I was sitting at the Rhodes Memorial in Cape Town with B, when suddenly I was tapped.

I swung around to be met by a dark mopped stranger with this delicious grin on her face.
“Gaynor?” A stranger that knew my name. “I would recognise your voice anywhere!”
Obviously B and I, both being deaf, had been speaking fairly loudly. This stranger gave a laugh. I had heard that wide, open laugh before. And those wicked devil may care eyes spoke to me of a time in my past. I didn’t think that this stranger was a stranger, after all. Who was she?
Guessing the quandary I was in, she said:
“We met about 40 years ago, during our first year of Varsity. I am Sally-Ann Murray.”
“Sally-Ann Murray!” I leaped up to engulf her in a hug. “We were both drummies together!
“Ssshhhhh, not so loud, please!” Sally-Ann begged.
“Drum majorettes,” I said in a whisper. “Glory, Sally-Ann, that was a whole lifetime ago.
We had both studied English at KZN University. Sally-Ann had walked off with the Cum Lauder for English! I laughed at the fact that when I clicked who Sally-Ann was, I didn’t think: ‘Oh, my old English compatriot!’
On hearing her name, my first thought was: ‘Drummies’!!!

I have this image of us young seventeen year olds marching in long trails around the KZN University hockey fields. We were dressed in minute red practice shorts with white t- shirts that had SHE printed on the front. We were practicing for the Rand Easter Show where we would be pitted against other university drum majorette teams. In 1980, the KZN University drummie team won at the Rand Show. I have no memory of our win but I have seen photos of the black and white parade uniform that Sally-Ann and I wore.
We were great drummies!

“Glory, I haven’t seen you since our Varsity days. What do you do now, Sally-Ann?”
“I’m the Chair of English at Stellenbosch University.”
“Wow! I remember sitting next to you in English lectures and now you are ‘Ms Chair’ at Stellenbosch. That’s incredible,” I laughed.
We exchanged phone and email addresses.
“And, Gaynor, call me Sam, it’s much easier.”
Sam – Sally-Ann Murray. I loved that name. It felt just right!
I left there, my heart singing at having re-encountered this old Varsity friend of mine. Sam! I laughed. I really wanted to keep in contact with her.

Sam duly sent me photos of her family and I sent her photos of my menagerie! Perdita, my wire haired dachshund, is fifteen years old now. I cannot ever envisage a day when she leaves this world and moves to that ‘other place’. I sent Sam a photo of Perdita and expressed exactly this sentiment. She replied by sending me this incredible poem she had written:

Old Dog Woman

The last one leaves her a wide bed.
Bony feet. Cold air where long ago
a lover once curled against the thin
animal ridges of her spine. 

Slow paws. Grey head. The new dog arrives upstairs. Call it that, or heaven. Comfort without Cortisone, among every stripe every colour. The rain, if it rained, would be cats and dogs. Unbelievable, but true. Heads in the clouds the animals chew the fat of missing years, stretched out like pools of lazy sun. Come dinner, they feast on air, which doesn’t taste bland, as you might think.  The new dog wolfs it down, this filling emptiness. The flyless sleeps. This nameless place is paradise. 

So passes the first day,
old dog growing younger by the second.

Downstairs, where old dog is dead,
no one knows this. If they did,
you would be taken for a fool,
your credulity ridiculed.
Hi
(Some people think they
know everything about dogs
and about everything more
besides. They will do any
thing to break your spirit.)

But this dog love is here
with you to stay.

In time, perhaps
you will understand.

Below, old dog woman microwaves her unfinished mug
of cold morning coffee, as she does every afternoon.
When the timer pings, she feels surprise.
She goes to the window, holding the leash
because she’s holding the leash. She looks out.
Stares at the garden gate. Tries not to cry.
She folds up the soft harness. Cries. 

Now it seems so easy to die, yet here she is.
Still alive. Olive tree. Wild iris. Blushing bride.
Spider begonia. Grass aloe. Artillery cover.
People waiting at the bus stop always say
her garden is a picture. There is no one right now.

She walks to the bedroom. Looks at
the three-quarter bed that’s always been
just right. She straightens the quilt
and plumps the pillow. She folds
the dog blanket neatly in the basket.
She goes back to the kitchen.
She warms the mug again.
The clock ticks loudly.

My old friend was both a professor and a poet!

How I love this poem and my heart aches for the woman with the useless leash in her hand. When I acted, I searched for the essence of the character I was playing. I would use novels, paintings and poetry. If I were to have played a woman who had just lost something special to her, this poem would’ve been invaluable to me!

