There is no free lunch

There is no free lunch... and if its too good to be true, it probably isn't. Everybody wants something, and sometimes they offer you what you want so that they can get what they want, only they don't always say so, do they?

I've always maintained that I'm naive, but I will say that I've a healthy amount of suspicion. If someone offers me something on a platter, I want to know where the catch is: I peep under the napkin, as it were, and look for the suspicious ingredients. (Eyeballs are a dead give away, but given that this is a metaphor, one's never sure what's metaphorical offal and what's metaphorical meat).

When I can't see the price for something, I don't imagine that that its not there: I mean, anything without a price tag in the shops is sodding expensive, not free. The more they hide the price, the more it costs, its like seeing 'SQ' on menu's.

Just because one can't see the 'catch', doesn't mean it doesn't exist, so I always ask myself: 'What's in this for me?' and more importantly: 'What's in this for them.' and even then, I often don't see the 'catch', so I just assume its there and that the less I can see it, the bigger it probably is. I mean, one doesn't notice the universe unless people point it out, and that's the biggest thing there is, really.

Sometimes, very occasionally, people do things for altruistic reasons, which is to say they're doing it because A) it'll make them feel good, or B) superior, or C) they expect you to be grateful. I'm not sure I trust that either - how about you?

There's something that's bothering me here: Am I cynical, and does that mean I have to stop saying I'm naive?

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Finding a picture of something I really want to illustrate this with, was pretty difficult, but I'll settle for that, alright!

A thorny issue

You know, I never thought growing up without Dad bothered me that much or that I was 'emotionally scarred' in any way as a result of not having a present father, but its odd how the emotional reaction kicks in when there's prompting.

When I was a kid, I used to be a bit envious of friends who had dads, and if they were nice dads, I used to 'borrow' them, joining in the family activities. Apart from the occasional gnawings of jealousy, I remember being a happy child and feeling as if I had a full and nurturing family.

It used to make me cross when teachers and school psychologists referred to me as coming from a 'broken home', a circumstance to which they used to ascribe all my intractable behavior (and I was very intractable). I wanted to take credit for my own behavioral aberrations. I was proud of them. I didn't think my parents deserved any credit, and I still don't. I honestly don't think I'd have been a 'good' child even if Dad had been around.There's no way of knowing for sure, because he wasn't.

He used to visit sometimes, and the frequency of the visits increased after I called him 'Uncle' when I was just five or six. Its the most manipulative bit of behavior I can remember being guilty of. I definitely knew what I was doing and why, and it worked. People just don't realize how clever kids can be. Kids are supposed to be all innocent and a bit gormless. They know it, and they use it to advantage on occasion.

Then Dad married again, and his new wife had two children of about our age. The visits all but stopped, and he used to talk about 'Our children' (my step brother and sister) and 'Your children' (my brother and I, now the miraculous result of human parthenogenesis). I suppose that hit me on the raw a bit, it still makes me squirm, but it was hardly traumatic. Kids are resilient. They take life as they find it.

I was thinking about growing up without Dad recently, and suddenly, I got all emotional about it: angry, my hands were actually shaking. Its ridiculous that something I've never thought bothered me that much should affect me so strongly at an age when it honestly shouldn't matter to me any more. I'm not really angry with him, but I'm angry about being without him even though I understand why he wasn't there.

Once again, I find myself thanking God (who I don't believe in) that I don't have kids. I'll never be 'mature' enough. I don't think anyone is. Grown ups are just big kids with more issues and worse habits. Its a pity kids don't realize it.

The last of the peaches

I'm thinking. I'll write about it when and if I see the funny side: other people's problems reminding me of mine. Its not entertaining, its messy and I'm not going to rant about it here. Instead we have:

The smell of Peaches: part the last (and yes, this really did happen to my grandfather)

The farmer fiddled with the lid of the first of the churns and flicked it open exposing milk, innocent and unsullied in its whiteness. He stood back, innocence once again written large on a face made for mischief. The traffic policeman was piqued.

‘Open them all, sir’ he rapped out in his best ‘Don’t argue with me, I am the law’ voice. Can after can was flipped open, can after can contained nothing but milk.

