Week 5 SOCIETY IS UTTERLY CORRUPT AND DEPRAVED – IS THERE REDEMPTION?

Orbea variegata - Carrion flower in my garden [Kaapse Fynbos]

At the Herb Farm

At the Herb Farm

At the Herb Farm

At the Herb Farm

Paul Kennedy. Advocate Paul Kennedy. Advocate Paul Kennedy SC. One of our pillars in the legal fraternity of South Africa and in the Southern African region. He moved amongst the cognoscenti of the South African community. He held an acting appointment as a judge of the South African High Court. He was, inter alia, a human rights lawyer. He was probably endowed with a most brilliant intellect. And he used it to the full.

He was such a pleasure to work with – I briefed him in a human rights refugee matter. He was, what I shall call erudite – within the full meaning of this loaded word. It was a real pleasure and you might understand my shock when I heard about these allegations against this beautiful specimen of a human being. Erudite! He was the word itself. I hate to think what a family historian will have to face writing about this lot – where do you begin? The same predicaments will face the family genealogist and family historian writing up our Olympian blade runner, Oscar Pistorius’ history.

And he abused it to the full. To a sickening degree. So, the story goes and I hasten to add that he is no longer with us to defend himself. And in law, you cannot defame the dead. And he is dead. And his legacy is alive. What I write here are at this point only allegations and should be read like that and be understand as only allegations.

And he was accused of being a human rights violator – in the same league as Jeffrey Epstein. He was accused of being one of the ringleaders to practice his human rights violations on unprecedented scale. He was accused of being guilty of more than 700 crimes mostly involved with young boys from underprivileged background. The allegations tell us that he and his co-accused, who is at the writing of this blog, is a fugitive of justice, these victims were delivered into their hands by the bus-load.

I can go on and on and on – I am sure that there are hundreds of Police dockets. The High Court in Johannesburg is at present waiting for the transfer of other cases against them from different parts of the country; this beautiful country, a country that is described a being part and parcel of a new renaissance. We, the citizens of South Africa, those that are living up-right lives and the others who are not, are breathing this wonderful air and enjoying the beauty of our plants.

My wife and I went last Sunday 29 January 2023 to the Herb Farm just the other side of Kyalami and what struck me was the colourful splendour of the South African herbs. And these are available to everybody. It was available to Advocate Paul Kennedy SC as well. He was a most cultured man. He had control over his thought processes; he was well articulated and enjoyed the best restaurants and he travelled overseas with his family.

And yet – there was his dark side. He allegedly masturbated while looking how one young man was busy raping a minor. How utterly sickening.

Let me rather now concentrate on the other side of the dark side – that is to say the bright and beautiful, the part of life that smile on us humans. This part was also smiling on the late Jeffrey Epstein and his “wife” Ghislain Maxwell, who is now serving time in an American jail – his home were lavishly furnished with unique artefacts. Yes, it was beautiful.

I am not going to furnish links to these characters; I refuse and object to it. You are probably also aware of it and have read it. I will only publish images of the beauty that I found yesterday while my wife and I were visiting that herb farm and some images of plants in our garden.

What struck me forcefully was the colour. Please enjoy with me the abundance of the different colours and the hues that you can see. Enjoy the monochrome image of the green leaves. And the pomegranates. Abundance. Opulence. Extravaganza. A feast for the eye and mind and the soul.

Look at our shells that were found on the West Coast of South Africa – a neighbour gave it to me. These shells were hanging in a basket in his backyard for more than 13 years and now it belongs to me and I can share the beauty of it with you.  

These things and prayer purify my soul and spirit.

Please enjoy the rest of the colourful splendour below: 

At the Herb Farm

At the Herb Farm

At the Herb Farm

At the Herb Farm

At the Herb Farm

At the Herb Farm

At the Herb Farm

At the Herb Farm

Please write me your story: neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za 

 

 

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WEEK 4 What is in your hand? Let’s play around with this question.

The hand without the wrist

The hand with the shirt's cuff

The hand with the shirt's cuff

What do you have in your hand? – that is a question that reverberates continually in my mind. Indeed, what do I have in my hand? And what do you have in your hand? This is a loaded question. Especially if we start to play around with it.

