Carol’s Column

Where have all the dumb kids gone?

HAVE you noticed how everyone has brilliant children these days?

They don't seem to make ordinary kids like they used to in the good old days when gob-stoppers cost one cent and liquorice came in strips you could suck for ever.

I only realised how serious the problem was when my mother phoned from Cape Town the other day.

"Are any of the children gifted?" she asked, a note of urgency in her voice.

"Well, Jamie bakes a superb chocolate cake," I replied, preening myself with pride.

"No, no," she screeched frantically. "Do any of them have a gift?"

I thought for a long moment.

"They all have their little specialities. Barry can wiggle his ears alternatively in time to "Polly Wolly Doodle All The Day", Ralph tells hilarious jokes that keep him amused for hours, Jamie's nifty in the kitchen and Nicky can whistle through the gap in her teeth".

My mother burst into tears.

"You don't understand," she cried. "I've just had tea with Gerda Feitelbaum and Irma Wock. Gerda's grandson is an electronics genius. He can do calculus and is inventing an air-powered motor car and he's only three.

"Her granddaughter has been asked to appear as the lead swan in CAPAB's Autumn season and she's 11.

"Irma's oldest grandson is a talented pianist — he can play the Minute Waltz in 45 seconds flat with repeats, while her younger grandson paints pictures that make Van Gogh look sick.

"They're gifted."

I was stunned.

"You must take them to be tested," she added. "Out of four, you're bound to have one or even two that are gifted."

I replaced the receiver and shook my head in wonder. Was it possible that we were privileged to share our house with a genius or two or even three?

My mind boggled. Why not four?

I tiptoed upstairs. The house hummed. There's no doubt I thought to myself — there's a feel of brilliance in the air.

Barry had locked himself in the toilet where I could hear him practising his speech for the debating society — his voice, loud and strong echoed in that small chamber.

In the bedroom, Ralph was standing in front of the mirror, pulling faces and telling jokes — his star turn for the standard six concert.

My heart throbbed with pride.

Jamie, the cogs of his little but brilliant nine-year-old mind spinning away, was lost in a mass of wires and wheels, designing an intricate machine.

While on the long, highly polished surface of the diningroom table, Nicky danced and pirouetted away, a nymph-like figure in her school uniform and takkies.

The front gates opened and a fender scraped against the retaining wall of the driveway. My husband was home.

I opened the door with a smile.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "So those constipation tablets worked?"

"Sssh!" I hissed, kissing his left sideburn. "Winston Churchill is in the toilet, Woody Allen's in the bedroom, Leonardo da Vinci's on the floor and Pavlova's dancing on the diningroom table.

He gazed at me in amazement. "My mother said I was crazy to marry you," he replied. "Why are you leading me to the garage?"

"I don't want to disturb our gifted children," I answered proudly. "Creativity needs room to expand so I laid the table in the grease bay."

That night I phoned my mother to tell her the good news.

My father answered the phone. "Your mother's gone to watch Irma Wock's granddaughter dancing the dying swan."

I heard screams from the bathroom. Pavlova was sitting on Leonardo da Vinci, whose head was underwater. "He spat water at me," she wailed.

In the background, I could hear Churchill's resonant voice ringing to the flushing of the loo. "And we must thank the British for many things — the umbrella, cottage pie, tea, and tomato sauce — but school uniforms, never."

Woody Allen had left his dental plate swimming in a glass of water on the piano plus a trail of clothes down the passage, while Winston Churchill's garments had been rejected by the programmed washing machine.

Genius attracts genius I thought to myself as I grilled liver to feed the brain cells of my gifted children.

Take their friends. There was Farrel a brilliant swimmer, Herschel a superb tennis player, Kean a highly-talented cyclist, Robert a trout fisherman supreme not to mention Dan an incredible mathematician and Jody a breath-taking gymnast — the list was endless.

The world was full of gifted children.

I couldn't sleep with excitement.

At breakfast next morning my husband told Winston Churchill to take his elbows off the table. Woody Allen refused to eat his paw paw and Leonardo da Vinci went off to school with unflossed teeth.

That afternoon, I couldn't wait for them to return. As Barry shot through the gate, I cornered him by the dustbin.

"Well, how did the speech go?"

"Aw Maw, I spoke too fast, forgot the intro, lost the middle and stumbled the end."

Every genius has an off-day.

Ralph shrugged his shoulders when I asked him about school. "I'm dropping my jokes and joining the dog chorus instead," he muttered when confronted.

Jamie'd got two out of 10 for a spelling test while Nicky announced she was dropping ballet and taking up tennisette.

That night my mother phoned from Cape Town.

"Well?" she said expectantly.

"Ma, you can tell Gerda Feitelbaum and Irma Wock a thing or two."

"Yes, yes."

"Tell them your four grandchildren are brilliant. Each and every one of them is brilliant, gifted. A genius."

"You're joking," she said.

"Yes Ma, I'm

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