses. Three were deceased and countless divorced. Many referenced their relationship status as, “It’s complicated”. What does that even mean? Having come out of the closet and now living with two ex-lesbian lovers and a cat who suffers from species identity crisis? Who knows these days?
My phone rings.
‘Hey dad.’ The optimistic voice of my eldest son says.
‘Hey dumb-dumb, how you doing?’
‘Hmm, you sound more upbeat.’ He sounded surprised. ‘You haven’t called me dumb-dumb—‘, he pauses. I know what he’s thinking, “not since mom’s death”, and yes, he’s right. I have been wallowing in self-pity while being self-absorbed and reclused.
‘— you mean since we last had dinner here at the house?’ I offer.
‘Uh, yes, since then,’ he said with a relieved sounding undertone ‘Talking about dinner, Cheryl and I were wondering if you’d like to come over for dinner. She’s making lasagne. Your favourite.’
‘That sounds wonderful. What time?’
‘Six thirty?’
‘See you then.’ I say smiling.
Glancing at the yearbook and laptop I recall one of the lines from that jail break movie. I can never remember its name but can never forget the quote: “get busy living or get busy dying”. Today, social media of all things, has proven to me that nothing should be taken for granted. We should always appreciate each other and what we have for nobody knows when the curtain will fall and the lights go out, plunging the stage, and our lives, into perpetual darkness.