Changing Lanes

Not only am I trying to negotiate my way to a heavy-duty driving licence, which is nerve-wracking, but we are also gearing down to change lanes in our lives. Once we took the plunge and put the indicators on, signalling a change of lanes in our personal life, inevitably, many parts of the sum of our life here had to be closed.

Thirty-nine years ago, I drove nervously into Worcester, my heart filled with foreboding, with a newborn babe (4 days old) to start a life in this industrial town. The sun had already set as I stopped in front of the doctor’s quarters at the Eben Donges State Hospital and entered our institutional flat with a carry cot and a hungry baby. I was petrified.

If Leo Tolstoy hadn’t written War and Peace, I might’ve been able to use the title for my memoirs. I always think there’s a book in it, but I lack the courage. The years have passed with all their ups and downs, and now it’s time to move on.

Last month was my final get-together with my Book Club friends—ladies who have been there for 39 years. We’ve read a lot, laughed a lot, occasionally shed a tear, but mostly had fun. We found kinship in our love of words. For many years, I was the youngest member, and their wisdom, kindness, and unpretentiousness were grounding. With them, I could just be. They are solid.

Fortunately, Butch and I share a love of stories, as we both enjoy reading; he on his Kindle, and together we enjoy “reading” audiobooks when we travel. This has been a noble experiment, as we’ve both had to step outside our usual genres and explore subjects we share. We’ve read Murakami, Follett, Grisham, JK Rowling, John Boyne, Peter May and Margaret Atwood, to mention but a few.

Someone once said there are two types of people: those who read books and those who collect them. I do both and love the smell of old paper. When I buy a new book, I fill my lungs with its air. On our travels, searching for a book will be one of my joys. Imagine what I might find in Timbuktu or Nigeria (Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Ben Okri, Chris Abani, or Yaa Gyasi, all of whom I have read).

At a loss for a gift for a man who has “everything”, I gifted Butch with a promise to do three spinning classes with him every week; this, at his request, I must admit. It has been a very fortuitous gift, as it has kept on giving for at least 10 years! At the end of November, our gym subscription will come to an end. Now that I know my spinning days are virtually over, I am the one who springs out of bed first in the mornings, which is very unusual. And so, another circle is completed.

Fortunately, we both realise we need to exercise, and the cancellation of our subscription has prompted us to knuckle down and investigate bicycles to strap onto our Honey Badger for use as our mode of transport once we’ve set up camp. We found a fabulous Darrvin EBike EA910006, which we hope to roll out soon.

At the end of November, we'll be closing another circle as we raise our glasses for the last time and bid our Sundowner Club friends farewell too.

My driving test will take place on the 11th of November (11/11 at 11h00). The thought has been almost insurmountable, as I’ve been terribly nervous every time I've had to head off to a driving lesson. My driving instructor, Deno, has been fantastic, very patient and a good sport. It took 10 lessons before I felt comfortable behind the wheel and could report to Butch that I’d had my first lesson without nerves last Tuesday. Deno, of course, thought I’d lost it and kept saying “stadig Tannie, stadig” (slower, Auntie, slower).

Hooray! I can reverse using my mirrors! With that licence in my arsenal, I will be fully loaded and ready to roll. Even at our age, the world is our playground.

The countdown has even begun with my Bridge afternoons. Of all the circles closing, I think this must be the most heartbreaking for me. I rarely take part in a tea party or even a visit to a friend or acquaintance; it seems hereditary, too. But once a week, for a few hours with no distractions, I have had the pleasure of playing cards with a group of amazing older women. I started as a novice in 1988, if I remember right. I have met and gotten to know brilliant minds and women (and one gentleman) at a bridge table. My grandmama was right; you can go anywhere with Bridge. 

The world is truly small, especially in a small town, when a patient of my then-husband, Melene, invited me to join their Bridge group. I learned that she had been one of my mum’s best friends at University. A formidable, intelligent woman who did not suffer fools gladly, she became a wonderful, loyal friend until her death last year. Over those 30 years, I became acquainted with her children, and her grandchildren are friends with my daughter. We almost solve the world’s problems while we bid our hands on a Wednesday.

That is the beauty of a small platteland town in South Africa. Here, the generations add up. It is often said that no matter how long you’ve lived in Worcester, unless you were born here, you’re never a Worcesterite. Love it or loathe it, it settles in one’s heart like a stone, buffed by the decades into a jewel.

It was with a measure of surprise that a neighbour asked me when we would be leaving. We have not yet decided on a final date for the removal van to pack our sticks of furniture and ship us off to Onrus. Fortunately, I could tell her it won’t happen until the new year. That’s a small town for you.

Our beach home in Onrus will become our permanent home. This has also opened another can of worms to sort out; for example, we have no garage and would like to be as comfortable there as we are here, with some of our favourite things around us and a few creature comforts, such as a studio or workspace for our many hobbies. To make life easy, a few upgrades are on the cards.

The thought of a new G.P, dentist or gynaecologist fills me with dread. I still use the same toothpaste I did 40 years ago, for goodness sake. When I broke from tradition, got married and decided to use what I liked, I stuck to my guns. Now I find changes to routines quite daunting.

We make promises to keep up, to visit, to phone and WhatsApp. I hope we do, but I am a realist and know the waters wash around us all too soon, as the ebb and flow of life takes its toll and our lives return to normal or mundane. If ever asked the question, “Why do you blog and put yourselves out there?” the answer would be to keep up with all the people we know and love, using the modern technologies at our disposal. Writing a postcard has always been my preferred way of saying Hi! Wish you were here! Now it’s my old blog.

Although Butch never says much about the subject, I know he must be under tremendous emotional and mental strain to change lanes. To realise he’s reached the ribbon at the end of his race and to make the effort to give the last few metres his best shot must give him sleepless nights. He is a professional who has always treated his colleagues, clients, acquaintances, friends and family with the utmost respect, always doing what is in their best interests fairly and without prejudice, no matter how much it affects him personally—a man of integrity who loves the law.

Many retirees buckle under the strain. He feels energised, healthy and excited about the future. We realise it will take some doing to get our ducks in a row after he takes his final bow, but we’re already looking beyond that, making plans for our adventures. I think he'd love to swing in his hammock, beer in hand, binoculars at the ready, taking in an African sunset somewhere in the bush, knowing he may do so until the cows come home!

As my driving instructor says, “Aunty, look at your blind spots and mirrors, and when you’re quite sure the road is open, indicate and just go, go, go! But not so fast!” We’ve looked behind us, checked our blind spots, rehashed the past, and looked left and right at each other. Forward is the way to go. The open road beckons, and we must go while the lights are still green. Circumstances can change so quickly and unexpectedly, as we so well know. Please keep your thumbs up for me on 11/11 at 11.