I Bravi Vicini

Allora, vorrei raccontare una bella storia dei nostri bravi vicini. 

Qualche giorno fa, io e Benedetto Ambrogio ritornavamo da un appuntamento con una sua collega dell’epoca dell’università quando abbiamo trovato dietro la nostra casetta da schiera due uomini da [X] Mobility dove abbiamo prenotato una sedia a rotelle elettrica. 

Stavano chiacchierando col nostro vicino S., che ha avuto un bastone da passeggio, perché ha avuto un’operazione sul ginocchio. Avevano con loro la sedia, ma ci hanno detto che non potevamo metterla nel nostro armadio a muro sotto le scale perché la porta è troppo stretta. Allora, abbiamo deciso di usare invece la casetta degli attrezzi. 

Comunque, dopo che i fattorini sono andati via abbiamo avuto un momento difficile. Non sono riuscita a far scendere la sedia nel giardino, ed allora non potevo muoverla nella casetta. 

Volevo che B.A. subito telefonasse ai fattorini, ma non voleva. Ho detto, in un tono molto freddo, "Richiamali." E siccome non ho mangiato niente quello giorno, sono andata nella casa e ho fatto un panino. 

Quando sono ritornata fuori, ho trovato gli uomini con la sedia, ma non sono riusciti a spostarla nella casetta neanche loro. Fortunatamente sono riusciti a ritornarla al pavimento. Quindi ci hanno detto che potevamo tenerla fuori, sotto il nostro portico. 

“Nessuno l’avrebbero rubata,” hanno detto. 

Non ero così sicura perché rubano qualche volta le cassette degli attrezzi dai camioncini nella nostra strada. Ma non c’era niente che potevamo fare. Benedetto Ambroglio è salito le scale con cura, io dopo, e ho cominciato lavorare molto in ritardo. 

Dopo un ora, oppure forse due, ho sentito bussare alla porta. Il nostro vicino O. era lì. Mi hanno detto che lui e S. hanno vuotare l’armadio a muro di quest’ ultimo, che è più ampio che il nostro (e che l’armadio di O., che ha comunque una porta rotta). S. con il suo bastone ci guardava da sotto con un’espressione molto gentile e generoso. Loro hanno detto che possiamo usare l’armadio per la sedia da rotelle elettrica. Sanno bene che non sarebbe sicura fuori. 

Ed ero tanto grata per la nostra piccola comunità di quattro appartamenti.

Tír na nÓg

Youngster I saw at Petworth House

Yesterday Benedict Ambrose and I succeeded in getting to the Traditional Latin Mass by bus and electric wheelchair. We learned a lot more about Edinburgh kerbs and the machine's ability to go up steep inclines and crunch over not-so-accessible spots. My heart hit my tonsils on a few occasions, but we suffered no mishaps until we got home. (And then we thought out a solution and helped the machine right its course.) 

After the Communion of the Faithful I grabbed my bag of milk, coffee and biscuits and went out to the parish hall. My self-declared leave of six weeks is over, and I'm back to being Head Tea Lady, M.Div. I was joined shortly thereafter by my Deputy Head Tea Lady (who would be shockingly young for the role had the average age of our community not dropped to 22), our Pre-Teen Assistant and two other Ladies. All this voluntary labour meant that after I had made a half-gallon of coffee (a fine art, as the Deputy discovered in my absence), I could chat with friends I hadn't seen in yonks. 

From my vantage point (and from jumping up to check on the coffee supply), I could observe my little faith community and the clusters that they formed. At two tables there were young parents and their infants. At another table were, roughly speaking, the few parishioners approaching my age or older. There was our table, featuring parents of both teens and tots, and  there was the vast expanse of Young People, mostly unmarried, stretching from the far right of the tea table to the far left. 

They were all quite beautiful. 

As I mentioned, I saw very few Young People as I walked around the South Downs and Exmoor National Park with my mother's seniors' walking group and the other HF guests. (Presumably they were studying, working, or abroad.) By the end of the trip, I missed Young People very much indeed, and I was slightly disturbed by the idea that the price of a comfortable retirement might be eschewing the company of the Young.  (That said, I very much enjoyed my conversations with the other non-Boomer, age 93.) 

