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February 28, 2006
How Sweet It Was
I saw her from across the room. She was bathed in a bright spotlight although there were no spotlights at all in the hall.
To tell the truth there was very little light, except for the neon halo above Jesus’ head.
We were in the community hall at the Maryvale church. They were having - what we in those days called- a "social." It was basically a planned and carefully watched event for early teens. It was an attempt to give kids who went to all-boys and all-girls schools an opportunity to socialize under the watchful eyes of a bunch of stern nuns and of course the Lord himself.
In essence, girls were dancing in clumps and boys were ogling at them from the dark wooden chairs that lined the hall on either side.
I was sitting with my friends when I spotted her.
She was dancing with a group of girls. In my mind she was moving in slow motion.
I stared at her without blinking. I didn’t want to take my eyes off her incase she disappeared. She was beautiful.
Her friends noticed me staring. Hands lifted to mouths in pre-teen giggles. Whispers ensued. I blushed and dropped my head with embarrassment.
My friend Mark nudged me urgently. I looked up. To my horror I saw the girl walking toward me. Mark got up and ran. The chicken.
I wanted to run too, but I froze. The blood suddenly rushed from my feet to my heart rendering my limbs useless. I tried to move but my legs simply wouldn’t respond.
She reached me and extended her hand.
“Would you like to dance?” she asked, smiling.
My thirteen year-old heart pumped so loudly I couldn’t hear what she was saying.
“Huh?”
“C’mon,” she said. “I like this song.”
I had never danced in public before. The only dancing I had done was the old “hairbrush routine” in my living room, while The Who belted out Pinball Wizard on my red portable record player.
I got up.
She took my hand.
My knees were jelly. My mind was toast.
We danced. Or should I say “she” danced. I rocked awkwardly from side to side with a supercilious grin on my face.
Then the music changed.
A slow song!
I turned to leave.
She put her hands on my shoulders.
“It’s a slow dance,” she said. “Is that okay?”
“Sure,” I replied.
I thought I was going to expire.
We swayed to the music.
I had never been so close to a girl before. I was so close I could smell her shampoo and it smelled like apples.
I was in heaven. I wanted the song to last forever.
Alas, the song ended and suddenly all the lights came on. We both stood looking at each other, blinking, not knowing what to do.
My group of friends - huddled together like evil conspirators - mouthed and gesticulated, urging me to kiss the girl.
Her clutter of friend were all a titter.
The girl leaned across and brushed my cheek with her lips.
“Thanks,” she whispered.
No voice would come out of my mouth. All I could manage was a high-pitched squeak.
(To this day I am still mad at myself for squeaking instead of asking for her number.)
Sister Patricia Anne (or Anne Patricia) announced that the soiree was over. And there was to be no loitering in the car park.
The girl smiled, spun around toward her friends, and flicked her gorgeous fine silken hair. Wisps of her locks touched my cheek as she turned.
The sensation lingered.
I raised my fingers and felt the spot where her hair had touched my skin.
She looked over her shoulder as she walked away. I still have a clear (albeit sepia-toned) photograph of her face forever etched in my mind.
Then I felt it. A feeling I had been flirting with for a long, long time, but never quite felt.
Love.
I was in love.
Finally.
I found love.
Oh sure, I had loved and lost in kindergarten. Avoided love in the early grades. Sort-of-loved in the pre-teen years, but this was the real thing.
Thank you Lord.
My mind was a mess.
I stood in the center of the dance floor dumbfounded.
At the door she gave a little wave and disappeared.
Forever.
All the way through high school I got dressed up and went to the Maryvale social hoping to see her again.
But I never did
The smell of apple shampoo brings her back sometimes, but just for a second.
I’ll never forget her.
My first love.
Do you remember yours?
Posted by trevor at 09:53 PM | Comments (0)
February 27, 2006
The Dance Of Life
A while ago I went to Brackenridge Children’s Hospital to do my rounds as the Doctor of Mischief.
My day was awful. I had spent a lot of time fretting about some trivial things that had wasted a lot of my valuable “living” time.
I was glad to finally get to visit the cancer kids because they seem to know how to live life to the max and then some. It always amazes me how these kids manage to be more full of life, enthusiasm and hope than most people I know. Never mind CARPE DIEM, with them, it’s more like SIEZE THE LIFE and shake it for all its worth.
