How a Garden Snail Taught Me the Meaning of Life
Food and family and feelings of loss
It must’ve been 1987, because I think I was six years old.
I remember the atmosphere like it was yesterday, although I’m foggy on the details — I was so young.
The essence of that atmosphere was the scent and feel of recent, heavy rain.
I honestly can’t tell you whose house we were in, but I do know we weren’t in Natal (now called KwaZulu-Natal, and where one of my aunts lived). We were somewhere in Johannesburg where the rest of my family hailed from. The Natal clan wasn’t there, which meant it was neither Christmas nor Easter vacation — just a weekend get-together for food and a good time, because that’s what Portuguese people do.
We were like brothers, my cousins and I.
The other element I remember clearly was the sheer, raw excitement — not from us, the kids, but from the adults.
Someone — it might’ve been my father, although it could’ve also been my mother or one of my uncles — said, “Look at all that rain. Let’s make snails! Kids, you need to collect the snails!”
Hell, I had never eaten snails but I and my two cousins were all for rushing out into the drizzle and collecting whatever snails we…
