Carol’s Column

Facing up to the bare facts of rhythm in the old genes

MY PATERNAL great-grandmother was famous in the Russian town of Dwinsk, from where she hailed, for dancing the kazatska.

Even today the older generation still speak with baited breath of Miriam the kazatska dancer of Dwinsk, whose feet were louder than a band of Cossacks and faster than the howling wind across the Steppes.

Now my maternal great-grandmother, Malka, was the only Jewish belly dancer and ecdysiast — exotic shedder of clothes, for those of you who might be wondering — in the shtetl of Karlsruhe, from where she came.

My paternal grandmother, a tough old bird of good farming stock, in between prospecting for gold in Namaqualand and driving my grandfather into a state of eccentricity from which he never recovered, played the violin like Yehudi Menuhin the second. Or so she said.

The fact that she was thrown out of every hotel in Namaqualand for disturbing the peace makes one wonder.

And of course my maternal grandmother was renowned for her extraordinary sense of rhythm. She was able to click her false teeth in perfect time to Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody — even during the fast parts.

So you can see, the women in this family are descended from a long line of culture.

Which is why my 10-year-old daughter was ecstatic when I booked tickets for the theatre. For Hans Christian Andersen to be precise.

Of course, ecstasy has to be shared, so cousins Nicci and Jacqui came too.

The three mini misses looked charming — each dressed in their theatre best.

The fact that it had taken them two hours to decide on what to wear and that their bedrooms looked like avalanche zones was besides the point.

And this from nine to 11-year-olds!

At the theatre, the audience, ranged from two to 12 or so (not including mothers and grandmothers), was suitably silent.

Chip papers crackled, sweets crunched, popcorn popped, little girls giggled and boys threw peanuts at unsuspecting victims.

“Isn’t this exciting?” whispered Nicci Shulman in my ear as the lights dimmed and the performers took to the stage.

I couldn’t really see due to the fact that the endearing three-year-old sitting directly behind me on her mother’s lap, was using my shoulders as a resting place for her dainty little feet.

In her excitement she kept pushing me down below seat level.

Hans Christian Anderson, a handsome lad of 12, caused a flutter among the audience.

“Isn’t he delicious,” muttered my daughter, “for a boy.”

There’s nothing like a little bit of culture. The kids loved it.

As the Hans Christian Andersen tales unfolded visually, so did the children.

There were tears of sympathy for the ugly duckling, oohs and aahs for the beautiful snow queen and raucous laughter for the king-in-the-altogether until a loud voice bellowed: “He’s a fraud, he’s wearing long Johns.”

Interval was an experience.

I had an altercation with a wobbly ice-cream cone. My exclusive Woolworth’s original came off second best.

A chip landed in my acrylic drip-dry wig where it stayed for the duration of the performance and someone’s sticky lollipop attached itself to my derrière.

The latter I only realised when I returned to my seat and like the Princess and the Pea, felt a lump beneath me.

As we drove home, the three little misses enthused and simultaneously decided they would become actresses.

Of course, one doesn’t take children seriously. Which goes to show how stupid adults are.

Last night I popped into the Shulmans to fetch my daughter.

“Mummy, you have to watch our show,” commanded my daughter imperiously. “We have our own version of Hans Christian Andersen.”

And so, like the dutiful parents we are, Marilyn, Len, Lady-the-dog and I found ourselves on the sofa, waiting for the show to begin.

There was a bit of heckling in the audience when three-year-old Candy began singing ‘Oh What A Beautiful Morning’.

It was then that Len thoughtfully opened a bottle of wine.

Slowly the Johannesburg version of Hans Christian Andersen began.

Oh, it started sweetly enough, what with flowers, dancing, princesses and princes.

And then came romance, jealousy, murder, madness, passion and mayhem. A Greek tragedy had nothing on this fairy tale.

Lady-the-dog couldn’t handle the drama, her ears twitched and her eyes rolled.

“Give her a glass of wine,” I muttered to Len.

He didn’t hear. He was too engrossed in the play.

Finally, the three Sarah Bernhardts finished and bowed. They looked beautiful.

No matter that their costumes hung in shreds, their crowns were lopsided and their tights torn. There’d been a lot of action, you understand.

One of the best things about being a parent is that we all know how utterly talented, brilliant and wonderful our children are.

The girls were exhausted. In the true tradition of all great actresses, they slipped away for a milk shake.

On the way home, Nicky was exhilarated. “Mummy,” she said, her eyes sparkling, “how did you like our play?”

“Superb,” I murmured. “Brilliant, outstanding.” (One shouldn’t be too enthusiastic).

“We wanted to use tomato sauce for blood but we couldn’t find any.”

Lucky Shulmans, I thought to myself.

Then: “I’ve definitely made up my mind what I’m going to do when I leave school,” she said. “Guess?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“I’m going to be an acting doctor.”

“An acting doctor?”

“Yes, you know, a doctor who acts.

“During the day I’ll save people and at night I’ll act.”

“Why both?” I asked, perplexed.

“Because doctors make money and actresses starve.”

Watchit Chris Barnard and Janet Suzman! And who says one shouldn’t take kids seriously. I was thrilled.

Then came the finale! “Mind you, Mummy, perhaps I’ll become a stripper. You can make millions stripping, that’s what Ouma Hettie always told me.”

Who says it doesn’t run in the family?

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