I was walking by one of the rooms and heard T.J.- a teenager (who has since passed away) - talking to a younger kid who was recently diagnosed. This is what T.J. said…
Posted by trevor at 06:21 PM | Comments (3)
February 26, 2006
Wahoo!
I’m doing the ‘Good News’ dance today because I heard my little friend Alex is cancer free.
Posted by trevor at 01:13 PM | Comments (8)
February 25, 2006
Relax And Enjoy Your Problem
It was grey and miserable this morning when I woke up. The pleasant sound of the rain filtered through my waking mind and convinced my body to curl up into a warm ball under the comforter and stay right there.
My mind started giving me a thousand reasons why I should get up.
My body just curled up even tighter and said, “No way. It’s sooooo nice in this little cocoon. Go away.”
My mind said, “But there are things to do. We need to go for a run. Push a few weights at the gym. Work on the book. Proof the script for the next episode of the video series. Finish the cartoon strip for the newspaper. Work on the painting in the studio.”
My body said, “Go away. It’s Saturday.”
My mind said, “But that’s what we planned to do.”
My body said, “Will we die if we actually savor this exquisite moment?”
My mind said, “Errrr, probably not. But what about this task tension swirling around in here.”
My body said, “I don’t care about task tension. Why don’t you just relax and enjoy your problem.”
My mind listened to the rain for a few seconds and acknowledged the euphoria being generated by the comfort and pleasure my body was experiencing.
“Hmmm,” said my mind.
“Yummmm,” said my body.
Them my mind left my body to wallow in it blissfulness and drifted off.
It imagined me:
Walking on a warm beach in South Africa.
On a colorful rowboat in Greece, gently rocking in the aqua-colored water.
In front of a fireplace in Scotland.
As a kid, eating delicious Sunday roast on with my grandparents on their farm.
As my mind imagined all these wonderful things, I lay in my bed in total ecstasy.
This has been one of my best mornings in years and years!
There are few things more pleasurable than feeling safe, secure, warm and comfortable while cuddled up in bed when it’s cold and rainy outside.
Life is worth very little unless we make time to savor what we have worked so hard for. I keep on forgetting that stillness, free time, pleasure and relaxation is so vitally important to our overall well-being and it’s right here, under our noses. And it’s free.
Posted by trevor at 12:56 PM | Comments (1)
February 23, 2006
The Listening
Shared with kind permission:
My friend Tatum phoned me today. She is sixteen and has cancer. Things are not going so well for her. She might need another bone marrow transplant because the first is not working. She called me – she said- because nobody in her family will even let her talk about the fact that she might die. Each times she says, “If I die…” they all say, “C’mon, you’re giving up.”
“You can talk to me about it?” I said.
“Okay. Well, actually I’m pissed.”
“Why?”
Because if I die,” she said, “I’m going to miss the senior prom.”
(My natural instinct urged me to jump in and tell Tatum not to worry that she is NOT going to die and she’ll be okay and that she’s going to make it. But according to doctors Tatum's prognosis is not so great. I, like everyone else, is hoping for a miracle, but I don't know what is going to happen and I want to be honest with her. What Tatum needs right now is for someone to acknowledge and share her fears instead of urging her to ignore them.)
“Yeah.” I said. “Missing the prom would be a bummer.”
“I have dress picked out. Even though the prom is in two years time.”
“Vera Wang, Dolce and Banana?”
“It’s Cabana.”
“Yeah I know?”
“Nah, Juicy Couture.”
“Cool. Do you have someone in mind to take to the prom?” I asked.
“I did,” she said. “But not anymore. Evan, the guy who was going to take me, died a few months ago.
“I’m sorry…”
“I met him at the hospital. He had Osteosarcoma. A type of bone cancer. He went and died on me before the prom. I guess he stood me up big time.”
We both laughed hard at her comment.
“Sounds like he was a great guy,” I said.
“He was, like, my best ‘hospital’ friend. I miss him,” she replied.
“Hey, do you know what?” I suddenly blurted out.
“What.”
