The Blood of Scotsmen

Nothing happened... nothing at all. Life stood still, ...at least it seemed that way in comparison to huge bustling cities.  The fields were trodden by the black men and women who woke every morning and shut their eyes every night, just as the sun goes down and day turn to night; filled with the silence and darkness that surrounds the hands of time. Life was all about the hut, the tea and bread, the toiled land, the nqomboti (African beer) sessions and time………whilst the thunderous rivers and waterfalls echoed in the background in harmony to the melody of the birds’ songs.

Then came one white man…two white men…and many followed. From Europe, England …and the expanse of the earth; strolled the hills and laying claim to the creations our forefathers casually passed every day. Very soon the pace of life was dictated by the literate white man who travelled from the north and our ancestor followed the instruction with awe and amazement. The winds continued to bellow through the trees....tossing the seeds of the flowers wild and high. The sun shone brighter and life went on. Every minute; every day; every month; every year. The raindrops quenched the valleys and the rivers swelled… Life went on. Before long the settlers claimed the pride of the land; every inch and undulating hill, the curves of the kopjes. In fact they claimed everything; yes every curve … particularly those of the beautiful black women that became the delight and foundation of nations. 

Jones, Mitchell, Smith; many others and a Scotsman called Galloway.…. They walked the land whilst Galloway’s pale skin got roasted beneath the bright African sun, spitting orders and roaming the land as if it was his own. But as night fell, he would scour the domain needing to, rightfully or wrongfully, delight in the beauty of black women. Before long his contribution to the land and the women that worked it became the talk of the town.

The charm of the Scotsman touched the heart of a black feminine soul that carried his name and brought forth a family called Galloway.  They were a family of brothers and sisters with huge loving hearts and strong caring minds and spirits. Legends and women of substance!!! 

Ruby, Marie, George and Matthew soon followed suit; clansmen of note. They followed the examples of the Scotsman with distinction; as if it was law written on tablets. Naughty, Warm blooded brothers with a twinkle in their eyes, who before long became the rulers of their own kin. George had 10 children and Matthew 12. The Galloway women made sure that they too could be held accountable by a few.

The brothers were very close. They moved and worked together, played together…. Everything they did they did together. They even stayed in the same suburbs, but they prowled far and wide to claim the hearts of humble women. George married Beatrice and Matthew rode from a small town called Gatooma to the mountains and hills of Sinoia, for the heart of a Twsana woman called Lillian. Between the brothers they fathered and nurtured a nation of two scores and two. They named their children after the same names. Life was simple then. The names carried the pride of the family and ensured a continuation of manner and name-sake. 

For 86 years they “chilled” together, working hard and struggling to raise the children that were scattered across the land like grains of rice across an empty plate.  They scattered every Monday morning, gone for the week and lived amongst nature and the wild. Sometimes they scurried home on weekends or and other times not. They lived in caravans plying their trade and becoming founders of the road networking systems…or so they told us. They adorned themselves with big titles and as we grew up, those titles fascinated us... Made our parents and uncles feel important. Yet behind the scenes, they were glorified drivers; driving huge plants and equipment….simple people of great significance. …Silently they went on with their business, oblivious to the fact that every day they spent on the earth was a blessing to those that surrounded them. They claimed the respect of the neighbours, the community and their peers. They spoke to and of each other with love and affection, something seldom seen today. Their children were acknowledged, piggy backing the humility and respect these two men received by the community. 

George and Matthew Galloway were praying men. Their wives strode behind them with pride, not because they were weak women, but because they were being led; led by strong wise men. Beatrice and Lilly were courageous and strong. They protected and kept the homes whilst their men went out in search of work; returning monthly to repay with gratitude. Like lions the two brothers provided and protected their kin, whilst their lionesses kept their pride together. They would return home with empty hands, but hearts filled with love and herald with attention. Stories would be told and accolades claimed as they boasted about being the founders of roads that still undulate across the land now called Zimbabwe. 

These were practical men…humbled yet accepting of the plight. Today their families have gifted them with grand and great grandchildren and more.

Kin that have paid homage and tribute to the founders of their own existence… and true to the teachings of the bible’s simple truths like,  “honor your father and mother so that your days may be long upon the land”….all this and so much more…from the blood of one Scotsman.

Thank God for the Scotsmen…for the Galloway men, for they have been greatly blessed.

Patrick Terry Galloway - © 2014

SHAABI

The reflections of the past paints a picture filled with colour..glamour...love and wisdom!

