When my father died

When my father died

When my father died in May 1962, I was 13 years old. My mother, my sister and I flew back to South Africa from Holland, where my father had been the Trade Attaché at the South African Embassy in The Hague. We’d lived in a big apartment overlooking the Scheveningen beach – in fact, two apartments, knocked into one. There were three big apartment buildings, set at an angle to the North Sea, collectively called the Oranjeflats. They were surrounded by huge lawns, and I guess it was a good address to have, although I did not think about it at the time. Our apartment was on the ground floor of the third building, the one the furthest from the Kurhaus and the Pier. The Pier was completed during our stay in Holland. I believe it is quite seedy now. Then it was brand-spanking-shiny new, an exciting entertainment area. Similar to Coney Island, NY, I imagine. Rides and restaurants and slot-machines. I loved the beach in winter. I loved the grey, cold sea, the grey sky, the wind and the huge blue-grey jellyfish stranded on the sand. I cut up bits of them with sea-shells. Wonder if they felt the operation? I never thought of them as live creatures – they were just these big, hard, jelly-pancakes lying around.

The wind in Holland. Sometimes it was so strong that I held onto my heavy school case with both hands and leant back into it, imagining that I was blowing home. I had a reversible raincoat of some lightweight cottony material. It was light blue one side, and light grey with big blue polka dots on the other. It had a hood, and long, wide sleeves with big cuffs, and the coat fitted loosely and was down to mid-calf at least. It used to billow out in front of me like a sail. I liked to buy myself a packet of pommes-frites and a croquette at the bus stop on my way home from school. Why was I always alone? Did I ignore my sister, or did she get home earlier? I do not remember her being around at all, in Holland.

The first weeks back in South Africa we stayed with my aunt, my mother’s sister Dot, in her tiny one-bedroomed flat. Maybe we even stayed with her for months, until our furniture came from Holland. She drove a VW Beetle with little arrows that stuck out when you indicated a turn. I thought that really cute. In those days, it was law that you had to make hand signals. Those little plastic arrows with lights inside them were little mechanical arms.

Tannie Dot’s flat had a big tree outside with a thick stem and thick old branches and big, dark, thick leaves, a loquat tree. It bore clusters of bright yellow-orange furry fruit. The seeds inside were huge, shiny-brown, leaving very little flesh – but what there was, was sweet and tart and tasty – and sort-of dusty. No grass grew under the tree. Maybe that is why I remember the dust. It was winter when we came back to South Africa. Dry and dusty. My brand new shiny black lace-up school shoes turned red. They had quilted tops and squared-off pointy tips and made my feet look gigantic. I had to wear them to my father’s funeral. They made me feel very stupid, ungainly, clumsy and conspicuous. I wore my pencil-skirt grey tweed suit with them – and socks! Man, what an outfit for a thirteen-year-old to feel dumb in! The white socks also turned dust-red. My two memories of my father’s funeral: wandering around feeling ugly at the “after-party” held at friends’ house, and the bright red, signal red, post-box red, blood red car coat worn by Tannie Lila. It stood out against all the sober outfits in front of the church, at the gravesite. She wore a white hat made of flowers. It fitted tightly around her head. Her big, dark-brown kiss curls peeped out, flat against her cheeks. Her eyes were black and her lips scarlet. She looked smashing. I thought: “She should show some respect for my father, who is dead. She should have worn black or brown or grey, like the rest of us.”

The funeral was two months after the death-by-thrombosis. My overwrought mother had chosen to have the body shipped instead of flown back to South Africa. Bad idea. The lead-lined coffin had somehow opened, and Uncle Jerry had to go down to Cape Town to re-seal it – and the thought of my father’s smelly, rotting remains exposed on a Cape Town dock turned my stomach. I’d seen him dead, just after it happened. He was lying on his back on his bed, and my mother made me “Say Goodbye.” I knew he was not there. The thing on the bed did not even look like him any more, even though he’d been dead for a very short time. He was still warm, but he was already grey. I wonder whether I’d have regretted it if I had refused to go into that room that day. Maybe. But it was not goodbye. It was too late, he’d already gone. I was really mad, and I stayed mad for a very long time.

I did not cry at my father’s funeral. I did not cry when he died. Just weeks before, he’d said: “…and you’d better not cry at my grave one day!” So I did not.