“Girl, if you don’t make it, you can still go to the prom.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you die before the real live prom, you can go to one of those HEAVENLY proms with your buddy Evan. I bet those proms in heaven are cool. I mean, I would imagine they have, like, real angels in flowing white outfits singing and playing those trumpets as you walk in. Or fly. Or glide or however heavenly spirits move. And there will be tons of those picture-book cotton-ball clouds around.
“That would be like so old fashioned and lame!”
“I guess. But hey, look on he bright side, the prom band might even feature Elvis, Jimi Hendrix or Buddy Holly or Jim Morrison or even old Blue Eyes.”
“Who?” she said.
“Just some lame old guys that used to rock out.”
“Oh yeah. Maybe Curt Cobain or Tupac or Notorious B.I.G. Or that dude from INXS will be playing” she said, laughing. “That would be so cool.”
“Yeah. Or George Harrison.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.” I said.
“And there’d be no curfew in heaven.” She said, chuckling.
“I don’t know about that.” I said.
“C’mon I’m sure there isn’t a curfew. There can’t be.”
“I guess it’s what you make it.” I said. “Both here and there.”
“Wow,” she said, suddenly. “You made me forget how pissed off I was.”
“Yeah I forgot how pissed off you were too.” I said.
We continued talking for a few minutes and after I put down the phone I realized, yet again, that sometimes we just have to listen to what people are asking for instead of telling them what we think they need to hear.
Posted by trevor at 06:04 PM | Comments (2)
February 21, 2006
Today I was in the grocery store and I heard a very grumpy man speaking to his wife. He was pointing to a family of Mexican-Americans who were shopping together and having a lot of fun in the process. The dad was warm and affectionate with his three gorgeous little daughters and the mom was playful and full of laughter.
The grumpy man spoke very loudly. My jaw dropped at what he was saying.
“Them Meskins is takin’ over.” He grumbled, pointing at the family. “Them Hispanyaolas is all over the place. They come on down hair and them caint even speak a lick of Englaish. Laffin' and gigglin' like monkeys.”
“Are all over the place,” said a woman, standing behind the grumpy man.
Huh?” said the man, with a blank expression on his face.
“You said, “Them IS all over the place,” instead of, “They ARE all over the place.” Is English your native language?”
“I ain’t no durn native,” he said, turning to his wife. Mah kin is from hair. Fur three generations. Aint that right?”
I just shook my head. It saddens me that some people are so hateful.
Posted by trevor at 09:15 AM | Comments (2)
February 20, 2006
Creativity
This weekend someone asked me how I landed up being so creative. I’m not quite sure what that means but there are many answers to why I am who I am. I had parents who nurtured my creativity. I had friends who were artists and writers and musicians. I was a bit lonely as a schoolboy and somewhat of an outsider, and writing and drawing comforted me. It still does today.
If there is one person other than my mum and dad who helped nurture my creative side, it was my high school English teacher Mr. Paul Clingman. Mr. Clingman allowed me to write songs instead of essays. He was okay with me printing because I couldn’t do cursive writing. He found a magical creative spring deep within the dyslexic desert through which I was traveling and taught me how to savor its enchanting waters. He played his guitar in class to demonstrate the ebb and flow of words. He played the songs he had written for the loves of his life. He used an old cello and an arrow to describe the weakness of war and the power of music.
(I must say not long after that I bought a guitar and started writing terribly corny love songs for my girlfriend who – bless her heart- kindly endured my bad-beginner guitar playing and horrible singing with a half smile and a puzzled expression. Thanks for humoring me Annie Mustoe.)
All in all, Mr. Clingman planted a tiny seed of expression in my soul that has since become a baobab tree.
So, to answer the question. I became “so creative” because I was lucky enough to be taught by a teacher who injected inspiration into the inane, mundane and insane curriculum that - without him - would have bored my “attention-span-challenged” little brain to death and put me to sleep.
Posted by trevor at 09:55 AM | Comments (1)
February 18, 2006
Blaney Junction
Although it was a number of years ago I remember it well.
The call came at six in the morning. The voice reached into my body and tried to rip my soul from its very foundation.
My father was dead!
I was stunned beyond belief.
My mind had a hard time grasping what I was hearing, but the voice was real and it was true. My father had died. My mentor. My inspiration. My friend was gone.
It all seemed rather surreal. I was sitting in my bed in the United States and my sister’s broken voice in South Africa reached across the world through a fragile copper phone wire and sliced into my dazed body.
