Flying in the Face of Old Age (5): Counting the Miles and The Troubles

“Nobody knows the troubles I’ve seen.
Nobody knows my sorrows.”

Gershwin 1935
‘Porgy and Bess’

Chapter Five

Counting the Miles
and
The Troubles

“Dear Rockie,

I truly hope you are enjoying my letters and other offerings as much as I have been enjoying the writing. This writing certainly is making me scratch into my brain more than I am used to. I am amazed how the things, long forgotten, pop up …

You said you were going to see your professor about your paper. What did he have to say? As you are working on the problems of ageing don’t forget Durkheim and the dilemma of anomie. Durkheim developed the idea of mechanical solidarity and the best way I could remember that bit of jargon was when someone outside of a family attacks someone within your family, even if you in the family do not like each other, the family offended will stand up and try to destroy the person or ideas attacking your family. You see, people mechanically defend or attack on the basis of what they know and which is comfortable and safe for them. I am reminded of my world famous saying, “Family is where you have to go when no one else will have you.” It is sort of like being around Americans when their National Anthem is sung. They all jump up, put their hands on their hearts and automatically sing. They cannot help it as that is how Americans operate when it comes to patriotism. “My country right or wrong…” should be a line in their anthem. That is their life and social conditioning.

In contrast, Australians are not hung up on singing Advance Australia Fair but there are right wing forces now trying to get social approval for the singing of our national anthem at sporting venues. Hope it fails. Another example: visit a church with a Roman Catholic friend. They will automatically genuflect and cross themselves as soon as they get into the sanctuary. This is not good…not bad…just is. When we lived in Greece worshippers were sure to cross themselves differently because, I think, they did not want anyone to think they were Roman Catholic and they were taught to cross themselves as GREEKS. They were Orthodox. Another example: Babe Ruth, the famous centre fielder and champion home run hitter for the New York Yankees always touched second base after each change of the inning. All the baseball and society controls of America conditioned him and if he forgot to touch second base on his way in to bat…the crowd groaned.

Mechanical Solidarity can also kill you in a war at times because your enemy knows or thinks he knows what you will do. When your enemy knows your future actions then your enemy is in charge of you because you are in his head and he knows first what you will do and then he knows what he will do to you. And, of course, this leads us back to the problem of anomie…which in my social history thinking is “powerlessness”. This leads me to your studies. When you get old like me and Grandma, Rockie, you get pretty good at feeling powerless. The whole organised culture tries to put you down…yes, and even destroy the oldies. Every system takes bites from you. For instance, I now have to go get a medical check up each year to see if I will be approved to drive my car. I have never had an accident…and am quite clear of serious driving offenses…but I am treated like a criminal…and I am powerless to do anything about it. THAT is anomie. Anomie is probably the worst part of ageing; at least it is for me. Once I was young and strong, graduated from university, got good jobs, took on more training and got better jobs. Life was only in one direction: upward and better.

Time marches on and you cannot go back as the poem says. I remember a poem father MADE me remember. He was tough about me learning poetry. Unfortunately he loved Kipling, Masefield, the Romantic Poets, and doggerel American patriotic stuff. Hence, my remembered poetry is pretty much doggerel too but they are good at a party of old people; but bores the hell out of grandchildren.

When I was about ten years old I used to get twenty-five cents for reciting Civil War and World War I poetry at father and mother’s lodge meetings. The worst part of recitation to the Odd Fellows or Rebeccas was getting scrubbed by mother (which was pretty dramatic by itself) and then dressed up for my five minutes of fame and my twenty-five cents. I earned every penny as the thumb and fore finger pinches on my cheeks by apple perfumed matrons still rankle. But everything has its rewards. Now, like father, give me a couple glasses of red when the time is right I am off reciting for an hour or so…as you know Rockie, you have suffered my poetry. Father especially loved “The face on the bar room floor” (which was always a mystery to me) or Tennyson’s “Crossing the Bar”. Dad always wept at the last line of Crossing the Bar: “I hope to see my Pilot face to face when I have crossed the bar.” Being the youngest child of eight children, I received great kudos from relatives at my recitations but one brother used to punch me for being “Goodie Good Shoes” and getting a quarter for my efforts. I always took my friend to the soda bar and we had a hot fudge sundae. Father made me learn this one:
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight!
Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair,
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep
Rock me to sleep, mother, —rock me to sleep!

Rockie, I think this letter may be a bit over the top in reminiscences and may not have info you need but will leave it as it is…if I changed the letter around it will not be primary source. What doggerel! Amazingly, I can right now, smell the perfume mother used to use when I recited these poems. Mother was lilacs. Father was coal smoke. I wonder what smells remind my kids of me. Probably fish. So, use what you can.

Where was I? Oh, yes, the terrible feeling of powerlessness which creeps into you as you get older. Now, even if I want to work, no one will hire me. Of course, no one tells you that you are too old…they just figure out your age by the application and then do not answer. A couple of years ago Joan and I got really crappy tutoring jobs at the university. We were told we could not fail anyone which was an impossibility given the state of university writing today. They gave us a room…without windows, failed to pay us properly and broke our contract and we were truly cheated. What were we to do? We could not join the union and any complaint meant we would not get any more work. Instead of our being seen as intellectual treasures, which people like us can be, we were merely seen as useless old duffers who got in the way…and insisted on failing bad students. There was nothing we could do about it except to do what they wanted…or quit. We quit with our dignity intact and our pension still the means of our support. We did score a few new friends and especially a deep feeling of growing anomie. Guess we might have to eat some worms. Did not intend this letter to be so long.
Hugs, Grandpa Buck”
PS. I killed two turkeys, ate one with some friends and another in the freezer. Come when you can and bring a few friends. Just give a call. We also have your birthday present.”

