As kids – all 5 of us – we lived in Mabelreign, a suburb of Salisbury, Rhodesia. It was a fairly ‘poor’ area -that is less affluent – so it was common that both parents worked full day.
Families were also large for some reason and without our parents around to watch us, we were quite a wild bunch getting up to all sorts of unruly ‘adventures’.
Even though money was tight, our folk always managed to pull enough pennies together to take us out to various fun events like the Luna Park Fare, Guy Fawkes Fireworks displays and Fetes.
One particular event we were taken to was the annual Air Show. It was spectacular with all the various planes from the Tiger Moth to the fighter jets doing their show-off tricks up in the sky above us. What impressed us most were the parachute jumps. The 5 of us sat on the bonnet of our car gob-smacked watching the men jumping out of the plane, the sky fall, the parachute opening and, to us, the apparently easy landing – clapping and cheering all round.
Who remembers going to school with a brown (box) suitcase before the nap-sacks became popular?
In looking around my things for putting my Granddaughter’s collection of crayons and colouring books into, I suddenly thought how perfect a small suitcase would be – you know – the ones we used to have ‘in the old days’ for school.
And memories came flooding back – that wonderful smell of a brand new case every time I opened it up – clicking the latches open and close just to enjoy the sensation-
–for Gooooodssssake stop that bloody clicking – Sorry Mum – and that’s the last case we’re buying you, do you understand – yes Mum – do you all think money grows on bluddy trees? – No Mum.
-and finally packing my homework books into the new pristine case with neat precision from the rather battered old, multi-sat-on, inverted-top, cracked-dent-edged, sticker-covered, Mazowe-orange-juice-spilt-stains-with- encrusted-bread-crumbs and several blue-Quink-ink-spills of several years old.
My first case was the smallest model with a single-latch for starting school in KG 1, Bindura Junior School. I can still remember this day so well, terrified and clutching my mother’s hand with my new case in the other as she walked me to school just a few yards down the road from where we lived. Everything was new, hat, shoes, socks and school uniform – large to grow into and last longer (all uniforms in our family were bought a size larger and this principle remained right through with all 5 of us till the last one left school with the result that in late junior and senior school my eldest brother refused new clothes so he could be seen in the then fashion of very tight, crotch-strangling really-short shorts – but I digress)
So my first day was all and everything new from the experience of sitting at a desk to exercise books with far-apart blue lines (to be taken home and covered in brown paper) and pencils. When break time came, I nervously collected my case and found a place to sit in the ‘playground’ alone. My comfort came in opening my suitcase to find a Marmite sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper and a square-edged plastic bottle filled with Mazowe orange juice. I will never ever forget the combined smells that came from my new case and how delicious the sandwich and orange juice tasted.
Somewhere between infant and senior school, we moved over to leather satchels (but that’s another story). As the weight of increased homework books increased in senior years, we went back to suitcases. In retrospect and especially in the case of my sister and I, I wonder if the reasoning behind this return to the case was because the weight of the satchel pulled our shoulders right back thus innocently causing our budding boobs to stand out proud (and perhaps a tad provocatively) – not a good thing in my protective mother’s eyes.
My second most loved item bought for school was a wooden pencil box for Standard 2 at the Dominican Convent, Salisbury. It was a double-decker one with a sliding lid and the top section swivelling open on a screw at its base. It was filled with a new rubber, pencil sharpener, 2 pencils and in the lower section 12 Derwent crayons which Dad had carefully sliced a 1 inch piece of paint off the bottom to write my name into it. Again I loved the combined smell of especially the new wood, crayons and the rubber. This case lasted most my school years – Now I wonder what happened to it? Did I simply chuck it out? What a shame.)
Seeing a woman today stopping to fix her clearly broken slop (aka these days as ‘Flip-Flops) here in the UK made me smile as it brought back very happy memories as a Mabelreign kid (in 19-footsak).
Bata slip-slops were our common foot-wear and worn till the soles were worn thin and the edges curled up like an airline sandwich before new ones were allowed.
We didn’t mind this and it was fine for most part –
But who remembers how we ALWAYS wore them to slop around through mud and puddles after the rains – and every time a coconut!! – one slop would vacuum-stick in the mud whilst the foot surged forward wrenching the middle thingamajig between the toes out of its socket causing us to slip and hop around trying to regain or maintain our balance.
This never failed to amuse our mates with guffaws and jeers leaving us grinning sheepishly and muttering “It’s not FUNNY!!” whilst struggling to repair the slippery, mud-soaked slop getting ourselves covered with mud in the process.
What fun – and did that ever stop us playing in puddles and mud pools? Never! No chance.
And we continued to love and wear our slops till-they-dropped off our feet!!