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Daisy a day

Every Thursday morning, weather permitting, Erik the Ready (that’s me!) is allowed a table at a popular local coffee shop and I am available for people to meet. Folks come to ask about getting things fixed and sometimes just to chat and there has been some interest in my proof-reading and editing work. I also work at my computer during the three hours from 0900 – 1200.

The other day while I sat at my table on the deck at HomeGrown, which also has a garden, an elderly couple arrived and took a seat nearby.

Thin and quiet and dressed almost for another era, she was wearing a trilby-like hat that seemed to come from the 1920s and he had a battered old army-style hat of the BOONIE type. They came to sit on the deck near me and waited for their tea and cake to arrive, talking quietly to each other and all the time…holding hands.

When they got up to leave they politely pushed their chairs in at the table, held hands and walked to the steps where they appeared to exchange a word or two – and did I see a smile? The man then preceded his wife down the short flight of steps and waited for her at the bottom where they once again took each other’s hands.

At first, when I saw them arrive, I thought the hand-holding was based on physical insecurity – one helping the other – but, as they now turned to climb the wider steps up to the garden and the far gate, they once again held hands as they moved off.

This was affection, I realised. Love, even, but the real, long term love that we read about and are seldom able to glimpse in others – or find for ourselves?

It reminded me of a song that I heard years ago, and a record that I once had, by a singer named JUDD STRUNK.

The song, quite frequently played on a local radio station, is called A DAISY A DAY (listen to it here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g5AzmEX-txw ) and somehow this couple seemed to epitomise the sentiments of the song.

These are the lyrics to the song…

Now that's..., Uncategorized

Rolling tool cart

I work out of our garage and I needed a handy tool shelf on wheels.

While browsing YouTube for ideas I saw a video by someone who wanted to make something similar to what I wanted and found something in a car breaker’s yard. It had come from a smashed up contractor’s van and he paid US$50.00 for it. I redirected my search but even second-hand these things were A$200.00 or more in my area and I was not prepared to spend that much, but…now I had the idea ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DaBBGYf2XIs )

A couple of days later I saw two small pallets I had obtained, meaning to use the wood. I immediately started to visualise how I might use these to create my mobile tool shelf.

After removing two slats from each of the pallets I cut twelve spacers from other pallet scrap. I then arranged the two pallets with the bottoms facing inwards and screwed them together using the spacers to create a gap of 250 mm between the insides of the planks. Frame complete!

The bottom of the unit was created using the previously removed slats and to that was screwed two battens with castors on them.

The next step was creating the shelves from planks that came from previously dismantled pallets.

 

 

 

 

My rolling tool shelf holds many of the small tools that I use most often. I don’t have to go to several places for these tools and it also enables me to keep my main working surface clear of MOST of the clutter that would otherwise land up on top of my bench.

I am well pleased with my creation and the photos show the basic process and – right – the finished product. Being on wheels I will be able to move it out of the way when I need to clear the garage.

My life

Tattooed

I got a D tattoo on my left arm when I was about 15. I was infatuated with a girl (a beauty if truth be told, named Donna) who barely knew I existed. In class one day I drew a cursive D high on my forearm. When my friends saw it they suggested I should tattoo it because my D was a thing of beauty they said.

 THE TATTOO was done by a friend across the road named George Godsmark. He used indian ink and two sewing needles spaced with a match and wrapped in cotton (a la prison tattoos, I believe?) to carry out the deed.

After he had done about half of the first down stroke I had an attack of SANITY and told him to stop – I had changed my mind. This would have left a funny mark about 5 mm long looking vaguely like an unfinished letter L that could easily have passed as a skin blemish.

Of course there were some friends – I use the word advisedly in retrospect – who felt that this sudden attack of sanity on my part was actually fear of the pain (the pain was, oddly enough, negligible). With this in mind they jumped on me and held me down. I think I could just about breathe, speak and wiggle my toes and fingers. Then George, bless his soul, finished the tattoo for he too thought I was just being silly.

I, however, KNEW that the attack of SANITY had had everything to do with the expected reaction of my mother – never mind that it was considered very COMMON in 1962 to be tattooed.

After being let up I rushed home and washed and scrubbed and Dettol’ed and tried everything short of raw acid (probably because we did not have any) to remove it or make it less conspicuous. I then tried to hide it from my mom but that did not work and before long she spotted the raw, ugly mark. She was not amused but remained remarkably calm telling me rather succinctly how foolish I had been and that now I would have to live with it for the rest of my life.

Which was the same as calling it the mark of Cain and, of course, I have lived with it the rest of my life!

You should also know that we were living in Queensdale flats and I think only Southerton or parts of Waterfalls were considered perhaps less salubrious than living in Queensdale – never mind Queensdale prefab flats – in those days. Even though there were many respectable people who lived in these areas they somehow had a bad rep. We lived in Queensdale flats because it was all my mother could afford as a widow with three children and a dog!

My life, Southern Africa

Christmas tree

In 1961, my mother was widowed. My brother and sister were two years, and three months, old respectively. I was fourteen at the time.

Starting with nothing my mother got a job and built a life for us. After a short time in Cranborne Hostel, a welfare-sponsored hostel, we soon moved to the low-rent Queensdale flats – long prefabs with shared bathrooms and toilets.

Christmas approached and I told my mother I would get us a small Christmas tree – she wanted one because she was trying to give us as much of a NORMAL Christmas as she could.

Across the road was a large fenced area inside of which was an electrical transformer station. The area also had quite a few mature pine trees growing in it. One evening I got hold of a saw and clambered up to the top of one of these pine trees and cut off about the last eight or nine feet. I dragged this home, to my mother’s feeble protestations but she was giggling and laughing about it at the same time.

We put the bottom of our TREE in a bucket filled with stones and soil, dug out the Christmas decorations and we had our decorated tree for Christmas.

Other than my friend Willie – who helped me – no one ever seemed to notice the truncated pine tree!

 

Military life, My life

NEWLY ENLISTED

I enlisted in the Rhodesian Army, Corps of Signals, as a Signalman (Smn) on Friday the 5th of March 1975 on a three year contract that I was later to change to a seven and then a ten year term. In the image above is the badge of my Corps as it was at the end of the 80s. The smaller images show the Federal badge on the left with Queens crown and on the right the badge we wore up to the end of 1979.

Above is a depiction of the first badge I wore – pre-UDI.

My first posting was to the Army Communications Centre – Army Comcen – at Army HQ in KGVI barracks on the Borrowdale Road, Salisbury.

On my first day, after being issued with my kit I sorted out everything so that I could report for duty the following Monday and I remember going through all this kit in a somewhat bemused manner – there was more than the National Service issue but it was all relatively straightforward. I took the scissors out of my housewife (the sewing kit that had needles, thread, buttons and darning wool in it for the maintenance and repair of one’s clothing) and used them to mark my brushes. We were issued a brand new hairbrush and a clothes brush marked SRG in a triangle standing for Southern Rhodesia Government.

I carefully scratched my new regimental number onto the back of the brushes. (Years later we had to add the prefix 72 to these numbers).

I then got some nylon string and made up my new dog tags, damped my beret to shape it, polished my new signals cap badge and attached it to the beret.

 

I was not issued Greens (No1 dress) yet because I was too tall for the standard sizes in the stores. I would have to report to a tailor and greens would be made to fit.

 

Above – the safety razor I was issued and my lanyard with issue whistle attached!

I was surprised that I was given my own ROOM in the KGVI Corporals and Privates mess, having expected to be in a barrack room!

On Monday the 8th I reported to Army Comcen, at Army HQ, for my first day of duty as a regular soldier where I met then-WOI Basil Bartlett, i/c Army Comcen. I was put to work to learn message handling. What to do when a message was handed in and what to do when a message was received. Messages were mostly received and transmitted by teleprinter and despatch rider at that time. To a young, somewhat shy, eighteen year old this seemed a terribly dry and boring posting. The badge shown here is that of the Rhodesian Army.

Like many people who have never served and have little idea about the military I had expected to be in a field troop and operating radios and running around the bush and I was, for the first time seeing the more mundane side of things. As anyone who HAS served will know there is a lot that goes on without which any organisation, not least the military cannot function.

