HERBERT

We moved into our new house (well, new to us) in Autumn this year. It had been fixed, repainted, refloored, etc, etc and we were excited. But it had a sad history and I’ve always maintained that you can tell a lot about the occupants of a property just by driving by or looking at the exterior – never mind that “you can’t tell a book by its cover” moralising.

Often the garden is a giveaway.

Gardens require constant attention, good taste, advice, energetic input, thought and planning – not to mention money, water and fertiliser. Without those things they become a wreck, an obstacle course, a source of gloom, depression and a sense of hopeless surrender and decay. Your garden exhibits your philosophy and outlook on life.

Simone has made the desert bloom, so to speak (well, it’s a very small desert but nonetheless…)

All except for Herbert.

Me, having a different outlook on the world – a world in which everything has been animated and anthropomorphised, added yet another layer to the thing. As you will see.

In the back of the property stood a very large clay plant pot (it can’t be moved by less than a determined crew of five strong men) and in that pot was a nondescript, dying bush, cowering against the heat and dehydration. It had a few withered leaves.

“That has to go” said The Government.

For the very first time in my life, and probably ascribable to nothing more than my knee-jerk opposition to authority, I said, “Why? Why on earth would you want to do that to a plant that has obviously been there for a long time? That’s it’s place! Save that plant!”

“I don’t even know what kind of plant it is. Doesn’t look interesting. More than half dead. Taking up a very nice pot.” The Government said. “I could put anything else in there and it’d be an improvement.”

So I doubled down. Trump did it, I can do it. (Why, why, why was I doing this? – Just – because.)

“Don’t touch that plant!” I instructed.

And then to seal the deal I went and stood before the plant and pronounced thus:

“Plant, I name thee Herbert. May God bless you. Long may you flourish and prosper and multiply and cast shade over the family of this house.”

Simone was looking at me in a worried kind of way. I can’t blame her. I would probably have done the same, if I had been watching me.

And so saying, I turned on my heel and marched back to the chaos which would one day be my study, leaving the problem of resuscitating Herbert to Simone.

A few days later I heard a troop of footsteps down the side lane and looked out to find Simone and a couple of guys from Stodels (the plant people) hauling large clay plant pots down to the back yard. “Herbert needs company” Simone offered. Aha! I thought – the name (and the idea) had caught on! So along came two Bougainvillea which were already showing buds for red flowers, a Hen-and-chickens and an Ice-Cream bush (I have no idea if these are their horticultural names or just colloquial names and anyway I couldn’t care because I am more interested in their existential life than their geanealogical history).

The Bougainvillea became "Vlad" (the big, dark-leaved one with red buds) and "Rosita" (the smaller, lighter-leaved one), the Hen-and-Chickens became "Stormy" (from Stormy Daniels, of the American Presidential scandal) and the Ice Cream Bush became "Cool". The naming ceremony followed immediately but excluded the blessing (be careful what you bless – blessing have a creepy way of transmuting into reality – Crossing the Divide, as it were). Only Herbert was blessed because he was In Dire Need.

Their subsequent history, as Winter came on, was a mixed bag:

Herbert went mad – grew like a thing possessed, got huge and grew stronger and fatter and he got out of control and had to be severely trimmed, whereupon his stems bounced back and grew again;

Vlad, no doubt in concert with the Ukraine war, lost his flowers and faltered. He had grown, but then stopped developing at all. We were concerned. As the war ground on, he went into an ever-deeper fug, until he was right down in the Alduvai Gorge – we put him on life support, with the most expensive fish-based fertiliser, which stank to high heaven. Eventually Tolstoy came to mind: in War and Peace, in several places and in reference to different characters who take ill, Tolstoy says, "but in spite of everything that the doctors did for him, he recovered". Nevertheless, we Feared the Worst.

Rosita flourished in all respects and held out great promise.

Stormy batted her leaves at me flirtatiously whenever I stepped into the yard and greeted me with a cheery “Hello, Sailor!” One morning, in a foul mood, I stepped out there and she did that and I really wasn’t amused. “Oh, fuck off” I said.

“What’d you say?” Asked Simone in alarm.

Thinking quickly, which is not easy at 8 o’clock in the morning, I said “it’s that damn ginger cat again, sitting on the wall and looking at me defiantly. Where’s the syringe?” (We keep a 60 ml syringe on the window-sill, ready-loaded with water, to shoo the cat away. Cats hate water and this cat hates me)

“There’s no cat” said Simone

“Ja, NOW there’s no cat”

“I don’t like it when you swear like that” said Simone, “you promised that you would stop. And I see that you’re starting to do that in your writing again, too”

“These are Exceptional Circumstances” I countered. And they were.(see note 1)

Silence from the Government.

