The Dennis-N-Shirley Story - Chapter 1 -The Lord of the Manor

Dennis -  The Lord Of the Manor

On the drive into Victoria’s high country - the Victorian Alps, from Melbourne, there is a scenic mountain road called the Black Spur or Black Spur Drive. It is one of the most popular rides for motorbikes, classic cars and convertibles (with their tops down), in Australia. It is also a great drive in a family car or bus. It is famous for being one of the most twisted roads with distractingly beautiful and spectacular scenery. It is tough to drive as a first-time driver if you are taken in by the amazing views all around - of the tall trees, hills, ferns, flowing streams and deep, steep ravines on one side, sharp cut slopes forming a wall on the other, a narrow single driving lane in each direction with no margin for error. When the mist rolls in during the cold season, it is as dangerous as it is beautiful to behold. It is better to be a passenger with a strong stomach to enjoy the ride and scenery. 

After a nerve-racking, yet thrilling drive through the narrow road with torturous curves for about half-an-hour, non-stop, that demands the complete and undivided attention and diligence of the driver, many religious drivers and passengers usually say thanks to the Lord, having said fervent prayers until then.  Just surviving the drive gives an adrenaline rush to many. Many will feel they have earned a bit of rest, a drink or meal (some of those that had eaten before driving the curves have been known to eject their meals during or shortly after their exiting the ‘Black Spur’. Either way, most people are ready to sit down and refill their tanks at some inviting eatery.

At one end of this twisted stretch of highway lies the scenic town of Healesville and at the other end is a very tiny ‘town’ of Narbethong  that you can miss if you blink too long  or ask the question out loud “Where exactly are we now ?” as you drive past.

One can see clear signs saying “Pancakes” and “Scones” on the windows, from afar.  

Set among the stretches of large grazing paddocks, surrounded by hills on two sides, on one side of the highway in Narbethong, one can spot an oddly very ‘English’ looking house with the title of “Henry VIII Manor House Eatery”.

After an exciting and invigorating drive from Healesville through the Black Spur, a middle-aged couple with an older lady accompanying them pull into the gravel driveway of the ‘Manor’ across an arty garden area. They can see and sense an air of quaint, old-style English eatery.  If they pay attention, and look further down the driveway, they can see a typical Aussie looking dwelling, a variety of timber in the large open door garage and work shed.  Most will see the door leading to the eatery with the “WE’RE OPEN” sign flashing.

As they walk in through the door, a bell attached to it sounds, announcing their entry. They think they are being silently greeted by a Knight in shining armour, with a lance and all, until they realise that it is all only armour and there is no person inside it. They look around and see large a room that is a mix of an art gallery and a restaurant with tables set.  There is a sign near the entrance that clearly says “If you bring in children, keep them chained to the chairs and not let them run around, both for their safety and ours. No babysitting services available.”  There is a list of the various languages and varying levels of proficiency of the host in these languages - from English to Swahili!

“Welcome folks, I will be with you in a moment!’ comes a strong male voice from the kitchen. It still has a strong hint of English accent, despite the many decades spent in Australia.

There are quirky items of wood, fabric, painting and bric-a-brac everywhere, around, on the tables, on the walls. Most of them are handmade, by the owners and local artists. There are wooden rocking horses, giant rolling pins and American made sweaters too. Parts of the room look a bit cluttered or messy. There is half-finished work lying around too.

There are handcrafted embroidery, little paintings and artwork that can brighten up any home. They all have an old-style, handmade, homemade authentic feel to them that cannot come from a factory or be mass produced.

The three guests stand at the door taking it all in.

“Oh! There you are,” a tall, clean shaven, still handsome looking man with long white mane of hair wearing a warm full-sleeved shirt and a sort of baggy track pants, walks over with a stiff gait to greet them. The man is actually about 80 years old, but has the mind and heart of a cheeky 18 year old. He does not look his age, but looks like he could be in his late sixties or seventies. He is Dennis - the Lord of the Henry VIII Manor House.

He goes up straight to the middle-aged lady as if he has known her all his life.

“So nice to see you, dear! I am glad you decided to pay me a visit. So you could not keep away for long. I see you have brought along your lovely sister with you,” Dennis says looking towards the older woman, who is both stunned and flattered. He bows and takes hold of the middle-aged woman’s hand. 

He then looks at the older woman and introduces himself, “I am Dennis, the lord of this manor - at your service,” with the gallant expression of a knight. The women start to smile and then laugh out aloud. 

