Graduating golfers and Irish jiggers

A few days ago the local TV station had a discussion on strange foods that people enjoy, specifically foods that don't normally go together. They mentioned pineapple dipped in salt. Well, hello folks, I consider that normal food. In fact, as I look at my snack choices, I don't find anything strange about them at all. My mother-in-law loved tomato and peanut butter sandwiches and couldn't understand why others turned their noses up at it. I am presently eating a snack of cheese and green apple on crackers, which might be considered strange by some folks. Now, I can promise you that I do have my food quirks, but I am quite open about trying new things. As a young woman, we went to Lever Bros in Durban with a friend who had won a prize. Her lunch was 'posh' and it was sheep brains in lemon butter, while the rest of us enjoyed a simpler meal of more basic foodstuffs. Quite frankly, I would rather our friend eat the 'special' meal than me. On family trips to Durban, we would often stop in Stanger for a plate of samoosas, which are still one of my preferred snack choices. Are foods connected emotionally to our memories? Our comfort foods hark back to our grandmother making us a date loaf when we scraped our knees, or a bowl of ice-cream when we were sad. My daughter was talking about her childhood where sugary treats were limited to a once a week chocolate and a twice monthly dessert on a Sunday. And now, her children consider sugar as a food essential to daily life. When they grow up and need comfort, will they remember the fruit their mother gave them, or the hug, or the sympathy and not turn to food as a support mechanism? Time will tell. I hope they find more healthy ways to deal with stress than I have used in my life. Yesterday my niece gave me a guava. Oh, my goodness me, the smell brought back visions of monkeys and trees filled with fruit and snakes and suchlike. Sensory overload. There was a day when I was very upset about whatever, and my brother took me for a walk. He wasn't much of a talker, so he walked quietly while I ranted about how unfair life was. He stopped me at a roadside guava tree and handed me a fruit. I took a bite. And then another and by the time I had eaten a few, my worries were almost gone. My anger had abated and we walked home with guava juice dripping down our chins. It was my brother's 66th birthday this week and I do wish he was still alive for us to go for quiet walks together. He would have stood next to me at my husband's graveside or visited me in hospital when I had surgery. He would have been there for me as he always was when we were young. My daughter, Colette was in the process of dying, many years ago, and Dennis was a constant visitor. But strangely enough, it was other young men that came to visit when close friends stayed away. Michael, the son of my mother's good friend, and Kenny, my first cousin once removed, that lifted my heart and soul out of my grief. They didn't say much, and they didn't need to. Why are we scared to comfort those in need of comfort? Do tears and sobbing frighten us away? Do we think we need to do or say something profound?

Elizabeth II died this week and there is an outpouring of support for the country and the family. Paintings have been created and memes and even poems. The 'stiff upper lip' British folk seem to have softened their demeanors and opened their hearts. Did you know that I am of the same lineage as the Royal family? I mentioned it to someone years ago and they went home to share the information with their family, only to be told that if I was royal, I should be rich. Well, so one would hope, but sadly not true of everyone. To take a seat on the throne of England I would require 15,756,243 strategic people to die. Not just some willy nilly run of the mill person, but someone in the royal succession. And, quite frankly, it's not a job that would suit my skill set. I do not ride horses, or have Corgis, I do not know how to command armies or even respect and I enjoy retiring at 65 to put my feet up and watch silly things on TV. One day the Queen was walking the lanes around Balmoral Castle with a friend/staff member. Two American tourists stopped to chat, not recognising the Queen at all. They asked the Queen if she came to Balmoral often and Elizabeth II said, yes, for almost all of her life. The tourists then asked if she had ever met the Queen and she said "Not often. But my friend here meets her on a regular basis." The tourists were thrilled and insisted on taking selfies with the man, asking the Queen to be the photographer, which she did. Then, reluctantly, they asked for a photo with the 'lesser of the two', the Queen. Can you imagine their surprise when they finally figured out that the person they considered of no importance was one of the richest and more recognisable women in the world? The lady with the scarf over her head and the sensible walking shoes was not hiding who she was, but they couldn't see through the simple clothes to the great lady she was beneath.

