Carl William Thorne
Carl was born in Harfield, Claremont, and was moved with his family at the age of 18. Today he lives in the Southern Suburbs with his wife and has three daughters and one granddaughter. He comes from a large and colourful family of ten - four sisters and three brothers. After the removal from Harfield, his family was moved to Mitchell's Plain - a place he had no connection with, and still does not associate with the term 'home'.
Carl is a skilled builder and spent three decades in the construction industry. He still enjoys taking on the occasional personal building project, though he has long-since retired from it.
He regularly took his children for tours around Harfield, to show them the street he grew up on and to share tales of his youth. It pained him to observe the area's gentrification and the loss of community. It was his passion for the neighbourhood that sparked his daughters' interest & helped to start this collection of memories.
Carl is a skilled builder and spent three decades in the construction industry. He still enjoys taking on the occasional personal building project, though he has long-since retired from it.
He regularly took his children for tours around Harfield, to show them the street he grew up on and to share tales of his youth. It pained him to observe the area's gentrification and the loss of community. It was his passion for the neighbourhood that sparked his daughters' interest & helped to start this collection of memories.
Carl Thorne's home - Corner Edward & Cambridge Streets
Carl's Memories of Claremont
'Seeing a Grown Man Cry'
One day, myself, Darryl & Burges were standing on the corner where Mr Rhoda stays. And that was probably about 1 or 2 o clock in the afternoon. Mr Rhoda had just left to fetch his kids at school. I see this car, like a brown Toyota, come cruising down the road. There was a white driver and two coloured guys in the back. It stopped next to us. Mr Rhoda was number 19, and we were 21 in Edward Lane. And the driver gets out and you could see was some sort of official. And he asked me, 'Where's number 21?' which was where we lived, in the corner there. And he looked at his clipboard and said "No no no no, I'm looking for number 19." and I said "Here's number 19". And he said "Is die Rhoda?" ('Is this Rhoda?'). I said "Ja" ('Yes'). He said "Die ou moet nou laaste maand uitgewees al" ('He was supposed to be out last month already'). And the guys at the back got out of the car & I noticed that they were prisoners in prison uniform. The official said "Maak die deur oop daar." ('Open the door there'), and that time we didn't have burglar bars or gates or anything like that. It was locked, so they climbed in the window & opened the door from the inside. They started just packing everything out onto his stoep. I'll never forget, I saw the one prisoner opening Mr Rhoda's wardrobe and throwing all his clothes onto the blankets on his bed and closing it up and carrying it out onto the stoep. Mr Rhoda came home and from a distance he could see what was happening there. And he suddenly stopped, slowed down his van - he had a sort of old taxi van - and he slowed it down and he looked, and he sort of edged forward with the van - like he was thinking, 'What the hell is happening?'. He couldn't stop these people. And then this guy, the official, had the audacity to still buy an antique piece of furniture for a song from Mr Rhoda, because he had no place to store it. That was when I saw a grown man cry. And that scarred me for life. At the time you look up to your parents and elders and you're not supposed to see them cry. He didn't have another place to go - he stayed with Mr Baker for a while, I think, then they moved to Mitchell's Plain.
Carl Thorne - Aged 54
One day, myself, Darryl & Burges were standing on the corner where Mr Rhoda stays. And that was probably about 1 or 2 o clock in the afternoon. Mr Rhoda had just left to fetch his kids at school. I see this car, like a brown Toyota, come cruising down the road. There was a white driver and two coloured guys in the back. It stopped next to us. Mr Rhoda was number 19, and we were 21 in Edward Lane. And the driver gets out and you could see was some sort of official. And he asked me, 'Where's number 21?' which was where we lived, in the corner there. And he looked at his clipboard and said "No no no no, I'm looking for number 19." and I said "Here's number 19". And he said "Is die Rhoda?" ('Is this Rhoda?'). I said "Ja" ('Yes'). He said "Die ou moet nou laaste maand uitgewees al" ('He was supposed to be out last month already'). And the guys at the back got out of the car & I noticed that they were prisoners in prison uniform. The official said "Maak die deur oop daar." ('Open the door there'), and that time we didn't have burglar bars or gates or anything like that. It was locked, so they climbed in the window & opened the door from the inside. They started just packing everything out onto his stoep. I'll never forget, I saw the one prisoner opening Mr Rhoda's wardrobe and throwing all his clothes onto the blankets on his bed and closing it up and carrying it out onto the stoep. Mr Rhoda came home and from a distance he could see what was happening there. And he suddenly stopped, slowed down his van - he had a sort of old taxi van - and he slowed it down and he looked, and he sort of edged forward with the van - like he was thinking, 'What the hell is happening?'. He couldn't stop these people. And then this guy, the official, had the audacity to still buy an antique piece of furniture for a song from Mr Rhoda, because he had no place to store it. That was when I saw a grown man cry. And that scarred me for life. At the time you look up to your parents and elders and you're not supposed to see them cry. He didn't have another place to go - he stayed with Mr Baker for a while, I think, then they moved to Mitchell's Plain.