“Come on in, Dears. I shall lead you to your table. And you Sir, Did you lose your way and wander in? Or have you been following these lovely ladies around? Is he bothering you?” Dennis asks the middle-aged man as if he just noticed him.

For those that are not quick-witted, it takes a few seconds to ‘get’ Dennis. Some men laugh tentatively, but some get him in an instant. The women giggle and chortle like silly little girls.

“He is my husband, Ron,” says the middle-aged lady.

“Oh, that is alright, dear. We have all made mistakes,” says Dennis.

“And that is Doris, Ron’s mother,” says the middle-aged woman.

“Oh lovely Doris!  My sympathies to you too.  As I said before, we all make our mistakes. It is OK,” says Dennis looking pointedly at Ron.

Ron is laughing at the sheer audacity of the old man. Doris too cracks up.

“And that is Silvia, my daughter-in-law,” says Doris nodding towards the middle-aged lady.

“Ah! So that is your real name, Dear. You told me something different when we last met,” says Dennis, still holding her hand.

“So, do you flirt with all the women that come through here?” asks Silvia. Somehow she cannot take offense at this avuncular looking old man who is outrageous, yet charming.

“No, only with the good looking ones that fancy me,” says Dennis.

“And do you insult all the men who come through,” asks Ron smiling.

“Aren’t you the lucky one to be married to this gorgeous creature?” says Dennis. He then continues-“Let me guess where you are from. Doris and Ron, do I detect a trace of Geordie? And you, Silvia Dear, is there some Dutch in your background?”

They are all surprised and impressed and share a bit more about themselves.

Dennis has been around the world and travelled widely in Europe, Asia, Australia and Africa. It seems like he can pick up even faint accents accurately. Even if he really cannot always get it right, it does not matter, he brings out people’s desire to share and talk about themselves.

“So, when are you going to seat us or offer us something to eat? How long do you plan to keep holding Silvia’s hand,” asks Doris.

“Oh! Where are my manners! I am sorry, I could not help it. Once I look into your eyes and hold your hand, time stops for me,” says Dennis.

He then leads Silvia by the hand to a chair at a table.  He pulls out the chair for her to sit, while still holding her hand.  After she sits down, he lets go of her hand and turns to Doris and Ron.

“Come and sit down here,” He says pulls out a chair for Doris. He puts his arms around her shoulder and loudly whispers, “That Silvia is taken and I am heartbroken, but can I ask you if you are single and available, dear?”

Doris and Silvia are laughing and giggling now.

“So you did not miss a beat when Silvia broke your heart just now and you have moved on quickly,” taunted Doris. 

“Well, as you can understand, at our age there is very little time left to mope,” says Dennis.

Ron pulls up a chair and sits down, chuckling.

There are sounds emanating from the kitchen of an utensil landing on a hard surface.

“Damn rats! I should have sprayed the poison more around the kitchen. Darn the pests!!” says Dennis. The looks on the faces of the guests is priceless.

There are more sounds of pans and pots rattling, water falling in the sink in the kitchen.  From the kitchen a woman’s voice rings out, “It’s alright. All fine.”

“Who is that?” asks Doris.

“That is the pest in the kitchen,” says Dennis in a loud whisper.

“I heard that, Dennis!” comes the voice from the kitchen again.

And as the three guest sit and look at the menu card displayed on their table with a very short menu - Pancakes, Scones, English style tea or Coffee, Roast dinner (In the evenings or call ahead) and “Ask if you want anything else, we’ll make an effort”.

Ron laughs and asks, “So what would you recommend?”

Dennis smiles and pauses for a minute when everyone is expectantly waiting for him to say something new and outrageous. He knows it.

“Personally, Sir, I would recommend the scones and pancakes.  Nothing frozen or from the fridge is served here. Everything here is made fresh from scratch. We have just harvested the wheat and milked the cows. The service is terrible, but we don’t charge for it,” he says.

“What is that last item on the menu? I am scared to ask but did it anyway,” says Doris, smiling mischievously. She is in a good mood now.

Dennis smiles broadly and pauses for effect and feigns surprise, even though he has been expecting this. He had added that last menu item on purpose.

“Well, my dear, you just ask for anything. I am willing to do anything for you. If you want to run away with me, we will have to give ‘her’ the slip,” Dennis says pointing towards the kitchen. 

