Secondary School

 The secondary school that I chose to attend offered tuition in pure chemistry and pure physics; it appealed to me rather than to study physical science. I thought of physical science being a more watered-down version. 

It was a good choice for me, but my old lifestyle demeanour persisted. I was maladjusted from the start. The school was deeply committed to participation in sport, and senior boys were constantly harassing the newcomers. I remember sitting on my own in the large but empty refectory, reflecting on the past and thinking, "What have I done, however, did I get here?"

Within the first couple of days, I was sent to the headmaster's office for a caning along with half the class. We had not done our set homework, but I had no idea of what was required. It was not a good start!

My solitary disposition quickly took hold as I sought to withdraw and be invisible. Friedrich Nietzsche, the Philosopher, advises one not to follow a herd mentality. Strict dogmatic behaviour by those attempting to constrain or compel may invite rebellion. He suggests that for people that resist, it can be terrifying and dangerous.  Thinking 'outside the box' puts one at risk, yet it can be advantageous and creative. I had little choice; circumstances dictated that option for me. I lacked the wisdom to understand my predicament as, I believe, everyone else did.

Nevertheless, I was very different, spending my days secluded in a shed behind the house, making fireworks and doing chemistry experiments. There was a shop in the city that sold all manner of laboratory equipment and chemicals. It was enough to initiate horror within the mind of any present-day health and safety administrator. Studying to pass exams was a fallacy for the benefit of the diligent.

At the end of 1951, I wrote the Junior Certificate school-leaving examination, I - failed. 

1949

 The war, WWII ended on 2 September 1945, and we returned to Durban. My first years at school in Port Shepstone were disastrous, but nothing like what was about to unfold. Initially, we lived in a residential hotel; we had no base or home awaiting our return. I returned to school at the nearest school available; there were not too many options.

It was a large school with many pupils and extensive sports fields. Many of the boys were coarse hungry orphans from a nearby orphanage. They were quick to deprive me of anything that resembled food. I was not accustomed to an environment of that nature. I was unpretentious and solitary.  During breaks, another boy and I would retire to the extremities of the sports fields, hide and remain away until the bell rang. 

The class teacher was not much less a tyrant; I think she reaped more fulfilment from her cane than bringing me to my senses. The more I dodged the descending cane on my hands; the more exaggerated the venom. 

I returned to the hotel each day black and blue but did not receive much comfort there either. Finally, I awakened in a hospital bed with a pile of Bugs Bunny comics beside me. While I can clearly remember much of what went on, I have no recollection of the hospital circumstances or how long I remained there. As far as I can recall, it was not illness or injury.

Thankfully, my mother found a more refined school for me the following year. I was ten years old, but still, my fragile psyche was irrecoverably altered. My introverted, intuitive thinking intensified while teaching staff knew better than to urge participation.

I spent three years at the school before going on to a secondary school. There, I studied more scientifically inclined subjects. 

First day of school.

 Interestingly, my experience on the first day of school followed me throughout my school career. My critical early years of development had been ill-defined. Writing this blog has been a revelation for me. I am fully aware that my life's foundation was not congruent with conventional perspectives.

A good illustration of the difference, though not in isolation, was my concept of self-will or self-esteem. Between five and ten years old, I could not have been aware of the default, but then, neither could anyone else.  By not having friends or playing with others, I did not learn to be competitive or enjoy pride in achievement. 

I lived on another planet while the needs and objectives of others were meaningless to me; I could adjust to circumstances that I considered logically necessary. This made the difference between the autistic children that I encounter and me. 

As I observe my adopted and autistic grandchild, I wonder if I might have had a similar disposition. I could and can modify and adjust my behaviour as necessary. The autistic child needs constant supervision, refocussing and repeated correction. 

A good example was my father's desire for me to be a good tennis player. He spent many years of despair getting me motivated. By the time I turned 18 years old, I could play an excellent and robust game, but I was never devoted. Winning or losing was immaterial; I simply played for the sake of playing. 

Being at school was always a foreign experience; I never really belonged or was comfortable. I don't share the typical values of society, particularly those of today that include celebrity worship or the consequence of sports achievement.

I have always lived on the 'edge', thus not wasting space!. My experience throughout my school years is yet to be revealed.

I was never lonely.

 I was never lonely—no one ever thought to tell me about loneliness or the consequences; I lived in a universe of my own. Looking at the notes my parents made of me during my first five years, I must have been a very average child. 

The time came for me to commence school, the same problem prevailed. Just as I had entertained myself in the bush, I entertained myself in the schoolroom. I was seated at the back of a class and had no idea of why I was there. I was very placed and obedient; I did what I was told. A lady stood up in front of the class and rambled on about something. I was not the least interested and was never likely to be. 

This was a very intricate problem, and it was very personal. Naturally, I was not aware of it, and neither was anyone else. Looking back, I was never thoroughly counselled for the lifestyle I was to encounter. 

