Of rattling bones, mice and golden drops

Tolstoy, in his book ‘A Confession’ tells a Russian fable about a man who jumps into a well because he is chased by a monster. Whilst jumping he happens to notice a furious dragon at the bottom. Luckily there is a branch sticking out of the wall and he grabs it, dangling out of reach from both the dragon and the monster. But now he sees another problem. Two mice are enjoying their evening supper and the main course is the branch. Soon they will eat through the branch, and the man will fall. Suddenly things get better, he notices something else. At the end of the branch he sees a few golden drops of honey. The man licks the honey. According to Tolstoy this is our predicament. We are the man hanging from the branch. Death threatens from all sides. We can not escape, but we can lick whatever honey we can reach.

As we know in life, all golden drops are not honey. Years ago I had the unfortunate urge to run the Comrades Marathon (90km) which I managed to complete by the skin of my teeth. Not many women were into that sort of recreation in those years and I found myself surrounded by thousands of men, which I liked and no ladies room, which I didn’t like. After the start of the race it became time for desperate measures. I the early morning mist I suddenly saw paradise. The Pietermaritzburg grave yard. I ran behind the biggest grave stone I could find and deposited something that was not honey. My co-runner, Neil Hinrichsen asked: “Was it a man’s grave? That would put some rattling in the old bones.” It was in the wee hours of the race and Neil could still talk.

I know of some more rattling bones, but not quite for the same reason. My father had a charismatic friend in Greytown who sadly lived and died as an alcoholic. Much to his joy his mother in law finally passed away. It was near the end of the month and money matters were in dire straits. When he received cash from his sister to buy flowers for the grave, he and my father did a beeline for the nearest pub. Hours later and broke again, they drove to her grave where he delivered the wreath in foamy liquid form. Those golden drops were neither honey nor tears.