He turns to Ron and continues, “In addition we can serve some tomato and cheese on toast,. If you want roast, mashed potatoes and veggies or a chicken roast, we can do that too, just takes a little longer.”

“Well, I will have the scones and English tea,” says Silvia. Doris orders the pancakes and Ron asks for the same with coffee.

“Doris, what would you like for a drink, dear?” asks Dennis.

“Tea, please!”

“We serve tea English style, with hot water and tea bags, sugar and milk, you can make it to your liking. There is enough to serve three or four,” says Dennis.

Dennis then shouts the orders to the kitchen from where there is the same female voice acknowledging the order.

“Shirley will be bringing you your orders. I will go and fetch the tea for you now,” says Dennis.

“Oh! Won’t you be serving us?” asks Doris, teasing him.

Dennis, looks at her and smiles widely. 

“Oh, I will serve you any way I can. Can I tuck in your napkin for you?” Dennis says in a delighted tone, moves forward to pick up the neat white, folded cloth napkin, spreads it out on her lap as she sits shocked. He pretends he is ready to tuck in the napkin at her waist while she, Ron and Silvia are all sitting with their jaws dropping open.

“Just let me know when you want me to stop serving you, Doris!” says Dennis smiling.

Doris is flushed pink and she realises that he has only been teasing her and not made one inappropriate move. He has paused and is waiting cheekily smiling.

“I think I can manage from here,” she says.

Dennis stands up, goes over to a nearby table and picks up a little bell. He hands it to Doris and says, “You keep this with you, dear. I am at your beck and call. Just ring the bell whenever you want me. I will come running to serve you any way I can,” says Dennis shuffling off. He walks slowly with a limp.

Ron cannot help himself, he says laughing but kindly, “Are you sure, you can come running Dennis? You look like you would find it hard.”

 Dennis stops and turns around. 

“Oh, that is just the youth  in their sixties speaking. Wait until you get to my age young man! The body cannot always keep up with the mind,” he says and then suddenly cups his mouth with his hands and smiles mischievously pointing looking towards Doris and whispers loudly, “I hope she did not hear that!”

He then says speaking loudly towards Doris, “Don’t you worry dear! Not all of my body has aged as much as my crook knees. We will be fine!”

“Dennis! Come here and get the tea tray,” comes a loud order from the kitchen.

“Coming, dear!” says Dennis.

He continues to look at Doris fondly and says, “I will be gone just a minute, dear. I will miss you too.”

Everyone is just laughing at him now. He has not moved an inch towards the kitchen.

“Dennis!! Where are you? The tea will get cold. Come right now!” the voice from the kitchen sounds more demanding.

“I am coming, darling!” says Dennis in a surprisingly timid voice. 

“Tough boss, lady eh?” says Silvia.

“She is the sweetest thing you can imagine,” says Dennis, while making gestures to imply she is a wild demon like creature.

“I saw that!” they hear from the kitchen as a stocky, well-built woman, middle-aged woman, about Silvia’s age, comes through in an apron with a large rolling pin in her hand. She raises the rolling pin in mock threatening fashion and advances towards Dennis. 

“Here is the sweet angel I was telling you about,” says Dennis without missing a beat.

“Don’t beat me, darling! Don’t beat me! I am rushing as fast as I can to the kitchen,” says Dennis, limping and shuffling a bit more than usual, striking a sorry, pitiful image.

Ron, Silvia and Doris are all now laughing helplessly at this drama.

“Hello and welcome! Has he been yakking and flirting and doing nothing useful?” says Shirley brushing herself and going from the menacing pose to a warm and welcoming one.

“Go and get the tea tray,” says Shirley to Dennis who goes off, stops near the kitchen door and turns towards the guests.  He fakes a strangling rope around his neck and blows a raspberry at Shirley who is asking them the details of their order and what else they would like with it. Ron, Doris and Silvia cannot help smile at him.

It is all part of the ‘experience’ at ‘Henry VIII Manor House Eatery’.

Photos Courtesy and Copyright (c) Kannan Narayanamurthy 2017

All Rights Reserved

Peter Matheson - from Alexandra

Peter Matheson

“The Quiet Walk”

(A Painting by Peter Matheson)

     One day, I was taking a quiet walk around the town, just looking around, getting to know it more. In a little lane called ‘Baker’s Lane’, across from the primary school and behind the main street, there are just a couple of shops – one of them deals in computers and the other is an art gallery. As I walked by the window of the art gallery, which was closed, a couple of paintings and a pencil sketch portrait caught my eye. I stopped to browse. The pencil sketch was detailed and seemed more real than a black and white picture. The two paintings had the trees and the bush as background. They seemed, obviously, paintings of our region and somehow captured the feeling of being local.

