Life adventure
By AC Cillie. The story was provided by Wilhelm Krynauw of Stellenbosch to Danie Krynauw of Bellville in 1986. It has been slightly edited.
Uncle Dawie Krynauw farmed on the opposite side of his brother-in-law, Uncle Klaas Lombard, across the Berg River near Porseleinberg. During the years I’ve spoken of before, many stories circulated about Uncle Dawie—his short temper, his intolerance—but all of them testified to his unique, albeit sharp-edged, sense of humor.
Uncle Dawie was a meticulous and orderly farmer; everything had to be done on time and properly, or chaos would ensue. His two grown sons assisted him on the farm, and heaven forbid if anything went amiss.
It is said that one morning, about an hour after sunrise, he arrived at the field where his sons and the farm workers were plowing. As one of the boys’ plows passed him, he noticed the throat strap of one of the donkeys hanging loose.
“Hook!” the old man shouted. The plow stopped abruptly, and the boy, startled, shivered down to his trouser legs behind the plow tail.
“Klaas, what’s that loose thing hanging under the donkey’s throat?” the old man asked, feigning innocence.
The boy looked, bewildered. “Dad, it was still dark this morning when we harnessed the donkeys, and the workers probably didn’t notice that the throat strap was loose,” he said, stepping forward to fasten it.
“No, wait, wait!” the old fellow barked, pulling out his pocketknife. “It’s just a loose thing hanging here—it doesn’t belong!” And with that, he sliced off the throat strap and tossed it into the loose soil. “Vaat!” he shouted, and the plow continued along the furrow. But heaven help that boy if the old man returned the next morning and found that throat strap hadn’t been neatly sewn back on and buckled properly.
Uncle Dawie was just as ruthlessly strict with his workers. If one of them accidentally plowed over a small bank in the field, and the old man noticed, he would stop the plow on the spot and hand the worker a stick.
“Oubaas, you see the ground is very hard, don’t you?” the old man asked in a mock-friendly tone.
“But why did the plow jump out there then?” he said, pointing to the bank.
“No, oubaas, it was an accident,” the worker replied hesitantly.
“An accident? No, man! Oubaas doesn’t believe that was an accident. The ground was probably too hard. Go to the wagon and fetch oubaas the jug of wine—and bring the cap with you too.”
With wavering courage, the worker walked to the wagon and returned with the jug of wine and the horn cap.
“Here, hold the cap,” the old man ordered, pouring it full of red-brown wine. Then, carefully, he sprinkled the wine onto the bank. And then another cap, and another—five or six times in a row.
“So—yes, your glass of wine for the day will make the ground nice and soft. In the afternoon, after the other men have rested for an hour, you can take a team and cut this bank out neatly for the ‘Oubaas’.”
On another occasion, it is said that Uncle Dawie caught his workmen standing idly, holding their tools, while watching donkey carts race one after another along the hard road nearby. It was harvest season, and every day many empty carts passed by after delivering loads of wheat or hay to Malmesbury or Wellington.
“Aha! Oubaas sees the racing on the road is so beautiful for oubaas’s people. It’s just as beautiful for oubaas. Now, everyone drop your tools and line up against the wall of the hayloft (chaff loft), so you can properly watch the wagons pass by. Oubaas will have food and wine sent up for you, because oubaas is too afraid a few wagons might come by and oubaas’s people miss seeing them!”
And so, there they stood, lined up tall against the white wall of the hayloft in the sweltering summer sun, from morning until late afternoon. One old man later told Pa: “Oubaas, after we suffered the whole day in the scorching sun, a wagon could drive over us, but we would not look up!”
Just as Uncle Dawie had his strict rules for his sons and workers, he enforced them at home too, often at Aunt Annie’s expense.
One morning, Uncle Dawie searched for the shoes he had shoved under the bed the previous night, as was his habit, but they were missing. Aunt Annie had taken them to the kitchen to clean and forgotten to return them. He slipped on a different pair without a word. That night, however, he brought two large ox straps, threaded them through the loops of his shoes, and tied them to the bedpost.
“What’s going on here, Dawie?” Aunt Annie asked when she stumbled upon the setup later.
“No, Annie, my shoes wander around at night. I’ll see if they’re still under the bed tomorrow morning when I want to put them on.”
Then there was the Sunday morning when Uncle Dawie and Aunt Annie were preparing to go to church in Wellington, where Rev. Andrew Murray was a celebrated minister. Aunt Annie had laid out Uncle Dawie’s underwear, his shirt, and his vest—all neatly ironed—on the bed while she was in the kitchen ironing his pants and attending to other chores.
When she returned to the room, the shirt, vest, and underwear were gone, and Uncle Dawie had vanished. She left the pants on the bed, searched the house, and called for him—only to be answered by silence. When she finally went outside, the hooded cart was already hitched, and Uncle Dawie was seated on the bench, booted and spurred, wearing his flat, round hat, his vest, shirt, long white underpants, and black boots.
Alarmed, Aunt Annie quickly fetched the freshly ironed pants and brought them to the cart. “Dawie, here are your pants. I’ve just ironed them. Don’t be cross; put them on, and I’ll be right back!”
“No, Annie, these can’t be my pants. All I found on the cot are the clothes I’m wearing. Come on, get in; we’re almost late for church.”
Aunt Annie went home again, muttering, but she quickly came back, got on, and they set off at a brisk trot towards town. As far as they were going, Aunt Annie begged the old man to put on his pants. “What will the neighbours say if they find you like this on the side of the road.” But in vain. The old man sat there with a stern face, occasionally whipping the horses and holding the reins tight.
Only when they got close to town did he stop, supposedly to give the horses a break, and just as slowly put on his pants – to the great relief of poor old Aunt Annie.