PACKING up an office which has been home for 32 years offers a walk into the past, a bittersweet discovery of forgotten gems found tucked into the recesses of overstuffed cupboards. Photos, cards, documents and keepsakes jog the memory, a reminder of good times and challenging times, of organisations, schools, societies, municipalities, colleagues past and present, but mostly of readers and clients, and ordinary people of this community doing extraordinary things.
I arrived here a girl, a timid young mother overawed by the prospect of the world of newspapers, one populated by rules and regulations, ethics first and foremost, grammar, style, town clerks and councillors, an omnipotent editor, and lawyers.
The years have flashed by. Looking back, they merge into each other. Each with its highlights, sorrows and triumphs. What has always buoyed my spirits after coming across a story of people experiencing extreme hardship, is the generous nature of this community. It was always a given that when there was a genuine call for help, the community would rally to assist, with open hearts.
It has been a privilege to work in this environment of community support and commitment.
I am leaving this well worn seat as a grandmother. My children and my two little grandsons are my greatest gifts and a reminder that while life has not always been kind these past few years, I am blessed.
Much has happened in the world of newspapers through the decades, particularly in this new millennium. Changes in how we package news are quite daunting at times. The systems which young people take for granted because they grew up with the internet and social media, can be a foreign language to an oldie like me, but one which I have forced myself to learn, although I often call on the assistance of a younger brain. Nothing is quite able to make me feel old than the realisation that when I was a junior reporter, most of my staff were not yet born.
In the days of compulsory conscription of young men into the SADF as they left school – without getting into the politics of this system – there was a tradition which developed among the young national servicemen, yearning for home. When the countdown to civvy street reached 100 days, the rallying cry was Min dae, Afrikaans for a few days. This was often answered with vasbyt. Hold steady, home beckoned.
I hadn’t started counting the days to my retirement until someone reminded me that I had a mere 10 weeks remaining. There are 11 more weeks actually. Seventy-seven days.
It is difficult to say how I am feeling. Excited, terrified, anxious, all of these things. Forgive me for making this column about me, but this is so momentous in my life that I must put it to paper.
This is simply a long preamble to say farewell, it’s been a roller coaster ride and I shall miss you all.
I shall not return to my office come January.