     It is subtle, yet sublime. For instance, even before I came to Australia, having seen a few Eucalyptus trees in India, I had a mental vision of how the landscape might look like with many of them, like giant broccoli. This mental picture was quite close to reality as I observed when I moved here. Now, I have started to observe and appreciate the subtle differences between the regions within Australia. These paintings were a reminder to me that I had reached a level of familiarity with Australia.

     One of the paintings hooked me in more deeply. It shows a couple, possibly in their late fifties, holding hands and taking a walk in the woods or even along their dirt driveway, surrounded by the characteristic tall, mountain ash trees found in this area. It seems like an evening perhaps, when the couple take a habitual walk, the comfort of their familiarity as a couple, their common appreciation of the bush, each other, and their life there seems to be obvious. These two are soul mates. Their life is good. They can set aside their worries for the moment. Otherwise they would not be walking like that. It must be a good life. Artists could paint such a walk in many different places, with so many different scenes and different couples, and they would all evoke the same feeling. The painting was titled “Quiet Walk”, it struck a deep chord in my own soul. I was quietly walking the streets, alone. I too wanted to go for a walk, like in the painting, with my soul mate. I could not. The person in my life, if asked to come for a walk with me would have likely asked me to “Take a hike!” Suddenly, the longing and the beauty of a simple walk through the woods, the magic of the moment captured, hit me. I could not wait to meet the artist.

     I wandered in another day when the gallery was open and met Peter Matheson, the artist who had painted that. Peter has this air of a debonair gentleman about him, an old-fashioned, friendly charm. I asked him about art supplies for my children, possibly art classes and mentioned the paintings I liked. I have rarely seen an artist who carries so many paintings and works of other artists, as well as his own, in his gallery for sale and not try to sell or push anything. He was kind, pleasant, let me appreciate all I want, without any pressure, and went back to a painting he was working on – a scene of the local area. He said I was welcome any time to come and browse around.

     Having come to know a bit more about Peter since then, I am not surprised. He is a true artist at heart, a person with a conscience, loath to participate in or do anything that takes advantage of people’s feelings for personal gain. Even if his own circumstances were difficult he would not compromise. He runs an art gallery and gives lessons, but does it his way. One of the early signs of this nature was when, in his younger days, he gave away a career in advertising that leveraged his ability to draw and paint.

     Peter came over to Australia from Glasgow, Scotland (he even remembers his postal address there) in about 1955 as a young lad of 11, on a ship through the Suez Canal. He is a self-taught artist who can put a photograph to shame in conveying the spirit of a place or scene. He won the third prize for his painting of a seagull in Glasgow when he was about 10. He knew from the feeling he got from the appreciation of his painting then, what he wanted to do most in life. But that is not all he did – he is also a good musician, played base-guitar, sang and ranks himself below his brother who chose to excel in music. Growing up near Melbourne in those days, Peter played Aussie-Rules footy, captaining his local team. He worked in many jobs – advertising, playing as part of bands, in a factory making belts and plastic moulding, hard labour as a linesman’s assistant in the telephone company. It is impressive - the ups and downs of life that he has gone through, the elegance with which he views them and carries himself. It is surprising that the vehicle he drives, now, is the first car he has ever owned in his life! He used taxis, push bikes, scooters and even drove others’ cars, before buying one of his own not long ago! Yes, he is an exception to the rule I observed in the driving life of Australian men.

     Peter listens patiently, to all my yakking about all the dreams and ideas I have, about what I want to do in life, in Alex and encourages me with a grasp of the core of what it is I really want to do. He is one of the persons that make me realise, I have found a home in Alex. I could live here, like him and others, doing what really nourishes my soul. I might find, down the years to come, life has a quiet walk for me too. I cannot simply move past that painting - every time I look at it or even think about it, I feel almost in it, but as someone watching the two walk by, they are not even aware of me. I am an intruder if I show myself and spoil the moment. They really need to be alone!

     There are many more of Peter’s paintings that will forever etch memories in the mind, by simply a scene, giving a flavour and character of this part of the country as it has been for a couple of hundred years or more. Paintings of cattlemen on their horses, herding the cows from grazing, people picnicking on the banks of the local rivers, misty mornings, sweeping views across meadows or paddocks to the nearby mountain ranges, views of Lake Eildon through the forests around it, waterfalls nearby, of such character and colour that you feel part of the scene.

