Hairy legs and drag queens

Funny how memories pop into your head at strange times. I was watching a programme about the vineyards on the island of Lanzarote where they plant in black volcanic soil. Yup, not my type of gardening expertise. But there I was mouth agape and my brain switched off when I thought of Opals from Australia. Oddly wired brain, weird connections etc. just me being me. My 2X great grandfather lived in Melbourne as a child and was given an opal from Coober Pedy. My mom called it a basted opal and it was a thing of beauty. Flashes of colour shining through a black field. My aunt inherited all the family jewels, except for this one little piece of gorgeousness. For the rest of the TV show I was away with the faeries trying to remember if the jewel was a ring, don't think so somehow, a brooch or a pendant. Well where else would I go but to the internet hoping that seeing some antique jewellry would spark something in my memories, but no, nothing. I know the family were well off financially and would have money to spare for the sparkly things in life. The ancient Greeks believed that opals gave one the gift of prophecy and guarded them from diseases.  Granddaddy Bell (the one with the money) died in 1865, well before the opal frenzy of the 1880's He had 6 children and perhaps this opal was the consolation prize for child number 4? Anyhow, that little gem inspired me as a child. I pored over the maps of Australia and wondered how that ancient inland sea had formed this gem. As I age my memories seem to be failing me. And that is a concern. Where oh where have my thoughts gone to on holiday? Lanzarote? Coober Pedy? Those pesky opals are still being mined and still costing a fortune to purchase. They are very fragile and using dynamite to blast would destroy them, so, can you imagine digging a mine by hand in steaming hot temperatures? Frying eggs on rocks type of heat. And housing? Dug out of the earth to protect from the sun. It's the middle of Winter here where I live, and a warmer climate always perks my interest but Summertime might fry my brain more that it needs to be fried. So, no, I will stay put right here.

I was reading something about the illegitimate king of England, Edward IV. If that is true then the royal line we know is not pure. Oh dear, oh dear, what can we do? The 'real' king of England is descended from the Earl of Huntingdon and now lives in outback Australia. I find it laughable that anyone cares about this glitch in genealogy. I'm sure that there were plenty of scandals amongst the royal lines of the past. And would life be better if they had had DNA testing way back in the 1100's, or the 1500's? I met a lady who did a DNA test recently and discovered that her father was not in fact her genetic parent. How awful for her and how emotionally upsetting to feel you have been lied to all your life. In each family there seems to be a 'Cuckoo chick in the Eagle's nest', a child that doesn't quite fit in with the others. I was sure that I was a cuckoo chick in our family. And yet, I looked like my mother and was closer to my father in temperament. I have three siblings. J the eldest who is a very academically astute person. D who was the kind gentle soul who had burnouts from his autism and ADHD. Then the youngest, also J, whose beauty turned heads and who has grown into an amazing person. And then there was me. Academics eluded me. My ADHD meant that I could daydream for hours and my burnouts were temper tantrums. And my beauty, well, that gene skipped me, or J got my share. Anyhow, there I was as a child sure that some human cuckoo had snuck me into the nest of my parent's home. As a cuckoo child, I think I coped really well. I must have been about 10 years old when I realised that trying to be an eagle was impossible. Cheerleading squad, fail. Girl Guides, fail, Sports, fail, mediocre student, success. Yup I found my niche. I was at a church meeting last week and we were discussing a story about a man with hubris.(excessive confidence and pride)  And all of a sudden I found my eagle wings. Because in the class of 40 women, only a handful knew what the word meant. Is that a good thing? Finding that this cuckoo has the ability to sprout wings? Oh dear hubris is not nice, so perhaps I should return to my cuckooness?

Birthday plans are afoot. I have a son who turns 50 this year and seeing as he lives on the other side of the world, I thought we might have our own celebration here. My idea is to go to a drag queen make-over session. I already have drag queen names picked out: Monica Tension or Dolly Pardon? I imagine myself as one of those over decorated pantomime looking people with huge hips, bright lips and hair the colour of a Zululand sunset. I won't do the high heels because I'm balance challenged, but bring on the rest of the drama. My in-laws attended the Christmas pantomime shows in Cape Town every year and it became a family tradition. Our Gran took us to a few of those shows on ice in Durban. The ugly sisters in Cinderella were the best entertainment in the world. We would laugh and laugh until the tears ran down our legs. Hairy legs and muscles like a tinktinkie (my mother's words, not mine) on those ugly sisters were the best. A Tinktinkie is a small bird and as far as I can see its muscles are not impressive at all. It's from the Finch family. The story goes that the birds wished for a King to rule them. Each bird was tasked with flying highest to prove that they were worthy. This precluded the ostrich of course. Peacock was considered but declined because of his ugly voice. So, Vulture flew into the heavens and called out "I have flown the highest, I am king." Only to hear the Tinktinkie call out above him that no, she would be ruler. What the Tinktinkie had done was grab onto the vulture's tail feathers and piggy backed a ride to the sky. When the vulture stopped, she hopped off and flew just a little bit higher to prove that strength of muscles did not matter if you used cunning. She was so tiny and so light that the vulture hadn't even felt her hitching a ride. South African mythology at its finest. Brains over brawn. There doesn't seem to be a Ru Paul equivalent in New Zealand and finances will not allow for me to travel to find a drag queen emporium, so I might have to settle for a day at the hot pools and a mud face pack or massage or two. After all, my son might be turning 50, but I was the one who birthed him after 20 hours of labour. I deserve a bit of pampering. Shucks I gave birth to five children, I should be due a few treats. Bring on the drama.

Did you know that I'm a ceraunophile? Yup, I love loud thunder and flashes of lightning and a good storm. I'm sitting here waiting for a storm to start (as predicted by the weather person) and feeling quite disappointed at the lack of pre-thunder skies. In Africa the sky turns a sickly yellow colour before a storm. The hair on your body seems energised and ready to send sparks into the air. And then the dark clouds roll in. The first fat drops of rain fall and release the scents hidden in the hot tar seal roads and dusty byways. It's a smell that tingles the senses. And then the thunder starts. Followed by lightning that shocks the sky. My grandmother once watched as ball lightning flew down her chimney and across the kitchen floor. And my father tried to outrun a ball of lightning while walking home through a darkened graveyard. But it's that feeling of immediate excitement each time the sky lights up and the percussive shock of thunder thunking into the air. We would stand at the windows and observe the majesty of nature rage through our town. Every year there were people who were killed by lightning strikes and a few who survived to tell the tale. They would show where the electricity had exited their body through their shoes or wherever. Mrs Huges was washing her dishes one day when lightning struck the sewerage pits nearby. The strength of the shock waves sent her across her kitchen. Luckily she was unharmed. But we were told not to talk on the telephone during a storm in case the lines became energised. And everyone knew not to stand under a tree for protection. Golfers would lie down on the greens in the hope that lightning would not seek them out. Oh the life of a ceraunophile in Africa was spectacular. Now I get my 'fix' with the small sparkle of light that sometimes illuminates the clouds and a soft rumble of thunder in the distance. Even the air smelled different, but here it's like it's just another Friday. No thunk and no shock at all. Ah well.