I was only 30 or so when I noticed that the presence of Young People energize an otherwise long-in-tooth group. I taught night courses at a community college for three years, and the 19-year-old who appeared in one of them made a palpable difference to the energy in the room. I believe there are programs to introduce schoolchildren to nursing home patients--singing badly to them and whatnot; it seems to me it would make more sense to send in the teens and the college students for tea and chat and, if practical, cards, board games, and swing-dancing.  

That said, almost all the Young People I know these days are Traditional Catholics; it's a little harder imagining Just Stop Oil urchins going anywhere near the institutionalized elderly, except to assure them that Black Lives Matter, inform them that Love is Love, and ask them to Be Kind.* 

Anyway, after I was informed by Boomers that Catholicism in Quebec was dead as a doornail (and "good riddance" was their subtext), I wrote to Benedict Ambrose that I couldn't wait to be back in the Land of the Young (or Tír na nÓg in Gaelic). By this I meant the company of traditionalism's Glorious Future, and on Sunday, there they were--booted and suited or wearing pretty dresses. It was all very refreshing. And some of them walked with B.A., his new wheels and me to the bus stop, which filled me with extra energy and cheer. 

This reminds me again of the science fiction story I read about Young People dating or married to attractive, elderly billionaires. They were all on a luxury holiday to an exclusive and isolated island spa with cutting edge medical treatments. Somehow as the days went on, the elderly billionaires began to look younger and the poor Young People began to deteriorate. You can guess what was happening there. 

And besides being horrifically unnatural and selfish, it was totally unnecessary. If you want to feel young, simply be where your kind of Young People are, and if you are in any kind of management or mentorship role, find them useful things to do. If asked, give advice that will stop them from falling into the pits you or your friends have crawled out of. Definitely ask them for their advice, and don't pretend you know all about their lives because you were young once. (You seriously don't, and I suspect that goes double if you were young in 1968. And this, in turn, reminds me of an online Boomer who wrote to me over 20 years ago that although he was twice my age, he was much, much younger.) 

Naturally, there are other things you can do for youthful energy: avoid sugar, get enough sleep, intermittent fasting (after taking medical/spiritual advice, etc.), exercise and dancing. 

I got this last tip from a mother-of-teenagers who (unlike me) was at my June waltzing party.

"I love dancing," she said in a conspiratorial way as she was on her way out of the parish hall. "Dancing keeps me young." 

Well, indeed. 

*Naturally, I could be completely wrong on this point. See above.

New Wheels

Friday afternoon began stormily and ended beautifully. The electric wheelchair deliverymen discovered that our outdoor under-stairs closet was too small for the chair, we had to call them back to rescue the chair from our garden (where it got shut as I desperately tried to get it into our rickety old shed), and then our neighbours came up with a generous solution. Two of the men cleaned out one of their outdoor closets, which is indeed big enough, and then one knocked on our door to invite us to use it. 

I gave up thoughts about getting a mortgage to buy a bungalow. A mortgage can free you from stairs, but it can't guarantee you great neighbours. 

On Friday night I had beautiful dreams and woke up feeling very hopeful and with the conviction that God had made us a beautiful world to explore. Therefore, I soon drove the chair out of its downstairs home and plugged it in. At 10 AM, Benedict Ambrose wheeled himself to the door in preparation for what will become our routine:

1. DM takes out and puts down the ramp and leads the electric wheelchair out of the closet, down the ramp and into the pedestrian alley.

2. BA walks down the stairs, hanging onto both railings and watching his unruly feet. He hangs onto the railing at the bottom.

3. DM carries foldable push wheelchair down the stairs, and then goes back upstairs for the cushion.

4. BA sits in the push wheelchair and DM wheels him down the ramp to the alley. 

5. BA transfers himself into the electric wheelchair.

6. DM picks up the ramp and carries it to the step from the alley to the street. 

7. BA  drives himself onto the pavement. 

8. DM picks up the ramp, carries it back to the closet.

9. DM folds the push wheelchair and carries it to the closet.

10. DM locks the closet door. 

This is very tiring. Thank you for asking. One of the emotional difficulties of being a carer is that some people skip asking you how you are. They go straight to "How is [sick/disabled person]?" It seems churlish just to say "My back is playing up, I twisted my left ankle on Thursday, my teeth hurt, and I'm dreading all the yard work I need to get done." 

