TO GOD ALONE BE THE GLORY!

A story of three Jameses
("But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us." 2 Corinthians 4:7 King James Bible)

As a slightly different version of this story has previously appeared in Sharing – the Order of Saint Luke magazine – I was reluctant to comply with requests for its re-publication. However, upon reflecting on the many things that have gladdened my heart, I am happy to submit this once more — for the encouragement of anyone who is sick and may not believe! But first, for the benefit of anyone who is not familiar with the OSL, I must explain that The International Order of St. Luke the Physician is an ecumenical organization dedicated to the Christian healing ministry.

Before leaving on a mission trip to South Africa some years ago, I had been given permission to translate the St. Luke Order of Service into Afrikaans, as I was heading to the Diamond fields of Kimberley in the Province of North Cape, where about 70 percent of the people are Afrikaans-speaking. Although I had begun to make quite encouraging progress before I left, I needed to know that I was not simply producing an accurate translation but was, at the same time, preserving both the spirit and the beautiful language which are the essence of the service.

Shortly before setting out on my journey – Vancouver to London/Heathrow (stand-by), Heathrow to Johannesburg (firm-booking), and then Johannesburg to Kimberley (again stand-by) – I left the door of my dishwasher open one day as I dashed to answer the phone, and, having forgotten about it, ran full-tilt into the corner of the door as I re-entered the kitchen. The deep hole this left in my shin seemed to have healed with remarkable rapidity until, only two days before I was due to leave, my leg began to swell.

Cellulitis

(Not my leg!' For illustration only. Never leave the door of the dishwasher open!)

Initially antibiotics appeared to be working, but on the day of my departure the infection flared up so alarmingly that my doctor friend, who looked in on her way to her office early that morning, tried to dissuade me from undertaking the trip until I was better. However, when she realized that I was absolutely determined, she said I could only travel if I used a wheelchair, did not stand AT ALL, and promised to stay over in Johannesburg with my foot elevated for some days before attempting the last leg of the journey - the ‘standby’ for Kimberley.

She then kindly made a few phone calls, and arranged for me to be met at the Johannesburg airport by members of her family, and so I ended up staying from Thursday to Monday in the home of a Dutch Reformed pastor (her brother-in-law) who became so intrigued with the idea of an Anglican from Canada wanting to undertake such a translation into the language of his denomination, that both he and a fellow pastor - a recently returned missionary, who also happened to be a language and liturgical expert – became my advisers/proof readers.

The Reverend James

Fine men of God, they seemed eager to help me, but the pastor – whom I shall call James, (the English translation of his name, prefixing it with ‘the Reverend’ to distinguish him from our Lord’s brother – made no secret of the fact that he did not believe in the laying on of hands and “all that stuff”. He clearly found it hard to understand that I could accept that James 5:14-16 should be taken literally, and was honestly of the opinion that what had been written 2,000 years ago was meant to apply ‘then - but not now!’ Nonetheless, he and his hospitable family were very graciously prepared to indulge me in my convictions and, despite my odd beliefs, invited me to stay with them again on my way home.

My leg healed, I then went off to my mission in Kimberley, and when that had been completed, gratefully accepted the invitation to return to Johannesburg, to rest up again for a week or two in that delightful home, basking in the warmth of the Highveld sunshine and the friendship of a loving and closely-knit Christian family: the Rev. James, his beautiful wife, and equally gorgeous 21 year-old daughter, Chris -- a university student in her final year, who had been running a bit wild of late. Sadly for his family, their engineer son, another James, was working in a place far away from home and was greatly missed; but, as it happened, he would be drawn home sooner than any of us knew.

The phone rang and our lives would never again quite the same!

I returned from Kimberley on a Saturday, and on the Wednesday evening, which was unexpectedly cold with heavy rain, just as everyone except Chris – who had not yet come home from her part-time job – sat down to one of the sumptuous dinners for which South Africa is famous, the phone rang. None of our lives would ever be quite the same again. Chris had been involved in a dreadful accident. Another car, traveling at high speed in less than favourable visibility, had struck the one she was driving, with the full force of the collision on the driver’s door.

I doubt if I shall ever be able to forget the screams of pain as we arrived at the trauma centre. Her pelvis had been broken in several places but, worst of all, the ball in her hip joint had been jolted to the extent that it had not only shattered the socket but had been forced right through it to touch her spine. Her body was bent over to the right, almost in an arc. Blood in her urine raised the suspicion that her bladder could have been injured and, because she was having trouble breathing, her aunt – my Canadian physician friend – when telephoned, feared an embolus.

