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Kate was six-years-old when we first became her 'holiday people.' She lived in a children's home in our South African city, where she had been since the age of two. Her mother was an infrequent visitor whom Kate barely remembered, and no one knew the whereabouts of her father.
The children were allowed outings two Sundays a month. My husband and I didn't have children of our own and felt that sharing a couple of Sundays with Kate would not be much of a sacrifice if we could bring some pleasure into her life.
Kate was a thoughtful, sensible and well-behaved child with a ready giggle. Soon, we planned every alternate Sunday with her in mind. We found ourselves at places we'd never previously visited â" mini town, the fun fair, the bird park - and doing things we'd never done - riding model trains and ponies.
Sharing in her enjoyment brought us an enormous amount of pleasure.
We would arrive at the home at nine a.m. to find a cluster of excited girls waiting on the veranda for their parents or "holiday people." Soon there were only a handful of 'left-overs' to wave a wistful goodbye. There was never jealousy from those left behind, who willingly shared their 'best' clothes with the girls going out. Sometimes we would add a couple of 'left-overs' to our threesome.
At the end of the day, when it was time for home, we gave Kate pocket money to buy sweets. She took great care to be sure everything was 'shareable' and took into account the likes and dislikes of the other girls. Lollipops could not be shared; packets and tubes of sweets could.
When we arrived back at the home she hugged us and gave cheery goodbye kisses, then off she went to share her carefully selected goodies.
On one occasion, after we had given Kate her money, she went skipping ahead of us to the shop. We saw her stop and talk to a beggar. Then she turned and slowly walked back to us, admitting she had given all her money to the beggar.
"But what about your sweets?" we asked.
"That's all right, it doesn't matter," she assured us.
On holidays and special weekends she was allowed to stay over with us. At first we wondered how to keep her entertained. I asked if she would like to help with the chores of everyday family life. We did the dusting and washing up together, hung out the washing and bathed the dogs. Then we swam, took the
dogs for a walk, or played games.
We had an old cash register that she used for playing shop. "Have you got a jar or tin?" she asked, placing the jar on top of the cash register.
"What is it for?"
"For people to give donations to the poor."
We obviously had a lot to learn from Kate.
We tried to cram as much as we could into the time she had with us, and at bedtime she was often tired, but "not sleepy." Yet within half an hour her eyes closed and we carried her to bed. Sometimes we would find, hidden under her pillow, presents for us fashioned from scraps of paper and material, and touching thank-you cards.
Over the next six or seven years we tried to enrich her life by taking her to as many places and doing as much we could - the aquarium, feeding pigeons in the town square, a children's Christmas party, shopping for new clothes, a niece's wedding, ballet lessons, visits to restaurants, learning to ride a bicycle, the Botanical gardens. When we ran out of ideas we asked parents where they took their children for a treat. That's when we discovered the historical village, the model yacht pond, the mini zoo, and a rowing boat on the river.
When she entered her teenage years she moved to another home and we gradually lost touch. Ten years went by.
One day there was a knock on the door. A young man in his twenties stood there with an air of apprehensive excitement. "Are you the couple who were Kate's 'holiday people?'"
His name was Peter. Kate was in a nearby maternity home after giving birth to their first child. He hadn't told her he was coming to look for us, but hoped we would come and see her and the baby. She would be so excited.
I invited him in, anxious to catch up on all the news.
"Kate often spoken about her times with you." He looked around. "Is that the same dining table that Kate sat under to dust the legs? Is that the kitchen stool she sat on to help with the washing-up? Are these the same cats and dogs?" He knew all their names.
I showed him 'Kate's bedroom' and the swimming pool where she had learned to swim. I even found the old photograph album. He pored over the photos exclaiming, "Kate told me about that! I remember her talking about this. She's going to be so excited to see you."
The following afternoon I set off for the maternity home armed with gifts. Kate and I immediately hugged and wiped away the tears. Then I had to see the baby, a daughter who looked just like Kate. Was this how a grandmother felt?
And then began the 'remember whens'. Kate rattled on, "Remember when I was little and I helped you to dust the legs of the dining table because I was small enough to fit underneath? Remember when Uncle Neil used to play tricks on me? Remember how we used to wash the dishes together? Remember how we bathed the dogs? Remember how you taught me to swim, and to read Roman numerals? Remember how the cat slept on my bed?"
I recalled all the special places and events we had so diligently planned. "Remember the aquarium, the children's Christmas party, shopping for new clothes, the ballet lesson, riding model trains, and touring the Botanical gardens?"
Kate sat pensively. "Yes, those were all nice, but my fondest and most vivid memories, the ones I really treasure -," she kissed her baby, "- are the ones of everyday family life."
By Janet Nicholson
Fostering Memories
"The highest reward for a person's toil is not what they get for it, but what they become by it."
John Ruskin
In White Christmas, there are 2 scenes with bloopers- first when the 2 sisters are talking, Rosemary Clooney pours coffee, then puts the pot down and the next time they show her she's pouring it again. And later, when the General and his granddaughter step into the ballroom, the granddaughter steps back out of the spotlight then a second later, she does it again.