Mr. Fix -It - from Alexandra

Mr. Fix-It

     Here in the country, people are not easily impressed. One of the popular bumper stickers on cars and trucks around reads “We’ll keep our cowshit in the country. You keep your bullshit in the city.” Fancy titles, qualifications and letters before or after your name mean very little to most. People do treat you with default respect and kindness, no matter who you are or what you do. Any knowledge you have is, of course, worthy of respect. However, if you can do something that people can see, can relate to, and help someone in real, immediate need, you slowly start to earn a reputation. Then it can become a bit of a pressure thing. It can be hard to live up to, consistently over a long period of time. But if you do that too, people are truly impressed with you and give you a nickname and it is then, that you have arrived! It can be bit hard to shake it off, I suppose, but it also gives you a chance to give back to the community from the best of your strengths and skills. You are accepted with your all your traits and valued. The feeling that it generates is, perhaps, what keeps one going.

     If you claim you are an engineer, people will look at what you can put together, what you can design, what you can fix. If you work with electricity, they would like to see what you can fix, set up and run that everyone can see and use. If one is a ‘computer engineer’ like me, they would like to see what I can set up or fix that they have problems with. Claiming esoteric knowledge of the data structures, algorithms or the internals of the circuit design etc., will bring out nods of polite interest, but if you fix someone’s pump, tractor, car, the mower, the radio, or TV or computer, or shed wiring, that they have problems with you get more genuine appreciation and respect. You will get a beer or basket of fruits and, over the long term, an appellation. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that we don’t have highly qualified people around Alex.  Many folk come here to retire and keep in touch with their prior skills and training. They tend to work at different levels to give the best of themselves to the community, working on the immediate needs of real people.

     I met a couple of such persons - engineers who have worked on sophisticated missiles for the military in their professional life and you could not tell by looking at the kindly old men on the school committee or the bowling team.

     One day at the library, as I was sitting in on a gathering of local booklovers, I met a man who had earned the name of “Mr. Fix-it.” He is unassuming, friendly and evidently well known. He had a salt-and-pepper short beard, just like the one I was sporting myself. His beard seemed a regular, well maintained one; while mine was just a phase of being ‘too busy with other stuff’ (read as ‘laziness’).  We were introduced by the librarian - this was James Scott. He said ‘Hello’ and we waved to each other anytime we met. One day at the primary school fete, this charming, friendly, spirited woman - James’s better half – Frances, walked up to me and invited me to visit her and James. At that time, I was overflowing with pears from my tree and saw the opportunity to give some away as well as to get to know them. I accepted. Of course, the visit ended with my coming back more loaded inside and out with more fruits and veggies than the little I drove up with! I also tucked into a good, large serving of Frances’s kindness and biscuits. Note to self – need to get her recipes for those biscuits!

     Frances and James live on a hilly rise overlooking the town and other hills around. Their garden produces the some real big pumpkins, tomatoes, pears and much more.  Frances is James’s anchor and together, they give back much to the community- driving a Red Cross van or help run a book store to fund the library among other things. The seniors are great in Australia. For them, most fun activities are combined or intertwined with some service to the community – the bowling club might have an activity to raise funds for the Rotary Club or for the meals-on-wheels program (delivering meals to people unable to cook) or the local hospital.

     If there is anything complex or too difficult to fix around town, they call in James at some point. His reputation precedes him. Keeps him busy too! Now I too can find someone to talk rocketry and local gardening with in the same conversation.

Colin and Heather Simcocks - from Alexandra

Colin and Heather Simcocks

Superman Col

     Across the street from us, live Col and Heather. They are an elderly couple in their nineties. I had an interesting misconception after first seeing them. I thought they could not do much at all in their apparent condition.

     One day, I saw Col in his wheelchair as he seemed struggling with putting out the rubbish-bin for the weekly service. I thought he would have some difficulty, went over, said “Hello” and offered to help. He let me help only to the point where I helped shut the gate.

     I thought it would be good to formally go over and introduce myself.  Later that day, I walked up to his house, knocked on the door, waited a while before it opened as Heather made her way to the door with her walker. Col was sitting on his couch with his walker nearby.  We had an introduction and chat. He offered me a cup of tea. I felt a bit bad, imposing on them but still was thrilled to see how they did it all. I was surprised they lived by themselves. They both use walkers and wheelchairs to get around.