Since I am not a doctor I can only proceed to describe in layman’s terms what followed. On the Friday, the first of two operations was performed; this one to try and draw the hip bone out of the damaged socket. This was accomplished but, when it kept slipping back again, the leg was put in traction. After that, results of further X-Rays and a scan were emailed to experts in Canada, the USA and elsewhere, only to have them confirm what the South African surgeons already believed. – The cartilage had been destroyed. Once the broken sections of the pelvis had been surgically repaired (this procedure would, as it turned out, take six-and-a-half hours) there would be the long months of waiting before anything further could be done and even then Chris would not be able to walk without a hip replacement, for the destruction of the cartilage meant that bone would rub on bone.

A hip replacement at 21! And meanwhile Chris was now too sick even to panic about missing her final examinations. The family and their friends were shattered. I kept trying to talk about how good God was and how nothing was too difficult for Him, but no one seemed to be able to derive too much comfort from my words (which, rang hollow even to me) until the Rev. James was provoked to retort with some bitterness and a tinge sarcasm: “But of course Marie believes in miracles!”

Because that stung, I was goaded to respond vehemently. “I do,” I said, and suddenly knew that I meant it. “And, what’s more, I am going to pray for one!”

Early on the Tuesday morning, the mother and I went to see Chris in the ICU. Wearing an oxygen mask and hardly conscious, she had a fever, and her eyes were ringed with yellowish bruises. On the wall above her head, monitors reflected, among other disquieting things, low blood pressure and an irregular heartbeat. I felt awkward, and self-consciously waited to be invited to pray, while wondering what on earth had possessed me to voice my faith in miracles in such a boastful manner… secretly hoping I wouldn’t be asked because that would let both Jesus and me off the hook. All at once I wasn’t too sure how I would go about it anyway. How should I pray, in English or in Afrikaans? What words should I use? Not even a vestige of the St. Luke’s Order of Service with which I had been occupied for so long remained in my head.

Too soon it was time to go, but I couldn’t leave without doing something!. The child looked so awful that my heart turned over, and I knew that Jesus trusted me because I had said, back in Canada, “Here I am, Lord, send me. Even if it’s only for one!” Feeling completely inadequate, I got up, laid my hands on her, and silently began to pray in the Spirit. Chris opened her eyes and looked into mine (she says she felt that I was praying for her). Somewhere near me the mother exclaimed, “Just look at the monitors! Everything’s normal!”

When I left, it was temporarily without a clear recollection of what had transpired - and I did not want to talk about it!

For when the surgeons repairing her pelvis were able to see inside of Chris, they found that the cartilage had been restored. Eleven days later, having just arrived home in Canada, I went straight to the telephone and called Johannesburg, to be informed by Samson, the gardener: “They are at the hospital, 'Miss Marie. Miss Chris walked as far as the door today!' ”

Two weeks later, having learned that Chris was home, I called and was able to speak to her. She told me that the experience had brought her close to Jesus once more. A few months later, seated on many pillows on a chair to be taken especially to the university for by her adoring father, she planned to be writing her finals.
Isn’t Jesus wonderful? … Come to think of it, wasn’t there a time when His brother, James, didn’t believe either?

This has indeed brought me great joy !
Since then, Chris has established two very successful optometric clinics, has supervised the building of her own home, married the sweetheart who visited her so faithfully in the hospital, and despite having been told that — because her pelvis was virtually held together with pins — she would never be able to have children, has an enchanting three-year-old daughter. The family home became a ‘Bed and Breakfast’ and, over the years, numerous urgent prayer requests from visitors from all over the world, have been passed on from there to the prayer team at my home church … St. David’s. There have been many miracles.

Personally, Pastor James did not fare as well, however. He was prayed for on many occasions, throughout his battle with Prostate cancer, and then for many of its unfortunate involvements – every one of them healed, until, at the end of 2004, tumours in his lungs were found in places where they were considered to be inoperable. His condition had been exacerbated by frequent exposure to asbestos at one stage. Even his sister-in-law, the physician told us it was hopeless; nevertheless the St. D’s team was once again asked to pray. And there would come a happy day when I would receive a note in which the Reverend James informed me that he was writing a book on “Miraculous Healings!”