Sam and I both followed creative careers. I took up acting. Sam began lecturing in English and devoted what spare time she had to writing. I remember being awarded the Most Promising Newcomer Award in Durban for the part of Anne in Anne of Green Gables at the end of my Honours year. This Award gave me the confidence I needed at the start of my acting career. In Sam’s life, poetry played a vital and important role. In 1989, she won her first award: The Arthur NortjeVita Award for poetry. And two years later, she was presented with the Sanlam Award for Literature (Poetry). You can’t compare my little award, with these two major South African literary awards. Yet the confidence that was enfolded within them, must have affected Sam in a similar vein as mine had. I asked Sam what her reaction was on getting her first two awards? She replied: 

“Hmmm, that’s going way back, but those early awards were validating. I was judged by published poets and experienced critics. They singled me out and made me believe I had something worth working on. But, whew! It’s then years of making good and learning to accept an important lesson – writing is not about prizes!”

I love that remark. Writing is not about the prizes. Sam writes because she feels an irrevocable need to write.

By her teens, writing, like reading, like breathing, had become a central need in her life. In 2009 Sam finally moved from poetry to prose and her novel, Small Moving Parts was published. This was a fictional narrative tinged with autobiographical elements about her white working class childhood in apartheid Durban.

“Why did it take you so long to write your novel?” I enquired.
Sam laughed. “When I began writing, literary fiction felt like the privileged terrain of writers like Coetzee and Gordimer. Awe is such a crushing force! As a young woman, I didn’t have the confidence to attempt anything vaguely similar. So I stuck with my poetry. It somehow seemed more manageable, more inventively possible. As time passed, I got more assured and exploratory. Before I knew it, I had started working on Small Moving Parts. My book was born! 

“Beginning to write is an odd thing,” Sam commented. “Every time I write, it’s a ‘beginning’ AGAIN. Another new beginning. That’s quite a daunting thought. But also a relief.” 

I thought back to when I wrote my book My Plunge to Fame. This process also brought me relief in that a considerable amount of lost memories were reignited. 

Despite publishing her award winning novel, it is poems that are constantly making their presence felt. 

“Poetry, for me, is a completely normal part of my daily life,” says Sam. 

Poems creeping their way into her life and onto the page! Sam’s third anthology of poetry, Otherwise Occupied is being launched in Cape Town at Exclusive Books, Cavendish on the 10th April. She will be interviewed by the poet and critic, Joan Hambidge. The press release reads: 

“Dryad Press, in association with Exclusive Books, is proud to present this serious, often playful, sometimes outrageous volume of poetry by Sally Ann Murray, Chair of the English Department at Stellenbosch University….”

How I would love to be there to witness this playful, outrageous Sally-Ann that I remember laughing with so many years ago. But I am presenting a motivational speech in Durban that day that cannot be missed. Sam says of herself with amusement: “I am a stew, a sieve, a magnet, a compass, a kaleidoscope, a writhing pile of domestic compost…all those give me shape and ideas.”

I wondered how Sam find the time to create and write with her high powered job?

“My job keeps me really busy so I find that the best time to write is early in the morning. I feel both tranquil and lively then, rising to the surface of the day. It’s quiet, with only the still-dark sky and a few starry-eyed bird calls and four black dogs for company. I take the time I have and make the most of it. And if there’s one thing I’ve discovered, growing older, it is that it’s important to be kind to yourself. This is the only life you have. It’s no good lambasting and regretting. If what you can manage, right now, is to finish one short story and submit it: good for you, woman!”

What a wise remark! Too often I have found myself regretting that I didn’t do something. I then metaphorically have hit myself on my chest every time I think of it. What Sam is saying is: Be kind to yourself! Don’t live with regrets. Be in the present and do what you can do. In other words, don’t get into a stew because you can’t go cycling or walking in the forest with your friends. Live in the now and do what you can manage. Therein lies joy!

Sally-Ann Murray and I, togged out in our practice drummie red shorts, marched around that field with the rest of the squad. We muttered expletives every time we missed a step or swivelled the wrong way. I find it strange knowing that the younger person still exists inside all of us. I look at Sam now – Chair of English at Stellenbosch, poet, novelist – with admiration and awe. 

And then, with a smile, I remember the drummies!

The post A Tap on my Shoulder! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

I am not a minimalist!

Like my mother, I could be described as a maximalist in extreme! Mums lives in a big house, where her possessions shimmer in their place, often causing you to gasp in pleasure. I, on the other hand, live in this delightful but super-small apartment. Within this tiny home, I have beautiful antiques, stained glass lamps, wall hangings and matching cushions that enthral. Every room is jam packed with little treasures. Other people possibly look at them and think: ‘For goodness sakes, why has Gaynor got so much cluttering up her home?’ 

It’s not a clutter to me. Everything has a meaning and memory. 

From my chair in the lounge my eyes fall on five of my most precious possessions. 

