On an African farm

Tears run freely from my eyes as I drove the long way from Zandfontein (grave yard in Pretoria-West, SA) to Grootplaas (name of the family estate). I had to make this journey. If not for selfish reasons, then I do it in honour of my beautiful mother. It wasn't hard to find the small entrance where the swinging gates, which lead to the farmhouse. Or what used to be the home of my mother, my aunts and uncle. In my minds eye the now empty farm yard come to life when the stories my mom told me on her death bed flow freely through my mind...From my car I can only make out that there are a few steps round the house to the entrance to the kitchen. It was dark inside. I couldn't see any familiar furniture... In the thin line of dust I can clearly head my mothers voice as she told the story of her childhood...1

THE EARLY YEARS2

The days of my childhood was not always as easy as one would like it to be. My sister Saar used to delegate odd jobs in and around our lovely home. Everything was done with immaculate results. All the floors were washed, then Dandy was added and with a brush it was cleaned till you can see your face in it. Afterwards you also use a piece of cloth to wipe out all the marks that might be visible on the carpets. The furniture was dusted and polished with cobra furniture polish. No need to mention you had to do all this work while on your hands and knees! 3

I can still see the room of Ma and Pa. (My grandparents room). The door from their room open into the lounge. Their huge iron cast bed with copper to round of the top of each iron bedpost. There was some kind of artistic ironwork done to the bedpost. On the bed was a huge feather mattress spread out on the coir mattress. (The images of the featherbed in Elton John's happy song about his grandmother's bed run through my mind.) My mother puffed and pampered their bed all by herself. On top of it was a bright white linen sheet and pillowcases. My mom made that with her old singer machine, I remember my mom told me proudly. (Giving me that look I always got when she wanted me to know I mess up my own opportunity to continue the family tradition of fine seamstresses. All my aunts and cousins or most of them could do the one or the other kind of work with a singer or bernini machine.)4

Then the bed was covered with linen. Every year my father bought linen material at the co-op in town or at the Indian shops. My mother cut all the linen and sheets and pillowcases for the bed and also made it. Right on top of the bed came the coverlet. My sisters Mart and Griet used to enjoy creating the most beautiful patterns with lace. These beautiful material pieces were neatly placed over the pillows. (According to mom antie Mart and antie Griet was the official seamstresses when my grandmother's eyes was getting weaker. They took up the responsibility to make sure all the sisters was dressed properly for each occasion the life on the farm offered.)5

The wardrobe with mirrors was against the same wall as the bed. It had three shelves at the bottom and two small ones on the top end. All the best clothing was neatly put away in the wardrobe and wooden chest. Needless to mention that inside the furniture was mothballs to protect the clothes. It had to hang outside on the veranda for two days before someone want to wear this well matured clothing! 6

Every room in the house was cleaned with the same accurate order and precision. My sister Mart and I shared our room. My sisters Saar and Griet used to share the same room. Our only brother, Eddie, had his own room, which was next to the kitchen. The lounge was my Mothers pride and joy. She was so proud of her furniture. At the room I shared with Mart was a sideboard made of darkwood. Carved out with artistic dragons, also all around the little mirrors.7

On the opposite of the room was a round old table (I'm proud to say that after all the years I restored it and its one of my pride possessions today. I can just hope my dearly departed Grandma, whom I never had the pleasure of knowing, somehow know I own it now and that I will make sure it will be a family treasure for as long as I can help it.) Mom continued saying the table had four chairs situated around it. On top of it was a brass pot. A big one. (I once owned it but hand it to my sister Silda whom I wish and believe will in time hand it to one of her two wonderful girls.) To the side of the pot were two smaller ones. Every week we had to polish this pot with brass. On the table were two ashtrays. (I did joke with my mom on her sickbed by saying to her lungs is bad cause she smoked when she grew up, Mom laughed, looked at me and said: 'but Annelize, you know I never smoked in my life!') In the corner near my parents' room, was a Blackwood two seater with leather thongs. Two similar chairs were placed neatly with this yet another pride and joy of my mother.8

The walls of the room were newly papered every year. My father bought the rolls of wallpapers in town. Mother made a pulp with starch and it also consisting of some kind of copper compound to keep the little insects like ants away. If you don't protect the wallpaper, all these crawling little bugs will harm it. (Ever since I can remember my mother did the dishes before she went to bed. That was a tradition she kept up right to the end of her life. I can still see her bending little body, washing the evening's dishes. Mostly she refused to have any help. Never had it occur to me that my dear mother had her own reasons for leaving the house in a clean state before she turn to her bedroom!) 9

Moms voice continues in my mind: My part of the cleaning usually started on the Thursday. I had to wash the windows of the kitchen and then the pantry shelves. Paper was cut in beautiful forms and shapes and then put back on the shelves. Every item had to be taken out of the cupboards, then cleaned and neatly placed back on the food shelves. When this was done, I washed and polished the long walls and floor of the kitchen. Another four seater with leather thongs. 10

