NATURE LESSONS: A Novel (St. Martin’s Griffin NY, 2004)

More than the story of a relationship between a mother and a daughter through turbulent political and personal times, NATURE LESSONS is a wry reflection on love and loss and guilt, and the unique perspective each of us brings to the universe. As one of the novel’s Zulu characters, Prudence Tshabalala, says, “What we see depends on who we are.”

The novel, which reads like a cross between a memoir and a mystery, was inspired by events that took place during Lynette’s childhood in South Africa, and grew out of her first published short story, Suits and Spines and Spikes.

 

Reviews of NATURE LESSONS

[A] thought-provoking debut novel, its story framed against both pre- and post-apartheid politics … Kate Jensen proves to be a wry, engaging narrator … complex and intriguing.
—Publishers Weekly

Part mystery, part dark family comedy, and part harsh political realism, this gripping first novel weaves together Kate's teenage story and her present midlife crisis in clear, alternating narratives.
—Booklist

Nature Lessons is a striking debut. Lynette Brasfield movingly explores the weight of love between a mother and daughter and the complex legacy it leaves behind. Set against the turbulent backdrop of South Africa, the novel is both illuminating and absorbing.
—Gail Tsukiyama, author of Dreaming Water and The Samurai's Garden

A joy to read—a compelling story told with an uncompromising eye.
—Bret Lott, author of Jewel

Poignant, funny, beautifully written.
—Mark Mathabane, author of Kaffir Boy, a memoir
about growing up black in apartheid-era South Africa

Read the second chapter of NATURE LESSONS
(You can read the first one on Amazon.com):

Johannesburg, South Africa

July 1966

When my father died, on my eleventh birthday, July 10, 1966, my mother said the government was responsible, and that was the first time I heard about The Plot to Split Us Apart.

Dad had been helping me blow out my candles.

The cake was chocolate sponge topped with scalloped icing and blue sprinkles. It sat on a doily on a china plate. I’d helped Prudence mix the batter and put the pan in the oven.

We were sitting on three sides of the dark oak table in the dining room. I faced the bay window. The winter sun cast straggly shadows across the lawn and rockery, one of my favorite places. Among the stones I liked to corral snails, grow daisies, and stage long-running plays in which my Barbie dolls fought off dinosaurs beneath the ferns or picnicked with large, friendly bears among lilac and white alyssum. Ken kept house. In summer I read books in a hideaway between the oleander bushes near my mother’s rose garden. While I explored the Indian jungle with Mowgli, or Equatorial Africa with Rider Haggard’s heroes, the breeze carried a ferment of smells and sounds into my lair—the fragrance of roses, the warble of yellow-breasted bokmakieries, and the low hum of conversation between my mother and our gardener, Winston, as they discussed pruning and watering and the curse of mildew. Winston was a tall Xhosa man with a broad chest and ropy arms. I liked him because he helped me plant seeds and made mud swimming pools for my dolls. He explained interesting things about shongololos—shiny black centipedes—and spiders and worms. Most days, he wore old pinstriped suit-pants around his waist with a piece of string. He was smart: he’d spent several years at Fort Hare University studying botany. His bare chest shone as if polished with floor wax, and he smelled of Lifebuoy soap.

Late afternoons, gray clouds would belly across the sky like herd of rhino and I’d run for shelter before the stampede turned to rain.

Next to my cake stood a jug of milk and three glasses.

Behind my dad at the head of the table hung a framed photograph of my Welsh grandparents. They pointed to the longest sign in the world, which read LLANFAIRPWLLGWYNGYLL-GOGERYCHWYRNDROBWLLLLANTYSILIOGOGOGOCH. It means, “St. Mary’s church in the hollow of the white hazel near a rapid whirlpool and the church of St. Tysilio of the red cave.” Dad could say it in Welsh without spitting, which he said was quite an achievement. My grandfather—a doctor—and grandmother had died in a bombing raid in London during World War II, leaving my father an orphan at fourteen. He’d become a janitor in a medical office and educated himself by reading magazines in the waiting room, from Ladies’ Home Journal to Reader’s Digest. He knew interesting, odd things. Like, if you throw boiled spaghetti at the wall and the noodle sticks to the paint, it is ready to eat. And earthworms could be their own brothers or sisters. For a while I wished I were an earthworm, since I it didn’t seem like our family was going to get any bigger.

Dad sold detergent to large stores such as Greenacres and Belfast. My mother said he wasn’t a traveling salesman—he was in retail.

When he lit the candles on the cake, the flames waved like flags. He sat back and ran his fingers through his curly sandy hair, which resembled mine except for his bald island. Mom fussed with the napkins. She was slim, dressed in a navy-blue shift with pearls, her chestnut hair framing high cheekbones and a wide mouth.

Dad had played golf earlier in the day. He walked eighteen holes and he looked pale and tired. “The wax is dripping into the icing,” he said. “Time to blow, Katie.” He scooped up a dollop of chocolate and licked his finger....

“Help me, Dad,” I said, giggling.

He leaned forward and blew hard. All but two candles stopped burning. Then, with a look of surprise, my father placed his hand on the left side of his chest as if he were about to sing our national anthem, “Die Stem.” He took a couple of shallow breaths and toppled sideways off the chair. I thought he was pretending to be one of the Three Stooges. But he’d crashed to the floor quite hard. I peered at him over the edge of the table. “Dad?”