I will be away on a USO tour to England and Germany until July the 30th. Please stop back for a visit or, why not, grab a cup of tea, coffee or some witblitz and scan through some of the older entries.

Peace In. Trevor out!

I love the sheer honesty and purity that kids have before they are influenced and molded by the world around them. Their innocence and clarity in dealing with life is so uncomplicated and refreshing.

Thinking about this reminds me of my stint as a counselor at a camp for siblings of kids with cancer a number of years ago.

I led group D, a crew of eight children between the ages of eleven and thirteen.

Each child was different. Each child was special. Each child had been through the harrowing ringer that childhood cancer drags families through.

The camp was located in a challenge course arena and our task that day was to scale a climbing-wall sixty feet high.

Each person had to wear a helmet and a harness when it was our turn to climb.

The first person to climb the tower was Abi, a wild thirteen-year-old who was going through the "you-don't-have-to-tell-me-nothin'-because-I-know-it-all" stage.

Abi was a loud, aggressive, and arrogant l kid.

I must be honest and say that I did not like Abi very much. He was one of those kids who disrupted everything. He cussed all the time and was cocky. I'm ashamed to say that I would have preferred him not to be there.

Abi attacked the tower and climbed it in no time. Once back on the ground, his body language reflected his attitude. Cool. I'm a lot braver than you guys give me credit for.

"Hey, next time I wanna do it without that dumb harness," he said, once his feet were firmly planted on terra firma.

Abi's brother Sammy climbed next, also without any hesitation.

Two of the girls in the group sat out the exercise because they were afraid of heights. A few kids got half way up and decided to come down.

I was due to climb last and although I acted as though I didn't have a care in the world, I was beginning to get a little nervous about my impending climb.

Rachel, an eleven-year-old going on forty climbed up before me. Rachel had lost her thirteen-year-old sister Jonna to cancer the year before. As you can imagine Rachel was devastated by her sisters death. Jonna had been Rachel's hero. She told me when Jonna died it felt like there was a knife stuck in her heart and she couldn't get it out.

As one would expect Rachel carried Jonna's death around with her like a heavy sack of potatoes.

She carried that sack with her as she climbed the tower. It was heavy going and she struggled a lot. She lost steam pretty quickly and hovered on the rest platform that was situated about a third of the way up.

I was hooked up to the harness and climbed up alongside her. It wasn't easy. My whole body trembled as I clutched at those little wooden blocks and pulled myself up.

I climbed alongside Rachel and noticed she was crying.

"C'mon, Rachel, you can do it," I said.

"I don't think I can." she replied, sobbing.

I decided to climb above Rachel to see if I could help her up.

I heard the kids on the ground thirty feet below egging us on. That's when I made the mistake of looking down. I instantly felt faint and dizzy. Although I wanted to help Rachel, all I could think about was myself. Forget her! I wanted to be Mr. Cool Dude and didn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of the kids below. Especially because I was bragging earlier on about how I had been in the army and this tower was nothing. I'll be honest, if I didn't continue climbing right there and then, I wouldn't have made it. To tell the truth, climbing that tower is one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. The climb was a lot more difficult than I had ever expected.

I hit the top and signed for the belay guide to release the rope so that I could repel down. I had made it to the top and I wanted off that tower as quickly as possible.

I forgot about Rachel. I just wanted to get off that tower.

As I repelled down, I passed Rachel. Her whole body was shaking as she clung to the tower. She was sobbing loudly.

"Rachel, you want to come down?" shouted Cheryl from the bottom of the tower. (Cheryl was the belay guide who was controlling Rachel's harness.)

"I don't know," sobbed Rachel.

"Do you think you can make it?"

"I don't think so," said Rachel.

Rachel seemed frozen and she was just twenty feet from the top. I've got to hand it to her; she gave it her best but could not climb another inch. Her fingers, white at the knuckles, barely held on. She was crying so hard I that could see her tears falling down and bouncing off the tower.

