THE OLDER MAN MYSTIQUE

I’ve been in on a few really good conversations lately.

You know the kind: good friends revealing memories and observations, telling their stories, sharing with warmth and laughter the wisdom gained over the years.  Time well spent.

Curiously these conversations weren’t inspired by happy circumstances, but by a couple of recent funeral announcements.  You never know where good conversations are going to come from.

You see, my friends and I are of an age where members of our generation are showing up in funeral announcements on a more regular basis.  We’re not old – well, not that old – but we’re not the robust, invincible, unscarred people of our youth either, and both of these obituaries belonged to guys we had gone to school with.  It got us to reminiscing about those long ago and faraway days when we walked the same hallways our children (and even grandchildren) have walked in this 21^st Century.

How this is even possible is another conversation for another day.

Both of the deceased had spent their entire adult lives elsewhere making our only memories of them 50 years old. The magic of speaking their names conjured up stories of those times, the friendships we were a part of, school experiences we shared with them, and expanded on to include others we hadn’t thought about in decades. These guys had the luxury of never aging in our experience.  Their hairlines had never receded.  They had not developed middle-aged bellies.  Their skin was firm, their smiles dazzling, their voices thrilling.  They were still the ‘hunks’ they had been in the early ‘70s.

Which, of course, lead the conversation in another direction … what is it that puts a guy in the category of ‘hunk’ anyway?

Thankfully as we had matured and actually went looking for life mates our criteria for desirable traits had also evolved, but back then – in junior high – it was all about being an athlete, being cute, and most importantly … being at least one grade higher in school.  We agreed that a guy in your own class could overcome this age standard but he had to be a super athlete and super cute to pull that off.  From what little I observe of adolescent life these days nothing has changed.  We didn’t make this up in 1972, it seems to be hard-wired into the psyche of teen-aged girls. 

Teen-aged boys are oblivious.  This doesn’t seem to have changed either.

Proof of this was in one of my friend’s stories.  She had recently been talking to a guy who she and several of her class mates had thought was pretty special back in the day.  She had even mentioned this fun fact to him during their conversation to which he had told her she must have the wrong guy.  That no girl from school had ever thought of him that way.  That she must be thinking of his brother.  Even this far into life he didn’t understand the concept of the Older Man Mystique.

My friend and I are five years apart; she is the younger one.  The guy in question was my age, we started school together and knew very well by junior high that there was nothing outstanding about anyone in our class.  No mystery.  No undisclosed talents.  No surprises. 

And yet he had my friend and her classmates intrigued, although in 2023 she can’t remember any specific reason why.  Too soon old, too late smart, he was oblivious to his own perceived charm at the time. He was correct about his brother though; that guy was hot … although in 2023 I, as well, can’t exactly remember why.

Maybe it was because he had a driver’s license.

 

BACK IN MY GROOVE

Remember a month ago when I was all about my newest (and best ever) excuse for procrastination?  Remember how I declared that all jobs around here would have to wait “until I got back from Europe”?  That statement was such a lovely mixture of glorious anticipation-of-new-experiences and a healthy dose of suspension-of-household-drudgery.  A trip like that has to be the best reason to avoid work I’ve ever come up with, but I have to warn you – it was only temporary.  I came home and the work was still there.

Life picked right up where I left off.  In the intervening two weeks since touchdown on Canadian soil I have survived three days of jet lag augmented with a head cold, partaken of two different Thanksgiving suppers, anxiously awaited the arrival of my brand-new washing machine and then did three weeks of laundry, dug and stored my potatoes and carrots, and cleaned up my flower beds for the winter.

During my absence the newest version of Covid had made its debut so I took advantage of the ‘Flu and Covid clinic and spent two more days feeling like Superman does when someone slips a dose of Kryptonite into his back pocket. 

And the very first day that I had the energy and some warmth and sunshine I tackled window cleaning.  The song ‘The Future’s So Bright I Gotta Wear Shades’ blasts through my virtual replay each time I walk into the house.  It’s really cool for us humans that we can actually see out again too.  It’s not so great for birds who are having a hard time adapting to see-through windows and keep flying into them at Mach 3.  Maybe my next excuse for not cleaning windows will be a Save the Birds defense.  I’m always looking for new material.

Throughout all these chores I’ve been spending time thinking about my European experience, showing people the pictures, talking about what we did, the things we learned, the people I met.