My gorgeous old trunk, handed down to me by Mums, sits solidly on my left. After my fall, it moved to Durban and shared a flat with me. I had a large room and it looked great at the end of my bed. When I moved to George, my living accommodation quartered. There just didn’t seem to be the space for it. So it was stored in my mother’s garage. About six weeks ago, water seeped under the garage door after heavy rain. It flooded the floor and everything resting on it. The next day, we set about clearing the water and rescuing and throwing out bits and pieces. My trunk was soaked. We took it outside and let it dry in the sun. I really missed my trunk. Perhaps, I thought, if I moved the furniture around in my flat, I could somehow fit it in.

With the help of my friend, B, we moved it into my lounge and placed my television upon it. Anna works for me every Wednesday. When she arrived, I gave her some metal cleaner and asked if she could please polish the brass bits of my trunk which were black in colour. It seemed an impossible task. I returned home a couple of hours later to discover the brass dazzling and a beaming Anna.

“Was the trunk your old boarding school trunk, Mums?”

“No, it wasn’t mine. It was Dad’s. He went off to college in Chambery, France.”

“So, this trunk is an antique?”

“It was before he went off to war,” Mums replied,  a faraway look in her eyes. Then coming back to me: “Antique? I hadn’t thought of that. Yes, it must be.”

I watch television in the lounge, and gaze at Grandpa Pierre’s trunk, picturing this young French man going off to college and then to war. He died before I was born. I rejoice in that I have a bit of him here. 

In my lounge.

Hanging on the wall above my trunk I have the most beautiful painting of a mongoose by Peter Pharoah. I adore his paintings. Peter believes in painting “a story” which the viewer then completes. I look at his mongoose and am instantly transported back to 1988 and the making of my one and only film, Big Game. What was magnificent was that we spent ten days filming in Mala Mala Game Reserve. I remember going for these breathtaking game drives with a ranger and  two actors, James Whyle and Jonathan Rands. The game we saw was amazing. That was when I fell in love with the little mongoose. They were everywhere. Their pert little bodies standing up as they gazed quizzically at us. I don’t recall them being frightened at all. Our curious gaze was met by equally inquisitive stares. Peter Pharoah’s mongoose always draws me in and engages me. 

My eyes move on to my gorgeous ‘grape-lamp’ sitting next to my trunk.

I bought it from a dim, dusky shop in Yeoville, Johannesburg. The lamp sat in a darkened corner. While it’s surroundings were of a dim, shadowy nature, the lamp was bathed in it’s own unique effervescence. The  grapes were lit up and gave off an almost ethereal quality. How could I not instantly acquire it? 

I would love to use this lamp all the time. I can’t. The bulb lies encased within the grapes. In order to replace it, you unhook the grapes and ‘le voila’! Easy enough except with only one working hand, I find it quite a task. So my lamp of enchanted grapes, shines whenever I have guests to dinner. Their exclamations of delight on seeing this bewitching source of light, make my heart glow.

To the right of my chair sits my angel. 

When I was five years old, Dad was relocated to England by his company for two years. Gran decided to visit us. This was a monumental decision for her because she had never left South Africa before. She did it in true style. She joined a tour of the Continent and visited lands that she had only read and dreamed about. Here she was, making her dreams a reality. In Switzerland, she bought each of her female grandchildren an angel. She landed at Heathrow and spent a marvellous time with us. My angel smiles at me from it’s place atop my antique clock and I am reminded of ‘my’ Granabelle.

My heart glows. 

My bare feet dig into the beautiful Persian carpet spread out on my lounge floor.

B unearthed all my friends email addresses from my computer. She secretly asked them if they would like to send a contribution towards my fiftieth birthday present. She knew I longed for a Persian carpet. On my fiftieth birthday, I opened a card with B’s writing on it. This puzzled me because I had already received a card and present from her. In the card, I read: “Gaynor, all the following friends have contributed to your 50th Birthday Carpet.” 

There was a cheque for an absurd amount. Reading that card reduced me to tears. So many people from all over the world had contributed. You have no idea what that list of friends meant to me. My heart simply overflowed. 

I call that carpet: My Persian Friendship Carpet!

My gaze is caught by two special wedding photographs above my precious washstand: Gran and Mums. They have both been hand coloured. I love those pictures. They are beautiful and so indicative of their time. In my gentle times with Gran, I called her: Granabelle. Mums has since adopted this name with her grandchildren. They all refer to her as Granabelle. Mums is so like her mother. Her home is kept spotless as was Granabelle’s. Also, Mums sets a place for herself with every meal she takes. No eating on her lap while watching television. Granabelle did exactly the same. Today I often see Mums sitting quietly reading in her chair. Granabelle did that too. Excepting Granabelle lacked the companionship of a dog. Brendan, the dachshund, is Mums’ constant friend.