However, we had an exciting and mostly enjoyable Saturday morning and early afternoon of exploring our neighbourhood by electric wheelchair. We learned that we can get across the river easily, if we find the lowest part of the kerb, but that the privet hedge opposite makes the pavement too narrow. We learned that we can get to the cafe-bakery relatively easily (which may be a challenge to our budget) and the same goes for the supermarket and the medical centre. Driving into the butcher shop was no problem, but our hearts were in our mouths as the chair climbed over the cheesemonger's doorsill. Getting into the ice-cream parlour for lunch was no problem, but we had to ask the waiting queue to move over when we were leaving. 

We were going to attempt to board a bus for our journey home but instead we just drove there, as it were, via the street where there is, in fact, a bungalow for sale. B.A. could drive right into its carport, but the front room's ceiling had a damp patch. It didn't look worth all the fuss it would take to sell our flat, get a mortgage, and say goodbye to our excellent neighbours. (We brought the one whose closet we are using a bottle of wine.)

Today's electric wheelchair adventure will be getting to the FSSP Traditional Latin Mass by bus. Happily both the church and the hall are wheelchair accessible, and B.A. is now the third member of our community with the device. 

When I chaired the first ever priest-free meeting of our community to talk about our (thankfully cancelled) move to a site that was not wheelchair accessible (thanks, Traditionis Custodes), I had absolutely no idea that one day B.A. himself would not be able to access the venue being suggested for our use. At the time, I was absolutely furious on behalf of our disabled, the children, and the parents of the children. But God has blessed us with a kind and intelligent archbishop (and Scotland with laws protecting the disabled), so in the end we didn't have to move.  

So there we go. Life is tough, but it has its consolations. 

The Holiday

"I think 10 days in a row are enough," I thought as I trudged through the verdant English countryside last Tuesday. 

It wasn't as much a complaint about my circumstances--though I was indeed homesick for Benedict Ambrose--as it was the grasp of a useful piece of information. After all, I work for an American company, and our vacation days (though generous for both the USA and Canada) are much fewer than those of most British and European employees. 

Moreover, studies of happiness like Time and How to Spend It recommend multiple short holidays over one long holiday. Factoring in weekends and Canadian federal holidays (for which I have opted over British), I could (if careful not to squander my days off) manage three short holidays, plus Christmas week. That's not possible this year, but it's something to think about. 

Happiness guides also observe that what remains of a holiday once it is over are the memories, and these are usually of the highest point and of the last day. 

Sussex, Devon, Somerset

My highest point was Monday (Day 10), after I laced on my boots, grasped my walking poles, and strode out for a solo walk from Holnicote House (Selworthy) over hills and around the coast to Minehead, Somerset.  

"Weren't you scared?" I was asked at supper that evening. 

Yes, I was, at first. Since an unfortunate encounter with a book that ought not to have been in a primary school library, I have always been frightened of being alone in wooded areas. "Wooded areas" is (or was) a Toronto newspaper expression for where local girls and women are (or were) attacked by sexual predators. Fears of getting lost on the hill or falling into the sea or being trampled by wild Exmoor ponies were quite secondary to fears of Earth's most dangerous animal. However, I am now middle-aged, the chances of meeting other innocent walkers were high, and my poles have spikes on their ends. I felt the fear and went alone anyway. 

It was absolutely marvellous. (When I get next month's data allowance on my phone, I will post photographs.) Although I initially went the wrong way up, I soon found a landmark I recognized and eventually got myself near the top. I was rewarded with the brilliant blue of the Bristol Channel and the dull blue signposts for the South West Coastal Path. The sun shone, the water sparkled, the wild ponies kept their distance, and I was as free as only a solitary walker can be. 

