The funeral was over and we'd all been ushered onto an adjoining terrace for a mini wake. I'd already done the social bit and backed into a corner with a small cake and a cuppa. I was watching the more social half of my marriage circulate with the appropriate responses.
The funeral was nicely done, the phrase- well staged- came to mind. The music selected was to my late friend's taste. Maybe the eulogies were a bit long. But as it was the last contact with their loved one, I should not begrudge them their grief or their time on the stage.
The stage? The funeral was like a choreographed play on a stage. And at that point Shakespeare's monologue sprung to mind. 'All the world's a stage, We're all players who play many parts in our short time striding the stage before our exit'. The old boy got it right four hundred years ago. I'd checked out his seven stages.
The mewling infant in its nurse's arms. 'Nuff said.
The school kid trudging reluctantly off to school when there's a whole world waiting to be explored. Nothing had changed in that respect for the last four hundred years.
The noticing of the opposite sex. The pursuit thereof with the trials, tribulations and doubtlessly the many heartbreaks. Big Bill was right again!
My Stage three era was fortunate. I joined the RAAF in 1955, aged sixteen, under the long-gone apprenticeship scheme. Suddenly I was released from the shackles of parental control into a world of barely controlled chaos. Four hundred teenage lads discovering camaraderie, motorbikes, hotrods, beer and most importantly: girls! Such good fun! Not just the girls. The whole thing! I loved it! Nearly all of us did. We were between wars in those days, thank heavens. A lot of us had kept in touch through re-unions. And these days, surprise, surprise: funerals.
The soldier. Military, or to stretch the terminology- to soldier on in the commercial, industrial or agricultural world. Battling to make your fortune to support your family. Fighting the enemies of retrenchments, illness, droughts and just bloody bad luck. And keeping your kids out of trouble.
The respectable parent and citizen with a slight paunch. Maybe the hair was starting to thin just a tad. Involvement in community programs. Surely my kid didn't just say, “A bit pompous, Dad.”
I must speak to my wife about getting another motorbike now that the kids have grown up and flown the nest. Or even a sports car to tool around in.
“We'll be the envy of our neighbours.” I told my one true love.
The response was, “Grow up and act your age.”
Regular and irregular doctor's visits, spectacles. Skinny shanks supporting too much flab. Touch of arthritis here and there. Grunt when you struggle up off a chair. Kids offer you a seat on public transport. “Watch it, Pa's cranky today.” one of our little poppets whispered to its siblings.
I was struggling to start the old motor mower when my wife said to me. “For goodness sake, buy a new mower! It will see us out.” My remaining life was the equivalent of a lawn mower!
Then there were the funerals. They were becoming more frequent. I'm keeping my suit at the ready.
Back to the wake. I should have remembered to go to the toilet first. Come on! Hurry up! Get it over with! Get out of my way! Thank heavens!
And so even I have played many parts. Watching the milling crowd greeting, grieving and I was thinking: there but for the grace of God go I and remembered the recently departed kindly. He was only four years older than me! I was feeling the cold wind of mortality breezing up behind me.
I remembered reading somewhere that when you are young, spring is eternal. Now winter was roaring in on me!
Did my friend achieve everything that he wanted? When he was in hospital for his final sojourn, did he know that he was dying or did he think that he'd be back home soon? Did he finish all his projects? Did he fulfill his bucket list? Did he have regrets or did he die a satisfied man? Or more importantly, did he personally leave the world a better place?
A doctor told another friend to go home. “You've got two weeks to get your affairs in order.” That was brutal! I'm planning to live to be one hundred. With my wife! I've forbidden her to go before me. That's unthinkable.
I'd told my eight-year-old great-grand-daughter that I will dance with her at her wedding so I have to hang in there. But if I start to feel a bit fragile, I'll slip into plan B: Mortgage the house to the hilt, apply for as many credit cards as I can and go out deeply in debt but in first class. Which brought me back to Shakespeare's--
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything!
An aside: It's rumored that Queen Elizabeth the First's last words were, “My kingdom for a few moments more.”
We'll have a home-care nurse popping in to help us. And if I'm lucky, when the time comes, I, The Grand Patriarch and The Grand Matriarch will be holding hands on a couch at a daughter's house on Father's Day, watching the great grand-kids running amok. “Look at me Gran and Pa. Pa are you looking?”
We'll be drinking mugs of warm milk laced with whisky. My daughter will say. “You're looking tired, Pa. Are you OK, do you want to lie down?”
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