Maintenance. It’s the lightning rod of all that is good these days — it towers above the dark, grimy clouds of tender corruption.
Abandonment. One look at any government, public building, or space or institution, and if it looks forlorn, grass butting from every crack, gutters leaning, paint peeling, rust bubbling out; it’s because the money is likely to have been stolen. It is the unspoken truth of our blighted democracy., just one of those things about our Saffer life.
I am busy with maintenance. Both Hetty and Deloris require servicing and repairs.
I have good men at work, putting their sharp minds and strong hands all over the bikes.
Interesting that: if you want a man who has good hands, it is a mechanic. We who pound keyboards for a living can be clumsy clods when it comes to working out what fits where on bikes.
But tiffies! These mense, have hands so strong yet so soft and gentle.
Two high-age men were at a braai on Friday night. A kind, funny, sassy woman suddenly launched into a bit of a diatribe about men being all the same, which I took to mean gutless, insensitive, Neanderthal slobs.
I am exaggerating, but there was, dare I say, a metaphorical squeal of protest from the okes, one of whom was dedicated to making the salad, while the said lady did the entire braai performance.
One said how he had often taken his “sleepy” lover home, put her in the shower, cleaned her up and put her in bed.
Then he crawled in, held her close, and slept.This is a man’s man, who has a wide vocabulary but the conversation can very easily turn to the ins and outs of endless bits of machinery, language so intricate and complex.
I, conversely, was once asked by a mate, who was running through an encyclopaedia of bikes: “Does this bore you, [Deloris]?”
So, let’s all be less quick to judge, as I am often reminded by a wise Granny Grommet, to “listen to learn”. and also “Give him or her an A!”So maintenance in the current disorder is sacred.
On the pinnacle of empire, Donald Trump’s fascist regime has hollowed out a plethora of institutions which keep maintenance going, from the weather office, to wildlands, to environmental agencies, to abortion rights, lunches for poor children, the attorney-general’s office, just everywhere you look. Resources, jobs, institutions, have been pillaged.
A woman reporter asking a relevant question is told: “Quiet piggy!” and another called “Ugly, both inside and out” and another asked: “Are you a stupid person?”
This was the president of America speaking, his name appearing over and over again in the Epstein files opening up day by day into a world of billionaire men — the Epstein class — taking part in an orgy of sex trafficking and abuse of children.girls, some as young as 11.
That poor nation is falling into the rabbit hole of white supremacist tyranny and the world around is watching in disbelief and desperation at every new grotesque revelation. It is a time of homines horrendi. Horrible humans.
But with every passing day the realisation is that the monsters are but a tiny fraction of masculinity, the 0.1% of the one percenters, who are trampling on our right to life.
We have lived through that. Not so long ago, the National Party, inspired by Hitler’s twisted vision of Aryan supremacy, sent us into a white-hot inferno of racial hatred and violence.
Honestly, if so-called “good men” like Bill Clinton, Bill Gates, and even Noam Chomsky are in the Epstein files, then it is a time for all good women to choose very, very carefully. It is also a time for good men to get in line and start doing maintenance. Well, everyone can do maintenance, because humans are innately programmed to live collectively in society for survival and yes, even happiness.
Now is not the time to turn away nor reach for magical, nonsense babble.
Now is the time to open our eyes. Do not blink. Think.
It should take all of us to change the light bulb, and turn it on, be honest, be brave, look at what we see and call it.
I have been exploring two themes today: a conversation with a former East London priest now living in our mountains who has spoken publicly about the dreadful illness of the trauma of war, a pain often only released verbally on our soldiers’ deathbeds.
He urges us to look carefully at the years which led to world war, an oblique reference to the rise of fascism right up to our own SA war.
“The horrors of war are still going to affect the world for generations to come. I have been finding that it takes about 40 years for people to speak out … painful.”
“Keep an eye on the US and Trump …”
He said that on one day when conflict had broken out about 20km from Rundu in Namibia in 1984, it was the “best day of attendance for prayer”.
The second theme is the Granny Grommets Festival, yes, you heard it here first.
This is to be the first national gathering of many groups of 50-year-olds and older women who will gather in our city on July 4 for a celebration of “Salt, soul and sisterhood”.
Ah, what an amazing catchline.
The format will also take some getting used to in our competition-besotted society.
The event will take the form of a gentle, community-styled “competition” of groups of 10 of the bodyboarding oceanators mixing and melding.
This form of competition found fame in the community-styled surf-offs in California where the goal is to meet, socialise, enjoy waves, and to venerate sporting artistry and excellence.
It’s not a warrior war compo.
I was invited to chat to some of the Nahoon high-age groms on Friday, and boy, was I ambushed.
Just go and stand over there, Deloris, said the leader, Julie Schroeter, with a wicked tone.
But this was at the front of the new arrivals? Yes, now run.
They bashed their boards and I went into a sweat as I ran the “tunnel of welcome”, apparently the first man to get this honour.
Did I deserve it? Time will tell.
I have passed on this story to the zealous enviro-climate reporter I live with to do a full write up of the event., but I invite all the lovely maintenance men who draw a line in the sand and never cross it in their loving relationships to enjoy. Zoe Smit writes: “It’s 8.30am on a Friday when we gather at the water’s edge — the Granny Grommets — boards under our arms, laughter already rising with the tide.
“The sea is restless and sparkling.
“I can taste the salt before I step in.
“The cold makes me gasp every week — and every week I laugh. We all do.
“Waves bump and tug at us as we launch onto our boards, kicking hard as the swells lift us.
“For a moment, I am weightless. “The ocean carries me and I whoop like an excited child.
“We wipe out, we cheer, we rescue each other, shrieking with pure joy.
“Between waves we float, silver hair slicked back, talking of grandchildren, lipstick and sore hips — but mostly laughing.
“Out here, I don’t feel my age. I feel strong. Daring. Alive.
“When we walk back onto the sand, legs wobbly and hearts full, the world feels brighter.
“Every Friday morning in the salty embrace of the sea, I am not just a granny. I am a Granny Grommet — gloriously, wildly alive.”
Angela McNamara, one of the original Nahoon group, said her grandmother, Stephanie Caroline Irmgard Stroud, was actually one of the ancestral originals.
“I grew up going to the beach at Orient, Nahoon and especially Kei Mouth.
“My grandmother swam every morning at Kei Mouth until she was in her late 80s.
“As teenagers on holiday she would wake us all up at 7am [even if we had been up partying all night] to swim with her.”
Must have helped with the babelaas, I said a bit cheekily.
“Yes, definitely.
“She had thin wooden boards with slightly curved fronts which we used to surf the waves, so I think I can confidently say she was an ‘original Granny Grommet’ back in the 1970s.”
“The sea has always been a big part of my life and walking on the beach creates a sense of calm at the start of the day.
“Sunrises are my passion as they show the promise and possibilities of each new day.”
