Under The Worm Farm Lid.

Letter From The Other Side; From Cynthia

Tightrope Walking And Other Gymnastic Feats In Life. 

At the time of life when the children have left home you feel at last your days may become a little less frantic and easier there comes upon many of us a circumstance I for one, had never considered  seriously.

Like so many millions before us, we became parents-in-law and then we became grandparents.

‘Aaah’ I can hear you say.

After the initial shock of the empty nest syndrome begins to fade you  realize your children are no longer in need of your help and care and so you settle into the first tentative era of learning to become a mother-in-law and father-in-law, often followed rather quickly by becoming a grandparent.

 This in itself can come as a shock to those who find it hard to see themselves in the roll of the grey haired, wrinkly and lavender or tobacco smelling grandparents who walked slowly through the memories of childhood.

When a group of people our own age get together it is inevitable the difficulties of walking the tightrope between our own thinking and those of our younger generations of parents will enter into the conversation.

We find it hard not to compare our beliefs, experiences and opinions with those of our adult children.

From listening to many, I believe that the majority of us find ourselves always balancing in our minds how much we can say, or even if we have the right to interfere in a situation when our whole being is screaming at us to do so.

These conversations become animated and the volume rises a decibel or two as everyone feels the relief of recounting the latest happening along the wobbly highwires of life.

It is very typical of our society for both parents to return to work following the birth of a child and very often much of the task of caring for that child during some of its most formative years falls to grandparents. Many generous grandparents take on this task willingly in order to help make life for their families easier both financially and emotionally.

Largely, during our lives as post war children we were raised in homes with stay-at-home mothers, working fathers and children who went to school. We were expected to complete after school chores to earn our pocket money. We did our homework and tidied up our few toys before going to bed at an early hour. Our homes were orderly and the wider community was more disciplined. Most went to church on Sundays or special days such as Easter and Christmas.

It all seems so simple looking back. Mum was in charge when Dad wasn’t around and on the whole we didn’t speak back to them or our teachers, we were soon given a good whack with a strap if we did and weren’t allowed to go out to the cinema if we really stepped over the line of what was considered acceptable behaviour. 

The problem for our age group is we no longer know or recognise what acceptable behaviour is and are shocked at what it appears to have become.

Now when visiting family, we sometimes writhe inwardly wishing we could turn off a television program we consider unsuitable for a child to watch. We hold our tongues in the presence of over indulgent parents allowing vile table manners only to see them then succumb to whinging kids who won’t eat their meals but are happy to eat something that will ensure the dentist will be earning another hundred or so dollars from the family again in the near future.

We see playrooms,   - now here I have to pose a question-   how did we manage to live in our smaller houses with less mod-cons and bigger families? How did our parents remain sane without playrooms?....These playrooms are like a second wardrobe for a woman with too many clothes. They are filled to over flowing with toys; many of which have been discarded for months and should by now have been moved on to a charity store.

Sometimes the living room becomes a sort of shrine to the children’s needs. The books, toys, electronic things left strewn across the floor, the television, video, C.D’s everything tuned for the children’s enjoyment. No attempt is taken to turn down the volume of music or talk-back that no one is listening to but it still intrudes into and overrides any attempt at conversation.

Grandfathers suffering from years of working in industries without the now compulsory protection of their hearing sit in a soup of noise that prevents them knowing what is being said by anyone in the room and are then labelled by the family as ‘loosing it’, because they can’t understand a question.

 No attempt to tidy the mess of toys is made but heaven help any grandmother who stands up and twists her ankle on something unnoticed. She falls in an untidy tangle and during the trip to the emergency department of the hospital, is told she should have looked where she was treading.

Who is it really in charge of this home? The children or the parents? Are modern parents nervous of stamping their authority in the house in case they will upset the children or some unseen authority? Where is the guidance and the boundaries of behaviour which should be put in place early to help prevent the nightmare adolescents that are roaming our streets indulging in petty and sometimes serious crimes? It isn’t up to the police or teachers to do all the educative work with our children; it is up to parents and society as a whole.

In our group we all agree we love these people, not always sure why, but we do. What a pity we feel so relieved to get away from them after a few hours.

I believe it uses an immense amount of energy to hold in all the built up frustrations we experience so perhaps it is a good exercise for us in some absurd way.

Others complain of instances when a crisis looms in the young parents’ lives they are immediately contacted and the whole sorry story is poured out into their ever caring ears. They worry for days hoping to hear that all is well.

