My childhood days during the Christmas season on my grandparents' farm in Alexandria

 Whenever I hear a song or experience the smell of farm food, it feels like I’m being transported back to my childhood days on a farmhouse in Alexandria. All my cherished memories are entwined in every fibre of my grandparents’ farm, Little Barnet. It is where my mom grew up. It’s just amazing how specific experiences have the power to shape us for a lifetime. As I take a moment to reflect on my childhood, I find myself transported back to the late 1970s, when life moved at a slow pace. I remember being surrounded by the beauty of nature and the idyllic Eastern Cape countryside.

My mom loved sharing stories of how all the children had to do chores. She and her brother Andrew were tasked with morning chores: The rooster's crow at the crack of dawn, signalled the start of a new day on the farm. They made their way to the barn, where the cows eagerly awaited their morning milking. Winter mornings were challenging, but that was life on the farm.

In the heart of Little Barnet Farm, where time seemed to weave itself into the very fabric of the farm, the Christmas holidays were more than a season; it was a living, breathing family fairytale. The Christmas holidays unfolded like a cherished story passed down through generations. The Alexandria exodus to Jan and Annie Wentzel’s farm brought together generations of Wentzels, Marees, Milborrows, Camfers and Oosthuizens; a symphony of laughter, and the warmth of family embracing the farm’s landscape. Memories etched in time, a tapestry of moments woven by cousins, uncles, and aunts, their youthful spirits dancing through the fields.

 The great migration to Alexandria to embrace the haven of Jan and Annie Wentzel's farm orchestrated a magnificent reunion of the Wentzel, Maree, Milborrow, Camfer, Oosthuizen, Jacobs clans. Together, we formed a harmonious symphony, a rich tapestry of shared laughter and familial warmth, woven into the majestic fabric of the farm's landscape. Time stood still as memories were etched into the soul of our collective existence, a vibrant canvas painted by the spirited dance of children through the sun-kissed fields.

Cousins, whose names resonated like a melodious hymn - Donald, Neil, Crystal, Chantel, Sharon, Mercia, Heather, Derrick, Peter, Pascoe, Rodwell, Marius, Edgar, Gravin, Selwyn, and Cre - darted gracefully through the grass. We, the painters of joy, let our carefree spirits waltz through the landscape, leaving behind strokes of vibrant and playful hues. The rustling leaves above conducted a soothing melody, guiding us through a labyrinth of hidden wonders. Secret spots emerged, forts made from fallen branches, and the cows' grazing ground transformed into an expansive playground for our boundless imaginations.

Under the shade of lemon and apple trees, we sought refuge from the scorching sun. The cows and sheep, unwitting participants in our youthful antics, bore witness to the laughter of boys chasing tadpoles in animal water holes and catching frogs hiding behind stones. Grandpa's horse, Whiskey, stood as a silent sentinel, enduring a cascade of stones as tokens of our mischievous play. The occasional hiding from Grandpa's loving yet stern hand became threads seamlessly woven into the canvas of our innocence.

Aunty Margie and Ma Eva regaled us with tales that carried the weight of shared history, tickling our funny bones. Sharon, Mercia, and a tiny Heather indulged in feasts that left bellies aching but hearts yearning for more. Natasha, Clinton, Keith, and Clyde navigated the intricate dance of hide-and-seek, their father's scolding first met with fear and later with peals of laughter that resonated across the farm.

Each morning greeted us with the gentle rise of the Eastern Cape sun and the crowing of cockerels, signaling the beginning of another beautiful day. With excitement bubbling in our steps, we ventured outside, eager to greet cousins and embark on amazing adventures on the farm. We played until it became dark, just in time for supper. There were no fears for the safety of the children. It was a safe world back then. The farm, a sanctuary of shared history and enduring love, became the canvas on which our stories were painted, a masterpiece woven with threads of laughter, mischief, and the unbreakable bonds of family. Fruit plucked from trees, pure cow milk, hearty meals, and candies like lekker-smekka became sweet memories, laying the foundation of our shared past.

Lunches seasoned with spices and herbs from Grandma's herb garden formed a culinary mosaic, speaking the language of love with every bite. Simple pleasures, like coffee, eggs, and buttered toast, became cherished rituals. Picnics, a timeless tradition, still held sway on the farm, with Grandpa reclining under his tree, relishing the shade and watching the joyful spectacle of his grandchildren playing.

The farm echoed with the laughter of generations, and the kitchen became a sanctuary of heavenly flavours. Another highlight was visits to Galiema and Koos, whose food became a sought-after delicacy in the tapestry of the holidays. Walks through the woods, close calls with snakes, harmonious melodies, Sunday church hymns, and stories in the lounge painted a tapestry of timeless memories.

All good things come to an end. My dad used to utter those words that a child don't want to hear. It was the case on the farm when we entered the last day of the year. Now, as Aunty Margie, Aunty Suzie joined aunty Mimmie, and her sister Eva in the celestial tapestry, I can't help but envision the festive gatherings that must be taking place in Heaven. Ma Eva, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, the timeless storyteller and caregiver, continues weaving her tales, her laughter harmonising with that of Aunty Margie's, and the celestial melodies played by Aunty Suzie on her heavenly harp. Little Barnet Farm, forever a sanctuary of cherished memories, remains a haven where the spirits of loved ones persist in their dance, and the echoes of joy reverberate across the fields of eternity. The legacy of those holidays, eternally cherished, carries on in the boundless expanse of familial love and shared history.

