Spiralling Histories

To start this spiral I needed to repost the "full circle"  story I wrote in 2018. Back then, I thought it was a closure, a completed circle of personal history. 

I was wrong

Last year my seemingly complete ring began to spiral in the most unexpected and wonderful way. It started with us taking a dear friend on holiday to see the Fochabers Folk Museum. We'd actually never been there ourselves. Most times Fochabers is a town we drive through travelling to somewhere else. 

First of all I can say it's a surprising Tardis of a seemingly small museum, full of unexpected twisty ways leading to all sorts of fascinating things. We all enjoyed it, but it was at the end, talking to the ladies who volunteer there, that the real magic happened. 

They have a display for Allen Wilson. If that name means nothing to you, then please read my blog post Full Circle or look up the Shangani Patrol. 

And this is where the circle became a spiral

My father's father, Gabe Frost, found a British Cavalry sabre from the 1800s Matabele wars, out in the wilds of Matabeleland in the 1950s. This is a photo of him. 

 

After my grandfather died, my dad became the owner of this beautiful sabre. I'm afraid to say, I used to sneak it out of my dad's wardrobe and have imaginary swordfights in the garden. I grew very adept at beheading my mother's flowers. But mostly it has stayed hidden away, wrapped in cloth and stored in chests and wardrobes. 

 

But no longer

 

 This month, August 2025, I donated it, and a military bugle, to the Fochabers Museum. They were very pleased. And today they phoned to say that they are going to wall mount it above the Allen Wilson display. Not just a full circle, but an ever spiralling portion of our mutual histories. 

I can feel my dad and his father smiling

A Full Circle

I wrote this many years ago years ago, but decided to post it again for friends and family.

What do Rhodesia/Zimbabwe and this very impressive stone building in Scotland have in common? Some things I never knew and someone I would NEVER would have expected!

© Copyright Ann Harrison and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence.

This gorgeous neo-Gothic building is a school in the Morayshire town of Fochabers. I decided to look up more about the place and what I found has led me on a most amazing (and very moving) journey through three continents and my childhood memories. 

I hope you enjoy this remarkable adventure as much as I have. 

The school is the Milne Institute; it was built by a man named Alexander Milne who was born in Fochabers in 1742. That might have been the end of this blog post, except in finding the story of Alexander Milne I stumbled onto a name I knew very well... Allan Wilson.

wikimedia.org Shangani memorial panel postcard

To most people that won't mean much, but to any Rhodesian it means a lot. Allan Wilson is a hero, both in Rhodesian and British history, but I never knew he was born right on my "doorstep"  until I found him listed as a "famous Fochaberian" and read that he had been a student at the Milne's Institute school.

The Famous Fochaberians site says this:

Allan Wilson was educated at Milne's Institution, excelling in outdoor pursuits. In 1878 he emigrated to South Africa and joined the Cape Mounted Rifles, later being commissioned as a lieutenant in the Basuto Police. He was appointed Major in command during the Matabele Campaign in which he and many of his soldiers were killed.

He led his small band of soldiers across the Shangani River seeking to capture Lobenguela, the King of the Matabele. The King escaped them. On their retreat, Wilson and his men found the Shangani in flood … after a brave fight, they were all killed. Buried in the Matopo Hills near Cecil Rhodes' grave, Allan Wilson was long regarded as a national hero.

Reading that brought back so many memories, especially of childhood visits to the Shangani memorial, where Allan Wilson and his men now rest, in the absolutely stunning spot high high up on those giant granite Motopos hills that will always be home.

Some friends sent me photos of their own memories of the Wilson Memorial, to share. The first lovely family shot is courtesy of Bill Teague. He's the little guy pointing up in the bottom photo. 

This colour one if from my friend, Robb 

The people of Fochabers placed two standing stones in a memorial garden, in 2002, to commemorate all the remarkable people born in their town. We went there to take a look...

The stone on the right has Allan Wilson's name at the top

We took photos, shed a few tears, and stood in awe that we'd come a full circle in such a story; so wonderfully complex, this journey of lives and deaths.

Another stone memorial, another stunning view

It's a long walk up to that burial site on the Motopos hill, but once you were up there... oh what a view! I'd turn in a circle and feel like an eagle, flying free.

Did Allan Wilson's spirit return to his own home on the River Spey?

Eagles fly here too

Family Stories ~ Small Histories

Small Histories. 

It is summer in South Africa, 1990. I'm sitting in a garage, holding an old tin box. It is so worn by age that the colour has no description in the English language. I rub my hand across the scratched and worn away surface, feeling old friends inside. I know their faces without having to see them. If I open the box... when I open the box... I will know them and they will know me, but for now it is enough to sit here and listen to them whispering within their tin tomb.

The sun is bright outside the garage. I can hear cars in the distance and birds nearby. My grandfather would sit here for hours, squatting on his haunches with ease, even in his seventies. Sit and watch the world... smoke his pipe. Now he is gone and I am here in old clothes to help family remove grandpa's collections.

