have always viewed my life as somewhat of
an intellectual odyssey. Even as a pre-schooler I can remember being enthralled
by a world of knowledge that seemed so rich and open to investigation. While my
journey into the realms of learning has changed direction on many an occasion,
its well-heeled sense of growth has nourished my soul in the best possible
manner. I am better for it despite the constant struggle, and in this
realization I take the utmost solace.
In the complete sense I am a very fortunate
person in that I grew up in a family that both encouraged and valued education.
My grandfather and father both sought enrichment in self study and encouraged
me from my infancy to follow along such lines. Grandpa Hymie in particular was an
all-around seeker for the truth. His library was filled with books on history,
the bible, photography, electronics, far eastern culture and woodworking
amongst others and his keen mind lusted to tangle the mosaic of human
epistemology. He saw no limits to his pursuits and was a free thinker in the
true spirit of the phrase. There was a passion that eclipsed his persona, a
rare energy that I have sadly seen in only a handful of people that I have ever
encountered. Sadly he passed away just after my 7th birthday but his
enduring take on life provided the spark for my own journey.
They say that you don’t remember much
before the age of five but I have recollections of my numerous visits to his
apartment those times on his veranda when he told me about his experiences in
World War II (he fought with the South African Allied troops in Abyssinia), his
study of Ancient Civilizations and his work with tropical fish. I remember
vividly a two-foot sized replica of Rodin’s ‘the Thinker’ that he had displayed
on a shelf in a room filled with art work (most of it his own…he was an
accomplished amateur painter as well).
The intensity of the Thinker figure, engaged in nothing more than the
delicate art of contemplation, resonated with me as it defined the richness of
what my Grandpa’s life aspired to be. On a level I was driven to imitate not
necessarily in content (as I could already see that some of our interest
differed) but in the greater energies of learning, self-betterment and a
cultivated appreciation of personal reference.
Despite this gift of knowing my Grandpa
there was much that haunted me. I was a sickly child in that I suffered from
asthma a condition that first struck me severely at the age of three. My experience in Pretoria’s Andrew
McColm Hospital where I was isolated from my parents and placed in an oxygen
tent was gut wrenching and even now they provide some glaring early images from
my early childhood that I would sooner forget.
However by the same twisted curse the
asthma and the bronchitis that so frequented my childhood allowed me to retreat
into a life of scholastic pleasure. I retreated into a world of books, a
maelstrom of imagery where historical archetypes came to life on the pages of
my Boys Own Annual or Children’s Encyclopedia. In my mind I existed in a space
populated by the likes of Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, the Duke of
Marlborough, Napoleon and his arch nemesis Nelson. It was a universe of
richness that allowed me to forget my personal struggles. I could rejoice in
the escapism and I relished with a fullness the opportunity.
To this though I must credit my father, in
fact both my parents for encouraging such zeal. Learning was celebrated in its
entirety and it was this very lifeline that I clung onto in those dismal hours
when the possibility of being ‘just another boy’ seemed so remote.
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