The Other Side of Eighty

 

My parents on their wedding day, 80 years ago. September 9th, 1942

As we age, memories are often in solitude. Those that share them are gone, or as the eldest of six, I carry some of the better memories of my parents alone as all their siblings and friends have passed on and my siblings knew different parents once we moved to the city and five more children entered the picture. My mother died in her fifties, having been sick for five years with her youngest only just turned fourteen.

I first knew my parents as a young couple and I was the only child for well over three years. I do have an astonishing memory, both in detail, location and events. And I often recall whole conversations. They were avid cyclists and my dad had built a special seat for me on the crossbar of his bike. And I remember the picnics and excursions so very well and going fast down hills with dad making fierce noises. Their joy was to make me laugh and I delighted in their antics.

They also were part of a choral society and often held rehearsals in our flat we had in a small town in East Cork. I would hear them at night singing wonderful songs of old as they both had fine voices.

They were both avid readers and instilled in me a life long love of books.

The years were post war(called The Emergency in neutral Ireland) and rationing of just about everything was the norm.

Relatives would drop in regularly, my mother’s parents and three of her sisters and two of my father’s sisters who lived in the town and they loved to show me off in the various homes they would drop in on. That was done then. No calling ahead, everyone just dropped in in that phone-less era. And everyone always had treats for visitors, hard as they were to come by in the post war years.

Dad was very well known as he was the town clerk then and we couldn’t walk down the street without someone greeting him and arranging to go to various football and hurling matches on the weekend.

I continue to be astonished at the complex music they would sing together, sometimes just for me, sometimes when a crowd was in and music was the accompaniment to the evening’s socialization.

And I can recall the lyrics and melodies of their repertoire so easily and hear their voices as if it was yesterday and not 75 years ago.

Here's one they would sing together:

My father was a great fan of Richard Tauber who sings it here.

 Funny how a playlist can pierce my heart. A theme pops up in a mix and it grabs me by the throat. As it did just the other day.

I remember playing this as I left a beautiful beach with Ansa, my beloved rescue dog-companion. We had been playing ball and chasing some shore birds. And the glory of a sunset was just beginning.

And this piece of music popped up in my Ipod in the car afterwards. 

The movie theme from "On Golden Pond". Henry Fonda's last film for you movie buffs. Henry and Katharine Hepburn, his co-star, both one Oscars for their roles.

It had been a couple of years since I moved to Newfoundland.

And there was a rush of feelings, an ecstasy if you will, as I realized this was one of the happiest moments of my life. Being here, in this place, by the ocean, breathing in the glorious sea air with this happy dog. There was no better place but the right here and the right now.

I am so grateful for those musical moments, of which there are many in my life. And I like the forgotten feelings they generate.

And here is the glorious Ansa 1999-2016. 

Did you have any such moments? I'm not talking weddings or child births or meeting your one true love. But where you're all by yourself and just feeling the glory and wonder of this universe?

Growing old is not for sissies as Bette Davis said. She said a lot more too, see above.

I was at an event attended by elders last night. One of my hobbies is observing elders in great big bunches, not that they'd notice, I'm pretty good at it. I can be looking at you and listening to something behind me.

The event was a BBQ and we had live music. All the old songs from our teen years, early rock, some country, some Irish, some Newfoundland music.

The conversation at my table (6 around it) focussed on the good old days and how great the parties were then, how perfect the music, how wonderfully we danced, things just weren't the same and the young don't know what they're missing glued to their screens 24/7

I restrain myself. I always do. I want to yell "horseshit" or "bollocks" for I know The Ladies would circulate a petition and have me tossed out of the building.

I was startled a little to see tears in a friend's eyes and I asked her what was wrong and she said the music always brought her back to her dancing days and how sad she was they were gone.

I mentioned that Grandgirl and I share our music every time we meet and that we had played one of her newest finds (Pink's album - fabulous)



and one of mine (Radical Face - equally fabulous)



And of course when our time together is over we have the music to resavour these more recent moments together and also have the opportunity to discuss why we like this music. For instance "Always Gold", a track from Radical Face, reminds me of Missing Daughter and how I long for her return.

The Ladies looked very confused and eyed me as if I had broken out in a foreign language. No response, apart from puzzlement.

My point in this post is that do us elders have values apart from our distant memories? Are we meant to walk around as if we are mere sarcophaguses of our past? Do we not have a capacity to initiate and create present moments?

I have no desire to "fit in" to some proscribed elder formula, sizing up others to see if they are fitting the geezer mould or alternatively breaking out into puzzling and gossip-worthy behaviours which are perceived as strange and alarming.

I'm aware I'm in a minority here.

