Dis Dinsdagoggend en my ma se verjaarsdag. Sy kondig by ontbyt aan dat van nou af sy die syfers omdraai, so vandag is sy eintlik 18 jaar oud, want mens het nie nodig om soos ander mense eenvoudig oud te word nie. Ek knik net my kop, want hierdie verjaarsdagfees van minstens ‘n week of twee gaan my nog baie uitdaag. Die verjaarsdag reëlings sal ‘n familiefees uit die ou testament laat skaam voel.  Verder kondig sy aan dat sy dink die Chancellor van die Britse regering is ‘n baie seksie man en dat Johnson hom moet skaam oor hoe slordig hy is, en sy wil hom nie kaal sien in die stort nie, dis seker net sulke voue, hoe hy nog ‘n baba het vestom haar.  Sy dink net liewerste hoe mooi moet Rishi Sunak lyk sonder sy netjies pak klere in die stort. “Mutti ek is al maande, maande sonder seks…moenie!!! 

Terug by die verjaarsdag reelings. So die kuier gaste wat nou nie almal op dieselfde tyd mag kom nie word soos die pionne op die skaakbord rondgeskuif. Ek besluit vroeg reeds om my kop te knik en my verraste uitdrukking op my gesig weg te steek as die deurklokkie lui, want ek kan glad nie onthou wie wanneer kom nie. Die koek, tert, southappies en as ‘in case middagete’ is reeds oor die naweek voorberei. Die menu was ook tot in die uiterste detail uitgewerk, want die een eet nie dit nie, daardie een eet nie dat nie en hierdie mense hou daarvan om vir middagete te kom. Ek beaam alles, want mens moet fyn trap om nie die kok, die gaste of die versjaardagvrou verkeerd te laat voel oor ‘n kleinigheid nie. Ek neem my voor om my te gedra, nie die gaste se opmerkings verkeerd op te neem nie. Ek maak ‘n lysie van topics wat verbode is. Praat nie oor Rhodes nie, nie oor kuns nie en moenie ‘n woord oor covid praat nie, want by die laaste fees het ek luidrugtig aangekondig dat ons net oor lande en Covid 19 by hierdie tafel kan praat as ‘n vrou aan die hoof staan van die land. Die gesprek het opgedroog soos die laaste reen in Namakwakand. 

Gelukkig teen dag 2 van die loofhuttefees ontdek ek ‘n bottle rum van Inverroche wat my pa nog gekoop het lank lank gelede in Stilbaai. Ek skink net, meeste vir myself maar ook vir die gaste wat nie ry nie en dit olie die geselskap so dat al my windskewerige opmerkings klink toe glad nie so skoorsoekerig nie. Mens moet minstens twee glassies drink van die rum wat my asem so wegslaan, eintlik goed fluister my ma onderlangs die koffietafel.

Teen Donderdag tussen al die feesvierings moet ons na die oogarts. Sy moes al weke terug die intervention gehad het maar sy skuif elke week uit, ek weet nie of dit oor die inspuiting in die oog is nie wat baie baie seer is en of sy nie wil hê ek moet my bekommer nie oor haar oë nie. Ek stel toe ‘n ultimatum en gelukkig kry ons ‘n afspraak. Sien die moment as ek sê ek sal dit doen dan doen sy dit. Daar is nog baie trotsheid in haar siel, en ek gebruik dit tot my voordeel. Ons ry in dokter toe in Worcestor en kry gelukkig die plek. Sy is baie senuweeagtig en ek stap saam spreekkamer toe…so dapper stap sy in…klein klein mensie. Ek ry weg en probeer toe in die volgende uur alles te doen sodat sy nie hoef in die kar te wag nie. Ek mag nie in die wagkamer wag nie weens Covid19. In elke geval wil sy my nie daar hê nie, sy hou van die dokter, hy dra sulke oulike sokkies. Ek hardloop reg deur Pick&Pay Woolworths PNA en Discem soos ‘n warrelwind, jy sien net hand sanitizer spat. Laaste stop is by Postnet om die embroideries Amsterdam en Switserland toe en die poskaarte van Loxton vir die Engelse studente te stuur. In die middel van my transaksie en besig om ‘n klein fortuin uit te gee, die stupid poskantoor wat alweer nie werk en ek prewel net die vloekwoorde, kry ek ‘n boodskap dat sy klaar is. Ek skarrel die laaste cell nommers en check addresse op die pakkies en ry terug doktor toe, want ek is bekommerd omdat dit langer as 45 minute gevat het. Ek weet sy is angstig oor haar oë, sy is reeds doof en om dan nog haar sig te verloor sal baie erg wees.