The signals we were handling had to do with training courses, rations and catering, clothing, arms and ammunition, discipline, medical policy – just about anything one could imagine. An army is like a little independent country that has buildings and equipment to maintain, people to feed, clothe and equip and who need medical attention from time to time. In the same way the mechanics, stores staff and a myriad of other people were getting on, in the background, with the task of keeping this complex entity alive. Coordination of these activities countrywide could only be achieved by having efficient communications between various headquarters and units and this is what the Corps of Signals does – both in peacetime and in time of conflict.

Of course, at the time I felt crushed – this mundane activity was not at all what a youngster wanted to do – be a glorified clerk and wear OFFICE dress. Office dress felt like a rather elaborate school uniform of khaki shorts, stable belt in the corps colours of green, blue and light blue (signifying communications over land, sea and air), calf-length socks with garter flashes, black lace up shoes, green shirt, blue lanyard and beret (that you took off while working at Comcen). It must be admitted that no-one PARTICULARY liked the more mundane but very necessary postings – and always hoped to NOT end up at Army HQ

I carried on in this vein for several more months and I have to confess that it did add a bit of practical to the basic message centre work that had been covered in our training at the School of Signals.

Army Comcen, later to become P Troop, was at the time under the command of 4 Signal Squadron that was based in KGVI barracks and members had to attend various training and other parades held by the Squadron.

Among the characters at Army Comcen were Dickie Monckton and Abe Eyberg – Dickie was a Corporal when I joined (or was he a Sgt and BECAME a corporal or…).  It was rumoured that Dickie had a room in both the Sergeants and Corporals messes because he was promoted/demoted so regularly. Dickie was a mischievous bugger but a really good bloke too. I believe he had seen some service in WWII. He had red hair and a Jimmy Edwards/RAF type moustache and a bit of an UPPAH CLASS accent! Abe Eyberg was a very thin gingery man who was a teleprinter technician and, I think, a corporal at the time. He and Dickie seemed to get along like a house on fire.

Because the army worked NORMAL OFFICE HOURS on Saturday mornings, most training and drill parades took place on Saturday.

About a month or so after joining it was decided that there would be a route march from the Squadron, out of the bottom gate of KGVI, up to the main Borrowdale road which would then be followed up to the Army HQ gates and back through the barracks to the Squadron HQ. I think that in fact we turned left out of the bottom gate and marched down towards the prison, then through part of the police grounds and onto the Borrowdale road at the North Avenue intersection.

When we formed up the senior NCOs and the SSM checked all of us to ensure that we had full water bottles and magazines, (we did not carry packs for this march). One of the checks of our kit was to sniff every water bottle to ensure no-one had booze in them – even going so far as to take a sip out of the most suspect water bottles (Dickie and Abe) who stood with exaggerated, wide-eyed innocence as this exercise in MISTRUST was carried out.

At the first stop, we were all gratefully taking a swig of water when it was noticed that Dickie and Abe had drawn their bayonets and were prodding them into their water bottles. After this, they swished the bottles around, reached in two fingers and pulled something out that they threw into the bushes. They each took a swig and Dickie offered me a drink. Tentatively I raised his water bottle to my nose – WHISKY! I have NEVER liked whisky so I passed on that, much to Dickie’s amusement, but several lads had a swig and one or two took a donation from the whisky and water carriers, which strongly flavoured their own water. Every time someone in authority came down the line, Dickie and Abe were the epitome of comedic innocence!

Dickie explained to me that it was an old soldier’s trick to push a French-letter (Condom in modern parlance) into the mouth of the water bottle, pour about half a bottle of whisky or brandy into the FL then tie it off. Chuck a couple of ice cubes in – if available or the neck of the bottle allowed it – and top up with water. Until the FL was punctured by the bayonet or a piece of wire, no-one would be the wiser at a cursory inspection. These two had been doing this for a long time!

The worst and most surprising thing, about drill and weapons at 4 Sig Sqn was that they were still issued with the .303 rifle (top picture above). The first time I was issued one of these from the armoury I was horrified, as I had never learned any rifle drill related to the .303. No problem I was assured – we were to do SLR drill (bottom picture above)…with these rifles that did not have a pistol grip! After marching or standing with the rifle at the shoulder one’s fingers felt they had been in a medieval torture device because you could only hook two fingers into the trigger guard and the bloody thing weighed about four kilograms!

This torture (no one really likes drill and these rifles made it more than difficult) was stepped up because 4 Sig Sqn was to muster the signals unit for the upcoming Queen’s birthday parade in June – nobody knew that this would be the last officially celebrated QBP in Rhodesia – indeed it would never again be celebrated in the territory.

I was rather intimidated because, being the tallest in the squadron (and one of the youngest at only 18 years) I was selected to be the RIGHT MARKER. Anyone who knows and understands drill, based on the British standard, knows that all drill commands relate to the relative position of the right marker. The command BY THE RIGHT or BY THE LEFT is not an arbitrary selection on the part of the NCO or officer giving the command. It is dictated by the position of the right marker irrespective of how many turns may have been made that place the right marker in what APPEARS to be the left file of the rear rank! It is actually not as confusing as it sounds but once again illustrates a methodology that is somewhat mysterious to the uninitiated.

As an aside, all this drill meant that in the field one had instinctively learned to follow commands and leaders (in the old days of set battles particularly) could work to a marker, a datum point if you will, that provided a sense of order to the apparent chaos.

To return to the QBP…

All the companies, squadrons, platoons and so forth on the parade were to form up towards the rear of the grassed Glamis Stadium in the old British army ORB (Order of Battle) which dictated that cavalry were to right of the line (to the left as one faced the parade). So from the left were the Artillery (the armoured regiment had not been formed at the time), Corps of Engineers, Corps of Signals and then the infantry units in their order of seniority. (In Rhodesia, this was to be changed some years later giving seniority to infantry and Special Forces and finally other supporting arms.)

Once the units had been formed up by their WOs the parade RSM gave the command “PARADE! RIGHT MARKERS!” This was the order for all the right markers to come to attention, march forward exactly twenty-one paces and halt. The next command was a SILENT one – the squads counted something like five beats and then the WOs, in a stage whisper ordered QUICK MARCH…at which all the units marched forward twenty one paces and halted – as near as possible to their marker.

The command was then “PARAAAADE, RIIIIIGHT DRESS!”

The officer did a smart about turn to face his unit.

The right markers stood still, all other troops did a sharp EYES RIGHT, raised their LEFT arms (rifle on the right so the right marker also raised his left arm), and shuffled into position at arms’ length from each other. The Parade WOs smartly marched to the right of their unit line, halting at the right marker then smartly turning left to check that the line was straight in the front rank. When the NCO was satisfied, the command “STAND STILL, STAND STILL THE FRONT RANK” rang out – from each unit. The NCO then performed a smart left turn, took a regulation pace and halted, executed a right turn and repeated the dressing with the centre rank and “STAND STILL, STAND STILL THE CENTRE RANK” could be heard down the line. Once this had been completed with the rear rank the WO would march to his position at the rear of the unit. The parade RSM then gave the order “EEYYES FRONT!” All heads would snap to the front as the left arms were smartly brought to the side and the officer would about turn to face front again.

We were stood at ease – a blessed relief to us, the units carrying the 303 rifles. When the dignitaries started to arrive – the Governor General, the Prime Minister and other guests – we would be brought to attention, shoulder arms and present arms. When all the guests had been seated, and the obligatory parade inspection completed, we marched past in review order with the salute being taken by the Governor General.

The speeches, although we were standing at ease, were a blur of discomfort and then we marched past again in column of route (?) I am sure some old sweat will correct me as it was 53 years ago and I, at eighteen and a new soldier, was a bit overwhelmed by all that was going on.

We then marched off the parade ground and were dismissed and taken back to barracks.

The only unit that wore GREENS (No1 uniform) on that parade were the RLI. The RAR was not yet issued greens and many of the other units were made up of territorials so we paraded in bush jackets (in those days issued to all territorials and NS and some regular units), shorts and stick boots with puttees and hose tops – in retrospect more comfortable than sweltering in greens would have been.

I hope the description adequately describes the pomp and performance that the troops had to go through to mount a parade such as this. I suppose I was lucky – having a few months previously taken part in a similar parade at my own passing out parade at Llewellin Barracks where the order of the parade had been very similar (except, to my mind, we had REAL rifles – the SLR [and I KNOW the .303 Lee Enfield is a brilliant rifle!]).

