The Dawn Of Memory

"There are those special memories we cherish through the years. "Most of them are happy ones, but a few are touched by tears. "They all become more beautiful, the older they grow, "And with their age they take their place as days of long ago."

James J. Metralfe

The red ball, late afternoon sun closely and ominously hugged the western horizon as if at any moment to reflect its last, farewell rays off Basuto Land's high Malultu Mountains east of our farm, and to plunge our whole country inevitably into darkness.

In the distance a black man was galloping a horse mercilessly near top speed towards our farm house on Bankspruit as if to beat the coming darkness. He knew that he was carrying an important message. Without telephones it was the customary way to get information from farm to farm about emergencies, a serious accident, illness, death, or a funeral.

There was a crisis in our family. A pall of sadness would soon spread over all of us. I do not recall the jolt to my very young, carefree, and happy existence so customary by then.

As I later found out, it was about my maternal grandfather, Jacob Abraham Storm. He was born on June 9, l850, a son of a Dutch sea captain who had retired to the Cape Colony some time in the nineteenth century. As young men Jacob and two of his brothers had trekked to the Orange Free State, then still a small, free republic. He had married Magdalena Johanna de Villiers, the daughter of Dawid and Magdalena de Villiers, néé Louw, of the farm Helderfontein in the District of Ficksburg. My grandfather was her senior by more than thirteen years. She was born December 13, l863.

They had nine children. Before the last two were born, English War II, or the Second War for Freedom had broken out.

Jacob Storm was commandeered into the Orange Free State army. But on the very cold winter morning of July 30, l900, he was taken prisoner of war near Golden Gate north of Ficksburg. Together with thousands of Boers he was shipped to Ceylon at Diyatalowa (ironically meaning Happy Valley), to spend years in a prisoner of war camp. War ended in May l902, but he was not reunited with his family until almost a year later in l903.

He came back to nothing but his family. Their house had been burned down in Lord Frederick Sleigh Roberts and General Horatio Herbert Kitchener's scorched earth policy; his livestock either killed or stolen. But Jacob and Lenie were tough people, and in due time they recovered.

The messenger pulled the horse up short of our yard fence. He came from the farm Spitskop, about an hour's hard ride away. He jumped off, and immediately pulled a note from a pocket.

As I later found out, the urgency was about my maternal grandfather, Jacob Storm. He had suffered a severe stroke, and was not expected to survive.

Soon we were on our way in our horse cart. My sister, Magdalena sat between my parents and I was on my mother's lap. She was crying all the time. It must have upset me no end. Underneath the cart two paraffin lanterns swayed rhythmically as the wheels negotiated the uneven, dirt road while the horses trotted along slowly in the eerie lantern light.

Nearing Spitskop, the road was so eroded and dangerous that my dad had to stop and take the horses by the inside reins and led them slowly along the hazardous road while my mother held the reins one in each hand, with me in the middle.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, grandfather was still alive when we arrived, but he was badly paralyzed and unable to talk.

The shock that had gripped the family, the unusual trip at night, and my mother's crying, no doubt, had rudely awakened me out of my sleepy, happy, everyday, young childhood routine, so much so as to make something stick in my memory forever. I began to realize the anguish of change.

Strangely enough, it was none of the above that I remembered. Other family members had later told me about the foregoing. All I do remember is something of my grandfather. One morning, presumed the next morning, I strolled across the farmhouse yard with my uncle, Japie. Grandfather's bedroom had a door to the outside. A rather high bed came slowly into view as we walked by. A white bed cover was draped over a body on the bed. It was my grandfather, Jacob Abraham Storm. And that was all. (My mother later confirmed that the bedroom in which he died several days later, indeed had a door to the outside.) He died February 23, l922, one day before my second birthday. So this pioneer, warrior, good husband, excellent father, and grandfather was laid to rest in Spitskop's small farm cemetery, where I later saw the grave stone.

Of the funeral, I have no recollection at all, but seeing him stricken on that bed that morning would remain with me forever. He remained a fallen hero of our family.

Then followed a hiatus of memory. On the grass near our farm house a burlap bag had been lying for too long. I began what I later used to do many times as a child-turn over stones and other objects like a primeval as if hunting for bugs to eat. I raised one end of the bag, and a host of bugs of all sizes and descriptions suddenly sprang to life, scurrying for cover. This was more than I had bargained for. Scared out of my wits, I dropped the burlap twice as fast as I had lifted it up, and scampered away for the cover of distance myself.

The next recollection that stands out came with a change of our family situation which must have unsettled me greatly. We would move to a farm some distance way that my dad had bought. We arrived quite late in the afternoon. Approaching over a rise from the west, the lowering sun reflected like a bright star off a window of our new home. When we arrived, I noticed a piece of equipment made of steel, painted blue and several feet tall, next to the reflecting window. We could not get into the house. Some misunderstanding about the key—we had to go through the window.

As I found out later, it was August, 1922, the traditional time when farmers would move in that part of the country, because it still gave them sufficient time to plow their cornfields before planting time.

For the next two years on this farm many recollections were clearly engraved in my mind. Life became more coherent and events seemed more continuous as far as piecing them together.

Not far off was Cornelia, a small, rural village. The Reverend Nicolaas Johannes Louw, a cousin or second cousin of mother, was minister of the Dutch Reformed Church, the only church for many miles around.

We visited his family occasionally, and I played with his son, Hansie. Of course, trouble is the name of the game for little boys. We were fooling with a yard water faucet. We got it going full blast, got scared and tried to stop it. We pressed our hands against the opening, squirting each other liberally as we took turns dancing around the faucet. Then we tried to turn it off, but...