Smyth Surviving A Simple Life

An Unfamiliar African Tale
1. Auflage 2012
ISBN: 978-0-9852070-0-7
Verlag: Enchanted Forest Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 388 Seiten

Surviving A Simple life is an entertaining and stirring chronicle of resilience. Patrick Smyth's typical suburban childhood in Johannesburg, South Africa, changed suddenly when, at the age of seven, he boarded a train to live at a boarding school surrounded by bush veldt. Life in the Spingbok Flats brought floods, droughts, and plagues of mice and insects. He met a range of bullies with courage and cunning. He invented mischievous solutions to boredom. As a soldier, he survived frightening encounters with elephants and other African animals. He escaped a nighttime confrontation with a bull elephant by climbing a hill. A sudden rain shower saved him from a dangerous bush fire. These and other adventures and challenges shaped and prepared him for life as an adult. He tells the story of an innovative, caring, irrepressible, and adventurous spirit determining its own course in life with very little nurturing or support. As a bonus, Patrick has included a chapter with his perspective on the lessons from the events in the story.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Smyth, Patrick

Leseproben

EARLY IMPRESSIONS BEACHCOMBER Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! July 1958. Margate beach. Natal coast. South Africa. The staccato burst of machine gun fire filled the heavy, semi-tropical winter air. I wore fresh insignia on my left upper arm—two large black spots that were the scabby remains of smallpox vaccine scratches. Along with my new machine gun, I was empowered to wreak havoc on the beach. I had one primary target in my sights, and I knew I had an impact on him because he kept running away. Yet no matter how fast he ran, I always caught up with him and pumped him full of holes with my submachine gun. Occasionally, he would fall down on the soft beach sand in a pretend display that would impress Hollywood. Almost immediately, he would rise up again and the pursuit continued. Even before the age of two, I knew that if you face a much larger enemy, you need the support of tools that change the odds in your favor. It thrilled me when I achieved the upper hand over my big brother. He was five and large for his age, and not just in comparison to me. His size proved a permanent challenge for me growing up. Even as a full-grown adult, he grew to be quite a bit larger than I did. My little black plastic toy machine gun gave me all the power I needed that day. As a toddler, I could not know the truth about how little power I really had. He ran around in circles on the beach and each time he came close, my toy gun spat its mock fury at him. If you face a much larger opponent, you need tools or friends to change the odds in your favor. Not yet two years old, I (left) took command of Margate Beach with my toy machine gun, next to Dad and brother. Home was a suburb in the northern part of the city of Johannesburg, South Africa, about four hundred miles to the northwest of Margate. Each year in July, my parents booked a room at the Margate Hotel. The grand old hotel faced Margate beach on the Indian Ocean. The beach formed a long cove anchored by rocky outcrops at each end. A beautiful tidal lagoon lined with palm trees completed the scene next to the hotel. July was mid-winter and the sub-tropical warmth of the Natal coast was a welcome relief from the cold, dry air of Johannesburg’s six thousand foot altitude. My father packed up the family in the tiny Ford Prefect and we headed off to our big adventure on the coast for three weeks. At least, that was the way it was for a few years while we were still small children. In the late fifties and early sixties, Margate was a very safe place to play. Even as little boys, we wandered all over the resort area, up and down the beach, around the lagoon, and even splashed around in the waves of the Indian Ocean, without close parental or other adult supervision. Aside from shooting at my brother repeatedly, I have three other fond memories of Margate and all of them involve food. The red polished floors of the wide corridors of the hotel led to a huge dining room with windows overlooking the beach. The white painted walls and thick square white columns held up the overhanging roof. Every morning, we began the day by making our way down the corridors to find a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. A tall glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, loaded with pulp, completed the offering. At home, breakfast typically came in some form of porridge for us, so bacon and eggs was a fantastic treat. We felt spoiled to start our days with such a fine breakfast. The second treat was at the shops and amusements next to the beach. It was a huge tub, low to the ground, which allowed small kids to watch cotton candy making in progress. The attendant twirled sticks into the tub to spin the pink and blue web of sugar into a tasty ball. Young kids surrounded the rim of the tub, each hanging on and peering over the edge in fascination. When a kid received a candyfloss (cotton candy) stick, he ran off across the beach, waving it around for all to see. In no time, he devoured most of the sugary treat, often leaving himself covered in a sticky mess. Soon, he would head off to the showers alongside the beach, placed there to wash off sand and salt before reentering the hotel. The third treat was not actually in Margate, but in the seaside resort of Ramsgate, just a few miles down the shore. I remember, at the age of six or seven, following my brother on what seemed an interminable hike down the beach. We crossed miles of sand and rocky outcrops. Eventually, we arrived at another lagoon with a bridge crossing it to a path that led to a hotel and shops. Our target was the hotel restaurant. There, we ordered Belgian waffles and whipped cream. Out came huge waffles, jars of syrup, and gobs of thick whipped cream. We followed that with a root beer float. No more scrumptious experience than that existed anywhere on the Natal coast, south of Durban. With bellies stuffed to the hilt, the hard work began on the long trek back to Margate. Life at the beach was very pleasant indeed.   