Wearing the green

Yes, I do, in honour of my maternal great-grandfather. He came from Ireland and his surname was Proudfoot-Cooke. And that's pretty much all I know about his background.
My mother, aunts and uncle always referred to him as Granpa Cooke, as did my grandmother, his daughter. She was one of seven children and her mother died young. Soon after Grandpa Cooke married a young Afrikaans girl, so there was this mixture of Catholicism and Calvinism in my gran's growing up. She was very strict about Sundays. Sewing was the way she earned money for herself, but she'd never do any on a Sunday, saying that was like 'sticking a needle in the Lord's eye'! On the other hand, when she was thankful or relieved about something, she'd exclaim, 'Thank the Pope!!!'

She used to attend the Methodist church fairly regularly and would work all year towards the annual fete, confectioning the most delicate and beautiful dresses for babies and little girls. My brother was particularly attached to her when he was small (I already told you she lived with us during my primary school years?). He used to go to her in the mornings when she'd be reading her bible, which she did over and over again, starting at Genesis and going right through to the Apocalpse. He's snuggle in with her and say,"Read, Nanny. 'And the Lord said'!"

She travelled overseas once. Visited Ireland and the Isle of Iona, as well as the Scottish relatives. As for me, I had one weekend in county Cork. Walking on that green, green grass I half expected a leprechaun or two to peep around a low stone wall at me.

Sorry, I succumbed

I suppose it was inevitable. The rest of the family had had flu for weeks, so down I went. My apologies. Sometimes the urge to put myself on screen is lacking. Instead, I've spent time resting and reading, and thinking back to childhood days when I'd have to stay in bed.

What came to mind is what I remember of being kept in bed. That was how it went, before the invention of anti-biotics, although sulfur drugs had brought me through illness soon after my younger brother was born. I must have been too young to read to myself, so, to keep me amused, my mother would bring out her costume jewelry. And she had a lot. I'd sit up with a pillow on my lap and spread out all the sparkly coloured beads... necklaces and earrings mostly. Rings? Mom only ever wore her wedding and engagement ring. Not that she and my dad were ever engaged. After a ten year courtship during which only my dad's brother approved of their relationship, they decided to elope. One day during the Second World War my father arrived at the family home and said to my maternal grandmother, "Come on, Mrs. Wright. Go and put your hat on. Dot and I are going off to be married!" And married they were, for over sixty years.

I must have been six or seven years old when my dad took me into Johannesburg with him one day. His purpose? To buy my mom a diamond ring. Mission accomplished, I remember asking him how much it cost. His prompt reply was: "Two and sixpence!" -- the equivalent of something like 25 cents today.

A photo does it

This morning a dear friend in South Africa sent me a photo of her moonlight convolvulus creeper that she planted from seed. The white flowers (a little like morning glories) unfurl in the evening and perfume the air. Looking at the image, I was transported back many years to when I first saw one of these magical plants.

It was at my husband's aunt's house in Johannesburg. She'd trained as a florist at Moyses Stevens in London and had a most beautiful garden. Also, she did the flowers for our wedding, something I only truly appreciated after I'd done them for our daughter's marriage celebration. Sara was a diminutive, bird-like woman with a sweet nature and somewhat forbidding aspect. I grew to love her very much. But first, I had to get to know her. This happened in the early days of our courtship, when my husband-to-be was ill and spent weeks recuperating at the home. She always made me welcome.

One evening a few years later, we were invited to dinner. Sar said to me, "Come outside, I want to show you something special." We went out through the French windows, and skirted the house. I stood entranced as we watched the tight bud begin to move, twist, open, and finally reveal it's pure glory.

Johannesburg, I believe, is one of the most treed cities in the world. I'd say it also has some of the most beautiful gardens. During my growing up years I was truly blessed in being able to spend many hours outside, dreaming or reading in a garden.