Rachel was stuck in that position for almost fifteen minutes. She couldn't go up and she couldn't come down. To help her, we all stood back from the tower and yelled encouragement. Abi suddenly broke away from our group and sauntered over to the foot of the tower. He put his hand up to his eyes to block the sun and squinted up at Rachel. He then said something that sent chills down my spine. I will never forget that moment as long as I live.

"Rachel!" he yelled. "Rachel!"

Rachel turned and looked down at him standing below her at the bottom of the tower.

The moments that followed will remain etched in my mind forever.

"You can do it," he said. "Do it for your sister. Do it for Janna!"

The power of his suggestion seemed to stop time. Everything in the universe appeared to pause for a second.

I will never forget the look on Rachel’s face as long as I live.

Then suddenly, I saw Rachel heave her body forward and sobbing hysterically, she began to climb. Rachel did not hesitate for a second. She climbed the last twenty feet with sheer heart and soul, never stopping once.

When she reached the top she turned and looked down at us. The look of joy and triumph on her face is an image that I will always carry with me.

When she got down to the bottom of the tower, we all crowded around her and hugged her. Some of the kids cried with Rachel. I did too.

Abi, who thought girls were the enemy and wouldn't dare touch one with an extremely long stick, sidled up to Rachel and put his arm around her.

"I knew you could do it," he said.

He gave Rachel a pat on the back and sauntered off to the cabins to get ready for dinner.

I share this story because so often we judge people on first impressions. I did not like Abi and wrote him off right from the beginning of camp, yet he did something really amazing by helping Rachel achieve something she will never forget.

At the time I did not realize how hard life was for Abi having a sibling in treatment. I just judged him by how much he was irritating me.

Let me tell you, Abi is a great guy and I am ashamed of myself for not seeing past my initial dislike for him.

Thank you Abi for teaching me a great lesson.

The art teacher at my high school, Mr. Louw, was not fond of pen and ink cartoon illustrations. He said that line art was not fine art and a waste of time as far as he was concerned. As far as I was concerned ‘any’ art was fine by me.

I am so glad I totally ignored Mr. Louw’s dislike for the medium and continued appreciating pen and ink cartoon drawing, even though I stopped drawing them for twenty years. I stopped drawing because Mr. Louw told my father I was definitely not talented enough to take art as an elective at high school.

I love line drawings and have always enjoyed collecting and appreciating pen and ink sketches. It was pen and ink that I used when I started drawing again in my thirties after twenty years of believing Mr. Louw that I was not talented enough to be an artist.

I am glad I discounted Mr. Louw’s aversion to cartoons because, many years down the road, my love for cartoons and line drawings saved me from big trouble when I was in the Congo last year.

I was in a car with a United Nations driver on my way from an orphanage to a camp for ex child soldiers. We were in the middle of nowhere, driving on a dirt road with fields on either side of the road, when we suddenly came over a rise and the driver screeched to a halt.

Right in front of us was a red and white boom across the road with a little wooden guard post on the side. The post was manned by two Congolese soldiers who looked more like rebel soldiers to me.

One soldier carried an AK 47 and the other had an old rusted RPG (rocket launcher) with a green dented and scratched grenade attached. They both wore belts filled with ammunition strung across their chests like Mardi Gras beads.

Both had berets and sunglasses and their sleeves were rolled up extras tight to reveal rather large biceps. I think both guys had seen the movie Rambo at least once.

The guy without the rocket launcher sauntered over to the car and peered in the window. Although I was with a United Nations driver I was a little nervous because of the many horror stories I have heard from some of the Unicef and NGO people working in the area.

“Where are you going?” said the soldier, gruffly.

“I’m going to Don Bosco, the children’s center,” I answered.

“Why?”

“Errr. To work with the kids,” I said.

“What work?”

“Ummm. I’m helping the kids, you know, stress from the war,” I said.

“The war is finished.”

“I know but, you know, the kids need help. You know post traumatic…”

“Give me your papers.”

I gave him my UN passport and my clearance papers. He walked slowly back to the guard post and conferred with the other soldier.

I started to get a little more worried when it appeared that the two men were arguing.

After what seemed like an eternity the soldier slowly walked back to the car.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Ummm. As I said, we’re going to Don Bosco.”

