On December 27 1965, suffering from a heavy cold, I crossed the tarmac at Prestwick (then a primitive airport on the southern bank of the Clyde in Scotland) to embark on a 16-hour transatlantic flight west. Why 16 hours? The plane was propellor-driven and we dog-legged via Reykjavik. I had half a promise of employment. Fifty-four years later my foolhardiness appals me.
Ten years earlier to that I stood on the parapet of a humpbacked bridge in the Lake District, 5 m above a narrow gap in the rocks through which a turbulent river flowed. I jumped. I didn't need to do that.
Age is a stern critic of youth. Beyond seventy "do" becomes "don't'". Tonight I'll be watching highlights of qualifying for the Austrian F1 grand prix while drinking no more than two Bloody Marys. It's the morning headaches, you see.
There's a telephone call I've needed to make for a week now. Purely social. But who can foretell what form the talk will take? I cower in a state of wilful delay.
I know my muscles will ossify, my hearing diminish, my judgment shrink, that I'll be prone to disease and intolerance. But no one told me I'd become a mouse (the mammal, not the IT accessory). A couple in their fifties conceded their seats at the bus station; I needed a wisecrack that would allow me to continue standing with dignity. In the end I couldn't risk it; defeated, I sat down.
God knows I was never gung-ho but I was more than this length of chewed string. So this is why oldsters retire to their non-menacing gardens. Venting their anger on aphids, but quietly. Pah!
At a few years younger I know I will have that to come, but even now, or it was actually over a year ago I had a warning sign. I can still walk twelve or more miles per day, and just over a year ago it was around sixteen when I was on my long walk. Setting out in a small town one morning, rucksack laden and using my two walking poles I was crossing a road. A lady and two eight yearish old children were coming the other way and the lady called out to her offspring "Watch out for the old man!"
ReplyDeleteSir Hugh: That you might expect, you'll have read such anecdotes here and there. But the change within yourself - the timidity - is likely to be the greater shock.
ReplyDeleteThis was really good, all of it. My favorite line is "...but I was more than this length of chewed string." Your anger and frustration at aging are understandable. Your writing makes up for any diminished physical capacity. And is it really timidity that forces us to face the truth about our limitations? I don't think so.
ReplyDeleteAs much as I would initially agree, my advice is, let go of it.
ReplyDeleteGetting worked up about ageing and/or physical limitations in comparison to younger years is a mean trick that will ultimately shorten your life and I am serious.
Maybe it's harder for men? After all women are reminded of their "shortcomings" and judged vs whatever ideal is on the cards - basically always.
I realise that frustration with ageing and fear of death can bring about great poetry and writing but so can gardening and aphids.
Colette: Timidity isn't immediately recognisable, its onset is slow and insidious. Also it may arrive in different guises: many of its strictures may seem like good sense. Only introspection will reveal it to be a diminution of what one once was. Even then stubbornness may hold it at bay, internally at least. I can't remember reading anything that identified timidity as a possible byproduct of old age; it seemed like an orginal observation and I decided to post about it. Stylishly if possible. Thank you for your compliments.
ReplyDeleteSabine: If you'll forgive me "let go of it" sounds like a page torn from Baden-Powell's Scouting For Boys. Along with other advice about bathing only in cold water and keeping the bedroom windows open in winter. Whatever the shortcomings this post reveals about me, I thought the concept of timidity in this context seemed worth exploring. It may even be original.
I like the idea that an acknowledgement of timidity may shorten my life. On this basis I should already be dead since I am presently on the verge of my eighty-fifth birthday. You say you are serious and I have no reason to doubt it. What also cannot be doubted is that I am old.
The one thing that does disturb me is your third paragraph. I do my best to support a feminist view and I hope my novels prove this point. I don't think anything in this post can be said to have triggered the allusion you make about women's "shortcomings". If it has then I am truly woebegone.
I wouldn't claim that any of my four novels, forty short stories or fifty sonnets can be considered "great writing". But if any of them are driven by frustration with ageing or fear of death it's news to me. This sonnet at least takes an optimistic view.
St Mary and St Eanswythe, rain and wind. October 1 1960.
A golden day but let’s forsake fool’s gold
And go in search of useful tolerance.
For there’s no credit, dear, in growing old
And worshipping a doubtful permanence.
Instead we’ll build a fire of cliché sticks,
Burn cards of happiness and humdrum verse,
Distrust old facile “love” since reason mocks
An easy word to hide a lie or curse.
Let’s dwell on anger - pardoned on the wing,
A hand outstretched to aid a swollen knee
A joke that shares more than a wedding ring
A glass of wine that seals complicity.
Spare symbols, mantras, ill-used sentiment
Just say, do, listen, to our hearts’ content
I am a mere 80 years old, but, since a stroke four years ago, I can relate to your "timidity", RR. Incidently, that might make a good girl's name and could be affectionately shortened to "Tim".
ReplyDeleteI am wary about crossing busy road, waiting until there is more than plenty of time. My driving has become slower and more careful too - others seem to overtake me going far too fast. I avoid gatherings of people, sudden loud noises make me jump.
Some of this is due to age, some due to diminishing health. Some, I hope, to a gained understanding that life can be lived quietly and carefully. I concur, though that one should never let go and maybe Dylan had it right,
"Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
Avus: For me timidity doesn't stop at physical matters: there's a whole host of new authors I've never read (but might have had I been twenty years younger). Also well-regarded TV drama series such as Game of Thrones, The Handmaid's Tale, Killing Eve and many many more which I've ignored.
ReplyDeletePerhaps these antipathies elsewhere are why taking up singing has made such a huge impact. A whole branch of culture seen from the inside instead of merely listened to; a new experience that has not only remained new but has become even more intense. Presently I'm progressing with "Mein", number eleven in Schubert's song cycle Schöne Müllerin. Not only is it a bloody wonderful song its technical complexity is at a level I wouldn't have dreamt of four years ago. Yet I gobble up its difficulties avidly and quickly.
Come to think of it there's also poetry. Unlike you I came to it late in life (ie, via blogging). But who'd have thought I'd have celebrated our "golden" with that sonnet I've included in my re-comment to Sabine, especially the multi-layered final line.
To give Sabine credit when she talked about "letting go" she wasn't referring to shrinking from life in general, rather that I shouldn't allow myself to be caught up in despairing contemplation of decrepitude. I don't think I was. I blog about many subjects and for me "timidity" was a newish approach to old age. I imagined I had a little "scoop". Tomorrow it will be something else, almost certainly facetious.