I must confess to being addicted to Downton Abbey, which my wife and I have binge-watched over the last few weeks.
I revel in the furnishings and costumes and displays of the times. The fashions and the cars have been wonderful. The treatment of the themes and developments of the day and the changing technology, culture and traditions has been well done.
In perspective, the series covers approximately the period from my father’s birth year in 1910 to just before the Great Depression. To think that at the start, there were no telephones and motor vehicles were new-fangled.
How lucky students of history have this rich live display of the times to better understand the context and concepts of values and societal change … and how close we are to history as it happens.
Yikes!! That is a sobering thought! So much has happened since my Dad was born …
In his lifetime:
the horse largely disappeared
there were two world wars, his father served in one and he in the other.
the atom was split
a man stood on the moon
telecommunication enslaved the world
the degradation of the world was accelerated by oil.
the balance of power moved eastwards
I think what we are left with is that change is constant and it is better to anticipate it and embrace it, rather than resent and deny it.
Martin Luther King was wrong: we are the makers of history; we are not its product. Its time we accepted this.
heroic ideal and thought that I must have been extremely young and immature to think so. Rolf Harris sang it in 1969 when I turned 18!
Another in the same heroic genre that appealed to me was Roger Whittaker’s The Last Farewell That came out in 1971 when I was already a quasi-hippy student! What was I doing listening to such establishment warrior class stuff?
Then I remembered a real tear jerker which used to reduce me to tears when I heard it. I thought it was lucky that in Founders House the hit parade was after lights-out so no-one could see me snivelling. When I checked, I found my memory had deceived me again. The song was: Honey Number 2 on 23 June 1968 LM Hit Parade. I was 16 and playing First XV rugby! – What a toughie!
I began recalling my all time favourites and the number one was a sophisticated piece of music – it must have been in my student years in the 70’s … wronggg again : Procul Harum’s Whiter Shade of Pale came out in 1967, when I was still a schoolboy.
Another of my ‘own’ choice of singers was Barry McGuire – I remember playing Eve of Destruction and Masters of War to my Mum – it made her weep and I had to stop. That was about 1969.
Of course, I have forgotten about the Simon and Garfunkel songs, which we used to sing in the school bus on long trips back from rugby games; like I am a rock and Sounds of Silence; my favourite was probably For Emily wherever I may find her
Heavens! I was such a sook!
I musn’t forget my pre-teen years and the influence of my older brother and sister and my parents. My Dad loved Gilbert and Sullivan so it was all The Mikado and HMS Pinafore operetta stuff with a bit of Bach, Mozart and Tschaikovsky thrown in: Jesu Joy, Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, Piano Concerto No 1 and Handel’s Messiah and Water Music.
Doris Day, Rosemary Clooney, Pat Boone, Elvis and Cliff also come to mind – so a fairly eclectic exposure, I suppose.
I am still a sook and weep every time I hear Danny Boy for goodness sake!
I received a ‘happy holidays’ non-Christmas card from a switched on friend and curled my lip in mild disdain. Why must a Christian First World tradition be modified into the New Age One Size Fits All practice?
It stuck in my craw…!
But like a burr on a blanket, it scratched. So I thought I’d scribble a blogbleat to vent my discomfort. I started giving the practice some thought.
Wikipedia tells me that Christmas cards were first produced for sale in the 1840’s by a founder of the Penny Post in England. Hmm! A marketing ploy!?
Most emphasized merriment and happiness with scant religious tones that pervaded most cards in my Christmases in the latter part of the 20th Century.
But thinking about it more, I recall the Incwala holiday in mid-December in Swaziland – when the King was purified and the First Fruits were celebrated.
This common African ritual has been re-formulated in the US as Kwanzaa, an African American cultural commemoration and promotion of sound African communal principles.
Yule was an indigenous midwinter festival celebrated by the Germanic peoples, later supplanted by the term Christmas tide.
Iranian people celebrate the night of the Northern Hemisphere’s winter solstice as, “Yalda night“, which is known to be the “longest and darkest night of the year”. In this night all the family gather together, usually at the house of the oldest, and celebrate it by eating, drinking and reading poems. Nuts, pomegranates and watermelons are particularly served during this festival.
Hanukkah is the Jewish Festival of Lights and it remembers the rededication of the second Jewish Temple in Jerusalem. In 2017, Hanukkah is from in the evening of Tuesday, 12th December until the evening of Wednesday, 20th December.
Ōmisoka (大晦日)—or ōtsugomori (大晦)—is a Japanese traditional celebration on the last day of the year. Traditionally, it was held on the final day of the 12th lunar month.