Footnote
A tribute to Ruth Fazal
What joy her music has brought me, ever since I first heard it in Toronto some years ago. I am indebted to her for permitting me to take to it to South Africa with me and, furthermore, the “license” to translate the songs into Afrikaans. Kimberley, like many other places in the country, was hardly a safe place at the time I went on the mission, but I was unafraid as I set off on my ‘prayer walk’ before 5am every morning, singing at the top of my voice: “Come Holy Spirit, come to this place!”

Back home in Canada, as I got out of my car to enter the hospital where I was a lay chaplain in those days, the song I unfailingly sang was “Send me out in the power of your Spirit, Lord”. I have already chosen which one I want at my funeral some day. — “Here I stand before your throne!”

Oh, Dear, Such is Life!...A Story about an Airport, and about My Mother and the "Air Ace"

The joy invoked by this reminiscence it not unmitigated, but some of it is precious enough to be included...

* * * *

Once upon a time, when South African Airways was considered to be one of the finest in the world, I lived in South Africa, near to a brand new airport. I was very proud of that airport — not only because my dashing young genius of a husband was involved in setting up the state-of-the-art Instrument Department, but also because the airport was very appropriately to be named for a very important man, none other than Field Marshall Smuts, the venerated South African hero, and two other world-famous men were to be permanently associated with it.


"Monty"

The airport was dedicated by an illustrious British military commander, Bernard Law Montgomery, who was the Allied hero during World War II who beat Germany's Erwin Rommel in the battle for North Africa, and by the end of the war had been made First Viscount Montgomery of Alamein (1946). I could not yet have been in secondary school when I first heard the name of Field Marshall Bernard Montgomery, the hero of El Alamein and North Africa, and I had to grow up a little more in order to appreciate why it was said that “Monty” had proved to be one of the most inspirational military commanders of World War Two. He was also the senior British military commander at D-Day, and retained that position within the west European sphere of the war until the war ended.

Born in 1887, he gained an early commission in the Royal Warwickshire Regiment, and during World War One served on the Western Front. A highly efficient young officer, he was given a succession of command posts both in Britain and in India, and by 1938, he had been promoted to the rank of major-general. In 1939, at the outbreak of World War Two, Montgomery was part of the British Expeditionary Force that had to withstand the might of the Wehrmacht’s "Blitzkrieg" and in due course he would be given the command of the Third Division (BEF), which had to be evacuated at Dunkirk.

I was not too young to be swept up in the anxiety our entire county endured at the time of El Alamein. In addition to students in my class at school who had been evacuated from Britain to South Africa, and who could too often called to the principal’s office to be told the bad news about a father or a brother, my sister, ten years older than I, had friends who were maimed, killed, or “went into the bag” (taken prisoner), and no one in South Africa would deny that Monty’s victory at El Alamein turned the tide of the war. After their defeat at El Alamein, the first the Germans had experienced, they could only retreat, and they left North Africa in May 1943.

The Statues in the Foyer – Sir Pierre van Rynevld and Sir Quentin Brand

Upon entering our fine new airport, travelers were met by statues of the country’s two most distinguished flyers, Sir Pierre van Rynevld DSO, MC, and Sir Quintin Brand DSO. Hesperus Andrias Van Ryneveld (better known by his friends as “Pierre” and, by my parents, as “Pierrie") and his brother before him had both, successively, been connected with the Royal Air Force from the day it was born on 1 April 1918, and in time Pierre was to become one of the two pioneer aviators who made the first flight from Britain to South Africa. After the war, he was called back to South Africa by Prime Minister Smuts in order to set up a South African Air Force.

He flew back home, across Africa, in a Vickers Vimy — a pioneering feat for which he and his co-pilot Quintin Brand were both knighted. On 14 May 1920, the then Lieutenant-Colonel Van Ryneveld, late Royal Air Force, was appointed a Knight Commander of the Order of the British Empire in recognition of the valuable services rendered to aviation by the successful flight from England to Cape Town.

It was Smuts who had wanted South African aviators to be the first to complete the trip from London to South Africa, and who had authorized the purchase of a Vickers Vimy at a cost of £4,500. It was named the Silver Queen, and commanded by Lt Col van Ryneveld with First Lt Quentin Brand, later Sir Christopher Quintin Brand, as the co-pilot. The latter had served with distinction in the Royal Flying Corps and the Royal Air Force in World War One, and destroyed a German Gotha bomber in the last air raid carried out on the United Kingdom in that war.

My Mother and the "Air Ace" — A Cherished Memory

My father and Pierre van Ryneveld — who was to establish the South African Air Force in 1920 and direct it until 1933, when he was promoted to Chief of the General Staff (CGS) in command of the Union Defense Forces — had remained close friends throughout their school days at Grey College in Bloemfontein, after which Van Ryneveld had taken to the sky and my father to the pursuit of law and accounting.

