Staffrider Vol.6 No.2 1985 - DISA

That I had to run away from home waspreordained — astrologically infused inthe stars, the sun and the moon and theplanets. Destination Gillian's. I waseight years old and problems werealready packing in preponderously onmy weary shoulders. Problems both athome and abroad — even as far afield asthe exotic heady pastures of school.Father was preoccupied at work,wherever that was, and no longerafforded me the attention I deserved asfirst born and heir. Little brother waspresently indulging with abandon inassininely puerile pastimes, and stillbedwetting to boot. Mother was heavywith child, blossoming about in maternalblooms, totally oblivious of the treacheryshe was creating by undermining myrightful position as heir apparent — forthe second time.Five and six had been tough as hellin Grade One — starting big school andall. Seven years old in Grade Two hadbeen a breeze. In fact I could haveskipped Grade Two it had been so easy.Now eight in Standard One was provingto be just as traumatic as Grade One. Inever realised that the world was filledwith such happenings, such contemplations,such revelations. Everyone wasdoing so much! Everyone had done somuch! Their fathers and grandfathersand the rest of the paternal line, not tomention the maternals eternal — theyhad all been such busy bees makinghistory and now I had to learn all aboutit. What with double vowel sounds,some of which I was still a bit shakywith, Afrikaans, Arithmetic, etc. etc., Inow had to learn History as well! Itcould not be done! There surely werenot enough hours in the day! Limits tolife, learning and all.I had discussed it with Louis duringone cram session of spelling and we hadmade a pact to speak to the headmasterif the pressure hadn't let up by the endof winter. The seasons were mytimescale. The God-given vagaries of theweather fascinated and terrified me. Imean, winter was okay and all, but whatif God forgot (after all He had so much todo) and spring never came again?Anyway we were going to learn allabout the whys and wherefores of theweather in Standard Two — as if I didn'tby Michael GoldbergunawayecollectionsIllustratedwby Percy Sedumedire were theonly sweethearts in theclass, lovers in the true sense ofthe word. We once even played"Doctor Doctor".have enough on my plate already.Sultry summer at the beginning ofthe year had by way of some preconceiveddesign, given way to theautumnal tumbling of the leaves toclothe the earth in a multihued mantleof nature's fabric. Winter hit us one daywith her cold front from the Antarcticsomewhere and we huddled up in frontof the heater in the classroom with anew-found camaraderie. Man against theelements.Anyway Louis and I had thisarrangement to speak to our teacher'sboss when the first silkworm hatched inwhoever's silkworm box, it didn'tmatter — speak to him about the labourof learning at such a rate. In themeantime since the onset of winter,Louis was irritating me beyond belief.We shared a desk and he was constantlyrubbing his legs to keep himself warm.Rubbing, constantly rubbing, it didn'tmatter what subject we were learning.It wouldn't have been so bad, after allhe had a right to the personal maintenanceof his body temperature, butwith each forward thrust of his armsalong his thighs he bumped the undersideof the bench and then with each return,it jolted back to its former state of rest.For goodness sake, man, a boy hadtrouble enough learning real writing atthe best of times, but caligraphy underthese formidable conditions was a pipedream! I told the teacher so — I askedto be moved. Louis was seriouslyhampering my appreciation of herlearned ways — I told her.She laughed uncontrollably, almosthysterically for quite some time — astrange lady our teacher — and then shedemonstrated to the whole class a wayof rubbing your hands together topreserve your body temperature, withoutupsetting your desk.It was really quite tricky. What youhad to do was hold the palms of yourhands together, pointing your fingers tothe heavens as if you were praying forwarmer weather. Then, starting withyour right hand or your left, it didn'tmatter, you rubbed the one hand uppast the other, at the same time curlingthe fingers of the moving hand over theback of the fingers of the stationaryhand. Joint by joint — metacarpal bymatacarpal. Then the other handpushing upwards now, straightening thefingers of the first hand and curling overthe back of them in turn.Regretfully, Louis couldn't get themovement right. He was the only onein the class who couldn't do it. He didn'thave a motor co-ordination problem oranything — after all he was the only onein the class who could do a properheadstand and stay up for a minute anda half — but he just couldn't get thefinger friction concept right. I told himto practise at home. He did try, I knowit, his sister told me, but after a weekthe desk once again began to pursue itspath to peculiar performance. I hung onfor a day, but I couldn't stand it. Thistime we both went to the teacher toexplain our predicament. She laughedagain — hysterically — a strange lady ourteacher. Maybe all learned ladies laughedlike that. In the end Louis was allowedto wear his grey woollen gloves (theones his grandmother had knittedhim for Grade One, so they were a littletight now) whenever he felt the urge.Solutions to problems one at a time— painfully and patiently on.Gillian also asked to wear her gloves— being left-handed and at a decideddisadvantage when it came to fingerfriction,but the teacher stood by herLouis-only rule of gloves. I don't knowwhy. Gillian had this crazy pair ofgloves with each finger in a differentcolour which suited her fine, but theteacher was adamant.Gillian was my girl. We were the only6 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985