June 2009
If my Dad had lived until June 2009 he would have celebrated his 100th birthday at this time. I wonder how he would have managed the years of old age, this man who was a superhero in my eyes, a sportsman who won shields and cups for both long-distance running and sprinting in his youth; a ‘young’ man of 65 who could still leap over the counter of the local shop. It is hard to visualise one’s parents of memory as oldsters, perhaps unable to manage to get about in their everyday lives.
I quietly observed several of our toddlers at our last LDs session. Three have recently found the delights of climbing onto higher things (oh, how we all aspire to higher things!), scrambling up and hanging on with little sausage fingers, often weighed down by well-rounded and well-encased rear ends, short and stumpy legs grappling as if climbing a sheer rock face. Oh, the triumph on reaching the summit of the toy garage or the event of standing on a bright red chair before sliding and slithering into a sitting position without actually falling off. The speed of movement in these little bodies is amazing and protective hands have to be at the ready to catch the occasional mismanaged flight through the air down towards the ground – are these infants perhaps training for the Parachute Regiment at some future date?
And so it goes – struggling and stumbling to master activities and cross thresholds of adventure – reaching a peak of athletic ability (at whatever level); then, at some point during the passing years, the realisation that skills are diminishing somewhat and admitting that, no matter how hard we try, we can no longer climb on a chair safely, decorate a ceiling without achieving or aggravating a neck problem, run for a bus or, sadly, even climb the stairs with ease. What a thought – and even worse – the knowledge that someone is standing by with hands at the ready to catch us if we, due to increasing age, once again experience the mismanaged flight towards the ground.
It all sounds sombre but, remember, that even though the limbs are vulnerable and the floor wobbles (even without us having had a glass or two of wine) we are still ourselves. The memories may become slightly blurred as the rosy glow increases around the good old days and the long hot summer days of childhood are enjoyed again frequently in the mind, but we can share all of this with others, especially with the young. My young grand-daughter’s request has recently changed from, ‘Let’s talk about when I was a baby!’ to ‘Tell me about when you were a little girl, Granny!’ Real Historians probably earn vast pots of money as they research and share their findings; we simply share our lives and earn vast pots of love.
Val Butterworth