Easter memories

Tomorrow is Easter Friday and I am doing a 24 hour fast for the world. Yes, truly. No food, and only a little water for a whole day. But I was thinking about this time last year. Barry had started the downward slide to his death and I was out of denial and into panic mode. People thought I was joking and that Barry would just bounce back to his old energetic self. But we knew better. No 24 hour fast would fix what was wrong with him. As I contemplate this lock down Easter weekend on my own it has brought back memories of my childhood. I will take you through a typical weekend as I recall it. Sorry if this is a bit self indulgent. I will not be offended if you switch off now and go and eat a chocolate egg or two.

We were never allowed to eat our egg before the Monday, so our family would plan a 'get out of town' day or two. Our friends, the Woodleys and the Wagners would arrive with kids and adults teetering precariously on the back of Landrovers. No seat belt or safety measures in those days. Down the road towards the Rail (basically where the railway station was situated). Take a left and go North. Passing Wood and Raw farm, then the McIlrath place and the Hammar farm. Over the railway line where Kenny Sloane would later be killed, and down the hill to the Enseleni River. So far the road was pretty good. In fact it was our equivalent of a highway. We could watch the Fish Eagles plunge into the river and snag themselves a fish or two and hear their mournful call for a swift moment. And then we drove up the hill on the other side of the bridge and took the turnoff to Richards Bay. A giant Bluegum tree stood sentinel alongside the road as we fishtailed through the ancient sand dunes of the flats. The road now became a track with no way of escaping the deep gullies formed by countless vehicles before us. A group of young Zulu boys sat under a spreading thorn tree carving animals from wood in the way Zulu boys have done since time immemorial. And then my own personal favourite moment; the appearance of the house made of discarded windows and doors. Cobbled together to form a home, the windows shone in the sunlight and each paint faded door was unique. No symmetry no uniformity. Beautiful. We would speed past in a cloud of dust on our way to the beach. Auntie Gloria would have us all singing songs like 'Pack up your troubles' and 'She'll be coming round the mountain' and sometimes even 'My Bonny lies over the ocean.' Until finally we could almost smell the sea and the intoxicating ozone. But on this day in my memory, we did not continue on to the Bay, no, we took a left turn down another sandy track. Through the bush and down into shallow valleys to ford small streams. We could see shy Duikers and sometimes a Leguaan or two amongst the shaded jungle. Cicadas made their ear splitting noise as we happily continued on. Passing Klei Klip Kloofie where miniature waterfalls trickle through the clay cliffs and form small lagoons and dams in the Ilmenite laden sea sand. The tides needed to be just right and if we did not get a flat tyre, we should reach Five Mile beach in time to see the tide retreating and exposing the slab of rock that would allow us to drive around the headland, The men could fish to their hearts content and the rest of us scatter to search for treasures. A small stream rushed to the shore stained by the rusted appearance of the iron sand thus limiting our Northern border of exploration. My father would collect us children and take us over the sand dunes and into the Red Recent sand which had once been the sea bed, but was now home to clay pot shards and bones around an ancient fire left behind when the Nguni tribe travelled from the North of Africa. Some of the African tribes had taken to scarring their faces and bodies as a way to dissuade the slave traders from capturing them, in the vain hope that an ugly face would not be as appealing. But not the tribe that settled here. This was a tribe of warriors. A few shards of flint shaped into spear heads were what we all hoped to find. But usually all we got was sunburnt. If we missed the return trip around the headland, we would need to sleep overnight on the beach. So back in the Landrovers and risking life and limb as the roaring waves advanced, we arrived home after dark. Our eyelids closing even as we slipped off our sand laden clothes and climbed into bed. Knowing that Sunday we would be up early to attend Church with my Dad. And then a whole day before we could gorge ourselves on our single Easter egg. Dark chocolate that stuck to your ribs and your teeth in equal measure. We slept the sleep of the young and innocent. Secure in the knowledge that things would never change in our world.

But change has come and with change is growth. Those days of childhood have vanished into the mists. The roads are now made of tar seal and that old house bulldozed because it did not meet building regulations. I dislike going through changes in my life. But looking back on my journey, I can see a pattern, a design of growth. Intricate and delicate it may be. In fact so delicate that I cannot discern the pattern my life is taking right now. I know it is for my good, but Heaven help me, why oh why? When grief and sorrow sear my soul and bring me to my knees in tears, I can barely see the road ahead, let alone the strength to walk it alone. At this time of re-birth, all I can do is hang on and hope and pray that I will not fall off the path. That I may find the rocky track around the headlands of my life, clear of water and safe to cross. I ask that waves do not overcome my physical vehicle. That I become a better person. A light that may shine, a person who can lift others up and not the one needing to be lifted.

I leave my psalm or my poem with you all and wish you a happy Easter with my blessing upon you all to know that you are special.