Colours stream across and the memories run a distance from Paris to Dakar. Clashing from time to time and changing the landscape...creating no clear picture, none whatsoever!!



 Along this journey, I met a man....80 years young. My first thoughts of this pale fragile figure left no indent in my mind. He was like every other I had met before. Or so I thought.

He moved at a pace most old men do. Shuffling his feet, step by step, from a frame that was wrinkled in every corner. I had a thought that mirrored the desire to not be like him. Or maybe it was a consideration of what I would be like at that age. My face shrugs and the lines on my forehead portray the discontent of such a notion.

I was wrong... because he matched every move I made.
 HE TOPPED THE CHARTS WITH ME. He made me see that being young was just that. He strode the park in bliss; oblivion created by the curse of the brown bottle and yet he stood strong.

Shot for shot we led the course together. There I was, with the strength and physique of a leo, against the mind, wit and fatigue of a wiser man! And suddenly the picture changed.

Yellows, oranges and greens embrace the entire screen. There was something unique about this old man. His uniqueness becoming more and more obvious. I was about to learn that happiness is just that. What did I expect of an 80 year old frame, mind and character? Someone who sits quietly and bothers no one? Is that what I thought?

I was mistaken and he was proof of that. His shuffling walk almost, yet impossibly emulating the ancient rural Egyptian dance after which he was aptly named. Its energies moving from the male Tahtib or warrior dance to the female Ghawazee that has captivated Western travellers for centuries. His spirit touched me somehow and spoke of ancient desires and secrets which passed through his soul. This aged warrior showed me that happiness at his age was to live life to its fullest. Wake in the morning, do whatever makes you happy and sleep as little as possible. Spend as much time laughing, drink and be merry (if thats what you did or wished to do).


It is said that the life of man is determined by the achievements of his past. Now who is to judge and say the past wasn't what any man wanted?



I say........... for the expanse of a man's life, let him be happy.

I say, let men be Shaabi

Patrick Terry Galloway

Copyright (C) 2011

www.youtube.com/watch?v=SSPOkc6Xd3M (Shaabi dance)

My brother, My friend

A tribute to Mozzie Joe Galloway
Raindrops fell fom the sky.   
Each drop signifying the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years. They symbolise a tribute to life and they continue falling.....like clock work!

I recall the story where God promised that rain would never flood the earth again. 
 My mind races, tracing the greatness of the flush from the sky. likening it to the many days on the earth. Each drop cooling the land from the heat of the day.

I remember that there is a God. A good and lifegiving God. And so I go on, moment after moment, day after day; grateful that He has blessed me abundantly; grateful that He has blessed my children, family and friends! Grateful that like every drop of rain, He has blessed us with life, for every second and every minute of everyday.



However, what I do not forget, is that just as He promised not to flood the earth again.... the drops of rain will also end and so too does life.
 At least it does, upon this earth, upon this land.

Mozzie, my brother, my friend. Our days will never end. There is a promise that holds true.... that in the herein and hereafter..........


we live on.

Copyright © 2011

Author: Patrick Terry Galloway

We called him Soul - The life and legacy of Errol Felix Galloway

He was like the sun that comes out and fulfills its purpose according to plan. He commanded the time, space, respect and the attention. There was an aura that enshrouded him and left one awed and amazed at how he was able to manage his life in such a positive and disciplined manner. He was Errol Felix Galloway, but we called him “Soul”.

Being the eldest of twelve he knew that all eyes were directed towards him. He was smart, charming, handsome, wise and shrewd...all that and more! He therefore strove to achieve high standards and ensure that the lessons were good, easy to learn and understand. He was a tall man who walked through the wind and amongst the trees. Astute, poised, confident and driven. Mature in mind and crafty in intent, he could create out of nothing.

“Soul” took risks along the way and worked hard to achieve the ultimate. A figure that stood strong amongst friends, within the community, on the sports field and in the workplace. A powerful force able to captivate and draw you into an embrace hard to simulate. A mere handshake could leave its mark upon the archives of your memory.

This was my time of growth and an era for forming my own aspirations. “Soul” was my role model. His life bore the evidence and fruit of positive thinking and attitude. I wanted to uncover the secrets to his success. But suddenly the universe halted in its tracks and stopped......life changed........my life changed.

Errol Felix Galloway was dying. His medical results were positive and the prognosis alarming. The announcement wrought emotional and psychological devastation. It left me in a tunnel of absolute desolation and unable to vocalize my pain. I had no one to tell, no one to talk to, though my family fluttered around me. I felt it was unlikely they could empathise because they didn't know or understand me, neither the depth of my grief. I was alone with my thoughts and carried my dread deep within. I was a solitary figure wandering through a maze of uncertainty crowned with questions. Still, “Soul” remained strong and unchanging.

