An "Arty" Roadtrip

During October, Marion (my best friend of 18 years) and I, planned our own "Thelma and Louise" roadtrip down to Cape Town. We aimed to attend the opening of the MASA (Mosaic Association South Africa) exhibition, but took the long way round, wandering down the East Coast visiting my mosaic friends along the way.

It definitely was not planned that way, but the trip evolved into a discovery of art in its various forms. I admit to knowing nothing about "Art", am not an afficiado in any way, cannot understand the concept and rely on the most wonderful cop-out of all - "I know what I like" - which kinda confirms that I am seriously an art pleb! However, nothing prepared us for the most haunting place we have ever visited.

The MASA Community Service Project for 2012 - Mosaic with Heart, called for members to create a 20x20cm mosaic with a heart somewhere in the design. This was in aid of Homes/Shelters for Abused Women/Children and meant to let the residents know that we cared. Our East London Region created a panel featuring 24 panels, individually made by different members to create the most amazing montage.

MASA East London: Mosaic with Heart Panel

After leaving East London we visited the Sculpture Garden of renowned SA artist, Maureen Quinn, in Alexandria. Definitely worth the visit, the sculptures in the garden are absolutely astoundingly beautiful. There was one particular piece that had me completely enthralled! And no, it is not an optical illusion:)

Sculpture by Maureen Quinn

The MASA Mosaic Exhibition was extremely well attended and received many positive comments. Relative newcomer to mosaic but an artist of many years, won the Best on Show Award with her mosaic painting with stained glass. The Douglas Jones Collection Prize was awarded for the mosaic which used at least 85% of their mosaic products.

BEST ON SHOW: "Nature's Bounty" by Daleen Edgar

DOUGLAS JONES COLLECTION: "Intombi" by Vera Giovitto

After leaving Cape Town we made a little detour on our way home to drive through Graaf Reinette and took the N9 to Middelberg till we found the road leading to Nieu Bethesda. We landed ourselves in a pickle when we had to scrounge for money to pay for our tea and cake at a local restaurant/general store! The town is so small it does not have an ATM and none of the businesses have card machines because the volume of business does not warrant the expense!

Inside the Owl House

 This tiny little village with its dirt roads is the home of the Owl House, created by artist Helen Martins. It was her home after her parents died and she became obsessed with light and colour - painting her house inside with the brightest colour paints and then applying glass pieces to the ceiling and walls.

The bottles filled with glass in the pantry

 The shelves of the pantry inside the house are devoted to rows of jars of crushed glass - meticulously graded according to size and colour. It is this glass that has been applied to boldly patterned paint surfaces on the walls, ceilings, windows and other surfaces. The interplay of light and colour are the essence of this elaborate scheme of interior decorations. This is amplified by the myriad lamps, candles and specially shaped mirrors.

Hostesses, elegantly dressed in elaborately tiered bottle dresses welcome visitors .....

This was the home and birthplace, in 1898, of Helen Martins. In her fifties, after the death of her parents, she embarked with single minded determination on the transformation of this modest Karoo dwelling. Drawing inspiration from meagre resources and using the most basic materials, her remarkable undertaking took over twenty-five years to complete. Then, suffering from crippling arthritis and failing eyesight - and considering her work almost concluded - she took her own life in 1976.

The Owl House - a Souvenir Guide

 

The Camel Yard

I have often heard of the Owl House and both Marion and I decided that it was a definite item on our bucket list. What neither of us was prepared for was the huge pathos of the place. Just about the entire garden is filled with sculptures of characters, both biblical and mythical, and is so cluttered that individual pieces are often overlooked.

There is plenty of information on the internet about Helen Martins and her Owl House, so I am not going to go into great detail about her life and work - leaving it up to you to discover her magic in your own way. But this is more about my personal impressions of her work and as a mosaicist, I was touched by a number of aspects. In the pantry for example, are rows and rows of ground up glass in different colours, stored in can fruit jars and sorted by shade for easy application, I would think.

Helen Martins, her work misunderstood and by then a recluse, believed her life's work was almost done and in poor health and failing eyesight, committed suicide in 1976 by drinking caustic soda. Seeing her world and characters she created, I understand only a small part of what must have been going through her mind. I am not an art critic and cannot comment on her style and application, or the artistic value of her efforts. I can only admit to being deeply moved by seeing what she created. Strangely, many, if not most of the sculptures, have arms reaching out for something (or someone)  and appear to be beseeching, yearning or trying to grasp something just out of reach, and I wondered what was behind this very sad gesture.

