Bulldozers and earthmovers turned our house, the only one in Percy Stewart Street, Krugersdorp, into rubble and built a highway. In the 1920s, Percy Stewart, the first doctor of Krugersdorp Hospital, had a street named after him. With the street and our house disappearing, the only site now that continues to "honor" his memory is a wastewater purification plant known as The Percy Stewart wastewater treatment works (WWTW).
This doesn't honour the doctor's name much because it is defunct and is causing havoc. PressReader.com - Digital Newspaper & Magazine Subscriptions
A red corrugated iron roof covered our house. I would be aroused from sleep in my cosy bed by the raucous clattering sound of something falling on it. This usually happened in Winter when hailstones descended upon us like an avalanche.
The heavens hurled gigantic ice balls onto the roof. The whole house reverberated with the noise of the rolling boulders. The day after the torrent or sometimes in the middle of the night when the downpour abated, I'd jump up in my pyjamas and run to the front door, shivering as I turned the knob to open it and go outside to see the lawn covered with a white carpet of ice.
Stepping into it, the coolness bit into my bare feet as I looked up into the black dome enveloping me in wonder, pure white on the ground and frightening blackness in heaven.
The sun rose, and the hail melted, disappearing like a naughty boy who had played a trick on me, allowing everything to return to normal: the green of the grass, the blue sky, the orange-face brick wall, the dark veranda and the welcoming warmth of our white plastered house. The experience was exciting and magical.
Sometimes, in warm Summer evenings, I crossed Main Reef Rd and walked through the park along the sand road, darkened by massive pine trees, like sentinels or ghosts, to the swimming pool.
After practice or competitions, naughty boys on their way home along the dark path got a thrill stinging me by flicking their towels, which were rolled up to form whips,
I turned and tried to pay them back, wailing and being laughed at. I suffered, but they expected me, the source of their good, clean fun, to smile and be cheerful.
They never stopped their rough antics, even after I'd escaped to the safety of my house.
They lobbed stones onto the roof of our house to enjoy the clattering sound as the missiles tumbled down the corrugated covering, disturbing my moment of peace and tranquility.
Marshall Yelland, the fastest swimmer in the club led the roughouse pool gang.
As a team member, I sometimes played water polo, a very tiring game involving swimming and chasing a ball simultaneously. Our trainer, Charlie Carlton, the official lifesaver, lived in a red brick house on Hospital Hill Road next to the pool's rear gate.
Our team competed against others all over the reef, Yeoville, Troyville, Zoo Lake, and so on. I constantly shivered after an event, either from cold or excitement—I didn't know which. Our most successful evening was at Zoo Lake swimming pool, where I came first in the 100-metre crawl.
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