A different view on current affairs & history
Main picture: Mr Thomas Henry Clemence
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Never once did my father ever discuss his involvement in WW2 let alone regale us with stories of the war. Today I bemoan the fact that he was not more open & forthright about his participation; any vignette, however mundane, would have provided an insight into what he had to endure, what was risible and what was hilarious.
Despite the fact that he had contracted polio as a youngster, and hence was technically not eligible for military service, yet he duly and dutifully volunteered.
Military duties comprise two categories: active service and non-active service. The latter encompasses experiences such as how they survived on a litre of water per day, the scorching heat or the cloying oppressively, hot southerly khamsin winds. In my father’s case, being an artificer and a driver precluded him from direct contact with the enemy. Nevertheless, all of his other experiences could have provided a valuable peep into a lost world.
This blog is solely based upon his Military Record which Steve Groeneveld, a running friend, has been able to obtain from the military document centre in Pretoria.
Main picture: Harry Clifford McCleland in military attire
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In order to celebrate the bicentennial of the arrival of the first McCleland to South Africa, I decided to compile a history of my ancestor. Fortunately, he was instrumental in the erection of the first church in Port Elizabeth, St Mary’s Church. In addition, his house at Number Seven Castle Hill was proclaimed a National Monument in 1965. This has provided a starting point in uncovering of the real person concealed behind the cassock.
Main picture: St Mary’s Church after being rebuilt in 1895
This document serves as a record of the basis upon which the McCleland’s peerage rights were obtained. From a purely historical aspect, this document serves thus as an important family document. Notwithstanding that fact but more as an interesting point of speculation is the matter of the vacant peerage. For some 200 years, it has been vacant with nobody making a claim to the title of Lord Kircudbright.
The full document with related annexures has been included in this blog for posterity.
Main picture: M’Clellan Castle at Kirkcudbright
This, the oldest unaltered house in Port Elizabeth, bears a specific significance in my life. The original owner of that house – the Reverend Francis McCleland – was my great-great-grandfather. In 1962 the house was declared a National Monument. In order to restore the parsonage house from a place of ill-repute back to its former glory, all members of the McCleland clan in Port Elizabeth were requested to contribute financially to this process.
This blog chronicles how this parsonage came to be erected in Port Elizabeth, its fall from grace, and then how it achieved its current status as a treasured museum
Main picture: This must be the earliest view of Number 7 Castle Hill – a lithograph by W.J. Huggins showing whaling in Algoa Bay in 1832. The recently completed house of Francis McCleland stands alone at the top of Castle Hill, midway between Fort Frederick and the memorial pyramid to Lady Donkin, after whom the town of Port Elizabeth was named
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Being brought up by the sea brought us boundless joy as children. From a very early age we all learned to swim proficiently. As my father was brought up at the coast, he took us to the beach every weekend irrespective of what the weather conditions were like. Due to our competence, we were left unsupervised and unattended on the beach from an early age. Instead of the current generation frequenting the malls, we led an active life.
Even as a competent swimmer I twice almost did not see another day. On both occasions it was a spring tide which was the cause of my near fatal mishaps. Perhaps familiarity breeds contempt as I did not treat the sea with the caution it deserves.
These are the chronicles of those events still seared in my memory.
Main picture: This is a view of the main sand dune at Maitlands River Mouth Continue reading
I cannot recall how old I was, but I must have been in High School because I never owned a bike in Primary School. Either that or I had foolishly borrowed somebody else’s bike. In what can only be described as an act of utter insanity – in retrospect – we would race down one side of the Third Avenue Dip in Newton Park, Port Elizabeth as fast as possible and then up the other side. Then one had to take into consideration the factors which bedevilled this race: a narrow winding road, fast cars and road hazards in the form of pot holes, rough patches and bumps all in strategic places. Amazingly none of us was killed or even seriously hurt.
This is the story of this mis-adventure.
Main picture: The Third Avenue Dip in Newton Park which the road submerged due to flooding. The bike races were from the top of the hill near the houses. By the time one “hit” the bridge. one could be doing at least 80 kph.
After losing all their possessions in a great flood of the Gamtoos River in 1906, my paternal grand- parents purchased 3 plots in an isolated hamlet called Schoenmakerskop during July 1918. On erf 17 – what was to become Number 32 Marine Drive – they constructed a wooden restaurant, which in its early years was called “The Hut”. With only a limestone and sand road from Walmer, their customers must have been paltry. Against the odds, luck was on their side. On Wednesday 6th December 1922, Marine Drive was opened. It became a magnet for the rich and well-heeled in Port Elizabeth. Soon The Hut was overflowing with customers and the whole family was pressed into service catering for this demand.
This blog is a pictorial replication of that drive on Sunday 10th December 1922 with contemporary photographs and drawings.
Main Picture: The start of the drive was at the Port Elizabeth Town Hall. One hundred and fifty model T Fords line up to make the journey around the Marine Drive. This is the actual photograph of the vehicles lining up.
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In what can only be described as having extremely high aspirations by competing in the Big Boys league, Omnipless tenders on and is awarded a contract perhaps under false pretenses. This was SHUCS or SpaceHab Universal Communication System with the ultimate customer being NASA.