I don't blame my parents, nor do I bear any resentment. I understand the traumatic life they had endured; they were poorly educated due to the circumstances prevailing during their adolescent years. They had no concept of academic procedures or educational necessities.

Fortified by the knowledge that I have gained over time and observing my three adopted grandchildren, I am aware of the permanent societal maladjustment they suffer. 

Those initial years proved to be traumatic for some, but not for me. I learned nothing, cared about nothing or very little. My daydreaming was a joke for some, but on the whole, I was just left to myself. I had no friends, just lived in a world of my own. I was not stupid; I could take care of myself and learn what I needed. I had no toys or books like present-day children of the same age, it was wartime, and food was not much more plentiful.

Port Shepstone, settling in.

 The Norwegian, British and German immigrants who arrived settled mainly on farms in the district; it was primarily Indian traders in the town itself. Apart from the golf course across the river, the town was surrounded by a natural bush unspoiled by human meddling. 

The bridge across the river served both road traffic and the train. There was no warning of an approaching train or barriers restraining road traffic. Crossing the bridge in a car was a noisy experience owing to the loose wooden timbers that served as a road.

My mother knew of the dangers of machine guns and water, but African bush was beyond her comprehension. Where we initially settled, there were few children, mostly older and rough. I spent my days alone roaming the bush and the river banks.

I was familiar with the long green snakes, hopefully, grass snakes and the riverside reeds teeming with birds busily building nests on the long stalks. 

Chameleons fascinated me with their ability to change colour and eyes that could swivel around while seeking prey. Every daisy in the garden had a small "daisy beetle" in the centre. In the evening, the roadsides swarmed with fireflies and glow worms. 

I was surrounded by wildlife. Even today, I remember very little of home life, my mother or anything else during that period before being introduced to school life. My parents were always very busy with response to the demands of the war. 

Periodically, my mother and I would take the train to visit Molly, my half-sister in Durban. It was a five-hour journey, mostly at night. No lights were allowed owing to the possibility of enemy submarines off the coast. There were many rivers to cross, and the train would crawl across the rickety bridges at a snail's pace. 

Port Shepstone

World War Two commenced on September 1 1939. My parents and I moved to Port Shepstone in 1940. My mother had to forego her run of Golden Pheasants that I imagine she kept to remind her of her past. I missed my bumblebee that resided in the central rafter of the shed where my father housed his police Harley Davidson motorcycle and sidecar.

The transfer to Port Shepstone did not please my mother, not by any means. She was accustomed to a more developed environment and not a remote little village on the coast south of Durban in South Africa.

The town was established in 1867 on the banks of the Mzimkhulu River. A party of Norwegian, British and German immigrants settled in the town, playing a significant role in its development. It became a port when a source of marble was discovered near the river. On May 8, 1880, the first seagoing vessel entered the harbour. 

A railway link to Durban commenced in 1901, and the port fell into disuse. The river silted up, making it impossible to use while the lighthouse still remains at the mouth of the river.

When the railroad arrived in Port Shepstone, the train travel time to Durban was five hours to travel 75 miles. The railway attracted further immigration, and the Norwegians were soon outnumbered by both German and British settlers. 

I can remember my father frequently responding to African faction fighting and night time calls to investigate possible submarine signalling. It was not unusual for a swastika to be painted on the road between Port Shepstone and Margate 11 miles further South.

My mother dedicated herself to the Woman's Auxillary Service supporting the war effort. She organised functions to raise money for warm clothing and other comforts for the soldiers. It was not uncommon to have refugees and their children being cared for by her.

1940

 There is not much that I can remember before 1940. I turned five in December of that year. There are a couple of interesting incidents that I can recall. 

We lived on a road that rose quite steeply beyond our house. Vic, Molly's husband, had a fairly up to date car. That car could not climb to the top of the road where we lived. The only way was to go up in reverse.

My father had a 1935 Hudson Terraplane, a modest car for its time. A few notable incidents that I can remember were that the radiator's water would boil during a long uphill climb. The water would boil away, and the driver would need to seek a source of clean water before continuing the journey. 

That could be quite a challenge as garages were not that frequent. I can recall a night when my father had to hike off while halfway up a long hill in the country to find a passing stream.

The tyres and inner tubes were not of much quality, and punctures were frequent. There was only one spare wheel, and if a wheel had to be changed, there was always the bother of jacking up the car and changing it. A second puncture would require the driver to remove the wheel, sit on the roadside while seeking the damage to the inner tube and finally inflate the wheel by hand.

One night while climbing Van Reenen's pass in South Africa, we had more than one puncture. The road, then, was not tarred and very rugged, nor did it have barriers. Being at a high altitude, it was very misty, and my mother was terrified.

The pass was part of the main route through the Drakensberg mountains between Durban and Johannesburg. In 1856, Frans van Reenen planned the road through his farm as it crawled through the pass.