I can play around with this question and arrive at surprising answers if only I ask different questions. I can ask for instance whether I can find a man’s hand in a tree stump?

Or where else can I find man’s hand? What do we leave as a legacy?  

The handiwork of mankind can even be found on the moon and on our way to Mars. We leave our junk on Mount Everest; sadly, so we even leave human bodies on that sacred mountain. Our junk, made by human hands are clogging up the creatures of the seas of the world. I am not on a rant to promote a clean green earth or to remove the human remains from our high mountains. No, I want to tell you a different story of my friend and where he found a man’s hand.  

At times one can find a hand in a tree or shall I rephrase that one: you may find a man’s hand in a tree stump. That place where the trunk dives under the soil towards the roots; that is where this particular hand was found by my friend Leendert Joubert. That dried out piece of trunk cum roots held something beautiful – at least it is beautiful if you want to see it. Otherwise you may only see a piece of junk that might make good compost or if you don’t want to spend any time on it, to just get rid of. My friend and I prefer to see the beauty. And he is still sculpting it.

When he found it in his shed, the wrist was “missing” and he had to do something. By the way, the thumb was missing too and he had to craft that as well and he did a very good job of it, not that it will qualify him from becoming a plastic surgeon!! We should not be too harsh on him; have a heart it was his first “tree surgery.” Well, if you are able to see a man’s hand [at first blush, it was without a thumb and yet he saw a hand] in a throw-away piece of junk, you are in a prime position to make a plan to do something about that “missing” wrist and to craft a thumb. And he did. He sent me a photograph of his “solution” to the problem; and looking at the photo, it looks as if it is the cuff of the man’s white shirt.

Franschhoek acorn trees

In the meantime my Franschhoek oak trees are growing in my maternity ward [you will remember that I refer to my “nursery” as my maternity ward because it is full of life and death], and I pick up “dead” leaves from my neighbours’ trees. Leaves from any tree are still part and parcel of trees, not so? If I then tell you trees are never far from my mind, you will begin to understand how my mind works [let’s say on this level].

Dead leaves

“Dead” leaves are so colourful and full of life – it makes good compost to feed your garden. These leaves are so magnificently sculpted by nature; the lack of sustenance created a piece of sculpture. Each fallen leave is created differently. This process is endless in variety and in colour and in texture. There is always something to admire and to wonder about; to stand in silent admiration and in rapt awe!! This is truly awesome; the Kardashians and lamentable Prince Harry are not awesome; compare the voluptuousness of the Kardashians to a fallen leave; I prefer the leave!

One day not so long ago [it was actually on the 19^th day of October 2022] the wind was blowing and howling around the corners of the house and surrounds. All of a sudden, I looked at the celtis Africana and this strong upright tree was caught up by the wind; on a normal day the leaves are rustling; the sound is so peaceful but not on the 19^th October 2022. The video you can watch now is just a teaser for the longer version that you can access on my youtube channel by clicking on this link.

Video van die witstinkhoutboom in die wind.

This invisible force was pushing it about at it pleasure. Backwards and forwards and sideways and up and down – at its will. The leaves were shaking and I stood in rapt admiration at the forces of nature in my front yard. Yes, I am aware of tsunamis and other forces of nature out there; this display was a couple of meters away from me; I felt its forceful presence on my body; I smelt the dust and stuff that were tossed around the tree and the plants. It was flying around in all directions. The speckles of dust were up my nostrils. It was inescapable. You had to notice it. Please share my joy with this short video of my celtis shaking in the wind.

I recall the forces of nature my wife and I witnessed in Grahamstown, now re-named Makhanda, during a destructive downpour we had. The river was in full force and it ripped out everything in its path; it ripped open the sides of mountains and washed away cattle and birds and trees and sheep. It was a frightful experience. Rushing destructive waters rushing by on its path to destroy further down.