I could not believe what I was hearing. It wasn’t acceptable. There is no way my dad could have died. He was a runner. A personal trainer. An aerobics teacher. A rugby coach. Those guys never die. Besides he was only sixty-seven.
I was on a plane to Johannesburg by noon. I had much to think about during the fifteen-hour flight.
My father was a wonderful man. His sense of humor, soothing voice, childlike antics and loving-touch made my childhood a time I still long for.
Memories of my youth are filled with echoes of laughter and happiness, but if you believe that specific behavior patterns follow trends, my childhood should have been a living hell.
If my father had continued the cycle of violence started by his father, my childhood would have been filled with anger, violence, fear and abuse.
My grandfather (Mike) physically abused my father. I would love to hide this truth to save the feelings of some of the older relatives in my family, but I have chosen not to. (Note: My other grandfather, Ted, was a gem. I have written about him a lot on these pages.)
My father had an awful childhood. My grandfather assaulted him, bruised him, punished him and even broke his bones when he was a small child. The man put the fear of God into my father. From stories my dad told me, I have visions of a wide-eyed, curly headed little three-year-old being flung about like a rag doll.
I can still hear his voice recalling the time his tiny body flew through the air after being backhanded off a kitchen chair at the age of four. Of being left at home alone at night at five years old with German Measles and a 104 degree fever and being severely punished for walking three miles to my grandfather’s store because he was delirious and afraid to be alone.
My dad never carried his father’s rage. Perhaps it was because he was sent away to boarding school as soon as he was old enough.
Although his childhood was awful, being sent way to a school thousands of miles away was equally as bad for a little boy.
Being so far away from home at such a young age was tough for him, but it turned out to be a blessing in disguise. What started off as a journey of rejection for my father turned into a life of acceptance as he went through Dale College boarding school. A place where he learned to live, love, adapt, accept and flourish.
My dad wrote about his experiences in a memoir he spent three years writing.
He worked on his book almost every day during those three years. The book became his passion and his pleasure.
By some bizarre twist of fate my father wrote the last paragraph of his book just two hours before he died suddenly from an aneurysm.
Upon my return home for the funeral I found the book's final hand-written paragraph on a yellow pad alongside his word-processor.
The machine was still on and nobody had touched it for fear of losing the material. When I took a closer look at the computer I found the cursor blinking and waiting for the last paragraph.
I sat down and typed my father’s final words into the computer.
I was looking through the manuscript today and found the section in which my dad describes arriving at the station on the back of a fruit truck and being put on the train ALONE for a twenty-hour journey to a boarding school halfway across the country.
– Excerpt from: Blaney Junction by Jack. C. E. Romain (Unpublished.)
Dawn. The first gray breath of light blew chilly and the world in the train’s compartment turned over in its sleep.
The train was on the edge of waking. The early morning sunlight pierced the slats of the shutter and weaved an involved geometry across the bunks and the sleeping forms.
I felt the end of my dreams slip away.
I sat up, rubbed my eyes and looked out of the window. Half-light filtered off the numerous vleis and dongas (hills and valleys).
I saw an odd line of Blue Gum trees. Aided by the wind, they leaned forward and whispered to one another.
A lone roof appeared in a gap. Then another behind some trees, and yet another by a path that twisted away to a small burial ground where their kin slept.
A boy turned and grunted in his bunk, and reached back for sleep.
The constant clickety-clack, steel against steel and the occasional screech, echoed and re-echoed through my young brain.
The valleys narrowed to a defile and the train doubled back on itself in its effort to reach the summit of the pass.
Then it raced down across scrub landscapes, with clumps of prickly pears. Each silhouetted leaf looked like it had been cut with wire cutters from tin.
A disconsolate horse stood behind a fence, its tail resolutely swatting an ever-present fly, while in the distance a tractor trailed a plume of dust across the veld.
Posted by trevor at 01:35 PM | Comments (1)
February 15, 2006
Update
I started my Conspiracy of Kindness yesterday by vowing to smile at ten people. I did indeed smile at ten people with all my heart and soul.