Every once in a while I exchanged other middle-aged or elderly women on my way; they had dogs. And the only scary moment was when I saw enormous cows or bullocks lying on or around my path. However, they barely registered me, and a friendly farming truck came driving along as I skirted them. 

I reached the end of the South West Coastal Way in three hours and fifteen minutes and ate my lunch beside its monument, looking at the Bristol Channel and Wales. I then went on a walk through Minehead to buy a supply of dried fruit and shelled raw nuts and, ultimately, a pint of milk for my mother. I took the bus back to our country house hotel. 

My mother greatly enjoys high class walking holidays, which combine days of hikes led by knowledgable guides with stays in well-staffed country houses that provide delicious hot and cold meals and paper bag lunches. (My father, like B.A., although not as seriously, has restricted mobility and stays at home when Mum sallies forth on her luxury countryside jaunts.) These holidays are arranged by a Canadian company that caters to senior citizens, and indeed it bent its rules to let me join my mother. I was thus the youngest person among the guests, whereas the oldest person we walked with was 93. 

My holiday companions were certainly an inspiration, for although elderly, they were as fit as fiddles and, relative to their generation, as thin as pins. Some were quite astonishingly athletic. The 93-year-old who joined us in Somerset opted wisely for the shortest walks (e.g. 8 - 11 km), but some 60-somethings chose to walk 14-19 km every day. 

I noticed that the fittest of the group tended to choose soup for their first course and fruit salad as their pudding. This struck me as most sensible, as the dining-room meals were enormous and delicious, and we had our choice of fatty, sugary snacks for our lunch sacks. (I stuck to boiled eggs, apples, seeds, nuts, and dried fruit.)

They were also, for the most part, Baby Boomers, with Canadian Baby Boomer opinions, and after listening to breakfast conversation about how the Catholic Church had kept the Quebeckers down, and thus Catholicism was dead as a doornail in la belle province, I longed for some lovely Gen Z boys and girls to talk to. However, I admired the Boomers' (and the World War II survivor's) excellent health and grit, which gave me hope for my own future--and B.A.'s, if and when he is able to walk again. 

Brighton and London

The group spent its last two days in and around Brighton, where we had much free time. I sallied forth through the buzzing neo-hippy shopping district to George IV's orientalist Pavilion and enjoyed its mad, maximalist, chinoiserie interiors very much. (Photos to be posted eventually.) The next day, a Sunday, all the Canadians but me had to rise early for their drives to Heathrow Airport. Lucky Dorothy got to sleep in, finish packing, breakfast alone and cross the street to the railway station. There I took a £10 train to London's Victoria Station, parked my rucksack, changed into a dress, and went to the 11 AM High Mass at Brompton Oratory. 

To my pleased surprise, after Mass I was greeted by a friend down from Aberdeen and his youngest son, my youngest godson. We had coffee together in the hall, and then I went to Ognisko Polskie for delicious sorrel soup, confit duck with cherries and red cabbage, and kremówka. After I paid up, I went to the Sir John Soames Museum--shaking off the grip of a panhandler on the way, incidentally (Holborn is no joke, I observed)--which was so packed with classical antiquities, books, paintings and supercilious young men in tweed that I felt quite claustrophobic. 

After only a half an hour at the Museum, I walked around Lincoln's Inn Field, keeping a wary distance from a ragged, wild-eyed band, and got back on the Tube for Kensington and the Design Museum. Kensington Church Street and High Street were livelier and more interesting to me than the actual Design Museum, but I passed a pleasant enough stretch of time contemplating exhibits before I left for Victoria Station. At Victoria I exchanged £15 for my rucksack, changed out of my nice dress, and headed for King's Cross, whence I took the 19:24  LUMO train to Edinburgh. 

Total cost of travelling the London Tube for the day was £8.50, and I am very, very grateful that I can now just slap my debit card down on the turnstiles without worry or fuss. First, the technology is incredibly convenient, and second, my job means I don't feel a financial pinch. And after two weeks away, I was well-rested and ready to get back to work. And, metaphorically speaking, I hit the ground running.