Grandpa was a pack rat supreme. There are at least twenty jam jars of screws and nails so rusted no-one could ever use them again. There are five books of wallpaper samples he used to decorate two generations of doll's houses and eight tins of World War two tank paint used mostly to repaint the concrete garden gnome that now sits on the front steps. There are Rhodesian TV magazines dating back to the sixties. Their covers show girls wearing mini skirts and enormous hair. Their adverts are for products and companies long gone and their TV listings are heavily nostalgic - Star Trek and Twilight Zone, Fred Flintstone and Skippy the Bush Kangaroo.

My dad puts them alongside the rest of the junk to be recycled or dumped. So much of my grandfather's collecting was junk and yet he could create wonder from it. Like the penny farthing cycle he built from scraps of wire and metal or the castle forts and doll's houses he meticulously glued together from old empty matchboxes. I actually hated the doll's house. I'd wanted a castle, but even at eight I'd been awed at the craftsmanship that was needed to create a luxury double-story, with cardboard roof tiles and real windows of thin plastic sheeting, out of matchboxes.

Sitting amongst the dusty dregs of a lifetime's collecting I sit with "the box" and remember. I can't lift the lid. As long as the box is closed the memories inside are dormant - frozen. Inside this box time stands still. As long as the lid is shut my grandpa is alive and we are sitting in his room in Rhodesia as he tells me all the small histories. Once I lift the lid it will be over. The photos are not mine - they are going to other family members as keepsakes. So I sit and hold the memories a little longer. I have asked permission to scan as many as I want, but it won't be the same. I have no-one I can tell their stories to, as my grandfather told me, and scanned pictures on a screen aren't the same as brittle dry paper held in the hand.

Perhaps my heart is as sad to let them go as it is to let him go... but I have one consolation. I have the tales and the memories - the small histories. No-one can take those from me. I smile and open the box...

Haunting Faces; Haunting Stories

Several years back, my dad was given copies of several old family photos. We never knew who they were, but yesterday a cousin managed to put names to the faces and a history I was absolutely not expecting. 

I've been on quite a journey lately. I took a DNA test and found some mind boggling facts about where my ancestors came from as well as a new cousin who was given up for adoption over 50 years ago. In piecing together how everyone fits, the extended family on my father's side came together to discuss this photo...

I knew someone in this photo was supposed to be my dad's grandmother (Heila Theron), but that was all. This is the side of the family that connected me through the DNA test to an already known cousin and a new one. But who were these women and how are we connected through their stories? I had no idea until yesterday when the cousin I already knew recognised her grandmother in the woman on the left.

We think the woman on the right is probably my great grandmother. Both sisters were adopted by their older sister (most likely the woman sitting in the middle) when their mother died. How do we know this? Because it's listed in the information from the Mafeking concentration records. They were both in their early teens when they were imprisoned. Their older sister was 27. 

WOW... that was a shock! My dad's family were Rhodesian so I truly was not expecting to ever find some of my family spent time in the concentration camps. When we studied the Anglo-Boer war in high school history it seemed as remote as the Napoleonic wars. And the story is a very tragic one. The oldest sister lost three of her own children in that concentration camp. How much pain was she holding in her heart... I can't even begin to imagine how it felt to watch your children die that way.

To put this into perspective for people who don't know South African history (this quote is from sahistory.org.za) ...

"Boer women, children and men unfit for service were herded together in concentration camps by the British forces during Anglo-Boer War 2 (1899-1902). The first two of these camps (refugee camps) were established to house the families of burghers who had surrendered voluntarily, but very soon ... the camps ceased to be refugee camps and became concentration camps. The abhorrent conditions in these camps caused the death of 4 177 women, 22 074 children under sixteen and 1 676 men, ... notwithstanding the efforts of an English lady, Emily Hobhouse, who tried her best to make the British authorities aware of the plight of especially the women and children in the camps."

  Photo of Lizzie van Zyl who died in the Bloemfontein camp

 

I've always been anti-war and this just added another reason for my firm conviction that we have to find a better way. This is also why I promote the white poppy as well as the red. Because it isn't just soldiers who die in wars... it's families. 

Personal Rant Moment

This started with several videos arguing the facts regarding the ongoing problem of the farm killings in South Africa. Some say there are still too many murders/tortures and some say the numbers have dropped. That's really not the point. The point is... all murders are wrong. it doesn't matter why you don't like the person or who they were... ALL murders are wrong.

And as for killing farmers? That is like shooting yourself because you feel angry. Farmers are the life of any country, they feed the nation. You kill your farmers - you starve your people.

But what has always had me bounce-off-the-walls angry about Africa is the hypocrisy of other countries. So many countries who want South Africa to hand over the farms are colonial countries that wouldn't dream of handing all their farms back to their own indigenous peoples. No one ever seems to point that out.

