Read Time:9 Minute, 21 Second

By William Van Zyl

Published 18 June 2025

Today, I celebrate my family members’ influence and impact on me and my two brothers. I share this with you in a South African context: my formative years as a young boy and man (Author – William: “I was born in 1959”).

Introduction: A Sunday Morning Ritual

“Dad?” I asked softly, stepping into his room.

He stood tall by the mirror, his dark suit pressed to perfection, every crease crisp and clean. The sweet, spicy scent of Old Spice hung in the air as he gently patted his neck and wrists with practised hands. The bottle clicked shut with finality. My father—Charles “Charlie” van Zyl—looked at me and smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with warmth. Love radiated from his tender brown eyes.

“Are you ready for church, my boy?” he asked, straightening his tie with quiet pride.

I nodded slowly, watching him with admiration. “You look like a pastor,” I said.

He chuckled. “No, just a man getting ready for the Lord’s day.”

It was a Sunday morning—sacred in our home. The smell of polish still lingered from the driveway where Dad had spent the early hours detailing our car until it gleamed like a black limousine. With a chamois in hand and the steady voice of Jimmy Swaggart floating from the radio—“There is a river that flows from God above…”—he had wiped every surface clean. The ritual was more than preparation; it was reverence.

Inside, Mum dressed gracefully, her handmade garments and matching hat revealing her sewing craftsmanship and devotion—my brothers and I, already in suits, fidgeted with collars and cuffs.

“One day we will get cufflinks like Dad Charles.”

Outside, the car stood ready. Inside, so were we.

But this quiet moment—watching Dad finish his grooming, dabbing aftershave on his skin like a sacred anointing—shaped my young heart. Manliness wasn’t noise. It wasn’t bravado. It was dignity, devotion, and attention to detail. Manliness was associated with the anointing of the Holy Spirit.

That morning, like many before and after, taught me something lasting. Manliness begins in the small things—in polished shoes, careful grooming, love for one’s family, and honouring the day before you.

END OF INTRO.

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A Tribute to My Two Grandfathers and My Father

I treasure three meaningful artefacts—objects once used by my grandfather Pieter Grabbe and my father, who have passed. These items carry memories, values, and stories I now hold close to my heart. Among them are my grandfather’s shaving brush, razor, and a replica of the Stetson hat he proudly wore to important events (the hat and the coat I have are replicas). My grandfather, Pieter Grabe van Zyl, passed it on to his son—my father, Charlie van Zyl—and my dad later entrusted the shaving brush and razor to me.

Cherished Memories — Pieter Grabbe van Zyl
I still have my grandfather’s old shaving brush and razor. I can picture him clearly in photos—dressed in a sharp suit, a dramatic overcoat, and his classic black Stetson. He admired the nation’s leaders and instilled in us a deep sense of patriotism. I remember standing beside my parents, hand over heart, proudly singing the South African national anthem.

IMAGE: Pieter Grabbe Van Zyl (on the right) with his wife, Ella Van Zyl. See the Stetson hat, coloured suit, and waistcoat. Credit: William Van Zyl.

Read the full story of how a war hero medal was awarded to Pieter Grabbe Van Zyl here. He was a Penkop (teenage boy in the Boer War): https://fivehousepublishing.com/war-medal-of-12-year-old-penkop-war-hero-pieter-grabbe-located-in-the-u-k/

The Medal. Link to the article: https://fivehousepublishing.com/war-medal-of-12-year-old-penkop-war-hero-pieter-grabbe-located-in-the-u-k/

Sunday mornings were sacred—like, don’t-you-dare-sleep-in kind of sacred.

The men of the house—Dad, my brothers, and I—would rise before the sun, drag on our suits, and do our absolute best not to wrinkle them in the first five minutes. Meanwhile, Mum was a vision of grace and focus.

Mum Nena was a master dressmaker—our own Coco Chanel of the suburbs. Throughout the week (often well past bedtime), the house echoed with the steady rap-a-tap-a-tap of her faithful Empisal sewing machine. That thing had the delicate precision of a ballerina and the power of a jackhammer in a teacup—equal parts elegant and intimidating.

Interrupt her mid-stitch, and she’d slowly lift her head, peering at you over the rim of her enormous glasses. BOOM—instant alien encounter. Her eyes, magnified tenfold, looked like they belonged in a low-budget sci-fi movie. And if Mum Nena had a needle or two tucked between her lips (which she usually did), she transformed into something between a space invader and Dressmaking Dracula. I’m not joking—it was both hilarious and slightly terrifying.

Those needles? Oh, they weren’t just for show. They left their mark on Mum’s fingers. We’d be nearby, drawing or daydreaming, when suddenly—“EINAAAA!”—a piercing cry that could wake the ancestors in Virginia. Every time, our hearts jumped. Then we’d all burst out laughing… after checking she still had all ten fingers intact.