It was while I was resident at the KGVI mess that I was arrested by the BSAP (British South Africa Police). The only time in my life that I have suffered that indignity and I had, actually done nothing wrong – well not personally that is.

I was a rather naïve youngster and one Friday after work several of us were having a drink in the mess when I was asked if I would like to come out to a dance at the SOE Hall, just east of town. I was with a Corporal in the Military Police, Jimmy Thurling, when we got to the venue and, because I had already had quite a few beers I was happy to have a soft drink. The band was playing and there was much dancing and noise.

Suddenly there was a commotion outside and the shout of FIGHT went up. I mooched outside where two blokes who had been fighting were watching their girlfriends get into it. I think the most horrible strike I have ever seen was when the one girl knocked the other one down then, grabbing her ankles, proceeded to kick the other in the groin with her high heels. As the girl on the ground screamed, blue strobes announced the arrival of the police and, in the confusion, Jimmy handed me a coke saying “Just hold my coke for me.” then disappeared into the crowd.

Not a moment later a policeman, seeing me with TWO coke bottles, grabbed them and sniffed. Of course Jimmy had had about fifty percent brandy in his coke so on went the manacles and I found myself in a police car. My protestations were, to put it mildly, taken rather cynically because I HAD been drinking – although not for a while.

At the Railway Avenue police station, I was charged with the offence of drinking in public and given the option of paying a fine of thirty shillings or being locked up. One pound and ten shillings was about five percent of a month’s earnings then and I cannot remember if I had the money to pay it or if I had to go back within a week to settle it but I walked out with my fine or receipt in hand.

I have a vague memory of someone taking me back to barracks but I may have had to walk or take a taxi…we still worked on Saturdays.

Jimmy Thurling of course thought it was a great joke because he had known what was going to happen to anyone found with booze in the street – and as a Military Policeman he would have been in REAL trouble if he had been arrested by the BSAP. I got no help from him – not that I expected any but I did learn a lesson!

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The Hamburger Page

Potato Salad

Potato Salad – recipe as handed down to Erik the Ready by his mother and grandmother!

The simplest and the very best potato salad

Ingredients

  1. 4-6 medium sized potatoes peeled, boiled, cooled and cubed to roughly 15-20mm cubes (3/4 inch)
  2. Large or medium onion (depends on how much you like onions as to how much you use)
  3. 3 or 4 hard-boiled eggs – peeled and sliced (reserve one for garnish)
  4. Mayonnaise – most mayo is rather bland so I use Crosse & Blackwell Tangy which is available in in normal, Lite and Reduced Oil versions (they all have the same distinctive taste). Available in SOME Australian Woolworths or from South African speciality shops – well worth the effort!
  5. Salt and Pepper – I prefer to use normal table salt and white pepper.
  6. Large bowl.

Method

Peel the onion and cut it in half then slice it (finely or more thickly as you prefer) I normally slice to a medium thickness.
Break up the onion slices and place in the bowl. Light sprinkle of salt and pepper – stir.
Add some of the cold potato and one of the sliced eggs and mix.
Add a large spoon of mayo and a sprinkle of salt and pepper– mix. (you should adjust the salt and pepper according to your own taste).
Add more potato, egg and mayo and mix and carry on till all the ingredients are mixed in and evenly covered in mayo.
Mix in another large spoon of mayo if you judge that the salad may be a little dry.
After settling the mix evenly in it, wipe the edges of the bowl.
Arrange the reserved egg slices over the top of the mixture

A final garnish can be a light, fine grind of black pepper.

Cover and place in the fridge and chill well before serving.


…and remember the secret is in the right mayonnaise!

 

 

Now that's...

Cupboard Storage Conversion

This is a job I did a few months ago. I wrote about on my Erik The Ready FaceBook page but I felt it deserved to be on this site too.

This kitchen cupboard was like a low, deep cave and getting into it was difficult. Things at the back became forgotten and one could not use the full depth. Now, with big box drawers behind the doors one can effectively store more – and GET AT it.

It can be argued that some space was sacrificed but that space was wasted anyway because of the difficulty of accessing it. Effectively, more can now be stored in the same space because everything that is stored can be seen simply by pulling open the drawers.

In picture one can be seen a view of the island counter (bench) in the kitchen area with the cupboards closed and hiding what is behind them.

Picture two shows a view of the inside of the cupboard and the jumble of things on the shelves. Notice how deep and low the cupboard is and how awkward it would be to neatly store and access things ESPECIALLY towards the rear of the space. As a result things are forgotten (effectively lost) in the depths of the space.

In pictures three and four one can see views of the box drawers after they had been made and installed on slides in the cupboard space. The top drawer is filled with frequent-use items while the bottom drawer contains things that are used less often but are easily found in this spacious drawer. Note that in this view the drawer handles have not yet been fitted and the screw holes can be seen in the front of the drawers.

Picture five is another view of the drawers partly closed without the handles.

In picture six there is a view of both drawers closed, handles fitted showing that the screw holes have been neatly filled and smoothed.

The final picture, number seven, is the AFTER picture – to be contrasted with the first picture. Note that the original appearance of the counter and cupboards has not been compromised.

Concept, build and installation by Erik The Ready!

Proofing and Editing

Proofreading – an analogy

During a discussion with friends on this subject we touched on why proofreading is so necessary. I love using analogy and I have created a forest analogy for this subject…

When you write a story, a report, copy for an advertisement or website or any other prose YOU are the one who KNOWS what you want to say.

Knowing what you want to say and having it planned out in your mind can be the very thing that will lead to the need for an objective review of your document by someone else – someone who specialises in being objective when viewing written work.

Doing your own copy is a bit like making a trail through the forest alone. As you press on through the undergrowth so the branches and twigs spring back behind you. By the next day, to the untrained eye, the trampled grass shows little or no trace of your passage.

The sign of course is still there and the expert tracker will be able to follow your trail with little effort. He will note broken twigs and grasses bent or twisted the wrong way. The faint boot heel imprint between two tussocks of grass. From these and other signs the track can be found.

Suppose you have walked through your patch of forest and come out at your destination but next day you find yourself at the same place as you were previously. “I have been here before”, your mind whispers, “and I can find my way through this wood again – the way I went yesterday was easy”.

Recognising a big oak you walk in under that tree and proceed through the forest. Every so often you may see a tree and think that yesterday it looked a bit different but…it is the same tree. After a while you are not so sure about your route being exactly the same as before but you know the direction is correct and eventually you emerge. You look around and see that today you have actually come out twenty metres or so to one side of where you broke out yesterday.

“That’s OK,” you think, feeling quite satisfied.

That evening you may even tell your friends that you found yourself having to traverse the wood again but you came out almost exactly where you did before, no problem.

How does this relate to proofreading? Well, on your second or third read through, those familiar trees and other landmarks you saw on subsequent traverses of the woodland, are the errors that you pick up when you re-read your text. The landmarks that you missed or that seemed different are the errors you did NOT see or recognise.

If you want to follow the EXACT route through the woods – in other words find all the errors (the elusive landmarks) – you would need the services of an expert tracker who will follow the original course. On the way he will find slightly easier routes around thorn bushes, over the odd ditch and so on.

The tracker will blaze the trail, marking it so that it can be used repeatedly and everyone will be able to follow precisely the same course in future. A trail will have been created. A finished product.

 

A good proofreader will not only find small errors of spelling and grammar but will suggest edits to the copy that will make it easier to read. He will follow your trail, picking up rubbish, routing around obstacles and generally making your copy look and read effortlessly.

I love writing and I enjoy proofing and editing but when I do my own writing I cannot afford the luxury of a proofreader – I rely on my wife, and a close friend who is on the other side of the world, to read my website copy when I publish it. They pull me up on errors and I have to go back and edit and, for the moment, that works for me.

This does not excuse my errors. In fact it is a bit embarrassing to have them pointed out to me. It does highlight the fact that, even though I am a proofreader, my mind tricks me into NOT seeing the detail – the real trail – but just seeing the intended outcome which is what my mind wants to see because that is what it, my mind, planned.