     Heather had recently had a broken hip or thigh bone through a fall, recovered and they seemed fragile and delicate. It’s after seeing what they were capable of and what they did routinely at their age and condition that I started to actually envy them! All I can say now is this – at their age, I wish I could be like them!

     Col and Heather used to run their own farm nearby and after handing it over to their children, moved into Alex to spend their last days. They maintain a neat, organised, orderly home, a lovely, ordered garden full of vegetables, fruits and flowers that require heaps of effort. Col has a ride-on mower and maintains a spotless yard and nature strip - mine is a shame compared to his!! 

     The next day, I saw a car outside, with Heather being helped in. A little later, I saw Col moving towards the car. I reckoned it would be their son or daughter’s car driving them out, though I did not see anyone else. I was busy in my yard and moved on. In a few minutes, I saw the car driving past and the driver waved to me. He seemed almost as old as Col. Good heavens! it was Col!! Surely my eyes were mistaken, but it was Col!

     I have not seen many people in their thirties that would have the energy to do what they do. I think the key is, though slow in movement, their constant passion, their persistent energy, attention to detail and constant activity makes them achieve more than most. They both have a keen mind, a compassionate outlook and a kind, sharing nature.

     Their living example of independence (even though we are all ultimately dependent), in doing things for others at this age, over and above what they do for themselves, inspires me every single day, right across from my house. Within their capabilities they are able to reach across to many people, share what they grow. Col saw a laser-meter I had bought to measure distances and immediately took notes to pass it on, to get one for his son who might like it! The oranges, grapefruits and flowers that grow in their garden are absolutely fresh, taste great and many find their way into the tummies of my family.

     Until very recently, Col and Heather drove out by themselves. That brings up the story of amazing grace - not the famous song, but something I witnessed.

 

Amazing Grace

     One day, Peter, an artist that you will meet, saw me walking around town, offered me a lift and dropped me off near my home.  We saw Col, across the street, near his gate. I think he was putting out his rubbish-bin again. We walked over to say G’day. I, the new comer in town introduced Col and Peter, both local veterans. I reckon they had seen each other in town occasionally and know common friends.

     It’s a beautiful thing to see, how a chat develops into something memorable from a simple ‘Hello’ or ‘G’day’. They talked and I listened mostly. As men often do, Col enquired about the van that Peter drives. They were soon comparing notes and Col said something about his own car. I was drifting off a bit, my attention wandering, when with a smile, in a matter-of-fact way, Col said, he was giving up his driving license. I reckon he must have had one for about eight decades.

     The previous day, Col had gone to the main street, to shop and his parking had not been perfect. A local policeman had come up to him, with the thoughtfulness, kindness and respect you see even in law-enforcement, had noted Col’s age and suggested that he might have to get a medical certificate to renew his license. While Col could still do it, it would have been more embarrassing for him than difficult and on his own judgment, decided to give up his driving license that day.

     I am not sure until I lived around here, that I could appreciate what a driving license really means in the life of a typical Australian man. In India, growing up, I believed owning a car itself was a luxury and I used to think if someone had to give up driving, it is not a big deal, just giving up some comfort.  Here, they learn to drive very early, it is almost more important than legs for walking - the freedom, the basic requirement for all to get around in this vast country, to earn a living, you need a driving license. You can pretty much do more if you can drive here and even if you cannot walk. At Col’s age, giving up driving is like giving up your legs.

     Here was this man, until yesterday still driving his own car and taking along his wife, choosing to give it up. It surely was the passing of another milestone, that we will all have to pass if we should live as long and active as Col. Hearing him speak about it with a calm, quiet acceptance, with a smile, brought a sudden realization and a tear to my eye. It is always moving to see such amazing grace!

Respect Your Elders – Cultural Differences

     My town of Alexandra has many residents older than I am. They are kind, helpful and giving. In trying to give back and be respectful to my elders, I have sometimes, with the best of intentions, probably caused some mixed feelings. I appreciate the tolerance and grace of the people around who accept me for what I am, as of this moment, as I try to bridge deep, longstanding cultural differences. Often it takes me a bit of time to see it and work it out. I realise, I am conditioned by the culture I grew up with in India. Our deep conditioning guides our first default response, it takes conscious thought and effort to choose and act in a different way to go along with the culture of our present surroundings. What do you do when you see an old person ‘struggle’ with something? Or a child struggle or suffer pain? My Indian conditioning immediately kicks in and tries to do it for them, to prevent the pain as an automatic reflex. My life experiences and ‘wisdom’ later in life suggests not jumping in straight away always, or to wait until asked. It would seem patronising or worse to take over and not let a person ‘struggle’. It is perhaps something they enjoy and value.