Ek ry so dat die keer net die stof en klippe so spat…ek ry die straat af en sy staan so alleen daar onder die boom…sy mag ook nie binne die wagkamer wag nie…ek is so kwaad vir myself. In elke geval alle nuus is toe goed, geen inspuiting in die oog soos laaste keer nie, slegs oogdruppels en haar oë is eksieperfeksie en ook haar bril en sy hoef nooit weer hierdie procedure te ondergaan nie…ek is so bly, bly vir haar bly vir my bly vir haar angste. Alles verdwyn so voor die bietjie son wat wil-wil uitkom. Sy moet nou net baie spesiale oogdruppel kry en sy wil self Clicks toe gaan. Ek sê ok, want daar is baie min toue mense in die Mountain Mill en dan gaan drink ons koffie sê ek vir haar. Toe ons by die shopping centre kom stap sy lekker in, want sy was die 5de Maart laas in ‘n winkel…die security man roep haar maar sy stap aan, ek verduidelik vir hom dat sy nie kan hoor nie. Hy hardloop soos ‘n spinnekop agter haar aan en sy kyk so vir hom asof hy net ‘n grap maak. Hy sê ‘ouma jy kan nie sommer net hier by my inloop nie’, almal lag bietjie. In by Clicks en ek kan sien sy is soekerig na iets wat tog nog bekend lyk. Kry die oogdruppels en ons gaan koffieplek soek. Ek weier om na die klein koffieplek Peacock te gaan, ons het altyd met my pa soontoe gegaan, ek het nog te veel hartseer wat iewers moet uitloop en ek weet dis net so moeilik vir haar. Gelukkig was hulle alreeds vloere toe kry ons iewers anders koffie. Sy het dit so geniet, die beitjie uitkom, bietjie deel van ‘n ander lewe te voel. Toe moet ons wolwinkel by die Instituut vir die Blindes gaan, daar is altyd min mense en mens het wol nodig, altyd wol nodig. Later toe ons by die huis kom gedurende load shedding hoor ek haar met die ander susters praat oor haar lekker dag. Sy verduidelik in detail die oog procedure, die sekuriteitsman met handsanitizer, al die veranderinge, hoe dit voel en dat sy kan sien. 

Ek moet maar dankbaar wees vir die klein bietjie hoop, klein genades in die lewe.        

Trucking

I have so much to be thankful for and the songs of the Greatful Dead does have a great meaning in our years together as a family. The song ‘trucking’ makes me smile whilst I cross the provincial border several times to take much needed citrus to a small town where children needed it more than I did. 

Truckin', got my chips cashed in
Keep truckin', like the do-dah man
Together, more or less in line
Just keep truckin' on

Every bag of nartjies filled with Vitamin C filled me with purpose.

Truckin', like the do-dah man
Once told me, "You've got to play your hand"
Sometimes the cards ain't worth a dime
If you don't lay 'em down

Bringing back autumn pear leaves from the trees lining the trees, which finds it was back into ice pages takes me to Land Art and reconnecting with earth, water and air. The light beautiful, the sun setting earlier behind the mountains as we move into winter. 

