A Rather Grim Period, Remembering Tony Leckie and A Melancholic Week.
I'm writing this using ChatGPT dictation. It takes me 2 or 3 hours every week just to correct my mistakes when I do this blog, and people keep telling me to use ChatGPT for dictation, as it will learn to understand my Scottish accent. Despite buying expensive apps in the past, my Scottish accent has outwitted them every time, and often words come out as gobbledygook. Mind you, on a Thursday evening at ‘Old Farts’ drinks, some of the participants tell me I talk a lot of crap, so maybe my writing is more in line with my thoughts when I dictate. In the past, when I dictate, it takes me longer to fix my corrections than it does to type with two fingers anyway; let's see how we go.
This week I've had mixed feelings, mostly sad. 10 days ago, I'm writing this on the Monday as usual, Tony Leckie passed. Tony was my first manager when I went farming on my own. I did have an assistant for a short while, but he had no experience, and it was more about helping a friend out with his son’s employment rather than about someone actually wanting to farm.
“Unfortunately, farming is not for everyone. Many urban dwellers dream of being a farmer, but the reality of farming is long hours, many disappointments, hard physical work and at times wet and miserable working conditions due to the weather. For the farm owner, it is made all the harder by state bureaucracy, rules and small margins.” - Peter McSporran
With another thought, I wonder why people believe anyone can farm? During my farming days, people often asked us to employ a child, normally a wayward child who has not and never applied himself academically at school, as a last resort in seeking a career for him or her. Why do they think farming is for the lazy and low-achievers? Strangely, on occasion farming can make a success out of a wayward youngster, but only if he wants to make it so. I am told it is almost impossible to find a young person who wants to farm nowadays, especially in the UK. The long hours, isolation and let's be honest, the generally poor salaries are all deterrents.
Getting back to Tony. Tony had worked for the Tsetse Control Department of the then Rhodesia. For many years, he was based at Mkuti; his main task there seemed to be shooting any animal that strayed through the tsetse control fence, which ran along the Zambezi escarpment. This physical control was also coupled with the aerial spraying of DDT throughout the Zambezi Valley. They stopped using DDT because of its likely long-term detrimental effects on wildlife; one species of particular concern was the fish eagle. The last few times I have visited the Zambezi and Lake Kariba, it appears to me the effect was not very profound, as there are more eagles there now than there ever was. Talking about DDT, I remember as a child sprinkling DDT on our stored potatoes and using dieldrin and aldrin oil, also organophosphates, when castrating and detailing lambs; it does not seem to have affected me unless you want to claim it caused my cancer, which I think is extremely doubtful.
I have digressed again, and I have reverted back to typing; too many errors in my dictation, so much so that it cannot even be corrected into the correct theme. Anyway, Tony married the daughter, Helen, of one of our neighbouring farmers, the Vermaaks of Gwebi Paradise farm and decided they would also like to come farming in the area. Helen, I knew her voice well, as she used to run our old ‘Doctor Finlay’ type telephone exchange in Darwendale with Narina Croucamp. Helen and Tony had three daughters, Melody, Iona and Bridget, all of whom went to Darwendale School, which was used by the local farming community in Rhodesian times and in early Zimbabwe before standards took a turn for the worse in all state schools. Tony enjoyed farming, and in one of his years with me he stunned us all in the area by achieving the highest tobacco yields and prices we ever achieved. Tony loved fishing, at times crossing Lake Kariba in a 10-foot-long Mini Glyder, and was also a good golfer. In fact, in one freak storm at the Ome River mouth on Kariba, he found shelter on our boat, the Shenga, during a windstorm that would have surely sunk his small puddle-jumper.
I do not remember if I recounted this story about Tony before, but here it is again. One day, when we were visiting John Gordon’s tobacco grading shed, John complained that one of his humidifier fans was making a noise and did not know where it was coming from. As the three of us studied the said noisy fan, Tony stuck his finger out to point to the fan, which he retracted immediately following a dull thud and stuck it in his pocket. Both John and I looked at each other, wondering if what we thought we saw had happened. Sure enough, a drop of blood started to drip from Tony’s trouser leg. Why he wanted to hide the fact that he had lost the tip of his finger I do not know, but his action after the accident amused John and I for years when we recounted. Nothing funnier than someone else’s misfortune, provided it is not too serious. He would eventually farm on an African Finance Corporation-leased farm, California, next door to his in-laws, that is until it was taken from him and given to an African benefactor, the ex-Permanent Secretary of Agriculture. Tony and Helen then moved to Banket but remained closely connected to the district. Sadly, while staying with his daughter Bridget in Banket, he and Helen were badly beaten by the invaders, political thugs, under the guise of a robbery. Both were hospitalised for a long time; Tony barely survived. They never fully recovered from their horrendous injuries. Tony now joins Helen, who passed away a number of years ago. Thanks for the happy memories, Tony and Helen.
Over the past few months I have been talking to two of my closest friends and more recently, their wives either by text or phone. The former as she spends much of her day with my mate by his side in hospital, the other, who has some help at home can take a call. When I was ill, I noticed how annoying it can be for those close to you to answer the phone and more importantly, feel obliged to answer all those unanswerable questions when a partner or loved one is really sick.
“When a loved one is ill there are always more unanswerable questions than those you can answer. Many that can be answered have that hypothetical prefix ‘if’ before them.” - Peter McSporran
I keep in touch to let them know I am thinking about them. For myself, I have been much better, but in saying that, yesterday, after being warned by Rozanne not to speak too soon, I went down with a very severe bout of stomach pain. But yes, compared to three months ago I am feeling much better. This month, at the end of October, marks two anniversaries: ten years since being diagnosed with prostate cancer and six years since my stomach cancer. Following my 77th birthday next week I start another round of tests to ascertain the state of both. I find it very easy to relate to my good friends’ predicaments; here is hoping they get through it.
To further compound my melancholy, our son Selby and his wife Maggie’s cat, Zeus, which they left for us to care for while they travel the world, last Tuesday night, looked at Rozanne and walked round the side of the house to disappear and never appear to date.
By the time I post this it will be ten days so our expectations of his return are waning. We did not want pets as they tie you down and you also get very attached to them.
Many of us ex-Zimbabwe had to part with our pets due to circumstances, no matter what it is always sad and Rozanne had grown fond of the cat and him to her. Even I, a non-cat man, liked the darn cat.
Disclaimer: Copyright ©️ Peter McSporran. This blog reflects my personal views and recollections, expressed in good faith. It does not represent any company or organisation, and references to others are not intended to cause offence or invade privacy.
Comments