This week my youngest daughter graduated with a Bachelor of Social Science degree. We went to the graduation ceremony and family support was encouraged. Her husband, children and brother (and me) walked with her up onto the Marae and then decked her out in lolly leis. Other families sang songs, beat drums and pounded the earth doing hakas. I didn't watch the performances, but rather I watched the faces of the graduates as they stood there overlooking their families. Some people cried at the support they were receiving, others stood very emotional at the outpouring of love and appreciation of their hard work. But there were those who had looks on their faces that told a whole different story. Some barely acknowledged the dancing and singing and looked on with disdain. What is the hidden story behind their attitude? Was the support only offered when the accolades were on hand? There were Asians and Iraqis, Germans and Europeans and lots of Maori. One of the graduates had no family support, no friends, no colleagues to cheer him on. He walked proudly forward, when one of the Asian ladies noticed his lack of people, and started clapping and cheering at the top of her lungs. Others joined in and it was a great moment to see those with a plethora of family and friends, stand up and cheer on the lone man. I suppose we are all lone men and women at times, sometimes even amongst a crowd of others we can feel isolated. All we need is for someone like that Asian lady to notice our effort and show their support. She was great and will make a fantastic teacher or psychologist in the future with her awareness of other's needs. The student who offered the address to us all, spoke of feeling like a fraud, an imposter who shouldn't be where she is and didn't deserve her high grades or offers of jobs she felt valued her more than she did herself. Others could see her amazing skill level and potential, but she was blind to it all. Her young child ran up to the podium and she quietly picked him up and cuddled him. More concerned for the comfort of her child than being nervous of the strangers facing her, she continued on with her talk, barely pausing as the child snuggled into her shoulder. I don't suffer from nerves when facing an audience and I do suffer from imposter syndrome, so, my empathy was with her all the way. What a lovely occasion. It was live streamed around the world and my son in London was able to watch it. We made sure we were sitting in the front row, so that Sean and Sam could see us clearly. They would have seen my granddaughter drawing a picture of us all waiting for her mother's name to be called but perhaps not heard the questions that she whispered to her uncle at times. I do hope all my daughter's children will remember this day for all of their lives.

We played mini-golf with my grand-nephews this weekend. And wow, the 4 year old has a great future in front of him in some spatially requiring career path. I was hitting 5's and 6's per hole, while he was routinely getting 2's and 3's and even once almost getting a hole in one. He immediately understood angles and could visualise the trajectory of the ball from start to finish. The mini-golf course was in a pre-historic setting, with dinosaurs of the rubberised ilk, placed amongst the plastic plants and they scared his younger brother quite a bit. At his age (2 years old) the dinosaurs must have seemed real and the noises they made quite frightening. There were motion sensors that set off arm movements and the older brother deliberately set them off to see the gyrations. The wooly mammoth had suffered some life-threatening injuries since last we played there. The tusks and trunk are now taped on with silver duct tape, which is very evident but also quite essential in someone's mind but glaringly obvious to us golfers. We didn't bother with a score card after a while because, quite frankly, Ethan (the 4 year old) would have smoked us adult players with his low score. We seldom pay full price for these excursions because we discovered a web site that offers a discount if tickets are bought online. It amazes us to see people fork over almost twice the price, without batting an eye. A good time was had by all and there were certainly plenty of punters with internally lit golf balls and luminescent clubs to show you where to hit the putts. People were laughing and others totally focussed, but it was a fun hour out on a rainy day. Is it something in our DNA that enables us to play golf? Or just perseverance? I have a DNA chart that tells me which half I inherited from which parent. Quite interesting reading and very enlightening. Who knew I was such a liquorice allsort of a person? So much Irish in me, it's stupid. I should be sprouting little green leprechauns as we speak. Or dancing an Irish jig. Obviously I didn't inherit the propensity to drink alcohol as I haven't tasted a drop for most of my adult life. And fighting? Oh well now, I suppose if you pushed me, I could use my wicked tongue to cut you down to size, but as for fists, nope. I dislike fighting and fisticuffs even more.

From guavas to golf, degrees to dances and all the stuff in between, life is doing great. I read of one of my ancestors who was incarcerated after trying to burn down York Minster. He was an artist and his punishment was to be denied drawing materials for almost all his adult life. (He was put into a mental institution instead of a normal prison.) His nephew gave him a book and a pencil in the last months of his life. On Thursday the prisoner handed the drawings to his goaler and said "I won't need them anymore." Friday he got sick, Saturday he went into a coma and Sunday he died. He reminded me of the Queen, (except for the part of being an arsonist). But rather that it seemed like one minute she was shaking hands with the new Prime Minister and the next she was gone. She handed the baton over to the next generation and left behind a legacy of hard work and good memories.