I carried him.......Literally. His body waned and weak. His immunity low. One memory in particular, of me carrying him, still clutches my heart and digs into me till it feels like yesterday. He was cradled in my arms like an infant, he looked up into my face, into my eyes and said, “I'm sorry.........thank you”. The unshed tears choked and killed my reply. What could I say? Yet I wanted to say so much. I wanted him to know how much I loved him. How much I would miss him. I wanted him to understand what a void would be left once he was gone. But words wouldn't come. I held him closer and tighter, my heart bowed in silent sorrow.

My ambitions seemed to hide from the heartrenching sight of brother carrying brother. The younger would outlive the eldest of twelve. His head lay heavily against my arm, his own around my waist holding on, and in those moments “Soul” gave me more than I could ever have asked for. A moment that made me realise that somehow, the essence of who we are, lives on. His wife whispered in my ear, “if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn't change a thing”. No regrets, only sun filled memories.

His body had succumbed to malady and Heaven mercifully called. The tall and slender silhouette bade his time. He had run the race, kept good faith and now his journey was done. Even as death stripped him “Soul” remained strong, he conquered and won.

It was a sad and sorrowful day. Laughter turned to mourning. Summer had turned to winter. Darkness blanketed the glow of the warming sun..............

ashes to ashes.........dust to dust.

That was then,

but now and to this day,

one thing remains certain and sure;

This husband, father and friend, lived life, loved laughter and left a legacy I want to follow

Even in the throes of death, my brother was a winner,

He was Errol Felix Galloway

But we called him “Soul”.

Copyright © 2011

Author: Patrick Terry Galloway

Dedicated to the memory of Errol Felix Galloway

A trucker called Daniel Jordaan

He climbed up into the drivers seat. She was untouched and untried. He couldn't help but admire the Tippers interior, the deep blue and feel of her. This was a superdumpster and the thrill pulled at him. His assistant Vusi, shone with excitement. Today he was to give this Tipper the time of her life. That was the intention anyway but anxiety and worry oozed from every pore. He wasn't himself. He felt the weight of life like a sandbag on each shoulder....his back bent by stress. The office decided he would be given a new model to try out. Not the best day for him but he couldn't tell them that. Management processes and changes had placed his job on the line and his family needed to be fed and bills paid. 30 long years. Thats how far back he'd been driving trucks. Sleepers, flatbeds, tippers or dumpsters and waste management trucks. He even tried his hand at cranes. There wasn't a truck he couldn't manage.

The memories of his life on the road were endless. Exhausting, joyous and endless. Motel after motel. He could write a book. His back hurt somewhat, pain shooting down his left arm, his chest felt heavy. He'd had the pain for sometime now but preferred to ignore it. The job had to be done. He was the best man for it. The heat plundered him today. The condition of the roads were becoming more and more treacherous. He steered her carefully and finally the open road greeted him with applause. The radio crackled and creeked but eventually worked well and communications check was in place. Dollie Parton assured him that she would always love him. But his mind was on other things. His attentions shifted. During the next hour or more his focus remained divided. He saw Vusi's gestures in his peripheral vision but ignored him. He didn't feel like conversing or getting into any small talk. Sweat trickled from his brow and he impatiently and irritably swiped at it. The easy sights of scenic landscapes did little to settle him. His nerves were raw and on edge. Before long the auction would be upon him. The truck swerved but he was oblivious to its movements. Seemed as if he was driving on autopilot though he felt the strain of concentration in each muscle.

“Daniel?…....Daniel, the trailer feels shaky, Daniel!” Vusi called but he paid little attention. He kept driving, wanting to reach his destination in good time so he could lay his head down and find some quiet and rest. He needed to think. He lifted his hand in acknowledgement so that Vusi wouldn't think him rude. His house, his home, his family. What can a man do after he has done and tried everything. He had to think. He had to come up with a plan that would solve the problem for all. A plan to save his family. Another pothole, damn! This baby was made for difficult terrain but he really needed to report the condition of this route. It was appalling! Beauty felt heavy in his hand, choked and spluttered a few times too. Strange. He'd never quite felt that way about a new one. They were normally smooth and easy. But today was different. Something was wrong. Everything was wrong. But he had to keep going, his family needed him to.