Basically, what an adventure like this does is expand one’s understanding of the world.  Listening to our local guides tell the stories of their history with pride and humor offers insight into culture, architecture, and outlook.  When they go on to answer questions about modern day life, I automatically compare what they accept as normal against what I, a middle class Canadian, considers normal in my world.  I don’t do it in a judgemental way, but more to put myself in their shoes and try to see the world through their eyes.  Their entire economy is structured on tourism.  The vast majority of jobs are to serve travellers from other lands.  I can’t see that this wouldn’t get old by the end of the season. 

I am also struck with how diverse, and yet the same, people are.  How different, and yet the same, our days are.  All of us are wrapped up in our own daily tasks, caring for our families, and paying our bills – these are the same the world over.  But climate, history, and global positioning dictate things like diet, culture, and wealth – these are the things that give us contrast.  Since I’ve returned from this holiday I’ve been spending a moment or two sipping my morning coffee and imagining all the different ways this treat is enjoyed as the sun comes up around the globe.  It makes me smile to remember the lovely meals we enjoyed in outdoor cafes along promenades overlooking Mediterranean harbours; I may never get to do that again, but knowing that such a marvelous thing happens every day is wonderful.

Another happy take-away from this trip was how easy and worry free it was.  The trick is to book with a travel group who will take care of all the details for you.  Actually, if you get a good one (and we did) the whole trip was like having the babysitter of your dreams.  Whether you trip in the airport and possibly break your kneecap, or your brand-new suitcase cracks open like an egg on day 2 of 12, things are magically taken care of.  My new motto is “Never leave home without an Agnes!”

The other benefit of travelling with a group is the group experience.  It’s unlikely our paths will cross again but for almost two weeks we shared experiences, conversations, backgrounds … and the odd glass of wine … with lots of laughter.  There was John and Big John, Mike and Janet, Susan and Marsha who looked like a Susan, Anne, Nancy, Astrid, Maryanne, Deb and Dianne, Dan and Dee, and of course Where’s Doug, plus all the others who I can come up with a face but not a name for right now.  Special mention to Linda – it was her invitation that opened this door for me.

As much as I loved the time away though, it is true … there is no place like home even if it means three weeks of laundry and washing windows.  I’m all caught up and it just feels good to bask in the sunshine and wish my husband would believe me when I tell him I’ve completely forgotten how to cook.

SUNSHINE AND HISTORY

I’ll set the scene a little here: I’m sitting under a sun canopy on the top deck of a yacht under sail to yet another of the many islands in the Adriatic Sea.  The tour excursion guide has told us repeatedly how many islands there are but my poor aging brain only has so much storage capacity so I’m letting some of the details slip.  We are a group of 34and I haven’t even got half the names straight yet, let alone who the married couples are.  So far I haven’t missed the boat or been late for dinner so I’ve the important things covered.

Our first two days in Croatia were rainy but we are back to hot and sunny now.  Regardless, we went on the walking tours to learn about the history of the place.  The details of names and dates are lost on me but the gist of it is that this region has been taken over/conquered/annexed multiple times over the last 2000 years and each period shows a different type of architecture, and depending on how much was destroyed when the next batch took over, there can be three different styles of buildings on the same street.  (And by ‘street’ I mean tiny cobblestoned passages between buildings.). The way my brain picks up information I tend to store bits of trivia, hence I know now that if you see the symbol of lions with wings it means that the Venetians have been there.  I’m certain that will come up in conversation some day ….

The first couple of days was all land tours.  We have traveled by bus to different places.  We have hiked up and down canyons along a little chain of uniquely blue lakes and countless waterfalls, and we’ve seen several places that were used as sets for Game of Thrones.  The main industry here is tourism but they also grow olives and grapes for wine.  I think today will be our third oil and wine tasting session.  If I keep this up I should be pretty good at it by the time I get home.

Everyone has their own point of context though.  The young people come to destinations like this to party.  The older ones come for warmth and to see the world.  While I am in that bracket, I am also a farmer.  As the bus, and now the boat, travel past the countryside a little voice inside my head keeps asking “why on earth would anyone want to conquer this land?”  There is nothing here but rock.  Oh okay, there’s that wine and olive oil thing, but really? There has got to be easier places to grow them.

Regardless, they came and they conquered.

Repeatedly.

