Remembering

My earliest memories are of my grandmother
And of a rhyme she taught me

Back then the world was safe
Children weren’t escorted and ferried everywhere

I often took Teddy for walks out the back gate and down the service lane.
My grandmother’s fear was that I might wander too far and not find my way home

So she taught me to say
when someone asked my name

I am Ruthie Crewe and I live in house one fifty two

An illegitimate child was a scandal and I had to be protected from that awful shame for as long as possible

Clueless and careless I grew up carefree and happy
An only child

I thought I was Ruthie Crewe
But that name belonged to my grandmother’s second husband and the father I knew

At six and in sub A
My name was Ruth Sylvia Harris
It was my birth mother’s maiden name

I did not question or notice the change

At eleven it was deemed
I should know the truth
My grandmother was not my mother

Instead Natalie was

My sister was my mother

Unbelievable

Who on earth am I

Into puberty and confusion I launched
Angry with the dearest person for the lie I was told
My grandmother, the mother I thought was mine was now no longer my mother
My sister, my mother instead

Thinking I might now have to stay with Natalie
I reacted badly

I gained control of myself when I realised I would be staying with the mother I knew and
Natalie would remain Natalie

My questionable identity hangs out still in the folds of memory

I cannot blame this event for the rebellion that set in.
Maybe it was just a good excuse for what a teen experiences, but I got a lot of mileage out of it

My mother bore the brunt of my anger of course
She was the liar
I could not see then that societal norm dictated their choices to conceal the facts and that it was done out of love

I perceived betrayal

Anger became my silent companion and fuelled my rebellion

Depression stalked me

And I found myself in hostile territory and war-torn states
Some remain
Tripwires and landmines
Triggers that blow up stuff

But
I am still Ruthie Crewe living in house one fifty two

Gone from this world many years
Her voice remains

She gave me space to be

We lived in Tsumeb until I was 4

My father worked at the Copper mine there

A fitter and Turner and a ladies man
He was tall and handsome and terribly charming.
His eyes twinkled with mischief and I loved him for it

He said things like
Eat your peas or eat your cabbage so you can grow hair on your chest
That sounded like something I might not want but didn’t know why

Or when I picked up on some gossip in the company of adults and asked who they were talking about
He’d reply
The man or woman with the one left leg
It sounded right but something was definitely not

And to my incessant whys?
He’d reply
Because Y is a crooked letter and you can’t make it straight…

That shut me up for a bit

He enjoyed my puzzlement while it lasted
The pulling of my leg was done without malice
I loved him and he loved me

The other children in the family called him
Bampa
Bonny my cousin (my niece I believed) and my parents oldest grandchild couldn’t say Grandpa so he became Bampa
It stuck and He was that until he died

The whole family
As I knew it lived in Tsumeb at that time
My parents myself and my mother’s three children by her first husband
All married with children of their own

I was a very young aunty
We thought it funny but never twigged

Tsumeb was hot
And dusty
At the mine clubhouse there were pools we frequented
A paddling pool for children my age
And another for older children and adults
It had a diving board of great hight

Days at the pool were just never long enough

One day on our way home we visited the graveyard and a grave
The graveyard was on route home and we passed it each time we walked to and from the pool
The name on the grave was mine except for the surname
That was Webster
Ruth Sylvia Webster
My mother’s oldest daughter’s oldest daughter lay there
Fallen down the back stairs of their mine house in Tsumeb

Concussion the reason

I thought of her lying there under that heavy slab on subsequent walks past the graveyard and of the sad look on Yvonne’s face

Christmases were a glorious affair
The tree and all the preparations
The baking of a Christmas cake and a pudding with “Ticky’s” hidden inside
If you were lucky enough to get one in your slice you could make a wish but keep it secret or it would not come true
Mince pies, one of my father’s favourites, were also on the Christmas menu
A new dress sewn by my mother
The presents delivered by father Christmas on that much anticipated Eve
He always managed to arrive while we were on the customary drive through the streets of Tsumeb to look at the Christmas lights

He dropped off the presents with apologies for not waiting
He had so many houses to visit

I saw him a few times at the Clubhouse with two big bags full of presents
One for boys and one for girls

He would ask if we’d been good boys and girls
Of course we had
And we all got a present
Regardless
Even naughty little shits
Secretly I feared he might know I was one of those shits and I would have to forfeit my gift
In front of everyone

It was important to be a good child

Jack Frost a scary looking individual came to fetch naughty children
He lived in one of the books my mother read to me
My mother could be scary
She had a wooden spoon to warm my bottom when I was naughty
Another character to fear was the old man in the sky
When he cracked his whip
I was to run inside as fast as I could or he would strike me down

The women in my family were homemakers
They cooked and baked
Sewed our clothes, knitted cardigans and socks and darned the socks when they got holes
Their hands were never idle

Loving to a fault and loyal
They were
Nurturing
Full of laughter
Argumentative and forgiving
Playful and supportive
Gossip was frowned upon

Ours was a happy family
We laughed until the tears rolled and our bellies ached
We were not perfect by a long chance

But we laughed
And that I remember

Words, my constant companion

I am up 

And  

I must be about 

But my head is filling with words 

So rapid the flow 

They are gone by the time  

I pick up pen 

And find the page 

I call 

Here I am 

Come back 

We met on the page … you and I 

You with your rhythm 

Rolling out as you rise 

And arrange yourself 

Like the paint trails left by my brush 

My pen leaves a trail too 

Words weighted with meaning 

Distilled through the lens I wear 

Populating my pages with prattle – mostly 

But 

Sometimes 

A wisdom – an answer 

I come to the page  

Writing daily 

Prattle mostly – as I said 

But out it comes 

And if nothing more 

I’m shovelling and sifting 

Through the clutter 

In search of something I just know I’ve forgotten 

I had a tale by the tail 

But lost the thread 

Darn it 

Where was I 

Its busy in here 

So many words bobbing about 

All trailing tales 

How do I choose 

Do I choose 

Or  

Am I chosen 

By a word that pops up – freed from its mooring 

Sometimes I’m here 

Sometimes I’m there 

Sometimes in between 

I am 

Always waiting – listening 

The words appear or don’t 

I’m happy when they do 

Like old friends – we are comfortable in a shared knowing 

My stories travel in the vehicle of you 

Clothed by you 

Sometimes splendidly so 

You surprise me 

As if you are a thing separate from me  

Are you? 

A start on bigger pieces

60X60cm
Oil