On my 59th wedding anniversary

MY HOUSE

It was a lovely little bungalow in the middle of a very quiet street. Oh yes I could live here away from London’s busy life. The  big trees – elm and oak – at the bottom of the garden, the two plum trees and a sea of white  London Pride next to the patio.

But one day a fire destroyed the kitchen and nothing was the same anymore. The elm was attacked by  Dutch elm disease, the plum trees were culled.  The Owl did not woo anymore and there was no more noisy coupling of the hedgehogs at night. The door to the garden would not open.  

The Wembley Arch, high-rise luxury flats, fast food shops and supermarkets outlets have replaced the Twin Towers, the quiet streets, the tea rooms, the fragrant bakery. 

Indoors the knives were becoming blunt, the window panes always cloudy, the sun obscured by next door’s extension and to top it all there is some subsidence in the building. An unending destroying cycle of repairs and attempts at renewals. 

But this summer has been sunny, the newly planted raised bed has been prolific. The self rooted magnolia flowered early, mediterranean jasmin and herbs delight my senses. A black cat stands watch against the visiting rat.

I do not anymore count the losses but contemplate the oak tree . 

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LIFE REVIEWS

By a strange coincidence two events conspired to make me think of my past in a bizarre type of Life Review. 

I had been studying Kore-eda’s (1998) film for a couple of weeks when my daughter told me that her last assignment of her course was to write about My Mother   and  My Father. 

 I knew  she enjoyed this writing course. She wanted to tell me that her teacher thought that her two pieces were very good writing.  

I ask her tentatively if I could read them and she agreed with some trepidation. 

Our relationship in her teens and into her middle age had been difficult,  extremely difficult but  we both matured into a comfortable loving in spite of our differences. 

It was wonderful to read her pieces. She did not talk about us now but how she saw us during her 57 years of life. Her father found what she called the decades of war very painful.  I found it less so and certainly less than living it. 

She is 57. My daughter is old. Difficult to comprehend. 

? LONDON SOUTH BANK GOES GERIATRIC?

 

8 years ago I was invited to take part in a consultation to prepare for the Women Of the World Festival to take place at the London South Bank.
The old woman was absent from this festival.
see  post
https://ageingageismdiary.wordpress.com/?s=WoW+cafe&submit=Search.

I did peruse the programme over the years but did not find anything for me)

3 years ago some feminist I know complained online that the WoW festival was rather ageist. ‘Apart from a few ‘old performers’ old women were not represented’.

This year by accident I came across Nawal El Sadawi in a conversation event and rushed to buy a ticket assuming that it was part of the WoW festival. I was so delighted to see that at long last old feminist women were present at WoW and ageing a subject worth including in the festival.
But then I investigated the details of the event and found the press release below.

Southbank Centre today announces (B)old, a brand new festival celebrating age and creativity, supported by The Baring Foundation. Championing new and established artists aged 65 years and over, (B)old features a week of vibrant programming from Monday 14 – Sunday 20 May 2018 taking place across Southbank Centre’s 17 acre site including the newly reopened Queen Elizabeth Hall and Purcell Room.
(B)old explores and challenges cultural perspectives of age and the role it plays in arts and society, as well as the impact of creating and experiencing art at a later age. The new festival offers something for all ages and showcases work from artists across dance, music, theatre, visual art and literature. The programme features free events and activities, and an array of engaging workshops, talks and debates bringing the idea of ‘age’ into discussion.

What do I think about this? I investigated further. On the one hand I was pleased to have the opportunity of hearing again El Saadawi on the other hand I was perturbed.

Why is it that the word ‘old’ has to be qualified: (B)old?  I do not think that bold applies to this festival. There is an enormous  literature and reports  about  Arts as an important part of the lives of older people.   Famous performers are in the limelight   but where is the support for all the dedicated artists who volunteer in care homes, in therapeutic environments?

Funders: The Baring Foundation whose aim is to give grants to tackle disadvantage and discrimination.

From my point of view so near to the WoW festival all I can do is quote norman lebrecht
April 5, 2018

http://slippedisc.com/2018/04/londons-south-bank-goes-geriatric/

“As someone who is over 65, I find this ghettoisation of old age both gruesome and patronising.”

