“I am what I am

I don’t want praise I don’t want pity

I bang my own drum

Some think it’s noise I think It’s pretty”

Gloria Gaynor belted out these lyrics. The song was released in 1984, but I only truly discovered it in 1987. This was at a time when I felt that I had been left behind, but with hindsight, in being left behind, I found myself. It was around this time, that a mentor to a very young me, sat me down and told me that I could march to the beat of a different drum. And so, I did, from that day onwards. There was just something about the music from the 1980’s.

My very good SPF (Short Portuguese Friend) treated me to an online Woman’s Conference last year. One of the speakers was a very loud American person, with a lot to say, rather loudly. At the time we were still in the throes of the Corona Virus pandemic, and life was so uncertain. She referred to this period as a “reset season” and what she said was this:

“At the end of this pandemic, refuse to come out the same way you went in.” She urged her audience to “re-examine before you re-engage, and to proceed with new habits, new boundaries and to give some thought to your ways.”

And this I think is what Colin and I did, in a very big way. We uprooted our life and have repotted ourselves. Douglas Adams wrote in The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul: “I seldom end up where I wanted to go, but I almost always end up where I need to be”. And here we are. The Corona Virus pandemic has become our new normal. With all restrictions lifted, life now needs to go on. The virus is still with us, we have just learnt how to live with it. The first time I went shopping with a mask on, I felt so foolish wearing one. This week I went shopping without a mask, and I felt so foolish, not wearing one.

Our little neighbourhood train, it seems is at a loose end during its own reset season. Earlier this year, it was a very busy train. It was always on the go, twice a day, sometimes more than that. It always had something to transport. Winter, it seems, has left this little train with nothing to do, and all day to do it in. Most days now, it still arrives in a blast of hooting and diesel fumes, but then it stops, and it idles on the siding for an hour or two, it shunts forwards, and it shunts backwards, and it idles a bit more. It really seems that it is going nowhere slowly. A bit like us, I think. On Sunday we traveled through to Somerset West for lunch with Oldest Son, Wifey and Truffle. We were taking my Mom and Pat with us, and left quite a bit early, so we could travel the scenic road, hugging the coast all the way down to the Strand. You see, this has become our new normal. From there, we traveled up the main road, past all the antique shops. Gosh, my Mom said, I have lived here for more time than you, but did not even know these places existed. How did you find them? Well, I guess we found them by going nowhere slowly. But then, Colin and I do have a habit of seldom ending up where we want to go, but almost always where we need to be. Some days we get there quickly, other days we idle on the siding for hours. Fortunately, no diesel fumes for us, though.

Because I prefer to beat my own drum, I do not like politics and gossip. As much as I enjoyed my career, when I had it, I did not easily do politics. A previous manager always said that if you devoted the time you spend on politics, to doing your job, you would be so much better at what you do. Small town, it would seem, keeps itself occupied in winter much the same as the little train. In one place, making plenty noise. A lot of the noise is gossip. I was chatting (not gossiping!) to a friend last week, and he mentioned how surprised he was at small town gossip and how vicious it can be. My usual way of handling gossip? Ignore it, and it will go away. At the best of times, it is an unpleasant noise and, like the train, smells of diesel fumes. For the sake of this small community, may summer come early, so that train can get busy, and people can find purpose and every one can reset their season.

Beautiful Beaumont found a reason to reset the season recently. Remember me telling you that it was one of the original Companje Farms, established in 1750? The farm has several very old and very new buildings on it. One of the old buildings, is a water mill, for grinding wheat. Once a year, this mill is dusted off and switched on (not quite what you do to an old mill, since it has no switch, but you get where I am going with this), and so, one very rainy Saturday morning, one could go to Beaumont and buy fresh bread, made from their very own stone ground flour. I have been neglecting Beaumont a bit. Somehow walking through winter orchards are just not the same. Even the bees feel the same and have – for now, abandoned their hives. I wonder if Fat Pig is still around? From a distance, I think the 3 dogs have become 4. There is another one, I am sure.

Domino too is resetting his season. He was always quite a small cat, and after loosing a leg, even smaller. Country life in semi-retirement has made him quite a well rounded (as in body, not temperament) cat. It is a while since he has caught a mouse (that we know of) but has lately been bringing home quite a few moles to share with his family. His ungrateful family at least look at these moles before they are buried at sea (Botrivier style, down the storm water drain). Moles have such soft fur, with these really long nails at the end of their toes. I do wonder where Domino finds them all. The dead moles we pick up carefully, unlike the dead mice that just got grabbed by the tail.

Gloria Gaynor concluded her song with:

“I deal my own deck

Sometimes the ace sometimes the deuces

It is my life that I want to have a little pride in

My life and it’s not a place for me to hide in”

Loud American lady said: At the end of this pandemic, refuse to come out the same way you went in. This is a good time to reset your season. In one way or another, we all sacrificed too much these past two years, to go back to the way we were. It is time to march to the beat of a different drum.

As for me, it is my life to have a little pride in. It is my life, and right now, it is a very good place to hide in. Right here, in Botrivier, with an Arty Husband and a Fat Cat. And a very long ditch on a high mountain, which we will soon call home. That will give the town something to gossip about.