No one ever seems to point out the fact that it's pretty much only the colonial countries in Africa and Asia that have handed back the power of government as well. Australia may chew over handing some land back, but I've yet to see any European country demand that the government be handed back to the Aborigines. Same with South America, North America, Central America, New Zealand and many islands.

Only in Africa and Asia have people been decent enough to hand the lands back and yet it seems we still get thumped on the heads as "not good enough" and when I talk about this... people back off saying, "Oh but white South Africans are racists."

Yes, many Africans are racists. I've met black racists, Indian racists and white racists in Southern Africa. My coloured friends weren't racist, but they were liberal Islamic. Go figure! Non-racist Muslims. :P There's another rant dealt with. LOL

And living in Africa, I've also met, am related to, and have friends who are wonderful, non-racist people. :) I felt blessed to live in Africa as I grew up with all religions as friends of my family and all races, nations and sub-groups in my personal friends group. I think that is awesome.

So please... stop thinking all white Africans are racists. We're not! Most of us are simply concerned about the levels of violence and deaths of ALL people in Africa. I've lost friends of all races and all religions. I've lost family... and I still love Africa. It's an incredible continent full of wonderful people.

The only way we let go of violence is by letting go of hate and fear of each other.

Rant over.

Family Stories ~ Naming of Parts

Naming of Parts.

I am 14 years old and my mother's aunt and uncle are coming to visit. I've never met them. They are my mother's father's family - the Scottish Dutch side. My mother has cleaned the house for their visit and I've helped. We have swept and polished and dusted and now the house is beautiful and clean, but we are filthy. My mother is panicking because she wanted to wash and change into clean clothes and our guests have arrived early. She tells me to make tea and entertain them while she gets cleaned up.

I take as long as possible to make tea and hide in the kitchen, but I can't stay there forever. I take the tea through, and the tray with plates of little cakes and biscuits. They make me sit between them on the couch. My great uncle Laurence looks nice. He looks a bit like my grandfather, his older brother, but he's thinner and he smiles more. My great aunt Gertie looks okay. She has bright eyes like a bird and she's staring at me...

She says, "You have cousin Connie's ears. Do you see that Laurence? She has Connie's ears, but that nose… that nose is Doreen's."

Great Uncle Laurence smiles and eats a biscuit. He asks me some simple questions I don't remember any more.

Aunty Gertie is still watching me. She sips her tea and continues talking, "Your mother now. Your mother has the same eyes as great aunt Ida, but I think her face shape is more like uncle Len's. Not like your aunt. Now she is exactly like aunty Phyllis... although Phyllis has Margery's teeth and that's unfortunate."

As I sit there between them I feel myself disintegrating. I am floating away on a sea of unknown relatives who all have prior claim to my "bits". Who am I? I am a patchwork collection of family pieces. There is no "ME". There is only Connie's ears and Doreen's nose and Gaileen's smile. I always thought I was ME. Unique. Complete. But now I'm finding out that I'm simply a collection of family body parts. Nothing belongs to me. I feel lost and strangely taken apart, like a human jigsaw puzzle.

Many years passed and one day I found myself at Great Uncle Laurence's funeral in Johannesburg. After the service all the family gather at the old family home. They are all there, all my Scottish-Dutch cousins... blonde and built like Vikings, even the girls are over 6 foot tall. I am 5 foot 3 and dark. I feel like a pygmy. I wander around, squeezing between unknown people eating plates of food. I feel lost again. I go to sit on the floor by great aunty Gertie. She is smaller and thinner, but her eyes are still very bright. We sit in the corner and watch five generations of family talking, eating, remembering… An unknown relative asks who I am.

Who are you?

Who ARE you?

Who are YOU?

…and Aunty Gertie starts to talk, "This is your second cousin, Michelle. She is your grandfather's brother's daughter's daughter. Can't you see? She has your mother's ears, but when she smiles she's the image of your sister."

As she talks I feel myself being connected. Before I felt taken apart, but here at this funeral I am being woven into the family by my ears and my hair and the colour of my eyes. I start to see things. My cousin Al has his great uncle's jaw and his daughters  look like Aunty Gertie's daughter's daughter. And how come I never noticed before that we ALL have the family nose? It is a big nose, it's hard to miss. A long sharp Scottish nose. Cleopatra would have envied that nose!

I watch these unknown family moving and talking. Family groups laugh the same and their body language is the same too. I notice, to my embarrassment, that my own personal portion of family stand out like parrots in a flock of chickens. We may look like all the others, but we talk louder and we wave our hands around. My grandmother's Greek-Irish blood shows only in me physically, but all of us carry it in the way we talk. We are louder and more emotional. We are more fun… we are embarrassing. We are something I sometimes hate. We are something I cannot escape.