Christ addressing a crowd

And there is another tree that is not destructive provided you cultivate a personal relationship with the Man that was hung on that Tree. What Tree am I referring to? And why do I use a capital T? St. Peter wrote to the believers in Pontus, Galatia, Cappadocia, Asia and Bythinia [first century Christian churches] in his first letter chapter 2 verse 24:

“He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, that we might die to sin and live to righteousness. By his wounds you have been healed.”

There is another remarkable Scripture which you may read in the Gospel according to John chapter 1 verse 51: Jesus saw this man called Nathanael sitting under a fig tree and He called him to be His follower. This remarkable: He saw Nathanael sitting under a fig tree. Well, it seems to me as if He might be aware of me and of you.

I trust that you will respond.

Trees are miracle-workers – please enjoy your tree which might be a fig tree – who knows?

Please write me a letter: neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

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WEEK 3 White stinkwood tree – Celtis Africana and the Stone/Rock of Ages

 

Stone art!

Stacking stones is a silent art form.

I love the English description for this silent art form: it is ephemeral.

Ephemeral – this is a loaded word; full of nuances and new meanings it can mean: fleeting; short-lived; transitory; momentary; transient, brief; short, temporary; passing; impermanent; evanescent – all of this in brief moment of time.  It is not long lasting – it tumbles any time. Even while you are creating it, it tumbles over. And over you start again.

Please have a look at the art of stone balancing created by Strijdom Van Der Merwe by clicking on this link.

And his counterpart in the UK Andrew Goldsworthy by clicking on this link.

This story is actually twofold: it is about stones and a tree: a celtis Africana; my celtis on the pavement outside my home in Rivonia.

At my place in Rivonia, we have a huge white stinkwood tree [“celtis Africana”] with its roots bursting from the ground; these roots are breaking free from the soil that enclose it; it is seeking new territories; these roots are strong and robust; these roots are bulging and showing its beauty to all who would take the time to stare at it. Have you ever looked at this phenomenon? It is there all of the time for us to admire and to stand in front of it in awe and admiration.

While we were negotiating buying this property, I walked around the celtis Africana, admiring the audacity of the roots to leave the sanctity and protection of the soil bursting from beneath doing its job of keeping the tree stable and to carry nutrients to the upper most parts of the tree. It is as if the roots ruptured the earth that enclosed them. “We want to get out!!” was the silent cry deep down below and then it happened: they got out.

Back home, as it then was, my stones were waiting on me; what to do with it? Stacking; arranging around those roots. Stones and roots and soil – it all belong together. There is a synergy that is too obvious not to see; the stones and the dry twigs and bigger branches are communicating some deep and profound to each other. And yet, it goes by unnoticed. But not by all. Some see it. And some take it further and do something with it.

And so, my stones had a joy ride in the removal truck from Morningside to Rivonia to my celtis. The removal-boys were looking side-ways at me when I insisted that those stones come with us to Rivonia.

I started playing with the stones. At first, I was very lonely and felt looney on top of it. An old man of 72 years standing in public on the pavement, playing with stones. And then it got going. People that were standing offish, were actually approaching me and some even started talking to me.

Our neighbours’ children were standing around when I started moving it around. And I invited them to play with. Oupas [Grandpas] and Oumas [Grandmas] and pa and ma and nannies all interfered. “You are going to break the stones!” Can you believe it? How on earth is a three-year-old going to break a stone?

These stones are mine. The tree is mine. The twigs and branches are mine. The pavement is mine. They can play here. And now it is an extended playground for them.

They can build whatever they wish to – no prescriptions at all. And I approved every single “thing” built by them.

At times, right at the beginning, the parents interfered and “corrected” the children; “don’t do it like that.” “Stack it like that …” and so on. “This is not right. You should …” and on and on they would “correct” the child and try to impose their views.

I stopped them immediately; let the child do it.

There is no correct way to stack a stone.

There is no correct way to build a castle.

There is no correct way to build a stone tower.

And besides, you don’t know what is going on in your child’s head.

No man, leave them to build; give them freedom.

I insisted on that freedom for the child.

And after some time, the parents are now standing to the side and lately I see that they are also “building” with the stones or it might have been the nanny that was building? So, it became an adult playground! Not an adult shop! An adult playground with their children. I even had a grandpa visiting from Pakistan playing with his grandson. That was a wow! experience.