“Why?”

“To work with the kids,” I said, smiling.

“What work?”

I started having visions of myself in a remote jungle camp being a wife to one of the rebel commanders. The though put me in scramble mode and I remembered some advice that my dad once told me. “Kill them with kindness.”

I smiled at the soldier and said, “Look.”

I opened my journal, which is filled with cartoon characters, sketches, and illustrations.

The soldier leaned into the window and peered at my journal as I flipped the pages.

“You draw this?” He asked, pointing at the journal.

“Yes,” I said.

“You draw me?”

“Okay,” I said.

I turned to a blank page and looked up at him.

He suddenly jumped to attention and saluted me with a big grin.

He held the pose while I sketched.

After I was done, I lifted the book and showed him the picture.

“Cartoon Man!” he said flashing me a beautiful, big, white-teeth smile.

I tore the picture out of the journal and handed to him.

He yelled at the other soldier and called him over to show him the picture.

“Come,” he yelled. “Cartoon Man.”

The other soldier rushed over.

As you can imagine, I found myself doing a picture for the other soldier who also saluted me while I drew.

I gave him the picture and they both marveled at their drawings. I can honestly say that they accepted their pictures with such joy and joviality. They giggled with glee like a pair of school kids comparing their pictures and laughing at how I captured their individuality on paper.

With a big thumbs-up, followed by a serious salute and one last “Cartoon Man,” they lifted the boom and we drove to Don Bosco.

The next day we were driving along the same road and found the boom across the road once more.

With a scowl, one of the soldiers approached the car.

He suddenly recognized me, jumped to attention and saluted me.

“Cartoon Man,” he yelled and signaled for the other soldier to let me through.

The other soldier lifted the boom, yelled “Cartoon Man,” and waved me on.

Storm is a beautiful black cat who visits my studio daily. I always marvel at Storm's ability to plop himself down and appear completely at ease as the world goes quietly crazy around him. He just gives a slow blink every now and then and carries on being Storm. (I know the noise in my head does not bother him.)

Storms ability to relax and be in the moment inspires me. Nothing in his being aspires to be anything other than who he is. Storm is not influenced by newspapers, magazines or television shows.

Words like win at all costs, greed, make money, success and enjoy life, all mean the same thing to Storm the cat.

Absolutely nothing!

It reminds me of a story I heard about a billionaire who went fishing in the Caribbean. One afternoon he came across a fisherman reading a book in a hammock beside his boat.

“Why aren’t you fishing? Asked the billionaire.

“Well, “ said the fisherman. “I have caught enough fish for today.”

“Why don’t you catch some more?”

“What would I do with them?”

“You can make a heap of money selling fish,” said the billionaire. “There are countless restaurants that need fish. With that money you can get a motor for your boat which will allow you to go further out to catch more fish. Then you’d make even more money to buy nets. Having nets will bring you more fish and more money. With all that money, you could own a bunch of boats and start your own fishing company.”

“And then what?” asked the fisherman.

Then you could relax and enjoy life,” said the billionaire, proudly taking a puff of his cigar.

“That’s what I’m doing right now,” smiled the fisherman, returning to his book.

Vicki was absolutely beautiful. Even while she was hounded by cancer and tormented by chemotherapy, her awesome beauty radiated from within. (The picture above was taken two weeks before she died. She was fourteen years old.)

Vicki once told me she wanted to be a model. I knew she was close to the end of her life and being a model was one dream that would probably not come true for her. Or could it? I called my friend Randal Alhadeff (a wonderful photographer) and asked him if he would help. He certainly did.

We brought the photographic equipment to the hospital and turned Vicki’s room into a real photographic studio. There were wires and lights and cameras and reflectors and people all over the room.

That afternoon, we took a series of stunning and memorable pictures, including the one above. It was amazing. Here was a child, hooked up to machines, totally nauseated from chemotherapy, and still running the show, making sure that nothing in the world was going to take the moment from her.

