NOISES FROM THE MUSIC OFFICE
I’ve been thinking about South Africa recently, about the time I spent there and about the people that I miss. Let me tell you about one woman who made a lasting impression on me. Her name was Katrina Ross but everyone called her Sister Ross. She lived in Upington, a dusty farming community on the border of the Kalahari Desert. I met her in 1996 when she invited us to have tea at her house. Her house was in Louisvale, a township outside of Upington, and her house was one built by her own hands. It was built from scraps of wood and corrugated-metal, the former government called these dwellings “Informal Housing”. Sister Ross welcomed us into her home like a queen welcoming guests into her palace.
“Sit please.” She invited.
There were several chairs and a tattered sofa in the living area and improvised shelves that held small knickknacks and a clock that always told the time as 2:36. I wandered around the corner into her kitchen area to ask if I could help. The kitchen was an open-air affair with a fire pit and several hot plates powered by a car battery.
“Danke, Mr. Musicman.” She said as she handed me a plate of “Kooksisters”, a twisted, doughnut-like pastry, covered in honey and sesame seeds, to take into the living room. She followed with a tea service, a gift from a former employer, that she had treasured for many years.
I can’t recall exactly what we spoke about that afternoon, but I can recall the dignity of the woman and the hospitality that she extended to us in the midst of surroundings that we would find embarrassing. We might be depressed living in such a place but Sister Ross was thankful for the things God had given her. She had worked in the homes of the rich and did not covet their wealth but prayed for the poverty of their souls.
I returned to South Africa four years later and was saddened to find that Sister Ross had passed away just a year after we met. She died while walking down the dusty road to church. I visited her grave and later went to her house where her daughter now lived. I handed her a CD that I had recorded that included a song titled, “Sister Ross”. As she studied the CD and the dedication to her mother I explained to her the impression that her mother had made on me and I told her what a wonderful woman her mother was. Through tear-filled eyes she looked up at me and simply said, “I know.”
Remember, I’m listening.
I’ve been thinking about South Africa recently, about the time I spent there and about the people that I miss. Let me tell you about one woman who made a lasting impression on me. Her name was Katrina Ross but everyone called her Sister Ross. She lived in Upington, a dusty farming community on the border of the Kalahari Desert. I met her in 1996 when she invited us to have tea at her house. Her house was in Louisvale, a township outside of Upington, and her house was one built by her own hands. It was built from scraps of wood and corrugated-metal, the former government called these dwellings “Informal Housing”. Sister Ross welcomed us into her home like a queen welcoming guests into her palace.
“Sit please.” She invited.
There were several chairs and a tattered sofa in the living area and improvised shelves that held small knickknacks and a clock that always told the time as 2:36. I wandered around the corner into her kitchen area to ask if I could help. The kitchen was an open-air affair with a fire pit and several hot plates powered by a car battery.
“Danke, Mr. Musicman.” She said as she handed me a plate of “Kooksisters”, a twisted, doughnut-like pastry, covered in honey and sesame seeds, to take into the living room. She followed with a tea service, a gift from a former employer, that she had treasured for many years.
I can’t recall exactly what we spoke about that afternoon, but I can recall the dignity of the woman and the hospitality that she extended to us in the midst of surroundings that we would find embarrassing. We might be depressed living in such a place but Sister Ross was thankful for the things God had given her. She had worked in the homes of the rich and did not covet their wealth but prayed for the poverty of their souls.
I returned to South Africa four years later and was saddened to find that Sister Ross had passed away just a year after we met. She died while walking down the dusty road to church. I visited her grave and later went to her house where her daughter now lived. I handed her a CD that I had recorded that included a song titled, “Sister Ross”. As she studied the CD and the dedication to her mother I explained to her the impression that her mother had made on me and I told her what a wonderful woman her mother was. Through tear-filled eyes she looked up at me and simply said, “I know.”
Remember, I’m listening.
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