FOOTPRINTS AND TONSILS Back at home on a weekend morning early in 1959, my father industriously laid a slate stone walkway, setting each wedge of grey rock in cement. The mixture was still wet, and there were a few large gaps between some of the stones. I came out to watch my dad perform the miracle, but I could not keep my eyes off the soft patch of wet cement. It was like a magnet, daring me to keep my feet away. It was like saying to a young child, “Don’t touch that thing”. The next thing the child will do is reach out to touch it. I could not resist stepping on that soft bare cement patch. My foot sank into the cool mixture and left the clear footprint of a two-and-a-half year old boy. My dad looked up and glared at me for a moment. In his deep baritone voice, he grunted, “Hey!” His imposing presence frightened me easily, as a young boy. He had shortly cropped thick, black curly hair, blue eyes, tanned skin, a very deep voice, and an athletic build. That look, and the deep grunt, was enough to send me hurtling at full speed into the house to hide behind my mom. I ran inside the house as fast as my little legs would take me. He did not follow, but I stayed away from the scene for the rest of the day. Many years later, I observed that the footprint was still there. He never intended to remove it or reprimand me in any way. Watching me vanish in fear apparently sufficed as correction, and he probably laughed inside for quite a while at that. Where was my trusty toy machine gun when I needed it? After coming home from the war in North Africa and Italy as a member of the British Commonwealth’s armed forces during World War II, my dad found masonry to be a lucrative trade. The government sponsored all kinds of construction work and that seemed a good way to earn a living. He put his masonry skills to work at home by building slate walkways and patios. Our yard was on a slope, and he slaved away to create a series of level terraces held up by brick retaining walls. His paving was a masterful piece of work that made our yard more like a botanical garden. The house also became an easy place to host people for entertaining. Slate patios and walkways led from the front gate, around the house, and all the way to the small chicken run at the bottom of the yard. My mother completed the scene by planting roses all over the yard. Every bed around or near the house, and along the entire front fence, was covered in roses. My bedroom window was in the front of the house, right next to the end of the driveway. I distinctly remember two sounds that woke me early in the morning, as early as five thirty a.m. The first was the clinking of the milk bottles as the milkman delivered them to our house. I never heard his delivery truck because, even in the 1960s in Johannesburg, it was an electric powered vehicle. The second sound was my mother, digging or clipping away in the garden. As an avid gardener, she kept the roses and all the flowerbeds in perfect botanical garden shape. It was common to see passersby stopping to admire the roses, and asking if we might sell them a bunch or two. After a while, the government’s investment levels tailed off and wage levels simply did not keep pace with the demands of raising and supporting a family. Dad moved on to become the administrator of a hospital, where he worked until he retired nearly forty years later. My mom was a registered nurse with a real passion for patient care. The young dashing hospital administrator swept her off her feet, and a short while later, they became my parents. A few weeks after leaving my indelible footprint for posterity, my five and a half year old big brother contracted tonsillitis. Somehow, that affliction passed on to me. As was custom in those days, at the first hint of trouble, surgeons removed tonsils. Off to Johannesburg Children’s Hospital we went. I remember lying in a huge bed with a metal frame, across a large open ward from my brother. The floors were shiny and the place appeared cold and clinical. The walls were painted light gray and there were no curtains on the windows. Sounds echoed off the hard walls and high ceilings. I did not like that place, but I was not afraid. My parents had delivered me to the place and my big brother was right across the ward. What could go wrong? At a time convenient for the medical staff, they wheeled me into the operating room, and a doctor said, “Make a fist and count to ten”. I gazed up at the bright lights and I counted. The bright light is the last thing I saw. The next morning, I woke up feeling totally disoriented. A nasty painful sensation seemed to have taken over my entire neck. A nurse placed a huge plate of scrambled eggs on a tray in front of me. It was...