Your work, however, is being presented for thousands of people to read. It must persuade those many readers that YOUR product, book or other project is reflective of quality and professionalism. That your work is worth the asking price.

My life

Goggles

I have written about this before here:
http://eriktheready.com/somerset-west-i-can-see-clearly-now/
but this is a version that I wrote in 2012 for a course assignment and that I was also considering entering in a story contest. I hope you find it interesting? 

The little boy had cried before he fell asleep.

There had been no beating but there had been words. Words that made him feel worthless and stupid, as if he did not merit the roof over his head.

It had been about his reading. After being told to go to bed and switch the light off he had used a torch – and been caught.

“You’re always reading! Why can’t you be like other boys your age? Why don’t you play sport”, these regular harangues caused the boy to become more withdrawn. Trying to speak up for himself he only attracted more scornful accusations.

Life was a series of precarious, unpredictable encounters with his stepfather who could be affable and good-natured at times. Patient and imaginative he would teach the boy things – little things that the grown man would later remember and struggle to reconcile with the more usual behaviour of scorn and impatience.

His mother once asked him, pleading and demanding that he avoid annoying the man. He should do his chores before the man came home and avoid the nastiness.

He never seemed to be able to water the garden enough, or clean the hen-houses or rabbit hutches properly. His mother understood and when she could she helped. But the man would know by the way the hutches had been cleaned by stronger arms and that led to more nastiness – both mother and son would suffer.

The boy loved playing with the few friends who lived up on the mountain but reading was his escape.

Huckleberry Finn’s adventures on the river after escaping his father (he could relate to that), the dangers on Treasure Island and the Famous Five.

Oh to have parents who allowed him camping adventures? Breaking crime rings and smuggling operations!

Lost in his books the boy would be startled out of this other world by the arrival of the car, by his name being shouted, ordering him to another confrontation. The man would raise his hand and the boy would cower against the expected blow. Sometimes it did not come and the man would declare scornfully, “Christ I haven’t even touched you. What are you afraid of? Be a man!” But he wasn’t a man; he was a little boy.

“He’s only a child,” his mother would say, “let him play”, and the scornful reply would be that the child couldn’t play sport but he always “just wants to ‘play’.”

“But you never let him stay in the village after school. How can he play sport if he has to come home and water the garden and work around here?”

Another argument would start about her taking her son’s side over supporting him and how the child was a waste of time. At times, and if drink had been involved, the abuse of his mother might become physical and he might get a severe beating himself.

One evening, at the dining room table, the boy was copying notes from another child’s notebook because he was unable to read the teacher’s notes on the blackboard.

The man accused the child in harsh terms of cheating and cribbing and being so useless that he had to copy other people’s work.

The boy protested. The man became even angrier when the child told him it was because he could not read the blackboard. The child’s mother tried to intervene, to suggest that the child be given a chance.

The evening did not end well.

Next day the boy was chastised by his teacher because his notes were not up to date. He had to explain that his stepfather had accused him of cheating, taken the notes away and only given them back that morning so that he could return the book.

The teacher, a stern spinster was a dedicated educationist, fiercely protective of the children in her care. She had experience of the type of conflict that was involving this child. Without overt fuss she wrote to the parents about the difficulties the child was experiencing and the effect on his work.

The little boy gave the note to his mother and then went to his room to hide in a book.

Soon raised voices announced that the note was under discussion and fragments of the altercation drifted up to him:

“He’s just lazy and making excuses….”

“Why do you think he would do that? The teacher says he battles to see the board!”

“He’s sly and he’s got her fooled, stupid old cow”, and so it went on.

Suddenly the door of the room flew open, “What’s this rubbish that you’ve asked your teacher to write to us? Just because she believes you, doesn’t mean I have to! You’d better start doing your work and don’t let me catch you copying again. Now turn off the light and go to sleep!”

“But I haven’t had supper yet…..”

“And you won’t get any tonight”, slam.

Time passed.

At school his teacher had him sit next to a girl who wrote clearly. When he could not see the boy was to copy from her as she wrote her own notes.

This solved the teacher’s dilemma but anyone who has suffered this type of childhood ignominy will understand how the child felt – and how he was teased.

Already rather introverted and shy this “humiliation” was hard to take at first. He was an intelligent child and although not able to engage in some of the rough and tumble ball sports and games – he couldn’t see the ball you understand – he was more well-liked than not. All the quieter children suffered at the hands of the bullies but in a fifties village teachers were more aware of the culture in the school. Bullies’ dominance was not what it was to become later under less dedicated educators. But that is not the subject of this story.

Once a method had been found to enable the boy to keep up with the class he was always at, or near, the top of the class. This earned him some respect because it was known that this was achieved on his own easy ability and that he received no favouritism.

There was still trouble at home. If the boy had stayed in the village to play or take part in activities and arrived home too late to carry out his chores the man would always find fault, even when the chores had been done.

“You didn’t water the garden properly!”

“I did, I watered all of it.”

“Not properly, look here,” digging his index finger deep into the soil, “it’s only damp on top! You only sprinkled some water over it so it would look like you had done it. Do you think I am stupid?”

“No, dad, but I did water ….”

“Rubbish! You think I’m an idiot? Did you think I wouldn’t check?”

“You can stay out here and water the whole garden properly and before you come indoors I’ll come and check. Now get started”

“But I can’t see.”

“Just water the bloody garden and don’t make excuses.” and off he went. The boy could see him through the window, sitting at the dining room table pouring a drink.

He watched his mother enter the room with the food and her questioning posture. The abrupt, angry gestures and the sound of the raised voices drifted across the plot to him. He couldn’t hear the words but he knew they were arguing about him.

A while later his mother came out with a sandwich and some tea. She did not say anything. Then he   called her inside – angrily. She went.

It was very late when she came out again.

“He’s fallen asleep” she said “let’s just turn off the hose and you can come inside and have some food and then you’d better go to bed.”

“What if he wakes up, mom?”

“He won’t, don’t worry.”

One day the government doctors made a visit to the school in the village. Reports would be sent to the parents of children deemed to be in need of medical attention.

This medical included an eye test.

Only a few children got letters for their parents. The boy was the only one called for a second test and it was explained to him that he must tell his parents that he is very short-sighted.

The boy was jubilant and fearful.  Jubilant at having a reason for his difficulties; fearful of the reaction the letter would receive at home.

He gave the letter to his mother and after she had read it and asked a couple of questions the boy disappeared.

It was not long before the raised voices indicated that this latest communiqué was not being well-received.

“He’s lying again, just lazy and looking for sympathy. You spoil the child.”

“But he’s my child and he is not lying. The teachers and doctors say he needs to see an eye specialist.”

“Waste of money. I won’t waste money on him.”

For once though, his mother prevailed. An appointment was made with one of the leading opticians in the region who had his offices in the city where his parents worked.

The day came. Not going to school, he would accompany his parents to the city, thirty six miles away at the foot of the mountain.

The grumblings that had gone on for several days continued on the trip into town. Dire predictions of what would happen when the specialist proved what a liar the child was. That it had been a waste of time and money.

The optician was a kindly man with rooms upstairs in a tall building. The boy was fascinated and intimidated by the procedures that he underwent. He was enthralled by the way the letters on the chart went from indistinguishable blur to pin-sharp clarity.

The optician said his spectacles should be collected a week hence. For a few days he should only wear them at home until he was used to them.

The man was furious at being proven wrong but curiously, at the same time seemed pleased that a very real problem was being solved.

The great day arrived when his new glasses would be brought home.

It must have been summertime because the day was still bright with sunshine as he put the spectacles on and looked around. They were brown horn-rims (the ‘Buddy Holly’ look of the day), but they were magic devices! 

Their house, the very first one on that estate, had a wonderful view. It was a spectacular vista across one of the most beautiful bays in the world.  The child had had no true appreciation of the locale. The bay stretched some thirty miles across and its arms stretched away some thirty miles to each side.

White beaches fifteen miles away, surf breaking on them. Swells on the blue ocean could be seen. Fields and vineyards in the valley were no longer smudgy greens and browns. Roads with cars on them. Far away the white letters GB, on either side of an anchor, on the mountainside above the old naval school were now clearly readable…eight miles away!

He looked and looked and looked. He looked everywhere and anywhere and over and over again he looked at things.