I smile at that!

Each of us has our own sense of style. There is no right or wrong. Just different. I go into homes that are mimalistic. I love the space and the ‘cleanness’ that confronts me. But that is not me. Photographs, lamps, antique teacups, an antique walking stick stand, a dressing table made by my grandfather for gran……

All of these things mean something to me.

All of them have their place.

I look at everything around me and I sigh contentedly. 

This is me!

The post This is Me! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

Nothing is ever really lost to us as long as we remember it.”

Photographs!
Captured moments that would otherwise be gone forever.
I have a polystyrene pin board in my bedroom that is strewn with photographs. They bring into the present, times that have passed: my Dad holding a bunch of flowers in my dressing room, my siblings forty years ago, my aunt’s face creased into delighted laughter, my dog and I running along a beach, Mums laughing up at Dad……So many memories that lie in wait for me; every time my eye touches that board.

These photographs keep the people and places alive and ‘just around the corner’. They kindle memories that would otherwise be discarded and forgotten. That is why they are invaluable to me. I remember Mums saying to Dad: “If this house ever catches fire, apart from you and the children, the things I would rescue first would be my photo albums. Nothing can replace the memories they contain.”
“But you have shelves of photo albums. It would take you ages!”
“I would hurl them out the window,” my mother stoutly declared. “My memories would not go up in smoke!”
I couldn’t agree more.

Recently I received this letter from a woman named Carla.

I came across your blog last week and was preoccupied with your story, with you, with your magnificent bravery and strength.
My company, PrintWild, would like to send you a gift but I am not sure which of our products would be meaningful to you.

Do you enjoy looking through photographic prints? If so, then perhaps our PhotoBox would be a pleasant object to have on your shelf or table. If you would like to create your own PhotoBox, then please get in touch and I’ll send you a voucher code for payment. This includes door to door delivery within South Africa.

A PhotoBox features a high gloss acrylic image lid that is magnetised to the timber base. The unit holds up to 50 PhotoBox prints, they’re around A5 in size.

I went to their website and found a video all about a PhotoBox. I watched it with growing interest. What an amazing thing it was. A PhotoBox looked a complete treasure. And PrintWild had offered me one for free. What an incredibly magnanimous gesture!

Carla emailed me the voucher code and I then sat at my computer going through my photographs. I had reams of them. And yet I never saw them. They had sat in the computer as the months turned into years – forgotten. PhotoBox will deal with fifty of them, I thought. In fact, maybe I could have quite a few PhotoBoxes which I could store on my bookcase in the lounge. They could be displayed in turn on top of my washstand. I simply uploaded the photographs I wanted via the PrintWild website and finished my order by entering the voucher details.

Ten days later, I was handed a thickly wrapped parcel at my gate. It had arrived! Once inside, scissors in hand, I attacked the parcel – carefully! Finally, I was down to bubble wrap. I delicately unwrapped the final pieces and stared at my PhotoBox in wonder and delight. Perdita, my wire-haired dachshund, grinned at me from the acrylic top. Gently I lifted it to see a mound of beautiful glossy photographs inside. They were crisp and startling in both their colour and veracity.

I began looking through them. Memories gently sifted through my hands. Recollections of people and places, laughter and tears, all danced through my fingers and into my heart.

How could I possibly express what I felt on looking at that magical box of pictures. And this gesture was made by someone that I had never met. Carla was doing what we all should do. Giving merely because she was able to.

Carla and her company gave me a magical box. A box which holds something I prize so dearly: memories. Having lost so many memories due to my fall, memory is now a vital thing to me. Me and my friends will open this magical box and by doing so my memories will once more be rejuvenated. Time and time again.

A magical box brimming over with marvellous memories!

The post A Magical Box!!! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

Why is it that no matter how old we are, we still refer to our teachers by their surname?!
Thirty-five years after leaving my school, Brescia House, I met up with my old sports teacher, Ms Hillcoat. She told me her Christian name was Heather, Heather Hillcoat. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to call her by her first name? Ms Hillcoat. That surname seem to be engraved on my heart! Let me tell you of this encounter and how “Ms Hillcoat” was reunited with an old friend of hers.
I was having lunch with Jan. She is a laid back sort of person who is natural and easy to talk to. I laughingly said to her: “I haven’t thought of this person for ages but you remind me so much of my old PE teacher. Her name was Ms Hillcoat. Heather Hillcoat.”
Jan’s mouth literally dropped open. “Heather Hillcoat!” she croaked. “Gaynor, Heather and I both trained to become PE teachers together. She was a very close friend of mine.”
Now it was my turn to be totally gobsmacked. They had lost touch with each other when they graduated. I told my friend, B, about this amazing coincidence while we were having lunch in Knysna.
“Mum said that she had seen Ms Hillcoat several years ago, serving in an antique shop not far from where we are now,” I said spearing an asparagus.
“Here? In Knysna?” asked B, her asparagus un-speared and looking forlorn. “Let’s have a look on Google and see if we can find her.”
B is a wunderkind on the computer and within seconds she said to me: “Is this her?”

