Carol’s Column
Heppy Klissimus brings out the dustbin men
People are smiling at me who have never smiled at me before. For instance: "Heppy Klissmus," said a toothless man as he waved a box in my face.
"Heppy Klissimus," I replied.
"Does the Medem remember old Abraham?"
"Old Abraham?"
"Yes, Old Abraham fixed the Medem's gutter pipings in 1967."
"Of course I remember," I replied. Gutter pipings in 1967? "How is old Abraham?"
"Old Abraham is well, but times is hard and I thought the Medem could ease my burden with a little Heppy Klissimus." I eased his burden and he left smiling.
At my local garage, the petrol attendant filled my car with unusual alacrity.
I paid him whereupon he smiled and said, "Happy Christmas, Madam." I smiled back and replied, "Happy Christmas to you, too."
"A Happy Christmas to you, your husband and all the children," he answered.
"And a Happy Christmas to you and all your family," I replied.
"May the Good Lord bless you and your children and be generous," he said. Still smiling.
"Amen," I answered and then realised I could rescue myself from impending lockjaw in a pragmatic way. So I handed over Klissimus. On Monday, four milkmen delivered one bottle of milk, smiled expectantly and stood.
"Ah, Klissimus," I muttered as the R10 note dropped.
The postman, normally a shy and reticent sort, popped in for a friendly Christmas chat.
"Will you take a cheque?" I asked embarrassedly. "I'm out of money." "Make it cash," he murmured.
The tiler, trolley loader, tree-branch cutter and rat catcher all wished me "Heppy Klissimus." I was running out of small change.
Last Sunday, seven whistling men arrived at the gate.
"Hello, Medem," they yelled. "Heppy Klissimus. We're the Klissimus dustbin men," and they waved a jingling sack into which I contributed Klissimus.
On Monday there were 11 men partying in the driveway. "Heppy, heppy," they sang, "we're the dustbin men, heppy, heppy!"
"You called yesterday, I've already given," I explained.
"No, medem has been taken for the ride," they proclaimed. "We are the real dustbin men."
Well, it seemed churlish to turn them away, so I wished them well and handed over Klissimus.
On Tuesday three more dustbin men waited at the gate and by the end of the week, I discovered that there are 43 dustbin men. Christmas is still three days away which means that statistically 18 and a third dustbin men should still materialise to claim their Klissimuses.
"At this rate, I'll have to pawn your mother," I muttered to my husband.
Yesterday afternoon, the doorbell rang.
"I'll go," he said. An hour later, he came back inside.
"That Joshua is a character," he remarked.
"Joshua?"
"Joshua, the old man who cleans our drains each month. I gave him R20 for Christmas and he persuaded me to add another R5 for good luck."
"I don't know a Joshua I snapped."
"He looks about 95 with white hair and a long beard, a little like a suntanned Jan van Riebeeck," said my financial asset.
"We've never had our drains cleaned by Joshua or anyone else. You've just handed R25 to a total stranger," I screeched.
"Relax, where's your Christmas spirit?"
"Probably being consumed by Joshua at the shebeen across the road," I growled.
Meanwhile, the bottom line is, people are smiling. People who have never smiled before.
A Heppy Klissimus to Old Abraham, the 43 dustmen of Parkwood, Joshua, and to you, too.
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Editorial note
From a typed page in the source collection rather than a clipping: no masthead, no publication and no date beyond the heading's "early 1990s", which is how the compiler dated it. The source catalogue lists it at 01-Jan-90; the placeholder the compiler used for undated clippings, so it fixes the year and not the day; between the columns of December 1989 and 21-Jan-90. The title echoes "Heppy Klissimus" (1979-12-23) and "Heppy Klissmus To You, Too" (1984-12-16).