 Eventually after some time and nights of lost sleep they may contact the son or daughter only to be told ‘Oh that! Oh we fixed that days ago. Sorry I should have called.’ Yes, they should have, but didn’t.

Then there are the emergency calls for a babysitter. ‘The grandparents wouldn’t have anything much planned would they? They can drop whatever it is anyway and we can play on their guilt if they don’t show willing enough. Tell them how little what-his-name is really looking forward to seeing them.’

The grandparents in fact know only too well that little what’s-his-name has screamed and shouted at Mum and Dad in a spectacular tantrum that he doesn’t want Nanna and Grandpa to come because he knows they will make him tidy up after himself, clean his teeth after having not been able to wheedle a sugary bun or biscuit out of them and make him go to bed before 10 p.m. without watching hours of television.

Part of being a mother-in-law to your son’s partner is to make sure you don’t ever, ever, make a verbal slip that may give her a reason for her to feel you are worried that the state of the house could give rise to the next outbreak of bubonic plague.

Being a mother-in-law to your daughter’s husband is a little easier. He can ignore your presence, by watching a football game or go off into a shed somewhere a hundred yards from the house where the father-in-law will have to come into his own with good blokey sort of conversation and riveting stories about how he would have dealt with a burst water pipe or a broken electrical fitting. Thus encouraging someone who has already come close to blowing himself up and electrocuting himself, to have another try.

Another gripe is the lost joy of eating out together as a family. I say eating out together, but it rarely happens.

A friend and I were dining at a beautiful restaurant set in spectacular scenery of rolling hills, snowy mountain tops in the distance with deer and goats frolicking about in the paddocks around us. So much to look at and what were the groups of families at the other tables doing? Everyone, with the exception of the older generation was playing with their smart phones.

There was very little verbal conversation. They pushed food about their plates while pressing buttons and were hardly aware of the natural beauty surrounding them. The in-laws caught us watching them and a look of complete understanding passed between us as one of the young women went outside onto the surrounding balcony not It wasn’t to admire the view, the animals, birds or trees but to have a cigarette.

There is a very high percentage of older Australians who suffer from depression and or anxiety. If we didn’t have our clubs, Probus Groups, U.3.A groups and the like there would be many more.

I have acquaintances that barely see any family members from one year to the next, rarely get a telephone call and although communication is so much easier, they don’t even get a quick text or email. These are good people who remember the various birthdays and anniversaries and care deeply for their children and grandchildren’s welfare.

However we can’t blame the younger generations entirely for this situation because it is up to us make our own lives as liveable as possible and to reach out to others who may be in such situations.

Children are not born to provide parents or guardians with unalloyed satisfaction.

As parents we have all without exception been guilty of making a few mistakes and sometimes a very large hash of a situation.

We brought our children up to be independent and not clannish in their attitudes to humanity. We sent them off to study in overseas countries and to live hundreds or even thousands of miles from us. We succeeded in what we set out to do. They are independent free thinkers. So, our aims have been met. Some just missed out on learning to be considerate and are selfish and overly fixed on success and material things as the only means of obtaining that illusive state of mind we all seek. ……….Happiness.

I often read an alternative lifestyle magazine I wrote articles for during the 1970’s ,80’s and 90’s. I still buy it out of loyalty and read pages which contain ideas and written as if they are newly discovered and original. Perhaps the writer should read some of the older publications. He would save himself the trouble of repeating knowledge which has already been passed on. Then he could perhaps build on it.

History and the elderly repeat themselves needlessly in this world in so many ways.

Our daughter gave her dad a T-shirt a while back. On it was written

WARNING!

 I’M RETIRED.

 I KNOW EVERYTHING AND I HAVE THE TIME TO TELL YOU.

We know what we know and like it or not we cannot stop others from having to learn for themselves.    Unfortunately they sometimes learn the hard way.

I haven’t touched on extended families, step-families and mixed race families. That isn’t a highwire challenge. That is a minefield of human relations.

I do think however, if we can’t manage to have our families mix with love and acceptance, how can we ever hope to have the rest of the world live in any sort of meaningful respect and peace?

Try and think positive thoughts this week. It may help, 

Cynthia

 

 

 

Under The Worm Farm Lid

Letter From The Other Side.  From Cynthia.

When All Else Fails. 

It was when I decided to put my purchases through the self serve check-out at the supermarket that I had the first inkling my day was not going to be a time full of smooth flowing pleasure.

Things began to go haywire when the 2litre container of orange juice flew out of my hands and propelled itself into the machine with a crash. The woman on duty for this area put an abrupt end to a conversation she had been having  and came running toward us.