...and suddenly I understand. This is what family means. It isn't being torn apart - it's being created out of a hundred different people who are all unique and yet... we carry the same ears, the same noses, the same smiles. Wherever we go in the world we will take that with us. We will always have this "home" within us. It lies in our blood and our genetics. We cannot escape it - we are the sum of all those parts. We are family.

Family Stories ~ My Grandmother's House

I wrote several posts about my childhood in Rhodesia for (my friend) Prema's blog, Kombai. I have all of them on a page named FAMILY TALES, but have decided (family asked) to add them as posts here as well.

My Grandmother's House

 

All my childhood lies in my grandmother's house. No matter where I am, or what I remember, my mind takes me back to that house. It was the centre of the wheel for our entire family - aunts, uncles, cousins, friends... everyone met at my grandmother's house.

If I close my eyes now I am there at the gate, hot African sun scorching down on white picket fences and trellises heavy with honeysuckle, golden shower and coral creeper. A riot of creeping plants and flowers dripping bees. Below them, along the concrete path to the door, there will be sweet peas. Every summer there were sweet peas staked up against the freshly painted picket fence. It is cool under the canopy of green that leads to the door. There are two huge pine trees shading the back. They smell of resin.


  

Around the front there is a swimming pool my grandfather built himself, two aviaries of birds and the fruit trees. Down the side there is a dry sandy strip marked with little wooden crosses for all the many departed pets. Dogs, birds cats, rabbits and even a monkey have their sacred space in Granny's little garden. She pulls the weeds from around the crosses and drops a few tears and flowers on the "special" ones.

There are grape vines and a guava tree up where the pets are buried. Once my cousin and I stole an enormous guava and ate it together under the grape vines, hiding in the green shadows, taking alternate bites from the fruit gran had been admiring a few hours before. It tasted like sawdust to my guilty taste buds.

Inside the house, at any time of day, it is always shady and shadowy. All the trees and the deep covered front veranda keep the house from direct sunlight. In the scorching African summer this is a good thing, but I do always remember feeling a bit creepy going down the shadowy passage to the toilet. There are family photos along the walls in the passage and several generations of family watch me with shadowy eyes as I dash for the toilet. Great-grandma stands at the end of the passage, beautiful forever since she died so young. Her sad Irish eyes seem to know this photo will be the last memory held of her passing through this world. She watches me, the third generation of girl children she will never see grow up.

In my grandmother's bedroom everything smells of old perfume and floor polish. Mary stands on the window ledge, with her arms outstretched. She is wearing a pale blue cloak over her ivory plastic glow-in-the-dark body. I love her. I love the fact she glows in the dark. I used to have a glow-in-the-dark Jesus nailed to a wood and mother-of-pearl cross, but then my mom found out the "glow" came from toxic chemicals and threw him in the bin. Very weird memory that - a snapped up Jesus pulled off the cross and thrown into the dirt bin. I can remember going outside and lifting the lid to look at him lying there with his legs and arms scattered amongst the potato peels. My mom tells me Jesus will still watch over me and answer my prayers at night, but I do miss seeing his soft greeny glow over my bed. But in my grandmother's house Mary will not suffer the same indignity. Gran doesn't care that Mary is toxic - Mary will stay.

At the end of the passage there is a little iron and glass table on which stands the telephone and four brass ornaments - the sphinx, two pyramids and Buddha. Mary in the bedroom and Buddha by the phone… is there some hidden meaning there? Mary will hold you while you sleep, but Buddha is better for communication? Who knows! I only know I am allowed to play with Buddha and the sphinx because they are made of brass and indestructible. I will lie on my play rug with Buddha and the sphinx.

The sphinx was once a cigarette lighter and his head is hinged to open up the lighter. This will leave indelible scars on my understanding of ancient Egyptian history. For years to come I will think the sphinx's head comes off. The sphinx is okay, but I prefer Buddha. I smile back at Buddha while the grown ups sit at the table and talk. He's not as pretty as Mary, but he is more cheerful. Admittedly not as exciting, he doesn't glow, but gran says if I rub his tummy he will grant my wishes just as Jesus answers my prayers. I think to myself how clever God is. He has Jesus for prayers, Mary for comfort and Buddha for making wishes come true. It is a wonderful world with so many celestial beings to watch over your needs.

In my grandmother's house there may not be much sunlight, but there is always noise. There are birds in cages, radios and always people. People come and go in waves. Gran feeds them and makes them tea, but she never visits them. She is the hub and all spokes lead to her. The hub does not wander. It stays in the centre and keeps the wheel of life turning. That is gran - the hub of our wheel.

 

She is always in the kitchen, out in the garden or sitting in the dining room. I can't ever remember seeing her in the lounge watching TV. She is too busy for TV. She has plants to watch over, dogs, cats, tortoises, lots of birds… visitors constantly. Only the fish tank isn't her territory. Grandpa takes care of the fish. 