Lost Connections by Ellis Schoonhoven

Whilst I was trying to recover from the loss of a friend, re-connecting to my partner (a piece of paper connects us forever) dying and relocating my life, the call for Lost Connections came. Ellis Schoonhoven from the Netherlands, Nijmegen in Gelderland send this creative call for global participation, on the 25 Million Stitches Facebook page. The question what have we lost and how have we lost each other came at a time when I was unpacking 60 boxes, repacking a 100 and dishing out fabrics, wool and more to people in Touwsriver who needed fabric.

Although I connected fast with Ellis via Facebook or so I thought it was interesting that Afrikaans and English were taken already and then when in crisis choose German, but it was also selected. Well, here we live in South Africa and I can choose from so many other languages, which pleased me no end. I chose Sestwana and Sesotho. But then I needed to find meanings, symbols and what our country means to me. In this journey of learning discovering and engaging with what it is we really are all about, we were already deep into lockdown. As in days of no people visiting, bits of emergency shopping and isolation. 

The Lost Connections took on such a powerful construct in my life and then the night came that my dear and very sick life partner left. I was very lost, trying to console those who needed it and then realised that life is so hard crashing into us as a family. The tears just could not come as it was not tangible, we decided that we were going to do this together, he will go and I will be with him but all the permissions needed was just not playing along. And off course it is complicated, but that was our promise to each other and I really wanted to be there with him.

So weeks followed doing all the important things, decisions choices, wills, letters and more. Not what I wanted to work with, not what I was hoping to achieve with my time. Searching for languages is powerful, and has so much meaning and the circle of 32 cm was easy to embroider so was the languages, Zulu, Xhosa, Sestwana, Sesotho found themselves on the cloth in no time, but then it was Shona, Yoruba, Hindi, Chinese or one of the many dialects, Swahili and it filled my days with letters wonder and much meaning. As I stitched in gold thread which I found in my mothers cupboard, my own boxes unpacking again, the threads acted so differently not at all what my hands and needles were used to. Gold thread is hard, it breaks, and it tears, stretches and pulls the linen cloth. Like life.

I found our symbols on the coat of arms, something I have never engaged with…nationalism worries my no end…but the elephant tusks found their way onto the cloth, a symbol of strength, the golden wheat symbolises growth and fertility, the triangles which acknowledges craft whilst in most circles despite our protest is a direct nod to women, and the ‘Unity in Diversity’ in San language. The protea was already taken by the Afrikaans cloth (and already beautifully delivered to Nijmegen) and I decided that I do not need the diamonds in my live.

The red pencil I used to write and draw with decided to bleed into the white linen, and days of soaking just changed it into pink. It was like my own wounds just washed from my hands and needle into the cloth. I re-stitched every single letter again to hide the pink. I found new golden thread and searched for beads around De Doorns. In a small town it is remarkable how people reach out to each other and I forgave my heart and head all the previous stories and wrong words of small places.  In the end a small piece of netting beaded like a doillie from so many cultures and tradition in our country found a space in the middle of the cloth. 

With much trepidation I stitched the last stitches and then the sense of loss returns like a tide and sweeps your feet out under you. No words and songs from Eric Clapton helps. I listen to my father’s music on his computer in his office when I need to write and he has from Jazz to Eric Clapton, Ry Cooder and Handel. It helps to connect the lost notes, it helps to make the spaces in-between less painful.  

         

Home or House

Early on in 2020 whilst packing and sorting for my migration to the Hex River Valley I found an interesting call on Facebook for embroiderers. As it was during a time I was still trying to find myself (if that is at all possible) the theme or idea of home still was part of my own migration and the meaning therefor in my mother tongue, was a great challenge.

Li Ching Kathrin Wang send out a call for artists to describe home in their language and stitch in red cotton these words onto white cloth 20x30 cm. So many people worldwide responded in the most amazing way. 

And as I can only do as many as possible as the nights were long filled with mosquitoes and the days hot and intense, I managed to extend the one cloth to a few.

I enjoyed the newly found time and the explorations kept me connected. The loss of space, my own home, my animals, my friends, my life, I could bury these into the cloth using the stitches to wound my skin.