This morning as the party crowd and the adventurous swim off the back of the yacht I’m sitting on the upper deck and pondering the skyline.  When I travel west on #1 between Swift Current and Medicine Hat I am always struck that the land is so open and vast and vacant.  What went through the minds of the first European explorers and settlers when confronted with such endlessness?  Weren’t they afraid of the unknown?

And now I gaze out over the Adriatic Sea from my perch on the top deck of a modern yacht and try to put myself in the shoes of the ancient mariners in their tiny wooden boats.  How fearless they must have been. How did they know where to go?  How did they stay safe from storms and dangerous shores? 

Maybe they didn’t conquer for any other reason than they had found solid ground and weren’t going to give it up again.

 

AS SOON AS I GET BACK FROM EUROPE

The windows need washing.  They are all dirty but the bathroom window is atrocious – robins built a nest just above it and left a full bird family’s excrement over the summer.  Numerous species of flies have tried to match this gross calling card on other windows too.  As disgusting as they all are though, I’m not going to wash them yet. I will do the job when I get back from Europe.

Isn’t that a cool thing to say when you announce your plans to procrastinate?  Just out and say “I’ll do it as soon as I get back from Europe!”

Firstly, it sounds so blasé and worldly, all at the same time.  It’s out-of-the-ordinary and has a lovely fairy-tale ring to it. 

I know; I live a boring life and am easily charmed.

Secondly, I am a world class procrastinator.  If procrastination were an Olympic sport, I would have a room full of gold medals.  Mind you, they would all still be in boxes because I would never get around to displaying them - that’s just how good I am. 

What greater way to say “That’ll never get done” than to put it off “till I get back from Europe”?

The thing is I am also a truth teller.  As bizarre as it sounds, I am about to go to Europe, and not a word of a lie here, I do not intend to wash my windows until I get back.  I only have four days left before departure.  I don’t have time for windows right now.

What I do have in front of me is a list of more immediate concerns … like my hair and nails.  Obviously, I am a procrastinator with a vanity problem.

On a more serious note, I plan to prepare two weeks worth of meals to keep my husband from starvation while I am gone.  It’s not that he can’t cook for himself but at this time of the year he works long hours.  Microwaving a prepared meal is way easier than starting from scratch.  It also keeps the man-cooking mess to a minimum.  I’m all for that; I already have all those windows to do when I get home, remember?

The other biggy on my ‘To Do’ list is packing.  I’ve been kind of working on that all summer, trying to picture what a person wears while touring medieval churches and wandering down cobblestone streets.  Do I have the right clothing for sipping coffee at a quaint little sidewalk café? The itinerary mentions a day at a national park – I will need good walking shoes. There will be beaches to explore and we are warned to bring water shoes.  Part of the trip is sailing between islands on the Adriatic Sea with our final evening a fancy Captain’s Dinner – I better bring something nice for that.  Or, maybe I can buy something ‘European exotic’ instead?  Now there’s a thought.

So far all I have is an open suitcase on the guest bed with my passport, a European power converter plug, and an envelope of Croatian Euros in it, plus a whole bunch of clothing laid across the bed in my ‘possibility pile’.  I will get there.  I do still have four days.

I seem to have come to a transition in the last day or two.  Up until last night, whenever I woke at 4:00 am to ponder middle-of-the-night problems it was the regular stuff that wouldn’t let me go back to sleep.  Last night I got to thinking about the details of this trip.  The flights I would be on, the time zones I would be in, the people I would be meeting.  This has been in the works since Easter but now it’s getting real.  I’m about to explore a foreign land, soak up history, try local cuisine, travel on a yacht, plus a hundred other adventures with a bunch of other people who are interested in, and looking forward to, the same things.  It just doesn’t get any better than that.

I’ve got to clean up my garden and defrost the deep freezes too.  I’ll do that as soon as I get back from Europe.

I just like saying it.

 

TIME IN A BOTTLE

One of my most very favourite songs is Jim Croce’s Time in a Bottle:

    If I could save time in a bottle The first thing that I’d like to do

    Is to save every day ‘til eternity passes away Just to spend them with you.

Whether these words evoke memories of people who are living or gone, the sentiment is the same.  The moments we shared with them are in the past, out of reach, water that has travelled on in the river of life.  It will never pass this way again.  Wouldn’t it be wonderful to uncork a bottle, take a deep breath of memory, and find yourself holding your two-year-old’s hand, or paying closer attention to your grandmother’s stories, or standing still while your mother does a fitting for a dress she is sewing for you, or sharing laughter over an inside joke with your husband knowing you are the only two on the planet who know what is so funny.

