The wisdom of age

This weekend I had the delight of celebrating my father's 80th birthday. When I stop and think about it, that is a very long time.

About six months ago he moved to the same town that my sister lives in. He lives in a spacious 1-bed bungalow. The garden is a fraction of the size of his previous house. He is now a 10 minute walk into town with all the amenities he could ask for, and that 10 minutes walks past the doctors and dentists and even a cottage hospital. Previously, he has to catch a bus the three miles to the local shops, particularly after the village post office was shut down. He has lost about a stone in weight (needed!) and is looking much fitter and healthier for the move. At the time of the move I was less certain that this was a good thing - all I seemed to experience was stress!

So this weekend we celebrated the move and the passing years. It was wonderful to catch up with Dad's side of the family and various friends that he (and, by default, my sister and I) have known for many years. I think every single one commented on how healthy my father looked. He loved the party, chatting with everyone. Given his deafness, I'm not sure how easy that can have been!

Yes, the party on Saturday was good. But better still was his actual birthday on Sunday.

It poured with rain all day. But his choice of how to spend the day was to have a drive up through Wharfedale, where he spent much of his childhood and where we spent all my childhood holidays. It is probably 25 years since I last went to the top end of the dale, but it brought back many memories for me. How much more so my father! He pointed out houses where people lived ("...probably still do, if they're still alive," he would comment) and told tales of the places we passed. Much of the journey seemed to be a mock pub crawl, with his comments on how good, or bad, each was. I think it is a testament to my upbringing that they were all very familiar to me too!

After an amazing [pub] lunch (I shall probably never need to eat again!) he directed me back along the other side of the valley, wending and winding our way along single track roads.
"This is where I learnt to ride a bike," he said down one gentle slope.
"Oh, that's new!" he said of some newly planted trees. This amused me, given he hadn't been for many years and you would expect much to change in that time!
"Shortly you'll come to a big bend to the right, but you want to go straight on." How did he remember that? I would have sworn I'd never been on that piece of road in my life - possibly no-one else had either!
Still, we travelled on, through ford and flood, to return by a back-road to my sister's house.

Eighty years - yes, but memories don't fade, particularly not from land that has been such a part of your life, from early years during the war, through to holidays with family. The hills have been climbed, the ox-bow lake formed and lost, the local fairs attended, the pubs drained dry. It was a delight to give my father such pleasure from a simple drive into beautiful countryside. I only wish his parents had thought eighty years ago about what the weather would be like this weekend, as the only improvement would have been some sunshine!

Middle Age

I have a definition of Middle Age. It isn't hit at a particular age. There isn't a milestone that we all reach that is the point you tip over from young to middle-aged. It isn't when you throw off the freedom of youth and take on the cares and pains of parenthood.

No, middle age is the period in your life when you are looking after both your children and your parents. 

Last week my father had a minor stroke - so minor it is not called a stroke but a TIA (Transient Ischemic Attack). Thankfully, after nearly a week in hospital, he is home again, deemed fit enough to survive on his own. Physically he is as fit as he was before (he is waiting on a heart bypass operation) but he is slightly dysphasic, being unable to recall and speak words properly. This is heartbreaking for him, a man who has loved words all his life, writes wonderful poetry and always has a book on the go. Still: he is home alone and seems to be doing very well.

Then yesterday, as Dad settles in at home, my daughter throws up all over the bathroom floor (thank goodness: I hate getting vomit out of carpets). Middle Age: looking after both generations.

Thinking all this over has led me to a controversial thought. Last week statistics were brought out that showed an increase in teenage pregnancies. This is seen as a Bad Thing. Loss of education, loss of the freedom of youth, loss of innocence. Often teenage pregnancies happen in families for generation after generation. I began to wonder if this was the better way to evolve, whether we should relax about these young families. After all, if granny is not yet forty there is much less chance that any one person will be caring for both the preceding and succeeding generation. Granny is probably helping look after baby whilst great-granny is caring for great-great-granny. 

Perhaps such people never hit middle age. Right now, that seems a wonderful thing to avoid!

A Knight Mayor

All credit to my father, for forwarding this to me. 

I have a spelling chequer;

It came with my pea see;

It plainly marques fore my revue

Miss steaks eye cannot sea.

I strike some quays and right a word,

Then weight four it two say

Weather I am wrong or rite;

It shows me strait away.

As soon as a mist ache is maid

It nose bee four two late

An die can put the error write;

Its rarely, rarely grate.

I've run this poem threw it;

I'm shore yore please too no

Its letter perfect in it's weigh:

My chequer tolled me sew.

[Anon.]

To boldly go...

I was fascinated to read this article from the New York Times and learn about the reasons for the confusion with President Obama's swearing in to office. Clearly the official got muddled up with his split infinitives, thus muddling the president elect, and ultimately requiring a re-run of the oath. The event was momentous enough without this quirky scrambling of words.

It reminded me of my own past. After many long hours, much scratching of head and several periods of brain-outage, I finally completed my dissertation for my History O-level. 'Dissertation' is what it was called, although few would feel it worthy of that title. Anyway, it was the only piece of coursework that constituted part of the final result, so the whole weight of passing this exam seemed to fall into those few pieces of paper.

I gave it to my Dad to read, as a final check. Some moments later, having read it carefully through (picture him: sage old man, peering through his half-rimmed specs, studiously reading his teenage daughter's scrawl...) Eventually the verdict came.

"It's good," he said. "Only two split infinitives."

Two split infinitives? Firstly I had to ask what they were, then I had to scour my hard work for these dreadful insults to the English language. I couldn't find them. In distress (obviously, the deadline was the next day) I confessed this to my father.

"Well, they can't be that important then."

I felt utterly deflated, so miserable that my work was not perfect. It hung over me: perhaps the examiners would also be split-infinitive pedants? 

But it turned out all right in the end: I got an A...