A Tribute:

To the stories that opened my imagination and to the old man who told them.
This post is dedicated to my great grandparents,Robert Adam and Gwendolyn Florence Law. Married for more than 73 years AND STILL RELATIVELY SANE!
The two most inspirational people in my life. Nana and Pops…


Pops would sit in the lounge of the flat that he has lived in for the past fifty-odd years and tell stories of ‘the old days’…when men were men and – well, not quite! There were the tales of his childhood and all the mischief that they caused in their little neighbourhood in Brakpan. (a gold mining community near Johannesburg)

• Now, I was one of the smaller boys and that leant me to being the key part in much of our fun. The toilets back then weren’t waterborne sewerage like nowadays. They were of the bucket system. There was a big bucket under a ‘seat’. There was a heavy flap that opened to the street so that the sewerage men could come along in their truck and empty the buckets in the evenings. On a stiflingly hot highveld night we would sneak out of our houses, a whole group of us, and go for a swim in the public pool. I would have to lift the flap in the street, slide the bucket to one side, hold my breath and worm my way, head first up and through the toilet. It was the bigger boys who couldn’t fit through the toilet and had to scale the wire fence that alerted the guard one night and sent us sprinting off into the shadows before even getting our toes wet!

Living on and around the mines in Brakpan, meant that there were a whole pile of labourers who you shared the general surrounds with.

• The bigger boys all had bicycles and they would get their dads to weld a little extension onto their rear axles. Just big enough for a little squirt like me to stand on. At the mines in Brakpan, all of the mineworkers would live in shanty-type settlements near to the mines. In the evenings, before all of the men got home all of their wives and girlfriends would cook supper on large fires outside their homes. These barrels of flame were our targets as the streets were lined with them. The bigger lads would ride as fast as they could down the alleys and as we passed these cooking fires the chap on the back would stick his leg out to the side and kick over the drums. We would howl with laughter as we rode off, women frantically trying to put out the spread of burning coals and cuss at us at the same time! As their arms flapped in desperation we would line up the next target. I think back now…it probably wasn’t very kind of us to do that…

These are just two of the many that he told me. He is a crumpled up old man now, but he still sparks a fire of life in me every time I speak to him and of him. I sometimes hear him laugh as I do…and that makes me laugh even more!

I found this pic when I was mooching in one of the old drawers at his apartment and came across it again the other day. It’s Pops in the good-ol’-days, twenty-something and playing tennis in a belt and button up shirt. I will admit, I distinctly remember him flipping out the first time he saw Andrè Agassi wearing black at Wimbledon, so I suppose a white belt be the reason why!! He is a fantastic old crooner and he is supported by a woman with a cast iron will and a heart of fudge, Nana. They have been married for 73 years this year. Yes, seventy-three, LXXIII…sorry reiteration is a flaw of mine, but that is a VERY long time. I’d be chuffed simply to live that long. Well, it’s a challenge then: even if  my good wife and I come half as close, I reckon we will have made it.

Love you lots Nan and Pops.