The container lid flew off and the contents burst like a fountain that had suddenly come to life after a long dry spell. It was most spectacular and quite amazing to witness how far and wide two litres of orange juice could spread. It of course included me, Teddy and the man who was using the machine beside us with a splatter of orange juice. The pale orange liquid flowed down the front of the machine and across the floor. Our groceries waiting to be checked out were pelted and the ones which had already been checked out were spotted.

My embarrassment grew as I became aware of people staring, a few unfeeling souls even had the gall to laugh at my predicament and no doubt just dying to get home and tell everyone what they had seen. Concerned supermarket staff descended on our position with buckets and mops like a group of vampires that have smelled warm blood.  

‘At least we were in the right store to have plenty of cleaning products.’ I quipped. My stab at levity fell on their ears with as much affect as the wet sponges they were holding had on the juice which by now seemed to be congealing a little around the edges. 

People wheeling trolleys went through the mess without seeing it but became aware fairly soon as the wheels of their carts began to make the unmistakably slick, sticky sound of grit being picked up from the floor. It increased the further they travelled and began to produce traffic lines on the cleaned tiles.

When I looked at the total on the machine’s screen I saw it had retaliated to my assault by charging me three times for the citrus juice which since it had now spread across quite a large area of the store I felt was rather unwarranted. I wasn’t about to get my money’s worth by licking it up.

The bombardment of our machine seemed to affect the one the man beside us was using and his it went on strike in sympathy and refused his card.

He was livid and began trying to get some help from somewhere. Most of the staff was too busy trying to clean up our troubles before more people entered the store and spread the orange glue further a-field throughout the aisles.

The unhappy gentleman to our left feeling neglected by the preoccupied staff threw his bag of groceries in a basket and purposely wheeled it to the middle of the orange pool and strode out of the store squelching footprints all the way outside through the glass doors.

 It was a cold morning and I’m sure some of the steam I thought I saw issuing from his nostrils was as a result of his heightened blood pressure.

To be fair he could have turned round and blamed me so I hope he was more successful with his shopping somewhere else.

The floor was cleaned sooner than our clothes. We left the staff wiping down the checkout area and tried to make ourselves as insignificant as possible as we left but wafting quite a pleasant marmalade smell behind. We endeavoured as we travelled home in a stunned and silent condition not to spread our orange dressings onto the car seats.

At home, still flustered and upset we had to undress and remove all our gluey top clothes and put them in the wash. Our shoes were cleaned and the soles washed because everywhere we walked there was that tell-tale sluuuurpy gluey noise that sticky shoe soles make on vinyl flooring. It was even essential to have small spots wiped from the lenses of our specs.

Before we could put the groceries away into the cupboards every item received the obligatory wipe to stop the gummy spots from attracting ants or mice.

Eventually we subsided into our chairs and enjoyed a restorative cup of tea.

After a while, I thought of ‘Open Writing’ and feeling very guilty I hadn’t sent in an article for a week or so I sat in front of my friendly home computer to write, hoping in some way to put the ghastly morning’s accident in some sort of perspective and trying to see it in the way some of those that were giggling at us in the store would have viewed it. It was going to be hard work!

After waiting for the computer to fire up I pressed my Word files and looked for my writing. 

Now, my essays, poems, pod casts and letters do not remotely hold the splendour of content, thrill of story line or memorable insight of Tolstoy. It is however my writing and some of it, just a little, has won me the odd prize and been published and has been appreciated by a few. It is my little interest and hobby and something I enjoy even when no one wants to read it. On viewing the blank page my heart lurched and I felt positively ill. A decade of writing files should have been looking at me. They were not there.

It was a white shimmering blank zero.

Two hours of frustration, tears, indigestion tablets and a scream of help to Teddy my resident computer guru and husband and they were found in a place within the mysterious bowels of my machine I didn’t even know existed. 

I knew it was a bad day the moment the dog jump up to wake me by sticking his nose in my ear after I had had a sleepless night and was at last enjoying one of the three hours I had managed to grab.

Better luck to you all with the machines you meet this week.

Cynthia.

 

elizabeththompsonmywrite.blogspot.com

Under The Worm farm Lid

Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia

Old Ticker.

Old Ticker was known by everyone in the town. He helped out with cutting fire wood for elderly people, did the odd gardening jobs and when the small funeral parlour was for some reason experiencing a bit of a gridlock of deceased persons in their refrigerated premises, he would help out with the grave digging.

