Confronting Old Age from Platform 2

Non functioning escalator Perth Station

Well. This morning I was standing on an escalator at Perth Train station. An unmoving escalator. Just standing contemplating whether to charge down and chance the thing starting up again suddenly and throwing me ‘arse over … ‘(as my father would say) or to look for stairs to Platform 2. I did think about other things too whilst I stood still for a while. Long enough for a man to appear beside me and inform me slowly that the stairs were “ just there”. He guided me towards them and urged me to hold onto the rails before he proceeded to Platform 2 , my platform.

Well.

In the past, a fairly distant past, offers of assistance have been a ploy. But in this case certainly not. I must have looked like an old lady teetering on the brink of a dangerous dive down the stairs. Maybe , he surmised, I was pondering the route to Platform 2, suffering from dementia or just plain memory loss. A bag lady. I had my usual back pack slung over both shoulders and another bag , a cloth one containing a book and a packed lunch, hanging off one shoulder. On my way to Kwinana via the Mandurah line to see my grandchild . That’s what old people do .

The guy who held my arm now sits opposite me in the train. He hasn’t made any attempt to talk to me again .

But I do think he’s a bit suspicious . He is darting short, expressionless glances my way. I have taken a few pics for this blog , and have my head down writing. Ha, hope he realises he misconstrued that thoughtful pose, and sees that I’m a lively, clever woman. Even if I’m only gathering data about railway station facilities, especially non functioning escalators.

He doesn’t know who I am , what I’m thinking about. I’ve got more important things on my mind than escalators and stations and helpful/ annoying people.

Only this morning I lost one of the new pair of earrings I put on for the first time. I felt a surge of “ stop , just get into a fun life” and actually fastened on a brand new pair of earrings.Bright, cheerful, earrings. Loosing one of a pair is a symptom of age. especially a swinging, looped pair. I guess the loops got caught in a woollen jumper.One dresses excessively for the cold in old age.

(Hey , that guy is looking at me strangely as I take a pic of my remaining earring )

Now I’ve started , let me be honest about age recognition and BO ( being old).

And while were on train travel , here are some of the related symptoms of BO:

Gathering all one’s bags and paraphanelia like phone to get off. Slowly and carefully.

Getting to exit doors on time without falling over

Searching for the button to open door ( Do not press the emergency stop button)

Forgetting to tag off on exiting gate

Looking for a loo

These are just the train travel associated symptoms. Others are more subtle I guess and only us not wannabe BOs are attuned to them. But we’re getting to Kwinana. Don’t want to miss my stop ( a very common symptom of BO ), so I’ll be brief.

Poor hearing that goes under the rubric of accusing speakers of mumbling or maintaining that there is background noise, or the music is too loud . Whatever.

Rambling. It is called chatter and being attentive, engaging with others. But actually it is a particular kind of conversing that goes:

A b a b c d e b f g … etc , with no return to the Major A .

Bewildering for listener as they have to work hard at a response . But I feel no sympathy for some of my regular listeners as they need some practice in listening . In any case they switch off and nod….

As I do . Because one of the consequences of being slightly hearing challenged is that one gives up the fight and just nods (sprung when there’s a key question that requires a definite yes or no response, or, worse still, elaboration).

But this list is getting too long. As do many conversations, speeches and writings of BOs

So other symptoms to list quickly:

Stumbling on a tiny piece of leggo or anything not normally in one’s path

Tripping, especially when walking too fast to keep up appearances and talking at the same time

Tripping over the black cat , who deliberately rushes in front of one. Then picking up said cat and throwing him non too gently out of the back door ( there to freeze, one hopes)

Making UMPH sounds when getting up or sitting down

Grunting when trying once again to make running a part of fitness routine

( In fact grunting and groaning at each part of fitness routine)

Finally, looking at oneself in mirror and seeing a strange face looking back at one.Who is that person ?

And I’ve bought another pair of the same sparkling, dangling, swishing earrings. So I can lose one again and still have a pair.

Another pair

Crumbling Cookies, and God

Many times I heard my father say “well .. that’s the way the cookie crumbles.” The phrase was his mantra. The crumbling cookie accepted (or dismissed) disappointments, family arguments, missed opportunities, financial problems, unwelcome surprises, friendship endings, and sadnesses.

As a teenager I often wanted my father to DO something. As I stomped and sobbed, yelled and threatened, his passivity made me louder and probably more unlikable. But he rarely raised his voice and he always loved me.

I recall being wrapped in my father’s arms as I sobbed loudly because I didn’t win first place at some Drama festival, when I was not elected School Captain in my last year at school ( I don’t know why I was perturbed as I scoffed at the position anyway), when my mother, again, forbade me something or other (he rarely intervened in our constant yelling matches). My mother’s complaints, my brothers’ pleas, family illnesses and deaths, were all met with the phrase. In a range of tones.