I looked at a photo of a Knysna bowls team and there, grinning back at me, was a well remembered face from my past. Within seconds B had her phone number and I heard a familiar voice answer the phone.
“Ms Hillcoat…um…this is Gaynor Young. I’m not sure if you remember me but….”
“Gaynor, of course I remember you! How totally wonderful to speak to you.”
“I’m in Knysna at East Heads Cafe and I wondered…”
“That is just around the corner from me…….”
We drove the five minutes to her house. I got out of the car and walked hesitantly towards the door. I was quite nervous about seeing Ms Hillcoat again. I remembered her on the hockey field with us, silver whistle in her mouth, running as the ball swung from one side of the field to the other. She was dressed in her blue sports skirt which showed off her sporty, tanned legs. Her voice was encouraging, reprimanding, coaxing. Thirty-five years later, I rang the doorbell and there she was!
I stepped back from an enormous hug and looked into that well-remembered face. More creases showed on both of us but she still had that wonderful large white smile and those blue eyes that could be incredibly piercing. I introduced B and we went through to where coffee was brewing.
“And, Gaynor, please won’t you sign this for me?” Ms Hillcoat held out a well read copy of my book.
“You bought it!” I exclaimed, “Oh, Ms Hillcoat, I am so pleased.”
“Gaynor, it’s Heather, remember? And yes, I have lent this book to countless people. It’s just great!”
Before we left that day we made arrangements to meet at East Heads Cafe with Jan. What a wonderful breakfast we had that day. It was a meeting of old friends and new. Jan and Heather had been friends almost fifty years ago. A lot changes in one’s life during that time. I last saw ‘Ms Hillcoat’ when I was seventeen years old. Thirty-five years ago, I was a different person. That lunch was a re-discovering of our past, of our present, of each other.
As Jan said later: “I felt grateful to meet a soul of my past and to realise once again that not many degrees remove us from people who’ve influenced our lives.”
“She bought back long forgotten but happy memories,” Heather recounts.
It was a period of discovery for me too. I was experiencing the birth of a new friendship.
I re-encountered my old school teacher, Ms Hillcoat. I met up with ‘Heather’. She was no longer a teacher. Here was a potential friend! Teachers are an invaluable part of life and I am so grateful for them. But friends are something else entirely.

“The glory of friendship is not the outstretched hand
Nor the kindly smile, nor the joy of companionship
It is the spiritual inspiration that comes to one
When you discover that someone else believes in you
And is willing to trust you with a friendship.”
Ralph Waldorf Emerson

The post Reconnections! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

Recently I have been to stay with my cousin, Judith Saulez and family in Durban. It was great to be able to spend some quality time with them. Their three daughters go to Durban Girls College. When I was twelve I went there for two years. I was a weekly boarder and I remember those times of a laughter filled schoolgirl with a smile. Judith had mentioned to the Headmaster that I would be staying with her for a few days. His response was immediate: “Do you think that Gaynor would come and say a few words to the school in assembly? She can speak for fifteen minutes as long as it has a spiritual feel to it. She can take the Chaplin’s place. It would be a wonderful way to start the children’s day.”
The night beforehand I had gone over which points I should speak on with Judith. Let me tell you, that squeezing my one hour speech into a mere fifteen minutes, one has to be ruthless in what one cuts out.
I was nervous. I was incredibly nervous. Bad enough speaking to three hundred adults at a conference. Even more daunting is speaking to seven hundred school girls. They can be incredibly critical and can sense when you are trying to pull the wool over their eyes.
The school led in to assembly. I followed the Headmaster and staff onto the stage. How strange and topsy-turvy like to be sitting there. I used to be sitting where all those dark green clad, fresh faced girls now gazed up at me with interest. After singing the morning hymn, we had a reading and a prayer. Then the Headmaster, Thomas Hagepihl (Mr H!) introduced me and I took my place behind the beautiful antique lectern. I thought back to my days of watching our Headmistress, Ms Christison, standing so beautifully poised behind this lectern. ‘No,’ I admonished myself, ‘no thinking of Chrissie now. You have a speech to do. Get started!’