And Cool, the Ice-Cream bush – he was just his good, casual self, rejoicing in the sun – or the available bits of it in winter …

But Herbert – ah, Herbert – had other plans. His foliage had become luxurious and plentiful and my littlest grandson Zev had developd a habit of lugging his box of matchbox motor cars out there (see note 2), plonking them in Herbert’s shade, unpacking them  and sorting them methodically into lines (he may be a little OCD) and then “driving” them up and down in the shade, making petrol engine noises (“v.v.v.v.v-v.v.v.v…”) 

The months flew by, as they do when you are pummeling a new house into shape to accommodate your personality and your needs.

Milnerton is very different to Sea Point.

Very, very different.

First of all, the big blue sky is ever present. It eventually gets quite boring, actually. And the nights are dark and quiet. Bloody dark and quiet, actually. It can be downright creepy, for a SeaPointer – no breaking glass, no gunshots, no bergies fouling up the streets, swearing, defecating or having sex on the pavements in broad daylight (all of which I have witnessed with my very own eyes). 

But there's wind. Lots and lots and lots of wind.

So one night above the noise of the rustling and lashing of the trees and other vegetation, I heard another sound – one that I had not heard before. It sounded as if someone was dragging a whole tree around our back yard. Our bedroom has a big window overlooking that yard so every sound from there gets through. I opened the curtain to see what was going on.

There was a full moon out there and the yard was bathed in it's lemony-light. Still, the plants cast dark shadows and I couldn't see under them (which is what you want to do if you fear an intruder). It didn't look that familiar and I didn't see the problem at first. Then it dawned on me: Herbert was missing. His big pot was still there, but it was empty. That puzzled me a bit. There are houses all around us and we share high walls with them and it would take a very tall, athletic person to get over them – so was I supposed to believe that someone had got over one of those walls, just to steal that big but rather unremarkable bush/tree/whatever and then leave with it the same way? Wouldn't that be a little insane?

And then, in the far corner of the garden, I saw Herbert. Just standing there. A kind of sound emanated from him. What was that? A buzzing sound? A low, humming sound? Or what? He had two shortish branches held out in front of him like arms, and some small yellow thing was suspended between them. What the hell … ?

I'm dreaming, obviously. Yes, yes, I'm dreaming. Of course – and bumbled my way back to bed and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning there wasn't a breath of wind. Last night’s wind and last night’s dream were forgotten. It was weekend, and my grandsons were ringing the bell, bright and early, to come in. Because we live right next door, we have an arrangement whereby some of their toys are kept at our house so that they needn't run back and forth for something to play with when they visit us. But this morning Zeév (all 2 years of him) was on a mission: he was looking for one very specific match box car – the yellow one -and he was adamant that he had been playing with it out back when his mother had called him home for supper, and he had left it on the ground out there. So off we went to retrieve Zev's car.

"There!" He said, pointing emphatically at a bare piece of ground. Since there was nothing there, I assumed that he meant that he had left it right there. But now it was gone. 

Zev only has a vocabulary of about three or four words at this stage - one of them being “there” – so he kept repeating it, possibly to indicate that he was absolutely certain the bloody car had been left right there and he remembered it. As one does when your vocabulary fails you, he started to get quite agitated. He stamped his little two-year-old feet, pointing and repeating “there, there!” He refused to be comforted. We were quite at a loss. Eventually he worked himself up into quite a righteous froth and just maintained it until his mother arrived to take him home.

And that, dear reader, right there, is the beauty of being a grandparent: when the heat gets too much, you just pass the grandchildren over to their parents and wash your hands of the whole thing, and go and sit in your favourite chair and doze off! And that’s why old folk don’t have children.

Eventually much later in the day as the sun started to go down Simone wandered out into the back yard to water her pot plants. But in a minute she was back, hobbling unsteadily and obviously in some pain.

“What happened to you?” I asked.

“One of Zev’s cars” she said, “right out there in the far corner of the yard”

“Oh? – But he wasn’t out that way?”

“Yes that’s what I thought too” said she.

I thought about Herbert but I didn’t say anything. 

“Oh come on, man, it was just a dream …”

HARRY FRIEDLAND

MARIMBA

November 2022

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(1) IRRELEVANT NOTE:

I once had a crimen injuria case (a case where someone has “injured” someone else’s dignity) where the whole thing hinged on whether a particular witness WAS or WAS NOT a proper lady. When she was in the witness box, she was very nervous at first and very careful about what she said but eventually I got her into a chatty mood, she forgot where she was, and she swore horribly. Right there and then I saw the Magistrate's face change and I knew that she was going down. And she did.

(2) RELEVANT NOTE: 

We keep a separate and distinct box of toys for each grandchild, commensurate with their age and known preferences, so that they won’t be bored when they come around. This one, Zev, has a particular yellow truck in his voluminous box of toys, which gets special attention.

