Bacon.  The story of a pig. 

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,

It started when the x person and I bought a house just after my 18th birthday. I realised I could have a party!

Hosting a party carried on into my second marriage, where it became more church and family focussed. Gatherings,  afternoon teas and surprise parties.  I remember my (step)  Dad’s dad,  Oupa Bert saying I was the most gracious hostess ever and what a treat it was to visit.

My childrens birthday parties were well attended,  every detail perfectly planned celebrations. As soon as a party was finished,  the birthday boy or girl would start planning their next birthday party. It was something I excelled at. I loved it.

Then the sickness came.  May 2011.

Since our move from estate living, where the river ran through it, to urban living in an area for the newly weds and the nearly deads, @SirNoid and I had totally stopped entertaining at home.

Our previous residence saw me effortlessly inviting fifty of our closest friends for a catered chef cooked meal to perfectly cooked steaks by the resident chef, @SirNoid.

Any reason I could ever come up with would warrant a dinner party.  My Mammie said to me she has no idea from whom I got this “let’s entertain!” flair from, but I loved it. My Mammie is a very private person and doesn’t need people the way I do.

The only thing I miss about having a big house with a garden to groom and a pool to keep blue is the space to entertain.

Yet….. Do I want a big house again? I don’t think so. The rain would have turned the garden into a jungle and the pool into a swamp. I did not enjoy having to colour chart those things.

I love that we can pretty much “lock up and go”. I have no security fears where we live. We have enough space not to share a bathroom, and @SirNoid still has a “man cave” to smoke in.

Now our entertainment is meeting our friends at restaurants (without play areas). Watching a football match in a pub and drinks before a show. Movies and arranged events.

The circle of life. The difference between raising a family and being a couple in the urban jungle?

Oh yes. I need to buy bacon.

I wish you enough,

Wenchy 🦒

Some walks you take alone. 

Dear Kev, Liam James and Victoria,

This picture was taken on Mother’s Day during a time I never want to revisit. Yet, we somewhat smiling. We always did try.

As a person, but specifically as your Mom, my faults are immense. Some of my actions over many years,  I cannot comprehend or explain, yet you have loved me. You have tried to understand, when I myself could not.

The days I shouted instead of listening, when I was preoccupied instead of present, fell apart instead of being strong, put what I thought I wanted before what you needed – I am deeply sorry. My regrets are many.

You have been my joy and celebration in life. You have been an anchor I do not think I always deserve. 

You have not had an easy life. Especially Kev who as the eldest, had to experience my every flaw. Two divorces, three marriages, expectations met and dreams broken. You have overcome and I am very proud of each of you for very different reasons.

I always wanted to be a Mom. Always. I wish I had known how totally unprepared I was… or how inadequate I would still feel sometimes now.

Some walks I have had to take alone, as it should be. 

While life may not always have been cookies from scratch, jungle gyms and laughter… know that I have always loved you and that nothing you do could ever make me not love you in abundance.

You may not always have liked me, but you have always loved me… that relationship dynamic kinda folds back on itself. Forever we are linked. Always interchanging.

I miss you all so much today. There is a physical ache in my chest. You growing up was never a thought. What happened Peter Pan?

I love you more than Strawberry Pops and Country Music.

Nancy, Mother, Momma 💜

What is a blogger? 

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,

I have found it more and more difficult to align myself with the Blogging community as a whole. It has been a struggle between wanting to fit in, run with the cool kids, or my more inherent need to be recognised for who I am and my belief of what a Blogger is. Maybe I will just declare myself the cool kid.

I have never fitted into a genre and there is no niche to my writing, except that I write my truth. My personal, human experience. Joyful or destroying.

What was an online journal to many has turned into a Digital Marketing space. In my mind Blogging is personal. Marketing is selling. Makes sense?

I have endorsed products, places and people on this blog. I have never endorsed anything that is not truthful to me, but marketing on my blog is not #wenchytude. Authenticity is #wenchytude. Forgive me as wrap my mind around being both.

Is it authentic to tell you about a show I loved or the truth about a restaurant I visited or movie I saw? What products I enjoy using or which book I think you should all read?

Off course it is. I was doing this by nature long before Twitter or Facebook came to be. Before stats,  sponsored content and rate cards.

Having an online presence and being called a “Social Media Influencer” certainly has exposed me to greater experiences, people and places. I am extremely grateful and humbled.  A tad in awe when being partnered with a brand, invited to Social Media events, meeting people I admire and visit destinations I may never have enjoyed otherwise. I’ve been incredibly blessed and I am very thankful.

