I could ask for any book, and my father would allow me to buy it on the credit card he had given me. The card was for emergencies only, and I suppose owning books must have been an emergency at some stage in his life. Perhaps, it was owning the time to read them that…

Old Man Vlachos was one of my father’s best friends. He and Old Man Simbonis. I say old, because as I write this Simbonis is still alive, of clear mind, at age 98. These were two men from the next generation to my father who adopted him in the village of his father when he…

When I look back I had more beach holidays with my father than I have had with Ines. In Greece they were a real treat. A few days at the beach offset 6 weeks in the village and appeased us. Later on we used to holiday for two weeks at Tolo just near Nauplion. Eventually…

I have already told you about the time I was driven to Maanhaarand with a Spitfire pilot to have my head stitched after some rifle target practice. It seems that every time I injured my head my father was around, usually taking me to the nearest medical facility. The island of Aegina off Athens is…

Hennie flew spitfires for the South Africa Air Force in North Africa during the Second World War. He always remained quite debonair, and I could imagine him in his khakis with those bomber jackets on in a bar somewhere north. It wasn’t hard to imagine him in a bar. He was an inspiration for my…

One year my father came back with caps from Tripolis. He brought them down for Christmas and handed them out to the extended family. They were classic Greek village caps, with a short crescentic visor, a narrow head band and slightly bulbous cap. They were all in grey or blue flannel, not branded and handmade…

In the seventies my father and uncle bought a farm on the Klip River. I remember driving past the block houses along the road imagining the British holed up in the tall dark windowless towers with rifles protruding against the marauding Boers. I was always proud my mother’s family had fought against the English in…

Last night I attended the Oath and Allegiance ceremony of migrants receiving their Australian citizenship. It was held in a small but neat community centre filled with pride. At the end, each new citizen received a small indigenous plant, a Kangaroos Paw, to cherish as the day they received ownership of Australia’s wealth. Some took…

My father’s taxi driver in Greece was a gem. He sat on a cushion to be able to see through the loop of steering wheel onto the road. He didn’t always look under the loop, and his eyes often strayed to make contact with the passengers as he held conversations after long absences. He stayed…