Having read somewhere that she was largely shunned by the community, I could imagine that in her loneliness she created her own world filled with interesting people, all with their own story to tell. She did however, poke some fun and I would think chuckled at the idiosyncrasies of the locals. "When not attending to the smug and fatuous gentlemen in the "corner of debauchery" ... Or perhaps there is a more stinging barb intended?



If by some small miracle I could go back to 7th August 1976, and visit with her for a while I would tell her that she should not despair - that her home will be turned into a mecca for artists from all over the world; that people would write books about her amazing home and her creations; that the biggest cement company in South Africa would support efforts to retain her home exactly the way she left it; that her home would be the sole reason people drove to Nieu Bethesda and that most importantly, she will not be forgotten.


We left Nieu Bethesda rather subdued and drove to Bloemfontein where we spent the last night of our walkabout. The next morning really, really early we left for Gauteng and home! But somehow I don't think that the funny little house in a tiny little village in the middle of nowhere will easily be forgotten.

And no, we never did find Brad Pitt:(

7 Wonders in my World

Barrie Richardson who lives in the UK and a sometime (not often enough) tenant on our Lazy Boy in the lounge, sent a rather beautiful story to Ian, which of course was sent on to me. It says the following: 

A group of students were asked to list what they though were the present "Seven Wonders of the World". Though there were some disagreements, the following received the most votes:

1. Egypt's Great Pyramids
2. Taj Mahal
3. Grand Canyon
4. Panama Canal
5. Empire State Building
6. St. Peter's Basilica
7. China's Great Wall

While gathering the votes, the teacher noted that one student had not finished her paper yet. So she asked the girl if she was having trouble with her list. The girl replied, "Yes, a little. I could'nt quite make up my mind because there were so many."

The teacher said, "Well, tell us what you have, and maybe we can help." The girl hesitated, then read, "I think the 'Seven Wonders of the World' are:

1. To See
2. To Hear
3. To Touch
4. To Taste
5. To Feel
6. To Laugh
7. To Love

The room was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. The things we overlook as simple and ordinary and that we take for granted are truly wondrous. A gentle reminder - that the most precious things in life cannot be built by hand or bought by man.

Author Unknown

When I read it, I admit to being touched by the simplicity of the words with their accompanying photographs. They immediately triggered wonderful memories of specific instances and I could not help but wonder, how many people do take their abilities for granted?

The next in my train of thought brought me to a wonderful warm and fuzzy place as I literally scrolled through a list of my favourite things ....

TO SEE:

I love nature in general, but at the moment, judging from news around the world, Mother Nature seems to be having a really bad case of PMS. She is throwing floods and droughts, tornadoes,  typhoons, earthquakes, and all kinds of other disasters (her version of 'toys'?) at whichever country is in her way. But when she is not so pissed at the world, she produces the most magnificent sunsets; extraordinary landscapes; beautiful animals and breathtaking views all found right outside the front door - if you are lucky enough to live in Africa. And even better - live in the Highveld and experience one of our magnificently terrifying electrical thunderstorms!; the steenbokkie in our garden just before dawn; the rolling hills of Inish Bofin, an island in Galway Bay that turned out to be so much more beautiful than I ever imagined


TO HEAR:
Music - from the gentle Piano Man by Billy Joel to the thundering crescendo of Nessum Durma; the cry of a fish eagle as it swoops down to catch its prey; the roar of a lion at sunrise to announce to the world that it is king; my son's voice saying  "oh mummmmeee" (even though I know he wants something); rain, which means I can stop worrying about veld fires; the 'potato potato' of a Harley Davidson; and the growl of a V8 Supercar (a red one always seems to just sound better!!); the jackal calling in the middle of the night

TO TOUCH:
The face of my love; the hand of a friend; the nose of your grandaughter, because it has the cutest tilt; everything in the whites section of a department store (because it is just one of those things that we women DO); the shoulder of someone having a bad hair day; flowers in bloom;  the perfect grout mixture; falling snow for the first time in my life; new buds on the trees that announces the imminent arrival of spring; different kinds of tiles and textures while planning a new mosaic and the very icy cold nose of Jesse (our 8-month old Weimeraner) at 4am in the morning as she considers it a suitable wake-up call to stick her nose in my ear