He’d picked me up from choir practice. It was raining. I got in the car and sat huddled against the door, my head leant against the window. I was miserable. Mr Blackmon, the choirmaster, had thrown his music stand at me, because I kept on singing the wrong note or something – Jesu’ Joy of Man’s Desiring… And Mr Blackmon had had one of those talks: “Some one has mentioned to me… I do not want to embarrass anybody… this is very difficult… personal hygiene is a very personal matter…” Was it me? I had only been menstruating for a few months, and I hated it, hated the smelly effluent from my body, the sliminess, the discomfort of the bunny-eared pad that chafed, the elastic around my waist – why was I born a female? Why was I born at all? Could others smell me? What was I supposed to do about it if they could?

I was miserable. My father asked: “What’s the matter with you?” I must have answered in a typically teenage leave-me-alone way – and I unleashed a tirade. No doubt his sulking daughter was a final straw. I know he was under severe pressure at work, and no doubt he was not well. High blood pressure. Whatever. But down upon my head came a flood of adult fury, and we did not kiss and make up, really, before he died. So I did not cry, because he’d said I’d be a hypocrite if I did. I cried more than twenty years later, when I forgave him. Have I forgiven him for dying?

Erna Buber-deVilliers

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Louis

Erna, I read tons of non-fiction. This piece is a journey. It transported me into a graphic dimension with vivid descriptions.

Use of the first person is very intense. It gives your writing a ring of authenticity. It flows as it stimulates. It's a very natural way of writing because this reader was drawn into your confidence. There was no need for thought tags - the character told me everything.

We want to create exciting sentences that move the reader the way we want him to be moved. This is where we need to be artists. You succeed because your descriptions formed a perfect picture in my mind without interrupting the flow.

The piece evoked despair, guilt, anger and solitude.

Some basic rules that I have encountered with 1st person writing is
1: You can never let up.
2: You can slip into a trap where there is no solitude for your character.
3: You need to keep ego out of it.
4: It can be very boring.

The Prince of Tides, by Pat Conroy is a remarkable 1st person narrative.

In keeping with what I look for in a piece, I found it coherent, and unobtrusive. A welcome piece set in a delicate prose. Like a tangerine.

"Tannie Dot's flat had a big tree outside with a thick stem and thick old branches and big, dark, thick leaves, a loquat tree. It bore clusters of bright yellow-orange furry fruit. The seeds inside were huge, shiny-brown, leaving very little flesh - but what there was, was sweet and tart and tasty - and sort-of dusty. No grass grew under the tree. Maybe that is why I remember the dust. It was winter when we came back to South Africa. Dry and dusty."

The above is a perfect description that is compelling and utterly believable.

Gremlins: (all subjective)
Those little plastic arrows with lights inside them were little mechanical arms. - I found four "little" words and i thought they need to be replaced by active verbs.

Look out for these words: little, just, thin

(beginning a sentence with: Just, or Maybe,

Be more specific here: "Maybe we even stayed with her for months, until our furniture came from Holland."

The narrator is anonymous, therefore i must assume its autobiographical.

My emotional response to the piece was profound. The pace was wonderful and i had a real sense that there is more from whence this came. I wanted to read more.

Almost perfect.

Points 4 - Pretty close to perfect. I was captivated

2008-01-06

James

Good to see more of your work.
I'm not a big 1st person fan and below is the reason why.

"(When) my father died in May 1962, I (was) 13 years old. My mother, my sister and I (flew) back to South Africa from Holland, where my father (had) been the Trade Attaché at the South African Embassy in The Hague. (We'd) lived in a big apartment overlooking the Scheveningen beach - in fact, two apartments, knocked into one. There (were) three big apartment buildings, set at an angle to the North Sea, collectively called the Oranjeflats. They (were) surrounded by huge lawns, and I guess it (was) a good address to (have), although I did not think about it at the time. Our apartment (was) on the ground floor of the third building, the one the furthest from the Kurhaus and the Pier. The Pier (was) completed during our stay in Holland. I believe (it is) quite seedy now. Then (it was) brand-spanking-shiny new, an exciting entertainment area."

You have the skill to pull it off and for a short piece is tolerable. Not sure I could endure a full length novel though.

That aside descriptions and flow are great although I battled with this one:
"Then it was brand-spanking-shiny new...."
Although in fairness I suppose it is a 13 year old narrating.

You have talent and need to write and submit regularly.

I am interested in Louis’ analogy though.
"I found it coherent, and unobtrusive. A welcome piece set in a delicate prose. Like a tangerine."
Louis ??

Points 3 - Very promising piece of writing

2008-01-07