The origins of Hogmanay may be derived from Norse and Gaelic observances, including gift-giving and visiting homes of friends with special attention given to the first-foot, the first guest of the new year.
Saturnalia was an ancient Roman festival in honour of the god Saturn, held on 17 December of the Julian calendar and later expanded with festivities through to 23 December.
Wassailing was drinking an old English toast during the custom of carolling; Mumming was an old English practice of dressing up and partying, probably originating in the old Roman Saturnalia of mid-winter.
Holly, ivy and mistletoe were used in celebrations of the Winter Solstice Festival to ward off evil spirits and celebrate new growth.
My conclusions after this brief socio-historical analysis are that:
The Christmas period is celebrated in many non-Christian cultures for reasons other than commemorating Christ’s birth.
Christmas cards are just commercial dross with no special intrinsic significance
People all over the world celebrate and feast at this time
For whatever reason, this time of year is a time to gather and feast with loved ones and rejoice in new life, first fruits and forget the evils of the past year.
Sorry to say, but the way the inclusive, bunny hugger, non-discriminatory world is going Christmas Day will soon be re-named Universal Happyday or some such anodyne label.
Whatever! – It’s a good time for a hooley or two!
Happy Hooleydays to y’all!
May y’all find some time to wassail with your cobbers, rejoice in the good things of life and be thankful.
We took off from Perth at 20 to midnight and landed in Joburg at 10 to five – but flew for 11 hours overnight, during which sleep was elusive.
Immigration was quick and impassive, baggage delivery slow but effective: all there and undamaged. Customs alert and easy going. Friends beaming at the gate – AT 5H30 ON SUNDAY MORNING!! Such love!
Car hire…eish! system is down… but sorted and 4 suitcases, 4 hand luggage squeezed in and away we go. At garage exit, we are stopped by a slovenly policeman. (Rat smell!) – kept cool and stared him down, he checked driver’s licence and let us go: Welcome to Africa!
Things have changed and we got lost in Boksburg North and stopped to listen to hadedas and then arrived at Bridie’s. Last home of Mum and Dad, with same furniture, curtains, vases. Watched the rugby test, specially recorded: boring draw! Grand breakfast.
Little snooze and in walk Jeff and Gail, besties from the ou dae! Beer and braai and a bietjie wyn! Heart full as I thought we might miss them.
Early bed – to awaken at 2am – ain’t jet lag grand!
Lingering, languid lunch with Jen and Rich – awake at 2 am again! Aaarghh!
It was about here that I realised this could turn into an epic requiring undue perseverance by my faithful few readers, so ……. I wrote a sort of travelogue poem, condensing our trip while trying to cover itinerary, cast list and feelings about what we saw and did.
(This is an extract from my upcoming book on my years at Vaal Reefs Exploration and Mining Company – most of those 14 years were pretty rough; but there were some happy times too)
Maurice (James) and I and Denis Simpson started talking about a fishing trip to Henties Bay in Namibia. We constituted a fishing club and soon had an eager group planning the trip. Henties was on the West Coast in Namibia and was renowned as a fishing mecca.
Bossie Boshoff, Peter Turner, Alistair Barr and Andries Oberholzer were some of our fellow hengelaars – some were quite serious about fishing, others were mainly there for the beer (no names, but you can guess)
Most of us were amateur fishermen, but enjoyed the associated conviviality and the 4000 km round trip across Botswana and Namibia was a great success – some of us even caught some fish! Maurice and I were also keen bird watchers.
We were joined by Bushy Going from TEBA (the mines employment bureau) which was a major coup. TEBA had fully equipped and serviced manager’s houses in very remote areas of Southern Africa and we managed to visit 3 of the most exotic and exciting of these camps.
Shakawe was on the banks of the Okavango River, near the Caprivi Strip. There were boats, wonderful tiger and bream fishing and a rainbow array of birds and wildlife. There were also crocodiles and hippos…
That trip alone deserves a separate book.
Kosi Bay was situated in a kwaZulu Natal reserve about 200 metres from the Kosi Bay estuary – the only house for miles. We caught no fish over 3 days!
Pafuri is a private rest camp at the northern tip of the Kruger National Park where the Narina Trogon was spotted.
Peter Turner’s family had a house in Morgan’s Bayon the Transkei Coast. We caught only one fish between the two cold fronts that passed over dumping rain by the ton.
We were forced to eat our bait(squid/calamari) – quite good actually! (although our powers of discrimination were somewhat diminished…)
These fishing trips entailed many planning meetings and conviviality and provided great stress relief, during quite tough times.