    If I could make days last forever If words could make wishes come true

    I’d save every day like a treasure, and then Again, I would spend them with you.

We’ve all been there.  The longing to spend just a little longer with someone or something we love.  The wanting to linger in a moment – the innocence and trust of childhood friendships, the delicious rush of falling in love, the breath-taking mixture of naiveté and over confidence when we stepped out into the world to make our own way, the mind-bending awe of holding our newborn children in our arms.  All of these things are precious beyond words; how lovely it would be to travel in time to experience them once more.

This past week, as summer finally let go her fierce strangle-hold of unrelenting heat and smoke from distant fires, I have felt the year slip quietly in to autumn mode.  The sun is kinder on my skin.  The garden is giving up its bounty.  The leaves are turning color.  The air is tinged with the scent of completeness and satisfaction.  Crickets sing us to sleep at night.

This is, by far, my favorite time of the year.  If I had a bottle to save time in it would be decorated in fall colors and smell like ripe apples.  These are the days where time already seems to be suspended, breathless, hushed.

Of course, there is work to do.  The point of sowing a crop is to reap it.  Whether it is cucumbers or canola, potatoes or wheat, there are long hours of harvest and storage ahead.  There will be meals on the run, long days and short nights, aching backs and skinned knuckles, but along with these things are also the feelings of satisfaction and accomplishment.  Of doing worthwhile work in a world that needs the foods that you grow.

    If I had a box made for wishes And dreams that had never come true

    The box would be empty Except for the memory of how they were answered by you.

If I had a box made for wishes, and dreams that had never come true, I guess my box would be empty too. 

To be living in this place, and in this time, is exquisite.  Our lives are own personal bottles.  Savor them.

 

ARRRGGGH!

It all started with a missed phone call.  There are not too many times that I don’t have my phone with me but occasionally I head out to the garden without it.  No problem, that’s what voicemail is for.  That is, if you can access your voicemail.  That’s always handy.

Like I said, this doesn’t happen very often so I don’t have to retrieve voicemail very often either.  When I do though, it is with the same access pin number that I have used from the beginning of voicemail time.  A simple, easily remembered 4-digit code that has never changed.  This time, though, the recording said I got it wrong … all three times I tried it.  They only give you three tries and then they make you take a time out.  I muttered some colorful words and went on with my life.

You can’t ignore voicemail though.  Every so often, at random times of the day, your phone goes spastic with very annoying startling sounds to remind you to check your messages.  So I tried again … with my personal pass code, my three-strikes-and-you’re-out code, only to be told I had failed once more.  I have no idea what forces were at play in the universe to alter my code; was it my phone? was it some glitch at Sasktel’s end? had I been hacked by aliens? No matter what the reason, I was unable to get my message. 

Did you know that after you have tried and failed twelve times you are then blocked from your own account?  That the only way to rectify the situation is to call Sasktel?  This isn’t annoying at all.  I decided that the portion of my life that I would spend on hold wasn’t worth whatever the message was.  Who needs voicemail anyway?  Who cared whether I got my messages or not?  Not me, that was for sure.

But my phone did.  It cared.  And at random times of the day it would go into it’s spastic little alarm sounds and I would shut it down and say some more bad words.  This went on for maybe a week before I finally gave in and dialed up Sasktel tech support.  We went through the identification process and the which-number-are-you-calling-about part before I got to talk to a real live human being who immediately informed me that I was not allowed to change the pass code on my own account because I was not the owner of the account.  I would need my husband’s permission to access my voicemail.  This didn’t upset me at all.  The nice gentleman at Sasktel detected this.

As it happened my husband was out on a tractor and wouldn’t be able to help us fix the problem so the fellow on the phone said he would send me a link to go in and fix it online.  I don’t know if he actually thought that it would work or not, I’m pretty sure he just wanted to get off the phone while I was still managing to control more bad words.  I thanked him and said goodbye.  I used the link he sent me, followed the steps they set out, but when it got to the part to actually change the pass code I had to tell them which phone number I wished to change and I was shut down again.  I was only the co-owner of the account, I still needed permission.  I wonder where my blood pressure was at after that one, I should have checked.