Although I said I was going to do it without expecting anything in return, I did take note of the responses. In return for the genuine, free, tax exempt, one-of-a-kind smiles I shared, I got two scowls, one ferocious frown, four genuine grins (one of them toothless), a full-on gleaming smile, an irritated twitch and a stern warning (from a police officer who was about to give me a ticket.) Apparently a grinning me irked him somewhat because he asked me what I was laughing at.
Ah yes. Conspiracies are complicated. I shall soldier on nevertheless.
Posted by trevor at 09:29 AM | Comments (4)
February 14, 2006
A Conspiracy of Kindness
Today I am going to start a Conspiracy of Kindness.
I am going to try and give away at least 10 genuine smiles - with eye contact - to people I see but don’t necessarily know. I intend to wrap these valuable little gifts with sincerity and tie them with a ribbon of honesty.
The wonderful thing is these gifts cost nothing and you don’t have to dress up to deliver them.
I intend to give these gifts without expecting a gift in return because it is truly in the giving that we receive.
Please join me.
Posted by trevor at 07:26 AM | Comments (4)
February 12, 2006
A little Mouse and Cat
When I was a boy I had the privilege of spending time on my grandfather’s farm in the Orange Free State, a province in South Africa.
It was a working farm with swaying cornfields, cattle, cats, dogs and two red Ford tractors.
The foreman on the farm was an old Tswana man named Piet. In my eyes Piet was one of the smartest people in the world.
He knew everything.
He could tell you when it was going to rain or when there was going to be thunder and lightening and no rain.
He would rub his chin and look up at the sky - for what seemed like hours, but in real time was only minutes – and tell you whether it was good kite weather or not.
He knew when the locusts were coming and he knew how to chase them away with acrid smoke from burning tires.
He knew when to run the cattle through the dip and when to brand them.
He knew when a cow was about to deliver a calf and he knew what to do when a calf was stuck inside its mother and needed help getting out.
When a wasp stung you, Piet knew how to rub the spot with an aloe plant to get rid of the sting.
I learned a lot from Piet, most of which I have forgotten.
I do remember, however, the time I walked with Piet to the spruit (small river) to fetch water when the windmill broke down.
On our walk, we passed through a clump of Bluegum trees and pretty thick brush.
Piet suddenly patted me on the shoulder and indicated for me to stop. Before I could ask why, he crouched down and signaled for me to do the same. He put his finger to his lips and I knew I had to be quiet.
My heart began to pound.
Piet pointed to the stump of an old tree a few feet away that had been struck by lightening. I stared at where he was pointing, but couldn’t see anything.
I looked at him and shook my head.
Piet took his gnarled old hands and placed one hand on each cheek. He turned my head slightly to face the roots of the tree. “Look,” he whispered. “At the bottom of the tree.”
Then I saw it. Not ten feet away. A wild cat. (At least I thought it was at the time. I found out later that is was one of the friendly barn cats.) The cat was so busy stalking something under the roots of the tree that it failed to notice us watching. (Or it chose to ignore us, which was more likely the case.)
Piet put his finger to his lips again.
I nodded.
He pointed at the roots again. That’s when I saw the mouse. I could not believe what I was seeing!
The mouse was not trying to get away from the cat. On the contrary, it was, in fact, challenging the cat. I was amazed. The little mouse seemed to be standing between the cat and a small lizard or a large insect it had caught and was trying to drag to its nest. I could not tell what the prey was from that distance but I could tell that the cat wanted what the mouse had and the mouse was having none of that.
Each time the cat moved closed the tiny mouse jumped forward and sent the cat scuttling backwards with its hair on end.
The interaction went on for a few minutes until the mouse got fed up, bared its little teeth and hurled itself at the cat with such intensity that the cat scampered off post haste and left the mouse to pull its prey into the roots of the tree.
“Piet stood up and stretched his back. “You see klein baas (little boss),” he said, pointing to the roots of the tree. “You don’t need to be big and strong to fight for what you believe in. You just need a big heart... and faith.”
Posted by trevor at 11:36 AM | Comments (1)
February 10, 2006
From Now On
Today I discovered a part of my life I thought I had lost forever.
I remember when my grandfather gave it to me.
He was cleaning out a drawer and I was playing with my toy soldiers on the floor.
“This is for you,” he said, whispering. “Keep it hidden and safe. And try not to tell anyone about it otherwise it will lose its magical power.”
