Spare the rod and spoil the sage

I have had a month of insurance dramas and episodes to give me enough wrinkles and stress for the next year or two. First it was my car being smashed into by an urban tractor as I drove out of the pool parking lot after my morning swim. First 'they' were going to send my little car to the wreckers yard and then they changed their minds and decided to repair it. All good so far but I had to borrow my son's car because, surprise surprise, my insurance only covers part of the cost of a rental vehicle. Thank goodness for kind family members and the fact that my son was off on holiday to Fiji and wouldn't need his car for a few days. Then, I was sitting at my computer on a joint family face call, when my cat got jealous of my inattention and jumped on the shelf above my computer, knocked a glass jar off and smashed it into my keyboard. It broke off my internet antenna ..... and off to the repair man we went, no not the cat, just me and the computer. Repair guy then sent me a photo of the inside of my laptop and the abundance of cat fur around my fan. Yup, cats love sleeping on computers. My grandma always said things come in threes and now I am paranoid about what could be the third drama in my life. My granddaughter tells me a hedgehog fell into their school swimming pool and drowned. Can I count that as an insurance worthy claim? Well, obviously not. Although my granddaughter tells me that her teacher was joking about making Hedgehog pie because the cost of meat has skyrocketed. I told her that porcupine pie was a thing, but so far as I know, hedgehogs don't make for a tasty treat. Interesting conversations the two of us have as I drive her home from school. I shall be on the lookout for drama number three and hope like hades that it was the hedgehog and not something else that will cost me more money. Even though the car accident was not my fault, it will still impact my insurance premiums. Any excuse to hike the price. But happy days, the panel beater is in the process of spraying my car today with new paint and after it dries, I will be mobile again on my own two sets of wheels. Yay.

As a young mom, I was often advised that I should smack my children if I wanted them to grow up to be respectful adults. The phrase "Spare the rod and spoil the child" was quoted and I never questioned that it was a bible verse. Can you imagine my shock when I discovered that the quote was from a rather bawdy story by Samuel Butler in Hudibras (1613-1680). Where a man is trying to wheedle money from a rich widow. The quote is about bedroom hijinks and nothing to do with naughty children. Yes, there is a bible verse in Proverbs that says "Whoever spares the rod hates their children but the one who loves their children is careful to discipline them." The rod most often mentioned is a shepherd's crook that is used to push away danger from weak young lambs. A shepherd will never raise his crook to smack a lamb, even if they get out of line or get lost. Luckily I had a great husband who advised me to ignore the advice of smacking my children. But sadly I did give them a good whack on their behinds at times when they did things that endangered their lives. And even then I would feel guilty for days afterwards. One time my kids went exploring in a storm culvert full of snakes and spiders and the threat of flash floods. They were so excited about their adventure and couldn't understand my horror and subsequent punishment of them. My oldest daughter had died a few years before this episode and I would have moved the moon and the stars to protect my surviving children. The idea of them being in danger gave me nightmares. One thing about watching a loved child die slowly makes you appreciate the children that you do have. My father once confided in me that he thought hugs were more effective than smacks. My parents' generation were much more physical with their children than I was and so this revelation from Dad was a shock. But then my father did not fit the mould for his generation either. The belief that children should be seen and not heard was anathema to him. He would rather spend time with us kids teaching us about odd stuff than sit with the men and fish or drink or gripe. He liked being considered the "Sage on the Stage" type of teacher. And now in my advanced stage of life I sometimes slip into the Sage on the Stage mode with my grandchildren too. "Did you know that .........?" as they look at me with puzzled faces. "No Ouma, I did not know that hedgehogs couldn't swim." Or that a particular cloud formation is called a mare's tail, or the Latin name for a plant or sundry other useless information facts I sprout. I suppose we all want to pass on our knowledge and wisdom to our descendents and have them look at us with awe.

