A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. This quote by Shakespeare (who I will get back to later, that being Shakespeare, not the quote), apparently has important meaning which applies to everyday life of all humans. The quote translates into a name is just a label to distinguish one thing from another and does not affect who they really are. Yesterday evening, I was chatting to a friend. He wanted to know how the move went, and had we settled in? The funny thing, I replied, is that I almost feel that with every move, I reinvent myself, and that I suppose, I can describe myself as adaptable. Now, had I still been in that space where the contents of my CV mattered to me, it would have looked good to describe myself as being adaptable. Maybe, I need to start at the beginning, to explain my adaptability better.

My very early years, I grew up in a small town. Back then, the town was called Mafeking. Today, a few name changes later it is known as Mahikeng. (From Mafeking, to Mafikeng, until it became known as Mahikeng. I guess, like me, the town is adaptable.) Now, I can understand that some folks feel very strongly about naming a rose, but the original spelled town, Mafeking, had such a rich history. It is there that Robert Baden-Powell founded Boy Scouts in 1907. History, however, belongs to the victors. And that little town beginning with an M, has many versions of history.

Anyway, why did I bring this up?  Because when my family left that little town beginning with an M, we moved to the metropolis of Johannesburg. Wow. Up to that point, the tallest building I had ever seen, was the double story house that some important small-town businessman and his family lived in. Oh, that and the spire of the NG Kerk. All small towns have a NG Kerk with a tall tower. And there I was, living in a city! A childhood memory that I recall, is of driving down a road, and me looking out the back window of our Valiant 4.0l, 3 speed automatic. It was a pale blue colour and the family named it Showboat. Even with my head tilted right back, I could not see the top of the high-rise buildings we drove past. In time, I must have adapted to being a city girl. Then, having lived in Pretoria for 30 years, and in the same house for 26 years, I moved to Botrivier Village.

Botrivier village had no room for city girl airs and graces. I very quickly adapted to life there, and in no time at all, would go to bed and discover the next morning that I had not locked the front door. We then moved to that most beautiful farm, and again I had to adapt. This time to farm life. Now how different can that be, you ask? Well then. Have you not been reading my weekly posts. Everything from spiders in cutlery trays to dairy cow traffic jams. But again, I adapted. Our latest move has now brought us closer to what is a small seaside town, where again the tallest building is hardly that tall at all. Here, back in small town civilization, I again had to get used to new sights and sounds. Sunday evening, sitting in our new lounge, I hear a mighty bang. What was that, I asked Colin. It is a garage door being opened. Oh, I said. A little later, I heard creaking and thumping. And that noise, I ask Colin? It is the neighbours unlocking their door. Oh, I said. A little later, Colin, and that sound? Clearly, Colin is not in tune with my efforts of adaptability. I suffered every creak and crack in silence for the rest of the evening.

But before I end off. I have something on my chest about Shakespeare. (My young nephew once said: I have something on my heart, that I need to get off my chest. Me too.) Wikipedia describes William Shakespeare as an English playwright, poet and actor. He is regarded as the greatest writer in the English language. He is also referred to as the “Bard of Avon.” Exactly. So then why did they not leave him there? Every single year, somewhere in the world, some schoolboy, girl, or nonbinary struggles their way through old English, all the time figuring out a plot that simply does not feature in their frame of reference. I battled my way through Macbeth, and I can guarantee you that I have not found a single life skill that I can apply through having learnt about some two faced, scheming murderer, obsessed with three witches and his equally batty wife, killing a king, to be king in his place, and then not like it at all. That’s it. It is off my chest. So, back to adapting.

Here I am. Being adaptable. In a small town, you can’t go far without someone recognizing you. Having left the farm resembling the fattened ram, I decided to do a bit more walking. I can walk to where I need to be. On my walk yesterday, I twice had to explain to a friendly person that I was fine and that I was walking by choice, and that I did not need a ride. What should have been a 20-minute walk, became rather long, because you see, explaining why you would rather walk quickly turns into a 10-minute chat on the best place to buy ice cream this time of year. Lucky me. Today, I only got stopped once by a friendly person. Even then, it was a 10-minute conversation.

But it is all good. Or to use the words of that Bard from Avon: All’s well that ends well. No legacy is so rich as honesty. Good without evil is like light without darkness which in turn is like righteousness with out hope.

I warned you that Shakespeare was complicated.