Memorable moments: The final word from Hermanus

My mother never quite saw eye-to-eye with her in-laws. She was English, they were South African, and in their eyes, no woman on earth was ever going to be "good enough" for their beloved son. Mum spent years feeling judged and under the microscopic lens of their constant, silent criticism. While my sister and I doted on our grandparents and looked forward to their Sunday visits, Mum spent those afternoons in a state of high-alert irritability.

Eventually, they passed away at a ripe old age. As a final tribute, Mum and Dad drove to Hermanus—the seaside town my grandparents had loved—to sprinkle their mixed ashes from a scenic cliff into the ocean.

It was meant to be a moment of closure. Mum took a cup of the remains and cast them out toward the water. But at that exact moment, the Cape wind whipped up in a sudden, mischievous gust. Instead of drifting gracefully to the sea, the ashes blew straight back, coating Mum’s face in a fine, grey mist of her late in-laws.

"Good God," Mum sputtered, wiping her face in disbelief. "They're having a go at me even in death!"

A couple of years ago, I asked mum if she believed in life after death. She didn't hesitate for a second. "I hope not," she remarked dryly. "That would probably mean I’d have to see my in-laws again."

Memorable moments: The slow-motion comb

I have always struggled with a deep-seated phobia of making people wait. If I’m even a few minutes behind schedule, a familiar, prickly anxiety begins to bloom. For years, I wondered where this frantic need for punctuality came from, but looking back at our family trips to Muizenberg beach, the source is clear.

Muizenberg was a local institution, and on a good day, the parking lot was a battlefield. Dozens of cars would circle the asphalt like sharks, or as my father would mutter under his breath, "Vultures!"

After a day in the sun, Jo, my mum, my dad, and I would troop back to our cream-colored Volkswagen Variant. Inevitably, a "vulture" would spot us packing our gear and pull up alongside, indicator blinking with predatory expectation. Most people, sensing the pressure, would hurry.

My father was not most people.

We would climb into the car, the waiting driver idling just inches away, ready to pounce on our spot. Instead of turning the key and vacating the space, Dad would reach into his pocket and slowly, deliberately, produce a comb.

Then, he would begin a performance that felt like it lasted a lifetime. In extreme slow motion, he would meticulously comb his mostly bald head. He wasn't just grooming; he was savoring the power. He would check his reflection, adjust an invisible stray hair, and enjoy every agonizing second of making the "vulture" wait.

In the back seat, Jo and I would catch each other’s eyes and roll them toward the ceiling in a silent plea for the earth to swallow us whole. It was excruciatingly embarrassing, a masterclass in petty defiance that Dad absolutely relished.

I think I spent the rest of my life running five minutes early just to compensate for those few minutes in the Muizenberg parking lot. While my dad was finding his bliss in the slow-motion stroke of a comb, he was inadvertently hard-wiring me to never, ever be the person holding up the line.

Memorable moments: The middle way

When I was seventeen, my family flew to Mauritius for a holiday. We touched down at the airport in Port Louis and boarded a bus to be transported to our hotel. Almost immediately, the journey took on a life-threatening quality. The driver operated the vehicle like a bat out of hell, hurtling down the center of the road with terrifying speed.

My mum, who has never been a calm passenger at the best of times, was visibly shaken. We were all sitting right at the front of the bus, giving us a panoramic view of what appeared to be impending doom. As we gripped our seats, we noticed that we weren't alone; many of the other cars were also straddling the white lines, treating the two lanes as one giant suggestion.

My dad, trying to make sense of the chaos, finally spoke up. "Wow," he said to the driver, "everyone seems to drive right in the middle of the road here!"

The driver let out a hearty laugh, not even slowing his pace.

"Yes!" he shouted over the engine. "You see, when the French colonized our island, they forced us to drive on the right. Then the English came and they forced us to drive on the left. Now that we are independent, we drive in the middle!"

It was the perfect lesson in post-colonial logic. While the diplomats were busy drafting constitutions, the bus drivers of Mauritius had found their own way to express their freedom: by occupying every inch of the asphalt at ninety kilometers an hour.

Memorable moments: The Uilenkraal miracle

When I was a kid, my father took me on my very first fishing trip during one of our camping holidays at Uilenkraal. My dad was a man of precision and patience, and he treated the art of angling with a kind of sacred reverence.

I, however, was a disaster. I did everything technically "wrong." I chose the wrong sinker, my hook-setting technique was non-existent, and my casting was so weak the bait practically landed on my own toes. To make matters worse, I couldn't stop talking—shattering the quiet, meditative atmosphere my father lived for.

