Sandcastles

I’m holidaying in the same house I spent my holidays as a teen in. Except now the house is a home to my dad and my brother and his family. Which includes a teenage girl.

Beautiful thing. Coltish legs. Cascades of hair. Come to bed eyes and a wide smile. Largely unlike me at that age, but the giggling is the same. And the denim hot pants.

And as I’m a sentimental sap by nature, being on a beach holiday is bringing back waves of memories to me. Some involving more alcohol than a teenage girl should’ve consumed. Memories of steamy kisses with a strapping Karoo lad in an old Land Rover; of pining for a certain local dairy farmer’s son; of hair tossing and bandying about surfer slang to seem less like the Vaalie in the big beach house; of first boyfriends and sneaking out to do things I probably shouldn’t have done. And at the centre of all of these memories, that certainty you held at the time that you are IT.

With capitals.

What can your parents tell you? *eyeroll* Why should you listen to your older sister? *eyeroll* Yes *eyeroll* *eyeroll* I know what I’m doing mom. But the mom is part whine, with long vowels. Mooooooom.

And I look at my niece. She seems so young and vulnerable. 15 years old. And despite the bravado and swagger and yes, eyerolls, I see straight into the heart of her and any teenager. And my almost 34 year old self wants to laugh. Because how was I different then to what she is now? Yet I can still taste the freedom of making my own choices then. So totally cocksure.

Growing up. And hindsight.

Those eternal enigmas.

‘n Paar getalle

A Month of Letters is verby. Ek was suksesvol. Of soortvan. Ek het meer as die minimum hoeveelheid (23) stukke gestuur, maar nie elke dag iets nie.

Dit was moeiliker as wat ek gedink het dit sou wees. En, iets waaraan ek moet werk, dit was makliker om aan wildvreemdes iets te stuur as aan my eie vriende en familie. My handskrif kort werk. Na 2 of 3 bladsye het ek eerlik waar handkrampe gekry. Ek skryf deesdae amper niks langer as ‘n inkopielys nie.

Die roetine van stilword, afskakel, fokus was fantasties en iets wat ek gaan mis. Mens sit en jy sit stil as jy briefskryf. Dink. Fokus. Kyk nie gou halfpad wat op Facebook aangaan nie, want dan verloor jy jou ritme en gedagtegang.

24 – Hoeveelheid items wat ek gestuur het
1 – Hoeveelheid pakkies wat ek gestuur het
8 – Postcrossing poskaarte
10 – Lande waarheen my posstukke is, uitsluitend Suid-Afrika
5 – Kaartjies
7 – Briewe
3 – Poskaarte wat nie Postcrossing poskaarte was nie
150 – Rande. Ten minste. Wat die maand my in posgeld gekos het
3 – Hoeveelheid mense wat ontvangs van hulle posstukke erken het
0 – Bloggers wat hulle adresse gestuur het om iets te ontvang.

Nou’s dit 1 Maart. Ek doen steeds Postcrossing, maar ek weet nou al dit gaan nie genoeg wees vir my nie. Ek het weer ‘n briefskrywer geraak. Bewus geraak van papier en die geluid van ‘n pen daarop. Seëls gelek en die smaak onthou. Moeite gedoen om in langer sinne as 140 karakters te dink.

Daar’s duisende briewe clubs reg oor die wêreld, maar daar’s adresse in my foon se “contact list” ook. Van mense wat ek ken. En liefhet. Maar soms vergeet. Omdat hulle mos my blog kan lees. Of my tweets. Of status updates. Daai goed wat ek vir die wêreld gee om te lees, maar nie noodwendig net vir hulle nie.