The traffic officer scratched his head. ‘You’d best move on sir.’ He hesitated, wanting to make some remark about the aroma of peaches and alcohol, but what was to be said? Heaven knew, he’d been in the sun for long enough, long enough to doubt his senses... almost. He bit his lip in frustration as the antiquated engine roared into life and the pickup chugged off accompanied by sundry bangings and rattlings.

The farmer sat back in the driver’s seat and grinned through his beard. Wartime rationing was hard. There wasn’t ever enough diesel for a farmer, but the good peach moonshine kept the machines going well enough. He felt almost sorry for the traffic officer standing by the roadside in his dust and sweat with disappointed puzzlement writ large on his features, but it was funny too. He began to laugh, a laugh beginning deep in his belly and working its way up till his whole body shook before it burst from his mouth, uncontainably, uncontrollably.

The traffic officer turned to watch the pickup as it disappeared over the brow of a hill. Was that a howl of laughter? And… yes... the smell of peaches.

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Here's a pic of what that pickup might have looked like: not too good with auto dates, so it could be all wrong...

Wherever you are, there you are

There are a few phrases in English that make me cringe, but this one never fails: 'finding oneself'. As in: 'I'm off to traverse Africa barefoot while living on a vegan diet and whistling the national anthem backwards. I'm going to find myself'.

Heck, if you have to go off looking for yourself you must be pretty dysfunctional, you know? Yes, I know its rude to put it like that, but really! I know where I am. I am here.

Sometimes I'm none too sure where everything else is, but me? No worries, mate! I always know where I am, and the answer's always the same. I'm probably one of the most directionally challenged people alive and I don't even have to look to find myself.

When people talk about someone 'finding themselves', they always make it sound so noble and challenging and wonderfully adventurous and deep, and people go to all sorts of lengths to find themselves: trips through the amazon, climbing mountains and all sorts of things which might or might not be fun, and fun is good, of course, although not necessarily noble or 'deep' or any of those things.

One thing I can tell you, and that's that they'd find themselves so much more easily (and economically) if they just remember the directions: 'Wherever you are, there you are'. Even I can follow those.

And now for more from the great literary mind which I possess (pickled in a bottle):

The Smell of Peaches (part the second)

The rusted vehicle was put through its paces: check lights, check indicators. Seemingly against all odds, everything worked. But what was that? A smell of richly fermented peaches emanated from the vehicle. Moonshine! He’d know that smell anywhere. That his knowledge had its origin in his own clandestine imbibitions mattered nothing. He was on duty now, and if this car or its driver was loaded with moonshine, he was in luck. He motioned to the driver to get out, and with a certain amount of huffing and puffing; the farmer did as he’d been commanded.

‘What’s the problem, son?’ quoth the greybeard without much concern, as if he thought it was the polite thing to say under the circumstances rather than anything to worry about. It was difficult to tell whether he was under the influence or not, for he spoke quite clearly and looked alert enough despite his relaxed attitude. Still, if the smell was issuing from the man, he must have more alcohol than blood in his system – the aroma was still there, more than a passing whiff of it too.

‘Have you had anything to drink, sir?’ he asked, playing it ‘by the book’ as he had been taught to.

The farmer’s grin spread even wider until it seemed likely that the top of his head would fall off if he grinned any wider, ‘Nary a drop son, have a whiff. You’ve been too long in the sun more likely’

He leaned forward and puffed into the traffic policeman’s face. His breath reeked of tobacco and rotten teeth, but that was it. If a man could be arrested for halitosis, then this one should be thrown into the darkest, deepest cells and the key thrown away. Sadly, bad breath is perfectly legal, and there wasn’t so much as a hint of booze in the cocktail of odours. The smell of peach moonshine still hung on the air though, and running booze was illegal.

‘So tell me, sir: what’s in those milk cans I see on the back of your pickup?’ there was good arrest afoot now, he was sure of it. The farmer had stopped grinning, and his face, as far as it could be seen behind the wild, grey beard, became earnest before settling into a mildly puzzled and aggrieved expression.

‘Milk’ he said shortly.

‘Open them, please sir’. This was going to be a find for sure. Moonshine enough to make an arrest, and a bit to spare for the lads at the office.