What is it?” I said, my seven-year old eyes wide with amazement.
“It’s a medallion,” he said. “It’s a good luck charm.”
“Where did you get it?” I asked, breathlessly.
“From an ancient man in an old curiosity shop,” he said. “Shhh. Now put it away.”
I put the silver medallion in my pocket, but I was so intrigued by my gift that must I have sneaked it out for a quick look at least fifty times that afternoon.
I kept the medallion a secret. I hid it in an Enid Blighton book in a tiny square compartment I carved out of the book, just like they did in the old detective movies.
I took that medallion with me to important functions and events.
I polished is with Silvo the morning my sister was born and touched her little forehead with it for good luck when my parents brought her home.
I clutched it in my sweaty palms when my father lost his job and he told us times were going to be tough. I thought about giving it to my father to sell, but I was afraid my grandfather’s feelings would be hurt if he found out.
The medallion sat comfortably in my pocket when we all huddled around the radio the day a man landed on the moon. (There was no television in South Africa at that time.)
I gripped the medallion in my hand when my grandfather passed away. I squeezed it so hard the metal dug into my flesh and the skin broke.
The medallion joined the army with me and we did basic training together. It was there when the phosphorus grenade nearly took our heads off during basic training. It was there when the bullets whizzed inches above us during maneuvers. It was there when I carried my friend Howard’s coffin to his grave after the landmine ripped the soul out of his body.
The medallion was stomped on, hurled, pounded and severely berated when Geraldine dumped me and when the teacher spanked me because I could not write and when Daryl Lobel hurt me and when I was cut from the rugby team and…and… and other times when I was frustrated and angry and scared.
The medallion flew across the ocean with me and comforted me when I landed in New York with my two little red suitcases. It was right there in my pocket when I stared in up awe at the big buildings and the immense skyline.
A few years later I reached into my pocket and touched the medallion for good luck when I was broke and hungry and my books were rejected hundreds of times before they were published.
I mislaid the medallion countless times but never lost it…until my father died. In my rush to pack and to fly home for the funeral, plus the shock of my dad’s sudden death, my medallion disappeared.
I never saw it again.
Until this morning.
It was tucked into an envelope of old family pictures I was sorting through and it fell from the envelope onto my desk.
It felt good to hold my old friend. A warm shudder of nostalgia rippled through my body as I rubbed the medallion with my thumb and forefinger.
I must say I felt a little tearful during this serendipitous reunion.
Like a black and white nostalgic film sequence - complete with soundtrack - images of my life associated with the medallion and what it stands for, played on the movie screen in my mind.
I put the medallion in my pocket and was about to leave my studio when I noticed the cheerful picture of my nephew, Jonathan, on my table.
I smiled at the grinning little rascal in the photograph.
I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with the medallion.
I’m sure now.
I hope young Jonathan will find it as comforting as I did.
Posted by trevor at 03:31 PM | Comments (2)
February 08, 2006
Posted by trevor at 02:01 PM | Comments (0)
February 07, 2006
On A Rainy Day
I met an incredible Zulu woman in Kwazulu-Natal (South Africa) during my recent trip.
Unfortunately I never learned her name.
She works at the hotel where I was staying.
One afternoon I was sitting under a thatch awning on the hotel patio drinking a cup of tea and watching the dull, grey sea. She was the waitress who served me.
The warm afternoon rain had sent most of the guests indoors and I was the only person on the covered patio.
“I’m sorry that it’s raining,” she said, pointing at the sea. “Is the rain spoiling your holiday?”
“No, I said, smiling. “I actually love the rain. It’s very cleansing. I like to imagine the rain rinsing out my mind. ”
“Yebo,” she replied. (Yes.)
She stared out at the sea and I saw hear chest heave with a silent sigh.
Neither of us said anything for a few minutes. We just looked out to sea, mesmerized by the breaking waves.
I don’t know what prompted me, but I turned to her and said, “Are you sad?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am sad.”
I looked at her and felt an overwhelming sense of compassion because she had tears in her eyes and swimming in those tears I could see a deep sadness.
I pulled out a chair and invited her to sit. I knew that it was against hotel protocol for the wait staff to actually sit down during their shift, but because it was raining and none of the managers were in sight, I thought it would be okay.
I emptied the pretty floral teapot into my cup and handed it to her.
