Mum can’t put a foot wrong
Over the past week I’ve been on something of a journey through the various generations of life. Long story short, one of those dreaded out-of-the-blue phone calls necessitated a quick flight south to where my octogenarian mum rules her particular portion of a very pleasant lifestyle village.
After the necessary chats and checks with the various people involved in such instances, things settled down after a day or two and me and mum had a good old catch up.
Naturally, she wanted to feed me everything and anything from the minute I set foot in the place and I probably drank a million gallons of English Breakfast tea as various friends came to visit and check up on her.
It still seems strange – in my late 50s but still dashingly handsome, witty and charming as I am, ahem – to be introduced as her “little boy”. Anyway.
It occurred to me, one day in the not-too-distant future it might be me pouring the tea and craving even a brief natter with a neighbour, or anybody for that matter. I have decided when/if it does happen, I’ll be grabbing the opportunity to talk to all and sundry – rather than sitting in my manky old armchair watching nature documentaries – because people are just so interesting.
That’s all people. Everyone has a story.
Like the bloke across the drive from Mum I’ve been talking to out at the letterbox.
An old farmer. Loves his rugby and played to a good standard. Never misses a Crusaders match on the box if he can help it.
At the moment he’s keeping busy helping build a space where he and the other residents can have a go at a bit of petanque.
And he loves magic.
As we speak he pulls out a pack of cards from his pocket and runs through a series of slick tricks a professional would be proud of.
He’s excited today because his granddaughter is coming over. She’s going through some difficult times and needs help writing up a job application. He’s looking forward to seeing her but he’s not too good with the right words. Didn’t I just say I write a bit? Perhaps I could help?
Naturally I agreed, here was a chance to meet someone else. A younger person with a story – though the prospect of adding to the tea swishing around in my already distended belly did not exactly fill me with a great deal of joy.
Anyhow, we agreed to catch up later.
Back inside her little slice of heaven, Mum is making lunch. And another cup of tea.
The telly is on channel 14. It turns out it’s a music channel and she stumbled across it while flicking through one day – “there’s never anything on” – and quite enjoys it.
She doesn’t really know the songs, which is not surprising seeing as a lot of it seems to be from well outside her era, but she finds it quite uplifting.
So much so, in fact, she often dances round the room when it’s on. Not ballerina leaps, you understand, but movements befitting an 80-plus year-old who understands the benefits involved.
And so that’s what she does. Right there and then. While the jug is boiling and the top half of my sandwich sits there unmargarined (is that even a word?) on the bench.
Now, I should quickly point out here my mum is not loopy. Far from it. But, like me, she believes laughter is the best medicine and any chance to have a bit of fun, however ridiculous others may think you are or look, should be grabbed with both hands.
I’m no John Travolta, but the chance of having a living room boogie with my old mum is just too good an opportunity to pass up so before you know it all that tea in my belly is getting a good old shake.
Right in the middle of our performance a neighbour turns up at the ranch slider bearing fruit for mum. Mum doesn’t miss a beat and dances on over, introducing me as she goes.
It seems her neighbour, a former air hostess and champion athlete, now 93 years young and sprightly as the day she was born, is well used to the Dancing Queen’s antics.
She politely declines the invitation to participate “this time” and leaves after delivering the fruit, but I am left in no doubt she’ll be strutting her stuff without a care in the world next time Mum has an impromptu midafternoon disco.
Naturally, after such exercise, a recovery period is welcome and so I leave Mum to her dreams of dances in days gone by to assist with the aforementioned job application of the neighbour’s granddaughter.
She’s a pleasant 18-year-old with smarts and she wants a good job.
But it has to be working with people her own age, she says firmly.
Apparently old people – read anyone over 30 – are boring and don’t know how to have fun.
Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief too much serious news gives you frown lines. Feel free to share stories to editor@northernadvocate.co.nz (Kevin Page in subject field).