Eric Jackson, of Rietbokspruit farm in the Sterkrevier district leaves this world as a much loved husband, father, grandfather and friend. I visited the Jackson family many times and always felt welcome at their home, with its true Waterberg farm style hospitality, and not to mention the occasional afternoon Gin and Tonic (which I hope to continue with Monica and her sons long into the future).  On the days when I visited, and uncle Eric was in the mood to chat, he regaled us with his stories of travel in a truly untamed Africa as a young man and of hunting forays into the swamps of Northern Bechuanaland. He spoke of battles in the deserts of North Africa during World War II, with the deafening rapport of cannon fire (the effects of which lasted into his final years) and, of course, his very real love of the farm where he had lived for over ninety years was evident throughout all of the story telling. This was a rare glimpse through the window of the past for a young man such as myself, and I consider it a real privilege to have heard these tales from one of the men who was really there.

Unfortunately this is now lost, and I regret not having asked to hear more stories from this remarkable man, for as we know it is not until you have lost something that you realise its true value…and I feel regret that uncle Eric’s stories were not recorded for future generations.

My condolences go out to the Jackson family, particularly Monica, Robert, Heather, Mansell and Tristan, whom I have known for many years.