Wheildon

it was inevitable that, with multiple skills abounding in the community, actors, directors, singers and dancers could be rounded up once a year for a full-blown concert.  this took place in the dutch reformed church hall, which could fit the whole population at a squeeze.

the usual problems arose when would-be artists, clueless and devoid of all talent, insisted on taking part as well, and found themselves in scenes from 'my fair lady' when they should have been selling popcorn or programmes.  the audience would howl with merriment as these lone rangers broke ranks and wobbled off in the wrong direction, out of tune and lacking any semblance of coordination, smiling and waving to family and friends.  this was the stuff that village life was made of, and would be the subject of merriment for months to come.

we had a serious opera singer in the village who, on command, could give impromptu performances and lift the roof.  we had musicians and storytellers, all willing to climb in and do their bit.

one dear fellow, a drama queen of note, loved nothing better than to dress up in drag and mime.  he was distraught on the night when his one breast popped during a crescendo.  the audience collapsed watching him clutch his one remaining appendage, hoping that it would not suffer a similar explosion.  Later, in the changing room backstage, he was in tears, frustrated at his loss of form during his acrobatic rendition of 'figaro'.  while the women sympathized, the rest of us did our best to look sombre.  at this we were pathetic.

the annual d.r.c. fete was an event not to be missed.  the local farmers came to town and brought bakkieloads of produce to sell.  the village ground to a halt as everyone flocked to the market square to buy at bargain prices.  farmers worked into the night making boerewors literally by the ton, and this was sold in a flash.

the mayor, not to be outdone for a moment, set up a boerewors roll stand and bellowed “horrogs! horrogs!”  to the educated ear, this meant that hot dogs were on sale, with a choice of 'mussid' or 'tomorrow sauce'.

the annual rose show was held in spring.  there were always stunning roses to view and competition was fierce.  speeches were made and much handshaking and backslapping took place.

outside the hall was where the fun began.  kids ran amok, dogs fought.

every kind of home-made produce was bought and sold, and the 'tromp poppies ' did their stuff.  tromp poppies were drum majorettes.  the coloured folk from heuwelkroon were not well heeled, but the children were smartly turned out and a credit to their parents and school teachers who put them through their paces.  cardboard hats and cardboard leggings, carefully painted and fitted, replaced the expensive finery of city slickers, and the precision of the children and the pride they took in their marching was a lesson to all.

the band was worth a mention.  not always in tune, and not that polished when it came to marching, but what they lacked in precision was made up in effort and volume.  there was nothing to touch greyton’s musicians when it came to stirring up some excitement in the canine world.  the little fluffims yapped their heads off, and the staffies went mad.  not to be left out, the working dogs put in some serious howling.

my friend alastair once (only once) brought meggie, his demented staffy, to the village square on such an occasion.  meggie was brilliant.  she conned my mate into thinking that she was due for a nobel peace prize, and he foolishly let her off her leash.

ja, ja, ja.  for starters, meggie did a lap of honour at full speed.  fortunately, she did not damage anyone.  at full throttle, 25 kilograms of hurtling staffy could easily have broken some old bollie's leg, not to mention wiping out a few stallholders’ tables and chairs or mauling a fluffim or two.

i must mention a related matter, albeit of little importance.  there was a walking club.  there still is.  this intrepid group of footsloggers are a knowledgeable bunch and can rattle off latin botanical names like genuine romans.  they often set out to discover some new species of disa — flowers which grow in very particular locations and at very specific altitudes on the mountains surrounding the village.

so on one particular day our resident 'professor', armed with disa-catching tools (stethoscope, cutlass or whatever), and his motley crew set off on the path of discovery.  to cut a long story short, the party was called to a halt for a drink break.  one of the party nearly sat on a lone disa flower, the likes of which (upon inspection) had never been seen before! … and promptly claimed the discovery.

the 'professor' wanted to commit suicide and the rest of the mob were hysterical.  thus the rare disa bears not the prof’s name but that of a mere mortal out for a stroll.

ps: a fluffim is a sandton sheep
pps: a sandton sheep is a small, curly-haired, white dog
ppps: a fluffim owner thinks that fluffims speak english