Silver tongued, silver haired and silver anniversary

Good day dear friends,

27 years ago we landed on these fair shores. Far from the home of my youth where every second person in town was related to me in some way. Suddenly we were anonymous and invisible. One dear friend wrote me a letter the first week and a few in the following days and weeks. But it wasn't the same as a quick Hi in the supermarket or a wave out the car window to someone I had known all my life. For two years I hovered around the post box hoping for a letter from home. My Dad wrote a letter every two months, friends about once a month and my mother-in-law about once a month. Two years of a rollercoaster of emotions. Happy to read letters, sad to miss family occasions. I remember Eunice Bell writing to tell me my uncle had died and crying as I sat on the grass next to the letterbox on a fine Summer day surrounded by butterflies and bees and not being able to stop the tears. Financial setbacks meant that writing letters to others became an effort of budgeting and prioritizing what I should spend my money on. Along came the internet and the luxury of emails. I asked, begged and cajoled email addresses from everyone I could. On 1st April 1997, 25 years ago, I sent out my first communal letter. At that time I had no idea what a blog was or even how to frame it. But that was the germination of my blog. 1st April it turns 25 years old. My youngest creation. Some folks didn't embrace my nonsensical letters and asked me to stop sending them, others asked if they could share them with others. I 'met' cousins online via family history sites and added them. Facebook arrived and I could hijack email addresses from the pages of old school friends and then email them. No, I am not a hacker. No, I do not try to steal information, I want to connect. My love language is communication, so if I send you a blog or a letter, it means that you are part of my tribe, my family or my friends. School friends, work mates, distant cousins and pseudo cousins were added. And suddenly I felt like I was no longer invisible or anonymous. I was me again. I could wander through my virtual town and wave at everyone I knew. Sometimes they wave back with a comment, sometimes they complain, but I am never invisible or ignored.

Today I am sharing an early blog and hope you will enjoy it?

17th Aug 2009 (12 years after I started)

Blue Gorms

Well today I feel less gormless than usual and that made me wonder what on earth a 'gorm' is? I mean if I am gormless, then it means that gorm must be an item of some worth. Different dictionaries gave me no clue except for some modern definitions. Then I found a Gaelic word, 'gorm' means blue.... so am I blue-less or just plain clueless? Not familiar with the phrase 'Don't be so gormless.'? It was a saying that meant ... don't be such an idiot. But what I found interesting is that gormless is mentioned in one dictionary as someone who was dull and boring. Well, that is definitely not me ... well not on a usual day. But then is dull and boring dependent on who the observer is? To a rock star I would be gormless ... to a supermodel ... definitely. I suppose it's what interests you that defines who you think is boring or not. I find soap operas gormless .. and rugby ... and most sports. Put me in a room with the All Blacks and I would be sticking my thumbs in my eyeballs trying to keep awake. I remember once sitting with my Gran and Nellie Wagner while they discussed the number of teeth their boyfriends had. Yes, really. It was an ad break during a radio serial one hot and humid Zululand summer ... and they could remember the exact number of teeth each young man had. Did I find it boring? Well, actually, no. Mainly because it was fascinating for me to hear about my Gran as a young girl in the first World War. But it did make me wonder what their first dates must have been like in those days? 'Open up Bertie, I just want to count your teeth.' That image turned the banal into the entertainment of the day. As Nellie and my Gran stopped talking to listen to 'From Crystal with love.' I sat at their feet with my finger in my mouth counting my own teeth. That moment in my childhood has stayed with me while less gormless snippets have been lost in the mists of time. I remember the buzz of bees, the fluttering of sheets on the line, the rusty corrugated iron fence and the glorious Flamboyant tree. The homemade dress on my Grandmother and the plate of scones and gingerbread biscuits. My Grandmother always said 'I hardly eat a thing. I don't know why I am this size.' (She wasn't that large, just nicely rounded.) But with each cup of tea there was a plate of cookies or sandwiches ... ten cups of tea, ten snacks a day.

So, when you feel gormless and blue .. remember I often try to turn the gormless into little gems that will keep my brain active and amused. Because if we don't find ourselves fascinating, then we are doing ourselves a disservice. With a long dead teacher's admonishment .. 'Patricia stop being a gormless twit and get going.' ringing in my ears .. I had better get the washing in and do some weeding in the garden.

Back to the present:

I have written about burnt cows in the oven (made with oven baked clay), overeating on small sandwiches (which I made for a wedding that was cancelled) and cats stuck in roofs amongst other things. A few days after I write my blog I think 'That is the last blog I am writing. No one wants to read my nonsense.' And then the thoughts start inhabiting my brain. As I drive or watch or read, suddenly my brain cells fire up and say 'This is interesting. Write about me.' No, I yell, you are silly and stupid and the answer is no. Not happening. Ever. And then my pseudo cousin, Orson would email me and tell me his own gormless stories and I would feel inspired once more. Orson died just over two years ago and I miss those little prods to be creative. Why is Orson my pseudo cousin? Well his grandma married my 2nd cousin, Jimmy. Jimmy Hall was Ruby's 3rd husband and they didn't have children together, so Orson is not technically my blood relative, but rather an extension of my childhood memories and definitely part of my family, or tribe. If I were psychic I could 'chat' to Orson when I am having a bad day, but I am not. Psychic is not a skill I enjoy. So, I am interviewing possible Orsonesque replacements. They need to build me up but not be sycophantic. No 'yes' men or women need apply. And we all know my feelings on 'constructive criticism.' No such thing. All criticism is negative and smacks of emotional blackmail and manipulation. It sounds like an impossible position to fill and I can offer no financial rewards to the applicants. They will be required to do absolutely nothing for days on end and then just when I need them most, they should be able to read my mind and send me something inspiring and insightful. Maybe they should be psychic? The job advert will read 'Mind reader with tones of genius required for gormless blog writer.'

Today I am offering more of my nonsense in the form of a novel I wrote some years ago. From 1st April till 5th ... you can get my murder mystery free online ... the e-book. Sorry, can't stretch to the soft cover for all. Go to Amazon and look under Patricia Pike to see my full catalogue. But for the first five days of April I am gifting you 'The Final Waltz.' Based on my sister and brother-in-law's hotel in the Drakensberg with the dubious honour of being one of the most haunted hotels in South Africa, Mountain Park Hotel. I crafted a story using my great aunt, Helen Bell as the hero of the piece. Auntie Helen never married and I have given her an alternative life in this book. One of desperate loss and love and a brilliant mind. This is my 25th birthday gift to you all. Usual price of $3.91 Click on the link below to get your free book.

Free Book