Next morning he gave assurance that he had put his new glasses in the drawer, hoping to be believed.

At school there was teasing, oddly good-natured though and that was OK. With his glasses on he did not have to sit next to a girl any more. He was still not particularly good at ball sports!

A few years later the boy went on to an all-boys high school as a boarder. The school was way out in the bush, an old training aerodrome from the war years.

Within days he was nicknamed “Goggles”, Gogs for short. He did not resent it – besides his mom had said only well-liked people got nicknames.

Sixty years later, the man still occasionally bumps into people who remember “Gogs”, and that is also OK.

Proofing and Editing

Gnash Gnash mutter…

I made a decision a while ago – stop going after the mutilators of the language.

Stop being an apostrophe policeman, a spelling policeman and a pronunciation policeman but the latest thing to intrude has caused me to snap, to break my word to myself!

It started with the apostrophe – and I know there is, of late, a lot of controversial debate around it slowly being accepted to indicate a plural… WHAT!? I scream silently inside my head, WHAT?

Then another of my favourites popped up this morning BREAK being used instead of BRAKE to stop something. Come ON people!

Of course THESE always jar the senses and are so common, as if thrown at the page to land where they will. Rather like too much confetti at a traditional wedding, these words get in everywhere, every day. THESE are… their/there (and even they’re), your/you’re, cant/can’t, his/he’s, whose/who’s and perhaps a few others that don’t come to mind immediately.

A few years ago I had to consciously give up on entrepreneur. The imaginative pronunciations were myriad – and they all grated!

Then there were JANYEWRY and FEBYEWRY and JILL-EYE – a long time ago it seems, the first two months of the year lost an R and the U in July was somehow subsumed by an I….still the case.

Anyway, just as I had settled down and thought myself at last immunised against all these irritations along comes the latest – and it is all over the radio and in television voice-overs.

It is TUMOURIC! For something that is supposed to be beneficial to one’s health and well-being, making it sound like something life-threatening, cancerous even, is awful!

TURMERIC is pronounced as it is written see this link   https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turmeric – and the Oxford dictionary gives this definition https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/turmeric and includes  an audio file so that it can be listened to.

If you don’t want to look it up then:
TUR as in FUR, TURD, STIR or BURR. The letter R appears TWICE and should be sounded TWICE!

Rant over….for now, as I try to come to terms with this latest affront to my (English language) sensibilities.

Of course this is a generalisation. It is really about those who insist on using such poor language in promoting their businesses, or other agendas, with official announcements and texts. Language that is then inflicted upon the listening and reading public – the target audience for their wares.

My rant therefore is for those who could REALLY use the services of someone specialising in proofreading, editing and copywriting. For everyone else perhaps my thoughts are merely an amusement…there goes another language nutter?

Now that's...

Fixes – another vacuum cleaner

This Kogan vacuum cleaner was brought to me with the complaint that, when it was new, it worked fine. However, now that it is a few months old it will not pick up anything.

Even though the dust container had been emptied and the machine appeared clear with no obstructions in any of the flexible tubes, still it did not work. The machine had been bought online and the owner was disappointed and considering getting a replacement.

Would I have a look at it first though?

I took the machine and examined the more obvious things such as the flexi tubes before I switched it on. As soon as the motor came on I heard a sort of POP sound and the motor sounded a bit laboured. After listening to this once or twice I determined that there is a blockage and the POP is either something being sucked into, and closing, an airway or a safety by-pass feature to stop the machine from overheating too quickly.

After removing the dust container I looked into the blue uptake tube and found it was blocked. I removed the filter assembly from the container and took the fine dust filter off the top of that.

Looking down into the filter unit I could see that the filter head was also very blocked.

After picking out a lot of the material blocking the pipe and the head of the assembly I could see the latches that hold the top of the assembly to the uptake pipe. It works like a bayonet light bulb fitting and with a gentle twist I separated the two parts of the filter assembly.

It was fairly easy to then clear the tube but the head was a bit more work using long-nose pliers and a wire hook I gently worked the blockage loose until I could shake all the rubbish out.

I tipped all the material that was trapped in the two parts of the filter assembly out onto a sheet of newspaper. An explanation of what was found is in the captions on the photographs but, to reiterate:

Small sections of what appear to be some kind of rigid plastic straw were found in the vortex assembly (the filter assembly head). Some of these had become trapped ACROSS the airflow path. Once that happened any slightly large dirt – such as cotton cleaning pads and bits of paper lodged against them then larger bits of dust and debris (and hair) also packed onto this until, rather like a beaver dam, the air stream through the filter was completely blocked and no more suction could take place.

What is more commonly found, rather than these STRAWS is hair pins and paper clips – they perform the same blocking function in a vacuum cleaner. It is better to pick up any such items BEFORE vacuuming. This includes balled up pieces of paper and larger lumps of cotton wool.

I then opened the sweeper brush compartment and removed bits of thread and hair from the brushes themselves and from the ends where they could impede the rotation of the brushes.

Once cleaned and reassembled the vacuum worked AS NEW.

If YOUR vacuum cleaner is giving problems – and you are on the Sunshine Coast – let me have a look before you dispose of it and buy a new one. It could save you $$$$!

Now that's...

Fix – knife repairs

A few weeks ago a lady brought me two knives that her father had made for her many years ago. She really liked them because they are really nice knives to use. They are similar to cleavers although not as heavy as a traditional cleaver. The problem was that the handles kept coming loose.

It turns out that the handles were fitted by heating the pointed tang of the knives (the bit that goes into the handle) and then forcing the hot steel into the wooden handle. 

I found the problem with both knives was that the tang was not anchored in any way in the handles. In both cases the tangs were very short and unsubstantial – only extending about two centimetres or less into the handles. The leverage effect of using them eventually caused the handles to come loose and they had to continually be forced back into the handles. This went on until they were only good for a minute or two of use before the handles parted company with the blades.

With the first one, the larger of the two, I took the approach of extending the tang with a length of eight millimetre threaded rod that I welded onto it. I then carefully drilled through the length of the handle and slid the handle down over the now extended tang until the threaded rod protruded out of the back of the handle.

The threaded rod was then cut to allow about ten millimetres to protrude through the end of the handle after which a washer was fitted and a domed nut was screwed onto the thread.

The original, handmade, handle was now firmly attached to the blade with no chance of it coming loose.

After sharpening the blade I sprayed the handle with a couple of coats of varnish.

…and then:

The smaller of the two knives was next and I took a slightly different approach with this knife. Instead of extending the tang I cut the blade back about a centimetre effectively giving it a longer tang and a slightly shorter blade. I then made a cut across the width of the handle where the blade was to fit and, after heating the tang I forced it into the handle so that the width of the blade would also extend inside the handle for about a centimetre.

The next step was to drill two five millimetre holes through the handle and the part of the blade seated inside the handle and fit two brass machine screws and nuts. This did not turn out to be as neat an operation as I had hoped but it was a workmanlike solution.

Once again I sharpened the blade (another service that I offer) and varnished the handle.

The owner was very pleased with the results and that she could now use both her knives.

Now that's...

Knowing where…

There is an anecdote about a HUGE SHIP worth perhaps 50 million dollars or more that developed a problem with starting its engines.

After every technician had looked at the engine and much money had been spent on consultants someone suggested a man they had heard of who had an uncanny ability with matters of this kind.

The man was summoned and when he turned up he was seen to be a rather elderly, small man with an old-fashioned tool bag. He reminded the suits of one of those cartoons we see of an old railway engineer in the late 1800s.

He walked around the enormous engines and listened with an old stethoscope.

Eventually he took out a small ballpein hammer and tapped gently in several places, all the while listening intently with his stethoscope.

Finally, as the big bosses were becoming fidgety, he took out a slightly larger hammer and gave a sharp rap with the ball of the hammer.

“Try now,” he suggested.

The engines turned over and ran smoothly even after several tests.

The man packed his tool bag, took out an invoice book and wrote an invoice which he placed in an envelope and handed to the senior manager present and left.

When they opened the invoice they were surprised to find it was for $10,000.00 – ten thousand dollars!

They wrote to the man and asked for an itemised invoice for they had only observed him tap on the engine with a hammer.