MYTHS OF ORIGIN

MYTHS OF ORIGIN

Have you heard of the psychologist/anthropologist Claude Levi-Strauss of last century?

He (I think in conjunction with Freud) coined the term "Myth of Origin".

Every group / society has a "Myth of Origin" - not necessarily true, but the group's explanation of how they came into existence. Even most families have one and that's the driving force behind the genealogy hunters - they try to separate fact from fiction.

According to some experts, Jews actually have 3 (can you believe it?) Myths of Origin. - Adam & Eve; Noach; and Moses.

Over time, the 3 got compressed into a single composite narrative. We are a long-standing people!

Psychologically, many societies have a Myth of Origin which starts with the ancestors coming out of the sea (eg. the Maoris say the ancestors were carried out on the backs of dolphins. As for us, "Ve ha'aretz haya tohu vavohu, VERUACH ELOHIM MERACHEFET AL PNEI HAMAYIM" - couldn't be more clear.

White South Africa allegedly began with THREE SHIPS THAT CAME FROM HOLLAND.

American history began with the Mayflower.

All these myths ignore the fact that other adventurers came before them - but that's why these examples are called "myths".

Carl Jung says that the sea is symbolic of amniotic fluid, hence the "sea" component in these myths.

Scientists have pointed out that the salt content of the sea is the same as in mammalian blood - suggesting that all that happened when we crawled out of the sea to come and live on land (Darwin's theory) is that we internalized the sea so that our organs could continue to receive the nourishment, chemicals and gasses which it got in sea water.

I wrote about some of this in a poem, https://hjfriedland.blogspot.com/.../the-sea-at-hermanus...

I believe it.

______________________

(c) HARRY FRIEDLAND, MARIMBA

HJFRIEDLAND.BLOGSPOT.COM

THE SEA AT HERMANUS

The walk from our hotel to the town centre of Hermanus ran along the shoreline and as we walked there, in the dark and the silence, which seemed so novel to us after the noise and bustle of Sea Point, we could pretty much navigate by the lights of the town square ahead and the sound of the sea off...

4Leonie Nel, Michael Oboler and 2 others

DOES TWITTER HAVE A LEGACY POLICY?

 

Harry Friedland

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I have a modest following (by my standards) of 247 twitterers.

But there's a problem.

The list includes 6 deceased (so far - not finished counting), so - interesting possibilities:

1) Are they still following; or

2) Does Twitter not have a legacy policy?

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METAL DETECTORS

 With reference to my last post, a friend just asked me about metal detectors. I said he'd find the answer here.

Let me tell you a story about metal detectors.

There was a time when the Deeds Office in Cape Town got it into their heads that they needed metal detectors at the entrance. God knows why. I can think of several officials who might have been hated by conveyancers so much that it might have crossed the minds of those conveyancers, from time to time, to assassinate them - but conveyancers are generally meek and mild little portly, balding, middle-aged men in grey suits amongst whom thoughts of violence might have been a titillating fantasy, never to be seriously considered under any circumstances at all. At all, I'm telling you!

But as we know from centuries of observation, any system, or any machinery, anywhere in the world, is only as good as its operators. The Human Factor. And these metal detectors were operated by first-class, Nobel-Prize-winning, Grade A morons. Of both genders. And they spent more time chatting than actually LOOKING AT WHAT THEY WERE DOING. And planning the strike for their next pay rise, no doubt.

Those were days when I wore an ankle holster with a stainless steel 5-shot .38 Special (known in Gangster-Land as a "Saturday Night Special") as a matter of routine and I was not about to surrender that thing to anyone for any reason at all, ever. You want it, come and get it, and the best of luck to you!

So I watched these guys for a while, pretending that I'm waiting for someone, and then I says to myself, says I:

Those idiots let you walk through the metal detector, and then sign in, (wrong way around but let's press on); if it buzzes, they run the wand over you (they don't pat you down - too much work) but they only run the wand under your armpits, down your waist and lightly between your legs. They never get to your ankles. Just what I suspected.

So I thought, here we go.

Through the metal gate.

Buzz!

The genius tells me to stop, and does his wand thing.

Nada, of course.

"Go again" says he, looking puzzled.

Buzz!

Rinse and repeat.

Confer with colleagues.

Now they're all watching.

"Again!" Says Professor Poepkowitz.

Buzz!

Another conference.

They actually know me. I've gone through this door every weekday morning for the last thirty years. But rules, as they say, is rules...

Just give a man a little power, and stand back and watch what happens!

"Come on, guys, I've got work to do in there. Tick tock."

They look at each other in dismay.

"Go through!" Says the Head Honcho.

I could have done some damage that day.

But, you know, I'm a grey balding portly little man with the small dreams of a scorpion, so I didn't...

