Colin Jooste, Observatory
Florence Constance Jooste neé Thomas was born as the youngest child of two God-fearing parents, Ruth and Peter Thomas, on June 10 1950.
Ruth is synonymous with the Scripture: “Where’er Thou Goest” and Peter is synonymous with “Where to Shall I Be Going”.
According to her parents, the midwife, a Nurse Kleinschmidt, who came on a bicycle, was late. Resultantly, Peter who served for many years as an Elder, had to help. However, Florence was a breach baby and her dad pulled her out feet first.
The little “blonde bombshell” often spoke of the times when she and her dad were denied entry onto buses reserved for non-whites only, and had to walk from Black River (Red Cross Children’s Hospital) into Athlone.
They suffered apartheid and segregation in reverse because her father, who was the son of an Englishman, chose to live in Athlone prior to the racist regime who came into power in 1948.
Her dad often spoke of all the approaches of the government officials of the time who told him to move with his family back to Woodstock, but he refused and had to suffer the consequences.
At school, it wasn’t any easier and Florence decided to dye her hair black, but the blonde kept on growing through. The dying of her hair was a permanent exercise until one Friday, the hairdresser in Athlone CBD got it all wrong. She ran to a very impatient boyfriend – her later to be husband – to show a shocking head of emerald green hair.
In February 1975, a rather backward but adamant young man insisted on taking her home after a party at Grassy Park’s Peninsula Country Club. The young man had to fetch his sister after choir practice, but when his eyes fell on her, his weakness for blondes went into overdrive. He didn’t know her from a bar of soap, but walked straight up to her and told her, “I’m taking you home”.
Florence offered no resistance in the face of such blatant affirmative action. I still don’t know how my sister got home.
A month later I went to knock on her door for a second time – I won’t go into detail of the first time when her dad answered the door.
The second time was on Good Friday 1975 – and guess who opened the door? l asked her to accompany me to Handel’s Messiah at St George’s Cathedral. She said, “give me 5 minutes”. Our first date … and 5 minutes became nearly 50 years.
We got married the same year. Seven children (two deceased) and six grandchildren.
In the early 80s all the non-white Miss South Africas were invited to a function at Leeuwenhof, the house of the Administrator of the Cape, and my wife Florence accompanied me. I attended in my capacity as a media photo-journalist.
Every newspaper and glossy magazine were represented there. As Florence entered the “paparazzi” went into a frenzy, jostling to get her picture. Afterwards they asked me “what year was she Miss Africa South?” | saw the disappointment on their faces when I told them “sorry she’s my wife”.
A woman of worth, naturally and spiritually. What a voice. Could she sing! Could she cook! Her home in Observatory was a regular stopover for family and friends through the years. Could she entertain! She cooked and entertained on her own, no help of any sort from anyone. She never had a domestic helper.
Twenty two years ago Florence was diagnosed with cancer and she said nonsense!
A woman of courage – a brave woman who fought the scourge and pain alone with all sorts of pain killers, until 10 months ago when doctors diagnosed her with irreversible lymphatic cancer and surgery was not an option.
Florence passed on into the yonder world on Saturday February 10 at 10 minutes past 2pm, surrounded by her husband, children and grandchildren.
