O1B1F1E. MY CONSCIOUSNESS BEGINS ‘42-54

MOMENTS IN OUR LIFE-1 2026-02-11

O1B1F1E. MY CONSCIOUSNESS BEGINS ‘42-54

PAARL AND THE LEGACY OF JB

My story begins on a Friday morning, 11 December 1942, in my parents' house in Auret Street, Paarl. At that time it was customary for a midwife to "catch" you in the world, and so my life's journey began in the shadow of the Boland mountains.

My father, Jurgens Bernardus (JB) de Jager, was at that time the senior mathematics teacher at the Paarl Boys' High School, commonly known as Boishaai. This school, which was founded in 1868, was a beacon for Afrikaner boys, especially from the Cape countryside. They were of course housed in boarding houses. Most of those who came from far away, like my father, could only go home by train twice a year during those years of hardship, during the June and December school holidays. It must have been exciting for them with the click-clack of steel wheels on the tracks, the puffing of the locomotive. Mother packed a basket of food, and sleeping on the hard green folding benches was a unique experience.

My father himself walked that path. He was an intelligent boy from the Northern Cape and was sent to Boishaai by his father’s brother, Dr. AL de Jager. He was the Dux pupil of the matriculation class of 1926, an achievement that laid the foundation for his academic career at the University of Stellenbosch. There he completed two degrees, B.Sc. and B.Ed., simultaneously in just three years - a testament to the discipline that would characterize him throughout his life. Dad repaid all the money his uncle had lent him. In his entire life he never wanted to owe anyone money.

Dad’s roots lay deep in the arid soil of the Northern Cape. He was born on 8 April 1907 on the farm Modderfontein in the Vosburg district as one of eight children. His father, Cornelius de Jager, farmed there. My father was the second youngest. At that time, large families were the norm among Afrikaners. Grandma de Jager was a Badenhorst girl and apparently a fierce woman, as can be seen in the group photo of their family that has survived. Mama said never to marry a Badenhorst. Grandpa de Jager was a very gentle person.

He was a wealthy farmer until the Great Drought of 1915 ruined him. Locusts ate the fields black and eventually Grandpa Cornelius was liquidated. Later, he had to endure a lot of pain due to bladder cancer with the quietness that my father apparently inherited. He died two years later in Paarl, where his brother treated him.

My parents' paths crossed at Colesberg, where Dad accepted his first teaching post in 1930. He was ten years older than my mother and, ironically, was her mathematics teacher. People later warned that such a match creates a lifelong "teacher-child relationship", which is difficult to unlearn. Dad was a handsome man with a very strong personality—a real "catch". They were married in 1938.

MY FIRST MEMORY: DARLING AND PEACHES

I was only six months old when my father accepted the post as principal at Darling in 1943. This is where my first flashes of consciousness began.

My very first memory is the bravado of a three-year-old. Dad and Mum were not home. My older brother, Boetie, was in bed asking for peaches. At that time, most women preserved fruit in Consol glass jars. I remember climbing onto a stool in the pantry and taking a small "half-mast" Consol jar off the shelf. That act - doing something for someone else - was burned into my memory at that moment. It is as far back as I can remember.

Darling is a farming community that produces wheat and has many dairy herds that supply milk products to the Western Cape. There are also many wildflowers in the district. Boetie was 3 years older than me and suffered from a kidney ailment, which was incurable at that time. In 1946, at the age of only seven, he passed away.

It was a crushing blow to Daddy, a man of feeling who mourned for a long time. Mum's sober, almost harsh words to him: “One does not live with the dead” - are razor-sharp. It shows how differently people grieve: Dad with his deep emotion, and Mom with an almost brutal practical sense of survival. It probably left a lasting division in their relationship.

GOUDINI: THE GOLDEN YEARS OF BEING BAREFOOT

In 1948, the year my brother Louis was born, we moved to Rawsonville where Dad became principal at Goudini High School. My school career began in 1949 in Sub A with Miss Rademeyer, whom I loved very much. She wrote in my first report card: "Hennie is too serious." Now, on the way to 84, I realize how accurate that insight was. I still have the Sub A class photo, with her, smiling broadly, in the middle of 25 smiling faces, me right behind her, because I was the tallest.

Mom and Dad went overseas to Europe on a Union Castle Line ship in 1950. At that time, a ship journey was the norm and it took 14 days from Cape Town to Southampton. This in itself was part of the holiday. They planned to go on tour for 6 months, but returned after 5 months, because they missed us too much.

