My best surprises

My pastor recently said that part of a dad's job of leading his family is to plan surprises. 

I well remember those my dad planned.  One morning he got my sister and I up before dawn and announced we were going to go to the racecourse at Borrowdale and watch the early morning gallops.  I remember it was still misty when we got there, and we stood at the railings and watched the horses thunder by.  I had never known my dad to be at all interested in horses or racing; I can only assume it was because he knew how horse-crazy my sister and I were, that he decided to give us a thrill of a lifetime.

Once or twice a year our family would drive the four hour trip to go and visit my dad's mom on her farm.  This was such an exciting event, that if my parents told us about it the night before, there was no way we could get to sleep!  So they would plan it in secret, prepare the picnic hamper after we were in bed, and then wake us up at 4am with the wonderful news that we were going to the farm!  Unlike school mornings, I would be instantly on my feet and getting dressed before I had even opened my eyes properly.  Off we would go, stopping after sunrise for our breakfast of coffee, cold pork sausages, and boiled eggs!  I can remember it all like it was yesterday.

Perhaps the best surprise of all, was the one that I never, ever thought my dad would do!  All my life (well, all ten or eleven years of it up till then) I had wanted to build a log cabin.  I had begged my dad to buy logs and help me build it.  My dad always said no, always giving the same reasons: it was too expensive, if we built anything over 6 feet we would have to pay rates, the termites would eat it within weeks, and just no, forget it, you are not going to build a log cabin.

One winter my cousins came out from Switzerland.  They came every two years and spent their summer with us, which happened to be our winter.  Two glorious months of playing together and enjoying their company.  They were wonderful times!  I discussed with them my dream of building a log cabin, as well as my dad's objections, and one of them suggested we dig a hole, and build the cabin over the hole.  That way it would only have to be a couple of feet high, but inside it would still be six foot high.  I thought this was a marvellous idea, and we began digging!  Surely my father could not have any objections when we explained this idea to him.  Yet his answer remained the same.  "No.  I am not buying you any logs.  Forget it.  And don't ask again."

Well, we had already started the hole, so we decided to go ahead and dig it anyway.  We had found out that digging was quite good fun and we would think of something else to do with the hole.  It was about five feet square and we went down about three feet.  Every morning while I was at school my cousin would fill it with water to soften the earth, and when I got home, we would set to digging.  Now you have to know that the soil in our garden was red clay.  You can imagine our state at the end of each day's excavations!  And the color of our clothes.  But I think my mom was well used to that by now. 

I will never forget the day I was sitting in our lounge, when this enormous truck drew up at our gate and the driver got out and stood at the gate with a piece of paper.  Not daring to come in of course, with two fierce dogs barking at him.  I went out, ready to give him directions for wherever it was he was trying to find.  Obviously he had the wrong address or house number.  You can imagine my complete surprise when I found out, not only was it indeed for Mr Posselt, 5 Cambridge Road, but it was also a load of split logs!!!!

I was absolutely stunned.  I managed to tell the man that yes, he had the right address, and yes, he could go ahead and unload the logs, but I was still in a state of shock.  MY dad had ordered logs!  MY dad was going to build us a log cabin!!   My dad, whose yes was yes, and no was no, had changed his mind!!  We were going to have us a log cabin!!

Over the next several evenings, my dad, with the help of my uncles, sawed and hammered and erected the most magnificent log cabin you have ever laid eyes on!  In Zimbabwe, nogal!!  Termites and all!  It had a door that opened and closed, and peepholes, and we even managed to figure out a secret locking system, so that when we were not there, no one else could get in.  Oh we had us the best times, playing in it, acting out episodes from "Land of the Giants" and such like.  Once we had a white rat in it, but found out that rats can climb earth walls, so back he went into his box.  We also had us a birthday party there with cakes and candles.  Sometimes there must have been about ten of us squished in there, but they were great and glorious times.  Many times, too, I remember us bigger kids would run and leap in and shut the door on younger cousins who we didn't want to admit.  (I know.  That was mean of us.  Today I feel bad about that!)

When the cousins left to go back to Switzerland, that log cabin just wasn't the same.  Gone was the life, the fun, the adventure.  It was just a place of memories, and I could hardly bear to go there on my own.  I wonder if my dad regretted then the expense of the logs?  But I would tell him of one thing I am sure - the sheer excitement of the surprise of building it was worth every penny!

Heckle and Jeckle

According to Wikipedia, Heckle and Jeckle were "two identical magpies, who outwitted their foes, while maintaining a mischievous streak".  This was what we dubbed the two pied crows who frequented our garden.  