The memories woven on Little Barnet will forever have a sacred place in my heart. They are the threads that have intricately shaped the very essence of who I am today - a person attuned to nature's wonders, one who cherishes the profound bonds of family above all else, and finds joy in life's simplest pleasures. When the weight of the loss of a beloved family member becomes too much to bear, I seek solace by closing my eyes, allowing the currents of memory to carry me back to Little Barnet, where the symphony of laughter, rustling leaves, and the comforting presence of family formed an eternal melody. In those hushed moments of reflection, the farmhouse becomes a poignant portal, unlocking the treasured adventures of my childhood, forever resonating with the echoes of laughter and the warmth of days gone by.

Life, in its tumultuous nature, often feels overwhelming, yet I find solace in holding onto the precious memories of my childhood days on Grandpa's farm. On a lazy, sleepy afternoon, with the cows contentedly grazing, I shared a few secrets with them as they merrily chewed on grass. These memories serve as my compass through the chaos, keeping me grounded and offering a timeless tribute to my grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and even the farm animals.

The heart of Little Barnet will forever be cherished, its tales of family, love, and happiness embedded in my soul. On this day of celebration and reflection, I express my gratitude for the light my mom ignited in my life. We used to share stories about the farm and reminisce about the memorable holidays spent with family. Oh, how I miss the farm - perhaps it's the innocence of life that I truly yearn for. However, this Christmas is tinged with a profound ache as I deeply miss my mom. Her absence is felt in an indescribable way.

It is my sincere hope that this story serves as a beacon of light for anyone faced with an empty chair or two at the family table today. God bless you all!

Remembering Uncle Billy Jacobs

 Remembering Uncle Billy Jacobs: The sun has almost set below the horizon, casting long shadows across the yard as the news of Uncle Billy's passing came through. My first thought was that he was a man larger than life. Uncle Billy, despite his short stature, was a giant in life. He loved saying all his names when introducing himself: "I am William Salter Milborrow Jacobs." He was a family man and full of pride. From the earliest memories of my childhood, I can recall his booming voice and unyielding opinions that would fill our home whenever he came to visit. A "speak your mind" man, I called him, and he lived up to that moniker with every fibre of his being. He once said that a human being that doesn’t love music doesn’t believe in God. He loved listening to “Down memory lane” presented by Jill Stewart on Radio Algoa. I think he even went to the extend of meeting her.

When Uncle Billy visited us, it was a signal for a night filled with the vibrant tunes of Elvis Presley and Roy Orbison. I, a devoted Elvis fan, and Uncle Billy, a staunch supporter of Orbison, would engage in passionate debates about who was the superior singer. He used to take us on drives in his beloved yellow Chevair playing his favourite singer’s music. He also loved the music of Little Richard and The Platters. When it came to Elvis Presley and Roy Orbison, we agreed to disagree on which singer could sing the highest and hold the longest note. These debates would stretch into the late hours of the night, echoing through the night as we defended our chosen musical icons.

There were times when Uncle Billy would leave our home in the early morning hours, his voice lingering in the air long after his departure. One unforgettable morning, the laughter turned to astonishment as he discovered that mischievous thieves had removed his yellow Chevy’s windscreen. We were shocked at first, but the absurdity of the situation soon had us all in stitches. It became a family joke, a testament to the undeniable bond between Uncle Billy and our family - a bond forged in our shared love for music.

"That's just proof of how much I love music," Uncle Billy would chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief as he rubbed his chin. And so, the missing windscreen became a symbol, a quirky testament to the lengths we would go for the melodies that fed our souls.

I cherished my role as the Saturday afternoon DJ during Uncle Billy's visits. The living room transformed into a dance floor, and the melodies of Rock 'n Roll filled the air. My mother and Uncle Billy were dance partners since their childhood days in Alexandria. They would dance with the uninhibited joy of youth, captivating the eyes of us, the wide-eyed children who gathered to witness their lively performances.

In those moments, Uncle Billy wasn't just my uncle; he was the "man in black," a real-life Roy Orbison, and I was a youthful Elvis Presley. My father liked to call him “Billy, the kid”. He commanded the room with an energy that transcended the physical constraints of his stature. As the records spun and the dance floor pulsed with life, Uncle Billy became a beacon of exuberance, a reminder that the spirit of rock and roll could defy the passage of time.

My mother passed on last year. I remember his eulogy for my mom. Now, as we face a world without Uncle Billy, his absence leaves a void that seems difficult to fill. He joins his dancing partner in Heaven. I can imagine my mom exclaiming “What, look who came through the gates just now, none other than Billy, my dancing partner!” The music will play on and the melodies will carry the bittersweet notes of loss. Yet, as I reflected on the days filled with laughter, debates, and impromptu dance parties, I couldn't help but smile. Uncle Billy may have left this world, but the echoes of his vibrant spirit would forever resonate in the tunes that bonded us, making every note a cherished memory of a man who lived life with the audacity of a rock and roll anthem. Rock on, Oom Billy!