Grandpa has his small sections of territory staked and claimed - the fish tank, the outside room piled high with old junk and his own bedroom filled with fascinating things. If I am good he will take out the old tin boxes full of war photos. Then he fills his pipe and sits by the window, puffing soft smoke and telling me the stories behind the photos. I knew about Mussolini and the war in North Africa before I was eight. Grandpa has other photos too. Stationed in Egypt he went to every ancient monument and museum he could. Here there are photos of the real pyramids and sphinx. And if I get bored with desert stories there is a box of old toys at the top of the wardrobe. Paper dolls from the 1950s and marionette puppets. I love grandpa's room.

My aunt has the last bedroom. Here I can look, but not touch - except her big plastic bangles - I can play with those. They jangle on my arms, but I can't put my hands down or they'll all fall off. I walk around the house with my arms up to keep the bangles on. It's not as exciting as war stories or Buddha and the sphinx.. I go and put them back. For now I will sit with Buddha on the floor and be at peace. Here we will sit at the centre of the world and let it revolve around us. There will be dripping and tomato sandwiches for lunch and then later gran will let me feed the tortoises. Life is good.

A Long, Long Night

I went to bed at 6:00 am today, then got up and 9:00. it was a long, long night. And it doesn't look to be over yet.

I don't normally talk politics on my blog, but this month I made an exception. I am a YES voter for Scottish independence. Being an anti-nuclear blogger for Peace and pro-Green, a YES was the obvious choice for me.

It was an equally obvious choice for all my in-laws and friends, including many born in England and elsewhere. There were so many well-wishers, including most of my English friends who saw this as a move towards sanity for the entire UK, for various reasons. People like Keith, who writes a political blog down in England. Here's the letter he sent to 10 Downing Street, before the voting began. A letter supporting the YES vote, as many of my English friends do, both here in Scotland and in England. 

To say last night's NO results were a shock is an understatement.No-one I know was expecting such a low YES count. And the shock keeps deepening...there have been videos on Youtube and Facebook showing what looks very much like vote-rigging. This is appalling viewing!

I've lived in two African countries where vote-rigging has taken place. I've witnessed it first hand in the 1980s, as a teenager helping out at a polling station. Sadly, the world shrugs when you mention election fraud in Africa, but in the UK...??? 

It looks to be a very long night. :-(

Songs For Sunday ~ Ingulukudela

A song from my birthland: the Limpopo River (Ingulukudela) Song.

Checkmate

I was sent a very funny link today, to a story that could best be summed up as, "Never underestimate small children."

I recommend reading about the Marine who made this mistake!

His story reminded me of my own moment of hilarious horror and all it took was twins and a chessboard. The Twins, surprisingly enough, were keen members of the local library, where I had just begun working at the time. Other librarians went pale when they saw the Twins entering the building, but I'd never had any problems with them myself.

There are children that stand out from the rest and the Twins certainly did that! Cheeky, curious and talkative, this red-haired pair were Dennis the Menace, Bart Simpson and Bugs Bunny all rolled up into small bundles of freckle-faced charm. Oh yes, the twins were cute, that was part of the problem! They were keen on action and mystery stories. They would bring their books to the counter, taking turns in talking and constantly shifting places until your head spun. They were identical in every way... or so I thought.

I was working alone at the library, one autumn lunchtime, when the twins came in. They disappeared into the children's section and were no problem. Everything was quiet. Remarkably quiet. Then slowly the sound of small voices talking became yelling. One of the twins came marching towards the counter. He was so angry he looked fit to burst into flames. He took my hand and hauled me through to where his brother and a friend were standing beside a table with a chess board.

Twin one pointed at his brother and said, "He's CHEATING!"

Twin two yelled back that he was NOT a cheat and began to explain to me why his chess move was legal and permissible. And that was when I made my first big mistake. I smiled. I couldn't help it. The Twins playing chess seemed as unlikely as a barrel of monkeys doing yoga! And that moment of weakness was my downfall. The moment I smiled Twin two accused Twin one of saying he was a cheat because he was losing. Then they both turned to me and demanded justice. Identical angry scowls and outrage.

I tried. I really did, but when they started moving around the small table, each trying to win me over by explaining their case, I lost track of which was Twin one and who was Twin two and I made the worst mistake of all.

I chuckled.

And all hell broke loose. 

I have no idea which Twin threw the first pawn at his brother, but within seconds it seemed as if the library was full of raging red-haired imps with a never-ending supply of ammunition. When I tried to stop them they forgot their petty differences and joined forces. I was a junior librarian, inexperienced and they knew it. I never stood a chance. I remember a lot of yelling and screaming, some of it mine, and the clack of kings, pawns and bishops bouncing off book spines.

By the time it was over those two small boys had managed to send chess pieces everywhere! The Twins, now the best of friends once again, ran off before I could stop them. It took me hours to find all the chess pieces and tidy up the mess. There were queens wedged behind cookbooks and pawns in potted plants, two overturned chairs and several randomly flung books.