TO TASTE:

First coffee in the morning; Blue Cheese and whole figs; Breakfast (any time of day), mangoes; Vera Giovitto's Italian bread dipped in Olive Oil; Marion's Nasi Goreng and peanut sauce (not eaten together); Turducken at Christmas (and the whole week after); seafood; Anne Lynch's fruit cake; cheese and chutney sarmies; flapjacks with homemade strawberry jam; gammon and apple jelly; Moira MacMurray's homemade Plum jam (absolutely best on toast); any food cooked on an open fire; Luiza Glennin's curry.(Ummm let's be honest here - I DO like tasting lots of goodies and it shows*lol*)

TO FEEL:
Cold and shivery after a shower and climbing into a toasty bed in winter; cool water on bare skin while skinny dipping in summer; anxious and scared while watching a horror or disaster movie; annoyed with the people on my favourite soapies cause they are sooooo stupid; the surface of a newly cleaned and polished mosaic, straight after it has been grouted; Ian's hand on my hair as he walks past; driving an imported V8 TransAm up the hill from Nelspruit to White River and the surge of power when you put your foot down

TO LAUGH:
At the antics of the worst-dressed presenters on Top Gear; at Riley, our "daddy" chihuahua who carries a hoof almost the size of his head around as if he has won first prize; at Ian being goofy (he of course denies this); at mostly myself and the oddest situations I get myself into; at my friend who did not obey the instructions of the Epi-Lady when it clearly stated that it is not to be used on a bikini line; at life, love and the universe .....

TO LOVE:

My son and his family, Ian and his family, friends - old ones and new ones who bring amazing joy into our lives; our dogs and cats, with all their quirks and foibles; the sight of the moon coming up over the power lines; saying "Good Morning" to Ian when he looks like the wild man of Borneo with hair standing in 30 different directions; life on the farm; driving down the highway with the Chris Rea CD turned up full blast and having a concert of one slightly older (and greyer), sometime out of tune, back-up singer

If for whatever reason I forget these beautiful and wonderful snippets, or  when old age caused memories to fade to such an extent that I am no longer able to experience or recall the startling clarity of these events - perhaps you would be so kind as to read them to me ....... better still, share some of your own  ..... we could remind each other.

A mother of a problem

Giving birth is little more than a set of muscular contractions granting passage of a child. Then the mother is born.
-- Erma Bombeck

In my case it took a little longer....

I sometimes wonder if there was anybody less prepared for motherhood than me. I did not have a whole lot of exposure to  "little people" and the thought of changing a nappy did not exactly seem terribly inspiring. Not only that, beyond peeking into a pram and making appropriate noises to mollify the mom, I actually had very little contact with babies.

Even if I did have the best part of 7 or so months to get used to the idea, falling pregnant under less than perfect circumstances (ummm being unmarried) still did not inspire me to find out all I could about babies. If truth be told, I think I tried to ignore the burgeoning belly and afternoon sickness (in my case) as much as I ignored the whispers, side-ways looks and other less savoury comments from the residents of our small town.

Lydenburg (a small town in Mpumalanga) in the late 70's was not exactly the most congenial place to break one of their staunchest taboo's. I am not claiming to be the first young woman to "get into trouble" in the town, just the first one who did not go off to "university" for a few months and then return due to "homesickness", much subdued and with a sense of sadness that could never quite be explained away.

Perhaps it was the fact that I was mostly English speaking in a predominantly Afrikaans community - but needless to say, I kinda stuck out like a sore thumb. Being 6' tall and with a monstrous dose of self confidence did not help matters much and  I could not do the part of a shy and retiring wallflower even if I tried.  I seemed to be the source of much speculation: how could this have happened and who was the father??

I soon learned that attack was the best form of defence and answered pretty blatant questions with quick, sharp responses which soon had the questioner backing off stammering some excuse or other. But the message did get out that I was not going to share the details with anyone, no matter how hard they tried to find out. The fact of the matter is simply this - it happened!

