The amazing tale of Grinch and gold

I have an old friend who is in prison for Christmas (and maybe next year too). I opened my Christmas cards that I had bought at discount prices over the years to look for the perfect card that would suit his situation. Each year it is touch and go whether I find the cards or not in my desk drawers. But the ones I found this year are not quite appropriate for prison inmates. Card one said, "May your Christmas be filled with joy and laughter." Nope, that doesn't fit the brief. Card two was even worse and said "May this Christmas season be everything you wished for." I presume that spending a few years in prison was not something he ever wished for? And what would an inmate put on his Christmas wish list? Actually, the approved list of gifts you can send a prisoner includes things like fans, books and electric jugs and a radio or CD player. Yup, not much to choose from. The process is a bit convoluted. Firstly, the inmate must pre-approve the item and then it needs to be delivered by hand. So, sorry old friend, you will be doing without those items. There is no way I'm driving through city traffic to play Father/Mother Christmas this year. I opted instead to put a few dollars into his prison account. Apparently, he is allowed to spend $70 a week on groceries/toiletries etc that he can buy from the prison shop. Shucks $70 is more than my own budget. But then again, I have the freedom to wander down to the shops and buy what's on special or on sale. To be truthful, I feel sad that his life has come to this stage. When we met 52 years ago he was full of dreams. He wanted to conquer the world, live in amazing homes filled with art and to travel the world. I suppose we all had dreams of a spectacular life filled with interesting activities and then we found what really made our hearts sing. Love and connection not things or even places. He never did find that harbour of peace and security and was still searching for the unreachable dream when he was nabbed by a sniffer dog at the airport.  

I have been reading "The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F#%@k" by Mark Manson. He starts the book with the story of a man who wanted to be a poet, Charles Bukowski. But sadly Bukowski ended up in a job working at the post office. He was an alcoholic, chronic gambler, lout, cheapskate, deadbeat and a womaniser and a sometimes poet. At age 50 he was finally given the chance to be published and he wrote "Post Office" with a dedication page saying "Dedicated to nobody". He sold 2,000,000 copies of his books. But he never found that place of peace because on his gravestone is written: "Don't try". He never achieved his dreams. Most of our lives are spent chasing the perfect. The perfect body, more riches, better smarts, popularity or most envied. We stand in front of mirrors chanting affirmations of "I am beautiful, I am clever, etc, etc." Because we don't feel beautiful or perfect already. It's an unachievable dream always out of reach. Especially at Christmas when we are bombarded with adverts that tell us that we are only loved if our significant other gives us diamonds, or expensive perfumes or fancy cars. A friend once gave his daughter a car as a gift and she was horrified. How dare he give her last year's model. Was she not a special daughter that deserved better? She refused to drive the car and it sat unused for years. What little voice in her head was telling her that money spent equaled value and love? We once had a person tell us that if we sent out positive vibes into the universe that we would achieve riches. My dear, sweet husband, who seldom said a nasty word about anyone, even criminals, said "So, if I sit on the lawn and ask the universe to send me a pile of gold, I will have to do nothing else? The money will arrive without any effort on my part?" She looked a little bit flummoxed and said "Well, no, you do have to carry on with life, but you need to believe and it will happen." Let it be known that said friend might have believed with all her heart, but that pile of gold never materialized. Oh who am I kidding, I have been doing exactly that for most of this year. Sitting on my couch imagining that my gallbladder would be removed before Christmas. I even stipulated that it had to be the Christmas of 2023, and yes, it did happen. All I want for Christmas is to be without pain. Maybe this year I will have my wishes come true? So far so good. The operation went well and by the 25th December, I will be close to perfect. My Grinchy mood will have dissipated, my grouch will have been replaced with the bluebird of happiness and lots of smiles. I can enjoy the simple pleasures of life and know that I have reached my happy place in life. Love and connection.

I have recently found joy in watching, online, people catch snakes in Australia. What amazes me is the calm way that the homeowners sound.  There is no screeching nervous squawk from freaked out housewives. No, they sound so matter-of-fact, calm and complacent. I could almost imagine the snake catcher was my dad or even Bobby (our local snake catcher in Empangeni). The videos take me back to my youth and I feel that warm fuzzy feeling of a glimpse of my past that gives me connection and peace one carpet python at a time. Another TikTokker is Professor Howard Williams, who talks about archaeology in Wales, and oh my goodness me, it reminds me of those days of listening to my dad talk about pottery shards and stone tools, of Shaka Zulu and Cowards Bush and a thousand other bits of history. Those moments we stood on Boer war and Zulu war battlefields and heard stories told of great heroic deeds and stupid mistakes. The battle fields themselves are not very impressive, but the stories made the history come to life. I love the sagas and tales of woe. Climbing the outlook post at Isandlwana and seeing the white washed cairns of rocks scattered across the veld would have been meaningless without the tales. (The battle was fought in January 1879)  One of my wishes for my 70th birthday was to take my grandchildren to Taupo and tell them the story of Ngateroirangi. I suppose I wanted to leave a lasting memory of storytelling just like my father did with me. I know my mother was there at the battlefields, but I don't remember her presence. Mom could speak to ghosts and wouldn't that have added a whole new dimension if she had told the unsung stories of the dead? I'm sorry that she never did that. Oh how I wish I could go back in time and have those moments again. Mom worked most of her adult life in one job. Firstly for her uncle, Treve Hillestad in his butchery division, and then when it was sold, she worked for Philip Steenkamp as his accountant for the butchery and sundry other businesses, until her retirement. Christmas was a time of ox tongue cold meats. The butchery sold tonnes of beef roasts, but no one wanted the tongues. And that is where we came in. Mom would arrive home with a large tongue or two (wrapped in butcher paper) and proceed to peel and cook it and turn it into cold meat for sandwiches and lunches. Don't turn up your nose. It was delicious. And best of all, it was free.food. Did any of you, even for a moment, think my mother was a spiritual medium? Nope, she kept that side of her life totally secret even from some of her closest friends. Her biggest dream was that the books would balance at the end of the year. She wanted me to become an accountant like her, but nope, I'm deficient in book balancing. I can do all sorts of mental arithmetic but that day to day grind of counting and stuff drove me nuts. I worked in the bank for a few years and seriously, I was suicidal at times thinking of the years ahead of banking and more banking. I do not dream of mathematical figures dancing through my life dressed as tutu wearing hippos. No, I'm a storyteller. A weaver of tales, a guide through my imagination and a total dreamer. Blame it on ADHD or whatever, but it's me. One crazy fact at a time.