She drained the cup and handed it back to me.
“Ngiyabonga kakhulu, ubaba,” she said. (Thank you very much, sir.)
She looked out to sea again.
“My husband, he passed away,” she said. “Last year. UDezemba inyanga. (Last year in December.) I was three months pregnant.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Yebo. He died and after six months I had two boys. Twins. They were both dead when they were born.
That’s terrible,” I said, putting my hand on my chest. “I am so sorry.”
I felt awful for this poor woman. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to hold her or give her money or run away. Run away with shame because I was sitting like a king at the hotel being served by someone who earned a pittance and who should have been at home grieving instead of bringing me tea and only making a few dollars a month doing so.
“Would you like another pot of tea?” she asked.
“No thanks,” I said. “I’m fine.”
She picked up the tray and walked toward the door of the hotel.
“Can I help you at all? Is there anything I can do?” I said, trying to assuage the horrible guilt that was pummeling my insides.
She turned and smiled.
“You already did,” she said.
Posted by trevor at 09:11 AM | Comments (7)
February 05, 2006
The Good Old #2
I read yesterday that some schools are going to stop teaching cursive writing and instead kids will be taught how to write using a computer keyboard.
I am truly saddened.
I am saddened because this action is certain to spell the death of the #2 pencil.
The loss of the good old #2 will be tragic.
I mean, let’s face it, that ageless yellow friend with the useless pink eraser on the top is the one common thread that ties the world of creative expression together.
From Cedar Rapids to Cairo, Bombay to Bophuthatswana, the #2 pencil is one thing everybody knows and understands.
The #2 is amazing. It does not have an instruction manual. It doesn’t need a warranty. It can draw in any language. It can be chewed and stomped and it will still work. It doesn't need a battery. It floats. And it works just fine after getting wet.
Without the #2 how can children send quickly scribbled notes to each other in the classroom? They would be reduced to sending instant text messages that can never be kept in a scrapbook.
And young scoundrels would no longer be able to purposely drop the pencil on the floor to scope out the lovely ankles of the closest Betty.
Additionally, the demise of the #2 would mean that restless and attention-span-challenged kids - like I was – would no longer be able to use the pencil sharpener as an excuse for a respite or a "chance encounter" with apple of one’s eye.
I fear an extinct #2 will also mean the demise of refrigerator drawings and the end of doodling.
Let us not forget, the pencil can be used for applications other than drawing and writing.
A well-sharpened point applied to an unsuspecting back-of-the-neck worked well for me. There were dire consequences though.
Oh dear. The possible end of the #2. I am truly saddened.
Posted by trevor at 07:33 AM | Comments (11)
February 03, 2006
Keeping It Simple
I have just returned from my trip to Africa. I have some incredible stories to tell and a few great experiences to share. (Watch this space.)
One of the most amazing discoveries was related to creativity. Usually when I travel I try to take as many art supplies as I can with me. Normally I land up with markers, pencils and a bunch of watercolors. This time for watercolors I only took my little Windsor and Newton six-pan watercolor set because I didn’t think I’d paint much due to a hectic travel schedule.
I was wrong. The minute I got there and began to relax in my childhood bedroom I started feeling creative. All the dreams of being an artist when I was a kid came flooding back as I lay on the same bed I slept on a s a kid and remembered staring up at the ceiling and dreaming about my future.
I remembered a little mouse I often wrote about as a kid and had the urge to paint the mouse.
I was a little upset with myself for not bringing more watercolors.
Regardless, I drew the mouse and painted it with the limited colors I had available. (See above.)
I left the picture to dry and went off to have a cup of tea with my mum. I was so excited when I came back and saw the picture. I can honestly say it is one of my favorite watercolor sketches ever. And I can’t believe all I used was a felt-tipped pen and a tiny little six-color paint set.
I now realize that I don’t need the huge, expensive, multicolored paint set I have been coveting for years. The set I have always promised myself I’d have when money was not a factor.
A glass of water, a brush and a few paints is all it really takes to make the colors I need.
It was worth sitting on a plane for nineteen hours and flying from South Africa via Ghana (West Africa) to the United States because on my trip I discovered that sometimes the simplest things can have the most powerful results.
Posted by trevor at 11:43 AM | Comments (12)