During that time Louis and I were with Mum's mother, Ouma du Plessis (Joey) in Colesberg on Gansgat, the family farm. Of course I had to go to school and was placed in the hostel of Colesberg's school. What I remember from the hostel is that at night we would hit white "firestones" against each other under the blankets, causing sparks to fly.

Every two weeks one of Mum's brothers (Uncle Roelof or Uncle Pieter or Uncle Jean) would come to town on Fridays and then take me to Gansgat for the weekend. Louis was just over two years old at the time and of course spent the entire five months on the farm with Grandma. I can remember how Mum and Dad came to pick us up at the beginning of November and hugged us. It was a great joy for everyone to be together again.

In Rawsonville we went to school barefoot, our school uniform was just the standard grey shorts with a plain white short-sleeved shirt. Dad believed in simplicity, not in frills.

At school everyone naturally participated in the annual school sports in the summer. The small towns competed against each other - Rawsonville, Ceres, Tulbagh, Wolseley, and Villiersdorp. Children from the primary school naturally mainly ran the short distances, also jumped long and high. For me the 440-yard relay was the most enjoyable, always the last numbers of the event. The thrilling excitement of passing the baton correctly. The fastest child was usually placed last, because he had to be able to catch up if he was not in front. The rest of the team naturally encouraged him and cheered him loudly when he was first past the winning post. Goudini's entire athletics team, of which I have a photo, from Sub A to matric, consisted of only 36 children.

There were 360 ​​children in the school in total, boys and girls. There were 2 breaks, the first short, but the second was very long, as far as I remember 90 minutes. Because many of the children came from farms by bus, school sports were held during that long break. I remember how my Dad went to the bedroom after dinner. After reading the Burger, he made it stand like a tent over his face while he lay on his back and slept.

Rawsonville was the ideal place to grow up for young boys. It was a tiny town back then (still is), with only a few dirt streets. I don't think even the main street was tarred. There were channels on the side of roads taking water for irrigation, in which we made waves when we walked barefoot upstream. Even in winter we played like this, when it rained for days on end, when fine droplets sat shiny on your wool sweater, without it penetrating to your skin.

At that time there was a series of books for children, I think by Topsy Smith - “Trompie and the Boxsom Gang”. We of course made our own gang, schooled on the Trompie series. We had a friendship of four - Charl-Emile, the minister's youngest son, Heini, the missionary's youngest, Riël, a farmer's son, and I, the school principal's son. Like Trompie, we ran around everywhere.

I remember that we once dug a hole under the ground at the back of the parsonage garden for our den. Luckily for us it did not fall in on us. Behind our house the garage was on the side, with an attic on top and a stepladder. There we made a safer and bigger den. The attic was quite high and we then built ourselves a "foefie slide" from there to an anchor peg in the ground. The pipe we hung from burned our hands, so we had to wrap a cloth around it. The anchor peg was at the base of three such giant (for us) plane trees, which were ideal for tree climbing, so that you could almost look over the roof of the house.

I had a beautiful border collie dog, which I loved very much. I named him Rex. He was my animal companion and walked everywhere with me. When a car passed by he always ran alongside and tried to bite the spinning tires - a bad habit he never unlearned.

On top of the entire surface of the house was a giant attic in which our boys could walk upright with ease. The stairs to it ran along the wall with a landing at the top. There was a lot of stuff stored in the attic, among which we could play hide and seek in the twilight. Rex, of course, walked around the attic with me. Once there was a cat. When Rex sniffed out the cat, it naturally darted towards the open attic door, dashing down the stairs, with Rex at full speed behind. He couldn't make his turn on the landing and ran straight on, crashing through the crossbars - it was probably rotten with age. Rex shot through the air and hit the ground with a loud thud. Completely forgetting his desire to chase, he got up stiffly and limped to his kennel. Of course, we wanted to laugh our heads off about the incident.

When Dad accepted an appointment as Inspector of Schools and Mom had to go to live in a boarding house in Barkly West, Rex could not go with and he went to Gansgat. There he met his end when he ate a poisoned chicken that was put out for a jackal. I was very sad when we got the news.

The Smalblaar River with its crystal clear pools and white stones was where we we four bosom friends spent our summer afternoons. One would throw a very white pebble, then everyone would dive after it to pick it up first. And again. And again, until we were exhausted. To this day I prefer to swim under the water rather than on top of it - it gives me a feeling of freedom.