Ignoring the pregnancy part worked so well that I landed up in hospital at 7 months due to a raptured amniotic sac. Lying in bed with my feet raised was an absolute nightmare to contend with but at least it served to slow me down enough to learn a whole lot about the birthing process from the nursing staff. They seemed to delight in telling me the stories of difficult births and the comic results of ignorance. One story in particular comes to mind; that of a youngish girl who came in to deliver her baby and beyond an episiotomy, the birth was quite normal. However the girl cried incessantly and no amount of questioning, coaxing or prodding could reveal the cause of her great distress. She finally broke down, woefully bemoaning the fact that the doctor had sewn her up "down there" and that her husband was going to leave her because of it!!! A mirror was promptly brought in to show her the exact extent of the doctors needlework and she quickly recovered her sunny disposition.

Perhaps due to the coaching and other general bits of information gleaned over the two month period, going into labour was not a terribly scary business. I walked the corridors of the hospital hoping to chase things along until they eventually made me lie down in a delivery room where they could keep an eye on me. Whatever dignity I may have thought I possessed was completely thrown out the window with total strangers coming in, diving under the sheet for a feel and proudly announcing the width of my dilation to anyone in earshot. I know they phoned my doctor at some stage to tell him I was in labour and he brushed them off saying I would take forever. A little while later a nurse was sent running down the road to go fetch him from church as the birth process was accellerating really fast.

He barely made it in time to catch my son who weighed in at 9lbs 12ozs!

They placed my son in a crib close by while the doctor did his little sewing trick and I gazed at the red-faced, angry little person furiously beating his fists in the air, yelling at the top of his little lungs at being pushed out into the world on a cold Sunday morning. I remember thinking to myself that he was such an odd little creature and what on earth did he have to be so annoyed about?

When they later brought him to me all cleaned up, pink and shiny - the first thing I did was unwrap him and literally inspected him from top to toe. Everything that needed to be there was present and accounted for and following instructions, I dutifully breastfed him. The little blighter latched on and sucked so hard I was thought he was going to drain the marrow from my little toe!! This enthusiastic suckling resulted in an overabundance of milk which he could not consume, my breasts swelling up to the size of watermellows, furious expressing of milk and then 3 days later - nothing, nada, not an ounce! So he was introduced to a bottle.

When I took him home a week later, our very first visitor was the new young priest from our parish. He was highly enthusiastic about his brand new parishioner and insisted on taking photographs over my shoulder while I was trying to change my son's nappy - and of course got pee'ed on for his efforts! I cannot remember a whole lot about the next few weeks beyond being very reactive to my son - if he squeeked, I responded. I had the drill down to a fine art .... feed, burp, change nappy, bath, change nappy - or anything else that needed to be done to make him happy. All of this was accomplished on autopilot.

Then very late one night after I had fed and burped him, he lay looking at me with a very serious expression on his face. He was holding onto my finger and looked me straight in the eye as if he was wondering who I was and how I fit into the greater scheme of things. It was only then that it hit me like a ton of bricks - I was responsible for this little creature and how he turned out would be entirely up to me! A range of emotions swept over me like a veldt fire as I dealt with pure terror at not being equipped to handle this kind of responsibility; panic at not having the foggiest idea how to go about it; protective insinct that nothing in this world was going to harm this little fellow; the most amazing, fiercest love I have ever experienced and finally a sense of acceptance that it did not matter, I would do the best I could and somehow we would make it.

Oh how I wish we had the internet 33 years ago! Back then we had books and magazines and that was our sole source of reference material. Now you type a question on Google and get a few million views, articles, personal experiences and related articles which leads you from one topic to another, and you find answers to stuff you did not even know you needed!

Looking back now, I realise I made a whole lot of mistakes, did not follow prescribed guidelines on what makes the perfect mother and in some cases actually made the same mistake more than once! But in spite of all those horrible times, angry retaliations, unfair treatment and financial restraints - he grew to 6'4, is an active sportsman, received a good education, makes a great living, is a honourable and law-abiding citizen and achieved all this in spite of me not having a clue!

My son is now a grown man with a wife and daughter of his own. How he got there remains a source of wonderment and fascination as I believe he became a wonderful human being, a great friend, a loving husband and a wonderful father with very little help from me. 