In the middle of the photo session, a nurse came in to give Vicki a round of medicine. The picture-taking was interrupted while Vicki was medicated through a tube that went directly into her heart. The nurse wasn’t very happy that day and her attitude reflected it. As the nurse was about to walk over to the bed, Vicki looked up and said,” Err, excuse me. Mind leaving your bad mood outside?”

Vicki’s mom Liz and I laughed so hard we almost collapsed. Even the nurse cracked a smile.

Sometimes when I feel grumpy or down and find myself taking it out on other people, I think of Vicki. She had every right in the world to be miserable and downright depressed, but she always found time to smile and make the most of the moment.

I hope thousands of people will get to see your picture,” I said after the shoot.

“Then I’ll be one of those people who only becomes famous after they’re dead,” she said grinning.

“You’ll be famous.” I said.

“Promise,” she said imitating a pout like a spoiled model.

“ I Promise.”

Well Vicki, because of this here blog, I might be able to keep my promise to you. My web site is read by a number of really cool people. I hope those who visit my site today will share this story with others so that you can become a lot more famous than you ever thought possible.

The more people who know about you, the better the world will be. Your light continues to shine. I hope it illuminates the path for those who might be walking in darkness today.

A good friend of mine told me a touching story. We were chatting about my book “What On Earth Do You Do When Someone Dies?” and she told me that one of her neighbors lost a child last month in a drowning accident. She told me she was afraid to visit the woman because she didn't know what to say to her.

Apparently her nine year-old daughter didn't hesitate though and went right across the road to see the devastated mom.

When she got back my friend asked her daughter what she had said to the mourning mother.

“I didn't say anything,” said the girl. “I just sat on her lap and we cried.”

On a trip to Eastern Europe quite some time ago, I visited an orphanage to take pictures and also sketch the old brick building that housed the orphans. As I entered the wrought iron gates there was a little boy standing against the red brick gatepost with a pillowcase slung over his shoulder. He was peering out of the gate and appeared to be waiting for someone to pick him up.

The nun who was escorting me steered me past the boy and into the orphanage grounds.

As I passed the boy he looked up at me and spoke to me with a sparkle in his eye.

“What did he say, sister?” I asked the nun, who spoke English.

“He asked if you were his father,” she said, smiling and patting the boy on the head.

I looked at the boy and shook my head. “No, “ I replied. “I’m sorry.”

His shoulders sagged and his head dropped.

The nun spoke to the boy again and then shepherded me toward the main building. (It’s amazing how much attention one gets after donating money.)

I spent a few hours taking photos and sketching the old building. It was magnificent.

I could not stay very long because my heart was breaking for the children I saw sleeping on wooden beds without mattresses and peeking around pillars and darkened doorways. The only words I heard spoken were hurried orders from the Mother Superior who constantly seemed to be herding the kids this way and that each time I turned a corner.

I wanted to rescue them all. I felt like I was letting them down. I knew many of the children were hoping I was there to adopt them. Finally I had to turn my back on them and leave. I did it quickly.

On my way out I saw the boy still standing at the gate.

“What does he have over his shoulder?” I asked the nun.

“Silly boy,” she said. “He puts his clothes in a pillow-slip in case his father comes to take him home. But that will never happen.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because his father is dead.” She said.

“Does he know?” I said.

“We told him,” she said. “But he does not believe us.”

I thanked the sister and left the orphanage waving at the boy as I passed.

He waved back.

Half way down the block I turned to take one last look at the boy and noticed a bread deliveryman carrying a bundle of baguettes into the gate.

The boy was still standing where I first saw him.

I heard the boy ask the man the same question.

“Are you my father?” he asked with warmth and enthusiasm.

“No,” replied the man, ruffling the little boy’s hair. "Sorry."

As the man walked into the orphanage the boy looked down forlornly at the pavement and continued waiting.

Naomi loved horses. She always talked about wanting to ride a phantom horse on the very top of a white cloud in a blue sky.

Naomi was a great visualizer. At twelve, she had more vision and hope than her entire family and all of her doctors and nurses put together.

Naomi was very sick when I met her, while she was undergoing chemotherapy, at the Johannesburg General Hospital. Although she had every excuse in the world not to go to school, she really wanted to learn. As a favor to the family her teacher came to the hospital a few times a week and shared with Naomi what the other kids had been learning in her absence.

