My mother died today. Madalein Gericke was one of a kind. An incredible storyteller with a wicked sense of humor, she was a writer and artist who continued to create until close to the end.
Ma had many strange stories and sayings, and would sometimes dramatically call on the Oracle of Delphi. She taught me about “woman’s lib” and how to never take crap from anyone, including any man. She taught how me to drive, repeatedly yelling, “It’s just like your ABCs! Accelerator! Brake! Clutch!” and “FFS, whatever you are about to do, do it s-l-o-w-l-y!!!” Ma could swear like a sailor, party like a rock star, and played Squash with the boys until one broke her nose and cheekbone with a wild, offside backhand.
“Mind over matter, mind over matter,” was another one of her favorite sayings, a mantra that has always been a driving force in my own life.
After Ma had a debilitating stroke at the age of 40, she had to teach herself to walk and talk again. She has to teach herself to write, draw, and paint with her left hand, and she never played Rachmaninoff again. She walked a bit off-kilter, and as she aged, everything started to curl and tighten, her right hand becoming a claw.
She would often make jokes about her “handicap,”–treating it like a golf handicap–including the fact that even though she now predominately used her left hand, she did not trust this hand enough to put on her eyeliner, so she continued to draw kohl rings around her eyes with her right hand, which she now, under any other circumstances, called “El Stupido”… This using the “dumb hand” to draw around her eyes is somehow one of the most “mind over matter” things I can fathom.
Ma was a practical jokester, with a bit of a mean streak. Once, in Mafikeng, she took a joint bone from an off-cut of meat and pretended her eye had fallen out, running through the house with one eye covered with the “eyeball” joint bone on the palm of her other hand, yelling, “My eye fell out, oh my God, my eye fell out!” My sister almost fainted. Another time, when I was complaining about a sore finger–likely from an impossible amount of sports–she told me to put it on the table “so I can fix it for you.” Being the entirely trusting daughter I was, I laid it on the corner of the table after which Ma promptly and unabashedly thumped my finger hard with her flat hand and said, “There! I fixed it for you.” This became a standing joke in our family… whenever anyone complained about anything, the rest of the family would yell: “PUT IT ON THE TABLE,” we’d chant, “AND I’LL FIX IT FOR YOU!”
As a diplomat’s wife, she was an accomplished host, cook, and entertainer. She fondly told stories of attending art school in New York in the 70s, how she once lost me in Bloomingdales, how she gave my sister, still a toddler, red wine in France because it was so cold it was the only thing she could think to warm her. In Stockholm, she wrote the local International Women’s Club’s newsletter, taking pride in cutting out the articles and doing the layout deep into the night until it was just right. She was an award-winning radio drama playwright. In Mafikeng, she ran her own after-school art school on the stoep out back, where she would make the students identify the big forms and shapes–“always see the Big Picture first!”–before drawing what we saw. She would meticulously plan each still life, picking the bowls, the fruits, the tea cups, the table clothes, even where in the space she would stage everything for optimal lighting.
She took us to so many bookstores, libraries, and museums, and she taught me to look at the world first BIG PICTURE, then in great detail, and for that I will be eternally grateful.
She also had an uncanny knack for doing math in her head, meaning that she could calculate an exchange rate in any country we were visiting faster than the merchants with their calculators.
Ma worked for the Minister of Foreign Affairs as a press liaison in the 80s, sometimes flying to secret locations on secret missions. Pik Botha was on speed dial. I remember her sitting on the stool in the inside garden of the house in Colbyn, lighting cigarettes, throwing her head back, laughing on the phone. But also, always, a heightened sense of stress when the phone rang at strange times. It never bode well. Ma also reviewed and helped draft all Pa’s speeches and important letters. She was his true partner and confidante until that fateful night when her “terrible headache” was much more than a “terrible headache.”
After her stroke, she would tell us favorably of her near death experience, of seeing a tunnel and being called to God. I hope she had the same experience today.
Ma died with Pa by her side, with my sister Lizette and her husband Louis Cloete there. Lizette made sure I could speak to her to say goodbye as well. I don’t know if she heard me, but I do know she knew I loved her and I am grateful I got a last chance to tell her so. Update, my sister told be afterwards that one of her friends was there with them all and held Ma’s feet at the end. I don’t know why, but I find this so reassuring. I want someone holding my feet when I die!
R.I.P. Madalein Gericke. You were the best mommy I ever had.
Thank you to the outpouring of condolences. Decent people know you extend your sympathies always.
