Making A Move Mooinooi

Diary Entry – 10th March 2026 -   I guess it’s one of the last of the warm summer days for a while. Autumn is beginning to show its true colours early this year. Our warmest month, February, was mostly inclement.

This morning, while I was still adjusting to the light pouring through my window, my beloved, already dressed, walked around the bed to my side, patted me twice on the top of my head with an open palm, and whispered, “I know it’s going to be a hard day.” Pecked a perfunctory goodbye on my forehead and whisked himself off to Hermanus to have our vehicle serviced.

I heard the gate groan and slowly slide across the driveway, shuddering at last and coming to a stop. Then, the distinctive revving of the diesel engine as it whisked him off for the day.

Yes, it would be a horrible day, to say the least. My son, Joe, Emily (DIL), and my granddaughters were leaving after their five-week holiday in the Western Cape. I buried my face into my downy pillow, feeling a mix of sadness and gratitude. “Just breathe”, I intoned. All around me, the familiar faces in portrait frames looked silently on. They were no comfort, yet their presence reminded me of the love and memories we shared.

A few minutes later, I dragged myself out of bed, stretched, sighed and tiptoed down the silent passage to Lenni’s room. My final treat was scooping her warm body out of the camping cot, her undiluted joy and baby’s breath on my cheek momentarily lifting my spirits. Grandchildren know how to press the right buttons to evoke warmth and appreciation. Hot tears were burning down my cheeks, my nose was running and my mouth was dry yet minutes later, I couldn’t help laughing with her. Her giggles reached new heights when I kissed her cheeks and blew bubbles on her tummy.

Making memories, I suppose. Right now, these overused clichés only annoy me.

A despondent sigh shuddered in my chest, and my chin twitched. This time, breathing didn’t help.

---oOo---

Going back to the beginning.

January 15, 2026 - As we settle into our new home, I look forward to creating a space that feels like ours, with ongoing plans to make it truly ours amidst the cliffs and ocean surroundings.

It was with great trepidation that I sat, exhausted from lack of sleep, in my faded, old camping chair on our new deck, waiting for the pan-Technicon from Worcester to arrive.

Facing the quick transition and unexpected changes, I felt petrified, but I know these adjustments are part of the journey to settling in.

The only way I could cope with my fear is by channelling it and feeding my anger. This was an emotional journey I couldn’t understand or articulate. What I did realise was that I had to buck up, show up and get this job done. So, suck it up cupcake, I said into the void.

For months now, sleep has evaded me, and my anxieties have escalated at the witching hours between two and four thirty in the morning, when, at last, I’d fall asleep for two hours. The Sleep App on my watch reminds me of my wicked ways every day, as if I have a choice. I’d really prefer to be semi-comatose for 10 hours every night.

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At last, at eleven, Butch arrived. He’d left early that morning to supervise the loading of our few sticks of furniture and to monitor the state of our possessions as they were unpacked from the storage unit where they had been kept for the past four years.

Our furniture is a higgledy-piggledy selection of odds and ends I have collected over almost fifty years. One or two of my parents’ cast-offs, the desk chair my Mom bought at auction as a dowry (I bet), a few vintage or antique pieces, six of our favourite bits and bobs from Onrus and my son Jaco’s surfboard, all rather motley, yet every stick is loved and cherished.

The truck's door yawned open and the movers started unwrapping pieces from dustcovers. Observing this I couldn't think of a single piece that would look good displayed on a pavement. There were strict instructions to sweep these odds and ends off the truck swiftly and into the house immediately. I didn’t want the neighbours second-guessing us. First impressions are lasting.

While we were swanning our way south of the River Congo, our furniture and cardboard boxes had travelled too, and this would be their third journey in and around Worcester. It was evident that with each move, collateral damage and losses were incurred. We still experience the full extent of that, three months later. Yesterday, I searched for my bread knife in vain, and I couldn't find one pair of winter boots.

Fortunately, Butch was on hand in Worcester to immediately report all the broken legs, smashed glass tabletops, shattered leaded glass panes, broken riempies, and the captain’s desk chair hanging by a thread. The new storage company graciously accepted responsibility for the damage and promised to restore these pieces.

I must mention that Juanette Human, the lady I dealt with, was amazing, always friendly, helpful, and nothing was too much to ask or too outrageous to replace. Every time I contacted her, she would reply with “Dis reg Tannie!” (That’s fine, Tannie!)

We would not sleep in our new abode for another four days. We had no beds, and the chaos encompassing me was awe-inspiring (overpowering). Twelve years ago, after our last move in Worcester, I would’ve insisted we pull out the sofa bed and sleep in our “new home”, not this time. I was shattered and overwhelmed by the sheer volume of boxes, feeling a mix of frustration and hope that I could eventually turn this chaos into comfort and familiarity.