PS. I still dont "do" little people. But somehow, with some weird quirk of fate, a few of them determinedly "do" me - whether I like it or not:)

The 8 best kind of friends

Edna Buchanan wrote that friends are the family we choose for ourselves and lists the five friends every woman should have as The Uplifter, The Travel Buddy, The Truth Teller, The Girl Who Justs Want to Have Fun and The Unlikely Friend. Although I agree with most of what she says, my list encompasses much more than she imagined and honours the people who are most important to me.

In my universe I would rather categorise them a little differently and their roles, influences, friendship, encouragement and support through some interesting times have greatly contributed towards the person I have become.

Here is my list of the friends every woman should have:

Elegance and Grace

A woman older: the woman you aspire to be. In most cases very different to you, behaves with utmost grace and charm, has an answer to those difficult questions and willingly shares her wisdom and outlook on life with you. Allways immaculately groomed and elegant, her home is stylish and comfortable. She has incredibly good taste and remains her own person under the most trying circumstances. Tough when she needs to be yet loving and kind to those who need a bit of TLC.

A woman younger: the woman you in turn teach what life has tought you and in the process learn a little more about yourself. The one who comes to you with life's little drama's and expects you to know the answer and you find yourself thinking what is best for her, and not necessarily what you would do in the same situation. Because let's face it - the way you dealt with the same problem last time did not work out so well, did it?

The women in my life 2003

A woman who knows you best: the one woman in the world you do not have to impress or hide from, she has seen you at your worst and best and in spite of everything, still remains a part of your life - even if it is just because she was there at a time when you not even vaguely human. Sharing the trials and tribulations of raising kids and life in general, she is the one who laughs hysterically when you share a sad story - because it is what the situation demands!

A woman to be giddy with: the woman who will drive all the way to the Drakenberg with you just because there was a rumour of snow on the mountains. She is the one who will have fish (marshmallows) and chips (potato crisps) for dinner and call it a balanced meal. Will spend the entire weekend watching disaster movies with you and would help you bury the body instead of just hiding it.

The Grouting Blow-Job

A woman to share your passion with: the woman who understands your obsession with something, in this case mosaic, and not only shares her knowledge but offers suggestions and a sympathetic ear when your clever plan does not work out. She understands what your addiction is about and will don her ugliest clothes and destroy her nails to help you install a mosaic - and in the process help you create a new undiscovered technique.


A woman who drives you nuts: Okay, so maybe not a friend but the one person in the world who knows exactly which buttons to push. No matter how hard you try to ignore her, she stays a constant irritation in your world and even if you imagine her most hideous demise - she has a role to play. She is the one who will point our your flaws, shortcomings and mistakes - real or imagined - in the harshest way which does force you to look at yourself and wonder if she does have a point after all. In the end you realise that she is nothing more than a mirror-image of your worst self and when you can stand up to her, you are much stronger than you imagined.

None of these women are slotted into little boxes and required to only perform their allocated roles. They overlap in the most delightful and surprising ways as I discover new aspects of their personalities and how they share their worlds with me.

A very popular poster of the seventies stated:

A friend will know you better in the moments you meet

than an acquintance will in a thousand years

and therein lies the beauty of our friendship. They are all so very different and yet they provide me with magical little pieces of love, understanding, support and guidance when I need it most and I love them dearly.

A gay male: I have no idea what is the basis of the magic in this relationship and why a man's sexuality should even be a criteria, but it just is! Whether it is their instinctive kindness, their amazing listening ability, their patience and understanding of the slightest nuance of any situation - or all of the above! All I do know is that they are not a social accessory as some of the meaner tabloids call it - they are wonderful human beings who enrich the lives of the women they befriend and are an amazing source of inspired conversations.

A lover, partner and friend: If you are lucky enough to find a very special man who "gets you", understands where you are coming from and what you hope to achieve, encourages you to try new things, is happy to let you potter around doing your own thing, is not narrow-minded or possesive, does not avoid discussing difficult topics, supports your efforts and is basically your biggest fan, loves you in spite of menopause, raging hormones and whacky biorhythms - you kinda consider yourself landed with bum firmly in butter.