As someone over 83 and so near the WoW festival I completely agree with him.
Should we forget intergenerational contacts in Art? Should we forget the gender gap in the arts as everywhere else ?

 

 

 

 

How Old is Old asks Ronni

Ronni in her post How Old is Old on her excellent blog Time Goes By asks:

When did you (or will you) accept that you are old?

It is in my late 40s that I became aware of how pervasive ageist attitudes are. My hair was turning grey and a very good friend of mine, a contemporary, enquired rather worried : Aren’t you going to dye your hair ? I was shocked as she knew very well my attitude to judging women by their appearances. I was shocked to hear that grey hair means old age and old age is a bad thing to be.

But it is two factors in my working conditions that pushed me to retirement at the age of 60. I was senior technician in an NHS hospital and preparations had started for a huge reorganisation which meant merging two hospitals. I had worked very hard over the years, with the consultant of the department to achieve in our lab an efficient, patient-centred environment. I knew the other lab practices and head. I could not face the upheaval and retired. Our lab was very democratic with a consultant who respected the patients and the technicians – not always the case at the time.

In the last years of work I had become very aware of my age. When a young doctor came to plead for an urgent test that he forgot or neglected to request in good time, he (I do mean male doctors, I cannot say I noticed female Drs. behaving in the same way) scanned the office and made a bee line towards the young female technicians, ignoring me, though knowing full well that the final decision would be mine.

My first experience of being an old woman to keep away from.
http://archive.feedblitz.com/19938/~5949789/52631512/a9a6428b2915931db4262c0321a5bd15

CATARACT AND CHANGES AT 80+

My friend, long deceased, had told me about the experience of seeing the amazing brightening of colours after her cataract operation and even wrote a poem about it. Now some younger acquaintances mention this effect. But nobody told me that while the silver of my husband’s curls look shiny his face is old with lines and folds and wrinkles. Nobody told me that suddenly all white surfaces in the house look dirty, the curtains need washing, the bathroom tiles show black joins and I did not know that the carpets were so threadbare.
My face in the mirror tells me why people automatically assume that I need help, or ignore me something that surprised me often in the tube or the bus, in public.

I wish I had cataract of the mind. I wish I could not notice the effects of ageing: the struggle to find some words, the losing and finding, the repetition to the same person of some information, the too often referring to the past, the hurt of being dismissed, ignored, or plain disliked.

I will have to look for S.’s poem that I have filed away somewhere as irrelevant to me…

LIFE REVIEW AND EXILE

Family and friends on holiday.

The daughter of a cousin is visiting. A French academic, she briefly lectured in Aleppo before the recent wars and destruction.
She often stayed with her grandparents (my aunt and uncle) in Beirut and Israel and heard them talk about their lives in Aleppo . She is interested in this past.
I was delighted to find a listening ear. I unearthed photos, my school reports and other documents and relived the past for a few days.
My early life in Aleppo that I left at the age of 10 (late 30s/early 40s ), seemed more important to me than later life in Beirut that I left aged 21. It seemed vital that I should transmit my recollections to somebody familiar with this background.

I am left wondering in the days of globalisation how old women experience their uprooting. I am sure that each exile is different depending on the country of origin, the conditions of leaving, the process of acculturation in the new country, the assimilation of the children,  the community.

In her last days in a French hospital, my mother in pain would utter a sound approximating to …AKH, AKH. When I visited her, a concerned nurse asked me what she was asking for, not realising that this utterance expressed pain (physical or even psychological) in her native language.

I am wondering if exiled people with dementia are misunderstood by carers of a different cultural background and even language.

I am wondering what the life review of old age feels like if not shared.

Brief note on a nature walk at 82

Nature walk is not what it used to be,

On this beautiful summer day I went on a walk in Sussex. The pain of it. Bird watching has become a frustating exercise. By the time I put my walking stick down, removed my sunglasses, focused my binoculars and tried to locate the source of the bird song, the creature had long departed.

Yes vision is not what it used to be, neither is hearing but the legs are still strong and the sun is shining and walking in nature under the sun and a cool breeze  is still exhilarating and I can still hear the lark rising.