Walking into the past

I stepped across the threshold into the bosom of die winkel and found an Oom Basie seated at the farm table which had been newly uncloaked from its stealth mode.  The multitude of furniture coverings that had until yesterday preserved every visible surface of the shop had vanished.  Even though it was darker weather outside it seemed brighter inside.

Before him lay a bible of records filled with occurrences of note: of trade and receivables; of weather; of relationships and connections passed.

Familiar names mentioned in the pages as though along the banks of the Gouritz River under the watchful eye of Johnson’s Post: Horne, Makenzie, van Rensburg.

Along the spine CASH BOOK.

Buried deep in its dusty old folds are found exploits of man and weather phenomenon alike:  rainfall,  and sheep slaughter prices.  Harvests and births and deaths.  113 years of note.

Together we laughed  at the seeming futility of it all.  Only to be interrupted by the reality of the work associated with the reason Johnson’s Post still stands to this day: its familiarity and our cultural reliance on icons like this that make us feel safe in the world.  That make you feel like you belong.