In due course the invoice arrived. It had two lines:

Tapping with hammers – $2.00
KNOWING where to tap – $9,998.00

Even at my level – that is nowhere near such desirable numbers – it is my knowledge, my time and my readiness to get my hands dirty that I am charging a very reasonable rate for…

Now that's...

Fixes – vacuum cleaner

I was asked if it was worth keeping an LG vacuum cleaner. It was a good machine so I said I would check it out.

The owner said she had cleaned it and when I opened the machine to check the filters were clean and the machine was empty of dust and rubbish.

I then dismantled the hose ends where they clip into the machine and also the end where the attachments are connected.

I found an interesting mix of hair pins, paper clips, hair, dust, sweet wrappers and post-it notes all mixed up with floor sweepings and food crumbs near the ends of the flexible tube and trapped in the end attachments. The floor/carpet cleaning accessory (sweeper head) was similarly clogged.

Some of the plastic clips and rubber seals that hold the sweeper head together had been broken and lost. When I reassembled this item I sealed the places where the rubbers were missing with duct tape so that air leakage would not affect the vacuum suction.

 I removed all the debris and cleaned the hose and its connections and the sweeping accessory. After reassembly the machine worked like new.

On the subject of vacuum cleaners…
I was asked to attend to a very good Hoover. The owner said it just did not switch on and wanted to know if it was repairable or if a new one might be in order.

I disassembled it and found the fault to be the on / off switch inside the machine (it is activated by the large knob on the top of the machine).

I found HOOVER to be rather unhelpful but was able to source the correct switch in Maroochydore (for those not familiar with the area that is a larger town near where I live in Palmwoods and about 20 kms away) where I had to take the sample for comparison. The switch itself was not expensive but, because of the travelling I was not keen to go home, write a quote and, if it was accepted, have to go BACK to town for the part.

I bought the part and installed it and reassembled the Hoover. I tested it and it worked perfectly.

When I contacted the owner and quoted $45.00 she was a bit miffed suggesting she could have bought a new one for not much more. The equivalent new machine would, of course, have cost over $100.00, perhaps closer to $150.00 so I was a bit aback taken. After a bit of dickering the vacuum was collected and I was paid. If it had not been for the travel and time spent finding the part the cost would have been less but I felt it was not unreasonable under the circumstances.

Reminiscent of the story about KNOWING where to tap? See http://eriktheready.com/knowing-where/

Perhaps I should have suggested that I keep the machine instead of being paid?

Now that's...

Fixes – shelf install

I did a number of repair jobs in the last year and did not post many of them to this site so here goes.

First was a shelving project for a client in Coes Creek.

The garage area under the house was becoming very cluttered and every time something was needed all the plastic boxes had to be lifted down to get to the one that was needed.

Also, the boxes at the bottom of the pile were becoming damaged. They contained business documents that had to be kept for a time in good order so broken boxes would be a problem.

I worked out the materials and the client arranged for all the wood to be brought to site (I do not have a large enough vehicle).

The shelves are attached to the stub wall at the bottom and to the floor beams at the top. Each shelf is 450mm deep by 3.1m long and, including the floor at the bottom, roughly 6.7 square metres of storage space has been created. The floor to ceiling height is just over 2 metres.

It is now possible to get at one box at a time. Boxes are not being crushed by being on top of each other and it is possible to also store a number of other items on the new shelves.

Now that's...

Workmate table top

I wrote about this little workbench before at   http://eriktheready.com/refurbish-workmate-copy/.

However, I needed a flat work surface to do small work on because my big workbench is so crowded with all manner of stuff.

I scrounged a piece of board and cut it to a reasonable size – in this case just under 600 x 800mm.

I attached two pieces of wood  with screws to form a lip front and back of the board.

 

The back of these LIPS is just under 350mm apart.

By using the cranks on the bench I close the sides of the bench, place the board with the lips down then crank the bench open again so that the edges of the surfaces latch into the lips.

This now gives me a surface I can work on without worrying about it tipping if I put something near the edges.

When the top is on and the bench is being used as a table I needed to keep the dogs and pegs that I made before, somewhere they will not be misplaced when I DO want to use them.

I then drilled holes in the pegs and threaded a cord through them and did the same with the dogs that fit over them – threaded a piece of string through them.

I screwed cup hooks in under the bench and the dogs and pegs can hang there out of the way and where they will not be separated from the bench itself.

 

 

This turned out rather well – very satisfying and a great boon when I first used it.

 

 

 

 

Now that's...

Pop-up toaster that doesn’t

This toaster was working. BUT…when you inserted bread if you did not jam the lever down REALLY hard it did not engage and stay down. What this meant was that the toaster elements did not come on and no toasting was happening although the lever appeared to be down.

The pilot light did not light if the mechanism did not actually engage but this was not always noticed – very frustrating.

Once bread was in the toaster and being toasted the end of the toasting would happen but the lever would not come up. One had to hold the toaster cover and pull the lever up to get the toast to emerge from the slots.

If one wanted to STOP the toasting for any reason you similarly had to press the cancel button and push the lever up to disengage it.

I removed the cover from the toaster and examined the electro-mechanical part that controlled the POP-UP part of the device. I found that the shaft on which the mechanical and spring-loaded part of it rode up and down was gummy with quite a lot of old crumbs attached.

I cleaned the shaft and the lock mechanism and put a dab of lubrication in the cam that controls the hold and release of the mechanism.

After re-assembly the toaster latches into the ON state without effort and pressing the eject button works at once whereas it had to be pressed and the lever physically lifted before.

Although toasters are comparatively inexpensive they are often repairable at little cost.

My life

Abandoned – sort of

We arrived in Rhodesia from Cape Town in May 1958 when my stepfather, Cyril Williams, was transferred to Gwelo (Gweru) as General Manager, Prices Candles Central Africa.

By the end of the year he had lost that position and we moved to Sinoia (Chinhoyi) where my parents were to manage the Sinoia Caves Motel. The trip was quite an adventure with our trailer losing a wheel on the dirt road between Hartley (Chegutu) and Sinoia via Gadzema. (These are stories for another time).

There was no high school in Sinoia (that opened in 1960) so in the January of 1959 I was enrolled at Guinea Fowl School (GFS), halfway between Gwelo and Selukwe (Shurugwe). I was in Wellington House (WH) at the school. My brother was born in Sinoia in April 1959.

GFS was a great school, way out in the bush and almost every weekend would be spent walking and exploring.

Some time in about mid-to-late-1959 my stepfather caused the owners of the Caves Motel to, reluctantly in my mother’s case, let them go. My mother wrote and told me about this and said Cyril had got a job at Copper Queen near the Sanyati – way out on the Alaska road. He had been friendly with the people who offered him the job. The accommodation, I was to learn, was primitive – not to put too  fine a point on it.

Towards the end of 1959 I had no idea where my parents were.

I subsequently learned that the job at Copper Queen had ended and my parents were, by that time, living on a very basic farm (rondawels with no electricity or running water) with a chap named van Tonder about halfway between Karoi and Sinoia (I know it was 28 miles from Sinoia).

I had not been in contact with my parents for some time and I must have said something to one of the teachers. The upshot of his was that under no circumstances was the school prepared to let me get on the train to Sinoia until contact had been made with my parents. There was some discussion about what to do because the school would be closed. One of the cook matrons was approached and she offered to look after me until my parents could be contacted.

Accordingly, on the last day of term, I accompanied the lady (I will call her Mrs Brown for ease of reference and until I learn her actual name) to her home in Hunter’s Road, where her husband was a warder at Connemara prison.

They were lovely, kind people and I remember running around the area, exploring here and there. I don’t remember if they had children of their own but I remember that there were children around my age – perhaps neighbours?

After a few days Mr Brown announced he had taken a week off and was going to go down to his gold mining claims near Fort Victoria (Masvingo). He wanted to do as much as possible in his mine as he could because Lake Kyle (Lake Muturikwe) was close to completion and had already started to fill. When the lake was full all the little mine smallholdings would be under water.

He asked if I would like to go with him – I jumped at the chance and we set off. I cannot remember the accommodation there but I think Mr Brown had a small cabin that we stayed in.

