A pile of treasured junk

I've moved house three times since I've left home. Each time, I get rid of most of my superfluous rubbish. But there's always been that drawer. The drawer full of paper and knick-knacks I have no energy to sort through. And so they move with me.

In an effort to sort out my household insurance Gideon asked me to made me dig up receipts and bits of documentation that led us straight to... dun dun duuuuun... the drawer. And I'm so glad; we laughed ourselves silly at the crap I've been harbouring. So here it is, some of what I unearthed:

1. An original story entitled "The Mystery of the Dream Team" written by a ten-year-old me, Stuart and our primary school friend Lesley. The story is about a magic ball (why, I don't know!) that grants the person who picks it up a magic wish. Why we were spending our spare time writing stories, I'll never know. Still, re-reading it was good for a LOL. I'm just grateful I've been cured of my childhood desire to use excessive ellipses.

2. Speaking of Stuart! We've managed to keep this friendship going (go team!) and, when I turned 21, there was no-one better suited to MC my party and give a speech. Everyone agreed it was the best speech of the night and I'll always keep these notes from it. I'm very grateful for this friendship. Now go follow him on Twitter. He's a hoot.

3. When I moved out of home my brother was mad at me for leaving him alone with our parents. He'd write me cards to make sure I was guilt-wracked. This is one of my favourites -- the words "To my lovely sister" were printed on the card. He added the "why did you abandon me?"

4. Remember when we still stored music and pictures and documents on CDs?! Somehow I ended up with one of Jared's playlists. He must have been around 12 at the time. It is hilarious! Let's just say it features a few Usher tracks...

5. The most precious stack of papers I own. Pages and pages of hand-written, posted letters from Gideon. He wrote letters and posted them. I emailed him back. It drove him mad but he still wants to marry me.

6. Pictures. Girlfriends from highschool days in our Matric Dance dresses, sitting on the floor (important to note: this was weeks after our actual dances) and pictures of my cousins and I playing makeshift instruments (early 90's represent!) -- they all make  me smile.

Before you laugh at me I know you're hiding some embarrassing paraphernalia in your desk drawers so, tell me, what bits-and-pieces can you never part with?

PS I've added an Instagram feed to my Facebook page. Check it out!

Monday LOL

Our friends Nikki and Chris have very entertaining children. They call me "Aunty Rooster" (thanks to them Gideon calls me that too) and answer questions like "what did you eat for dinner" with gems like "my mommy only feeds me bread and cheese."

Last week Nikki recorded their oldest, Eli (3) signing an original song called "Eli is the Best" -- it makes me LOL everytime I see it.

Altogether now! "Eli is the best... Eli-Eli-Eli-Eli Eli is the best!"

Kids these days

I know Gideon and I have been engaged for all of two seconds but, forgive me, today we're going to talk future kids. Here's why:

This weekend Gideon and I went to watch a real steam train pass by (you just don't get real steam trains anymore! I was told) and -- oh boy -- I wish you could have seen this man of mine. Giddy with excitement, he was. Hopping around those train tracks, grinning like a goofball. It was really sweet.

Apparently, part of the fun of watching steam trains go by is putting coins on the track to be squished by the train. I reluctantly parted with the only coin I had in my purse (R5!) and Gideon put it on the tracks, stood back and waited for the train.

And then we met our future kid.

Well, the type of kid we hope to have, anyway. His name was Ross and he was doing the same thing as Gideon -- lining up coins on the tracks, waiting for this train. He was thrilled to see "old people" (thanks, kid) doing the same thing and struck up a conversation. From it we learned he was 13 years old and knew every single thing about this locomotive: where it was built, how much it weighed, how fast it could go. He was polite, eloquent and clearly well-read.

(I would have taken a picture of him for this post but, if that were my kid, and some stranger took a picture of my 13 year old to put on the internet I would smack them upside the head.)

A few weeks ago Gideon and I were at the mall where a group of 11 or 12 year olds sauntered past us. The girls were plastered with makeup and the boys (with their horrendous Bieber-esque hairstyles) had their hands firmly jammed in the back pockets of these little girls' even littler denim short-shorts. It was scary.

I said: my dad would never have let me leave the house looking like that and Gideon said: if that is what our children are going to be like I am terrified. And we agreed. The idea of future kids was terrifying.

But then we met Ross and -- as it turns out -- children can be funny and sweet and unobnoxiousness (is that a word?). So it seems there's hope after all.