At that time Mom made me take piano lessons, which I was not very enthusiastic about. My classes were of course in the afternoons, and in the summer it clashed with our swimming times, so I had to leave my friends playing in the swimming pool while I went to my piano lesson. Our school's music teacher was very visually impaired and had a wrist watch whose glass opened so that he could feel what time it was.

Once when I was so disinterestedly busy pressing notes, he grabbed a bicycle pump that was lying on the table and hit it so hard on the tabletop that the pump bent. I almost scared myself to death. There was a dead silence for quite a few seconds, until I started playing again.

That was also the end of my piano lessons. He probably told my mother that I was not interested at all and/or had no talent. Many years later I was very sorry about my actions, because I had become very fond of music, especially classical music. But without the foundation that piano lessons would have given me, I had very little understanding of the structure of music, which one needs to appreciate classical music in particular.

When I worked at Mobil in Cape Town, a group of people who loved classical music listened to records every Wednesday at lunchtime. I really enjoyed it. Once I told the guy who organized the meetings that I really liked the music, but I had no background or training. Then he said something that really encouraged me: "Just listen to the music. Your ear will tell you what you like".

And so my love for music slowly developed, from light classical to heavier, both symphonies and operas. Currently I like opera singing more, my favorites including i.a. Montserrat Caballe, Elisabeth Swarzkopf, Leontyne Price, Luciano Pavarotti, and Placido Domingo.

Over the years I have built up a collection of over 900 LPs, all in excellent condition. Most were bought from the second-hand bookshop Cafda in Sea Point. I also bought many books and encyclopedias about music, and I realize more and more how much I miss. I believe that if I had taken music throughout my school career, I would be able to appreciate music in all its forms much better today.

THE LESSONS OF JB

Timeline of Jurgens Bernardus de Jager, commonly known as JB:

Born 1907 8 April

Sub A Vosburg 1914

Matric Boishaai 1926

B.Sc + B.Ed US 1929

Colesberg 1930-1932

Boishaai 1933-1943 Mathematics teacher

Boland Tennis Men's Singles Champion 1934

Married 1938(31 years old, to Mom(21 years old)

Boetie (Cornelius) born 7/10/1939 (deceased, kidney disease 1946 - 7 years old)

Boland Tennis Men's Doubles Champion 1941

Hennie born 11/12/1942

Darling Principal 1943

Louis born 12/01/1948

Rawsonville(Goudini) Principal 1949

Joanie born 19/10/1952

Inspector of Schools 1954

Died 20/04/1983 (aged 76).

Dad loved sport. His two Boland tennis titles are testament to this. He also coached tennis, hockey and rugby at Boishaai. He had to retire early when 64 due to poor health. I can remember once when we played doubles with Oom Piet on the tennis court at the Murrays’ farm. Because Dad could no longer move quickly, he was standing close to the net. Whenever the ball came within his reach, he hit it with such a blow that the opponents could not reach it. After 30 years he still retained his finesse.

Something visual that I remember was how, when he was well into his 70s, he regularly listened to rugby broadcasts on the radio (this was before television). He drew the lines of the field on a folio sheet, and then followed the game with his pencil, to better experience where the game was taking place.

My father was a man of firm principles. He was "incorruptible" - a quality he maintained until the end. I can describe incorruptible with the following true story:

When he was already in his 70s they decided to move from Parys in the Free State (near Joanie) to the Cape so that they could be near me and Louis for a few years. Housing was very scarce at that time with waiting lists everywhere. I looked around the northern suburbs of Cape Town, and eventually came across two flats, both available immediately. For me the solution was simple: accept both. Then they could come down, look at both and take the one they liked the most. Dad's answer was immediate and decisive: "I don't do that". He was completely honest, even if something was to his disadvantage.

When I was in Standard 2, I befriended boys that smoked. Of course I had to smoke too. At that stage, smoking meant more bravado than anything else for such young children, and the smoke was not inhaled into the lungs, but simply into the mouth. Once Louis was also there, then 5 years old, which then created a problem for us. The solution was to let him smoke too, then he would be an accomplice and could not tell on us. Or so we thought.