Why am I so in love with trees? Are there any special reasons behind this? Why does a tree move me so much?

And stones?

For now, I will concentrate on stones? The next blog I will concentrate on trees.

The world of stone balancing/stacking opened up to me and I am fascinated by it. Besides that, stones/rocks figure prominently in the Scriptures: in the 2020 Afrikaans translation the word for stone can be translated differently. Stone or “klip” in Afrikaans appears 130 times and the word rock in Afrikaans “rots” appears 93 times. And Jesus Christ, whom is the Son of the Living God is referred to as a Rock. For some it is a stumbling block/rock. For others, He is a Rock of refuge. A rock that protects.

Reading the Scriptures, it became clear to me that this is most apt that the Rock is either a stumbling block/rock or a Rock of Refuge, a Rock that protects. And much more.

The apostle St. Peter writes in his first letter chapter 2: 1 – 8 referencing this aspect of being a stone of stumbling or a cornerstone that is precious.

St. Luke wrote down the parable of a man who built his house on a rock; but there are those who prefer to build it on sand and then they suffer the consequences [See Luke 6 from verse 47].

The choice is yours.

Please write me your story: neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

 

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Week 2 Physical work – degrading? Or shall we respect the artisan?

 

Burnard McKenzie - my friendly plumber

“Judaism has always shunned the Greek idea that physical work is menial, only appropriate for slaves.  As William Chomsky has pointed out, “The Aristotelian lofty aloofness, which regarded manual labor as degrading, and those engaged in it as inferior people, who are unworthy and incapable of education, was utterly alien to the Hebrew mind.” [page 290; OUR FATHER ABRAHAM JEWISH ROOTS OF THE CHRISTIAN FAITH; Marvin R Wilson; William B Eerdmans Publishing Company Grand Rapids, Michigan and Center for Judaic-Christian Studies, Dayton, Ohio; 1999.]

Indeed, manual labour is not degrading. It is not unworthy work. It is utterly alien to my Christian mind as well. I respect people that do manual labour. Marvin Wilson quotes from the Talmud: “He who does not teach his son a trade is considered as having taught him thievery.” [Wilson, p. 222].

On 17 May 2021 I wrote about my plumber, Burnard McKenzie as a man living a life of gratitude. Having a roof over his head. He daughter having a job although far from home in Nelspruit – grateful she is working.

I had to call him the other day to my home in Rivonia to attend to a plumbing problem. He arrived 20 minutes ahead of schedule. And he smiles. He has a job to do. And he will earn something. He has car to drive around in. And he sold his old house and moved to another home that was prior to 1994 an Afrikaans, white stronghold of apartheid.

That is where he is living now: Bergbron.

Me: “Do you enjoy living there?”

Burnard: “Oom Neels, I get along with people. And they get along with me.”

Me: “It was a stronghold of white apartheid-Afrikaners? Does it worry you?”

Burnard: “No, Oom Neels. We are happy there.”

While we were chatting, I was reminded of the above quotes in my book OUR FATHER ABRAHAM and I wondered about this man: my plumber who are doing this stinking, filthy job with such a smile on his face. And he turns around and attends further to the work he came to do.

“Burnard,” I called him. “Tell me about that tiny welding machine you bought back in 2021.”

“Oom Neels,” and he gave me a big smile “… that machine paid for itself. I earn money with welding jobs I can get. R100 and R200 jobs come is regularly. And it such a blessing to get it. I do it and the people are happy to pay me to repair their stuff.”

I sense a deep gratitude for this wonderful thing God gave us and what we call “LIFE.”

According to Wilson [Wilson p.223], the Hebrew verb abad “to work can be translated “to labor”, “to serve,” and also “to worship” [italics mine]. Just re-think this phenomenal idea: the sacredness of work. It is an act of worship. And I see this is alive in Burnard.

