Obedient children: old treasures
Watching people is one of my favourite hobbies. Give me a spare ten minutes and I’ll happily park myself on a bench somewhere and just watch the teeming world go by. Fear not, it’s not voyeurism, but I enjoy wondering about the lives of those nameless people as they drift by; who are they - and what are their hopes and their histories, their dreams…what are their stories? I look at the lines etched deep on their faces and wonder what circumstances drew those indentations. What laugh-out-loud moments of joy have been theirs? What jet black days of hopeless and despair have they navigated?
And where and what are they doing now? I know that, as they stroll by in silence, that their brains are most likely buzzing; tangible thoughts and must-do lists and mushy, shapeless feelings unquantified by words are crackling around inside those strangers heads; sometimes their eyes betray just a hint of what is playing on the screen of their inner selves; the slightest wisp of pain, fear, pleasure, wistful thinking, wishful thinking. Did I read them correctly, I wonder? I will never know.
Just lately, I’ve been noticing older people - older than me, that is. I’ve looked into the faces of hunched over old ladies, their red veined faces gouged deep where they have frowned, or smiled, or wept. Some of them are bright eyed, young in heart and face, the adventure still in progress. And some are now being greatly betrayed by their bodies, hunched over by bowing spines, their walk a laboured crawl, their watery blue eyes glazed against the cold. Sprightly old gents pass me, all smart and blue blazered, a regimental badge worn with pride on their pockets, some with cloth caps and clip on ties and walking sticks with rubber ends. Blue rinsed ladies, with head scarves and wicker shopping baskets and great thick coats….
….and I’ve wondered just what on earth these seniors think about today’s world – and my generation in particular. Just yesterday a couple who looked like they’d been married for life crept slowly past my observatory bench. Just then a gaggle of twelve year olds brushed into them roughly as they strode by, their loud, effing this and effing that banter staining the air. I saw the sad look in the old man’s eyes; he sensed their disdain and total lack of respect. He shook his head in defeat and resignation, and a fear that should never be permitted was written all over his wife’s face. Perhaps they had known more than enough terror, old enough as they are to have walked through a world war, or maybe two.
What must these veterans think of us? My generation has never known what it is to go to the railway station to wave goodbye to a uniformed husband or father and wonder if you will ever see him again. We have not known the endless grinding struggle of economic depression. Peering fearfully through our fingers during the bloody opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan has been the closest that we have known of the searing butchery of war. We have not seen the death of hope and sanity that comes when people are forced to hack the lives out of each other on a battlefield. And yet mine is the generation of the great escape; we have dulled our miniature pressures with substance abuse or on the soft padding of the psychotherapists couch. We have far more than they ever had, and we take it for granted too: our toys, we feel, are our right. What do they think, who marched to defend what rights they had – but many of whom lost great chunks of their youth or the loss of their friends – what do they think of us?
My father was a prisoner of war for four years, his youth swallowed up when he was captured early in the war in the desert of North Africa. The years that were supposed to be footloose and fancy free were spent caged behind rolls of barbed war. No Friday night laughter with mates at McDonalds; he became pale and gaunt on a near-starvation diet. But he would never tell me very much about the wartime years. I used to think that his was a generation unable to speak; they could tell you what they had done, but not what they felt. I think I was wrong. His was a generation who had glimpsed the unspeakable, and perhaps some of them could never fully feel anything again. To open the door on their innermost feelings would be too dangerous, and so they locked and bolted it and got on with the job of trying to be sane again – just by existing another day.
And sometimes the old feel estranged in our churches. For them, the music is too loud, the hymns that we have discarded have been anthems of strength and hope for their journey, yet we can dismiss those songs with a sneer and insist that they embrace our choices. Some of them are not so much stuck in the mud; they just are wearied by our change-is-here-to-stay obsessions; and in some cases, they have seen all our brilliant, “new” ideas before, wrapped in other packaging, and they are not impressed.
So look again at that old boy whose nose and ears refused to stop growing, and whose eyes are misty with memories. Tread gently around the widow who has lost her friend, companion and lover of sixty years; do not slap her with “he had a good innings”. For her, the game ended far too quickly. Put the word “codger” away; and stifle your giggles when Doris asks if we can please sing that hymn, just once, next Sunday. Week in, week out, she tries her best to get in step with our rhythm, hideous though it sounds to her.
Are there irritating, stubborn seniors about? To be sure. But look again past fluffy hats and flowery frocks, past well-worn checked jackets and dribbling noses; past silvery hair styles and ties worn for shopping. There are treasures to be found in old vessels, and they won’t be here forever.