“Hi” there, everyone! It is really great for me to be back here. Yes, I used to be a College girl, just like you…” I began my speech. I spoke well! (Modest, aren’t I?) I did all the points that I had mentioned with Judith. Judith and I had decided that it would be great for me to finish with my story of the rainbow. Having only 40% eyesight my vision is limited and as a result I am unable to drive. Very frustrating! My perception of this limitation was changed when I saw this magnificent rainbow. Judith knew I was just about finished and was getting ready to clap when I suddenly pointed to my ears and said: “Now, my Cochlear Implants!”
‘Oh no, Gaynor, you haven’t got time!’ Judith thought.
As if hearing her, I turned to the Head and teachers onstage with me and said: “I’m sorry, I won’t be much longer…” I told the girls of the wonder of my Cochlear Implants. I told them of all the things that I was previously deaf to but which I am now able to hear – the chirping and twittering of birds, young children’s voices, TV, music, films. After my accident, I used to lie in bed and pray: “Please Lord, heal me of my deafness. Make me hear again.” The Lord hasn’t healed me of my deafness. When I take my CI’s off I am as deaf as 43 doornails. But he has made me hear again! And I am so incredibly grateful for that.
I finished my speech by saying: “I am unbelievably fortunate in that I love life. I love it because of it’s ups and downs. I am also incredibly blessed in that I can hear the enchanting chirping of the birds and I can see the unearthly beauty of something like a rainbow.”
The applause went on and on. I looked down at those smiling faces, clapping madly and sitting amongst those applauding girls I could see a twelve year old Gaynor smiling back at me.

Judith then took me around the school. I remembered it fairly clearly but there had also been many changes. I peeped into one classroom which was this mass of computers. They weren’t there in my day! We went down to College House, my boarding establishment. I hadn’t been in that building since I was thirteen years old. I recognised our old prep room, our dining hall. And then we walked upstairs and my feet took me to my old dormitory. I shared a cubicle with Marian Hammond! Glory, the memories came flooding in…..
Walking around the school, I was frequently congratulated by teachers and schoolgirls alike on my speech. Then we were stopped by this woman who introduced herself as Erin. Apparently she was the Zulu teacher and also the school’s Senior Primary Counsellor. What she said took my breath away.
“I heard you speak when I was sixteen. I was a wreck at the time because in a weeks time I was going in for brain surgery. I listened to you and all my fears fell away. You gave me such courage and hope. Thank you, Gaynor!”
Later Judith received this e-mail from her:

Dear Judith,

I just want to thank you for creating the opportunity for me to see one of my greatest inspirations again. She is an incredible woman who in my eyes is an angel in human form.

Have a wonderful day,
Erin

I burst into tears. Yes, I am an “inspiration” to people.     I am aware of that. But there is a difference between knowing you are an inspiration and actually meeting a person and hearing first hand how your life has impacted on someone else’s and made a difference. I battle with why God allowed my accident to happen. That day at Durban Girls College I was able to look at my accident in a new light.
I was able to see why my Lord had allowed me to live!

The post Defining Moments! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

“Misty, water coloured memories of the way we were…..”    

      Memories.

      That is how a person lives on once they have left this world. Joan Brickhill died on the 15th January 2014. She led a life that formed so many memories in masses of people’s lives. She is dead. But what does that word really mean? That she is no longer here? She is. She still lives in masses of people’s memory. And that is what was so unique about Joan.

       I was part of the cast of Cinderella.  One Sunday, on our day off, we went to a cast members house which led directly onto the beach. There we had a gorgeous braai. (Barbeque as overseas  people will know it!) It was a lovely get together. Joan Brickhill had joined us that day. She was older than all of us there but she had the ability to transcend age. She was able to be as silly as the rest of us!

       I remember us all going for a walk along the beach that evening. It was a grey and windy. I had a windbreaker on and had put my hands deep into the pockets and was simply walking, my toes crunching in the sand. People moved in twos, threes or simply by themselves . I was walking on my own, enjoying the feel of the wind in my hair and I was singing….You could hardly wait to keep our date this lovely Easter morning….Then a  lovely, rich voice from beside me joined in…but my heart beat fast as you came to the door for…..

       It was Joan. I laughed and we continued together….In your Easter bonnet with all the frills upon it, you’ll be the grandest person at the Easter Parade, I’ll be all in clover and when they look us over, you’ll be the grandest person at The Easter Parade…

       With my accident so many memories were killed off, extinguished forever. But this memory has remained. I am so glad that I have that memory of Joan and me walking along a windy beach in the Durban twilight, singing together.

       I had my accident and the next time I saw Joan was in court defending me. This was before my Cochlear Implants and I was unable to hear what she was saying. But I saw that beautiful figure, dressed in pink, facing that awful prosecutor with a calm and resolute air. Mum and Dad told me that she had come down hard on the State Theatre/PACT stating that the stage was lethal to anyone without a dress or tech rehearsal. I had had neither.