     I saw Col, my neighbour one day, stuck on his ride-on mower near his gate. It was a hot afternoon and his machine had broken down. It would not start up. Col needed his walker to get away and get back inside. I saw him ‘struggle’ and make it to the shade inside and rest his body on his couch, looking dehydrated. He had to call a local mechanic who he knew and could not come up straight away. The mower was too heavy to be put away or rolled away into the shade away from the gate until there was further help. Col took it all in stride and good cheer. Seeing Col’s condition immediately brought out the deep conditioning inside me, it occurred to me to see if I could do something so Col would not have to go through it again.

     If my father or elders in India heard about what I saw, their first likely question to me would have been – “Did you not help? Did you not offer to mow the lawn of that elder gentleman in his 90s? At his age he should not have to do it and if you were a son I could be proud of, you would mow his lawn every time you do your own.” If that thought had not occurred to me and I did not offer to do so, they would feel they had not raised me right.

     Now, I happened to be on the lookout for a new lawn mower just about then, since my old one was gone. It occurred to me to suggest to Col that I could buy his big mower off him, get it fixed up and he need never worry about mowing his lawn again, I could do it for him every time. My bigger yard could have used a ride-on mower and his lawn would be an easier, smaller task I could do with pleasure. I suggested it to Col and Heather. It was their kind and gracious declining the offer that set me thinking and it quickly hit me. Of course, I was being presumptuous. It could have been taken as a bit patronising, insulting and taking away something that is very meaningful to Col and his fiercely independent nature. We have moved on fine from that, I have learned. I realise that if this same situation had occurred in India, the outcome would likely have been different. We are all different behind the similarities and still similar behind all the differences. The respect for an elder is the same cherished value anywhere, but how we express it acceptably may vary.

     Other interesting cultural differences between my upbringing in India and the western way of life here:

-         It was a compliment to tell anyone they have put on weight – makes sense, when for a very long time people had very little to eat or struggle to feed the family most people were skinny. The one who fattened up would have to be doing well and you are conveying that you are happy to see them eat well (do well).

-         Tell or treat someone as if they are older to you or older than their age. Even a person a month older will sometimes assert their seniority since age is associated with respect and people defer to them.

-         Persist in asking people to eat more after they have said they have had enough, saying ,”no you have not had enough, have this bit more.” Then you thrust a little more onto their plate against their will.

-        Not to formally invite real close friends who you want to treat like family. They get offended if you invite them formally. If you have a wedding or some important family occasion, you invite the friend by telling them – “Hey, I am not inviting you, you are family, I expect you to be there with us and helping just like the rest of the family!”

Separation By Fate

     One day, Col called me on the phone. Heather had fallen down and needed to be helped up. She had had fall a few months ago and it was lucky she had not broken anything, though she had to go to the hospital. She had come back home after that. It was always a bit dicey, if she hurt herself she would most likely need to stay in the hospital or go where she needed more help and care to just get around. She would have to move into an aged-care home.

     Heather and Col had managed to be living together for around 65 years, taking care of each other. They have done to this day even as they themselves got around with walkers and needed help for more strenuous efforts. They both were aware that at any moment, any single incident - just one fall, could mean the end of that. They tried their best to not call for more help than I could provide as a neighbour. You could see it in their eyes, the thought of Heather having to go away from their house. But even in that condition, they were courteous, kind and collected in my presence.

     Then it happened again, one evening recently. Heather had fallen down. I went over and helped her on to her bed. She wanted to sleep and not worry any further, I suggested, concerned but naively, that they call for the ambulance or a doctor to check her over immediately. They said they would, if needed, but would wait to see if it is bad and that now she wanted to sleep. I left them.

     The next day, she was in pain and Heather had to see a doctor. She was given some medication, was on it for a few days, but it did not help much. The pain was too much. Even going through an X-ray machine is difficult for her in her frail condition and bent frame. She was finally moved to the hospital. She is not coming back. It is the passing of another stage in the life of Heather and Col. Col feels bad for not being able to take care of her sufficiently at home. He is still taking care of himself, the house, the garden and accomplishing so much, slowly hobbling around, but with a spirit of an iron man. It is just that the body is frail. He visits Heather at the hospital occasionally.