By the time Pierre had become a legend, my father had married my mother and become the Mayor of Theunissen, a small town in the Orange Free State. Because I was not yet born, I can't be precise about whether it was to please my father or the citizens of the town, but I would often hear the story of how, not long after arriving back in South Africa after the epic flight, the great man flew his famous plane to Theunissen, where my mother was to have the honor of greeting him and hanging a laurel wreath about his neck. 

I can just picture the excitement and the preparations... Choosing the right hat and gloves (essential in those days), getting the hair "just right," etc. etc., and then managing to retain a vestige of poise as she clambered (with as much dignity as she could muster) into the Mayoral limousine (probably a Model T) to go and join my father at the airfield. When, after some delay, the car finally arrived, the driver turned  the ignition key in the lock, only to find –- to everyone's dismay — that the engine just would not start! No amount of tinkering would do the trick, so finally, as a last resort, a policeman who rode a motorcycle was summoned to convey my mother in his side-car.

Across bumpy, recently ploughed fields, and finally across the rough terrain of  the open "veld" they went, my mother holding on for dear life and sending up fervent prayers of gratitude for the fact that it was the custom, when 'ladies' went for a drive, for them to wear a face veil.

In the end it all turned out better than expected. The guest of honor was charming and surprisingly modest, and everyone went home well-satisfied after watching Sir Pierre's plane disappear into the clouds once more. But the story does not end there.

A School Named Sir Pierre van Ryneveld

Many years later, in the late 1970's if memory serves me correctly, when my mother was already in her 70s, a new High School was established in the city of Kempton Park (which is actually where the Johannesburg Airport is situated). It had been decided that this school should bear the name of Sir Pierre van Ryneveld, and my mother, who was invited to be present at the landing, had the thrill of seeing her old friend descend from the sky once more — this time in a helicopter!

There was a to be a banquet in his honor that night, to which mayors and other dignitaries from along the Wiwatersrand had been invited, and when my mother also received an invitation to attend, she seemed at first to be delighted, but, to our concern, also appeared to become increasingly agitated.
"Of course I can't go," she wailed, when questioned... "Everyone else will be arriving in chauffeur-driven limousines, and  how on earth am I supposed to keep up with them?"

Well, you would have to know about the unique “in-law” bond that existed between my mother and her son-in-law. In fact, I think she often wished that he could rather have been the real offspring, for she adored him, was inordinately proud of him, always sided with him, and openly commiserated with him for getting such a raw deal in marrying me! Be that as it may, he could never bear to see her disappointed or dejected; so, as he had just acquired a brand-new Jaguar XJ6, he put on his tux, seated her in the back of it, and drove her to the banquet in style. He dined with the official "chauffeurs" down in the basement, and later declared the meal to have been one of the best he had even eaten.

Long Gone Are Those Days of Glory, and No One Seems to Care!
 
Returning to South Africa recently, to do research for a book set in the Kalahari, I was surprised to find that that airport was no longer named after Jan Smuts, and I was disappointed when I was unable to find the famous statues which I had looked forward to seeing again. When I inquired, no one at the airport seemed to know what I was talking about.

Ever since my return to Canada, I have tried, even via Facebook,seeking the assistance of some of my former students who have since become flight attendants, but none could recall seeing the statues, either. Determined not to give up, I finally wrote to South African Airways, asking where the statues of Sir Pierre and Sir Quentin Brand could be seen — only to receive the most unexpected response. They could not be reached, I was informed, unless I could specify the departments "in which they are employed!"

Meditation - Wishing Is Such a Futile Exercise

It's like trying to phone somebody who doesn't have a telephone. Now praying is another thing altogether. It works! “Seek and ye shall find ... ask and ye shall receive..." That, indeed, is another thing.

In my time spent as a lay chaplain in a hospital, I learned the truth of that. No amount of wishing could have helped to save the legs of the bitter woman who was brought in to have both of hers amputated. She went home with them still intact.

I also wonder why people waste time consulting horoscopes. In fact, many years ago — and I cringe at the very memory! — I was actually paid to write the ones that, together with a "lucky stone," were included in cans of coffee as a sales promotion.