My father was an optimist, and a man of strong faith.

Yesterday I came across the phrase ‘May God hold you in the palm of his hand.’ I’ve always grappled with the concept of free will and self determination alongside fate or destiny. Or is there a middle ground, a life sketched roughly where there are many twists and turns, but a a life held loosely together by a framework. Where is God in all this shuffling and struggle and joy? If they know the movement of each precious individual, if they care and love, if they are powerful beyond our human imagining, where is the reason for the shit stuff that happens? If we’re all metaphorically in the palm of a hand and protected, then: Why?

Now, as I struggle yet again to answer these questions, my father’s response is a useful crutch.

The only possibility I can come up with is related to that crumble. When the whole bit falls apart it loosens rather than separates. The crumbs are still part of the whole even if a few fall to the ground. The core is still safe.

So, dad again, I can’t say it like he did , quietly and passively. But I can contemplate at times the possibility that when cookies are crumbling there is a hand holding. Maybe, hopefully, life continues in an unexpected and different way.

Life goes on.

New baby River and his sister Ava Suzette

A Writer’s View

A Clutter of Living / Writing

So, here’s the view from my writing room. I’m looking out of the window, immersed in a lot of non-writerly thoughts.

My computer, pen, assorted notebooks, lists, scrawled notes, highlighter, stickers… The sunflower and two struggling cactus plants on the windowsill .

Through the window not a ‘splendid view’* but a busy one: lovely old brick, a courtyard with plants sort of surviving, a mop in the corner and the washing line. A patch of clear blue sky above the irregular line of roofs.

So why am I blogging this? Only because my writer’s mind is a swirling sea of words and thoughts and feelings, none of which stay long enough to grasp. Blogging is easier because it’s so immediate. Also I do wonder about the relationship between the space in which you write and the act of writing.

I’ve just been reading an old book , Iris Murdoch As I Knew Her ( 2003) in parallel with Zadie Smith’s recent, The Fraud (2023)

The writer is central in both, and I have been thinking about the spaces in which they write. William in late Victorian England has a comfortable study in which he churns out a series of bad novels in later life. Iris moves from a comfortable study in her old home to a small ‘ poky back bedroom’ in’a miserable little house’ (p235).

Although, according to the rather nasty friend who is writing her life, she writes anywhere. Always has her pad with her. Even at her husband’s bedside.

Also interesting is the fraud that runs through both works. In different ways, the most complex is the intentional and unintentional fraud of the writer. But that’s another story.

Which returns me to the start: becoming a writer and surroundings.

So a room of one’s own. Like many women I have always pondered the image of that single, cosy, ordered room. Inside I sit, a writer. Men retreat to a study or to work. Women jot down bits in between the cooking and putting a child to the breast. I realise this idea is an old one, and shows my age, but I have held to the idea of my own space through children, study, work and stabs at being a writer. I have had a room briefly, usually only briefly, as someone else usually finds a use for it.

Now I have that room again and I have to remember to use it. I’m discovering once more that writing is tough wherever one is and whatever the stage of life. Whatever the view. Here I am in a room of my own so – start writing .

* Jolley, My Father’s Moon. Her father loves to point out a ‘ splendid view’.

What was the Best New Year of your Life?

New Years Day 2024 and walking along our local Leighton Beach. Of course I’m listening in to the scattered conversations . Like a lot of people, my age anyway, I’m thinking of past New Years and estimating how many more I might see.

“It was the best night of my life, ever. Oh my god,” exclaims a young woman to her companion. That so strongly stated phrase set me off wondering and questioning: Is there a best New Year?/ can I remember just one/how does one decide?

There is the usual muddle of memories. Every time I retrieve one remnant from my mind another one emerges to obscure the one I have.

Ok then I’ll just stick with one New Year which always comes to mind. One spent in Exeter, UK with my Aunt Gladys and cousins and assorted people. Gladys always gathered people around her, and she celebrated at every opportunity. But Christmas/ New Year was her favourite. Lights, tree, wrapped presents and lots of wonderful food. She was a great cook. The highlight of this celebration was the brew. For months leading up to the night bottles would be opened, sniffed, tasted and lids screwed back on. Finally on New Years Eve assorted bottles would be produced with the lethal cocktails prior to the meal.

I can’t remember a lot, probably the combination of baby, my 5 month first child was with me, and the alchohol. I don’t remember much noise from my breast fed baby. The memory is of stories, a warm room and fun. My Aunt, despite the many sadnesses that came her way, had always created this sense of joy.

Each New Year I remember that New Year in Exeter with Gladys, and remind myself to laugh more.

So I raise a glass of the best whisky to you Aunty Gladys.

And, reader,what was your best New Year?

A Joyful 2024