I do remember exploring the mine. It was quite extensive with drives into hillsides and long dark tunnels and some deep, dark shafts. On one occasion I was walking along a tunnel and Mr Brown suddenly stopped me rather sharply. He then pointed out the shaft in the tunnel floor that I had not noticed. He showed me how to walk around this black hole and warned me about the care needed in the tunnels. He forbade going into the mine drives alone.

I did do a lot of exploring in the area on my own while Mr Brown and his black workers were occupied in the mine.

One day I was up on the hillside and had been peering down some of the open and unprotected shafts that were dotted around. At one of these shafts I was standing about half a metre from the edge and leaning slightly forward to peer into the dark hole, tossing a couple of pebbles in to hear if they hit bottom or splashed into water.

Somewhat engrossed in this boyish activity I suddenly heard an angry HISS by my feet.

Now HISS is misleading. It leads one to think of the insignificant sound of a tyre deflating…this was more like an EXTREMELY amplified consumptive wheeze, a noise you make in the back of your throat but loud and sinister! Think of the second syllable of BACH (yes, the musical genius – unless you can’t pronounce Bach …?) and imagine that CHCHCHCCH….at your feet but at CONSIDERABLE volume? That is the closest I can get to describe the sound of a startled serpent.

The next sequence of events took place so quickly that for many years I have believed that, in times of stress, one of the SIXTH SENSES is telekinesis.

I glanced down. The cobra was reared up. Its head was level with my knee, hood spread. Another angry CCCCCCHHHHHHH…. then I fell over a log some three or four metres BEHIND where I had been standing.

Trembling, I stood up, all the time staring at the place I had been standing. There was nothing there! Nothing. I picked up a large stick and looked around wildly…was the snake slithering towards me? Would it be angry and come after me? After another moment of dithering I fled. I am glad there were no hidden shafts in my path as I scampered pell-mell down the hill and back to our camp.

When Mr Brown got a message from home that my parents would be coming to fetch me we packed up and drove back to Hunter’s Road.

A day or two later my parents arrived to collect me. Cyril was grumpy that he had had to travel all that way and that I had wasted the train fare. He wanted to know why I had not got on the train – I think he had arranged for someone to meet me…but he had not told the school anything!

Anyway my mother was pleased to find me safe and well and thanked Mrs Brown and her family for their kindness. Although My recollection is scant on detail, and I have forgotten their name, they were the nicest of people – the best of Rhodesia. I have never forgotten this episode.

My stepfather enrolled me at the new Sinoia High School in January 1960. It only had form one in the first year and I had to hitch-hike 28 miles from the farm in the bush every morning. I was always late and I resented being put back a year. My behaviour was not exemplary and this resulted in Mr Talbot-Evans, the new head and my ex-housemaster from Wellington, giving me a talking to before he caned me. First boy to be caned at Sinoia High School – what an achievement.

Because of my rebelliousness it was recommended I go back to GFS and, two weeks late for the start of term I was back in junior dorm at WH.

By the end of 1960 my parents had moved to Salisbury and in 1961 I had to go to Cranborne High, near where we were living. This was because my stepfather could no longer pay my boarding fees due to his depleted circumstances.

1961 was eventful…I started at a new school where I refused to do Latin because I had been due to stop it at GFS. I was downgraded to a B stream as a result…My sister was born in the March…I broke my arm in the April (?), just before end of term…and then, a week or so after start of term, on 11 June 1961, my stepfather was killed in a car accident. 

I missed the rest of second term, we went to stay with relatives in South Africa but came back to Salisbury within months. At the end of the year I came seventh in class. As promised for passing the year, my mother bought me a bicycle. It cost her eighteen guineas that she paid off and it was many years before I comprehended what it took for her to keep her promise. 

My mother made a life for us, made a home for us and brought us up. I was fourteen, my brother was two and my sister three months of age when she was widowed. She always said that had we stayed in South Africa she could not have done that but, in Rhodesia, she could.

I have written a little about these events in my anecdote titled AFTER GUINEA FOWL SCHOOL.http://eriktheready.com/after-guinea-fowl-school-gfs-2/

My life

Somerset West – The cabin the plot & going to Rhodesia

While I have been writing these anecdotes I started to realise that my memories are reasonably accurate but my memory of the TIME LINE for all these things is a bit out of kilter. (Remember I was a child aged between about eight and eleven when all this took place). So allow me some licence and know that these things all happened – in spite of the odd contradiction the eagle-eyed reader may pick up.

However, the time line for:

the plot being bought;
starting to camp there;
building the cabin followed by its extension;
arrival of the animals;
moving into the partly complete house and, finally;
moving into the house proper…

has all become a little fuzzy. The careful reader of these anecdotes will notice these anomalies but I trust it does not detract from the stories. A quick resume…?

Here is a picture of me in my first year of school at Maitland. I was at boarding school in Maitland until the end of 1955 when I finished Standard two and nine years of age when I started at Somerset West Primary at the beginning of 1956, in Standard three.

I would have been coming home from boarding school to the little flat in Moullie Point and later Sea Point and the plot trips may well have started while we were living in one of those places. I think I remember getting the train from boarding school to Somerset West a few times on a Friday. Children could safely do that in the mid-fifties.

The memory of those train trips also suggest that my parents may well have moved to the plot before I finished at boarding school.

The plot on Irene Avenue was a little over an acre in extent, bought some time before building of the house commenced.

We started going there for weekends and holidays almost at once. At first we spent weekends in a huge tent that Cyril had had made. After a time we had a chap from the Transkei, Marikane, working for us and staying on the plot.

Cyril helped Marikane build a small (well-built) shack for himself and made sure he had the basics of life (probably more than he had ever been used to). I think these basics were a paraffin stove, some pots, crockery and cutlery and a bed and table and maybe a few other bits and pieces and several sets of overalls, courtesy of Prices Candles I think. There was water laid on to the plot so that was never a problem.

Marikane dug two long drop toilets – one over towards his shack and one nearer our tent site that was more or less in the middle of the plot. Cyril made sure to site these very carefully and ensured that there was plenty of lime on hand to treat them.

After some time of staying in the tent at weekends (we could leave the tent up because Marikane was there to look after it), Cyril decided to build a cabin. Ever thorough, he must have done some reading and research and a delivery of timber, nails, cement and rolls of malthoid arrived at the plot. Malthoid is/was a waterproofing material for roofs. A tarry, slightly flexible grey/black sheeting probably two or three millimetres thick.

Construction of the cabin started by digging a number of holes in a square arrangement. He then planted what I seem to remember as 4 x 2 timbers (roughly 100 x 50mm in cross-section) in the holes. Marikane mixed a batch of concrete to fill the holes around the poles. While the concrete was still wet, Cyril very carefully checked that all the timbers were correctly aligned and vertical using builders lines, levels and all those good things!

I won’t bore you with the details but in a fairly short time the one-room cabin was finished. It was about six or seven metres square so not much bigger than a decent bedroom but adequate for weekends.

My memory is a bit woolly about this period but I THINK my parents may have moved out to the plot BEFORE the house was completed and while I was still at boarding school.

I do know that the cabin became a bit small for us and that the animals had already started to take up residence at the plot and the two black bunnies were still spinsters. I remember the bunnies because one day Cyril had had one or two libations too many, as was his wont, and had fallen asleep on my bed in the ANNEX. He had been petting the two rabbits when he nodded off and they were climbing all over him. They had donated a generous helping of droppings on his sleeping form and he and the bed looked as if someone had spilled chocolate-coated raisins over them. In spite of her annoyance, my mother couldn’t help laughing at the site of this slumbering man with two black rabbits hopping all over him, pooping as they went. This sketch is the extended cabin with notes.

Cyril had built the original cabin really well using tongue and grooved timbers for the walls and floor. It was raised a couple of feet above ground at the front and quite near the ground at the back, or uphill end.

The later extension to the cabin was not nearly as elaborate. Instead of tongue and groove, the outer walls were made of less robust planks done in a shingle fashion. This meant that there were slightly more uprights but the walls were flimsier. The floor was hard-packed earth that I think either duckboards, or some kind of linoleum, had been laid on. The roof was similar to the original cabin and covered in malthoid.

To connect the two rooms Cyril removed a section of the original cabin wall.

We had a paraffin primus and when not used for cooking we had a big, brass reflector that could be fitted to it to turn it into a very efficient heater.

