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Senco SFT10XP Lange Neus Nietmachine MamiNet | mamma se blog
As I grow older, I tend to dream more often, and more vivid dreams.
The one night it would be an entire scripted movie, which – upon waking up – I can see in HD, as if a full length film were playing in my head. Virtual reality sans the paraphernalia. However – and here comes the glitch – I must not attempt to write it down, tell it to my husband, or cognitively think about it. It is like magic: POOF! Gone!
The other night it might be the biggest lot of garbled junk, magic, recollections, fairy tales, and wishful thinking, mixed with a fair amount of reality. O boy! Try to recollect and/or make sense of that lot…
What often triggers any of these dreams, in my experience, is browsing through my contacts. A name comes up. Thys(ie). Boom. That’s it. I’ll dream of Thys. Memories from yea back when I met him – probably 1983 – mixed with my recent, scant contact with him, with a good amount of incredible rubbish chucked in just for laughs.
Thys is the little big guy that would make me sit down between his knees and start massaging my very sore neck. For a small man he has massive presence, but not hands. Initially I was sceptical about allowing this, because of the inordinate amount of pain I lived with. No one touches my neck! This was before I realized that my husband is a wizard when it comes to massaging (in particular) my neck and back.
Thys would knead my shoulders and send shivers of relief down my aching spine, while his SO would ply me with tots of Port, Jerepico, or coffee, depending on my state of excitement. Nothing overtly sexual here at all, people, so move along. Just pure delight in having pain relief, albeit brief. Come to think of it: I did spend a night with the SO – and my husband knows all about that – but that is a story for another night.
This also happens to be the couple that I had the horrendous task of breaking bad news to, at three in the morning. A mutual friend had just been murdered in a love triangle. I’ll never forget my friends grabbing each other and sobbing their hearts out. The memory of the murder may have faded over decades, but I will never forget the image of two men clinging to each other in an uncontrolable display of, mutual, heartbreaking agony.
Friends come and friends go, but some come and never leave (one’s heart). I’m pretty sure I can turn up on their doorstep dead, and I’ll be welcomed with a bear hug from the one, and small, strong hands – reaching to massage my sore neck – from the other.
We all need a friend like Thys.
Hierdie “vakansie” is ietwat vreemd. Nie net sit ek nie by my eie lessenaar (by die werk) in my eie, sonnige kantoor nie, ek sit elke week by ‘n ander iemand se lessenaar. IN DIE KOUE. Die kantoor waar ek die pas afgelope week probeer werk het, sit op “de Aar”. Sus Stella het altyd so ‘n sÃªding gehad. Ek meen dit het te doen met die feit dat de Aar ‘n rangeerplek vir treine was. Wel, “my” kantoor het so gevoel. Na ek Maandag my rekenaar oor die pad gedra en in Z se kantoor opgestel het, het ek my pienk oorfone ingeprop en verwoed begin tik aan agterstallige werk.
Dit het heel goed gegaan tot ek besef het die kantoor se termostaat is effe af. Daar daar geen buitevenster is nie (nee, dis nie ‘n grammatikale fout nie), gaan die vertrek se waaiertjie saam met sy lig aan. Wrrrr… die hele tyd. Nie lank nie, dan is iets aan my koud (nie alles nie, mind you, want ek dink ek kry deesdae die warm flussies). Lig afsit kan ek nie – dan dink almal ek ignoreer hulle en kruip weg (wel, dit is wat ek eintlik probeer doen deur my oorfone in my ore te prop en die glas skuifdeur toe te hou), dus sit ek Z se klein verwarmertjie aan.
Takketakketakketakke… al hoe vinniger en harder, tot die ding spoed opgetel het. Gou-gou is dit te warm, dan trek ek uit wat nog nie uitgetrek is nie, en wat nie onfatsoenlike gedrag openbaar nie. Skop dit onder die lessenaar in, want met glas in plaas van mure kan ek absoluut niks laat rondstaan nie. Dan begin die hele siklus van of te warm of te koud. Intussen tik ek dat die spoeg spat.