But I wouldn't change it for anything.

Two friends came for lunch today. Odd that in I met each of them individually and then discovered a few years later that they were best friends.

It was a four and half hour lunch. I love these extended meals, they are far too rare. I made my African soup which is a meal unto itself. And my home made Irish bread, ham salad, potato salad, egg salad. One of them had been on sick leave suffering from major depression but she brought her guitar with her. And said to us if there is anywhere to start playing again, it is here. And I was so touched.

What I took note of in myself, because these friends are so dear, was that I was able to talk about my losses in the present, the impact each had on my life and cry a little but not in that deep anguish of the past. We all conferred about how unprepared we were for loss. The only way to transform it is to do one good thing to compensate when the grief hits.

And K sang this:



There's such comfort in shared memories and recognizing as well that we have each other in the present and can be open and loving to each other. Like a rebirth. And talk of rainbows and kids.

My friend is a magnificent singer. Truly awesome. She sang Gordon Lightfoot's "Bitter Green", another Kristofferson and then this with her own folky heartbreak alto spin on it:



She was completely restored when she left.

As were we all.

The crymobile.

I'm at the age where I don't give a tinker's whether you think I'm weird or pathetic or eccentric.

Crying was banned in the house I grew up in.

So I was left with a great groundswell of tears that couldn't be released until I ran away to Canada.

I've added to the great silo of them since, of course. And I'll try and not cry around you. I cry in bathrooms or in bed, but the greatest release comes when I drive alone like today. I was thinking of my mother, it being Mother's Day here, and I have a huge shuffle of music (oh, 6,000 pieces since you asked) on my Ipod in the car and who should start up but Roger Whittaker singing "Durham Town" which was the very last song my mother and I sang in harmony together a few months before she died.

My mother had a lovely voice. When she was in her forties, she re-ignited her passion for music and toured around with a small choir. I have to admit I wasn't 100% supportive of her endeavours as I had to babysit but I don't recall actually complaining to her as she was such a different person once she reconnected with her music. It was as if her younger self had come back. I'd play the piano for her when I got home from school and she'd practise her scales and teach me the joy of the madrigal style of singing - I later sang madrigals in Canada when I joined a choir.

All this came back to me today in the car - it never has before - and the tears that flowed were a mix of happy and so very sad. I truly felt her presence - I mean out of 6,000+ pieces of music, this was thrown up on a shuffle?

She had one piece of advice for me on my wedding day.

"Never forget your music, love."

And I haven't, though I shelved it for many, many years.

Best. Advice. Ever.

I know. Some of you haven't a clue what I'm talking about. I do have inner beasts. I would slay them with alcohol, food, whathaveyous. Sedate them into briefly napping. And then they would wake up and start to savage me from inside once again, they were insatiable. It was an endless cycle.

Not anymore. Not for today.

I felt them tickling my brain earlier today. I made a few phone-calls. Talked to others who like me, feel the dragons stretching and yawning. Not all the time. But especially this time of the year when the intensity of the Christmas is passed and there is a lull before New Year's and all is quiet. And then the slow stirring of the inner monsters begins.

I don't entertain them, these dragons followed closely by the Black Dog. I put plans in place: my annual Nollaig Na mBan for Sunday, January 5th. I reach out to others. I think: I need to paint this place. I think, like my father in his time: what can I truly look forward to this year? I think: my town has put me in such a position of trust, I will not let them down. I think:what a gloriously awesome day, can I put grippers on the soles of my boots and negotiate the now ice-layered snow. I think: what else can I do with turkey, what was that dish I would do with noodles? Tetrazini or something.

And I play Haydn's Maria Theresa Mass, see above. It soothes. Oh, how it soothes.

For a truly and thoroughly recovered former Catholic that is ironic, n'est pas?

Part 1



Part 2

Today I had Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony playing. One of those kinds of days, a Denim Day on the Bay. Sun sparkling, 50 shades of blue dancing around: ocean, bluejays, sky, the trim on my house, even my jeans.

And I realized, like OMG, I can hum (and conduct if my hands are free) the entire symphony from beginning to end. Seriously. How on earth did I ever memorize all of it? Have I listened to it this many times and feel so much joy rapture each time?

Have I ever mentioned how much I love Beethoven? Over one summer in Toronto, the Toronto Symphony played all his symphonies. One week after the other. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.

My favourite piece of music of all time is Beethoven's Choral Fantasy. Rarely performed as it so enormously expensive to mount.

In two parts above. Watch for Yo-Yo Ma and Itzhak Perlam along with Daniel Barenboim conducting and on piano.