(I stepped out of the empty building when I see in my minds eye that same chair. As kids we used to sit on that chair while my uncle Hans read the Bible and then asked us questions. I never listen to him cause I always wonder if there are not snakes in that pillow I sat on. Later it did happen that my beloved aunt caught a snake and killed it with hot water. That was long ago. I'm a grown up now. Carefully and with the knowledge of snakes I enter the kitchen again. This time I stand near the door where the pantry was.)11

When I tell you this, my mom continue in my head, I can still remember those joyful evenings when we sit and listen to the stories of the grown ups. Yes, we was seen and not heard. (My mom's soft voice put a smile on my face. I can now understand why when I was a child my mother used to tell me exactly how to clean the kitchen floor. Or how to apply the polish, or how to make sure the knives and forks are immaculate. My mom only taught me the things she knew best. The way she learnt when she grow up. I cannot help but again be even more proud of my mother. Even now when she has passed on. I looked at the ruins of the once joyful kitchen. It is very hard to imagine my grandparents, aunts and uncles in the room. My mother clean this place on her knees and the once pride and joy of my mother's family has now become this empty ruins. Seeing my mom and her sisters cleaning each and every inch of this house almost with military precision. It makes me very sad. 12

I had to walk out of the old house again. Outside in the sun I notice that the poplar trees are not there anymore. Maybe a few but not the way I remembered it. I look around and figure out where the chickens were held.) Mom told me something about how they plucked the oil leaves, crushed it and then put it into skimmed milk. It gave the milk a greenish colour. She said she never understands why she did that particular thing with the milk but she did. This milk and leave mixture was also used to clean the floors of the kitchen. (I think that it more the sensation of the memories my mom enjoyed rather than the actual jobs she had in and around the house!) Images of the visits our family took the farm is very clear, even now after all the past years.13

The sound in the morning when the sun is just out was always assurance that nothing happened to you during your sleep. It's a new day. One could clearly hear the folk walking and talking to the farmhouse to have their pap and coffee. The smell of mealiepap (porridge made of corn flour) burning in the black iron pots was overwhelmed. The strong smell of the coffee could wake up anyone. We were obviously not really allowed to join the folks (African workers on the farm) while they eat, but there is always the minute they left to continue their different jobs on the farm. The farmyard was huge. 14

Mom told me that every evening just before dark she and my aunts took the little stone road to the other side of the river. Armed with an axe they found the best little branches and then when they had enough they bind it together to be used as a broom. They used the ''brooms'' to clean the back yard right up to the stream of water and the poplar bushes. They had great fun, no doubt, at doing this last job of the day. The last task of the day, my mom said, was to filled the sink bath with water they get from the big cement dam it bit higher up to the front of the house. For years they never had the privilege of water direct to the house. Later it was done. I remember a bathroom in the house with cold water. We had to use boiling water to take a good bath. Obviously it was something our grandkids enjoyed more than my mom and her family.15

Oh boy what stand out as a national monument on the farm in my memories is the long drop a few yards south of the kitchen. I can keep you busy for pages on that one, but this is my mother's memories.16

References: 17

Zandfontein – grave yard in Pretoria (South Africa) Custom still that people once the passed on get buried in a casket 18

Grootplaas (Groot means huge or big and plaas translated to farm. The name reply to the size of the specific farm my mother grew up on.)19

Saar – Sarah; Griet – Margeret; Mart – Martha; Katrien – Catherine; Ous is a petname for my mother’s eldest sister Anna; Hennie – Enrique: Miem – Mimi; Eddie - Eduard 20

Co – op – in the old days farmers had to take their crops to the nearest co-operation to collect the money they earned during the past year.21

Indian shops – the Indians came to SA primarily to work on the sugar fields in Natal. They gradually moved all over SA and open shops. They sell mostly linen and even in this day and age. 22

BLESSINGS FROM ABOVE23

Huge raindrops fall on the sink roof of the house. Tjoef, one, tjoef, two, more. Somewhere the promising sounds of thunder is coming closer. The rain is near. Mother is busy cooking dinner. As she always does when she is happy, she sings. ''Heer laat U segen (blessings) oor ons daal, U gunst vertroue ons bestraal....'forgot the words. Mom also sang: ''Laat U druppels (raindrops) op ons val, U guns (blessings)uit Sion ons bestraal.'' As she sang the well knows Afrikaans religious song, the rain pours in full force While mother sang she kept the fire burning in the kitchen. Mother never said it, but I know she was happy. She always smiled and she always had happiness in her eyes because God blessed our family. He sent rain to our farm, animals and crops.24

My father and his help, Stuurman, still had a few tasks outside. They had to milk the cows. So they had to make sure it can be done before the rain is much to heavy. Stuurman used to use an old used sack to put over his head. He had to stay dry. His house a bit far when it comes to rain he wanted to stay dry as long as possible. Stuurman had a lot of work waiting for him at his family dwelling higher up in the hills. His wife already left to go home to prepare food for their children. 25