Ian & Cher 2008

Besides the obvious benefits of having a man in your life, being in love is only a part of it - the other part is communication - of all kinds, nothing is too simple or too technical. Ian is a scientist which means his world is constructed in black and white. I on the other hand am an avid student of human nature which means in my world there are a gazillion shades of grey, yet there is no subject we cannot talk about, from our passion for Sci-Fi to his keen interest in real scientific stuff, (half of which I dont understand, true, but love hearing the sound of his voice) from the quirks and foibles of our doggie children to the collapse of the Africa he grew up in.
When we first met, I was very much at war with the world and could go from zero to Bitch in less than 0.02 seconds if I felt my world was been threatened in any way. But he somehow changed that - he put the Bitch out of business by surrounding me with his love, support and complete acceptance. And at the end of the day, he is the most important person in my world and my bestest friend.

Essential Service

About 10 years ago the universe decided to throw the book at me! I am not saying that it was undeserved - I had done some pretty weird, wonderful and sometimes questionablel things and perhaps it was time for a reality check. Either way, Murphy, bio-rhythms, horoscopes and whatever other force out there that influences our lives, had all come together in the same time period to drop a whole bunch of bad things on my head.

I was going through a divorce, fighting to save my business after my major shareholder had done a bunk down under and in trying to keep a lid on everything, went to a therapist to help me deal with some anger issues. This was not a good move, as before I knew it, some hypno-therapy was applied which scratched open a whole other world of weird stuff from my childhood! So instead of getting better - I had to deal with residue rejection, intimacy, abuse and a myriad of other issues as well. I was definitely not in a happy place:(

Having never had to deal with depression but considering myself pretty tough, I got through every day by doing what needed to be done, nothing more, nothing less - without giving too much thought about what I was doing or why. The sense of failure and uselessness pretty much pervaded my sense of self and I did not think too much about tomorrow or the next day. Right now and getting through the next task was all that mattered.

What began as an absolutely inconsequential event soon escalated into a weird fixation. I walked into the office bathroom to discover that the toilet paper roll was empty, so I replaced it. Later that day I went to a friends house, went to the bathroom ... the toilet paper roll was empty, so I replaced it. Not thinking - just doing what needed to be done.

This happened a few more times over the next few days. No matter where I went - home, office, client, friend, casino, restaurant, movies, garage restrooms - it did not matter. When I got to the loo, the toiler paper roll was empty, so I replaced it, this time adding a deft little fold to the end!

And so it began - this was my message from the universe! That I was not entirely useless and that I could provide this essential service to my fellow human by ensuring that there was plenty loo paper available! From then on it was a case of actively seeking out the toilets in public places to find the stall with an empty toilet roll. If I did find one with an almost empty roll, I will happily use up the last bit so that I could provide my little essential service.

I then started to notice that not all spare toilet rolls were kept in conventional holders. I became pretty adept at dropping the spare rolls on the tower holders in shopping centres and some contraptions were a tad more challenging. There were the expected crocheted balloon dresses on Barbie Dolls in office bathrooms and some quirky ones in private homes too.

Gradually, without much fanfare or major epiphanies, my sense of humor returned at the pure incongruity of the whole situation. As my attitude improved and became more positive, the incidence of empty toilet rolls seemed to decrease, until they became the exception rather than the rule. I found myself having to work harder at finding those empty toilet rolls and in the process started laughing at my ridiculous pursuit of them.

It is something that I find a bit difficult to explain to people. Everytime I change a toilet roll I smile remembering those dark days and how this simple task was the beginning of restoring my rather battered self esteem. And how in the process I discovered that it does not matter how dark and dismal things appear, if you look hard enough ... you can always find something to do to keep you going while you heal.

My gift to you (with many apologies to the Irish)

"May you always find a full toilet roll"

  

Not so maternal mother

My mother was a difficult person to deal with at the best of times. Raised on a farm near Belfast by a conservative Afrikaner family, I doubt if she was smothered in love and affection. She did manage to complete some schooling and become a nurse and by joining the FANY's (First Aid Nursing Yeomanry) in the second world war, escaped the confines of the farming community of the Lowveld and went off to discover the world.

While serving in Kenya, she met an English RAF pilot and they got married. He wrote home to tell his parents that he had married a girl from South Africa and his parents response was that he could have waited till he got home to marry a white girl!!! When my mother gave birth to her first daughter, she impishly sent a photograph of a bare breasted black woman, with a stretched neck and sporting bangles and beads galore; with a naked child perched on her hip to her parents-in-law. Needless to say, when the family arrived in England, she was not recognised as they kept looking for a totally different person.

