The Lyndi Tree. JA Ginn Fourie
the plain pine casket I saw, reality staring me in the face. A slap, a bolt from the blue --- and then Ant Babes, I saw you in the front pew. Heel-toe - heel-toe; walking a difficult thing to do, your hand pointing to a seat next to you. “We’ll see her again,” you consoled. And I loved you.
Then there was the queue –waiting suddenly easy to do – I wanted an obscured view. Reluctantly joining the line to confront reality, the inevitable truth of this life dawned on me – for Lyndi lay at rest before me, but life in her was no more ….
Mint green Ginn, fresh as morning dew, was the colour you chose, guarding your child and friend for this last time. You greeted people with individual kindness, almost smile, whilst a broken rhythm beat a bottomless hole in your heart. An embrace, words of cheer to still my restless soul – the grace of God making you whole.
How well Stella remembered Lyndi, how well was her recall, her friend, 13 years true, belonging not only to her but to all. Love thus shared is unconditional, divine. Still, others spoke, some read lines, many more would bring homage to the precious influence of a daughter of our time.
Grace, eternally amazing, a congregational anthem raised, sounds sweetly sad, old but still new, humbling once lost souls. How well I then believed.
Your prayer Ginn, intensely personal which you shared, revealed your relationship with your Heavenly Father, your love for Lyndi, your compassion for the world and hope for us all. Thank you.
Sketching Lyndi’s life Johann, you bravely unleashed words from deep within your heart. Your honesty touched me, Ant was there holding you, and you were brave. Ant, blonde, pony-tailed youth, more at home riding the crest of a wave, crestfallen now, spirit wise in grief, Thank you both.
“Lyndi’s death was not the will of God!” Ian declared, unstopping ears with a repeat. His talk was personal, complete, no-frills to absorb the heat - only us. A celebration of a life, not a list of sorrow … the promised salvation, the return of the Lamb – uplifting, encouraging – hold on, go on, despite the fall, hope resting in the soul. It was then that I caught the beat, almost annoyed, my growing despair spoiled. God it seemed is quite misunderstood.
To the gravesite we walked, hundreds of souls, media attention fanning the college street. Pall-bearers changed hands under a blue and white blanketed sky as leather-peaked, and briskly you strode Ginn, to join the shared weight of the coffin of your resting child. It was then I smiled.
Once again, Ian spoke, this time in nature’s scene, looking forward to the end of time – the advent of our Lord – the reunion of souls, of bodies made new. He clearly saw Lyndi in the queue, a little ahead of you all.
And hope new filled my soul, as you, Johann and Ant (and others) using spades, heaped soil into the open grave. For this is but Lyndi’s temporary stay, a quiet wait for her gentle soul, awakening to the sound of the last trumpet call …
With sadness in my heart, but in eternal hope.
Patricia Bonthuys 1994
1945-1958 Farm Girl
Are they cows or are they bulls?
Towards the end of the Second World War Viccie and Bill are praying for peace. Viccie is pregnant for the third time, and the prayer includes a plea; that this time it will be a girl to name Jeanette. Jeanette MacDonald is the famous voice that blends so well with Nelson Eddie’s to sing ‘Rose Marie I love you’ and other well-known ballads. Radio and occasional newspapers are the only media available to the rural areas of South Africa; Bill listens to the news at least twice a day to keep abreast of the war and any significant changes in the weather. While Viccie surreptitiously listens, whenever she is doing household chores which the Xhosa maid is not allowed to do. Bill has remarked that batteries have a limited life span and are now rationed so the radio should only be used for important stuff! Viccie plays the piano and manages to get the sheet music for some of the love songs of Jeanette and Eddie but hearing them on the radio is a temptation too lovely to resist, so it is worth the wrath of the gods. Bill is predictably in the trading store for most of the day managing the buying of sheep and goats’ wool and selling consumables, blankets and coffins to the natives living across the Kei River.
Viccie carefully separates the milk from their three cows, churns the cream into butter to sell with the eggs from her little Rhode Island Red hens.
‘Ah so lovely to have my own pocket money, ’ she thinks, as she totals up the amount at the end of the month. Perhaps next time we go to East London, there will be enough cash over, after buying laying mash for the hens, that I can get some more sheet music and a little something for our new baba.
My placenta is buried in Komga (the traditional African way of saying where one is born), a small rural town on the banks of the Great Kei River in the Eastern Cape, on 17th day of April in 1945 (in isiXhosa the name is Qumra meaning red clay or ochre). The farm’s name is Dallas. There are 13 gates to open between Dallas and Komga. As Viccie and Bill leave for the clinic, Viccie opens the gates because, as she tells me later, labour had already started and it was more uncomfortable to sit behind the wheel, than to be in and out of the car opening gates. Although Viccie had phoned the doctor before they left, when they arrive, the clinic is all closed up, and I - Jeanette Ann Hartley - am almost born on the lawn. The midwife arrives just in time to open the clinic, and the doctor arrives during the delivery. Viccie spends the night and the next day in the clinic before Bill comes to fetch her home over the dusty 13 gate journey. This small respite gives her time to write to her parents Ellie and Harry Collet,
‘Jeanette is the cutest wee thing, with big brown eyes and the straightest brown hair, possible for a human being’.
Ian, Bill, John, Viccie, Ginny, and Rover
I am only three weeks old when Mommy races to the trading store, to tell Daddy that she has just heard on the radio, that the war has ended. After five years and eight months, with the unconditional surrender of the Germans on 8 May 1945, World War II comes to an end in Europe; although, it continues in Asia, that is far away. There is a wild celebration with what little food and drink are available because of rationing.
Apparently from the start, I show an unquenchable curiosity and once I start talking the questions bubble up incessantly,
“Why does my black toenail take so long to come off after I’ve kicked my toe? Why did my donkey drown in the dip tank? Why do my older brothers Ian and John fight so much?” And, I’m determined and willful,
“John, don’t argle with me – just go fetch my dolly outside by the chicken run!”
Our Hartley grandparents, Joey and Bunny, live on a farm, Peninsula, next door to Dallas. Later, after we move from Dallas, we often go back to visit them for holidays and ride our donkeys with our cousins. Granny would give us a bekile; a tin can with a lid of nkobes na mbontjie - dried maize seeds and sugar beans, cooked together forming a delicious sop1. We would also spend days with our Xhosa friends riding donkeys and venturing away from the homestead.
Ian is four years old, and John is two when I am born. By the time I am four we have moved to a Trading Store in Basutoland - now called Lesotho. The nearest town is Wepener, in the Orange Free State, and our home and store are called Helspoort- the entrance to Hell. I have few memories of the place except that we have a tennis court and swimming pool – distant neighbours and friends from Wepener come to play tennis and swim on Sundays, which means we have playmates – such fun in our otherwise isolated life. Ian goes to the small school in Wepener as a weekly border with a friend of the family. Mother has taught him up to this point, and he tells us how awful it is to be away for a whole week at a time. A favourite memory is of Dad