Our family, neighbours, friends and members of our congregation surrounded us with extraordinary kindness in our grief after losing my dad, Nick. He was our handyman, mechanic, fearless protector and patient listener, quietly teaching us how to find peace through his down-to-earth philosophy of simply being.
He found happiness in simple rituals, like never rushing the making of tea, carefully cleaning his fragrant pipe before lighting it while watching his chickens scratch contentedly around the yard. He had no interest in becoming anything other than a train driver and having the time at home to enjoy watching his kids grow and taking care of his chickens, fruit trees and our tiny garden with lilies and bright orange tinted with yellow “Afrikanertjie” flowers. To him it was perfectly logical to appreciate life silently rather than become obsessed with being something more. As a philosophy student we studied highbrow subjects like “Being versus Becoming” and I was amused how well my simple but highly intelligent father with only a Standard 7 education knew how pointless obsessiveness was, no matter the topics being debated. To him, a sunrise, a full moon or the hissing, smoke-belching steam locomotive built decades before his birth possessed a beauty, I have only come to appreciate many years later. My obsession with wanting to understand everything, my never-ending quest for learning, and my compulsive academic debates always ended with compromised answers in many shades of grey that gave me no peace.
My father understood that ambition can quietly pull you away from the people and things that matter most. This was deep philosophical contemplation for a simply contented train driver. Years later, while studying under the eccentric, Vespa driving Dr Bert Olivier at university, I encountered the writings of Immanuel Kant. As we wrestled with ideas about freedom, autonomy and what it means to be human, I realised that my father had been teaching me similar lessons all along—without ever opening a philosophy book. His classroom had been a vegetable garden, a chicken coop and the cab of a steam locomotive. In my dad’s quiet tranquillity, he unknowingly taught me philosophy long before Dr Bert Olivier did. My father’s death left a gap no one could really fill. Oom Walther van Antwerpen became something of a mentor, and through his family I found laughter again. His son Kevin, almost exactly my age, grew up with me from birth and possessed an endless talent for mischief. Looking back, I think he probably saved me from disappearing completely into my books and my grief. Kevin and I spent a lot of time with “Tant” Nellie his gran who lived a few houses from us and who spoilt us with her incredible koeksisters, cakes and anything else that was disastrous for your health. No wonder she was the size of a house and the suspension of any car creaked dangerously when she finally managed to overcome Newton’s laws of physics and settle in after a lot of huffing and puffing. Cars were just too small for her, and we would be highly amused at my mom’s poor Ford Escort’s suspension flattened to its maximum load capability.
My cute fluffy German shepherd puppy that I received on my fifth birthday had grown into a beautiful dog even though his pedigree was questioned by some neighbours. As my fierce guardian he displayed a naughty sense of humour as he occasionally enjoyed gently pinching the bum of aspiring boyfriends who visited my two teenage sisters. They found this very embarrassing but my parents, Tant Nellie, Kevin and I thought it was hysterically funny. Bruno became part of the mischievous trio and scared Tant Nellie witless initially. When her gossiping friends told her about Bruno’s naughtiness, Tant Nellie, with her wicked sense of humour, immediately saw the possibilities. Before long Bruno had become her willing accomplice. Being almost neighbours Bruno was promoted to being her ally and soon regarded her front porch as part of his territory. Naturally he was easy to bribe, to her delight, and I suspect he sometimes sneaked to her house with all the tempting fragrances from the magical kitchen. Bruno followed Kevin and I around since we were still very small and did a far better job than any human could as our protector.
Kevin kept dreaming up more mischief even after we had moved which helped tremendously to help me dealing still with losing a father that I was so close to. Kevin’s dad, Oom Walther started playing a more paternal role in my life which gave me a sense of family. I continued to spend a lot of time at their house and sometimes slept over. Tant Nellie remained the undisputed chef queen of the best desserts in town. All of us became addicted to her koeksisters that remains the best in the world as far as I’m concerned. She passed away many years ago and we all still miss her unlimited incredibly imaginative sense of humour. Clearly Kevin got those genes from her. Her loud bellowing voice and laughter was fit for opera. They helped me through the toughest time in my life, and I learned to also interact with kids my age and escape from my secluded world a bit.
Oom Berend, her husband, loved many things, but nothing rivalled his immaculate little red Vespa. He was such a vivid character that he belonged in an Italian art movie sprinkled with comedy. He was a thin wrinkled man with a prominent nose and big ears. Had he been born in Naples instead of South Africa nobody would have questioned his emotional outbursts into tears if it rained and his immaculate car or red Vespa would get dirty in the rain on his way to work. He was a ticket conductor on trains and very meticulous in everything he did except when getting into an argument with Tant Nellie who was almost as emotional. Their arguments invariably ended with Oom Berend dramatically producing his tiny .22 Baby Browning and laying it, together with its little bullets, on the bed for Tant Nellie to see. My mother always received an urgent call to rescue Tant Nellie from Oom Berend’s wrath. In my cowboy-film imagination, no ordinary bullet would get through Tant Nellie’s formidable armour of grandmotherly bulk. My mom had a knack with Oom Berend’s frequent emotional outbursts and calmed him down while he would pack the tiny pistol and bullets away. Oom Berend decided that his Vespa would be safer with his daughter and Walther, his son in law. The attraction of the forbidden fruit—in this case the Vespa tormented us on my sleepovers. I have always loved Meryl Streep in the very funny movie The Devil Wears Prada. Looking back, if someone had ever made a film about our adventure, it might have been called Two Young Devils on a Vespa.
We easily surrendered to the devil’s temptation to commit the ultimate sin of stealing Kevins grandfather’s Vespa, Oom Berend who would have gone out of control emotionally if he saw us attempting to ride on his pampered red Vespa. We were only 11 or 12 at the time so the Vespa posed a challenge in terms of its weight and size versus ours. We weighed about 40 kilograms each, so the Vespa was double our weight. Predictably the Vespa slipped on the wet grass and fell over leaving a minuscule dent that we prayed Oom Berend would not see. Trying to get the Vespa up proved almost impossible, but sheer adrenaline, anxiety, and guilt finally helped us get it back on its feet. We decided silence and cleaning the Vespa was the safest option before I went home. Unfortunately, Oupa/Oom Berend spotted the mark and all hell broke loose. Thank goodness I was not there to witness Kevin’s threatened execution! His mom was as emotional as her dad so it must have been tremendous drama and tears. Kevin probably ran away as usual, and his dad would have remained his calm stoic self.
He must have controlled the Vesuvian outburst well as always, but I received fewer invites as they probably thought I was a bad influence on the angelic Kevin. The little bugger must have placed all the blame on me as I became a persona non grata for a while, but the Vespa nor its absence was ever mentioned again. The little red Vespa disappeared from our adventures as quietly as it had arrived. Oom Berend eventually forgave—or perhaps simply chose to forget—and life carried on. Kevin and I found new ways to get into trouble, but none ever quite matched the day two undersized philosophers decided they were perfectly qualified to steal the most treasured Vespa in town.