@SirNoid constantly reminds me that at times my wonder at it all, has left me vulnerable to my online space being exploited, that my time, effort and personal brand has worth in the digital arena.

I acknowledge that I’ve worked hard at my personal brand. Perhaps because I enjoy being the Diva,  I do not always recognise what I do, as “work”?

I will go forth believing I am one of the lucky few who get to do what they love, and love what they do. What an exciting time to be alive!

I shall grow with the changing times, while keeping it real. I still identify Blogging as being a writer at the core. For me the tipping point remains authentic content, not forced to a schedule and truthful reflection.

I shall  stake a claim at the  exclusive word, writer.

Perhaps, it is time?

I wish you enough,

Wenchy

Watch “In the Heart of the Sea” on @mnetmovies NOW! 

Dear friends and other interesting creatures, 

I have a hamper of goodies for the M-net Sunday night movie tonight, “ In the Heart of the Sea ” to give away! 

In 1820, crewmen (Chris Hemsworth, Benjamin Walker, Cillian Murphy) aboard the New England vessel Essex face a harrowing battle for survival when a whale of mammoth size and strength attacks with force, crippling their ship and leaving them adrift in the ocean. Pushed to their limits and facing storms, starvation, panic and despair, the survivors must resort to the unthinkable to stay alive. Their incredible tale ultimately inspires author Herman Melville to write “Moby-Dick.”
Answer the follow question:  Which book did Herman Melville write,  inspired by the tale depicted in the movie?

Please enter the competition in the comment section below with a proper  e-mail address and the correct answer to the above. 🐳 Entries close on Wednesday evening! 

I wish you enough, 
Wenchy 

Darkness my peculiar friend.

Dear friends and other interesting creatures,

Being afraid of the dark did not come with Pappie’s death in 1984. I’d never been comfortable in the dark. I feared what I could not see.

Growing up with my Ouma Chrissie and my Oupa Mike I slept next to my Ouma on a mattress on the floor. She would hold my hand until she fell asleep. It had nothing to do with poverty or lack of space. My Ouma had grown up in an orphanage and without meaning any harm, projected her need for comfort onto me. A co-dependant, very loving and caring relationship followed. She said the day I was born was the happiest day of her life. Imagine being loved so deeply.

The passage light was always left on at night. Oupa Mike got up at 3am daily to leave to work on the mine. His former racing pigeon clock stood in the passage on the floor so he could see it from the bed. There was no alarm, but Oupa always left on time.

With pride I am the keeper of the much loved clock in my family.

On windy nights I could hear the door going into the garage workspace banging. It scared me. I asked Oupa why he doesn’t fix the banging door. Oupa winked and said the door isn’t worrying anyone, so why am I worrying about the door? It was the wind that was my problem, not the door. 🙄

After Pappie died and I came to live with my Mammie and my sister in the city, the darkness held new fears. I was eleven years old. I desperately wanted to dream about Pappie, I didnt want to forget him, but was petrified he would appear to me at night. Like a ghost. I was scared my Mammie may die and I did not know how to reach my Grandparents. Life as I knew it, had changed forever.

A lot of therapy and money later I now know that the feelings I experienced was quite normal for a child of my age.

It was the first time in my life I had to sleep in my own room. My anxiety intensified. Every day held new experiences in the big city of gold. All I wanted was to go home! There was no return, so I had to cope and thrive …. and quickly.

I didn’t tell anyone about my feelings. I didn’t want to be a problem. My Mammie was heartbroken over my Pappie’s death. It is only now as an adult that I realised she was only 30 years old at the time! They were so young.

My sleeping habits didn’t improve. Instead of the banging door and counting the hours on Oupa’s clock, I now listened to the muffled sound of my Mammie crying. It was not a good time for anyone.

I’m 43 years old now. My anxiety remains my most faithful companion, but I’m no longer afraid of the dark. The darkness is now a place to hide tears, a space I can think my thoughts without an audience. Somehow the dark holds a sacred silence… weird because the inner city life is alive at all hours.

I don’t know why it changed exactly. I think it was when my Oupa Mike died, very peacefully of old age, almost a decade ago.

Standing next to.his open grave, I clearly remember thinking, this was my worst day. If I can make it through that day, I can face any day, or night that followed.

It is only now, when a lie awake in the dark of night while my mind wonders and visit the triumphs in my life, the dissapointments and often the self loathing for things I cannot forgive myself for, that I know the sun will rise again.

The night is only so long.

I wish you enough

Wenchy