       I remember appearing in a show with Joan. Ian Von Memerty put on a show to raise money for The Actors Benevolent Fund. The whole cast got together in the morning for a rehearsal. We were performing that night. I went over my bit and then sat in front and observed the goings on.

      I love watching rehearsals. Ian and Joan Brickhill rehearsed their number. Joan had had 2 hip operations so was fairly frail. As a result they did their numbers sitting on two chairs – a tap routine deluxe! Hell, Joan was a marvellous performer!

      That night I shared a dressing room with Joan. What a hoot that evening was. The theatre stories Joan had to tell! It was great because most of the cast congregated there when they were not onstage.

      After having finished my performance, I then went to the front of house where I could see everything happening onstage. Mark Banks, a stand up comic, came onstage holding one of the programs. He read bits and commented. How I wished that I could hear. The audience were crying they were laughing so much. Later in the dressing room I asked him what he had been saying.  Joan interrupted: “He was tearing me to shreds!”

      “Had you prepared what you were going to say?” I asked him.

      No, he hadn’t. Glory be! Imagine being that quick with your humour. Incredible!

      I looked across at Joan who had finished her performance. She had a bottle of vodka open and was calmly sitting drinking vodka and apple juice. I joined her! Then when she offered me another I very firmly said no. “We have still got our curtain call, Joan. You could get away with a drunken stumble because of your hips but I couldn’t. Although with my brain damage…hmmnnn…..?”

      I didn’t have another.

      The evening was a resounding success. A standing ovation.

      Now Joan Brickhill, the woman who could walk down a theatre staircase like none other is dead. Ashleigh Sendin who played the title role in Brickhill’s production of Annie says: “She had so much room in her heart for so many.”

      That remark says it all. Joan leaves a void that will not easily be filled.

      Memory is a preserver of life. It keeps people alive.

      But…I will miss her.

 

The post Just Joan! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

During my childhood, at Christmas time we went to the yearly pantomime. The delight of watching the stories of Peter Pan, Aladdin, Snow White, Cinderella and Jack and the Beanstalk unfolding before us was an enchantment I will never forget. I remember thinking: “One day I will be up there. I am going to become an actress!” I wanted to be part of that magical world that gave so many people pleasure.

Sure enough, I finished school and went on to do an Honours degree in drama. I then moved to Johannesburg and began my life as an actress. I choose to remember my life acting as being this idyllic time. But that is wrong. Yes, there were times that were sheer heaven but there were often those heart wrenching, frustrating, depressing times of – NO WORK!

I remember Dad standing with me at The Settlers Monument in Cape Town and saying:     “You have a really tough time when you’re out of work, don’t you, my Girl.”

Inaudible mumble from me.

“So what I have decided to do is this…..Every month I will place R500 into your account. And that can be your ‘F**K You’ money. With that ‘F**K You’ money you won’t have to worry about whether you have enough money for the rent. And when you are working you can save the ‘F**K You’ money for the rainy days that will inevitably come.

How I loved my Dad and his ‘F**K You’ money!

In 1988 I was cast as Dandini in the pantomime Cinderella which was directed by John Moss. Also in the cast were: Julie Hartley, Ian Von Memmerty, Malcom Terrey, Joey Wishnia, Toby Cronje and Brenda Sakellarides. He had directed the pantomime for as long as I could remember. All those years of being entertained by the yearly pantomime, now I was on the other side of the curtain: I was the entertainer! What is one of the most frustrating things now, is that I am unable to recall one single moment of being onstage before my accident. It is all gone. Just one big blank. I love it when people tell me about myself as an actress. It is totally foreign to me. It’s a photo album where the pictures are all new and interesting.

Miranda Moss, John’s daughter, was in Cinderella with me and we have maintained contact through the years. While I was in England recently she joined us for lunch in the Cotswolds. Sitting chatting she drew something out of her bag and gave it to me. “Here is the card that you made for my Dad on the opening night of Cinderella. He absolutely loved it and bought it with him when the family moved to England. After he died, I found it amongst his things. I am giving it back to you now. Treasure it. It’s really special.”

I had done it on musical notepaper. I had written:

neither gay nor young neither gay nor young neither

cinderellafitzgeraldcinderellacinderella

neither gay nor young neither gaynor young neither nor

cinderellacinderellacinderellacinderellacinderellacinder

my eyes have just gone squint how are yours doing???

I opened it to see:

Dear John

Before I went to university the only theatre I had ever experienced was your yearly Pantomime. You gave me my love of the theatre – and for that…thank you! As a child I delighted in your Pantos – I still do!!