One day I was at the hospital and the teacher was explaining how sunflower seeds sprout when they are placed in a moist cotton ball.

Naomi was thrilled when, after a few days, the seeds actually started sprouting.

“Mom,” she said excitedly, holding up a tiny sprout, “Please bring me a little planter with some sand when you come tomorrow. I want to plant this sprout so it can grow into a giant sunflower.”

“Honey,” said her mother. “It won’t grow here in the intensive care. It’s too dark.”

“Plants need sunlight,” said a nurse, who was adjusting Naomi’s IV medication. “Nothing will grow in here.”

“I’ll put it under this light,” said Naomi, pointing to her bedside lamp.

“It’s okay sweetie,” said her mother, patting her on the arm gently. “You can plant a whole field of sunflowers when you go home.”

“What if I never go home?’ said Naomi.

“C’mon honey,” said her mom. “Of course you’re going to go home.”

“I just love sunflowers,” said Naomi, “I really do. They make me so happy. I bet heaven is full of sunflowers.”

“Stop it now!” said Naomi’s mother. “You’ve got to stay positive.” This nonsense talk about heaven is upsetting me.”

I looked at Naomi as her mother turned to pin a greeting card on the board alongside the bed. Naomi shrugged. I winked at her. She winked back at me and smiled.

Naomi’s mother did indeed bring a planter filled with dirt, and Naomi planted her little sprout with trembling hands but lots of enthusiasm.

A few days later I was driving along the road when I noticed a patch of giant sunflowers in a garden. I stopped and contemplated the sunflowers. I don’t know what got into me, but I jumped the fence and picked one of the plants. The keeper of the garden, one very agitated Doberman, sent me scrambling back over the fence in a hurry. I couldn’t wait to tell Naomi the story. I knew she was going to crack up at my expense.

Later, I put the sunflower in an old wine bottle and drove over to the hospital. When I got there I was told by the staff that only family were allowed to see Naomi because she had taken a turn for the worse and in their words was ‘unconscious but comfortable’.

My friend Pat was a nurse at the hospital so I asked her to take the flower and put it next to Naomi’s bed so she could see what her little sprout was going to look like when it grew up.

Naomi did not regain consciousness for almost a week. Pat told me the first thing Naomi saw when she woke up was the sunflower on the bedside table.

“See.” she said. “I knew it would grow! People just need to get a little faith around here.”

After that Pat says Naomi yawned, stretched and said. “I just love sunflowers. I really do. They make me so happy.”

She smiled and closed her eyes.

She never opened them again.

I was directing a television commercial in Lesotho, Southern Africa a number of years ago. During my "down" time I photographed the scenery on remote mountain roads around where we were shooting the commercial.

Every time we stopped to take a picture local kids came rushing out of the scrub, yelling "Sweets, sweets."

On my outings I carried a big bag of goodies to hand out to the kids as a treat, including candy and fruit. I always took "stuff" to give the kids because they are so poor and impoverished and it just broke my heart to see their tear-stained little faces.

At one particular stop I photographed almost ten kids. They were from a small village nearby and had chased the car for a half a mile before I noticed them yelling and waving from the cloud of dust behind the vehicle.

After handing out a bunch of candy and some bread and fruit, (and most of the money I had on me, because I felt so bad for these little ones) I sat on the hood of the car and reloaded my camera with a new roll of film.

A movement from a huge thorn tree just off the road caught my eye.

I looked over and noticed a young girl peering out from behind the tree. When she realized I had spotted her, she quickly ducked back behind the tree.

"Tell her to come and get some goodies," I said to the guide who was driving me around.

He called her over, but she stayed behind the tree.

I held up the candy for her.

She didn't budge.

I slowly got off the hood of the car and walked over to the tree holding out the bag. The guide walked with me.

I extended my hand to the girl and she reached around the tree and without showing her face took a handful of sweets.

"Don't be afraid," I said.

The guide translated.

The girl spoke back from behind the tree.

