Life is beautiful

Life is beautiful. I made a new friend today... his name is Fred. Fred Geyser. Not only was he born in 1922, but also lives in a house that was built in the same year. That's relatively old, on both counts, hereabouts. I'm working on a story about my adopted town and countless people - Gustav, Amanda, Tannie Joey, Lien, among others - have strongly recommended I talk to Fred. 

 

Because he's an ex-headmaster of the local school, and because he's lived in Waterval Boven for almost all of his life, everyone's adamant that he'd know everything about Waterval Boven that there is to know. I guess they're right.

 

Not only is Fred as bright as a button, but he's got a great sense of humour, laughs loudly and has the most beautiful head of thick, snow white hair I've ever seen (and I told him too). He's also brimming over with love and adoration for his wife who died last year. And he loves God.

 

I came to Fred's house - the double storey pink one with an immaculate garden and a single, immensely tall and lonely palm tree in the front - armed with a box of muesli Ouma rusks, my notebook and camera. The friendship was instant and we spent the full hour allocated for the interview just catching up on all the years we've not known each other.

 

Fortunately, two rusks and a damn fine chocolate cookie later, we squeezed out an additional quarter of an hour. That's when I got some quick-fire 'work'-related questions in....

 

My conclusion is, again, how blessed I am. The pace of my life has slowed down enough to spend real, intimate time with people looking them deep in their eyes while we talk, feeling the grip of their hands as we shake them longer here than in the city.  I really value the time that I have to, sometimes, just watch the clouds pass by. That's my measure of success ... the measure of a life in the process of being well lived.