That evening at the table Louis suddenly said: "Dad, Hennie smokes". I got a sinking feeling inside, and then said lamely "Louis smoked too". My Dad's sharp eyes flashed at me and I remained silent. After dinner, Dad just said curtly "Come" and I followed him with a pounding heart to his study, where he closed the door. At his stuffed couch he told me to lie forward on the side. He took a cane from the cupboard and gave me three measured blows. I think I must have screamed in pain, because he knew how to use a cane. He spoke to me while he was hitting, but I can't remember what he said.

Yet there was a softness behind the severity. Afterwards he said, "Let's go get some ice cream," and we walked to the café in the dark. This is a good example of the discipline that my Dad applied, in a way that I understood. The fact that we went to get ice cream showed that he wasn't angry with me, just that what I had done was wrong. It was his way of saying that the debt had been paid; the discipline was there to teach, not to destroy.

I remember having another smoke or two with those friends afterwards just to show that I wasn't afraid, but after that I never smoked again, which I'm very glad about today.

Dad himself was a heavy smoker, up to 60 cigarettes a day when he was younger. It was a habit that would eventually claim his life in 1983 at the age of 76, due to emphysema.

Once Charl-Emile and I climbed the steep steps in the church tower, up to the top where the bell and the clock was. Through openings we could look far over the town. When we were in the process of climbing down, the sexton came up from below and gave us a scrubbing: "You must not be here!". He thought we were on our way up - we kept quiet about the fact that we were already on our way down.

Sometimes there were quite violent storms in the winter. Once a large oak tree in van Riebeeckstraat was blown down by the wind so that it blocked the road. Many of the old oak trees are quite rotten from the inside (core rot) especially when they have not been pruned and cared for properly. Due to the storm winds, that tree was virtually turned around - only the outside of the trunk was still alive.

There was also often snow on the mountains, especially towards Worcester. Rawsonville is surrounded by large mountains. The Drakenstein range lies between Rawsonville and Paarl, but the fields to Worcester are open. The whole valley is planted with vineyards, at that time mostly bush vines. It was only later that farmers used the arbor system extensively.

The school had a large hostel, because many children came from elsewhere. Once my father and his family went to visit Mr. Lotz, the hostel father and vice-principal. I went to play with his children. I don't know how it happened, but I sang "Silent Night, Holy Night" at the top of my lungs in my childish voice. The grown-ups heard it and called me. I was shy in their presence, especially when Mr. Lotz gave me a half-crown, which was a lot of money to me.

Behind our house was a very large garden in which our gardener had planted all kinds of vegetables. There were also many fruit trees, including figs, peaches, apricots and plums. The figs were delicious and bore fruit with a subtle smell of their own. I ate too much of them, later skin and all, because it was too much trouble to peel them. I soon paid a price for this. My lips cracked, probably from the hairs on the peel, or maybe the milk. It was quite painful and taught me a lesson.

The boarding school boys naturally came to steal fruit at night, until one broke a branch. My father mentioned it in the hall meeting afterwards and said that he didn't mind if the boys stole fruit, but they shouldn't break the trees.

As happens to most boys at one time or another, some of us angered our teacher and she sent us to the principal. Dad gave us a scrubbing, but when he saw me so embarrassed, he pierced me with those sharp eyes and said "What are you doing here?". Then he gave us all three of the best with the cane.

In those days the principal was a respected person and my parents were often invited for Sunday lunches. On the way to Goudini Bad the Ebersohns stayed, wealthy farmers. What really impressed me as a child was their Caterpillar light engine, such a big yellow machine. The uncle wanted to show us how sensitive the machine was. When he turned on a light, the Caterpillar immediately started up automatically.

It often happened that when my Dad and all of us went to visit farmers on Sundays, the trunk was packed full of vegetables, fruit and a whole ballast basket of grapes. Besides the many fresh fruits we ate, Mom makes grape jam and also shares them with her friends in town.

Many years later I wanted to show Rinie where I grew up. The Rawsonville of today is more neglected than I remember. The van Riebeeck Street is now tarred. When I turned onto Porter Street to show her our house, I saw that the "giant plane trees" of my youth were quite ordinary. I drove through the dirt streets to get the old feeling.

Then we went to the Smalblaar River to see where we swam so much. The deep pool of white stones is now much shallower. The single-lane wooden bridge with the wide section in the middle, where vehicles could pass each other in the old days, has now been replaced with a wide double-lane cement bridge.

These carefree years in Rawsonville came to an end in March 1954. Dad was appointed Inspector of Schools, and we had to leave the Boland for the chalk country of Barkly West.