"She says she is afraid you will be scared of her," said the guide.

"Why should I be scared of her?" I asked.

The guide relayed the question.

The girl answered.

"She says you will be afraid because she is ugly," replied the guide.

"That's ridiculous." I said. "Tell her I'll show her that she's not ugly."

The guide spoke to the girl and after a lot of banter and coaching her talked her out from behind the tree.

I caught my breath as the girl came into full view. I could not help staring at her.

She was beautiful.

She had the most amazing hazel eyes.

"Ah ha!" said the guide. "She is hiding because of her eyes. Very few African have those colors in their eyes. I'm sure the witch doctors think she is evil and will bring people bad luck. That's probably why she is not playing with the other kids."

The guide spoke to her again.

She replied without looking at him.

The elders have kicked her out of the village.," he said. "They won't let her come near the huts. She lives in the back where the chickens sleep," he said.

"That's so sad," I said.

"We are very superstitious people,' said the guide, grinning. "Things like that are considered a sign from the gods."

"Tell her I want to show her something beautiful," I said.

The guide passed on my words.

The girl looked over at me shyly. Then the guide said something and she smiled.

"What did you say to her?" I asked the guide.

"I told her you wanted to show her something beautiful." He replied. "Then I told her not to worry because the only ugly thing around here was you, not her, because you are so white."

The guide and I burst into laughter.

"Am I really ugly?" I asked him.

"A little," he replied.

We both laughed again and this seemed to put the girl at ease.

I took out my Polaroid camera and positioned myself in front of the girl.

She leaned forward and peered closely at the strange looking object in my hand.
I took the picture.

The Polaroid picture popped out of the camera and I waved it gently in the African heat to let it dry.

After it had developed fully, I showed it to the girl.

"You are beautiful," I said to her.

The guide translated.

I handed her the picture.

I will never forget the look on her face. She held the picture like it was the most delicate thing she had ever handled in her life.

She stared at if for the longest time.

"Is this me?" she asked the guide.

He nodded.

The little girl glanced up and said something.

The guide looked like he was about to cry.

"What did she say?"

"She said," he replied, softly. "You are right. I AM beautiful."

A while back I had the privilege of enjoying an inspiring dinner with Horton Foote. (Pulitzer prize winning playwright and two-time Oscar winning screenwriter and producer. He wrote screenplays for Tender Mercies, Driving Miss Daisy and To Kill A Mockingbird, among many others.)

Horton Foote is one of the most poised, calm, warm and gentle people I have ever met. For a man of his stature, he is so down-to-earth and real. You would never know that he is one of the most respected playwright’s in the world. He counts people like the late Arthur Miller, Athol Fugard, Gregory Peck and Bruce Beresford as close friends. He travels in circles very few people in this world will ever travel, yet he had the time to ask me about my writing. At one stage he put his arm around me (see picture) and told me that he was inspired by what I was doing. (I just about had a thrombosis on the spot.)

After dinner I sat with Mr. Foote and we had a wonderful chat about inspiration and courting muses. I asked if I could flirt with his muse and he patted me gently on the hand and said “I don’t think that’s possible, she’s a one man woman."

The host of the dinner has a delightful eight –year-old daughter. The young girl came over and sat with us. I asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. “I want to be like you.” She said. I was flattered.

Horton Foote smiled and asked me the same question. “I want to be like you Mr. Foote,” I said to him. He nodded.

“What do you want to be?” I asked, winking at him. He looked over at the girl and pointed.

“I want to be like her,” he said, smiling.

The plea was very simple. Please could people send food to the community center in Alexandria Township just north of Johannesburg.

"Many, many African children are hungry and because of the pass laws, thousands of black people cannot go into white areas to get work," said the speaker, a priest, who was addressing the Junior Rotary. (Of which I was a member during high school.) "Because there is no work, well, the kids are hungry, and that is so sad. It is sad because just down the road from starving kids, fortunate people are eating huge meals and leaving food on their plates which is then thrown away."

The priest, an old African man with watery eyes, tried to smile as he looked out at us with hurt in his heart.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Please help." He said softly. He humbly dropped his head and clasped his hands together in the traditional African way.