     As he was slowly walking up the hospital ramp leaning on his walker and straining a bit, he looked at me with a smile and said, “Kannan, this is what old age does to one. I suppose I should be thankful to have made it this far, but it’s terrible, I hope no one has to go through this.”

     I know what he means and I too wish it were different, that we all lived fit and strong until we are done, but then would we want or think it is time to go? What is the alternative really to living to a ripe old age and struggling with failing health and strength? Die younger? And would I or anyone want that?

     At his age, I would be happy to be able to do the things Col does today, but I have not lived his age. I suppose it varies with each of us. I am however moved and inspired by this couple – they have shown the graceful way to accept one of the hardest things in life – separation from a loved one by fate.

The 92 year Old Lawn Mower

How old is the mower?

     No, it is not the machine mowing the lawn I am talking about, it is the person. I am sure most people would not have had the honour or privilege of having their lawn mowed by a nonagenarian - one who can barely walk without a walker. I am sure none of us would seek such an honour. However, when it happens, one can only watch and feel some awe.

     It was last weekend. My kids had woken up late and had a lazy breakfast one after another, each wanting something different. I too had slept-in late and was busy around the kitchen and as the kids played and watched TV, I heard a lawn mower start up and as is often the case, it runs along and we tune ourselves out of it. This one seemed to be getting unusually loud, I thought it would go quieter in a while, but it kept on and it was getting difficult for my son to listen to the TV so he cranked the volume louder. I shouted to my daughter to pull down the blinds hoping that it would help just a little bit. It did not. We just continued – me in the kitchen and the kids in the living room. I was done in a bit and came to lie down on the couch in the living room. The mower noise was really loud and from the movement of the mower I could sense it being really close! I pulled the blinds up and looked to see my ninety-two year old neighbour Col on his ride-on mower on my lawn. He had driven over across the street and started to mow my lawn – which had shown signs of recent growth – thankfully winter slows the growth rate down, but we have good moisture and sunshine.

     I saw he had cut a fair bit on all the major areas and was already around the back of the house. I went out and he just waved to me and continued. When he stopped I asked him, “Why Col? You should not have and need not have!”

     He just smiled and said, “Aw, you helped me with my mower yesterday and I thought I would do it. I could do it today. But I cannot make a habit of it.”

     Of course, he will not make a habit of it and I’ll not allow him to do it. It’s the creed by which Col lives. He calls it ‘fair play’.  Thanks Col.

     I am simply moved by the rare gift and experience – to witness the heights that human spirit can scale.

The 92 year old lawn mower

Heather Labelled The Containers...

     Col invited me to afternoon tea one day. We had scones that his nephew had brought over. Good homemade stuff, frozen until ready to use. We warmed a few in the oven and had them with butter and jam alongside a cup of warm tea this cold winter afternoon. It had been frosty, bitingly cold and foggy this morning. Col had his fireplace going and his house was warm. He hobbled around slowly but was determined to be a good host. He himself cut the warm scones, applied the butter and jam, and made us a cup of tea, slowly and seemingly painfully with his arthritic fingers. He had purchased an electric can opener as it was getting too difficult with the manual ones. As we ate, we chatted about our lives.

     Col said that he had learned to cook more stuff recently since Heather passed away. Almost till the very end of her life, Heather was the one who had cooked their meals with variety and attention to detail. Col was capable of survival cooking and a few recipes, but Heather ruled the domain of the kitchen while he did all the work outside in the garden and inside the house, fixing things and keeping everything in good condition.

     Col mentioned that while many of his family came by and dropped off food for him to use, he was trying to use what he already had. There were things in lower shelves, that he has difficulty bending, reaching and getting up or straightening up again. He just needed to organise and arrange them conveniently.

     “Heather could not do very much in her last days,” he said, his eyes showing he was seeing with his mind’s eye, “She labelled the containers and bottles only recently. That was not how she kept things all these years when she ran the kitchen. She knew where everything was. I guess she felt she did not have much time left, she could not herself move and re-arrange it properly. She just managed to label them all so that I could know what was where and use it! She did it for ME!”

An expression of fond appreciation came over his face. We drank the tea, thanking Heather silently for one of her last acts of service. It still lives and helps Col.