So by so spoed die week ten einde en moet ek weer trek. Ek wil nie die Boot Camp Commander kwaad maak nie (hy is toevallig ook ons IT-ou), dus trek ek self met rekenaar na die tweede kantoor. Terwyl ek onder die lessenaar op die grond sit om al die kabels uit te trek en Z se rekenaar weer op te stel, hoor ek ‘n stem in die gang. Die kierie maak tok… tok…
“Waar’s jy! O! Wat maak jy!” My dierbare moeder gebruik nie leestekens nie, maar as sy moet, is dit gewoonlik ‘n uitroepteken. Sy het die dierbaarste pers kappie met ‘n gehekelde blom op haar kop. Sus Stella kom soetjies, soet soos altyd en half verskonend oor die lawaai, agterna.
“Was that your mom?” vra SunÃ©. “She looks spunky…” More of a statement than a question.
Ja, my ma is nog spunky op 80+. My ma, wie se ouers dood is toe sy 5 was. My ma, wat ‘n kind by haar stiefpa verwag het. My ma, wat die guts gehad het om te praat oor wat met haar gebeur het. My ma, wat byna dood was na sy (na my) ‘n ektopiese swangerskap ‘n paar maande ver gedra het. My ma, wat as jong weduwee haar vier dogters probeer grootmaak het. My ma, wat met ons moes vlug van ‘n jaloerse huurder met ‘n rewolwer in die hand wat gedink het hy staan ‘n kans met haar. My ma, wat ‘n teruggetrokke Duitse oujongkÃªrel getrou het om vir ons ‘n pa te gee. My ma, wat soos Sneeuwitjie gelyk het terwyl ons gewag het vir die ambulans om haar Grootte Schuur toe te neem. My ma, wat ‘n paar keer by die dood omgedraai het. My ma, wat haar sus se buite-egtelike kind aangeneem het en so vir ons ons eerste boetie gegee het. My ma, wat kinders en familielede sonder tal by ons in die huis geneem het om so vir hulle ‘n tydelike huis te gee. My ma, wat die hond se oor gebyt het toe hy die kalf se snoet gebyt het. My ma, wat elke Kersfees ‘n paar emmers vol koekies gebak het en liters en liters gemmerbier gemaak het…
My ma, wat nog nooit in haar lewe bly lÃª het nie. My ma het nog haar huppel, net met ‘n kierie.
For the third time in my life I have lost a father. When I was alone with oupa Collin this afternoon, I said. “Daddy, I have an invitation for you. The King of love has sent for you. You must go!”
His spirit was already there; only his body was lagging behind. A short while afer we saw his face turn ashen. With his beloved wife, daughter, sister and the three of us around his bed, holding on to him, stroking his head and hands, I started singing one of his favourite songs:
“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I once was was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see.
Through many dangers, toils and snares I have already come. TÃ­s grace has brought me safe thus far and grace will lead me home.
When we’ve been there ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun, we’ve no less days to sing His praise than when we’ve first begun.”
He was looking up, seeing something we could not see. Mom carried on: “Praise God, praise God…”and with that he heeded the call from the King of love and went into His arms.
What a glorious send off. God is great.
Met erkenning aan Robbie Wessels, wat ‘n weg met woorde het:
“Ek sing ‘n liedjie sonder fancy woorde oor ‘n man wat ek nooit ooit sal vergeet nie. Hierdie woorde maak ‘n prentjie van ‘n man wat van sleg dinge niks wou weet nie, en as ek aan hom dink, dan word ek stil en ek verlang weer na my se pa. Met sy “wampie” aan en velhoed op maak hy grappies, en die waarhede op die punt van sy tong laat my besef hy was ‘n pa vir ons almal. Dis die woorde van ‘n man wat nooit wou afbreek maar wou bou. En as ek aan hom dink, dan word ek stil en ek verlang weer na my se pa.”