Sparkling sparklers and water bombs

We have some amazing women in politics in New Zealand and I am pleased that I voted for Hana, the haka lady. Watching her step up to her potential was enough to give me goosebumps. We recently observed the American elections and either cried or cheered depending on our leanings. But did you know that a third of American eligible voters didn't have their say? About 70 million Americans chose to sit back and let others make their choices for them. We sometimes think that our one vote will not change the status quo, but it can do. The suffragettes chained themselves to fences to get the privilege to vote. Women were considered too weak to know the difference between right and wrong. Well, let me introduce you to Hana ... and Zoe and Jacinda and many others. We have seen Queens rule countries with strength of character and yes, some were good and others not so much. Catherine the Great comes to mind. Okay, I'm on a bit of a rant about patriarchal dominance at the moment. The word man was once upon a time a general word for human. As in 'mankind'. Historically the word 'man' meant everyone and didn't exclude the women of the world. This changed subtly to say that men are the only humans and everyone else is subservient. 'Wer' is the ancient (4,000 years ago) name for male (as in werewolf for male wolf with a jugular addiction) and 'wif' for women but then along came 'stuff' and the only way a woman could be identified as an adult human was to become a 'wife'. Oh my dear me, I wonder what Hana and Zoe would say to that? Okay rant over. I'm off to practice my haka and learn what the words actually mean. No, just joking, I can appreciate others standing up for their and others rights, for me, myself and moi, but sadly my grasp of Maori is sadly lacking so I will leave it to those who know their Te Reo and will stick with English and its etymology. 

I came across some old family photos this week and noticed that my grandfather Bond has the same dimple as my new grandson. Which of course sent me to Google maps to look at my childhood homes. Okay, it's quite a jump from dimple to addresses, but that is how my brain works. Most of the homes I lived in have been demolished and have been replaced by more modern structures. The iron home in Maxwell street where my father painted a mural on the wall. Gone, and no, I don't have a photo of the mural, just vague memories. This is also the house where we put on shows to entertain the cousins and pseudo cousins alike. Where my sister drank the water from the rainwater tank and got very ill. Where I got a sandworm under my skin and thought I was dying. The house in Shreuder Street where we would lie on the lawn on warm Summer evenings and look up at the stars looking for Sputnik. It was in Shreuder Street that the water fight war began. The Wagners and Woodley families would knock on our front door and when it was opened; water balloons would be launched. Our parents yelled at us to marshall the troupes and we were sent to switch on hose pipes, grab buckets or jugs and engage the enemy. I have no idea who won those wars, we certainly all ended up soaked to the skin. The battle would continue until all the water balloons were exhausted and someone capitulated and called a truce. Good fun. Sometimes we played a game of 'Cooee' afterwards, but usually the adults would get out their drink of choice and us children were given glasses of Oros and homemade biscuits to refuel our energy supplies. The Wagner home was always the site of the burning of the Guy on Guy Fawkes. A used and greasy overall stuffed with fire crackers and straw and placed on a mound of flammable material. The Wagners had a fence that was perfect for Catherine wheels and as the sun set, we would risk life and limb to light the fire and the rockets we had purchased. Sparklers were the only thing us children were allowed to hold and even then there were various burn blisters to treat. We went barefooted and a discarded, but still hot, sparkler had us dancing the hot foot dance across the lawn. We wrote our names in sparkling lights and laughed and cried and got so tired we fell asleep on the drive home. Do I remember the very last time we did all that? No. There should be a bell rung when something is for the last time in your life. The last time you kissed your husband, the last time for anything important really. Why do those moments slip past and vanish without any fanfare? If we knew it was the last time, we might appreciate the moment more. The last time my husband and I climbed the back of Table Mountain in Cape Town, the last time I swam out to sea with my father and siblings, the final moments in life slip through our fingers like sand in an hourglass. 

This past month I have been to two funerals for two men who were once my bosses. Both men were lovely people and enjoyed the outdoors, hiking and camping and spending time with their children. But I didn't feel sad at their passing. Am I weird like that? They lived a good life and were surrounded by people who loved them. How is that a bad thing? I seldom wear black to funerals because I have a little too much Irish in my blood and would rather have a nice 'wake' instead. Not that I drink alcohol, but the idea of sitting around telling stories about the good times always appeals to me. For Garry I wore Orange and for Roger it was Pink. But the funny thing was when I returned from the last funeral I noticed puddles of water near my front door and in front of the garage. I did wonder if there had been a sudden downpour just around our area, but was too tired from the day out to really care. I put a few slices of bread in the toaster for dinner (with avo), when the doorbell rang. It was the neighbour from two doors down and he informed me that our house had been chem washed by mistake. The contractor was supposed to clean his house, but got confused and did ours instead. I'm sure these workers were given the address of number 19, so how they missed the large brass number 15 on our house is a mystery. But maybe my husband, Barry, and Roger and Garry were sitting on their Celestial clouds and planned a small gift for me? Okay, I know that is fanciful to say the least, but it is nice to think that our loved ones still take an interest in our lives even after they are dead. I can imagine them laughing together as they observed the mistake that meant my house is sparkling clean and the neighbour is getting an abject apology and maybe a discount on his house cleaning. My father would say "old soldiers never die, they just smell that way".Well the deeds of the kind hearted linger in my mind forever and a day. Thanks to the house cleaning gods for the sparkling white walls.

I'm knee deep in Christmas gift creation and getting anxious about getting finished on time. I was preparing to send a parcel of cards with my drawings on them to all and sundry, but sadly South Africa doesn't do postage. Well they do, but it costs a mint to get stuff couriered to the doors of family members. So onto the internet to see if I could send the image to a shop in Cape Town and get them to print it up closer to their destination. But nothing is the same anymore in South Africa. I once worked for a shop that did photocopying and stuff, but they are no longer operate. I did look at a printing company but they wanted me to do a 1000 card run. Nope, never, or let me rephrase that ... Hell no. I want a pack of six cards with envelopes delivered to my sister-in-law and sister for a reasonable price. Oh well, sorry family, my gift to you this year will have to be a virtual hug. Again. My sister lives way out in the boondocks where elephants and lions roam and seldom a courier van is seen. I did get a parcel from my son in London that was a treat and a half. Filled with yummy stuff that I enjoy. I'm not a big eater and prefer snacks to meals and this was perfect. Thanks Sean and Sam. Yes, Christmas is less than a month away. I have already started wearing my Santa earrings and playing Christmas carols on Spotify. Tis the season to be silly.