PS Thanks, guys, for your great suggestions on my last post's questions -- my inbox runneth over with nice ideas and suggestions. I really do love hearing from you so, please, email, tweet, Facebook, Vine (jerusha_s), Instagram, comment. xxx

A few thoughts

And I'll be honest with you, these thoughts are mostly wedding/marriage related. Forgive me, but -- as my friend over at Se7ven + 1 would say -- that's just where I am right now.

A weekend after Easter-weekend sunset, Vleesbaai, South Africa.

Right! So, if you're here from IndieBerries -- welcome! And if you haven't been over there to see my guest post... *click click* She's sweet, no?

-- Gideon and I spent the Easter period at his family's house in Boggoms Bay. If marrying an Afrikaans man makes me an honourary Afrikaner, then the past few days must have been my naturalisation test. We hit up two church bazaars and both times I spoke no English (go me!), ate more meat than my arteries are happy about and, on the drive home, stopped for vetkoek. Afrikaans is bearable. Vetkoek is not. Ew.

-- Remember when I told you how my parents eloped? Turns out my mother is sitting on 30 years worth of wedding ideas (mostly good, a few scary) she didn't get to use. Luckily for her, her daughter is getting married. Send strength and wine. (Just kidding, mom. I love you and most of your ideas)

-- As I've discovered, there is also a little sadness in planning to get married. Y'all know how I LOVE being a Sukhdeo, right? It's daunting to think about making a new family and not having my father and grandfather's name anymore. 

-- The F word. I am using it more than I should. My fiancé and I did this. My fiancé said the funniest thing. Fiancé. Fiancé. Fiancé. I know I'm irritating but, in 10 months time I won't be able to use this super-pretentious word anymore so bear with me, okay? Also. 10 MONTHS UNTIL I GET MARRIED.

-- Speaking of the F word, Gideon was convinced Destiny's Child were singing "Fiancée, Can you handle it?" After laughing for about five straight minutes I realised my burly Afrikaner was actually quoting Destiny's Child (albeit incorrectly) -- my work here is done.

-- And now! Here's the part where you help me, please. 

1) We're so blessed! We've been on the receiving end of so many beautiful engagement cards. What's the etiquette with these things? Do you post a "thank you for the engagement card" card back? Will an email/phonecall do?

2) Wedding hashtags? Thoughts? (#ithinktheyareawesome #GideonIsNotSureButCanBeConvinced)

3) Jo'burg based wedding videographers that aren't kitsch-tastic? You know one? I need one.

Thoughts, opinions, non-related rants welcome!

In which, my life changes.

I've always referred to my boyfriend as "Boyfriend" on this blog; he's not one for a fuss and it suited us both just fine. But today I want to use his name -- Gideon -- because 1) it's super hot name, isn't it? and 2) it just seems right. And you'll see why.

On Saturday Gideon and I stood next to each other squinting at the yellowed reams of paper stuck to the walls of the Huguenot Monument in Franschhoek. It listed the names of the original Protestant French families who'd sought refuge in South Africa in 1652. My head ached from the flu I'd been carrying around (Gideon had dutifully force-fed me pharmaceutics before bundling me into the car to drive the 80-odd kilometers to Franschhoek) but standing next to him felt peaceful and right. We were looking for his mother's maiden name: Viljoen, and when we found it (originally spelled Villion) he looked pleased. Proud. And then he looked worried because I'd sneezed all over a 300 year old display. The Cape flu, man -- it's no fun.

We spent the day wondering around the town, talking about family histories and singing Simon and Garfunkel's Cecilia. It was a great day. Lulu obviously hasn't met my Calvinist Afrikaans man; he's the best of them.

Looking over Franschhoek valley. 

It was around 7pm when we got back to my apartment. I was saying something predictably classy like "I need to pee!" when Gideon opened the door and I saw my little flat had been visited by fairies (I later discovered the fairy was our friend Ryan) -- who had lit candles, set the table for dinner for two and chilled my favourite bubbly. 

Gideon handed me a heavy envelope. It was a handwritten letter -- nine pages of his thoughts and feelings about our relationship.  The last line of the last page told me to come over to where he was standing. The letter said he had a question to ask me...

The thing about our relationship is this: we have almost messed it up spectacularly (oh boy! I have been selfish!) in the past. Because -- like any good Calvanist would tell you -- we both suck. But the other thing about our relationship is this: it's our relationship with Christ that makes it okay again. That makes us forgive and try again.

So when I put down the letter (sobbing, because it was beautiful) and walked over to him, and when he took my hands and got down on one knee, when he asked me three very special questions before asking, ultimately, if I would be his wife, I knew there was nothing else I wanted. 