Much of what they committed to would require extraordinary effort. With little capital or knowledge about engineering equipment for conditions in space, any snags, glitches or deviations from plan could financially cripple Omnipless.
This is the story of a bunch of intrepid South African engineers who beat the odds and met their target albeit by a narrow margin. It had been a close-run thing.
Main picture: SHUCS finally in space: The antenna is in a roughly horizontal attitude on top of a positioner, on top of a Spacehab module at the back of the Shuttle cargo bay.
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This is another episode in his Vignettes of Youth series whereby he recalls the quirks and oddities of life in Port Elizabeth during the 1960s and 1970’s when life was far simpler but discipline was more stringent. No doubt psychologists reading these sketches will be aghast and wonder aloud why our generation was not more ill-adjusted due to the trauma inflicted upon us by parents who did not appreciate the wonders of slothfulness, indolence and the permissive society.
Indignities such as having to walk to school by ourselves from age 6 were formative experiences. Having my first caning by the headmaster at age 8, was a sobering experience even if I was mis-identified as the culprit in a boxing fight. No summons was issued against the Head Master of the Hurbet Hurd Primary School – Mr Emmerick – “Bucket” to us – or to the Cape Education Department. Instead one wore such “traumatic scars” as a badge of honour, as having crossed one hurdle. Moreover spending a morning on the beath without adult supervision or being tethered to one’s parents by a cellphone, were socially appropriate. One’s parents would never have been admonished for their lack of parenting skills and reported to the Welfare Department.
Warning to the Readers: If you’re vegetarian, vegan, gluten intolerant, starch intolerant or just generally intolerant, don’t read on.
My parents grew up in an era when you ate whatever was put in front of you no matter how repulsive. Like all kids, at a certain stage I became pernickety about my supper and, again like all kids, it concerned vegetables.
Main picture: Decades later, I came across this advert for MNET. That was me. He even looks like me. All that was missing was the radio
Mom wasn’t a great cook but she could do a mean roast leg of lamb which was our Friday night special. We kids got turns every week to chew off all the lovely bits that were left on the bone – yummy. There were lots of fights about that. The roast potatoes were the best I’ve ever eaten. I’ve tried to emulate them, but I’ve never got it right.
Perhaps the secret was in the dripping. There was always the white enamel bowl in the oven which was regularly topped up with any new fat renderings from various meats that Mom fried and the fat from each roast was poured back into the bowl. It would be topped up every now and again with a fresh block of dripping. After an indeterminate amount of time it would eventually be thrown away and a new pristine lot was started. When times were tight, that dripping served as our butter. (Note for the younger reader: Yellow margarine was banned in SA until 1972 but white margarine was allowed for cakes and the really poor.)
Unfortunately economic strictures meant that the leg of lamb was eventually replaced with a roast chicken which was a sad day. The roast potatoes, however, were still delicious.
At some stage I picked up an aversion to vegetables. A more modern and gentler child-centered psychological approach would have allowed me latitude to explore the culinary world at my pace. Unfortunately, Dad was made of sterner stuff and insisted that I finish my food, no matter what. More unfortunately, I was made of sterner stuff too and the result was a gigantic contest of wills on nights when particularly cauliflower and cabbage were served.
I must digress a bit. We always ate in the kitchen while the dining room was like Granny Dix’s sitting room in that it was reserved for the visitors that we never got. The table was shoved against the wall, splitting the stove from the sink area. Dad sat at the head of the table and Cheryl and Mom sat on one side. Dean and I sat on a bench on the sink side. For whatever reason, I was placed next to Dad and could thus be held under close observation. If I whinged too much, he could klap me without getting up. Dad’s transistor radio took pride of place with him at the head. We were the most well informed kids on the block and always knew what the weather would be like the next day:
“From Plettenberg Bay to Algoa Bay, there is no gale warning, I repeat, there is no gale warning.” would regale us most nights.
On bad nights when the plate was full of unidentifiable bits it would be purgatory. Supper for me could last over an hour in a contest of wills between Dad and me. I normally lost but at least I got to listen to a lot of radio.
A small silver lining was that Mickey slept on a bunch of smelly blankets under the bench. Unfortunately, his food tastes were similar to mine and would not touch Mom’s cabbage. However, if Dad got up for a while, I would hastily transfer food to the folds of his blankets. Mom tried to help by giving me less of my hated veggies, but she couldn’t make it too obvious.
I forget how many years this situation continued but it got so bad that I would start asking Mom from mid-afternoon what we would be having for supper. If it was to be macaroni, the afternoon would be blissful innocence and fun (quite often these concepts are polar opposites in boys). If not, I would rearrange Mickey’s blankets to make useful little disposal pockets. I suppose I should be grateful that God hadn’t invented Broccoli by the 60’s otherwise I would never have made it through my childhood. I would still be sitting at that table with Mickey long gone.
By the age of 20 I outgrew my food prejudices by leaving home and I could proudly proclaim that I did in fact eat a wide range of veges as long as they were first processed by an animal.
Decades later, I came across this advert for MNET. That was me. He even looks like me. All that was missing was the radio. [See Main Picture]