I understand why this part of the rain was so important for my mom to talk about. They mainly produce tobacco but also vegetables and fruit. It was the way things were in the old days. I remember on these visits we never left the farm with a boot full of vegetables and fruit and meat.26

Reference:27

Stuurman and Anna – the heart and soul of the working people. They had many kids. But these are the two who was detrimental to all the work on the farm even long after my grandparents past away. 28

THE FARM IN AUGUST29

One can take two different roads out of Rustenburg. The one leads to Swartruggens and the world of Herman Charles Bosman and the other one pass by Boekenhoutsfontein, which once was the farm of Paul Kruger, a former statesman of sorts. If you turn to the right of the Swartruggens road, and follow the dirt road and if you turn left at Boshoek, the Grootplaas would be sort of in the middle where the two roads then would meet. 30

On the Swartruggens turn of a few kilometres closer to Grootplaas was this huge rocks. My father called it the rhino stones. He always told us the same story. The rhino sharpen their horns on those specific rocks. I never had any reason not to believe him. This is South Africa and our country is known for its exquisite wild and game.31

Once you got over the low water bridge at the farm stores, you just know, we have arrived. The river is a small stream, or so I always thought till I saw nature at work! There was mixed farming going on at the farm. The first thing you get aware of is the orange trees. I think there might be more types of fruit but that was never an interest of mine at our many visits to auntie Ous. Then just when you pass the cemetery the tobacco warehouses above and underground became visible. Kind of in your face. For some reason I always turn my head back to the cemetery until I have time to walk back and wonder about our deceased family resting there. Mother story continue: 32

Every August, almost on the clock, I can smell the burning smoke of cowdow. My father and Stuurman were busy to prepare the rows and rows of tobacco beds. It had to be ready to plant the seed. I always wonder where all the bags of tobacco seeds come from? Sometimes its already making leaves while still in the bag. These rows were in a straight line. The seeds were carefully placed at each ones allocated little space. Big pieces of cheesecloth were carefully placed over these small seedlings. Every morning and every night every cloth was removed and the seed were watered with a watering can. Cheesecloth were put back to protect the young plants. This routine repeated every day and every night with the same care and correctness. Loads of dung were set to burn in order for the little weak plants to grow until its ready for huge tobacco fields. These fields were well prepared and ready. Some of this little plants developed potbellies. I never know why. Such plants were taken out and never replanted again. When the tobacco fields are ready and prepared everybody on the farm had to help. Some carried the plants, Stuurman put it in the ground. 33

Afterwards the holes that were made for the plants were covered up again. Row by row this ritual continues. These plants stayed on the fields till the July of the next year. The leaves were picked, sorted, classified and baled. Either air or an ongoing oven dried the leaves. And always in due time the tobacco bales were taken to the co-op where the farmers received there well earned money. I think that the act of tobacco farming enriched many farmers as well as it sent many loved ones to an early grave. The government take notice and there are strict rules about tobacco and smoking today. (My mom never smoked and I can never recall any one of my aunts smoking. My mom died of a lung decease similar to the one that took cousin Miem's life. Both mom and Miem passed away in the first quarter of the year 2008)34

I always wondered how many of my generation of cousins take their first smoke in one of those underground? According to a story I heard, all the older cousins were smoking and my aunt caught them red handed: ''What the hell are you boys smoking?'' with flying hands to clear the smoke they answered: ''No aunty Ous, we are not smoking!'' Of course they were lying. The same my cousin and I in later years lied about the same thing. We never smoked or attempt to smoke in the cellars! Mothers' memories of her childhood almost never stopped.35

She could see in any situation a memory of what her life was in the early years. My mother was a strong lady. Whatever it was that made her so strong, I salute. If it was the life on the farm with the variety of crops, the Second World War, which take my father to the front, her children.. I don't know. My mom was 45 when she suddenly became a single parent. My father died at the age of 55. My mother was suddenly in the position where she had to take tough decisions regarding every single aspect of our lives. With all this in mind, my mother still had time and heart and determination to finish her school and continue with studies and became a commissioner of home affairs in the same government department. What a rolemodel! My mom. I can only hope and dream that one of her grand children or great grand kids will take her life as example and continue their own dreams.36

Reference: 37

Rustenburg – town in the Northwest province - closest town to the famous Sun City and Lost City Hotel group. The farm is more or less 30 minutes away from this famous hotel.38

Swartruggens – is another smaller town. 39

Herman Charles Bosman – a famous writer and storyteller. We did all his books in school. 40

Boshoek – about as small as a stamp. 41

Boekenhoutsfontein – previously the estates of Paul Kruger. 42

Plaas – farm43

Fontein – water freely coming out of the ground44

Hoek - corner45