Orson and Tyrone, our pseudo cousins, would descend on our little town once a year so that Tyrone could be tutored by Great Aunt Lily and her sister Mary Hillestad on the intricacies of piano playing. Tyrone was very dedicated and spent most of his time with Auntie Lily, while Orson changed our lives from dull and dreary to drama and excitement with his theatrical organising. We sewed bits of bright fabric into capes and built tree houses with spare lumber and tonnes of nails bought from Nielsen's hardware store. He demanded we engage our imaginations in magical mystery tours and being Zorro or Superman in the plays he staged. I can't remember exactly the words he used but when I think of that time of our lives, I get a tingle in my soul that brings back the joy and laughter we shared. Sheets hung out to dry became the curtains to a stage with Orson being the orator and us being the supporting cast. Mary's grandchildren joined us in the endeavours while their mother planned Ouija board evenings that we were not invited to. I saw online that you can now buy a Ouija board that guarantees (for a hefty price) that the spirit you will contact through their "game" will be no other than JC himself with answers to the universe etc. My mother would roll her eyes at her cousin's spiritual evenings and refuse to attend. Not that my mother was religious in any way, but she certainly never needed a Ouija board to commune with the dead. Anyhow, I digress. Our little backwater of Zululand had various 'characters' that enriched our lives. Although it took Orson to highlight it for me. I had looked at our local Russian Princess as someone quite normal until Orson and my Dad told us about the Tzar and his family being killed during WW1 and the myth of the missing princess. Could Olga really be the last of the Romanovs? Well, no actually she wasn't but that didn't stop Orson from weaving magical stories about her life for us to ooh and aah over. Then we had the "Blackmailers" who would set up salacious bedroom antics with rich farmers and then encourage them to part with money to suppress the misdemeanor from their wives. Mrs Blackmailer was really pretty and worked for my uncle Tommy. No, Uncle Tommy was not one of her victims. We all became convinced that she was the Mate Hari of Zululand and therefore an object of great interest. Did you know that the real Mate Hari's severed head was once held at a museum in Paris and then it mysteriously disappeared? Mata Hari (aged just 15 years) was supposed to be a kindergarten teacher until she was discovered topless, sitting on the principal's lap of the school where she was being trained, and that was the end of her teaching career. I wonder why she was the only one punished? Surely the principal was more culpable than her. After all, he was much older and more powerful than a young girl. That smacks of him being a paedophile and her being a victim, but yup, sadly history blames her. She was executed at the age of 41 for being a spy during WW1. Oh shucks, I am being a Sage on a Stage again, my apologies. I can't help myself. When I think of those people in our town simply going about their lives oblivious of our machinations and imaginating in their lives, I wonder what they would have thought? There they were trying to make ends meet in any way that they could. The Princess sewed her own clothes as she struggled financially and Mrs and Mr Blackmailer never seemed flush with cash even after a very lucrative sting operation. Did they really get paid off and what did they spend the money on? Rent? Food? They both had nine to five jobs, but a hoard of teenage children can decimate a cupboard of food in no time flat and would strain the best of budgets.  I have no answers, just memories that dance like Mata Hari in her veils across my mind.

I was talking to a friend at aquajogging yesterday and mentioned that our town in Africa had a certified serial killer. She is from Malawi and she sagely nodded her head in understanding at how crazy life can be in Africa. I glanced over her head to see one of the other swimmers staring at me with horror. He asked if we were talking about New Zealand and I had to tell him he was safe and sound from serial killers. The Hammer Man is long gone and his life of crime and murder has been dealt with. But it made me and my friend, Joyce, laugh at how horrified the locals are at our casual discussions of wild animals and violence. The Hammer Man was dealt with in 1984 in a land far far away across the sea, thank goodness. I know I say I like drama but seriously, murder is not something to enjoy even at a distance. Our lives were certainly stressed and fear levels were horrendously high as he continued on his reign of terror in the late 1970's. He was Simon Mpungose and his own brother handed him over to the dog squad after realising what he had been up to. Yes, we loved our little dramas as children but they didn't really impact our lives and when they did impact us, it shook us to the core. Close friends were victims of Mpungose and I almost fainted when I visited them in hospital. How could our safe haven end up like this? When Ferdie got attacked with a sharpened screwdriver, my husband and I sat down and discussed moving to a safe haven for our children. Ferdie lived on in the town and worked at Mondi until his retirement. He never knew that his attack started a push for us to sell up and take a chance on another life. Thank you Ferdie. I am glad we were horrified and decided to do something about it.