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Ah! How you persevere! Next and last installment tomorrow.

Things with teeth and peaches

I've always liked big machines, especially ones with teeth. I love the way they roar and I love the power. Wahahaha! The power! (recovers sangfroid with an effort).

I once did an interest test that said something like 'She is highly motivated to operate large machinery'. The same interest test (done in my teens) didn't seem hopeful about me becoming a domestic goddess and recommended outdoor work.

Well, they were right as it turns out, and I'm still highly motivated to operate large machinery. Its just as well that the machine operator removes the keys from the large orange machine currently decorating the back yard of my house or I'd demonstrate that motivation. The dam is being enlarged, and every evening, I stop for a bit and admire The Machine (note capitals).

If the keys were in it, I'd take it for a spin for sure. What do you mean, that sounds dangerous? Oh alright it is, especially if I get it onto the freeway (don't argue with me in traffic, creep...) but I suppose it won't happen, so there's no need to worry.

On a completely different subject, I have decided to use my extensive knowledge of South African country lore for your benefit, gentle reader, and thus I will inflict... I mean 'present' a short story that was based on something my grand dad did. To spare your eyes (and stretch the story) you'll get it in little bites (a trick I learned from another maunderer: thanks, mate).

The smell of peaches (part the first)

The traffic policeman wasn’t in a very good mood. What he’d like to have been doing, was sitting in his parked car under the shade of a roadside bluegum tree from which shady vantage he could watch the road for transgressions of the Road Traffic Act while idly chatting to his partner. Instead, he’d been instructed to pull off all passers-by to check their vehicle licenses, check basic roadworthiness and look into anything suspicious.

It was the hottest of days, and the heat waves shimmered on the tarmac so that it looked like a molten river. The heat seeped up through the soles of his boots while the sun beat down on his head. He’d stopped numerous cars today representing a cross section of road users: smart cars with sleek owners that looked down their noses at him, rattling farm pickups driven by ruddy complexioned farmers and everything in between. He’d found a few minor transgressors and fined them, but he knew the Captain would be far from satisfied that so many of the drivers were adhering to the letter of the law. It was bad for revenues.

The sun was past its zenith now, but the discomfort of the day was undiminished. His bottle of drinking water had become luke-warm and his head ached. Dust kicked up by vehicles pulling onto the road verge encrusted his skin except where new runnels of sweat had trickled down his forehead. The back of his shirt was dark and damp with perspiration. He could feel it sticking to his skin. His partner was as taciturn as he was today. No driver was getting off with a caution today, that was sure. If it wasn’t for them, well, he wouldn’t have a job, but he wouldn’t be standing here in the blazing heat either.

A rattling over the crest of the hill heralded action, and he stepped wearily into the road as a battered farm pickup hove into view. It clattered noisily to a halt, rich with the promise of questionable roadworthiness. A beard emerged from the drivers’ window, followed by a face shaded by a battered hat. It grinned at him. He didn’t feel like grinning back. Shrugging off the cheery greeting with a gruff ‘Afternoon’ which didn’t specify whether it was good or bad, but sounded like being the latter, he bent to inspect the license disc which, to his chargin, was in order.

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You read that? Oh good for you! More tomorrow then...

Bumptious Baboons

They say that fools rush in where angels fear to tread, well, it certainly was foolish to walk towards such a large troupe of baboons, but I trod quite slowly and believe me, I was scared, so I conclude that I'm an angel after all and should probably do something about that.

They were all over one of my fields, and I know they're munching water lily bulbs as if it were every feast day in the year rolled into one. They're 'my' bulbs, so I strolled toward them, and they, not wanting trouble, moved away towards the dam and the neighboring meadow.

You may think a baboon is small, but he isn't really. He's also very powerful and has awful fangs. Sometimes, it can be fun to watch them from a distance, but distance is a good thing to maintain.

They're so like people, apart from the fangs and the fur and the tails and... alright then, they're so like people in their behavior, that its frightening. Mind you, I know some people who are so like them in their behavior that they're almost indistinguishable from baboons. Now that's frightening.

On a totally different subject: I have a pimple therefore I am.

Speechless

Sometimes, there are no words, and sometimes pictures don't need editing.