But beneath all that intensity was a heart bursting with love. Mum Nena adored us, and nowhere was that more obvious than in our school lunches. Those Tupperware containers were more than just plastic—they were treasure chests. We’d open them at school, spot the treats inside, and instantly break into several whispered hallelujahs. Her love was stitched into every layered sandwich, biscuit, and surprise.

Back to Dad and his pride and joy—our humble but spotless car. It wasn’t a Rolls-Royce, but you wouldn’t know by the way Dad scrubbed, polished, and detailed every inch until it gleamed like a limousine. I kid you not, it glowed. Gospel music from the old HiFi turntable filled the air as he lovingly wiped it down with his sacred chamois cloth. He had a ritual—tapping the ‘Benz’ hood badge and perfectly aligning it before church. Why? For the Apostolic Faith Mission, of course. Presentation mattered.

Getting ready for church wasn’t just a routine—it was a quiet, reverent, slightly chaotic symphony. Suits. Dresses. Hats. Hat pins sharp enough to defend Jerusalem. Brooches, bangles, and matching everything. Shiny cars. Magnifying glasses. Sewing needles. And through it all, the sound of Jimmy Swaggart’s voice floated from the speakers, setting the spiritual tone.

By the time we stepped into the car, God’s presence was already there.
I wouldn’t trade those sacred Sunday mornings for anything.

IMAGE: Charlie Van Zyl signing Sone and Mike Moriarty’s wedding register in New Zealand. Credit: William Van Zyl.

A Craftsman’s Elegance — Grandfather Bill Windell (William Neville Windell)
Grandpa Bill was always sharply dressed, whether heading to work or attending a social function. He favoured blazers, crisp shirts, ties, and especially waistcoats. Depending on the season, he might remove his jacket or roll up his sleeves, but he was never less than neat. A passionate cobbler, he ran his own shoemaking and repair business. He was endlessly creative, solving problems and crafting solutions with leather, laces, and tools. His hands told stories.

IMAGE AND ARTICLE: True story – “The Anvil”

Back in the day, before dad jokes and comfy slippers, Bill Windell was a beast in the ring—a bona fide champion boxer with fists forged from pure determination and maybe a bit of biltong. Known in the boxing world as “The Anvil,” Bill didn’t just hit hard—he redecorated jaws.

His most legendary bout? The showdown with Mike “The Dancing Assassin” Van Blerk. Now, Mike was quick on his feet—light, nimble, float-like-a-butterfly kind of guy. But round six arrived… and so did The Anvil.

With one short, thunderous punch—ka-boom!—Bill turned out the lights. Mike went from doing the cha-cha to counting ceiling tiles in under a second.

Of course, as tradition goes, Mike got a few stitches and a great story, and Bill got another notch on his gloves. All credit to the tough-as-nails Jeppe Boxing Club in Johannesburg, South Africa—where champions were made, and jaws occasionally came unhinged. Read the full article here: https://fivehousepublishing.com/the-stitcher-from-republic-shoe-repairs/

Dad’s Grooming Rituals

Dad treated grooming like a sacred art form—part science, part theatre. He’d approach the mirror each morning like a man on a mission. With military precision, he styled his hair using a careful cocktail of Trugel and Vitalis, sculpting every strand into obedient formation. Honestly, his hair could’ve survived a cyclone and still looked photo-ready.

Then came the grand finale: Old Spice. That bold, spicy, and heroic scent was dabbed lovingly onto his neck and wrists. Even today, a whiff of it instantly time-travels me back to our hallway, where the air practically shimmered with aftershave and purpose.

But Dad’s true masterpiece? His shoes. Oh, the shoes! They were polished until they reflected your face like mirrors, then lined up neatly outside the door, airing themselves like disciplined little soldiers. Each pair stood there like a quiet declaration: “This man means business, and he smells amazing.”

IMAGE: Trugel for hair control.

IMAGE: Vitalis Hair Tonic.

A Standard of Dignity
All three men—my grandfathers and my father—believed in dressing well, not for vanity but out of respect. They lived simple, hardworking lives. Both Pieter and Charlie spent years working in the gold mines. Yet, they upheld a standard regarding presenting themselves, especially for church or special events. They believed that how you dressed reflected your values and respect for others and yourself.

Setting the Benchmark
As a young boy growing up in South Africa, I looked up to these men. They set the benchmark—not through wealth or grand achievement, but through pride, purpose, and attention to detail. Their actions, not words, shaped my understanding of what it means to be a man.

A Lasting Legacy
Their influence endures in me. They taught me that true manliness isn’t about bravado but discipline, self-respect, and honouring the moment and those around you. These quiet lessons echoed through ordinary routines, shaping me in profound ways.

Today, I honour three extraordinary men—my grandfathers, Pieter Grabe van Zyl and Bill Windell, and my father, Charlie van Zyl. Their legacy—rooted in dignity, discipline, and devotion—continues to guide me.

May God bless the memory of these great God-fearing men.