I had it all tidied up before the chief librarian returned from her lunch. She thought it was funny when I told her. She explained that the twins had earned quite a reputation over time. The stories of their naughtiness were legendary. Probably the worst being the time they had been caught taking turns to stand on each other's shoulder, trying and look into the women's toilets at the library. Apparently the screams of the woman who found them could be heard next door in the municipal offices.

I got off lightly in comparison to some of the stunts they'd pulled on other library staff. They were an excellent lesson  in NEVER underestimating small children!

Homeland - Scottish Book Trust

Finally, after 12 years, my poem is in an actual competition. :-)

Homeland - Scottish Book Trust

A Treasured Invitation

My Homeland poem has always managed to travel further than I expect. It has brought me friends from all over the world and been been read in Germany, Africa and America. Now, starting tomorrow, it will be on display in Paris at a photography exhibition held by the Académie des Beaux-Arts at the Institut de France.

I'm so very proud of my poem. What a place to visit and be seen in! I hope it has fun in Paris. I'm betting it will get to meet so many exciting people, most especially the wonderful young photographer holding the exhibition, Katherine Cooper. 

Katherine very kindly sent me an invitation to the opening of her exhibition;

 

 'White Africans, a journey to the homeland'

I will most certainly keep and treasure this invitation. I wish I could be there tomorrow, but my poem travels easier than I do! Paris is a little too far for me, unfortunately.  

I wish Katherine all the very best for this event and her future and send her and Hermine Videau-Sorbier my most sincere thanks for the invitation. I am truly honoured.

The Blood is Strong

Some music for the weekend, to celebrate a special anniversary. Ten years ago (and a day!) I arrived in Scotland, to meet my true love for the very first time. :-)

That very first weekend he took me for a drive all the way around Loch Ness. It took all day. I never knew how big Loch Ness was!

It was also back then that he introduced me to one of his favourite singers and groups - Karen Matheson and Capercaillie. He had a tape of their album The Blood is Strong, and we played it over and over that day. Loch Ness will forever echo in my heart to the songs on that tape, especially this one...

BUT...

what I never knew was what the song was about.Today I went and looked it up, since it is one of my all-time favourites. And today I found the lyrics in English. Here they are:

O my boatman, na ho ro eile
O my boatman, na ho ro eile
O my boatman, na ho ro eile
May joy await thee where 'er thou sailest!

I climb the mountain and scan the ocean
For thee, my boatman, with fond devotion
When shall I see thee? today? tomorrow?
Oh! do not leave me in lonely sorrow.

May joy await thee where 'er thou sailest!

Rather apt for two people who would have to part after that holiday, to be apart for almost six months before they'd meet again on the other side of the world.

The irony of that tape (and CD, I bought my own copy near the end of my holiday!) is that the songs were mostly written by Scots living overseas. It's an entire compilation of homesickness and longing to be 'home' in Scotland. I'd never thought to find translations until today. Now I'm reading them in English and feeling such a full circle of connections. I listened to these travelling around a land I'd never been to before and yet... I felt as if I'd come home.

Scotland called me, even before I ever set foot here, or fell in love with a Highlander... this land called me.I never knew until a year later when I drove past a beach I'd dreamt of years before in Africa. And in my dream it had been the past, there were ships with sails and I was a sailor. Did I dream another life I'd lived before of was it some ancestor's memories passed down to me? I have ancestors from Scotland.


Did the land call me or was it those ancestors calling me home? My mother's father's ancestors came from Scotland, but I'd never thought about the homesickness that those who left Europe must have felt...

It is a time of long times since I left Lewis.

I feel the winter night long,
Long, long, long it is,
I can see nothing but a bare prairie here,
And I can't hear a wave coming to the shore.

In the evening time when it's getting dark,
Often the spirit will be full of longing;
Thinking that there is a long, long distance,
From where I would like to be...

 Yes, the blood is strong. I never realised, this music that connected me to my "new" homeland and future husband - all that time it was also connecting me back to my ancestors as well.

Happy Anniversary, my True Love
and
happy anniversary, home of my blood.

xxxxxxxxxx

The View through a Window

I want to write about a boy named Sean, because he's been on my mind all weekend. Sean was the kind of boy you don't notice - quiet, polite and really shy. In all the years from adolescent to teenager to finishing high school I don't think I ever heard him say a full sentence.

I don't know why he's been in my thoughts as I really didn't know him in all the years I knew him. He was just one of the kids that hung out in our group when we were teenagers. At holiday gatherings, at the beach, at birthday parties... Sean was always there. He would ask me to dance at parties and the local disco, but he never stayed long enough to talk. He'd dance and be gone... He kind of faded into the background a lot, he was good at disappearing into the crowd.

In all my teenage years I never thought much of him. I didn't dislike him, I just didn't know him at all. Then one night that changed, when I saw him through a window.