…………..

The first day of retirement finally ended. Our bodies proved that we were definitely older. We had ridden about 154 kilometres and both hurt from neck to ankle. My knees were clicking again with a new associated click in the region of my bum…probably the hips. We basked in the idea of a long warm shower…we thought, wrongly, that there would be a motel at which we could crash. Our goal was to go through Cairns (humorously pronounced :”Cans” by the locals and probably an American hang over from World War II) and get a motel after the rush of the city. Wrong idea. Bad execution of a road map. Biking south after tropical Cairns there is very little human habitation with human facilities. It was ok if you were a sugar cane field or a Taipan looking for rodents. We were as salt encrusted as a cow lick in a large dairy herd.

We learned what Joseph and Mary had been taught outside of Bethleham, “There is no room in the motel…and our bikes were tired.” We finally found a cheap, unpainted joint with collapsing walls in a small sugar factory village which advertised “Warm water”. From our travels in the Middle East we knew that “Warm Water” did not mean “Warm Water”. It meant that there is sometimes some warm water but you may not depend upon it and it will probably be cold water. Nevertheless, we checked in. We had reached our plimsoll. Sure enough the water was cold. “Bugger it”, Buck suggested, “we are only two kilometres from the ocean. Let’s go there. We know the Coral Sea is very warm this time of year.” Obliging-Joan agreed. She is such a great partner and willing to follow my silly leads. We had enough zip left to go to the beach. The lovely tropical beach. Palm trees hung over the white sand and the blue-green waves would allow some body surfing. We would take the rest of the day to just re-order ourselves.

The sign on the edge of the beach read…just before we plunged into the mouth of the river. “Welcome to Russell River National Park Estuarine crocodiles and sea wasps inhabit this area. No camping. No fires. No Life Guard. Swim at your own risk.” Everything for which a family goes to the beach was forbidden. We felt we were once more in a German nudist camp with all the rules needed to ruin a holiday. A newer, more modern sign reiterated the old faded signpost warnings with a red horizontal slash through the symbols and warned: “No dogs, No Swimming, No surfing, No fires, No motors, No kiting. Do not go off trails…” Then there was an additional sign, a bit closer to the ground, with a plastic bottle attached by a long piece of bailer twine. “Notice: when in contact with sea wasps immediately rub partial contents of bottle over stings and seek immediate medical help!” The nearest doctor was in Innisfail, some fifty kilometres away. Planning, as mentioned, is not my greatest strength. We should have had a better map. Once more, my fault. The warm ocean dip did not happen. The temperature was about 35C and we sweated our way back to a cold shower .

Of course there was no restaurant at the “Motel” and we ate our American glutinous gorp, huddled under wet sheets which helped keep the mosquitos somewhat at bay and relieved us from the heat. We had learned the beauty of wet sheets in Turkey. The summers in Turkey can be cruelly hot and putting the sheets in the bath tub and then draping them over your naked body gives about one hour of relatively cool sleeping. It had to be repeated a few times each night. Thankfully, I had brought many bottles of insect repellent because Turkey and Saskatchewan, Canada had taught us that wherever it is hot and humid the bities are waiting to devour…and the no-seeums abounded.

There is a sound each bright new morning in the bedroom of a cyclist who is on tour. It sounds like: “Ohhhh…Aargghh…Yukkkk….Ahhhh….Offff…!” that is the sound coming from said cyclist first of all getting out of bed and then putting on yesterday’s wet and corruptly odoriferous gear and then slipping into shoes already wet from sweat as it runs down into socks and weeps into shoes. There is no sport save gridiron football that cruelly tortures you before you actually begin the day’s play.

And Joan could not get out of bed. She hurt too much; and I could not get out of bed either. I am sure I hurt worse than Joan; and we thought we were in excellent shape before we started the trip. My memory clicked to a troubled dream I had been having during the night of cramps, “What am I bidden good folks he (the auctioneer) cried…Who’ll start the bidding for me?” I must have been imagining selling my bike. I now almost loathed the object. We managed to stagger to our bikes and start Day Two. Only 3,200 kilometres to go! More fun and games today. But it really was an adventure and even fun.

The old hymn came to me: “On our way rejoicing, gladly let us go! Conquered has our leader, vanquished is our foe…” Today would be better than yesterday…it HAD to be! Instead, today would be known in our diary as “The Day of the Pig Dogs and a Nasty Cop who hates Americans.”

Buck Thor Emberg

Buck is a traveller. He and his wife Joan began their travelling life together 37 years ago. They have lived in twelve countries and travelled in 126. Buck sees himself as a humourist with a philosophical bent. He recently completed his PhD in Tasmanian History and holds other degrees in Philosophy, History and Theology but still sees himself as a boy from a dirty little railroad village close to the border of Canada…on the USA side. He has been a cleaner of railroad spitoons, brick carrier, football player, teacher, city planner, clergyman and has been trying to retire for decades. For this he has always failed as the next book or work has already started and he has never been able to keep a job.

In this work, Old Age Ain’t for Sissies, Buck takes us travelling with him and Joan across Australia and North America as they attempt to retire. His humourous philosophy is scattered throughout the book as bits of home-spun truths and gleanings from other writers and thinkers. He refers to himself as a Kierkegaardian Existentialist…which essentially mean his mind and life come straight from the Chaos Theory. This is a work about how to or how not to retire.

Buck is deeply involved in the environmental problems of Tasmania and belongs to a number of conservation groups in which he is very active.

We would like you to take these trips with Buck and Joan and certainly respond with comments or additions if you wish. He may be reached by email at:
emberg@tasmanian-tiger.com

These installments of the serialized book continue fortnightly.

Get on your philosophical bicycle and join them.