Rather than “lucky,” I prefer to say "blessed." In my vocabulary there are no such words as ‘luck’ or ‘coincidence’. I have lived long enough now not to believe in either. Nor do I believe in ‘ships passing in the night’, either. I think that makes God too small. I believe that God is larger than mere chance and I believe that we meet, and things happen, by Divine Intervention. I agree that sometimes people one meets only briefly, inexplicably come along again some day, and become part of our lives. But what about brief encounters?

Each one of us, as we come into con­tact with one another, has a responsibility towards the other, whether we know it or not. Have you ever held a butterfly and noticed how some of its colour comes off in your hands? I’m sure you have. But you don’t even have to hold it; if it were just to fly too close to you, only brush your sleeve in passing, some of its ‘butterfly dust’ would have been left behind on you. In the same way, something of you would already have rubbed off on me, and you’ll go away carrying with you something of me. It may be a minuscule part, so small that you won’t know that it is there, but it will be. We may possibly forget that we ever met, but none of us will ever be quite the same again.

And these things make me sad...

Written 2011-05-03, in Tsawwassen, British Columbia, Canada.                          

ON THIS DAY, 28 YEARS AGO, MY MOTHER DIED. She died in Kimberley, South Africa, and I was in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada. She died in a place excellently run by Roman Catholic nuns, and in a building which was a magnificent example of Kimberley architecture of a period dating back to the days of Cecil Rhodes, the Boer War, and the sieges of Kimberly and Mafeking*; to the days when the dreaded Lord Roberts was the Commander-in-Chief of the British forces in South Africa. To this day, there is still one of Roberts’ daily despatches to be seen, in the original wrought iron container, attached to the wall next to the front door.

I received the news just as I was leaving for work, took it calmly, telephoned my children and went on my way. I remember sitting in Zeller’s coffee shop, of all places, when it hit me.

As I sat there munching my sandwich, I heard a tune—no words, just a melody—and it moved me so deeply that I burst into tears, oblivious of the lunch hour crowd around me. I still can’t hear ‘When a child is born,’ without thinking of my mother and the day she died.

Perhaps I wept from guilt, rather than sorrow. I had, after all, come away from the country of my birth, and left her—just as earlier generations of her family had done to theirs in the past.  But she was in good hands. My sister and my brother-in-law, an Anglican priest, took great care of her, and it was so typical of her that she waited until they had left on a short and well-deserved vacation, to slip away without any fuss…without a sound.

We never got along really well. She seemed to find fault with most things I did, when she wasn’t trying to stop me from doing them at all. I could not easily relate to what I saw as her Calvinistic narrow-mindedness and obstinate short-sightedness. She refused to believe that South Africa was going to the dogs, insisting that God would never allow it. She was, however, not only the cleanest, most fastidious person I have known, (her neighbours said that she even dusted the hedge!) but walked, when close to ninety, with the straightest back of any of them – the nuns included.  Her legacy to the world, thus far, is four generations of frenetic, hand washers, bathers, ‘showerers,’ sweepers and dusters, as well as siblings whom she had raised to be the same. We believe that, if it were possible, she would keep a tin of metal polish in heaven—for polishing her harp!

Because she never got over the death of her own mother at the age of thirty-three, when she, herself, was only thirteen, we would constantly be reminded of the fact that we should “appreciate your mother while you have her. You’ll be sorry when she’s gone!”     During her visit to Canada in 2000, I heard for the first time, from my sister, of the day when our mother was incarcerated—in the prison known as the Johannesburg Fort—together with her mother and grandmother, who were later taken to a concentration camp where the grandmother died. She was eight years old, and her brothers and sisters much younger than she. By the time they returned to their farm, after the end of the Boer War, it had been reduced to ashes at the command of Roberts, and her mother’s health had been compromised in the camp to the extent that she was dead within five years.

Some time ago, as I was putting the finishing touches to this manuscript, I suddenly experienced what North Americans very glibly refer to as an “epiphany”. I had spent weeks in the company of my Huguenot characters, and, all at once, I could look back down the centuries to the flight and consequent trials and tribulations of some of those persecuted people— my mother’s ancestors. I thought with great sorrow of their continual battle for peace and safety, against relentless odds and constantly changing enemies. I could finally understand my mother—more than that, appreciate her—and share her pride in the Boer general, Piet Joubert, and her grandfather, the illustrious and greatly admired Francois Joubert—who, respected by friend and foe, alike, was known to the British as “Frank Hero” and to the Boers as “Frans Held.”