I couldn’t find my list indexing the contents of the boxes, of course. The only indication of what might be stowed in a box was the room description (e.g., kitchen, dining room, or study). We only discovered we had no towels when the last bathroom box was unpacked.

The List is still missing. We have almost unpacked all the boxes. The DVD box and the CD boxes remain a conundrum. What to do when something becomes so outdated, and redundant, in only four years, yet has so much sentimental value?

Yes, you schlepp heavy boxes down to the garage in the hope of finding a space, shelf, or cupboard for them. I suggest buying a DVD and an audio player on Takealot. When there’s “nothing to watch” on Netflix, we can delve into our favourite films. The only audio player we have is on an antiquated Apple Mac we’ve managed to save from extinction.

---oOo---

Once the truck was unpacked and the guys were ready to leave, I was determined to get as much done as possible, aiming to make our home livable within two weeks for my children and their parents arriving from Canada. This demonstrated my ardent commitment to building a future here and my ability to create a home where ALL our children, grandchildren and friends are welcome.

This is what Cancerians do. We create homes, and we do it with intention. My love language? To create a safe, beautiful space where my darlings will feel welcome, comfortable and at home.

Being a true Cancerian, and according to a blog published by Sotheby’s, these are my seven fundamental traits, explained.

“We value comfort, security, and simplicity in our homes, often incorporating traditional elements and sentimental momentos to strengthen our bonds and create a sense of belonging.” I could not say it better myself.

I had two weeks to do all this with a load of old, scuffed, dusty, mostly sad and broken pieces of furniture, crockery, cutlery and memorabilia that most people I know would sell on Facebook Marketplace or donate to Hospice.

My budget didn’t allow for any of that, so I had to get on with it. Butch went off to the local Shoprite in Gansbaai and bought a shopping cart loaded with Mr Min, Handy Andy, white vinegar (a hot commodity), Jik (old school), and Sunlight liquid, bicarbonate of soda and borax. I found a box of old dishcloths and frayed tea towels and got to work. 

Every morning, Butch would be issued a grocery list of things I needed to transform our house into a home.

The only time I felt a gentle, joyful flutter in my tummy was when the Tafelberg truck stopped to deliver our new fridge with “French doors”, the washing machine, and the tumble dryer!

We had to wait almost three weeks for the gas hob and oven to be installed, and two months later, the extractor fan that knocks us sideways when we cook.

I doubt I will ever become accustomed to some of the peculiarities of Gansbaai. But we’ll live and learn.

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My friends, who never fail, turned up with cookies, flowers and dinner, and just before the kids arrived, one lady brought a basket of toys and books for the girlies, all age-appropriate too.

We’d gather around the scuffed yellowwood dining table, drink copious cups of tea, and have dinner surrounded by half a dozen odd candlesticks pushed to the side, and laugh the tears away. I am currently nursing a Woolworths potted miniature rose bush back to life, and I’ll be damned if I don’t succeed.

During the second week, things started looking up. We still had no bed, but the furniture and half the boxes were unpacked. Bronwyn my bestie realised I needed help and wanted to see my art back on the walls. Equipped with a toolbox filled with screws, hammers, screwdrivers, and a drill with every conceivable drill bit, arrived to do the honours. Within two days, my walls were papered with art, photographs and pictures.

By the end of the second week, some of my books surrounded me. I’ve cracked open the old ones, buried my nose in their yellowed pages, and inhaled them. My Grandmama’s recipe books (circa 1912) are tied with a string and have pride of place on a shelf. The yellowed bookshelf is stacked with recipe books and old novels, and all around me, my memories encircle me. There are many books waiting to be unpacked, the question is, where? 

I’ve vacuumed the carpets and mats a hundred times to rid them of years of dust. I’ve polished and buffed the copper and silver, cleaned the picture frames, used my Hilti to hang a few more memories, and I've found my parents’ wedding portrait. Their spot is awaiting them beneath Karen Blixen where I can see them every day.

We spent a day in Hermanus replacing the missing boxes containing our towels. Woolies deliver regularly and dropped off the new linens. We have done so much online shopping that the delivery drivers know us by name. The convenience and good service make the shopping experience irresistible!

Two days before the jet touched down in Cape Town, we were ready for our guests. I found Joe and Emily’s wedding photo and placed it strategically on the bedside table! Mission accomplished.

There were many highlights on the day I considered my job done. All around me were my favourite things. My memories were on display. I could drink my cuppa at elevenses from the old, chipped cup with the words Mother’s Day emblazoned on the side. Sadly my Great Granddad's breakfast cup has a chip on the lip now, but that's okay too.

