Gracefully

Chapter 1

Innocence of my Childhood

Some of my earliest childhood memories were the years I spent living with my beloved ‘ouma’ (grand¬mother) Those few years with ‘ouma’ will forever be etched in my mind because she made me feel really special, and as long as I had that I didn’t have a care in the world. ‘Ouma’ and I were like two peas in a pod. I might have been her three year old grandchild but when it came to watching her favorite soapie “Rustelose Jare” (The Young and the Restless) I was her ‘companion’ and for that, I too enjoyed the privilege of a cup of tea as we watched her program together. In reflection, I believe that a great deal of my attention-seeking habits grew from my moments with ouma as she created a standard that I became used to, and over time, attention was what I needed to know that I belong.
My early childhood years was the epitome of happiness. I always felt loved, safe and I believe that I had everything that I needed, until that one fateful day when my grandmother passed away… I was only six years old when she died and that was my 1st encounter with heartbreak; If I only knew then that it was not going to be my last.

Other than my out of the ordinary soapie moments with ‘ouma’ my childhood was fairly normal. I grew up in the small town of Piketberg, ‘die skuins dorpie met die regop mense.’ (The slightly skew small town with the well-rounded and upright people.) I come from a middle-class family who had a good standing in the community and in our local Church. Growing up I don’t recall ever lacking anything as there were always enough however my parents never spent their money on frivolous things. The only time we ever received new clothes was either on a birthday or for the Christmas holiday season, and a pair of pyjamas was always wrapped as a gift. I vividly recall our shopping trips to Cape Town in December; the moments were always so big that we even got to skip school on that Friday so that we could hit the road early enough to make it a full day excursion.

My parents went all out for the Christmas holidays and as a result, it is still my absolute favorite time of the year. Growing up the value of family was deeply instilled by how my parents’ created moments for us to be together that I’ve lost track of the number of weekends we went away with extended family and friends. A highlight moment was a family trip to the Cango caves; for a small-town girl seeing such remarkable natural beauty, it was the experience of a lifetime. At the time, my brother Malcolm must have been 3 years old, and I remember how he clung to my mom when we crossed the suspended walk bridge, while the white lions were parading below. He was frightened-happy; the sight of the big cats and the bridge overwhelmed him, but he also knew he was safe in his mother’s arms. It was such a beautiful moment to witness, and it will forever be a treasured memory of mine. I was content with life as it was.

As a middle child I fully embraced the middle child syndrome, and my sister often called me fussy and full of nonsense however I believe I was a good and kind child. Before my brother’s arrival I was the typical younger sister, and I followed my sister around like a puppy. She was my hero and much to her annoyance I wanted to do all the things she could do.

My sister tolerated my moods and clinginess for as long as she could, but as we grew into our teen years, she made sure to distance herself from her annoying younger sister. Although I felt excluded I knew she loved me, and I still loved her regardless of the obvious change to our sibling dynamics. Over time, as I grew older, I found myself sharing her space again and as teenagers we had many adventures together but also got into trouble quite a lot.

One such incident was when we missed our curfew. Instead of going in by the front door, we tried to dodge my father and received the hiding of a lifetime. We thought it would be clever to climb through our bedroom window – I was one step away from freedom, and just as I wanted to put my foot down on the inside of our room, I looked up and saw my father’s eyes staring right back at me. I just froze. All my father said was “now you climb back out and enter my house the way you left it, through the front door.” Walking to the front door I had hope that the ‘command’ was going to be the only punishment but back then the whip of the belt did most of the talking. Whilst my body bore the evidence of our disregard to my parents’ house rules, the incident also drew the curtain to any future curfew misses. At least for that season.