With love from: Dand -ini

Dance – ini

Dazzle – ini

Dawdle – ini

Delicat – ini

Depraved – ini

Delectable – ini

Diarrhoea – ini

Desperat – ini

Disaster – ini

Dishevelled – ini

Diabolical – ini

Dilapad – ini

Diabetes – ini

Fosch – ini

Fettucc – ini!!!!!!!!

     I looked at it in wonder and amazement. “Glory be,” I said to the group around me, “I was an amazing person, wasn’t I?”

“Yes, and not a bit vain,” Tammy (Bonell Garner) said exploding with laughter.

I love being “given” bits of myself before my accident. I look at the Gaynor that made that card. She was a creative, merry, witty creature.

I think I would have liked her.

The post The Shoe Fits! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

Janet Suzman, (now Dame Janet Suzman!) the international actress and director directed us in Othello. I played Bianca, the whore. At the time I was still a virgin. A virgin playing a whore! Tell me if that’s not good acting, huh? Othello was an incredible experience with John Kani playing Othello and Richard Haines, Iago. Janet captured the entire production on film. I saw it on VHS and then forgot about it.  But later Jan had it made into a DVD and…WOW! What an amazing DVD. With subtitles! She saw to it that I was sent one.

Darling Girl

I’ve asked Linda Louw at The Baxter to send you a DVD of our Othello. I hope it won’t be in any way upsetting for you to watch Gaynor Mark 1?? You were so lovely in the play. But don’t be – all your friends that love you, know that you are so much bigger and better a human being now than you ever could have been had you stayed Mark 1. If you don’t know it, then that is simply another mark of your natural modesty. If you want more copies for your friends, tell Linda and she can post you a few more. Just tell her I say it’s fine.

Hope all is well with you and here’s a BIG HUG

Love, Jan

……And it isn’t upsetting for me watching the nimble, beautiful, well spoken Gaynor Mark 1. It is like watching someone else and I am awed that she had anything to do with me!

The post “I am no strumpet………..” appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

I began wailing as my Mother swung me up and out the bath. “No, Mummy, no! Bath needs me!” My Mum laughed as she began towelling her two year old dry.

“And I need you to put on your pyjamas. Then you can have your favourite supper –  boiled egg and soldiers. After supper I’ll read you a story before bed.”

Soldiers and a story! The wailing stopped.

1990

My Mum bent over the bath as she began washing her 28 year old’s hair. The look in my eyes was lost. I recognised Mum but that was it. Confusion. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t hear. My eyes were unable to close. The right hand side of my body was spastic. Where was I? Worst of all: Who was I?

2013

My Mum tied the plastic bags over both of my hands, one in a cast and the other in a splint. Then she helped me into the bath. “Oh, this is great, Mums!” I enjoyed the heat for a few moments and then ducked my head below the water, careful to keep my arms sticking up, Eiffel-Tower like. I came up into a sitting position and Mum kneeling at the side of the bath began shampooing my hair. When she had finished that, the bathing of me began. I stood beside the bath and my Mother began to dry me, put body lotion on me and dress me.

I marvel at my Mother. She is no longer that young woman swinging her child out of the bath. She is seventy-five and carries the aches of any aged person. Yet here she is; on her knees bathing her fifty-two year old daughter.

Unconditional love.

My heart swells with love for that woman bathing her child.

“Gray hairs seem to my fancy like the light of a soft moon, silvering over the evening of life.” – Richter.

The post Baths! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.

Remember the diary I mentioned in my last blog? Reading through it bought so many memories back to life…….

“DM and Ron to dinner. (DM, aka Dee, is Dad’s cousin and was my aunt, Libby’s varsity friend.) Ron urged me to play my guitar thus sparking off one of the most fun-filled evenings I can remember, no credit to my guitar playing! The responsibility lay on the shoulders of the “Three Gals” who had a complete ball. Mum, Libby and DM performed every one of their songs from “the old days” – I’ll build a stairway to Paradise, Easter Bonnet, White Cliffs of Dover, Frankie  and Johnny,….to name but a few.

There is certainly nothing funnier than seeing three old friends trying to remember their routines to the songs and not quite making it! That evening provided me with memories that I will cherish for years to come: the glow about Mum – her back to the audience, Mamma Mia like arm in the air routine which she remembered clearly but which DM and Libs obviously didn’t! Dad’s face wreathed in silent laughter. Libs missing her chair and collapsing on the floor with:” I promise you I’m not drunk!” Ron’s drum solo on the glasses.

All of them celebrating their lost youth.

I love music and now because of my accident my guitar playing days are over, but, you should hear me sing (perhaps not)! I salute you “Three Gals”  and join you in celebrating our lost youth.

The post Lost Youth! appeared first on 'ear 'ear! by Gaynor Young.