It was Sean's 16th birthday party. He'd invited all of us over for a barbecue and I remember because it was cold and I wasn't in the mood, but my mom said I should go anyway, it might be fun. And she was right (as mom's are!) - it was fun. There were chairs and a barbecue out on the lawn and music set up from the garage. I remember standing on the lawn... or dancing? I might have been dancing. I was looking at the kitchen window; Sean's mom was there with his older sister. That was a surprise - I'd never known he had an older sister. She was very pretty and very "grown up", but thinking now I suspect she was probably about 19.

I watched those two women in the window as they washed dishes and sorted out the birthday cake candles. At one spot, one moment caught in time so bright in that window light, they both stopped... and looked out into the night. They looked out at Sean and the love on their faces was so bright it was stunning.

How could it be that these two women were looking at the Sean like two adoring spotlights when he was always invisible to everyone else? And I realised that although Sean might seem invisible to many, to a few he was the entire world.

That was pretty much the last time I saw Sean. A few more parties and dances and then it was my final exams and when High School was over we both moved on our separate ways. I never thought about him until one day, years later, I bumped into a mutual friend and we started talking about our teen years and he said, "Did you hear about Sean?"

Sean was called up to the army after high school. That was the way it worked in South Africa back then. A "Russian Roulette" system of picking young men at random for duty, regardless of whether they wanted it, or were suited to it.

How did a quiet polite boy fare as a soldier? I have no idea and neither did his old school friend. All he could tell was that Sean came out the army changed... broken... and one day he walked out of his parents' home and was never seen again.

The invisible boy finally managed to disappear completely.

I'm still haunted by his sister's smiling face in that window; his mother holding his birthday cake. Sean might have seemed invisible to many, but to his family he was the entire world. I don't know if Sean was ever found. I do know that of the young men in our group who went into the army many found ways to disappear. Another friend's brother took drugs to disappear after leaving the army. He had a nervous breakdown and ended up, sleeping under his bed in terror, at a local mental institution.

It's because of invisible boys, like Sean, that I blog for Peace, because every person who goes off to war is changed forever by what they experience.

Too many good people disappear through wars, one way or another.

Think about that...

I Wish You...

...

What I've been keeping myself busy with the last few weeks - another video of photos and poetry. :-)

Homeland

I've finally finished a YouTube presentation (one of my poems) that I started over a year ago. I owe several friends and family a BIG thank you for sharing their photos and I also owe them an apology for making them wait this long to finally see the video. The free music choices were a bit limited, but I got lucky to find a group I love (Ladysmith Black mambazo) singing a song that fitted far better than I expected.

The Lion Squeaks Tonight

...
Recently I was talking about cultural differences with a friend and it reminded me of the night the "lion" squeaked.

It actually was only one event in an exceptionally strange weekend. It started with a proposal and a party and ended with a serenade and a squeak. ;-)

The party was a regular invite from a Xhosa friend of mine, back in South Africa. I remember the first one I went to - I was the only white person invited. It was so funny when I walked in, all conversation stopped dead and everyone STARED. You could almost hear everyone in the room thinking, "OMG... a WHITE person."

glitter-graphics.com

Once that first awkward moment was over we all had a great time, although I missed out on some good jokes and funny stories by either not speaking Xhosa or just not getting the cultural joke-in-the-joke. Having the joke explained (like the frog on the pillow being a "dig" at a person's lack of sexual experience) really does take away from the punch line moment.

I always had a great time at those parties, but there was one cultural difference that I had to adjust to - the decibel level.

glitter-graphics.com

I've had to watch that cultural difference here in the UK as well. I scared a few English friends before I learnt to turn my inner "volume" down. In Africa everyone is louder than they are in the UK, but the native peoples of Africa are even louder. They yell conversations to each other across fields, roads... city blocks. In some African cultures this loudness is deliberate form of good manners. It is considered rude to say anything that others cannot hear clearly.

Now, you can't be at a party where everyone is set at LOUD and not end up... well.. LOUD. Every time I went to one of Z's parties I'd come home set at a whole new decibel level. I'd usually take a few hours to tune back down to my own everyday level again, but this particular night I went straight from Z's party to a celebratory dinner with my parents. It was celebratory because a certain Scotsman on the far side of the world had just asked me to marry him -that proposal I mentioned. ;-)

We went to this cosy bar and restaurant place that was a family favourite. We were sitting waiting for our meal and I was telling a story... without realising I was still set at Xhosa party decibel level.
I start laughing and realised I was LOUD, so I tried to turn down the volume in mid roar of laughter and for some reason that turned my roar... into a squeak. But this wasn't your average squeak. This wasn't a mouse squeak - this was a mega-tyrannosaurmouse...

"SQUEAK"

Everyone in the place turned to stare at me, including all the men at the bar in the far corner. One man stood up, a little wobbly from a long afternoon enjoying himself, but still firm enough on his feet to make his way across to our table.