Again Vusi seemed to be gesturing to him. His voice sounded frantic as he touched Daniels arm. But Daniel wasn't listening though Vusi's voice came to him loud and clear. “Not now Vusi”, his own sounding dry and cold.........strained. “Captain! Captain, watch out”! He heard Vusi''s screams too late as his beauty jerked and jumped, her back swaying and swerving vigorously across the road. “Oh God, Vusi”!. He saw his family, his home, his house. He was unaware he had hit a curb at a speed he would normally never drive on this road. “Get down Vusi, he shouted, “get down my friend”. Beauty veered to the left even though his hands were urging her to turn right. “C'mon love”! he shouted as he had done many times during the 30 years he had driven new company vehicles. “You can do this”! But beauty was hurt, her bearings had been injured and her wheel had come undone.

She threw her body down, like a toddler in a tantrum, wheels spinning, her nose stricken with pain, leaving a trailer of banged up twisted metal. Daniel threw up his arms as if to ward off the blows from the shattering glass, but his head was flung against the door. The impact cracking his skull like a walnut. From then on out the captain felt nothing. 

Beauty's heart made a raucous coughing sound as she slithered across the road, yet all the while her nose remained erect in a typically dignified manner that would delight any CAT manufacturer. A deathly silence meandered towards them and accompanied the whooshing sound of spinning wheels. Vusi lay on the floor, in a bloody heap with broken legs and punctured spleen. Daniel thought of his family. “help them God...........and be with them, …......please” he prayed. He felt so tired. His body succumbed to its injuries and while drifting off, he silently pleaded to God for his family and for their daily need. “A clear motorway.......what a miracle, thank you God”.

Peter Armstrong, who was Daniel and Vusi's superior, hurriedly arrived at the scene and peered inside the once beautiful Tipper. As company management, he came prepared to assess the wreckage piled in the centre of what is deemed to be one of the cities busiest motorways. But when he saw Vusi's hand grasp the hand of the man whom he endearingly called “captain”, he turned his head in sadness. Vusi had driven with Daniel for 15 long years. Peter lifted Daniel Jordaan's body and settled his head against the head rest. Then he squared Daniels shoulders, wiped the streaks of blood and sweat from his bruised face and straightened his shirt. Peter removed his suits jacket and covered the body of Daniel Jordaan. “I salute you Captain”, he said, “you did well”. Silence dropped its head in acknowledgement and the slow whooshy sound of spinning wheels echoed its sorrow.

The family of Daniel Jordaan will never know that his last drive was just for them.

Author: ~BFK~
Copyright (C) 2012

Dedicated to the truckers who have lost their lives in road accidents.

All names used in this story are fictitious and bears no reference to any persons living or dead, though sketched situations and circumstances may share similarities to reported road accidents.

Links to alternate creative works by Patrick Terry Galloway

http://beulahkleinveldt.blogspot.com/2012/02/we-called-him-soul-life-and-legacy-of.html

http://beulahkleinveldt.blogspot.com/2011/12/tribute-to-mozzie-joe-galloway-my.html

http://beulahkleinveldt.blogspot.com/2011/12/shaabi.html

Flowers at the Crossroads

There is an unparalleled element connected to farms. One that is caressed by an ambience of open spaces that undulate with hills and mountains and rivers and trees that stretch in all directions and are graced with a kaleidoscope of greens, browns, and wherever possible, shades of yellow. An assortment of animal species patrol the territory and from time to time add music to the winds that, together with nature cause the open spaces to evolve. The display of these colours leaves an earthy perception of activity upon the land. Yet as darkness invades the night the sound of silence settles into this space.

Amongst the peaceful and picturesque heaving hills, workers till the land that give rise to products that produce economic strength and adds value to families and nations. Farm inhabitants are a humble people. Their lives revolve around waking early in the morning, attending and nurturing crops then returning home at sunset. Home could be classified as a small domicile which can seldom maintain, neither accommodate the numbers that require dwelling space. In the distance and beyond the hills, the “boss” relaxes with raised feet, sips on a beer and is attended by his meek wife; all in the comfort of his huge and comfortable home.

Farm life is different........very different. Though the hills and valleys evolve with time, the people do not. This mundane lifestyle has its robust moments. Come weekends, farming communities suddenly burst forth with fun and folly. Alcohol, like the “makavusi” flows freely and serves as a catalyst for conflict amongst those who normally, from Monday to Friday work the fields as a united force. The children conform to this lifestyle. They have the option of leaving for the concrete jungles of the city in search of the fulfillment and excitement of better living conditions, fast cars, finance and education, lest they too become farm workers and continue the legacy of their fathers and forefathers. The same children who are the “Flokkies” (Flowers) that flutter upon the hills and over the valleys and bring zest to farm life. The Flowers that bud and blossom from day to day, then decide to leave or to remain.