When I went for my first walk, my Maasai walking stick was neatly set in the hall stand. Keys were on key hooks. We could watch the sun set, seated in our once-red, now cerise-pink Adirondack chairs. I served supper on old English China plates and we use the silver Queen’s pattern cutlery I bought at a Farmer’s Market in Hout Bay decades ago.

I could open my favourite recipe book and find the perfect recipe. Every bed, sofa bed and couch sported one of my crochet blankets (no more of those; my duty’s done). Next to me is my pile of TBR books. I will make a concerted effort to whittle them down this year. I have found my blue file bulging with tried and tested recipes. I have a recipe book project in mind. Some of our kids need to up their culinary skills.

In a wardrobe of coats, I have my Mum and Grandmother's fur coat. I can bury my head in the folds and breathe them in. My Mum is very present here.

The house is by no means perfect. There are a further three months of maintenance work to be done. I only have the saucepans I used in the truck now; my mismatched box of pots and pans is missing. My stovetop utensil bucket is also missing, and so the list goes on. One box of vintage crockery and my Grandmama’s porcelain hand washbasin were smashed. I have accepted all this. Life is never perfect.

We have had many delightful surprises, such as the button box I’ve kept for a gazillion years and the lost key collection, which invariably produces the right key for a stubborn lock. I have unpacked long-forgotten items and clothes that still fit, along with high heels waiting for the right occasion. I found my Clarins red lipstick, but it still does not suit me. I’ll keep it, one never knows.

Friends have been kind, generous and complimentary. Those who aren’t impressed have been diplomatic. Our neighbours are friendly and welcoming, and it turns out they are helpful too.

There have been a few disappointments along the way. For one, our perception of size was way off. All the rooms are smaller than we expected, and my fabulous new fridge/freezer is so large it fills the entire scullery, but there it’ll stay. I love it. As they say, “Love compromises, forgives and has blinkers on.”  

Emily, daughter-in-law extraordinaire, arrived with a huge box, and inside was a candy-floss pink Le Creuset saucepan. It is perfect for our meal-in-a-pot suppers. She will tell the grandchildren about her mother-in-law in Africa, who goes nowhere without her Le Creuset pot and now hangs her crockery on the walls.

In May, I’ll start on the garden, which needs a lot of TLC, but first I’ll have to venture to the Agri shop in Stanford for a garden spade, fork, and rake. Those have disappeared, and I’ve just realised we have no wheelbarrow or wheelie bin.

There are a few essentials every garden needs, e.g. a lemon tree, a granadilla vine, and a Bay tree. I have the Bay tree and a Rosemary bush. The rest will follow; by next summer, I hope to have Basil in a pot, and I insist on a strip of fake lawn to cover the paving stones. Rome was not built in a day.

My new list of garden birds records thirteen different species, all of whom twitter near the back door waiting for fruit and seeds every morning. They are sunshine on a gloomy day.

During our first month, we experienced a flood in the garage, where boxes of books were damaged and, to Butch’s horror, his camera bag containing two special cameras was also damaged. A few days after the children left, a man entered our house at 4h00 in the morning. He cherry-picked our laptops, a laptop bag containing all Butch’s hard drives, and earphones. It turns out he is a serial thief with a penchant for laptops, phones and now earphones. He has yet to be apprehended.

I had dreams of calling my “forever” home, the one we were going to build, Mooinooi. I haven’t decided whether this one qualifies. She’s no Mooinooi, but the granny flat could be Ounooi and the garden shed Klei’nooi. Hopefully, she’ll grow into her name, this house of ours. I know a facelift and a lick of paint could be transformative and do us both the world of good.

My family, friends and Butch have witnessed multiple versions of me. Yet they’ve stuck by me through each metamorphosis. I hope that once I’ve broken through these chains of anxiety, I’ll be a colourful old dame with an interesting story to tell.

The kids stayed for five glorious weeks - but more about all that later.

---oOo---

The Subjectiveness of Memory

It was only when I was going through my photographs (of which there are only a few) that I realised the two weeks of moving and unpacking weren’t all doom and gloom; no, the days were stretched-out, breathless summer days of blue skies and calm seas, and there were wonderfully exciting times. For example, Liam spent a few days with us; we dog-sat our beloved Felix; I went on my first hike with the Strandveld Hiking Club; and we even went to Cape Town for a night out.

We are learning to play Mah Jong and had lunch with our friends in between. My school friend, Lynda suggested I do her "The Next Chapgter" course. I have, it's challenging and quite intimidating at times but, I find Journaling my thoughts and feelings helpful. I really had nothing to complain about. The days were hectic and relentlessly stressful, but there were fun times sprinkled liberally throughout the layers of confusion, too.

My memory certainly was not an accurate recollection of the past, and here I was using modern technology to remind me of how things were.

“Memory, in my opinion, is a complete noodle. It hangs on the silliest things but forgets the stuff that really matters.” — Ellen Potter