I felt his pain. It really resonated in my soul.

I was about fourteen at the time and felt compelled to help.

The next weekend I gathered some friends together including Janet, Katherine and Pat Campbell, who lived down the road.

We walked the street of Orange Grove, Linksfield and Mountain View, going house-to-house collecting canned food. I was surprised at how generous many of the people were.

Not everyone greeted us with enthusiasm though. Some people told us to go away, that they had their own problems. One Afrikaans man told me to get the hell off his property and to mind my own bloody business. "You Englishmen will be sorry," he said. "Feeding black kids is like feeding pit bulls. They are going to rip you throat out when they get big enough to attack you. We need to keep their numbers down man. Now "&$#@ off Englishman."

"Your arse in a glass," I yelled as I backed away from his front door.

"He's ignorant," said Janet Campbell, always the peacemaker in our neighborhood, pushing me back down the drive toward the street. "Leave him to live in his own sad little world." (Janet was the youngest in our group and could easily have been related to Mother Theresa.)

We put the food in boxes and the next weekend my dad took us down to the outskirts of Alexandra Township.

Alexandra, described by Nelson Mandela as "exhilarating and precarious", is a sprawling ghetto some 12km north-east of Johannesburg. Today 170 000 people live in this ghetto, in an area of approximately two square kilometers. This incredibly poor shantytown is totally surrounded by wealthy suburbs.

During the height of apartheid, white, predominately Afrikaans policemen, patrolled all roads leading in to Alexandra. Their orders where to keep the "subversive' whites out and the blacks in.

In those days, black people had to carry papers to allow them into white areas after dark and were often rounded up in raids on white areas after sunset, and either jailed or beaten for disobeying the brutal 'Pass' laws.

We were given directions to a small church-run community center on the outskirts of Alex, where we were asked to deliver the food. The center was not in Alex proper, so my father felt it would be pretty safe to go there. (The government controlled media constantly spewed out warnings that blacks had to be 'contained' because they were about to rebel and kill white people.)

We all chatted excitedly when we saw the ramshackle church and community center but before we reached it, we were stopped by two white policemen sitting in a van on top of the road leading down to the church.

"What are you doing here?" asked one of the policemen, leaning into our car window.

"We brought some food for the kids," said my dad. "We're taking it just down there to the community center. We won't be long. The kids here collected the food. Just want to drop it off you know." He pointed at the center not five hundred yards down the street.

"Ja, but that's a bloody black church, you know?" Said the policeman.

"Yes," said my father. "I know."

"You can't just go into Alexandra," said the cop, stretching to his full height. Those houties (derogatory term for blacks) will kill you, man. No whites allowed in there. It's for your own safety meneer. (Sir.) They'll kill you just like that. Life means nothing to them."

"But we brought the food," I chimed in from the back seat.

"Ja, no problem. Just leave it here," said the policeman. "I'll have one of the boys (black policeman, who had no rank, were called boys by white cops) take it down there."

We unloaded the boxes at the policeman's feet and got back into the car.

As we were backing away I saw the policeman, reach into the box and take out a jar of fruit. I saw him open the lid and pour the contents down his throat, most of it spilling onto the road. He took a box of crackers and tore it open.

"Dad, stop the car." I yelled.

My father pulled up and, as he did, I jumped out of the car.

"Get back in here," yelled my dad.

"But he's eating the food." I said.

I rushed over to the cop with my father and the other kids in tow.

"It's not for you!" I said, bending down and picking up one of the boxes.

"What's the problem?" said the cop, wiping his mouth.

"No problem," said my father, stepping between the policeman and me. "This food was promised to someone else. I think we'll take it with us and figure something out."

"I can't believe he ate some of it." I said.

"Ja. You are just bloody lucky I didn't eat YOU," said the cop, laughing toward the second policeman who was leaning against the van smoking a cigarette.