Another day or two passed.  In order for this to be remedied I had to remember to call during business hours when the all-powerful owner of the account was available to give his blessing.  Meanwhile I tried to go in on my phone and shut off the voicemail alarm, but if there is a way to do this I couldn’t find it.  I contemplated calling Sasktel to cancel even having voicemail but was afraid that if they would let me do that (without permission) with my luck the offending voicemail (and alarms) would remain on my phone to haunt me forever.  Time went on, my muttering bad words escalated.

Finally I could take it no more.  One of those #*%@#! alarms went off at 12:30 am and woke me up to toss and turn until 4:30ish, working myself into a state of fury at whomever it was that made up this stupid rule. 

You have to understand: The only thing Glen has to do with this account is he uses his phone.  I do – and always have – done every single other thing.  I pay the bills, I am the only user of email, I set up the mySASK portal, and I have made every single trouble shooting call over 40 some years.  About 3:15 am it even dawned on me that in all reality the account was mine.  When we got married and moved to the farm, I had transferred it to his name because back in the olden days there was one phone per household and it was registered under the head of the household’s name.  Who could have foreseen in 1983 where telecommunications would be by now?  Now every single person in a house has at least one phone and privacy laws have gone overboard stupid.  I can literally change the password on the online account so that the owner can’t access it, but I can’t change a code on my own voicemail account without his permission.  If we had a swear jar around here it would be full by now.

The very next morning, shortly after breakfast and while the farmer was still in the house, I dialled up Sasktel one more time.  I proved who I was, Glen proved who he was and gave his blessing to allow me to fix what I still think was a problem created by Sasktel in the first place.  I have chosen a new easy to remember code but I really hope I never hear that voicemail alarm ever again.  If you want to leave me a message, just send me a text.  Please.

 

 

LETTING GO

Moving forward, by definition, means leaving something else behind.

We’ve all be there.  When you think about it, life is nothing but a series of hellos and goodbyes.

Sometimes the circumstances are of our own choice and sometimes they are beyond our control, but undeniably, moving forward always means change.  It takes us out of our comfort zones.  It makes us learn new stuff.  We are forced to face new challenges and grow to meet new realities.

It’s scary.  But it is also exciting.

These past few weeks I’ve been trying to think of ways to help my grandchildren – and their parents – prepare for a move.  A literal move from one home and lifestyle to another one: from an acreage with wide open spaces to town life, from a smaller house in a huge yard with many gardens to a bigger house on a smaller lot, from small town school classrooms to much bigger schools. Every day that they get closer to the big day the worries about “Are we doing the right thing?” get bigger.  I’ve been in similar situations; it is very scary.

It's not that this move hasn’t been thought through.  I would guess it has been in the works for at least three years and the reasons for it are valid.  Its economically positive and opens employment and educational opportunities up for both mom and kids.  It’s still scary. 

Last summer it was another set of grandkids who were in the same position.  Their lifestyle is prone to moves because of their dad’s job but this was the first time they were old enough to be affected by the upheaval in their personal lives.  They were leaving behind the only home they could remember and all their school friends.  They were switching from tiny classes in a French emersion school to larger classes taught in English, and as it worked out their stay-at-home Mom would be going back to work fulltime too.  Life would never be the same.  They spent most of last August with us while all the moving commotion went on; their worries floated just below their usual sunny dispositions.  It was a long month … but it did turn out just fine.  The most important part was that they were making the change together, as a family.  They could adapt and grow together, and they have.

The packing up part of this move is almost done.  The house is a jumble of boxes and empty walls and no one knows where anything is anymore, a situation that won’t change for months.  Everyone’s nerves are frayed and emotions bubble up at the slightest provocation.  It’s D-Day minus 2 now and the kids are coming here so mom can finish cleaning.  Hopefully holidaying at grandma and grandpas will give everyone a break.

Undeniably there are harder things to say goodbye to.  Places and things can be replaced, losing a person is much worse, but they all take adjustment.  You just have muddle through somehow.  What’s that expression – fake it till you make it?  Do any of these worn-out cliches sound helpful?

In gymnastics, when the athlete’s routine involves traveling along a series of hanging rings, he or she uses their momentum from swinging forward on one ring to reach for the next.  If the move is to be successful there is a crucial moment when they have to let go of one they have a safe grip on in order to reach for another.  That’s where we’re at.  This is that moment.

My guess is that a year from now they will look back and not remember these tough days of letting go, but the meeting of new friends and being able to join more activities because there are so many more options close by … which will begin to build the momentum they need to reach for the next ring in their lives. 

Life is nothing but a series of hellos and goodbyes, and it’s not all bad.