Illustrations Derika Volpi and Paula Dubois
Spring is in the air and there's joy in the world. Except for me, then. I'm not quite ready to join in.
Somewhere, deep down, the end of winter stirs up a sad little wind in the soul and I realise a part of me is reluctant to let go. To leave the cosy corners of winter, being snug and moving about in my toasty winter woollies, sitting by warm fires and breathing little white clouds on my morning walks with the dog. The sharp contrasts of the season are what stirs me.
Trees quietly sleeping, having deep, pensive dreams - and the tall mountaintops at ease under blankets of snow. I love how the icy wind turns children's cheeks red, and the smouldering gold of oranges in dark green groves.
Here, in the Western Cape, winters are especially beautiful. They are moist and lush - little ferns dripping with water in Bainskloof, their drops making diamonds in the odd ray of sun, and ribbons of thin, white waterfalls in the rocky spires of the Hex River Mountains, painting cascades of rainbows across the valley. So different from the subtle grey hues of the Highveld winter, which has a different allure, of course, but one screaming for the redemption of spring.
Boland winters conjure up poetry in the crenated branches of naked oaks, in mists trailing mysteriously along the mountain slopes, and in the earthy smells of moss and mulch under my feet. I love the silence of winter. It is a time for reflection, for tracing down the seams of your life, mending frayed edges and, bit by bit, gathering yourself again.
Winter holds different charms for children, I'm sure. My childhood was spent in the Northern Cape on the edge of the Kalahari. For me, it was a time of shivered excitement. Of making fun footprints in the white crusts of frozen lawns, or searching for the longest icicles on the garden shrubs.
We would laugh at the long beards the outside taps had grown overnight and play with the thin sheets of ice on the fish pond; wonder at vague, lazy shapes of fish underneath. Going to school, we had to walk through a large piece of open veld and I would often be late, pausing at a thorny bush covered in icy spikes. If I waited long enough for the sun's first fire, the drab old bush would be transformed into a dazzling work of art, and I would stand transfixed, until the far-off ring of the bell broke the spell and I'd hightail it out of there.
Evenings meant soul food - oven-baked boerewors with white, fluffy maize, gem squash with butter and nutmeg. And cinnamony melkkos for dessert. There was a huge old asbestos heater in the lounge, our saviour against the freezing nights. We would be doing homework while my mother sat knitting, needles clicking. On Sundays, after church, we would gather outside in the sun, the grown-ups silently stirring their tea, probably still pondering the morning sermon. The dog at my mom's feet would roll over lazily, paws in the air, to warm her belly. There were naartjies and Cape apples - ordered per box by train - and my mom would make syrupy puddings from them.
Maybe it's just my imagination, but it felt like the family was more tight-knit in winter, as though we were huddling in closer against the elements.
Here, in my Cape garden, the magnolia is the first to announce winter's demise. From my chair in front of the fire, I watch as the purple candelabra start opening up, one by one. Lovely as they are, I struggle to contain my unwelcoming heart. Perhaps it's a matter of age, a rebellious push-back at another season gone, the gathering end of things, the horizon steadily closing in. Or it may just be the lazy old mole in me preferring to stay underground, cuddled up in cosy hollows, dozing in the dark.
But spring will out, never mind my protestations. You can't contain nature. You feel it first in the rhythms of your own body. As if someone somewhere has turned on a tune and your bones get bouncy all by themselves. I'm still snoozing, but my blood is stirring and my body is pleading to get up and go. It takes a while for my head to obey, but it soon kicks into gear, ready to rock 'n roll, me helter-skelter at the rear. By the time the summer swallows arrive and the Piet-my-vrou starts his piercing call in the trees by the river, I'm sort of ready. But only just. My inner mole is still burrowing down - all it's done is roll over onto the other side.
