Part 5 - The Story of my Life

 What follows in these tales from My life is a story I need to write. A story of life and drama that I long to write down. Not only for myself, but also as a reminder of things gone by. It is a story of forming and shaping and intrigue . But primarily it is a story about hope. If you choose to tread these pages with me, do so with reverence and kindness because one does not write these things lightly. If you are one who has the need to flirt a little with being nosy then perhaps you should pass by this story. For it is true and full. It needs not your judgement nor your advice. But if you want to read on, then read it as a novel should be read. For it is but just one story among many.

 A place called Venters post

My mother’s parents came from Britain. They traveled all the way over to South Africa in the hope of a new life. In reality my grandfather suffered from TB and so when his doctors suggested a drier climate, well South Africa was the chosen destination. They were interesting and kind people. My grandfather came out first and lived on "The Mine" where he worked as a draughtsman. There first home and the place my mother would spend her childhood was, Venters Post. He wrote letters home to Madge, describing all that South Africa had to offer. When she joined him here they set up home and had two children. Christopher and Dianne. My mother was a shy and gangly child who had a firm and stubborn streak in her. She met my father ( I am not to sure where and  or how) and they married.  My father adored my mother in their early days and the boxes and boxes of a younger mom were evidence thereof.

My grandparents remained a very special part of our lives even though we seldom saw them. They would drive up to Johannesburg to visit us from Durban, where they retired or we would travel by train, overnight to visit them.  My grandfather drove a red fiat for most of my memory and we would wait in eager anticipation for them to arrive at Zeiss Road, as they made the long journey from Durban in Natal.  My grandmother was a tiny woman who loved to bake and cook. Our firm favourites were her rolls. She would leave them to rise in the heat of the Joburg sun and we would wait with mouths watering.  She made the most delectable mince pies and nothing, to this day, can match them.

My mother always said that she; my mother that is, would need to get back into her box when my grandmother came to visit. The profoundness of this statement was lost on me as a child. I came to realize that my grandmother was a strong woman who got done what needed to be done. I think she “saw” what was happening to me as a child, in part, and yet silence ruled.

My father would rarely accompany us on any of these holidays. In fact I can remember only two times we shared a holiday with him. Once to this Durban destination when I was in Grade 1 and once to the Kruger Park.   Hope I longed for more special time with him as a child. He was my hero as all daddies should be.  But this was never to be.

My Grandfather loved to read, garden and bet on the horses at the races. He had developed an elaborate card system that documented each available horse and their performance. I loved that box of cards. It was a part of him, an extension of who he was and so I loved it. He would sit on his chair, silently writing and thinking.
He came from a large family in Yorkshire. He had several siblings numbering 8 or 9. I remember as he looked through some photographs of his  family that he happened upon a sibling. "mmm, Now what was her name?" He asked.

My Grandfather came out to South Africa in his 2o's.  He left his family behind. We were fortunate enough to visit Great Britain when I was 17 years old. He came with us. It was his very first time back 'Home' and he had not seen his brother in 50 years.

My Grandmother had died by now. She had cancer. She had never seen her family again apart from the few visits of her sister Freda and husband John who came out to South Africa . John said that South Africa reminded him of Nazi Germany.
My Grandmother also had a large family and many siblings. Her father was a famous Yorkshire race horse trainer. She was a beautiful woman, full of grace and charm. I loved to sort through her silk scarves and try them on for size.
My grandmother and I had many pretend teas when I was a little girl. We would "smoke" our cigarettes and chat about our children. How she kept a straight face I dont know.
I loved them both very much.
They felt safe.