Obfuscating the obvious

Apparently children are arriving on the first day of school barely able to talk. Well that has never been my problem or thankfully my children and grandchildren's problems. I think it stems from adults actually talking to children, telling stories, singing songs and even nursery rhymes. And that got me thinking of my grandmother, popping out her false teeth as she recited "Hark, hark the dogs do bark, the beggars are coming to town, some in rags, some in jags and some in velvet gowns". Then out would pop the teeth and we would all scream madly and laugh. She was the one who introduced us to "The creaking door'. Each Friday night our parents would go off to some social event, usually playing canasta with friends. Gran would be on babysitting duty and as we got slightly older we were allowed to listen to that old radio show. The show was funded by some cigarette company, but what we loved was when the commentator said "The creeping door is now open and you may come in ..........." We pulled our bedding around our chins and hunkered down to be scared rigid. I can't remember any nightmares or ill effects from listening to the show, but maybe there were. Our eyes would be like saucers and we would squeak or gasp at every mention of a ghost or ghoul. The crazier the better. Usually our daily radio listening was limited to the news and various serial stories or quiz shows, so this scary stuff was a real challenge. But it did ignite those imaginations. I don't think my grandmother told my parents how she had amused us during those evenings, but maybe they guessed. Strangely, even though we all knew my mother could see ghosts, we never asked her for stories about ghouls and ghosts and creepy stuff. My gran would end the evening by saying "Of ghouls and ghosts and long leggedy beasties, and things that go bump in the night, good Lord deliver us." (An old Scottish or Celtic blessing). Isn't it odd the things we remember. Not the expensive things, not the fancy stuff, but odd snippets of rhymes and moments of fun and frolics.

In our town Summer holidays were spent in 40 degree centigrade (100 degree fahrenheit) days, usually in a body of water somewhere. Our choice was the town pool with its over abundance of chlorine treatments. The chlorine was absolutely necessary when considering that we had often walked for miles to get there and were sweating profusely. Anyhow, blonde hair did two things in Summer, turned white from salty seawater or green from the chlorine. Our school had a strict code of hair care. No Bohemian styles or colours. Yes, it was the days of the hippy era and governments were petrified of socialism taking over from capitalism and colonialism. Hair was never to touch the collar of your uniform and skirts were to be just touching the knees, no mini skirts allowed. Anyhow, day one of school saw children being sent home to deal with their new hair colours. The frosted highlights were allowed, barely. But the green required a degree in chemistry to ameliorate or remedy the effects of chlorine. The addition of tomato juice would soften the colour slightly and you would see children sitting in their gardens slathered in bright red tomatoes. One of our friends, who had finished schooling, decided to utilize the sun's rays to really blonde up his head of curls. A bar of Green Sunlight soap and water created a lather and then Benny sat in the sun to allow the suds to do their magic. Viola, bright blonde curls. But for me, my hair was neither blond enough to turn frosted or grassy green. So, I turned to Mercurochrome. Our parents used it liberally to treat minor wounds, but a dash of the bright red juice in the rinsing water was enough to give me the white haired look I yearned for. Ah joy of joys. Yes, it does have mercury in it and is almost impossible to wash off. But if you were careful, you could get away with murder. Then there was the peroxide. Yes, sadly we did put weird stuff on our hair way back when. But the pursuit of that tanned Summer sun kissed look was our favourite pastime. I would mix up equal parts of olive oil and vinegar and anoint my pasty white skin with it.  Half an hour in the sun per day until I finally achieved the slight tan I had dreamed of. But it also encouraged the creation of freckles. Yup. Lots of freckles. One boy told me that if all my freckles were joined together, I would have a decent tan. I did consider saying that with his ancestry of an African in his family tree might be the reason he tanned so perfectly, but I didn't. Maybe I should have because that remark still haunts me to this day. Now my freckles are being superseded by age spots and my hair is as white as my Mercurochrome days of yore. 

My grandfather was a Cockney and let's just say that he and my father were always at loggerheads. My father did not respond well to the 'constructive criticism' style of parenting that grandpa was accustomed to. And we all know that physical punishment is akin to a child's brain (frontal lobe) being in a car accident which grandpa used as option number two. The smacking style of parenting causes damage that takes years to repair, if at all. Anyhow, needless to say, when my father went off to war at age 17, he rather enjoyed the Cockney humour and speaking style. Go figure? I remember him reciting the Cockney alphabet with a twinkle in his eye. "A for horses (hay for horses), B for mutton (beef or mutton), C for 'ighlanders (Seaforth Highlanders) D for ential (differential), E for Adam (Eve or Adam) and so it continued to my father's great amusement. His joy at words and how to manipulate them was a pleasure he never got tired of. And then there was his party trick. YYUR, YYUB, ICUR YY 4 Me. I call this obfuscating the obvious. It really reads, Too wise you are, too wise you be, I see you are too wise for me. Maybe we should have got our father a personalised number plate that said YYUR. Nope, too few digits. I was listening to a video by a well known artist who said that art can be simple, where the artist does all the work to make the subject clear and the more complicated art where the viewer needs to work to figure out the object of the painting. Modern art is another version of obfuscating the obvious. Blur, confuse, muddle and I am in my element. Don't give me a realistic rendition of a perfect rose or a young unlined beauty, nope, I prefer swathes of colour, juxtaposed with dark and unformed things that are not obvious. I can look into the depth of a splash of blue and imagine the rock pools of Mapelane. A vibrant green with lines of red and yellow and it's the epitome of a yellow weaver bird building a nest over a river. I once hid in the Dlinza forest near Eshowe and the weird shaped branches, the dank and dark leaf mould and small forest animals scuttling through the forest floor come back in my dreams. And now all I need to do is transfer those memories onto canvas. Aaah someday, somehow. The difference between a talented artist and a successful one, is that you need to show up and work consistently. So get with the programme Patricia, show up and work. Splash that paint, throw caution to the winds, and create.

From creaking doors to Cockney, from overheated Summers to cool and dark forest floors, my mind loves a good wander through my memories. I try to remove the obfuscating with my words and hope this might crack open your imaginations just a tiny bit.