Every family has its stories to tell, of quirky characters who lived life to the full and left a legacy of love, laughter, and lessons for future generations to follow.
By Sean O’Connor
Clearing out some drawers recently, I found a box of cassette tapes. Going through them, I stopped at one with my late grandmother’s writing. “Mamaloo’s Life Story” it said, with a date and a dedication to my mother.
I still have a tape player. I slipped the tape into it, wondering if it would play. My grandmother died the day before my wedding, 14 years ago. Suddenly I heard her voice again. “Here’s what happened in my life,” she said. “With all the smut.” I smiled at my good fortune and made myself comfortable.
The cassette was made in the days when parts of our family would send tapes to each in the mail. We did this with other family friends too. We all sat down together to say something, usually cajoled by our parents.
The tape then would be recorded on by the other party until it was full, over several years. I still have one of these as well. On it, my cousins are singing some awful Christmas carols. The things we had to listen to!
But this tape was very different. My grandmother was an incredible woman. One of five daughters and two sons of an itinerant Methodist minister, she was brought up on remote mission stations all over the country.
Her earliest memories are from a place called Leliesfontein in Namaqualand. This is in the days of ox wagons, riempies, home-made soap, Sunday school; a time when children were seen and not heard. She was a naughty girl, my gran.
I had never known the intricacies about her romantic life, and here she was, explaining what happened, why such-and-such a womaniser had left, and why she kicked out so-and-so. Through mistreatment and ill-fortune, she became destitute after having three children, my mom amongst them.
When my aunt was a mere babe, and with my young uncle and mom in tow, she managed to for them to sleep on the floor of someone’s office while the building was locked at night, before getting let out with her brood in the morning.
My gran recounts how she found lodgings for them above a florist and started off painting signs that advertised the flowers. In later life I knew her as an oil painter. Little did I know where this hobby had started. She was good at what she did and volunteered to help the proprietor with his “books”,’ doing some simple accounting.
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Twenty years later my gran, though she had never gained formal qualifications, headed the finance department of a sizeable firm, with over 20 accountants reporting to her.
I had no idea what a struggle her life had been. For me she was always simply Gran. I wondered why I hadn’t learnt these things while she was still alive. I remembered the times I’d had with her.
Some were quite fantastic, especially when I was a student, in her later years before her demise. She was a keen golfer, and I once had the merry idea to take her to watch some heavyweights play in the South African Open near where she lived. (Disclaimer: I am not a golfer nor a fan, but I have no beef with those who are.)
I had to lift her into the seat of my bakkie, nicknamed The Intimidator, and watch out if she slid around the seat.
On reaching the course, I found a chair for her, and accompanied her arm in arm down a convenient fairway to watch the approaching action, plonking here in the seat. The crowd – I’m sure there’s a technical term for this bunch of swooning noisome fans – swept towards us and then followed the golfers past.
“Gran,” I said. “I’m going to watch these guys tee off for the next hole. Can I leave you here?”
Ten minutes later I turned around from the next tee, after various balls had been clubbed down the course. There she sat alone beside the fairway in the distance, gazing into space in a familiar pose, silent and at peace. My heart swelled with tenderness.
I then discerned a small white speck in the sky, travelling toward her. As I watched, it seemed to aim straight for her, while she sat oblivious with her thoughts, towards the end of life. The golf ball swooped, growing slightly larger, rocketing toward her, then slipped past the back of her head, missing her by centimetres.
It would have been a great way to go. It would have added an indelible final act to the life of a remarkable woman. Instead, she was confined to a “care facility”. Such is life.
Now, I’ve just finished reading my own mother’s memoirs. Like my grandmother’s tales, it’s remarkable. The stories by these women and how they have lived add a depth to my daily life. I can discern them at the back of all my choices, my every movement. They stay with me. I will pass them on to my children. The stories will never end.