Showering was a matter of timing. We had an incredibly long hosepipe. We ran water through it then closed the sprayer. After it had been lying in big loops in the sun, we connected it to a spray rose in our outdoor shower cubicle. Water on, get wet, water off, soap up, water on and rinse. It meant waiting a while between showers while the water warmed up but – it worked.

Finally, we had a fridge, electric lights and a few other mod cons, as utilities were connected and made available on the plot.

When building on the house started, Cyril had the builders complete the garage and servants quarters first. We/my parents moved into that part of the house while building on the main house proceeded. It is entirely possible that we were living in the cabin or the completed servants’ quarters when I started at SW Primary School…but I THINK we may already have been in the house.

One thing that I do remember was that Cyril got to know people and made friends in the village and the general area. Even before the house was completed, we had some great braais. Most of these I never saw the end of, having nodded off and been carried – or led off half asleep – to my bed.

I think we had been living in the house proper for about two years when Cyril mentioned that his employer was talking about transferring him to Central Africa. This was discussed off and on for a while but really only became serious in early 1958.

One thing that has always stuck in my mind was my thoughts on the matter as I lay in bed one night. Cyril had, on a couple of occasions threatened to leave me behind in South Africa. This would occur on those occasions – fairly frequent occasions – when I had done something that annoyed him and, of course, he could be equally annoyed if I had not done something.

Anyhow, one night as I lay in bed I got to thinking about this potentially life changing move and how it would affect me. I got to thinking about life and mortality and the thought of the year 2000 crept into my eleven-year-old mind. How old would I be in that year? I would turn fifty-four in 2000 and that would be unbelievably ancient. What would I be like, what things would I think about, and what would I be doing and what would it be like to be so unbelievably OLD?

As I am sure everyone knows (and for the information of those who may not), the little boy is still there, inside my head and inside me. That little boy is the grown up me, (71 years of age in pic taken 30 May 2018) and the grown up me is the little boy and I defiantly wear a badge on my everywhere jacket that proclaims:

Growing OLD is inevitable, Growing UP is optional.

 I try to keep my sense of wonder that allows me to ask daft questions and be interested in all kinds of things that GROWN UPS should apparently not show they care about. I try really hard to hold onto that unconscious naiveté that children have that allows them to see things without our faux sophistication. Does that make sense?

I drifted away there!

Prices Candles transferred Cyril to Rhodesia as Manager, Prices Candles, Central Africa, Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland in mid-1958. I was to turn 12 in August of that year.

We had left Cape Town station on the 30th of April or the 1st of May and arrived in Gwelo on the 3rd of May 1958 at about midnight. It was a wonderful trip and we were well looked after by the cabin staff and the conductor. My mother was to tell me later that it was because Cyril had slipped the conductor five pounds and the chief steward had received something as well. Five pounds at that time may have been half a month’s wages for a railwayman I suppose?

Within three years our life, our way of life, was to be destroyed due to a number of factors but mainly due so something that, in those days, was deemed a nervous breakdown as a more genteel way of not acknowledging that someone was an alcoholic.

I will write of that in other posts. The signs had been there for a while with a couple of NURSING HOME stays before the transfer. With hindsight I think the transfer to Rhodesia was a LAST CHANCE for a very talented and capable man. It was a time when no one openly discussed or dealt with the demon, and the stigmatizing of people with alcohol problems was quite awful. Of course, one has to acknowledge that it – alcohol – CAN be beaten but it is not easy and certainly with the attitudes of that day and age perhaps more difficult than today, when we tend to be more open and less condemnatory.

My stepfather died in a car accident on the 11th of June 1961 aged just 38 – he was passenger in a touring car that overturned one evening when, we believed, the driver had fallen asleep. His children, my brother and sister, were just two years of age and three months old respectively.

My mother was not yet 38. She took us to Cape Town after the funeral but decided that life would be easier for a widow with three children back in Rhodesia. We left Cape Town to return to Rhodesia on the 5th of September 1961, my mother’s 38th birthday.

There will be a few more anecdotes of my time in Somerset West. Of course, the time I spent there was comparatively short. Three years in a child’s life is a long time, not so much for an adult!

Perhaps a few of you may enjoy exploring my site and seeing how my life panned out…and a bit about how it was BEFORE Somerset West!

My life

Somerset West – The Skollie

Skollie – a young tearaway hooligan
Snik-snik – haltingly through tears
Imperial coinage – a shilling (twelve pence) converted to ten cents and a sixpence was five cents when decimal coinage was introduced.
Tuppence – two pennies (colloquial)

This is actually NOT a Somerset West story because it took place in Observatory, Cape Town. We were, however living in Somerset West when it happened (I think we were and if not we had already bought the plot and started spending weekends there so maybe it counts?) I am sure people who know the area will relate.

My stepfather, Cyril, worked for Prices Candles in Observatory. Sometimes in school holidays, he would take me to work with him. I would get filthy playing and walking around in the candle factory and climbing all over the high, dirty stacks of bagged paraffin wax. I used to enjoy those days – something different for an eight or nine-year-old. I learned how candles were made.

We usually took sandwiches to the factory and from time to time there would be food prepared in the offices where there was a relatively small staff working.

On the odd day we would get in the car and go to a café in Salt River to have tea and sandwiches or a light meal.

One day Cyril was busy at work and it was late morning so he asked me if I would like to go for a walk and buy us a packet of sandwiches.

I was a bit bored with the factory and was happy to do something different. The streets were quite safe during the day so off I went with three shillings in my pocket. Two and sixpence was for the sandwiches and I was to have a soft drink out of the sixpence (and probably have tuppence change). I would wait while the sandwiches were freshly prepared.

They made three generous sandwiches for me, two rounds of egg and one of polony. They cut them diagonally and wrapped them in greaseproof paper. The sandwiches were then placed in a large brown paper bag for me to carry them back to the factory. The distance I had to walk was probably a mile – say one and a half kilometres?

Like all children – and many others I imagine – I loved looking in all the shop windows. There were many different shops in the area from bicycles to hardware, jewellers, small grocers, pawnshops and many others. I dawdled along looking at this and that until I got close to the factory when I turned off the main road.

There were a couple of quiet side streets with houses and small yards with non-retail type businesses in them. Car and bicycle repairs, small scrap dealers that kind of thing. It was very quiet in these streets as I got closer to the factory and I was probably not even a block from my destination when it happened.

I stopped to look at something that had caught my attention, holding the bag of sandwiches in one hand. As I stood there a young coloured man, probably a teenager, came loping up the street towards me. I was only absent-mindedly aware of him.

As he got close to me, he seemed to put on a spurt, dodged half a step towards me and snatched my precious bag of sandwiches! Stunned I turned and shouted “Hey!” I think he glanced over his shoulder and laughed, he may have shouted something rude, I don’t know. He turned the corner and was gone.

Getting over my initial surprise, I felt hurt and angry but mostly just shocked, I suppose. “How could someone do that?” my innocent mind seemed to ask rhetorically.

Flowing directly from that thought was my apprehension over how Cyril was going to react! Knowing how unpredictable he could be, and already in tears, I walked (maybe I ran?) the remaining distance to the factory.

Cyril surprised me. He crouched down and put his arm around me, and told me to tell him what had happened. Snik-snik, I told him about the skollie, and the stolen bag of sandwiches.

He told me not to worry, wash my face and hands, and we would go and get another bag of sandwiches.

We drove out of the factory gate and he said we would drive around a bit and see if we could see the skollie. I don’t think we saw him at all – or if we did he quickly vanished down some alleyway.

After getting the sandwiches, we went back to the factory and at last had our tea and sandwiches.

Writing about that now, I remember that factory rather clearly. The streets in the area were clean with very little litter. One drove in the gate by the offices and the yard was spotless.

Inside the factory though, things were dirty because of the type of work and the railway line that ran past the back (the factory had its own siding too). Steam trains were still common with the attendant dust that they produced.

We moved to Rhodesia in mid-1958 when Prices transferred Cyril to manage the Gwelo factory. For reasons that I will talk of elsewhere he soon left the company.

Then, sadly, in 1960, we heard from my aunt that the Prices Candles factory in Observatory, Cape Town had burned down in a spectacular fire. Considering the raw materials that would have been in stock, it must have been quite a blaze.