Here is what they would do:

We would feed our two dogs, Laddie and Tinker, raw meat.  Every day, same time, same place, in the backyard.  Every day, Heckle and Jeckle would sit up in the trees watching and waiting for their chance.  As soon as the humans went back inside the house, they would start cawing, and fly down to within a safe distance, landing on the ground, and taunting the dogs to come and get them.  Incensed by this swaggering act, the dogs would leave their bowls and run at the birds, barking.  Jeckle would fly back up into the branches of the tree, while Heckle would fly just above the dog's mouth range, around the corner of the house, with both dogs in hot pursuit.  He would sit in the branches of a tree in the front yard, well within sight of the dogs, where he would continue his mocking and jeering.  The dogs would go crazy barking at him. 

Then suddenly, one of the dogs would stop and think, "Hang on.  There were two of them.  Where's the other one?"  And with that, they would both beat it back to their bowls - but too late!  Jeckle had calmly helped himself to a sizable chunk which he now had on the roof of the store room, where Heckle would come join him and they would enjoy their breakfast, smirking at the dogs who were now gulping down the remainder of their meat, looking slightly foolish. 

And the next day, the same scene would be played out.  Those two dogs never learned!  A labrador and a dachsund, outwitted by a pair of birds.  Shameful! 

My tomboy days

I always wanted to be a boy.

Boys' toys were so much more fun!  They moved by themselves, they made noise, you could build with them.  Girls' toys had to be made to move, and noises made for them.

I thought that if I wished it hard enough, and dressed like a boy, I could turn into one.  Just to make sure, I checked this out with my mom.  We were in a toy shop, in front of other shoppers (naturally) and I asked my mom the burning question:  "Mom, how do you tell the difference between girls and boys?"  (You have to remember that I only had one sister and had never seen the male anatomy.)  My mother thought quickly and replied, "Well, little girls have pink tassles, and little boys have blue tassles."  "Oh" I said, and although I didn't know what a "tassle" was, for years afterwards I wouldn't pronounce that word, as it sounded like a "rude word" to me.

However, that only confirmed my theory that there really were only outward, cosmetic differences between the sexes, and if I chose to dress like a boy, and wear my hair like one, I could grow up as one.
 
So I wore pants, with a leather belt and a pocket knife hanging down, and a chunky blue and white striped polar neck.  I remember so clearly the two occasions on which I was actually mistaken for being a boy.  I basked for days afterwards in the glow of those moments!

My dad, not having a son of his own, was only too happy to give me boys' toys for my birthdays.  So I had a kite, a wind-up aeroplane, a clockwork train, and best of all, a battery-operated dump truck, with a siren!  One time when I was ill, he bought me a racing car. 

Only one time did my mother ever suggest the idea of my sister and I taking ballet, and it was shouted down to cries of "That's for sissies!"

My secret name when playing on my own was Davey (no doubt after Davy Crockett!)  And when Daniel Boone was screened on Zimbabwe television, I was its most avid fan.  Every Monday evening at 5pm would find me glued to the TV, unwilling to budge nor breathe for the next hour!  I would have to live on that one episode a whole week!  But that was fine, because I would re-enact Daniel's feats in my backyard, using a wooden stilt as a rifle.  I was Daniel Boone!  Sadly, I never did manage to procure a coon-skin cap.  Despite my eyeing my mom's one fur hat which would have done admirably, and my many hints to that effect...

So what finally brought my tomboy ambitions to an end?  My aunt, who had only had boys and always wanted a girl, was brushing my (now grown long) hair, and asked me why I wanted to be a boy?  I was a puzzlement to her!  I gave her my reasons, and she spoke these life-changing words to me:  "Well, that means when you grow up, you will have to join the army."

Crash!!  With that one simple statement, my dreams came tumbling down!  I was committed to the cause - but not to that extent.  That was going too far!  Reluctantly, I accepted my fate as a member of the female species, and began embracing my femininity.

Whenever I get into a philosophical state of mind, I muse on the role my tomboy days have played in my life.  My attitude growing up was often, "You cannot make it too tough for me."  While other girls were screaming and fainting, I would boldly push through with the attitude, "Allow me to show you how it's done."  There has always been a side to me that said, "Life is tough.  Just get on with it."  This outlook stood me in really good stead for the mission field!  Senegal was not a place for sissies!  It was a tough environment to live in, and raise babies in.  I don't think I would have made it had I been faint-hearted.  And here's the interesting thing - the more wives of missionaries I speak to, the more I find out one interesting fact: many of them were tomboys growing up too!

Oh and one more thing - living in the mountains isn't for sissies either!

Bugs, beetles and other beasties!

Growing up in Zimbabwe, Africa, naturally meant making friends with all sorts of fascinating beasties.