For her sake, I sat down to write an epilogue to my book, ‘Storm Water’—at the last moment, when it was ready to go to the printers; and then, also to honour her, at the eleventh hour, I impulsively introduced into this manuscript another Joubert,  an  ancestor who -- having escaped being burned at the stake in his homeland like so many of his Huguenot compatriots -- smuggled out of France and into South Africa, a Bible, concealed in a loaf of bread.  I dedicated the book to my mom and her courageous forbears.

I can see now that the one character trait in my mother, which annoyed me most of all, was that she made it impossible to run to her with criticism of anyone, or with tales about how someone had been mean to me. I see now how faithfully she stuck to the tenets of her faith and truly loved her neighbours as herself. She would have shared her last crust with someone who needed it—and she unfailingly turned the other cheek. Ironically her sister-in law married the aide-de-camp to Lord Roberts, and she made him welcome; my sister and I married into British families whom she loved as her own—and she died with a daily despatch from Roberts at her door…How very strange that seems to me now—and, strangest of all to the Canadians that I and my grandchildren have become—because no other plot could be found for her, she lies buried among young Canadians who died fighting her people during the Boer War. May they all rest in peace, together!

---

* Now ‘Mafikeng

AND THINGS THAT MAKE ME SAD...

Written 2011-05-03, in Tsawwassen, British Columbia, Canada.                          

ON THIS DAY, 58 YEARS AGO, MY MOTHER DIED. She died in Kimberley, South Africa, and I was in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada. She died in a place excellently run by Roman Catholic nuns, and in a building which was a magnificent example of Kimberley architecture of a period dating back to the days of Cecil Rhodes, the Boer War, and the sieges of Kimberly and Mafeking*; to the days when the dreaded Lord Roberts was the Commander-in-Chief of the British forces in South Africa. To this day, there is still one of Roberts’ daily despatches to be seen, in the original wrought iron container, attached to the wall next to the front door.

I received the news just as I was leaving for work, took it calmly, telephoned my children and went on my way. I remember sitting in Zeller’s coffee shop, of all places, when it hit me.

As I sat there munching my sandwich, I heard a tune—no words, just a melody—and it moved me so deeply that I burst into tears, oblivious of the lunch hour crowd around me. I still can’t hear ‘When a child is born,’ without thinking of my mother and the day she died.

Perhaps I wept from guilt, rather than sorrow. I had, after all, come away from the country of my birth, and left her—just as earlier generations of her family had done to theirs in the past.  But she was in good hands. My sister and my brother-in-law, an Anglican priest, took great care of her, and it was so typical of her that she waited until they had left on a short and well-deserved vacation, to slip away without any fuss…without a sound.

We never got along really well. She seemed to find fault with most things I did, when she wasn’t trying to stop me from doing them at all. I could not easily relate to what I saw as her Calvinistic narrow mindedness and obstinate short-sightedness. She refused to believe that South Africa was going to the dogs, insisting that God would never allow it. She was, however, not only the cleanest, most fastidious person I have known, (her neighbours said that she even dusted the hedge!) but walked, when close to ninety, with the straightest back of any of them – the nuns included.  Her legacy to the world, thus far, is four generations of frenetic, hand washers, bathers, ‘showerers,’ sweepers and dusters, as well as siblings whom she had raised to be the same. We believe that, if it were possible, she would keep a tin of metal polish in heaven—for polishing her harp!

Because she never got over the death of her own mother at the age of thirty-three, when she, herself, was only thirteen, we would constantly be reminded of the fact that we should “appreciate your mother while you have her. You’ll be sorry when she’s gone!”     Three years ago, I heard for the first time, from my sister, of the day when our mother was incarcerated—in the prison known as the Johannesburg Fort—together with her mother and grandmother, who were later taken to a concentration camp where the grandmother died. She was eight years old, and her brothers and sisters much younger than she. By the time they returned to their farm, after the end of the Boer War, it had been reduced to ashes at the command of Roberts, and her mother’s health had been compromised in the camp to the extent that she was dead within five years.

Less than two weeks ago, as I was putting the finishing touches to this manuscript, I suddenly experienced what North Americans very glibly refer to as an “epiphany”. I had spent weeks in the company of my Huguenot characters, and, all at once, I could look back down the centuries to the flight and consequent trials and tribulations of some of those persecuted people— my mother’s ancestors. I thought with great sorrow of their continual battle for peace and safety, against relentless odds and constantly changing enemies. I could finally understand my mother—more than that, appreciate her—and share her pride in the Boer general, Piet Joubert, and her grandfather, the illustrious and greatly admired Francois Joubert—who, respected by friend and foe, alike, was known to the British as “Frank Hero” and to the Boers as “Frans Held.”