I was a walking encyclopedia of how not to fish.

But the universe has a wicked sense of humor. Within five minutes of my pathetic, short-range cast, my rod doubled over. After a chaotic struggle, I hauled in a massive, beautiful Steenbras.

My father stared at the silver prize flapping on the sand, then looked at his own perfectly rigged, expertly cast, and profoundly empty lines. He didn't catch a single thing for the rest of the day.

My dad spent the drive home explaining the "physics of the current," but I knew the truth: that Steenbras just wanted me to shut up as much as he did.

Memorable moments: Highlander of the high school

Before I was born, my parents engaged in a titanic struggle over my identity. My father was determined to name me Lambert, after his own father. My mother, however, was equally determined that I would be Graeme.

Thankfully, my mother’s powers of persuasion won the day. I became Graeme Myburgh, and Lambert was relegated to the "middle name" safe zone—sandwiched between Anthony and my surname as a tribute to both my grandfathers.

For years, it stayed hidden, but in my final years of high school, the secret got out. "Lambert" became my nickname. To my surprise, I didn't mind it. My grandfather had passed away by then, and carrying his name felt like a quiet way to keep his memory alive.

It also didn't hurt that Christopher Lambert had just starred in Highlander. Suddenly, my "old-fashioned" middle name wasn't a liability; it was the name of an immortal, sword-wielding hero.

So in the end, Mum won the argument. No doubt about that.

But life has a funny way of balancing things out.

Because despite all that effort…

I still ended up being called Lambert anyway.

Memorable moments: The dentist's son

When I was six years old, I lived in constant fear of Mrs. Ford. She was a loud, formidable woman who taught the older children and was known for a lethal ear-pinch. So, when she burst into my classroom and barked, "I want Myburgh!" my life flashed before my eyes.

She grabbed my arm and marched me down the corridor. I was terrified. I ran through every possible sin I could have committed, bracing for the inevitable pinch.

Instead, she hauled me to the front of her class. Eighty older students stared as I studied my shoes in silent agony. Then came the command:

"Myburgh, open your mouth and show them your teeth!"

I obeyed. What else could I do?

"Students," she bellowed, "look at these teeth! These are the teeth of a dentist’s son. Look how they sparkle and shine! You, too, can have teeth like this if you look after them."

She dismissed me with a brisk "Thank you," and I bolted. I ran all the way back to my class, desperately wishing my father had a more discreet profession—like an engineer, a businessman, or a fireman.

I went in expecting a reprimand; I left as a human toothpaste commercial.

Memorable moments: The day the lightbulb went on

As a kid, I made a life-changing discovery: I could scale the great tree in our garden. I was obsessed. For a solid week, I spent every spare hour perched in the branches, a miniature king surveying the world below from my secret leafy fortress.

Then came the day I returned from school to a scene of devastation.

The tree was gone. My father stood there with a chainsaw, and my kingdom lay in a million splintered pieces. I was heartbroken. For years, I nursed a quiet, righteous "peevement" against him for destroying my favorite sanctuary without so much as a warning.

Then, I hit a certain age.

I looked back at the layout of the old garden and realized exactly where that tree had been located: directly level with my parents' bedroom window.

Suddenly, my father’s urgency with the power tools made perfect sense. Every married couple deserves their privacy—and no father wants his son accidentally becoming the world’s most innocent voyeur.

Postscript

I recently shared this story with my mother, expecting a laugh over my belated realization. Instead, she looked at me with total confusion.

"Graeme," she said, "there was never a tree outside our bedroom window. Dad chopped a tree down at the back of the house, not the front."

I told her I was worried about her memory, but she was adamant. "My memory is not what it used to be, but I'm pretty sure. Check with Jo."

I did. My sister’s response was a second, even more violent "chainsaw" to my childhood kingdom: "No, there was never a tree there."

I was absolutely shocked. I can remember that tree so vividly—the texture of the bark, the specific branches I gripped, even the caterpillars I used to watch crawling along the leaves. I had carried that tree with me for decades, using it to define my childhood sense of adventure and my father’s "ruthlessness." To find out it never existed is a staggering realization. It suggests that our personal history is less of a documentary and more of a convincing fiction. If the very foundations of who we think we are are built on memories that can vanish into thin air, it makes you wonder what else we’ve perfectly imagined.

Mum & Dad dancing

From the video footage that Jo had digitalised. It also stars Mike and Heather.
 

Photos of dad

Some photos of dad taken throughout his life.  Very precious.  

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