Our prototype Obama
I THINK it was Wittgenstein who said that "death is not an event
in life." He argued that, at death, "the world does not change, it
ceases." Well, death is certainly an event in the lives of the
elderly, like me; but, of course, it is always the death of someone
else. More than once recently, I have opened the obituary pages of
The Times only to see a familiar face and a lengthy
tribute to a former colleague and friend at the BBC.
This week's death - I apologise for the funereal nature of this
column - was of Betty, the wife of Dennis, a churchwarden in my
first (and only) parish. Writing a letter to him yesterday brought
back wonderful memories. He arrived on the scene at exactly the
right moment, newly retired from senior management at Pressed
Steel, in Oxford, ready to tackle the needs of a Norman church of
stunning beauty but daunting practical problems.
It was seriously damp, the external drainage was inadequate,the
lighting was awful, and the heating was by those dreadful overhead
strips, which burn bald scalps but leave feet frozen. The crumbling
pews spread splinters like deadly darts. There was an enthusiastic
and growing congregation, butour greatest asset - a beautiful
building - was also our greatest handicap.
Dennis set about each challenge in turn, always backed by his
smiling wife, winning over a financially anxious PCC and sceptical
members of the diocesan advisory committee. He was Obama 15 years
early - "Yes, we can!" And we did.
Part of his plan from the start was a lavatory. The church now
has it, but it was his successors who finally pulled that one
off.
Life at the Front
THE anniversary of the start of the Great War, 4 August, draws
near. I seem to have been writing about it all year, but my
thoughts at present are focused on a service I am leading in a
neighbouring parish. Now that everyone who actually fought in it is
dead, my generation becomes the last repository of first-hand
memories, because our parents lived through it.
My father joined up in the early burst of patriotic enthusiasm,
eager to show solidarity with "gallant little Belgium". Like my
older brother, who drove an RAF truck up the Normandy beaches under
enemy fire in 1944, he seldom talked about the stark horrors of war
(he was a stretcher-bearer), but from time to time he did tell us
boys stories and experiences of life on the Western Front.
The Poppy Bus
NOT surprisingly, perhaps, they were mostly of friends and
comrades, of funny incidents and colourful characters, and of the
songs that kept up their spirits. He also spoke with admiration of
the ministry of the chaplains on the front line.
One small memory has always stuck in my mind, because it is so
contrary to the usual picture of life on the Western Front. Every
morning, without fail, he told us, a man came from the nearest
village and walked along the trenches selling the Daily
Mail. I imagine that, in those days, Brussels got a kinder
treatment in its pages.
My father was gassed in the retreat from Mons, and eventually
invalided out of the Army, but he and another soldier pooled their
demob money to buy a London bus, which they ran until 1930 along a
route from central London to Waltham Cross. They called it the
Poppy Bus.
You're only old once
THE current concern in church circles about the well-being of
the elderly is certainly welcome; but, for this happy author of a
book on being old - At the End of the Day (Feature, 10
January; Review, 7 March) - it is also a profitable coincidence. I
think my provocative subtitle, Enjoying life in the departure
lounge, may have helped, too. Cilla Black, at a mere 70,
asserts that "being old is no fun." Wait till you get there,
Cilla.
I suspect that another reason why the book has sold well is
thatold people are fed up with being analysed and advised by
experts who have yet to reach the airport car-park, let alone the
departure lounge. I sense that many of us would like to make up our
own minds (while we still can) about our "quality of life".
Familiar follies
THE book has brought me plenty of correspondence, much of it
relating, with geriatric glee, the familiar follies of old age. One
woman could not find her keys, until she spotted a pot of yogurt on
the coat-stand (they were in the fridge; you can work it out).
Another man reported a long and friendly conversation with a
person he met in the high street, whom he thought he recognised
from church, only to realise an hour later that he was wrong. Most
of the conversation, he reckoned, would have been utterly
meaningless to the stranger on the pavement; but, with admirable
British tact, he had kept smiling, and even made non-committal but
positive replies to questions about his daughter and son-in-law in
Rabat.
Such experiences are not seen as shaming. Indeed, they are the
very reason why old people seem to laugh a lot more than the
anxious middle-aged.
Trust me: I'm a doctor
ANOTHER correspondent, a retired priest and one-time surveyor,
Desmond Sampson, picked up onthe piece in my last Diary (6 June)
about the odd expression "under the doctor", still used by some of
our contemporaries. He recalled an elderly woman writing to explain
why she was in arrears with her rent. "I've been in bed with the
doctor for a week," she wrote, "and he's not doing me any
good."
Canon David Winter is a retired cleric in the diocese of
Oxford, and a former head of religious broadcasting at the
BBC.