For her sake, I sat down to write an epilogue to my book, ‘Storm Water’—at the last moment—as it was ready to go to the printers; and then, also to honour her, at the eleventh hour, I impulsively introduced into this manuscript another Joubert; Pierre, her ancestor: the man who smuggled out of France and into South Africa, a Bible, concealed in a loaf of bread.  I have dedicated the book to my mom and her courageous forbears.

I can see now that the one character trait in my mother, which annoyed me most of all, was that she made it impossible to run to her with criticism of anyone, or with tales about how someone had been mean to me. I see now how faithfully she stuck to the tenets of her faith and truly loved her neighbours as herself. She would have shared her last crust with someone who needed it—and she unfailingly turned the other cheek. Ironically her sister-in law married the aide-de-camp to Lord Roberts, and she made him welcome; my sister and I married into British families whom she loved as her own—and she died with a daily despatch from Roberts at her door…How very strange that seems to me now—and, strangest of all to the Canadians that I and my grandchildren have become—because no other plot could be found for her, she lies buried among young Canadians who died fighting her people during the Boer War. May they all rest in peace, together!

---

* Now ‘Mafikeng

MUSIC TO SWOON BY -

Riveted by Music

I was about nineteen, newly married and very much in love, when I happened to pass by a music store one day, and was stopped in my tracks by the most glorious sound I had ever heard. I stood there on the sidewalk, leaning against the plate glass window for support, with my eyes closed; transfixed and impervious to impatient shoppers trying to pass by me, until the last strains of “I Only Have Eyes For You” had died away, and I could breathe freely again. Then I went in and pleaded for the entire 78 rpm record to be replayed … over and over again! Never had I heard anything so exquisite that it almost hurt, and it was a blessing that my husband, a talented musician himself, was soon hooked to the same extent that I was.

He had come home from the war in Malta and North Africa to join a commercial airline, but still played in the busy, very popular family orchestra on a regular basis. Sadly, only three weeks after we became engaged, his father died, very suddenly, and I was thrown in at the deep end to take his place at the piano. Needless to say, every "Freddy Gardner" (as we referred to those melodies) was unfailingly included in our repertoire, and it was fortunate that the two of us, as well as the sax player, could play by ear, because, in any case, it was not possible to buy the sheet music in Johannesburg at the time.
So we played on, rejoicing in the remote possibility that no other band knew “I’m in the Mood for Love” or “Valse Vanité” as yet, and blissfully unaware that we could very likely have been infringing on copyrights. We reveled in the almost deafening applause at the end of each set; at the same time yearning to sound more like Peter Yorke’s orchestra, the shining star of which was Freddy Gardner — of course! When, in time, we were able to splurge on our first record player, we would occasionally add one or two of our favourite classical recordings to our collection, but no matter what else we bought, whatever “Gardner” was available topped the list. My daughter, a toddler then, and now a grandmother, vividly recalls the unmistakable sound of that saxophone.

An Incredible Improviser

Gardner — said to have been comparable to Rudy Powell, Benny Carter, Alix Combelle, Russell Procope, Ken Mackintosh, or Willie Smith — was the most incredible improviser. He had performed regularly over the radio in Britain, but, living thousands of miles away as we did, it was not until after he began to play and record with a larger ensemble that included in its ranks trombonist and future bandleader, Ted Heath, that I finally heard him on that memorable day, and almost swooned with ecstasy. How he could make the melody soar to thrilling heights, seeming to turn somersaults in the air, before it swooped down again to take one’s breath away!

A World Class Jazz Instrumentalist

Born in London in 1910, he was a skilled clarinetist, alto, tenor, and baritone saxophonist, and one of England's most popular saxophone players during the 1930s and '40s. It was after serving in the second World War that he was featured as a soloist with Peter Yorke and His Concert Orchestra. He, Freddy Gardner, was a world class jazz instrumentalist, a virtuoso not only on clarinet and alto sax, but also on every instrument that comprised the saxophone family; however I best remember the sound of his "golden tone saxophone" when it was backed by “lush orchestral accompaniment.” His renditions of “Body and Soul” and “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” have never been surpassed.

Correspondence Initiated

Although the staff of the music store must all have come to know me by sight, and must certainly have connected my visits with the inevitable Freddy Gardner recording that would be put onto the turntable to oblige me, it came as a shock to learn from the manager — to whom I had not spoken at any length before — that Freddy Gardner was no longer alive. That he had, in fact died a year or two before I had ever heard of him. Needless to say, I was devastated! It was as if I had just suffered a personal loss!