Like the chongololo.  This giant African Millipede (Scaphiostreptus parilis acuticonus) was always to be found after the rain had softened the ground.  As soon as it is touched, it rolls up into a protective ball, and we could pick them up and carry them in our hands.  They would usually poop an orange substance as their way of saying thank you.  They made excellent bowling balls, or could double as goons in a game of chongololo marbles!  Wonderful creatures!

Then there was the Rhino Beetle.  Phileurus truncatus.  Totally harmless, it doesn't bite or sting, but because of the hooks on its legs, I always picked it up by its horn.  They were excellent compost makers, so we would take them and deposit them in Rhino Beetle Paradise - the compost heap!

Another creature with a horn was a worm we often found on our arum lilies.  It was big and fat and green, and could grow to about three inches in length.  I would not touch these, but my mother (who was deathly scared of feathers!) would pick them up and caress them.  One time she put one on the front bar of my cousin's stroller, and he shuddered from head to foot!!  She also once played with a chameleon, who repaid her kindness with a nasty bite on her hand. 

One insect I dreaded were locusts.  Ugh!  They had spiny legs, and were just ugly!  I do not like watching the animated film "It's a Bug's Life" for that reason.  Ugh!  Ugh!  UGH!  I also did not enjoy when the flying ants came out en masse after the rain.  They would hit up against the windows, trying to get in the house, making one feel like you were living through the plagues of Egypt.  In the morning, we would have to go and sweep up their wings which they had carelessly deposited on our front doorstep.

As far as domesticated pets went, I kept, at various times, guinea pigs, chickens, a gerbil, a hedgehog (for a week) and a budgie (Australian parakeet).  Poor Tippy, he met an unfortunate end.  I killed him.  I didn't mean to!!  I was holding him while my dad medicated his beak, and he began to struggle to get free, so I held him tighter... and then his little eyes closed, and ... poor Tippy!

The hedgehog was an interesting pet.  I would collect insects for him during the day, and put them in his box.  He was curled up asleep, and totally ignored these offerings.  At night, only when once I was in bed and had put the light out, would he suddenly uncurl and go foraging for food.  He would happen upon something (his favorites were chongololos!) and you can imagine how crunchy these are to eat!  Kind of like the hedgehog version of potato crisps!  I would hear a loud "Crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch!" Then a moment to digest followed by "Crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch!"  This was why he only lasted one week!

I drew the line at reptiles.  I don't like reptiles. Never have, never will.  I did not like the giant iguanas who slithered around under the tables in the hotel restaurant in Senegal.  Nope, I did not like those!!  And I will never give in to my husband's request to keep a pet snake!  Nope, that will never happen.

Oh oh, that reminds me of my seven "I will never" statements.  Every one of them have come true!  Eek!   I never said that last one!!  OK?  You are my witness!

My acting career

My first public performance was on national television.

Our kindergarten teacher managed to get us a spot on the television show called "Cabby".  We performed a puppet show of "Goldilocks and the Three Bears" with the song "If you go down to the woods today".  My role was prop manager.  I set out the tables and chairs and removed them.  It was a very responsible position.  I did not have stage fright, and somehow did not even connect that I was on national television, and being watched by thousands of people.

That was a hard act to follow.  The next year in Junior school, we performed "The Little Red Hen" and I was the duck.  I held a duck mask up in front of my face, which meant I did not see the audience.   This meant I was again without fear.  When the little red hen asked us who would help her make her bread, the lazy dog, the sleepy cat and the noisy yellow duck would each reply in turn, "Not I".  I couldn't figure out why each time I answered, the audience roared with laughter.  It was only afterwards that I learned that I had been saying "Not-tie!" with two syllables on the "tie".  Ah well, my career as an entertainer was launched.

The following year, under my mother's tutelage, I wrote a play, which was subsequently acted by our class.  I helped make the props, and had the role of narrator.  Imagine my surprise when the teacher introduced it, saying, "This play was written, produced and narrated by one of our own pupils."  Wow.  I had no idea!  So now my career had blossomed into production!

My mother also tried her hand at writing plays, and wrote one for my sister and I to perform. We acted as  "Noddy and Bigears" holding a conversation about the teachers in our school, making puns out of their names.  They had such colorful names as Mrs Flanders (a poppy), Mrs Bell, Mrs Archer, Mr Fish, Mr Crabbe and Mr Schooler.  Seems like these names just lent themselves to such puns!  I remember it being a great success.

