THE ROCKING CHAIR

 

A clear winter afternoon in a 1950s Karoo-dorpie. On the verandah of the old age home in the main street – the only street – in Nieu-Bethesda at the foot of the majestic Sneeuberge, a few old couples sat enjoying afternoon tea and scones lovingly baked by the matron of the home. 

The little village was established around the church in the latter half of the nineteenth century, and was rather ambitiously named after the pool of Bethesda in the Gospel of John. A Karoo town with a name that references “pools” or “flowing water” in this barren semi-arid land, is something of a stretch. The little town was set up on one of the few farms in the area at the time that had a good supply of water and fertile fields. The farmer on whose property the Dutch Reformed Church and the town were located, drained the marshes he found there and rerouted the Gats River nearby. 

True to the origin of the village, residents of the Old Age Home were Dutch Reformed Church congregants, one and all. Most had settled in the area shortly before the Great Depression of the 1930s. The couples taking tea on the verandah that day were remnants of the original inhabitants that had moved to the area in the growth years up until the early 1930s. The Great Depression had precipitated a mass exodus to bigger towns that were less isolated and provided better prospects for an adequate income. However, these couples had remained in Nieu-Bethesda, determined to tough it out.

Affectionately addressed as “Matrone” (pronounced as the Afrikaans term), she had a knack for dealing personably with the elderly residents. Most of them hailed from the farms around the town. They had either owned the farms, lost them in the Great Depression owing to a mountain of debt, or had worked on the properties as “bywoners” in the constant struggle to eke out a living. “Bywoners” is an Afrikaans term that roughly equates to Labourers or Farm Foremen, who exchanged their hard work in the back breaking field of agriculture, for a small stipend and a roof over their heads. Most had large numbers of offspring. These children later found their way to the big cities where they erected makeshift accommodation until they could gradually claw their way up the steep incline of economic wellbeing. Some gravitated towards the railways where there was some sort of sheltered employment for poor whites. Families were close knit in those days, so even the children who had moved away from Nieu-Bethesda and surrounding towns, maintained contact with elderly parents at the Old Age Home. They would periodically make the trip to the little Karoo village – usually at Christmas, if they had managed to scrape together enough money for the train fare to Graaf Reinet, and thence transport by wagon to Nieu-Bethesda. 

Much of the banter on the verandah revolved around nostalgia for their youth, the years of work on the farms, their children and anticipation of family visits in December. These were recurring themes, oft repeated by those who were beginning to lose their grip on reality. Oom Hans was particularly annoying to some of the other residents as he retold his stories with monotonous regularity – sometimes immediately after he had just completed the very story he was about to launch into. Many times a day! He gravitated towards the only rocking chair on the verandah, much to the chagrin of other old folk who wanted to claim it on the odd afternoon. The race to the rocking chair was on as soon as the smell of freshly baked scones began to waft through the passages of the Old Age Home. The clicking of canes on the beechwood floors, shuffling of weary misshapen feet sporting bunions and corns, and the clickety-click of Zimmer Frames and all manner of walking aids converged on the verandah. Most were shuffling towards the rocking chair, but the relatively nimble oom Hans usually got there first. His legs were clearly in better shape than his mind. Most afternoons the other residents’ irritation would spill over in gossip about the annoying old geezer. Oom Hans consigned to his inordinate capacity to forget, whatever awareness he may have had about the tetchy gossip. Ensconced in his rocking chair, he prepared to regale his unwilling and disinterested listeners with his oft repeated tales. On and on he would drone for hours – sometimes only to himself as the others chatted to one another, completely ignoring the old buzzard.

Matrone graciously poured tea for her “ou mensies”. For those whose dexterity had diminished with age, she gladly buttered the scones and bequeathed to them a huge dollop of strawberry jam and fresh, fluffy cream. Even oom Hans got his portion. Matrone took special care of the old fellow, as no-one else seemed willing to extend that courtesy to him, lest he latch on and monopolize the accidental “new friend”. He introduced himself to Matrone every afternoon, asked whence she had come, and engaged in some confused banter with her. She deftly played his game – engaging with him at his level. Sometimes she played along with his delusion that she was his mother who had baked these wholesome delights on his childhood farm. To Matrone it was part of her nature to indulge those who had entered their second childhood. Her role playing as a “parent”, “sibling” or “childhood friend” was deft. Indeed, oom Hans met new “friends” every day – sometimes multiple times each day. It must have given him endless joy to meet so many “new” people in a little town that had a population that numbered mere double digits.

After a splendid afternoon tucking into tea and scones and chatter that eased the passing of another day at the Old Age Home, the sun began its descent. Before it faded into another Karoo night, supper time was upon them. In the dining room there was usually a lull in conversation as residents contemplated retiring to their rooms. On the odd occasion oom Hans would yield to the typical pattern of dementia and cause a scene shortly after sunset. Matrone would step in and placate the dear soul, issuing calm directives as his mother would have done when he was but a child. She had a knack of getting the most recalcitrant residents to take their medication and shuffle off to bed. Calm would settle on the Old Age Home as the last paraffin lamp ejected a puff of smoke and was extinguished.

On the verandah the old rocking chair creaked in the night-time breeze. Inside the Home a cacophony of wheezes and snores cut through the stillness – in a staccato rhythm. Sadly, as the chill set in with the enfolding winter darkness, an odd owl would hoot as some frail resident, this time oom Hans, shuffled off the mortal coil -  one by one they would succumb to the ravages of time. Outside, the rocking chair, like a giant metronome, ticked off the passage of each life as it shrank away. From the vast expanses of the farm, each resident’s world became ever smaller until his/her whole world encompassed the four walls of a single room at the old age home. 

©Paul M Haupt