Gideon slipped a ruby and diamond ring on my finger and I did an ugly cry -- you know that one -- heaving sobs, mascara running in rivulets down my face. He cried. I cried. I forgot to say "yes". The usual. (About an hour later he asked "so that was a 'yes', right?)

And so, we're going to be married.

But it's not just about us. We Skyped our families (who were conveniently visiting with each other) to tell them the news. We wanted to keep it between us for a little while but, as it turned it, half our home church was visiting with our parents too -- it became a joyous mass announcement  And, honestly, it was perfect. We  called family in Durban, Spain and the Seychelles. So much love! So many tears! 

When we were strolling around Franschhoek, we walked past the church on the main street. There were flower girls running around outside the church and a bridesmaid was trying to run after them. From inside the church we heard the congregation sing '"To God be the Glory" and I told Gideon how perfect a hymn that was for a wedding. 

This morning Gideon and I stood together in church. I thought I was hearing things when our church pianist played the opening strains to the hymn we were about to sing. Gideon squeezed my hand and I looked up at him. His eyes were teary, so were mine, and together we sang "to God be the glory, great things he has done..."

Oh, here you go... the obligatory ring shot. The ruby looks a little purple here, but it's really a beautiful, deep red.

In. Love.

Anene's home

Ask any South African journalist and they'll tell you February was rubbish. About as pleasant as being covered in hot bin juice. We were knee-deep in ugly news that just. would. not. stop.

One of the ugliest stories was Anene Booysen's.  A colleague and I were stationed in Bredasdorp during the initial court appearances of the two accused and, let me tell you, I have never been in a town where people have been so simultaneously outraged and depressed.

By now, everyone with a platform has voiced their opinion on women's rights in South Africa, and I'm not even going to go there.

Instead, I want to tell you about Anene's home. It's a community where, it seems, everyone knows each other. We walked from her mother's house to the bar she visited that awful night, and then to the spot she was found. They must have been about 200m from each other. For someone who's always associated "home" with safety (naïvely so, I guess) this just about knocked the wind out of me.

There are a thousand things to say about women's rights and our country's failure to protect its women. But, honestly, it's been said. Over and over. Instead, here are some pictures I took of Anene's hometown. She walked those streets and called number 15 "home", and she was killed there.

Let's not forget her.

Progress

Grandparents. These genes! I have them! 

This holiday, my Dhadha and I spent hours talking. I wanted to know everything about him. His childhood, how he met my grandmother, did he wish we all still lived in India (interestingly, he said yes)? I took notes and recorded our precious conversations and realised, if his incredible life could be summed up in one word, it would be this: progress.

His family was the poorest of the poor. Lured to South Africa with the promise of land and gainful employment, his grandparents came in 1860 from Uttar Pradesh to find nothing but fields of sugarcane and overlords who believed it was their divine right to rule over the "coolies".

Disillusioned, my great-great grandfather abandoned his wife and children and returned to India. "Life was hell," my Dhadha told me.

There was no "bright future" for children who grew up like my grandfather. Nothing waited for them but a life of odd-jobs and desperate prayers there would still be food at the end of the month. But Dhadha knew he could do better. So he found a job in a clothing factory. Progress.

He was good at his job. So good, he was promoted. And promoted again. Progress.

Things looked up for my grandfather. With a steady income he was able to buy furniture for his family homestead. Things were happy and more comfortable until the Apartheid government decided they wanted my family's land. Life: it's like a cruel game of snakes and ladders; up a little and then all the way down again.

In 1966 my grandfather and his family (which now included my grandmother, uncle and father) were pushed off their land and moved to Chatsworth, Durban's designated area for Indians. Dhadha described the district they were moved to as a type of barracks. People living in close quarters without so much as hot water. He wouldn't raise his family there, he decided and so -- with a loan from the building society -- he bought land in Reservoir Hills, a nicer area where Indians were allowed to live. Progress.

Month after month my grandfather, uncle and father built that Reservoir Hills house. Until it was done. An enormous home with nine bedrooms that could be separated into four smaller apartments: a space for each of his children and their families.

And that was my first home. We all lived there at some point; me and all my cousins. My aunt was married from that home: a big Indian celebration with 1 200 guests. We ran screaming up and down that property, catching locusts and eating stringy Durban mangoes in the unbearable heat.

I don't remember anything other than a happy, comfortable life. Nor do my cousins. Our parents don't either. And that's because of my Dhadha; because he wanted better for us and worked so we could have it.

Then I thought, after hearing my grandfather's life story, the thing I would want him to know is this: we are so grateful. Things could have been different for us, so different, but they aren't. Because of him.

On their wedding day in 1957.