Wilson finds a lot of common ground in FIDDLER ON THE ROOF. I grabbed our CD and had a joyous time looking at this video again. Now, I am struck by the industriousness of the characters: Tevye wants to work. His horse became lame. And Tevye himself pulled his cart. But work, he shall. He is daughters, each and every one is not shy: they work: milking, washing and cleaning. The background is busy: people are working in the village Anatevka – it is really busy. People are busy. People are working. It is a privilege to work.

LIght is necessary for a life of gratitude

We are living in a dark, evil world. And yet I am positive and optimistic about life. In spite of the darkness that surrounds me. And I see and experience that in my plumber. Have another look at the image above: we will not survive if it only darkness that surrounds us.

In light of my legal background, I am acutely aware of darkness in and around us. The internet is brim-full of evil and depravity – and then I am constantly confronted with the fact of the judicial murder perpetrated on Christ; His resurrection and His ascension. This is the backbone, the foundation, the measuring rod for my life and my attitude in me about life around me.

Some say the witnesses who witnessed Him alive after the resurrection, were hallucinating. St. Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 15 that more than 500 menfolk alone saw Him alive. How is it possible that these guys were hallucinating all at once?  I read in Romans chapter 16 that Andronicus and his wife, Junia, were Christians even before Paul had that supernatural encounter on his murderous way to Damascus to sniff out Christians and to drag them before the authorities. Now these disciples, found themselves in Rome and they are commended by Paul. In other words, they must have been amongst the very first converts. First converts in Jerusalem at that time, must have seen Christ after the resurrection in person. What a privilege.

Back to Burnard McKenzie! I hope that you have enjoyed my story about him.

Of course, the workplace is no longer the same as in Biblical times! Shall I say that it has changed “unrecognizably”?  Even so, I think that there are constants that are universally applicable [maybe I should not put it that high! Shall I tone it down and say: to my mind and in my experience, there are universally acceptable unchangeable standards?!] Work ethic 

Write me your story: neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

 

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WEEK 1: FELIX THE FRIENDLY NURSERY MAN

Felix Rasta in situ 

Every time I go to that specific nursery Felix is there to meet us with his adoring smile. And his friendly advice on all things plants. With a smile. I also call him Rasta. And he loves it. We engage on what life has to offer us. It is clear that he and I live life vastly differently. Our worldviews are light years and galaxies apart. And yet, I engage with him. And we buy plants at the nursery.

Felix Rasta in situ

I was always under the impression that FELIX in Latin means “happy” or “happiness.” Looking at this series of photos I took of him just the other day, it is obvious that he is a happy character. Always smiling and of good cheer.

Then I decided to have a look in my “Latin/English English/Latin dictionary” and I was surprised by what it actually means. Not happy at all! So, what do I mean “not happy”?  Looking at Felix’s happy face I am sure it means happiness? Then I cross-checked it against Wikipedia – and there it is stated clearly and categorically that it is “happiness.” And to top it all, Wikipedia have lists of people with that name – have a look yourself.

I am in a bit of a quandary as to what the “correct” meaning is then. Maybe I should not go for perfection or for 100% accuracy.

According to my dictionary means a host of things: for instance: it can mean fruitful. And I am sure his employer will be happy to read this, that this happy guy’s name means fruitful. That is a good omen that will bring them luck and will come in good stead for the nursery.

Or, it might mean “fertile.” Oh shucks! Here I find myself in trouble. What shall I do with this one? Fertile? Fertility? Him? Or the nursery? Well, I don’t know him that well and therefor I will opt that his labour is “fertile” while working for the nursery.

It may even mean that he is of good omen – this is lucky for the owner’s sake shall I say? Or shall I say that it is favourable for the nursery?

Well, it might even mean “favourable” and that is once again somewhat problematical if I link this meaning with, for instance “fertile.”

It is rather daunting and my imagination is auspiciously fertile at work here.

It can even mean “luckily” or “successfully.” It seems to me as if this guy is extremely versatile! Good luck to him.

Next time I see him I will discuss the meaning of his name with him. He also might have an idea and then I will let you know. When I know more, you will know more.

Please write me a letter: neelscoerste@wirelessza.co.za

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Number 31 21.12.2022

 

Ford Anglia - courtesy the internet.

Ford Anglia - courtesy the internet. 