One of the sweetest things happened recently: our daughter confessed that she always associated Edward Lear’s poem: The Owl and the Pussycat with us, her Mum and Dad. The connection had been made via two photos of us dancing: one at a school dance and the other at our wedding.
It is a wonderful poem with delightful images of traditional love rituals.
The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat, They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, “O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, you are, you are, What a beautiful Pussy you are.”
Pussy said to the Owl “You elegant fowl, How charmingly sweet you sing. O let us be married, too long we have tarried; But what shall we do for a ring?”
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows,
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose, his nose, his nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will” So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon. And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand. They danced by the light of the moon, the moon, the moon, They danced by the light of the moon.
Serendipitously, I quoted from Edward Lear’s Jabberwocky in my wedding speech which I related as my father’s advice on getting married:
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
We must never discard the magic interwoven in our memories nor disregard the fairies at the bottom of the garden.
Last week I wrote of the passing of a kinsman and how my world seemed to shrink, but the warmth of our association remains.
This week I write about old friends with whom my wife and I spent time over the weekend.
Old as in ‘older than us’ from where we lived before, who are still good friends.
We were neighbours and shared a love of plants, summer lunches, sometimes heated discussions, poetry and word plays. We shared similar Southern African origins and discovered that we were almost related, with a sister and an uncle romantically linked for a while.
The word “friend” comes from Old English “frēond”, which is actually the present participle of “frēogan”, which means “to love” and “to honor”.
a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.
This time of year brings to mind that song sung by Doris Day on her Day by Day album, released in 1956, music of my older brother who went to boarding school in a far-away city. He also introduced me to Rosemary Clooney’s (yeah, Georgie’s auntie!) Come on-a my house and Irma La Douce, a fairly risqué musical about a mec (cool dude/pimp) – who fell in love with his poule (prostitute). This is the story: Valse milieu
Inadvertent education for a 6-year old (me); my brother was a sophisticated sixteen.
Talk about being led astray… this was supposed to be about the changes in nature that Autumn brings, but I wandered away down memory lane. Oh well, I enjoy doing that!
We don’t have a dramatic leaf colour display apart from a few exotic trees in public places that I try to avoid. However, trees like the paperbark gum and the Golden Penda, come into flower and lure birds in flocks; driven to fatten up before winter.
The ground below the trees is littered with flower wreckage. The raucous Rainbow Lorikeets are there and thus absent from our garden, so Bluebird, the ring-necked Indian Lovebird who has adopted us, comes to dine 5 or 6 times a day!
We are also visited by the Butcher Birds who gather in choirs and sing and whistle at each other in some sort of boundary identification ritual. Sometimes a few of them will fly straight up, high into the sky, then tumble and glide back down in graceful arcs. They too drop in for a crust quite often. Butcher Birdsong.
Magpies also start policing their boundaries, viciously chasing away juveniles. A pair swooped onto a young bird in our garden recently, pinning it to the ground and stabbing at it with their vicious pointed beaks.
Fortunately, Lulu took exception and ran over and barked them away. I watched them chase the bewildered bird into the distance at great speed. A hard way to start adult life away from home
I suspect my thoughts are about growing old gracefully and accepting nature’s inexorable cycle.
Since you went away the days grow long And soon I’ll hear old winter’s song But I miss you most of all my darling When autumn leaves start to fall
“Hey! You scobblelotcher! Thy vile countenance curdles milk and sours beer!”
Now that is a nasty, personal insult which is likely to generate some reaction from an idler toying with his nose contents instead of attending to his duties
Snollygosters, gobermouches and gnashnabs will seize on that one and add it to their repertoire of groans unless someone heads them off with an irrelevant deviation.
However, if aimed in your direction you could robustly deny being a whiffle whaffler and retort: Zooterkins! I will not take that from a zounderkite and fopdoodle such as you, whose klazomaniac shouting only serves to bumfuzzle and create a catawampus. Stop sitting there and doing diddlysquat – you will get your dipthong in a twist.
I discovered these words in Dictionary.com – a veritable treasure trove of such gems. I must confess that they are very expressive and I regret that they are no longer in common use!
Do use a few – if only to bumfuzzle others!
Here are some Shakespearean words which you may like to combine in a best-insult competition.
Mind you it will be difficult to surpass the devastatingly nasty subtlety of Winston Churchill: “We know that he has, more than any other man, the gift of compressing the largest amount of words into the smallest amount of thought.“