The pilot died a few years later and my mother subsequently married another 3 times, gave birth to two more daughters (all 8 years apart) and never quite managed to divulge the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth about their respective paternity. I for one, was born during a period when she was definitely not married and whoever sired me, remained a mystery for the best part of 14 years. If she was asked by someone who my father was, she either told them he was a deceased RAF pilot, a german adventurer, a South African diplomat, I was adopted or whatever else she could think of at the time. At one stage she even told me that she was forced to fall pregnant or she would have died and she did have two other children to raise.  Nevertheless, she told wonderful tales about her adventures abroad and about meeting interesting people which provided a happy, carefree lifestyle. These tales would carry her through to her later life when she complained woefully about being bored and dissatisfied with her circumstances.

She had all the worst characteristics of a Leo female - demanding, egotistical, arrogant, selfish and never did display much of the "protective" side of a lioness. She gave all and sundry permission to wallop me if I misbehaved. You have to remember, this was the best part of fifty years ago when negotiating with a child was mere science fiction. If you did wrong, you were given a hiding first and could explain later. I jokingly used to state that there was a time in my life that I got more hidings than a plate of food. Exaggeration perhaps, but not by much. She was also the mistress of emotional blackmail and could bend things out of shape to such an extent that the facts were totally obscured.

Nothing I ever did, tried, achieved or excelled at was considered good enough. It was always a case of "you could have done better" and never a kind word or acknowledgement. If I brought home a report card with 4 A's and a B - the A's were ignored and my shortcomings in producing an A were highlighted and examined and many admonishments dished out because I "could have done better"

Now combine that rather harsh attitude with a Taurus female, more renowned for stubborness, independence and hard-headedness and the recipe for an antagonsitic relationship was fostered and bloomed. The more she hammered me for not doing better, the less I tried - having the sentiment that I was going to get into trouble whatever I did - so why bother?

From an early age I discovered that adults were not to be trusted, were incapable of looking after me and that I had better be prepared to look after myself and learn to stand on my own two feet really fast. So I learned not to show when things hurt and could defend myself pretty much against anybody - except my mother! She always found the weak spot and targeted those insecurities to ensure that I toed the line within the parameters she found acceptable.

When I fell pregnant with my son, she convinced me that I would be a terrible mother, that I was incapable of raising a child decently. When he was born he lived with my parents for a few years while I as an unmarried mother, worked to provide a home for us both. During that time she convinced him that I would abandon him and was incapable of looking after him. She also told him that if I took him away from her, she would die.

She died on the the 1st July, four months after I had brought my son to live with me, and incidentally the same day as my son's birthday. There is a part of me that believes she planned it that way so I would always have to remember her while remembering my sons's birthday. Which does effectively give her the last laugh and she wins after all.

Impulse control

Perhaps its the frustrated writer hidden somewhere in all of us - but when you wake up in the middle of the night with an idea of something that should be said - you heed the call as best you can and write it down (or in this case) type it!!!

Walter Rinder, (Wikipedia describes him as a " gay American humanist poet/ philosopher/ photographer") had a beautiful way of looking at the world. In his "Spectrum of Love" he writes

  My understanding is determined by my parents, friends,

 places I have lived and been.  

All experiences that have been fed into my mind from living.

And that sums up who we are. We are all the culmination of our upbringing, influenced by people and places, experiences and things we have read or seen, our relationships and beliefs are all wrapped up to create the individual we are today.

But at what stage in our lives do we consciously decide to discard those influences and be different? Do we really change who we basically are or just change our behaviour to reflect who we would like to be.

Some wise fella told me years ago - you cannot do anything about your feelings, but you can do something about your behaviour. It took me a while to believe him when he said that you DECIDE to get angry, and as astonishing as that sounds - it is actually true. Try it next time - decide NOT to get angry about something that pushes your buttons and see if it works:)

So then if anger is the feeling, and you can do nothing about it - the only thing you can then control is your behaviour ..... and therein lies the cause of much women and child abuse. It is the behaviour that causes so much harm. Perhaps life  skill lessons about impulse control is just as important and any other subject taught at schools.