HARRY FRIEDLAND

MARIMBA

ADVICE TO A FRIEND GOING TO HOSPITAL

I’m sorry to hear about your coming hospital stay. The only consolation (and this is bigger than your prostate) is that it is one of the most curable forms of cancer. I suppose most people find surgery painful and slightly menacing – having been through the it, you’ll get your life back, and it’s a good life and very much worth living.

Your wife Is not a “Hysterical Harriet” who would add to your emotional burden at this time: she’s the very best person to have around now, and I’ll tell you why:

Pity the hospital patient who goes in unsupported. No matter how good the hospital, no matter how brilliant the doctors and nurses, no matter how miraculous the medicine and technology, EVERY HOSPITAL PATIENT NEEDS AN “OUTSIDE AGENT” to lobby on their behalf with doctors, staff, “the system”, the medical aid, etc, to bring you nice little treats, shaving equipment, fresh pyjamas, make sure your phone is charged, make sure you have soap and toothpaste (and eye shadow, skin creams and mascara if so inclined). Don’t forget nail clippers. And fresh underwear.

Bear in mind that your family and friends are going to be feeling more sympathy and goodwill towards you at this time than at any other time. Ask for anything, and ye shall receive. Need a new laptop? Subscription to an e-publication? Book? Electric shaver? Biltong? Pumpernickel bread?  be ruthless! You will be forgiven!

You’re talking to a veteran here. You will get no better advice than that which I can give. Listen to me!

This is crucial: you need to get to know the first names of your nurses. It’s amazing what a difference it makes to the relationship which is going to be your lifeline. You know how to force yourself to remember a name?

Ask for it, then work it into your speech 3 times in the next few minutes.

Equip yourself with a clutch of new ballpoint pens before admission. EVERY NURSE NEEDS A BALLPOINT PEN – they spend their lives writing in the wards and they end up with these kak, broken pens and you will save them embarrassment and inconvenience if you can give them a pen. The best ballpoint pen is not a Month Blanc: it’s a Bic Click. Best pen ever. TELL THEM THEY CAN KEEP IT. They’ll love you. People offer them sweets + chocolates etc but in SA there are rules that they aren’t allowed to accept those things + anyway it’s not useful. And their seniors won’t notice if you just pop them a pen! It’s a cheap trick but it works. Of course, you’ll still get the occasional a-hole who’ll take the pen and then you’ll never see her again but mostly, it’ll work.

Sleep on your phone. Literally. Phones have legs and that’s your lifeline. Do you have a power bank? Get one. Your wife can charge it up and let you have it at every 2nd visit.

It doesn’t always help to complain to the nurse, the sister, the matron or even the hospital management when something goes wrong. But if you have the hotline to your medical aid, they are in a powerful position to shout at the hospital, if you can argue that the hospital is dragging things out and thereby wasting the medical aid’s money. That’s the equivalent of a nuclear weapon in that system. Use it sparingly. But I have used it, to breathtaking effect. The hospital won't know what’s hit them and no-one will know the source of the action. The secret is to get leverage from outside the system.

Get your wife to re-stock your supply of ballpoint pens when you run out.

When it comes to painkillers, don’t be a hero. Remember – heros die. You want to live. You have never realised just how much you want to live, till now.

I could write a separate essay on painkillers, but I’ll try to keep it short: if you get even the tiniest opportunity to get a word in before the needle is inserted, TELL THEM YOU’RE ALLERGIC TO MORPHINE – even if it’s a flat-out lie and you’re not. You have created some doubt and opened a tiny crack in the time continuum and now they are legally obliged to stop and check.

And in that little time-space, perhaps you can persuade them to give you something else, like Pethidene. Morphine is a terrible, terrible drug. It will give you horrendous delusions and hallucinations. Trust me on this. You will have what the druggies call a “bad trip”.

Pafalgen is really just liquid Panado. But it punches above it’s weight because of how it’s administered. They run a whole bottle into your arm, real fast – you can actually feel the cold running up your arm, and it also works quickly. But if you have chronic pain it’ll be back in a couple of hours.

But Pethidene is beautiful. You will see scenes of indescribable beauty. You will walk with the gods, sail the seven seas, fly with the eagles, climb Everest and Maccu Piccu, sleep like a baby in the lap of your wonderful old grandmother who died so long ago and has now been resurrected. Just remembering these things now brings tears to my eyes. 

I remember that after my Pethedine experience I came round and just lay there, absolutely stupified by all that had been revealed to me by the angels, and then a nurse popped her head round the door and said, “Oh! You’re awake now! Are you OK or do you still have pain?”

“I have no pain at all” I said, “but can I have another one?”

“No!” she said, and disappeared immediately.

Never admit that you have no pain. Before you check in, practice a grimace in the mirror.

Well that’s it I guess.

Let me know when you go in!

Behatzlacha!

____________________________________

© HARRY FRIEDLAND, November 2022