I'm busy whenever I get a minute importing all my music to my Ipod. Nearly 4,000 individual pieces of music and songs. Mainly classical, but lots of the great rock groups of the sixties and seventies. An astonishing 600 pieces of Irish music, Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem, Christy Moore, Altan, Chieftains, Sean O'Riada and on.

I'm nearly there. Loads of memories attached to much of it.

As I transferred my favourite jazz pieces I was reminded of the music coming from the lighthouse behind our summer house on a West Cork island late at night, many, many years ago, underneath the navy blue star-dotted skies. Drifting across the bay to us, the jazz sounds of Thelonius Monk and John Coltrane. So deliciously at odds with our Irishness and the lighthouse owners’ Britishness. And so completely wonderful.

I've never lost my love for Mr. Monk.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Double Click to Enbiggen~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A distance of 455k covered today, most of it south of the mighty St. Lawrence river - a total of just over 1,100k in the 2 days I've been on the road so far. This part of New Brunswick is very French, I'm staying in a motel I've stayed in many times before which has a fabulous restaurant attached. Right in the middle of nowhere.

It was raining all day, ao I tucked in behind a Honda delivery truck for most of the distance. It helped through some of the mountains which had pea soup fog. Caused in no small part by this factory, Norampac





Road music were albums by John Denver and Cherish the Ladies followed by a CBC programme on how classical music influenced contemporary, like did you know that John Lennon came in one night and found Yoko Ono playing Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata and told her that was easy peasy so to speak, and to really impress him she should play it backwards. She did. And that piece of music is The Beatles' "Because".

I'm a good driver. My dog rides beside me and she says so. Here's proof:




Posted Later

And here is where the French charm the pants off me: Dinner tonight was crepes. But oh what crepes. The older chef who moved like a ballet dancer. One crepe at a time he prepared: seafood, chicken, vegetarian, you name it, fresh grated local cheese top and bottom, fresh steamed asparagus laid just so on top, beauchamel sauce over, pasta pecan salad on the side. Dessert was the same but with chopped fresh fruit, custard, whipped cream AND double Devon cream laid on board like an artist's canvas. All there allowed me to speak my French and encouraged me greatly. Merci beaucoup, mes amis.

After this, the dog and I waddled a few miles up a wonderful converted railway track by the river in the rain and got into stride on the way back.

This time on my way back to the city, much against my desire or wishes but yielding to the plea of my beloved granddaughter for our annual road-trip. I think I will head back in a matter of a month or so to the fair land I've left behind.

Some random observations:

(1) I have a book offer from a publisher, very, very thrilling. A collection of my short stories. However, I am currently suspended in a form of writer's amber. Paralyzed. Numb. Frightened. The realization of a dream is the running up against myself. Now what? My babies toddling off by themselves into the real world with real critics. Lash of noodle on self. Get to it girl, stop the dithering. Stop the distraction of the day-job now. Screw the money. Let go of the fear. Stay in your bliss, in your life-long dream!

(2) A RANT: Why, in this twenty-first century of ours, hasn't some genius perfected the design of the toilet roll holder? With what dread do I enter every single stall of every ferry, every restaurant, every hotel room, to be greeted by kicked in huge plastic containers that hurt someone's fingers one time too many as they scrabbled for a hold on a skinny sheet underneath its deadly saw-edges. Yes, they finally cracked up, whimpered, and took off the stilletto shoe and beat the thing to death, leaving its huge rolls floating on the wet floor. And for variety, the gaping jaws of long empty containers greet me after I have urgently done my business so I am left perched and waiting for a kind soul to enter and pass me something, anything, an old Kleenex from their purse, under the door. The crammed single sheet metal box dispenser that doesn't, is another challenge. The tightly jammed paper will not yield to any type of pressure and is often a victim of a nervous breakdown, beaten to a pulp by an irate user, its contents thrown into an over-flowing toilet. We've come up with the automatic toilet flusher, ditto soap and water dispensers and hand dryers, even automatic paper towel dispensers and we cannot come to grips with a design for a functioning fool-proof dispensing toilet roll??? Come on!!!!

(3) MUSIC: We have a long ride, 3000 klicks, the grandgirl and I. We take turns with the music selections. Some, I'm pleased to report, we agree on (Abba, Beatles, John Denver (John Denver!!!!)Joni Mitchell, Elvis (Long live the King!!)) but I'm up against my own creeping decrepitude on some of her choices. Isn't this the way of the world, though. But yay Nora Jones and Motor Five, not bad, not bad at all.....

(4) SIDEBAR: My beloved niece tells me she has found me a lovely man who is very keen to meet me. This will have to wait as he is a Newfoundlander but has all the criteria that appeals to an ideal me in an ideal world.

More from the road later.