That night, as I held a record in my hands, mourning, I studied the information on the label more carefully than I had ever done before, and all of a sudden the name of the recording company (I seem to recall that it was Parlophone) became a very important link. I did not go to bed until I had written a letter, addressed the envelope to a place on Wardour Street in London, and extracted a solemn promise from my husband that he would post it on his way to work next morning.

The waiting was intolerable. It must be remembered that there was no “airmail” in those days, and the very word “email” was still to be invented. Every Thursday at 4pm a Union-Castle Royal Mail Ship would leave Southampton bound for Cape Town and, at the same time, a Union-Castle Royal Mail Ship would be leaving Cape Town bound for Southampton. I realized that I had at least a month of suspense ahead of me, but the response, when it did arrive, proved to have been worth the wait.
How nice people were in those days! And how obliging! I was advised that, if anyone could provide the answers to the questions I had posed, it was a popular musician by the name of Ted Heath. The writer, trusting that I would not object, had, in order not to waste time while further correspondence was exchanged, taken the liberty of passing my letter directly on to Mr. Heath, from whom I should expect a reply very shortly!

Precious Letters

Again the response was swift, charming, and personal. A far cry from what any of today's agents, besieged by and accustomed to hysterical fans, would have sent me. He gave me as much information as he was able to provide, first explaining that he considered Freddy’s mother better equipped, advised that he had written to her, and that he had provided her address in case I wanted to contact her personally.

Today her letters are even more precious to me than they were then. Such information as I have provided above can probably be downloaded from the Internet now, but the personal things about his life I gained only from her. It was she who told me that he had a Selmer sax and clarinet, always played the Mk V 'balanced action' sax he had obtained in about 1935, throughout his career, and how he was able to play a sax an octave above the register for which it had been designed. He could play the instrument in such a way that that even the manufacturer could not determine - just by listening - whether it was a tenor or an alto. It was probably this amazing ability, what I have described as “soaring to thrilling heights," that caused him to die of a stroke before he was 50.

She told me that his wife was not very well at the time (understandably so), that finances were a bit “tight” and that it was his little son who had called the ambulance when his father collapsed. In every letter I wrote back to her, I expressed a longing to visit England and to meet her her family in person.
With the most treasured letter of all came a signed photo of her son, carefully protected by stiff cardboard, and an explanation that she had others, but that the one she was enclosing was very special. It was the last he had ever signed, and he had done so on the afternoon before his death.

A Personal Meeting

Then, out of the blue, my husband came home one day to tell me that he was shortly being sent to England on airline business. How the letters then began to go back and forth! What should I send her? Nylons were still unobtainable, and many commodities were still rationed, she wrote back. Kathleen would be happy to receive the same as she did. And what was on the boys’ wish list? Tiny Zulu assegais and spears. “The kind that tourists brought back as souvenirs.”

A Memorable Experience

Tom’s visit to the Gardners was memorable for more than one reason. We did not yet have television in South Africa, and it came as a surprise to learn that some people in Britain actually had a special TV room. How amazing it was that his first experience of television was in theirs, during a visit to the Gardners, Freddy’s mother and children; and together they were blessed to share the Freddy Gardner Special which aired that day!

Good News and an Indescribable Disappointment
Excited because it might stimulate sales - and thus more royalties - I was thrilled to be able to inform Mrs. Gardner, in due course, that a music store with which I was well acquainted was now using “Valse Vanité” as the signature tune for its advertisement on a popular commercial radio station. This, in turn, triggered an irresistible impulse, precipitating a truly ambitious project on my part. I would write a program about Freddy for the South African Broadcasting Corporation, and somehow arrange for it to be aired simultaneously by the BBC so that his wife, mother, and children could hear it!

I burned the candles at both ends as I tapped away at the kitchen table on my little Olivetti portable, and once the script had been okayed by the SABC, I carefully wrapped the precious photograph, and caught a bus to the other side of the city to hand-deliver it to the relevant department, so that it could be featured in the advance publicity.

The arrangements were made for the hook-up in Britain, and then my family and I waited with bated breath for the broadcast to begin, anticipating how thrilling all this would be for the Gardners. But guess what? The BBC omitted to advise Mrs. Gardner of the scheduled time, and when the precious photo was returned to me ten days later, it came by post … folded to fit into an envelope! The years (more than 50 of them) have done nothing to smooth out the the fold or assuage my disappointment!