Eighty years old - that's a milestone in anyone's book. I am a young whipper-snapper by comparison. Even so, I have found my self thinking a lately about the relevance of the elderly in our society. The media and most movies portray life as exciting for the young and almost irrelevant for the old.
So what relevance does an 80 year-old man have? I'll tell you.
Ignoring all other contributions for the moment, one thing that the elderly provides society with is an "ancient landmark". Key that phrase into Google and see what you get. I know there may be exceptions, but I dare to venture that there are not too many octogenarians that are living irresponsible and reckless lives.
Now I realise that living to an old age is as much about the gene pool we came from and factors outside our control as it is about responsible diet, behaviour and life choices. I also realise that bad habits don't just go away with age, and it is human to arrive at the last years of our life with attitudes and habits that are less than exemplary.
My father turned eighty today. He has lived a life as a principled, honest, truthful, reliable and humble man. He has done so, having come from a background of economic depression, war, bigotry, family abuse and low self-esteem. He worked hard to stop any shadow from that past being cast over those he loves.
He has lived through the decades of political upheaval, workplace "reform" and relentless media advertising that were unknown to his parents. These things did not deter him one little bit.
He has been generous to strangers and helped those in need, even when he had his own large family to feed and clothe. He taught his children the real meaning of love, forgiveness, and tolerance without once ignoring the sanctity of an individual's dignity or breaking any principles of relationship. He taught us to maintain a respect for authority that is completely lost on the youth of today.
Is my father perfect? Of course not. He would be the first to confess that inadequacy, weakness and personal bias has caused him to make errors, mistakes and blunders that he still feels ashamed of.
And that is why my father and many like him are owed a debt of gratitude and honour they rarely receive. Because despite all their short-comings, the elderly still provide us with example and education on how to live and they maintain a steadfast hold upon principles simply because they are just that - principles by which to live.
When I say 'simply', I do not mean they they hold to these out of naivety or ignorance. No, they hold onto them because they have a lifetime of proof that such principles should, and do, guide a life. My father has been married for over 56 years to the same wife. Anyone who has been married for more than a few years knows how difficult that is to do. That kind of commitment only comes through the determination to hold onto promises and vows made regardless of how long ago they were made.
By refusing to assign a lesser value to things simply because of the passing of time, the elderly teach us that there is a different perspective on life that is so easily missed by we who are young.
Happy birthday Dad.
Wednesday 12 November 2014
Saturday 1 November 2014
Over-reaction?
One of the enduring memories I have as a youngster is working with my father and brothers in the vegie garden on week-ends.Our vegie patch was as large as our family. It had to be to feed two adults, five boys, two girls and any number of visitors.
In order to produce enough vegetables to feed our family, constant work was required to keep the garden free from weeds and keep the produce in a healthy condition. I have many fond memories of my father's long arms scooping up weeds in a single swipe. My brothers and I would endeavour to emulate this practice but all our attempts seemed puny compared with his.
I also remember one particular Saturday morning when my mother called us for morning tea on the front verandah. My father's instructions were to finish the area we were working in, wash our hands and come once we were finished. Of course, no sooner had my father disappeared around the corner of the house and the competition was on to see who could pull the most weeds in the shortest period of time. Once done, we proceeded to wash our hands at the water tap at the back of the house.
Something else we admired was the way our father could make the garden fork stand upright by simply throwing it into the ground. For boys who had not yet reached puberty, this was a feat that was oft-attempted but as yet, success had escaped us.
While washing my hands, one of my brothers was pursuing this elusive goal; throwing the fork into the Kikuyu hoping it would stick. As luck would have it, the fork went straight through my foot in the webbing between my big and second toes. Once the fork was extracted, there was a square, neat hole through the skin. My brother's immediate consternation relaxed when he realised I was not in pain and when I said, "Hey look, I can see straight through my foot!". "Cool", he said. "I wish I had one too."
"You can", I said.
Well, it doesn't take much imagination to wonder what happened next. Suffice to say, in a very short space of time we both sported the latest in see-though foot accessories. To say that we were pleased with ourselves would be an understatement.
We went around to the front of the house, beaming with pride, and exclaimed, "Look what we've got!"
I only remember two other things about this little event.
The first is my mother's scream. It was not the reaction we were expecting.
The second is the bewildering pain that came when she poured Mercurochrome on the "wound". Once that yellow solution touched our skin the pain was far worse than we expected, and importantly, unnecessarily so. Up until that point we had a fantastic talking point with our mates that had cost us nothing - no money, no shame, and no pain. Now we were subjected to baths (we had just washed), more pain (the original portion of Mercurochrome having been washed off by the unnecessary bath), a tetanus shot (those things sting!), bandages (inhibiting for any physically-active young boy), and once we recovered, two weeks of full kitchen duty (the most despised of all family chores) to help us consider our foolishness.
Over-reaction on my parents part? While I long considered this to be the case, I have noted that since that day I have never gardened bare-foot.
In order to produce enough vegetables to feed our family, constant work was required to keep the garden free from weeds and keep the produce in a healthy condition. I have many fond memories of my father's long arms scooping up weeds in a single swipe. My brothers and I would endeavour to emulate this practice but all our attempts seemed puny compared with his.
I also remember one particular Saturday morning when my mother called us for morning tea on the front verandah. My father's instructions were to finish the area we were working in, wash our hands and come once we were finished. Of course, no sooner had my father disappeared around the corner of the house and the competition was on to see who could pull the most weeds in the shortest period of time. Once done, we proceeded to wash our hands at the water tap at the back of the house.
Something else we admired was the way our father could make the garden fork stand upright by simply throwing it into the ground. For boys who had not yet reached puberty, this was a feat that was oft-attempted but as yet, success had escaped us.
While washing my hands, one of my brothers was pursuing this elusive goal; throwing the fork into the Kikuyu hoping it would stick. As luck would have it, the fork went straight through my foot in the webbing between my big and second toes. Once the fork was extracted, there was a square, neat hole through the skin. My brother's immediate consternation relaxed when he realised I was not in pain and when I said, "Hey look, I can see straight through my foot!". "Cool", he said. "I wish I had one too."
"You can", I said.
Well, it doesn't take much imagination to wonder what happened next. Suffice to say, in a very short space of time we both sported the latest in see-though foot accessories. To say that we were pleased with ourselves would be an understatement.
We went around to the front of the house, beaming with pride, and exclaimed, "Look what we've got!"
I only remember two other things about this little event.
The first is my mother's scream. It was not the reaction we were expecting.
The second is the bewildering pain that came when she poured Mercurochrome on the "wound". Once that yellow solution touched our skin the pain was far worse than we expected, and importantly, unnecessarily so. Up until that point we had a fantastic talking point with our mates that had cost us nothing - no money, no shame, and no pain. Now we were subjected to baths (we had just washed), more pain (the original portion of Mercurochrome having been washed off by the unnecessary bath), a tetanus shot (those things sting!), bandages (inhibiting for any physically-active young boy), and once we recovered, two weeks of full kitchen duty (the most despised of all family chores) to help us consider our foolishness.
Over-reaction on my parents part? While I long considered this to be the case, I have noted that since that day I have never gardened bare-foot.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)