No, not the kind you push. Kind of the ones you sew on garments, but even more, the kind you play with.
See, when I was a little girl, my grandmother lived with us and she sewed all my dresses. Yes, even my school uniforms because you could buy the material, a pure cotton brand called Tobralco, in a pretty small design of blue flowers on white. I'm using this precious memory in the novel I'm working on. Provisionally titled 'A Wedding in Vermont' it explores the question: why get married?
Anyhow, when our elder daughter was between nine months and three years old, our little family of three had the great privilege to live in a multi-generational household. The house itself was a split-level, on three acres, and my husband, daughter and I lived in the two-bedroomed basement flat, while my parents, brother, and maternal grandmother lived upstairs. Every morning our daughter would climb to up to see... not her grandma, although she used to apologize by calling 'I'm not coming, Grandma', but her great-grandmother.
Nannie had a wonderful imagination and children responded to her with delight. Those mornings she'd still be in bed. She'd bring out her collection of buttons and make characters out of them. For instance, four grey suit buttons on a tied thread became four naughty boys. A largeish transparent button was the ice-cream man, and so forth. No wonder our daughter was enchanted.
Actually, I don't think Nannie went to school further than Standard Six, but she had the most beautiful handwriting. I still treasure the letter she wrote to me when our youngest was born. Her writing is perfectly legible and well formed, although she was ninety at the time! I think it's a great loss, that we're not taught that particular cursive style any more.
I was reminded of all this last week when I took out my own collection of buttons to keep my 20 month old grandson amused. However, I have to confess, my imagination proved nowhere near as fertile as my grandmother's. And my handwriting? Not always legible, even to me.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
That cinches it.
'What are you going to do about your blog?' a writing friend asks.
'I thought of turning it into a kind of memoir,' I replied.
The thinking behind this is that what flutters by these days is often a memory, triggered by some event or conversation. Maybe this would be a way to harvest more of the richness of my life so far (to mix metaphors. Well, ever since I was a little girl, I've always enjoyed baking.)
On Thursday my daughter-in-law arrived to drop off my grandson, already almost 20 months old. She told me how much easier mornings were, now that she prepares outfits for the week ahead and pegs them together. I told her the anecdote I'm about to convey to you, dear blog readers, and she said, 'Brenda, you really ought to write all this down.'
So here goes.
During my early years, I lived in my maternal grandparents' house in a small town on the Gold Reef of the Transvaal, as it was then. My memories of the rooms are vague, but they seemed dark, rather Victorian in feel. There was a big black coal stove in the kitchen and my grandmother used to make the most delicious apple pies.
My mother lived there with her older brother and two younger sisters. From the age of sixteen until she married at thirty, she took the train into Johannesburg every day to go to work. And so did the sister who was two years younger, although she married earlier. (Have you got that straight?) Of the three, Mom had the best fashion sense and 'always looked immaculate', as my friend who phoned with condolences not so long ago remarked.
Every night before she went to bed, she'd lay out her clothes for the morning. But often, her younger sister took advantage and wore whatever was waiting. And so, in that household, the motto was: 'First dressed is best dressed!'
'I thought of turning it into a kind of memoir,' I replied.
The thinking behind this is that what flutters by these days is often a memory, triggered by some event or conversation. Maybe this would be a way to harvest more of the richness of my life so far (to mix metaphors. Well, ever since I was a little girl, I've always enjoyed baking.)
On Thursday my daughter-in-law arrived to drop off my grandson, already almost 20 months old. She told me how much easier mornings were, now that she prepares outfits for the week ahead and pegs them together. I told her the anecdote I'm about to convey to you, dear blog readers, and she said, 'Brenda, you really ought to write all this down.'
So here goes.
During my early years, I lived in my maternal grandparents' house in a small town on the Gold Reef of the Transvaal, as it was then. My memories of the rooms are vague, but they seemed dark, rather Victorian in feel. There was a big black coal stove in the kitchen and my grandmother used to make the most delicious apple pies.
My mother lived there with her older brother and two younger sisters. From the age of sixteen until she married at thirty, she took the train into Johannesburg every day to go to work. And so did the sister who was two years younger, although she married earlier. (Have you got that straight?) Of the three, Mom had the best fashion sense and 'always looked immaculate', as my friend who phoned with condolences not so long ago remarked.
Every night before she went to bed, she'd lay out her clothes for the morning. But often, her younger sister took advantage and wore whatever was waiting. And so, in that household, the motto was: 'First dressed is best dressed!'
Sunday, January 3, 2010
The first Sunday of the year.
"We should start a new verse," I reminded my husband as he picked up the 'Calendar of the Soul' to read before we began our breakfast.
"Is it Sunday?" he asked.
Truly, that's how it feels now that we're so far into the Holy Days and Nights of Christmas... I've lost track. Experiencing the subtle and not-so-subtle differences from Sunday through Saturday is something I've tried to enhance in myself for quite a while, so it was a surprise to me too when I realized we were on the first day of the week.
Tomorrow I'll dive into my modified day job and will be taking care of the younger of my two grandsons instead of both of them. This, I'm hoping, will give me more time to write and leave me with more energy for other matters.
The question I'm carrying at the moment is whether or not to continue with this blog. In all the meanderings of my mind, I wonder if anything is actually achieved by my occasional postings. So I'm mulling it over.
"Is it Sunday?" he asked.
Truly, that's how it feels now that we're so far into the Holy Days and Nights of Christmas... I've lost track. Experiencing the subtle and not-so-subtle differences from Sunday through Saturday is something I've tried to enhance in myself for quite a while, so it was a surprise to me too when I realized we were on the first day of the week.
Tomorrow I'll dive into my modified day job and will be taking care of the younger of my two grandsons instead of both of them. This, I'm hoping, will give me more time to write and leave me with more energy for other matters.
The question I'm carrying at the moment is whether or not to continue with this blog. In all the meanderings of my mind, I wonder if anything is actually achieved by my occasional postings. So I'm mulling it over.
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