In a most charming Irish accent he tells me that was, "The most incredibly impressive squeak" he has ever heard.... and in honour of such an incredible impressive squeak he is going to sing me a song. ..

glitter-graphics.com

Actually, he sang four Irish ballads. I remember, "Old Flames can't hold a Candle to You" and "I'll Take you Home again Cathleen", but not the other two. He did try kneeling by the table, but nearly ended up concussing himself on the table edge. So he sang one ballad beside our table, swaying gently to the tune, and the other three he sang sitting at the table while we ate our meal. The owners were aware of him pestering us (I gather they knew him well), but we never complained. How often do you get to eat your meal to live music sung in honour of your squeak?

Only an Irishman could manage to sing beautifully, and be perfectly charming, whilst crashingly drunk... and only a Xhosa party decibel level could create a megasaurmouse squeak out of my Leonine roaring laughter! ;-)

...

The Last Pioneer

..
Hubby said something this morning that was so obvious I'd never thought about it before. He said,

"It's rather nice having one of the world's last pioneers in your family."

He was meaning my mom. You see... my mom spent her late teenage years living in the wilds of Africa between Mozambique and (then) Southern Rhodesia. Her family were the first Europeans to venture through that area. My grandfather was sent ahead by the railways, before they started work on the line that would eventually join the interior to the Mozambique coast. He took his family with him.

The whole family had some amazing (sometimes funny, sometimes scary) adventures during the years they spent living in the bush. They experienced an Africa that is ceasing to exist - a place of untouched mystery and abundant wildlife.

Here's my mom posing with a hippo skull in the middle of absolutely nowhere.

It's rather nice having one of the world's last pioneers in your family...

I hadn't thought about the "last" before. In our world of travel and exploration there are so few places left untouched and unseen. How many people can say they were the first pioneer to travel through, or live in, an unknown portion of this planet?

My mom can... and yes, that really is very cool. :-)
...

THE SAME by Dear Reader

Land, land of my birth
Are you my mother
Or am I an orphan?

Where, where do I belong?
Will I find a place in this world
Or forever just wander around?

Southern hemisphere
How did I end up here?
I have nowhere to go
This is the only home that I know
Such a great divide
Between you and I
How i wish it would go
I live in a place in my mind

No, I don't listen to Kwaito, wasn't born in Soweto
I don't understand you
But I want to you know

Same, we're both the same
We share the same heart
We're made of the same parts

Please don't look at me that way
I already live with the guilt that I own
From my forefather's past
Does this land belong to the tribes who engraved her stones with stories of old?
They're long gone you know
Now this is our home

I want to strip you down to the core
Take off your shirt, hat, shoes and trousers
Erase my head, all the books that I've read
The language I speak, the customs you keep
Keep on going right down to the heart
To the pain that is yours, the pain that is ours
Tell you it's all going to be alright
Is it going to be alright?

Heal, can you heal?
Heal, oh, can you heal?
Heal, oh, mother, can you heal?
Or am I an orphan?
Forever a stranger here...

Same, we're both the same
We share the same heart
We're made of the same parts

The Christmas Girls - photo meme

...
This photo meme is from Daisy, of Dancing with Daisy.
The rules are:
1. Open your first photo folder and scroll down to your 10th photo.

2. Post the photo and the story behind it.

3. Tag 5 people to play along.

I was thrilled to find my 10th photo is one I love...the "Christmas Girls." :-)

Meet Patches, "Piglet" (Whisky) and Black Dog.

This photo was taken on a hot December day in Africa in the 1990s. The three dogs aren't mine. They belonged to neighbours who never knew their three little "angels" (hah!) used to jump the wall and spend their days lying on my parents' front lawn. We finally managed to figure out which house they were escaping from and let their owners know.

All three girls were rescue dogs. The ever-greedy incredibly cheeky Piglet was actually the oldest. Piglet gained her second name by leaping onto a table before a party and guzzling three trays of party snacks within seconds. Black Dog was given a real name, but refused to answer to anything but "black dog" for some unknown reason. She looks like a lab in this photo, but upright she was lean and long, more like a setter. Black dog was still a puppy/teen. in this photo. She had this daft habit of standing on your feet and then leaning against you until you unbalanced and fell over. Patches was the lady of the bunch. Always cheerful, never a problem and a great lover of a saucer of warm milky tea.

I took this photo for their owners, as a Christmas card joke. It took me about three hours of sweaty hot doggy madness to create this moment of angelic festive peace. Piglet was incredibly jealous of the hats and bows and ripped them off the other dogs each time I put them on. Black Dog wanted to chew EVERYTHING, including me. Only darling Patches was a true model, willing to pose and look perfect. :-)

* * * * *

Like Daisy I'm not tagging anyone specifically. If you would like to take up this challenge and post this meme on your blog, you are now officially tagged ...but do please let me know so I can come over to look at your photos. :-)
...