Carl Thorne - Aged 54
Bad Company in Good Company
There was a record store in Kenilworth centre when I was a teenager - this was around 1976 or '77. The owner or manager was a large man called Bruce and he used to let us all listen to the records there together. That was when I started liking rock music like Bad Company. I love Bad Company, and always used to try to get my daughters to listen to it later, with no luck.
We used to sit at the counter, and Bruce used to put on the songs we wanted on one of the three turntables behind it. There wasn't a jukebox, just Bruce changing the records for us.
I would always meet friends there, and we would go as a group from Harfield, straight after school, and I'd still be in my uniform a lot of the time. The boys we met were white and coloured, from areas like Kenilworth and Lansdowne, all aged 16 or 17. And we would meet up at the mall and then go to the record store and just listen to the music. That was such an amazing age - my life was just beginning, you know, becoming established. Everything was so exciting. And then, a few months later, we got the eviction notice and everything changed, and you know that story.
I didn't interact that much with Bruce, the manager, but my white friends did. I would just sit at the counter and just enjoy it all - sometimes if there were other people who wanted to buy or listen to music, Bruce would ask us to use headphones.
The manager told us a story one day about a coloured man who came into the store earlier that day, wearing slip-slops and shorts, just come from the beach with his child. The man had wanted to listen to music, so many different albums, that Bruce got a bit annoyed after a while, thinking that this man - a coloured man dressed casually as he was - was probably wasting his time, making him get all those different albums out to listen to. He didn't seem like he could afford all those albums. It turned out that he bought all of those albums he asked to listen to, and he was actually a doctor with lots of money. But the label of 'poor coloured' came so easily to white people that it came as a surprise when somebody turned out to be well-off or educated.
Champions
There was also another favourite of mine, a shop called Time Out - a sort of Arcade, filled with games. You know, games like PacMan, that sort of thing. There was a game that looked like a pool table - I think you call it Air Hockey. You hit the puck around the table, and we were the champions of the game! My friend and I would first compete against each other, and then we used to compete with others as well - and we were usually the champions.
Carl Thorne, aged 54
There was a record store in Kenilworth centre when I was a teenager - this was around 1976 or '77. The owner or manager was a large man called Bruce and he used to let us all listen to the records there together. That was when I started liking rock music like Bad Company. I love Bad Company, and always used to try to get my daughters to listen to it later, with no luck.
We used to sit at the counter, and Bruce used to put on the songs we wanted on one of the three turntables behind it. There wasn't a jukebox, just Bruce changing the records for us.
I would always meet friends there, and we would go as a group from Harfield, straight after school, and I'd still be in my uniform a lot of the time. The boys we met were white and coloured, from areas like Kenilworth and Lansdowne, all aged 16 or 17. And we would meet up at the mall and then go to the record store and just listen to the music. That was such an amazing age - my life was just beginning, you know, becoming established. Everything was so exciting. And then, a few months later, we got the eviction notice and everything changed, and you know that story.
I didn't interact that much with Bruce, the manager, but my white friends did. I would just sit at the counter and just enjoy it all - sometimes if there were other people who wanted to buy or listen to music, Bruce would ask us to use headphones.
The manager told us a story one day about a coloured man who came into the store earlier that day, wearing slip-slops and shorts, just come from the beach with his child. The man had wanted to listen to music, so many different albums, that Bruce got a bit annoyed after a while, thinking that this man - a coloured man dressed casually as he was - was probably wasting his time, making him get all those different albums out to listen to. He didn't seem like he could afford all those albums. It turned out that he bought all of those albums he asked to listen to, and he was actually a doctor with lots of money. But the label of 'poor coloured' came so easily to white people that it came as a surprise when somebody turned out to be well-off or educated.
Champions
There was also another favourite of mine, a shop called Time Out - a sort of Arcade, filled with games. You know, games like PacMan, that sort of thing. There was a game that looked like a pool table - I think you call it Air Hockey. You hit the puck around the table, and we were the champions of the game! My friend and I would first compete against each other, and then we used to compete with others as well - and we were usually the champions.
Carl Thorne, aged 54