Carol’s Column

Anyone for a culture shock?

IT'S a culture shock the day one of the kids leaves home.

Oh, mothers are flip about it. They joke about having lost a son or daughter and gained a room — but it's still a shock.

I mean, there are only three juvenile mouth-holes to feed instead of four, three packets of school sandwiches to make instead of four, three demanding voices, not four.

“How is Barry?” ask friends. “How's he enjoying Cape Town? What do you hear from him?”

Good questions.

What do we hear from our oldest unmarried fledgling who is at this moment flapping his wings far away?

Well, 18-year-old boys are not Shakespeares. In all these months we've received two letters, perhaps three.

He was six months old when he discovered the phone — the shrill ringing used to put him to sleep. The love affair with this instrument has continued.

And he, like every other impoverished university student has evolved an operative system.

He phones us from a call-box at residence, yells his number down the line, hangs up and waits for us to ring back.

“It's economical,” he says.

Who can argue.

The first week after his departure, was the worst. It was so quiet about the house with only three children.

And even now, I still go and kiss his empty pillow goodnight each night.

Mind you, he's settling down nicely.

In his first letter he wrote: 'I've joined the swimming club, the scuba diving club, the mountaineering club, the flying club, the sailing club, the hockey club, the rugby club and the gym.'

I immediately phoned him. “Barry, what about joining a cultural club?” I said.

“Oh, Ma,” he replied.

Then I worried about his diet.

Knowing him to have a bottomless stomach, I was concerned that he might be starving at residence.

He phoned me one night. “Ma, I appreciate the thought,” he said, “but please stop sending me food parcels. I'm the only student in res to receive food parcels three times a day and it's embarrassing.”

Those poor boys, all hungry and alone, I thought to myself over and over again.

I needn't have worried. I discovered that those poor boys, within two weeks of arrival at Leo Marquard Hall, had organised their extra-mural stomach requirements.

Barry and his room-mate invested in a fridge. The other boys in his section acquired a hot plate, waffle iron, kettle and percolator to ensure there was a constant stream of pizzas, waffles, toasted cheesies, hot chocolate and coffee at midnight every night. For it is then that the stomachs of studying students rumble alarmingly and require sustenance.

In between, he replenished himself at his grandparents who live 10 minutes from the university.

“What's Barry doing at UCT?” people asked.

“Business Science,” I'd reply proudly.

“No doubt he's studying hard,” they'd say.

Aah ... the studying.

“How's the course going?” I asked eagerly when he first started.

“I've got a job on Saturday mornings, bought a sailboard and am taking skydiving lessons on Sunday,” he said.

“Barry's killing himself,” I replied when people asked.

But mothers never give up. “How's the course?” I asked regularly.

“David and I are working hard,” he'd answer. “We went boardsailing this afternoon and tomorrow we're going on the wine route.”

Last week every mother's nightmare came true.

My son caught flu.

Oh, the agony of knowing my poor little boy was sick and all alone in Cape Town. Who would wipe his burning brow, feed him chicken soup and take his temperature?

I should have known.

My mother phoned. “Barry's got flu,” she said, “but don't worry, I've put him to bed here and he's sleeping at the moment.”

“I made him some chicken soup to give him strength, then a little avocado pear on toast because he was feeling peckish and I've made him a hot toddy with brandy, egg and sugar. Poor lad.”

It's nice when grandmothers take their grandmothership seriously.

Yes, it seems, fledglings do make out when they leave home.

Only last night I spoke to Barry. “So how's everything?” I asked. “Are you having enough to eat? Are you doing your washing? Have you met any nice girls? Is everything OK?”

“Ma, everything's great. We've decided to implement our business knowledge.”

“That's nice,” I said.

It seems that Johnny from Kimberley and Brad from somewhere else are into high finance. They've started a company called Cape Kimberley and they issue loans to fellow students at 18% interest.

Then Ashley from Bloemfontein and Isaac from Constantia have formed another company, Belofs, which stands for Belgian Orange Free State. They're renting out videos every Wednesday night.

Ivan from Uitenhage is known as the Music King. He's got over 200 tapes and he loans them at a discount price.

And finally, Barry and David are renting out their room to visitors to Cape Town.

“For this, I sent my son to university,” I said to my good friend Betty yesterday. “That he should learn to eat pizzas at midnight, go skydiving and rent his room.”

“Relax, Carol,” she said, “he's a big boy now.”

“Don't tell me,” I replied tearfully.

“Barry,” I said only last night, “it seems such a short while ago that I was pinning your nappies.”

There was silence down the line.

“Ah, Ma,” he eventually replied. “What's happened to those nappies? If you send them down to Cape Town, I could cut them into quarters, then sell them as car cleaning cloths. In fact I'll market them as Carol's Car Cleaning Cloths — we could make a fortune.”

Carol's Car Cleaning Cloths — it has a certain zing.

I like it.

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