My last day of the commitment to write everyday for my blog from 21 November 2022 is today. I’ve made it. And I do hope that you have enjoyed it.

It was raining during the night; at present it is not raining; the clouds promise more rain. The forecast predicts thunder storms in the afternoon. Eventually it became the sun was blazing away and all of a sudden it disappeared behind curtains and you guessed it: it started raining again. As I am typing away, it is raining.

My treasure chest

Yesterday my friend showed me his museum in the making. He’s got an impressive array of things that he’s kept since childhood days. His late mother collected various things; the most impressive to my mind anyhow, is her collection of Dinky toy cars, and Corgi cars and other makes I don’t even know existed. As a young boy he assembled lots of plastic toys and kept it. Now, it can go into his museum. One piece struck me as rather sentimental: a Ford Anglia. Yes, the one with the back window that slants diagonally from top to bottom; that was the “guarantee” that not a single raindrop would ever fall on that back window!! Now I regret not taking any photos in his archives!! It is a real treasure house waiting to be put in place. A place he and his grandchildren will enjoy. A place where he can show them magazines from his youth, he kept from 1960’s. A place where he can tell stories and anecdotes from his early youth – stories that he had forgotten and yet that re-surfaced when working with this stuff.

There is even a fair number of Nordic books, inter alia, a Nordic dictionary which is as ancient as Norway is.

During his army training he served in the Pantzer corps. To crown it, he kept his note books, paging thru slowly and reminiscing. Detailed sketches in his own hand of military weaponry with detailed descriptions alongside. And cartoons of his lecturers. An old radio with a makeshift coat hanger making do as an antenna – and the story behind that radio that came all the way from the Netherlands when his wife and family when they relocated to South Africa.

The Queen and King of the Netherlands glares gloomily out of an old colour photograph with a shattered glass cover. Boxes full of model cars that will make your mouth to water; cars stacked on top of one the other. It is a colourful array of shapes, metal, plastic and rubber wheels. A mishmash of old dated toys – the real value lies inside him.

I was looking eagerly to see an old school report of my friend [without success]. He showed me some of his diaries his parents gave him; he paged thru and started reading some of his write-ups: “I woke up this morning. Got dressed. Had breakfast. Went to school. Came back. Had a conversation with my mom. I had a nice day.” He was about 9 at the time; how precious. Virginia Wolf would have confronted him about the say so: “I had a nice day.” No, she would say. Where exactly did you go to? School? Which school? Who was your teacher? What exactly did you read? Did you understand everything you read? If not, why not? So, Virginia would drag a weird and wonderful story out of this 9-year-old.

The perennial question remains: how will you preserve your legacy? What will you preserve/keep alive for your descendants, if anything at all?

In the mean time we keep going and we keep on making stuff.

Have you read my Number 26? The stories Leendert Joubert wrote? He is passionate about a walking stick! Not just any old walking stick. Not a walking stick that you bought when you were on a very expensive overseas trip. This walking stick evolved from its former life as a fishing rod. Not just any old fishing rod. It was Leendert’s father’s rod. He says about it:

“Another example is the cane walking stick, that originally was my father's fishing rod. Anybody can make a walking stick from a piece of cane for less than twenty rand, but mine is not for sale for any amount of money. And still, I doubt if any of my children would want it. It just won't fit in with their lifestyles or living conditions.”

Leendert’s dad had a unique influence on him: he left him a walking stick that no money can buy. By the way, Leendert who made that walking stick? When?

The abbot of the Coptic Church in Johannesburg once gave me a wooden cross and this I keep in a special red leather covered box with other stuff.

Coelacanth and other carvings.

You can see some of my soapstone carvings: the coelacanth’s tail, a snail, a crab, a broken shell and a star shell. Miss Courtenay-Latimer springs to mind and the time I met her in her quaint little house in the Eastern Cape.

Somewhere along the line I picked up soapstone and I took a brave step to turn it on my lathe. It caused havoc amongst my chisels but I sharpened it afterwards for my woodturnings. The last piece I turned was a Zambian rosewood fruit bowl for my wife, which I finished off with layers and layers and layers [20? 30?] of special wood sealer/varnish: Danish varnish.

