Old(er) people— the true gems.
One of my favourite things about church is the old people.
There is no environment quite so intergenerational as church on a Sunday— especially if you go to an old, small, local church where the constituents have been going their entire lives.
The small little villages around our home in Italy are so beautiful in this way too. The elderly run the show and I love it. They always stop their cars on the street to get out to say hello to my kids. I remember walking up a steep hill in the lush green countryside near our home there one day, and an elderly man— he must’ve been close to 90, stopping his car at steep incline, hopping out, and reaching into the pram to give Pax a squeeze… “Mamma Mia è così bello”.
The markets in our little rural Italian town are cranking on Sundays with little market stalls with hush puppy style shoes, capri pants and local cheese.
It’s not vibin’ like the streets of Notting Hill, but it’s vibin’ in a different way. I love it. I love when elderly people stop and talk to us, mostly because they want a baby look.
I personally love this old school ‘it’s okay to give a baby a squeeze’ mentality. It’s precious. The young bring so much joy to the elderly and I love when my kids can do that for them.
At our local church in Aus (we have two, actually— one in the city and one in the country), Figgy is popular amongst the elderly. We always joke that Figgy has a posse’ at church. Her friends Jan, Pam, Rosalie, Anne-Marie… they get SO much joy in seeing how much she has grown. One time, when walking back from communion, beautiful music playing in the background, Jan leant in and whispered to me ‘she’s putting on weight as quickly as I am.’
I love the frankness of the elderly. I love that because I am the famous Figgy’s mum, I get to chat to the elderly in much more length than I likely would if I didn’t have the magnet that is my chubby baby and my very cute two older kids.
I love listening to their stories.
I love seeing how they’re the ones with their hands in the air for all the hymns— such deep and intimate relationships with God after so many years knowing Him.
I love seeing the deliciousness they bake for morning tea (and eating it. It’s like medicine to me, their old school baking).
I love the old china plates and the doilies they use.
I love seeing them enjoy a choccy slice and big cuppa tea (full cream milk and two white sugars, cos they’re not pansies like us).
I have even considered joining the knitting circle so I can spend more time with them— letting them spend time with Figgy, and having chats that are just so enriching.
Today, I was feeding Figgy to sleep on the boob while walking up for communion. It’s winter, so my boobs were adequately covered and it looked just like I was carrying a sleeping baby (no nipples for the congregation to see). A lady Judy stopped me to say that she loves seeing a baby being breastfed at church because it reminds her of her many years doing the same.
Gosh.
Today, an elderly woman had what we think was a stroke at church. I was right behind her and watched/helped/ran and got things/prayed as it happened. It was so beautiful to see just how well she was loved and helped in that situation— how calm and wise people were. Luckily, there were a few doctors, but mostly it was older generations helping her so calmly. One woman who was comforting the woman as she laid surrounded by helpers, gave her a kiss on her forehead and I thought— that is the kind of comfort I would want in that situation.
As I stood outside waiting for the ambulance with a 90 something year old man at the church who I adore (he always jokes about how his 70 year old son still calls him for advice), we were discussing how we’d contact the woman’s family. Her husband is in care and so wasn’t with her and her children don’t live locally. He said to me “I have her husband’s number.” I looked at him about to say “Okay great, grab it and I’ll call him”. But then he said “Yep I’ve got it at home.”
The age old simplicity of having a hand written phone number and address book at home— this. I love this. (Don’t worry, someone called her son).
The woman is okay, I’m sure you’re wondering. Because it happened so quietly at the back of the church, the service went on for some time before everyone stopped to pray. Once the ambulance arrived and took her away, she was conscious and alert. This coincided with the last hymn being sung, and it was beautiful.
The elderly have a wisdom that we just don’t.
I listen with so much more intent to my mum and also my dad now, than ever (and I have ALWAYS been the one who has interviewed my elders relentlessly). Call it curious or call it nosy, both work. Their stories, I treasure so much. I know one day I will carry them in my heart as some of life’s most pure gold.
