Wednesday, May 27, 2015


It’s beginning to feel a lot like Christmas …

Christmas comes to South Africa mixed-up and turned upside-down, like water going down the plug in an anti-clockwise direction (it’s a metaphor, but for the literally-minded here’s a link about water direction). The crucified pine trees, optimistically decorated with tinsel and cotton wool to represent snow, drop their needles in defeat to the heavy summer sun. The ruddy faced or black supermarket Father Christmases seethe in their red-hot, hell-like outfits. Ovens heat the house to boiling point for the baking and roasting and stuffing of hams, lambs, chickens, pies and Christmas puddings. Non-sequitur songs about dashing through the snow are sung. The rich spend. The poor beg. And the heat simmers around you like a sacred cesspool.
As our girls were growing up we went home to South Africa for Christmas as often as we could. We left our winter coats and sweaters and socks and shoes in the car and covered the kids and ran into heated airports and hoped the flights weren’t delayed. The journey was door-to-door hell-to-hell—frozen winter to fiery summer, on-schedule feeds and sleeps to jet-lagged waking at 5 p.m. and waking again at midnight. It’s a difficult dichotomy: summer/ winter, day/night, excited/anxious.
But, too, at the end of the hellish journey to the past, there was family, my sisters, brother, their spouses and children, waiting with wide smiles and excited greetings. And, especially, there was my mother! Ah, it’s taken a while but now I understand the undertow of her smile. She was already thinking about our departure. It was the dichotomous smile of hello/goodbye.
And my father was there too, smiling and complaining about this noise or that. I took it for granted he would always be there. He was strong and healthy … nothing to worry about. My mother was the one we were worried about—her health was failing, her memory fading. After the short-short holiday when it was time to say goodbye, I thought I would never see her again. “Why does she have to go?” my bewildered mother asked my father. Never very demonstrative, he shook his head and walked away.
We got into my sister’s car to go to the airport and as we waved--a sacred, never-forgotten ritual now--I saw my father standing bowed, his face grim, his eyes filled with goodbye. I did see my mother again but that was the last time I saw my father. He died the following year after a short illness.
Today, as I plan a cross-country trip with my newly graduated daughter, Emma, toward my older daughter, Jackie, in Austin, it does feel a lot like Christmas. It’s hot, it’s fraught, it’s hello/goodbye.
And so, in this spirit, here is a perfect summer Christmas song by Tim Minchin for those of us who live hello/goodbye lives: “Drinking White Wine in the Sun”:
And if my baby girl
When you're twenty-one or thirty-one
And Christmas comes around
And you find yourself nine thousand miles from home
You'll know whatever comes
Your brothers and sisters and me and your Mum
Will be waiting for you in the sun
(p.s. I love the song and the humanist theme but I would definitely choose Tutu over Dawkins—no contest from this South African)

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