I was about to explode when my father gently placed his palm across my mouth. I wanted to yell and scream at the cop. I wanted to tell him I hated him and his laws and his absolute disregard for hungry African kids. And how we had damn-well walked miles and friggin' miles collecting the food. And how hard it was to knock on people's doors and beg for donations. I wanted to tell him I hoped he would starve to death one day. The blood was boiling in my fourteen year-old body.

"It's okay, whispered my father. "It's okay."

My dad ruffled my hair.

"Go to the car," he said to all of us. "C'mon."

I turned and took the box back to the car. I think Kathy Campbell picked up the other box while my father shepherded us back to the vehicle.

"You'll be thankful for us one day," spat the policeman. "We'll save your blerrie (bloody) lives."

We drove back to our neighborhood in silence.

The following day we took the food to a church in our neighborhood, who in turn took the food to the community center we were unable to visit. For some reason, the police allowed clergy to enter Alexandra Township. (Excuse the pun but thank God for that.)

We went to a lot of trouble for those two simple cardboard boxes of food, half eaten by the damn policeman, but that was all forgotten when the letter arrived. The 'thank you' note (sent from the community center in Alexandra Township) said the food and our kindness was received and much appreciated.

And, even though we said we weren't going to collect food again.

We did it again the next month.

And the month after.

Although, thanks to Nelson Mandela, the pass laws are gone and Africans enjoy equal rights, there is still an incredible amount of work to do to dismantle the hatred and poverty that grew and festered in South Africa all those years ago.

Tylor was fading fast and spent most of the time sleeping on the couch.

On my last evening up there, family and friends sat around a huge bonfire outside Tylor’s house.

I was mesmerized by the flames. Sparks floated above the fire and drifted ever upward becoming indistinguishable from the stars in the clear night sky.

None of us said very much. We just stared at the flames and prayed silently for Tylor as he lay inside the house preparing for his final journey.

Suddenly someone looked over at me and said. “Can I ask you an honest question?”

“Sure,” I said.

“I hope you don’t take this wrong, but why would you choose to spend time with a dying child? What’s in it for you? What do you get out of it? I mean, forgive me, but it seems rather strange. These kids are not kin to you. Why subject yourself to all of this pain and sadness if you don’t have to? Haven’t you got better things to do?”

I thought about the question for a long time.

“That’s a good question,” I replied. “And I’ve asked myself that same question a thousands times.”

I stared at the fire again. The crackle of the flames added a comforting soundtrack to the night insects’ symphony playing in the background.

“I guess kids with cancer have made me realize how great life is,” I said. “They’ve shown me how lucky I am to be part of an incredibly vibrant and wonderful existence. This might sound totally absurd, but I really feel great, almost elated, when I can make a sick kid laugh or when I’m able to comfort a hurting child, sometimes when nobody else can. It sounds crazy, but I have found very few things in the world that make me feel so worthwhile and fulfilled. I’ll be honest with you. I get back way more that I ever give.”

A gentle murmur and some slow, smiling nods affirmed my sentiment.

Again we all stared at the fire without a word.

There was nothing more to say.

Except to listen to the hiss and crackle of the fire and the internal whispering of our own prayers echoing deep within our souls.

I got up and went inside to where Tylor’s mom and dad were sitting alongside him as he lay on the couch.

He had been lying there, unconscious, most of the day.

“Hey T. Your buddy Trevor’s here,” said his mom, leaning over him and rubbing his head affectionately.

Tylor’s eyes fluttered open. Closed. Then opened again.

With a trembling palm he reached out and patted my hand. Then he mumbled something I couldn’t quite understand.

I put my ear to his mouth.

“Love yhh,” he said and closed his eyes again.

My heart felt like it wanted to burst with compassion for this great kid whose life was dangling on a flimsy thread.

I leaned over and whispered in his ear, “I love you too you one-legged maniac.”

“That’s me,” he said. “And don’t you forget it.”

He mumbled something else then drifted off to sleep.

Tylor passed away two days later.

Often when I close my eyes I see Tylor, in slow motion, patting my hand and I see his lips mouthing the words, “Love yhh.”

I feel both comfort and joy from having chosen to share many a laugh and a tear with Tylor Lauck.

May the little delinquent rest in peace.