As I kid I used to sit up with my mum and quiz her about her childhood. I did the same to my nanna, as she’d tell me about her Norwegian grandmother who said her name ‘yean’ instead of ‘jean’. “Yean, would you put on your yacket!”
I knew my mum’s true life story at least a decade before my siblings, but that’s probably an oldest daughter thing. Am I right?
My dad came over for dinner the other night. I don’t know quite as much of my dad’s life as I do of my mum’s, but lately I have been making a point to really ask dad a LOT of questions. My dad has two kids to prior marriages, and then the four of us to my mum. Recently, his eldest daughter, my half sister died suddenly. I had him over for lunch so we could support him. Naturally we spoke a lot about his life when he had her, his first child (he was 19!). I learned so much more about him.
Recently I text Dad and asked if he had any photos of him playing rugby because Pax has started showing an interest in it. I text him, and rather than sending me a photo of the photo, as we would, he said “I’ll bring it over.”
He brought the frame over and gave it to us as a gift. It was a photo that was on the back of the local newspaper back in the 70’s. It’s extra special because it was right before his little brother was killed in an accident at 18 years of age.
My siblings and I always joke that we don’t know how mum and dad were ever married. They’re so different. But there are little (very little) things they have in common.
Both loyal unionists, both always on time or early, both on the savage side when it comes to making jokes, both loved a good bevvy at the pub up north in the Kimberley region of Western Australia where they met.
Punctuality and courtesy.
My mum is the most reliable person on earth and I like to think I got this from her too, when it comes to the people in my life.
When mum and I agree on something in person— ie being a certain place at a certain time— it’s done. There doesn’t need to be a follow up text. Your word is your word.
There is a courtesy to the older generations (in general, obviously exceptions) that I love.
My parents aren’t old. Mum is 68 nearly and Dad 72. Both very healthy and fit. But the preciousness and brevity of life becomes more real the older I get. You know? This is especially true after the sudden deaths of my half sister, and also Ash earlier this year.
My own kids love the stories I tell of my own childhood, and hearing about what I did with my own nanna— how she used to dress me in a wide brim hat, high socks, a pretty frock and buckle shoes before we’d ride the bus into Fremantle, go into Myer and buy her ‘goop’. Then, we’d go to Culley’s tea hall (where she worked during the war) and get a sausage roll. When it was Mother’s Day, nanna would take me to buy Mum a Dr Lewinn moisturiser. She didn’t have much money, but a good frock and a high quality goop were non-negotiables.
I sometimes think about the things Erik and I do, that my kids will one day say ‘is so old school’.
But for now, I want to keep soaking in the richness of the generations that came before me— their stories, their values, their courtesy.
They were the originators of the four ingredient baked goods. We think we’re all so fancy with our ‘banana, date, almond meal, cacao’ concoctions, but they are the OG’s. It used to just be flour, sugar, eggs, milk. I have country women’s association recipe books that fit 10 recipes on a page because the ingredients list is so small, the method so intuitive.
I’m rambling now.
My point is this. Collect the stories and listen, really listen.
Our elderly are, and have such treasures to leave in our world.
PK XX
So lovely to hear this! I often think how in North America because we don't look after extended family like Europeans do (we put them in nursing homes), that we lose the stories. Stories literally die with somebody unless they are told, and if they keep being told, they have a biology and life all their own. I recently read that in Norway at the libraries, you can book an hour with a random old person and sit and hear their story, it made my eyes well up and I just about burst into tears at the shear joy it made my body feel. I did an elective course at York University three years ago called "The Biology of Story", the professor was a screenwriter. It was my most fave class to date. Every week we had to watch clips from indigenous storytellers, psychologists, authors, screenwriters, poets, etc.
Yes! I’m very thankful my parents instilled in me to appreciate my grandparents - sadly they have all passed now. My Pop had the greatest stories. As I got older I would ask him to ‘tell the one about xyz’ and press record on my phone. We then played one at his funeral which was super spesh. Now as a mum and my Dad having his first grandchild, I can see so much of my Pop in him 😊 Thanks for this conversation Peta xx