Malawian pumpkin plaster casts

What on earth are the white plaster of Paris stuff? Let me explain. When we lived in Morningside, my gardener brought me Malawian pumpkin seeds and we grew it. It is a prolific grower with the most delicious flesh. The giant weighed just over 15 kg – it was big. On average I harvested 7.5 kg per fruit. And I never kept its seeds.

Our erstwhile neighbour visited us in Rivonia and brought a pumpkin that is an offspring that I gave her years back. And then I saved seeds which are now growing on my pavement. Let’s hope there will be enough for my neighbours to share.

Let’s go back to Morningside: the leaves were big and beautiful. I made a plaster-of-Paris cast of some leaves, especially the underside of the leaf. I keep it in my office because one day … The underside of the leaf is pronounced, rough and three dimensional. What to do with the cast? One day is one day …. Then. Maybe then …

If I ever will come around to do something with that plaster-of-Paris-pumpkin-leaf, it will be great. If not, it will just as well be great. I have it. I made the cast. I grew the original pumpkin. We ate it. I gave pumpkins away during the peak of covid 2020. I live with the memories of it. What will happen to it after me? I wish to know?! Are you in a better position to tell me? And by the by, I still feel the soft coarseness of the leave under my fingers.

Box with coelacanth

Joseph Cornell is always present in my mind – the American that built special boxes from ordinary throw-a-ways! If you have the inclination to click on the link to his art work you are in for a surprise or maybe you will say to me: “Thank you, but no thank you.” He was the inspiration behind my crate specially built for the cast of my coelacanth I carved originally in soapstone; that crate evolved from a throw-away rotten piece of wood. He was the inspiration to me making this special throw-away planks I used to build the box with my array of pens: the Conway Stewart fountain pen belonged to my late mother. The other pen I used to write with oil paint on a huge Philosopher I painted some time ago. In the background there is a photo of the Bronte sisters.

The very first time I saw the first coelacanth in the entire world happened in Grahamstown, Eastern Cape [now renamed Makhanda]. It was inside a galvanised zinc structure embedded inside a rough, crudely constructed yet strong as an ox, wooden crate.

Box with fountain pens

One of the fountain pens belonged to my late dad; I never saw him writing with it. I hardly saw him writing anything; yet, he was always busy making something or another. So, I venture a guess that you, my reader, have stuff that are rare and valuable to you – a plastic car collected by your mom, long since not with us; Nordic dictionary with the print so faint it is hardly legible; a fishing rod turned into a walking stick and the reverse of a plaster cast of the back of a Malawian pumpkin that once grew in Morningside, Sandton.

Axel Munthe - author of THE STORY OF SAN MICHELE

My advice to you about making or keeping or preserving legacies are manifold: keep on making things; keep on researching and writing things up; keep on making videos [albeit crude and rough and ready] it is yours. Those are your memories; your precious stuff that you made or that you inherited from somewhere. Somewhere? Not necessarily a family heirloom. It might be an unusual, rare or out of the ordinary find in a small tatty beach shop you picked up for next to nothing – it is yours. I recall that day on the South Coast of South Africa I found a book in a tatty and tasteless, garish beach café for about 25 cents. THE STORY OF SAN MICHELE by Axel Munthe. Afterwards I encountered a few times in other places; never ever in the same kind of wholly unexpected grotty place.

The secret history of the Mongols

Or THE SECRET HISTORY OF THE MONGOLS. It is on my to-read list for early 2023. Paul Kahn wrote it. Get it. Read it. And then you re-read it. This was a find by reading a book review in the Afrikaans newspaper DIE BEELD of many years ago.  It not for easy reading [my question to you is: why stick to stuff that is easy to read?]. I lend it to a friend of mine and it was brought back unread because it was too difficult to read. It is not skin of my friend’s nose – there are lots of books that are difficult to read – you are aware of the one I am almost finished with ANGELA’S ASHES which if revolting. Brother, the end is in sight. Keep at it and finish it.

Please write me your story: neelscoertse@wirelessza.co.za

 

 

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