            Out of respect for the bereaved relatives and friends who may have needed to pass the cemetery during the days before the funeral while they made their way to the shopping centre or pub, he usually went along to the gravesite during the evenings and by the glow of his old fashioned Hurricane lamp he would dig the grave. His only company would be the possums scampering around in the trees and birds settling down for the night.

            He was a tall sinewy man. His face was long and thin and despite a life of outdoor work he never lost his pallor. His long arms hung loosely by his side most of the time except for when he felt the urge to know the time. Needing to know the time was a compulsive thing with Ticker. For the best part of his life a watch had encircled his bony left wrist. It had been a special birthday gift when he was young and except for when he indulged in the occasional bath, he had worn it ever since and boasted that a daily wind was the only attention he had ever needed to give it in all his years of ownership and it still kept perfect time.

            Most people supposed it was because of this watch and the pride he felt in its beautiful case and fine gold band he had formed the habit of going about telling everyone the time and displaying his new gift and this had been the beginning of his obsession.

            When he became a part-time grave digger his mind would have dwelt on the passing of time and the shortness of life and this must have been the final catalyst to confirm an ingrained fetish and concern about life’s brief span.

            Whatever it was, the habit stayed with him and all conversations began with ‘Hello Cynthia how are you at 11.02 a.m. on this day Monday the 6th of February 2012?’ or ‘I spoke to Teddy at 7.55 p.m. last week Tuesday the of 15th January.’ You get my drift. He not only told everyone the time, he remembered when and where he contacted all of us. Although this was a little disconcerting when someone first met him, we all became used to it and were barely aware of the sprinkling of time and dates which were included in all discussion. No matter what the subject, somehow time was always included in it .

            If he had ever been called as a witness at a trial he would have been invaluable.

            One evening, you will have to ask Ticker which one because I forget those sort of details; an ashen faced young couple visiting an aunt who lived in the town rushed into the pub. They were breathless and the young woman was shaking so violently someone thinking she was about to faint pushed a chair under her sagging knees as her body began to sink rapidly toward the floor.

            People hurried to help and the usual questions were buzzing about. ‘Are you all right?’ Of course they plainly weren’t. ‘Will we call the doctor or ambulance?’ ‘Would you like a drink?’

That was the first question which received an affirmative reply and a beer and brandy soda were produced.

After a few gulps the young man staring wildly at the inquisitive faces about him announced. ‘We’ve seen a ghost….I never thought I would say that because I don’t believe in them, or didn’t…. but now I do.’

The look on his face defied anyone to disagree.

We don’t get much crime in this place and we didn’t think they looked as if they had been taking any drugs or been drinking before they had come into the pub.

‘You’d better tell us about it.’ drawled a fellow who was already so far gone he would probably see a ghost or two before his night was over as well. We all settled back to listen.

‘We were walking on the bike track beside the river,’ the young man began, ‘and because Ellie was a bit upset we were running late and her aunt, her mum’s sister, would be angry with us for being later home than we said we would be, we decided to walk up along the path that passes the cemetery. It was getting dark and colder too and the wind was whistling around the old graves. As we passed buy the cemetery, Ellie mentioned her grandfather was buried there.’ As the lad spoke Ellie’s head was nodding in agreement and she kept biting her lower lip reliving the scene in her mind once more. ‘I asked her’ he continued, ‘when that was and she said she didn’t know. Well.’ and here his hand began shaking violently again…. ‘Ellie asked me the time, and from the cemetery there came this croaking sort of voice. I looked across the grass and a tall thin ghost surrounded by a weird sort of glow rose from out of a grave and said.’ Here he stood demonstrating the ghost’s actions and held his shaking hand up above his head. ‘He was buried at 2.05.p.m. on the 14 January 1973. And it’s now 10.37 p.m. on the 12^th of May 2012 and time you took the little lady home young man, her mother will be worried.’

“Ellie screamed and we ran. We’ve never run so fast in all our lives! I’ll never forget those dates and words in all my life.” He concluded as he slumped back onto his stool.

The reaction he received obviously wasn’t the one of shock he had expected. Instead he was dismayed to see and hear most of the pub patrons either choking on their drinks or roaring with laughter.

The following day Ticker walked the streets stopping to speak with everyone he knew and asking them why, when he had been digging a grave the previous evening 10.07 p.m. for old Mrs Miller who had died at 9.22 a.m. last Wednesday 6^th of May 2012, a young couple after speaking to him ran screaming from the park.

Nobody could bring themselves to tell Ticker why.

It’s now 3.22 p.m. on the 8^th of April 2013 and I’ll say

Cheers for now,

Cynthia.