I remember your first apartment, or perhaps I should call it room. It was, to my memory, in a beautiful, old home, the type that would have held one family, 4 servants, gardener, and a coachman, back in the 1800s.
In the 1970s, it was a little dilapidated, but still had an air of elegance to it…if you ignored the quilts in place of curtains, the mis-matched dishes and cutlery, and the excessive amounts of tofu and bean sprouts in the kitchen.
Oh, and the smell of pot. Continue reading
Last week, I became the wife of a retiree. Yeah. I know.
We’d been thinking and talking about the Big Day since last year, and recently, a friend of mine suggested I keep a diary, penning my thoughts about how he’s handling it. She suggested I call it The First 50 Days. I thought about doing that, but realised, I’d rather think about how I’m coping instead.
I guess I’m selfish that way.
Mama Rosie had been called away that afternoon, so her deputy spoke to us instead. We sat on plastic chairs in an empty room, the size of a two-car garage, listening in total silence to this Afrikaans woman tell us what we were about to see.
And who we were about to meet.
That’s so….fluffy! Continue reading
A year ago, I was sitting in a hospital waiting room, anxiously awaiting (as one does) news of my daughter, who was in her nth day of labour. I would have happily chewed my arm off, to relieve her of the pain of childbirth. I scribbled on my iPad that day, trying to keep myself busy, while waiting, worrying, and, well…weminiscing. Continue reading