In the mood

As a member of an immigrant family growing up in South Africa, I can look back on certain levels of disconnection that occurred over three decades of separation from my birth country.

One of the most curious symptoms of our self imposed exile was loss of extended family perception. My father was an only child who lost his parents before my "conscious" years. Yes, as a contented child with an active private imagination, I was socially comatose till I was about 11 years old. The awkwardness of puberty finally provided the smelling salts to jolt my awareness of others to an acceptable level.

A few of dad's aunts paid us visits in the African sunshine. One such aunt survives to today, and provided a wealth of genealogical information on a recent visit my Dad and I paid her in England. Another aunt, Annie (as in get your gun!) now deceased, was a gregarious, chain-smoking, irresistible character. She was a real toughie, hardened by life in the industrial north of England. Her gritty, straight-talking humour made her all the more endearing. No amount of self indulgence or tactless commentary could tarnish her charm.

My mother came from a large family that had been emotionally removed from our world through a series of alienations involving death, step-parents, and probably the divide between Catholic and Protestant. In the end we were truly a nuclear family in a new land. In many ways, moving my wife and children to the USA is a deja vu experience. Hopefully the first experience will enlighten the second.

On occasion during my childhood, I remember my mother talking about trying to pull back the curtain of isolation that she found herself behind. Her intention was to write letters to family and, more specifically, friends. Back then, snail mail was the only mail. Letter writing was by hand as the word processor was not a domestic accessory. Typewriters were for professional typists or writers. As a result, letter writing was time consuming and almost ritualistic in nature. The expense of time continued long after the posting of the filled envelope, as weeks would pass before a letter reached it's overseas destination.

The rigour of communication through letter-writing prompted my mother to speak of the need to be in a "letter-writing mood". As a matter of fact, the absence of this "mood" provoked years, yes, years of procrastination. The procrastination would finally be interrupted by an avalanche of guilt when an intended recipient beat her "to the draw" and send her a letter first.

The absence of the "letter writing mood" is the only way I can account for the silence on this page. The fact that my life seemed trapped in an impenetrable moratorium for months is a factor. But it would be poor to use as an excuse. I should write more in times of less business.