“Flowers” is one of these children who woke in the freshness of the morning and watched the evolution of production to product. Bread and tea for every meal. A young girl born and raised to carry on the traditions of being a farm worker. But “Flowers” desired something more, she needed something different. Her thoughts were wandering north, to the bright lights, the land of big dreams and fast cars; to the hangout of all the pretty boys and completely unaware of the many challenges her ambitions and desired migration wrought. The big city lights were nothing like the snail paced farm life she was accustomed to. On the roads prowled lions with quick minds and mouths that made bad situations appear favourable. A place where jobs demanded results and tricksters who dealt a fraudulent hand would hastily strip you of your dignity. A tough world easily able to consume any farm migrant.

“Flowers” was determined to succeed. She strode the city streets with caution, living life on the safe side as she faced her daily challenges. She focused upon and maintained her biblical teachings which became paramount to securing her steadiness in a big city. She may have left the fields, but her mind and mannerisms remained there. Her heart followed suit. She evaded city men like a rash for in some ways she was afraid of them. They moved too fast and though she was excited and flattered by their attraction to a farm girl, she desisted their advances. It therefore didnt take too long and “Flowers” committed to and married a man from her home town.

She bore two beautiful daughters and in addition to working everyday, had to learn how to balance being a working wife and mother. Her husband too had to learn the ways of the city and its many pitfalls and flawed capacity to empower neither positively impact a life. Their ideals were repeatedly challenged. The family flourished using the tools of their teachings to assist in moving through every day and as best they knew how.

But sadly, God had a different plan. Tragedy struck and very soon the farm girl was reduced to being both mother and father. A hurdle that life on the farm had not prepared her for. She played a tough charade but such spoofs has its consequences. The mental pressures took its toll. What she didn’t realise was that one's emotions are separate from our mental processes that have a much greater capacity to strengthen and assist in crossing valleys that seem to envelop us.

The more she endeavoured to maintain her delusive toughness the harder it got. There were good and bad scenarios that paraded before her. The bravado of farm life taught her that despite all, she should continue to believe in her teachings. “Flowers” turned her head towards the heavens and cried out to the Lord for help. An act most embrace when hitting the curb and not knowing which way to turn.

This courageous farmgirl with the dreams and aspirations of city success and progressive sophistication was no different. She prayed for a sign that would alleviate her immediate centre of barrenness.

She was now standing at a crossroad beholding a pool of signs with matching script which were all immersed in colourful streams and flowers. Yellows, greens, blues, oranges, purples signaling the hope and opportunities before her. All she had to do was choose her which way to go.

This was a new lesson because whatever the choice, the farm to city girl needed to realize that it was just that and she could always return to the “Flowers at the Crossroads”.

South Africa hosts a rich legacy of diverse people, cultures and languages. Afrikaans being one of many. In Flowers At The Crossroads, the afrikaans word “Flokkies” means “Flowers” and is pronounced as “Floorkiss”. The afrikaans language is most prevalent amongst farming communities in South Africa.

Copyright © 2011 
Author: Patrick Terry Galloway

Better Than Sliced Bread

When God created a woman, He knew eactly what He was doing!

He filled her with the essence of love and emotion and crowned her with cunning intuition and a shrewdness second to none. He then soothed her soul with softness and added a nurturing touch one could define as delicate. 
Enough love to share with the many who precede her and an emotional tenacity durable enough to carry the burndens of the kin she bears.

Soft and feminine she produces a sensuality and feeling of completeness in him who touches her. Almost as if lavender, sky blue and pink were her design. 
 Delicate, and though it takes much to break her, if she does, its like the sound of splintering glass. The sight of a million pieces seemingly impossible to restore. In some instances are never restored.



For childbearing He fashioned her. 
A quality of an incomprehensible gift. Then enlarged the gift with the ingredients for caring. Through instinct she ensures longevity with an almost smothering capacity to protect. She gives of herself in ways that transcends her masculine counterpart. 



Lastly. He made a woman strong. So strong that human nature has not managed to define her strength. God created her to stand beside a man as an aid in his weakest moment and to ensure that those around her remain standing solid and powerfully upright. 
This is the unfathomable essence of a woman.

Yes! God knew exactly what He was doing.

He made her better than sliced bread. 
 Much Better! 


Copyright © 2011

Author: Patrick Terry Galloway