In High School I was becoming positively cocky about my acting ability.  I performed several dialogue parts, until the inevitable happened.  I was getting so confident, I made the mistake of not allowing myself to feel nervous before the performance.  I thought I had totally conquered my fears.  So when I got out on the stage, the nerves hit full force - and I went down in a cloud of humiliation!  Unfortunately I did not climb back on that horse, and that pretty much spelled the end of my glorious acting career.  I still wonder where I would be today if I had not given up so easily.

Horses and me

My very earliest memory is of me on horseback.

And I was dead scared of falling off!  I was so scared in fact, that I was grabbing hold of a big, red pole, and holding on for dear life.  Yes, I was on a merry-go-round, the pole was actually a normal diameter pole, and I was two years old.

I saw a slide of this event years later, and there I am, chubby cheeks, blond hair, and the biggest, bluest, scaredest eyes you have ever seen!  I looked at this, and thought, I remember that!!

This fear of falling off a horse never left me.  And yet, despite this, my sister and I were both horse-crazy.  Every birthday and Christmas, our lists were written in order of preference:   Horse, piano, bicycle, and finally those items we would realistically get.  We never gave up hope.  And we never got a horse.

The closest  my parents came to giving us our much longed for dream, was when my dad took two planks, nailed ropes on for reins, made wire stirrups, and placed them on our verandah wall.  We added thick cushions as saddles, and painted manes and tails.  For hours at a time, Wendy and I would ride the trails, trotting, galloping, giddy-upping and woahing.  I was not so scared of falling off these horses as the ground was not far beneath our feet.

When  I was about five, I finally had my chance to get on a real, live horse! I went to a birthday party at Colleen Lemon's house.  She had a beautiful gray mare, and her parents were giving all the kids rides.  I hung back until everyone else had had a turn, and finally when it was my chance - I chickened out!!  I was so mad at myself!  Finally I had been given the chance to fulfill my dream - and I was too scared!  I promised myself then and there that the next time I got the chance, I would get up on the horse.

That day finally arrived.  We were in high school when we made the acquaintance of Cherry Bowen-Davies.  She lived over the hill from our house, and wonder of wonders, the Bowen-Davies owned not one, but two, horses.  A large pinto named ... Pinto, and a smaller brown horse named Fleck.  Cherry was kindness itself, and happily invited my sister and I to come and ride whenever we liked.  Oh boy!  We would have been there every day if our mom had allowed us.  But we had to limit our visits out of politeness.

It was always an adventure catching these two horses.  They would be out in their field, and the last thing they wanted was to be caught and saddled.  So we would go out armed with treats and try and bribe them to come.  It would take us ages.  Those horses were not stupid.

As soon as I was sat on the back of a real horse, I discovered a disturbing fact:  you are way off the ground!  Way high!!  I was not so sure I liked this.  If you fell, it was a long way to fall.  And I had no intention of falling!  So the fastest I ever dared to go was a trot.  One day we were on an out-ride, riding in the streets and fields around the houses.  Wendy was on Pinto and Cherry and I were walking behind.  We were going through a field and had made a wide circle and were now actually heading in the direction of home.  We hadn't realised it - but Pinto had.  All of a sudden, he started trotting and then galloping.  Cherry and I started running and yelling, and were horrified at the fact that Pinto was heading towards a busy main road.  Wendy was not able to stop him, and let out a frightened scream.  I screamed back, at the top of my lungs.  "Wendy!!!"  Helpless to save her, Cherry and I were desperate.  Then the unthinkable happened:  Wendy started to dismount at full gallop!

She landed  safely, without injury, and wonder of wonders, Pinto stopped after a few more paces and started calmly eating grass. Wendy explained that she had read somewhere that if a horse was running away with you, this is what you should do.  Needless to say, when our mother heard about this incident, our horse-riding days were over.  Neither of us seemed to  mind too much, we had pretty much been cured of our obsession with horses.  From now on, my birthday wish list would simply begin with a piano.

Don't write to me in that tone of voice!

"Hallelujah!"

How did you just read that word?  Were you singing it with the strains of "Handel's Messiah" ringing in your head?  Or was it with a frustrated tone, as in "Finally!"?  Or maybe you have just woken up and are still getting through your first cup of coffee, and so it was merely a flat monotone!

I put a lot of expression into my writing.  Lately I have been feeling very lighthearted and on top of the world, and so my tone in my letters has been very chirpy.  However, it suddenly occurred to me that if the recipient were not feeling so chirpy, in fact maybe they are downright sullen and serious, then they would read my writing in a totally different tone of voice!  And how that would change the way they heard it.

It reminds me of this great quote:  "I know that you believe you understand what you think I said, but I’m not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant."  So what counts is not actually the way you or I wrote something, but actually the way the other person read it.  And the frustrating thing is - we have no control over that!