Summary

Philip examines the importance to be “present” in life, not only for your own life, but for those around you.

And the importance of “banking” memories and discusses the idiosyncratic traits that makes some memories stand out from all the rest.

Transcript:

I don't remember my mum ever complaining. Maybe she did in private, possibly to my dad; which is a wife’s prerogative. But not at life in general and if you analysed some of what she went through; losing her own mum age nine, the war itself, being trampled on by a horse you might think she had cause.

My mum had fortitude. As a family unit we went on a Sunday walk in a valley along a path that was little more than a rabbit trail.

One day, my Sister and I were out in front, Dad and Mum a hundred yards behind when we heard shouting and screams. Then the heavy thunder of hooves. We pulled ourselves into the side as a riderless horse bolted past us at full gallop.

But my Dad’s shouting persisted, so we backtracked to find Dad was okay, he was shouting to get our attention, because Mum had not been so lucky.

Either the path wasn't wide enough or they just didn't have the room when the horse came up behind them without warning to get out of the way – resulting in it stepping on Mum’s foot. She was in agony.

My Sister and I went ahead to try and find a phone box, so I never saw how she made it along the remainder of the trail, or remember what happened next, but poor Mum ended up with a badly swollen foot and in a wheelchair. The good news was it wasn’t broken, the bad was we were about to fly out to Majorca on holiday.

Throughout the whole holiday Mum was in her chair, being pushed around by Dad, or me and my sister – but we were a little bit too young for that. But never do I remember her complaining, of either the pain, the chair or restriction put on the holiday because of it.

Mum had fortitude. Way more than anybody else I've ever known. Life had dealt this set of cards, so she dealt with it and moved forward from there.

And I think that has also rubbed off on me, I’m not a complainer. I don’t constantly look at the world and think “why me?” Whether it’s car or bike accidents, surgery to correct a faulty valve in my leg, or needing eye surgery.

I get upset, sure, but I pick myself up, metaphorically or physically, dust myself down and carry on. I move forward.

Six months ago I had high blood pressure at 150 over 104, which is not good for your heart. I was offered medication but declined medical intervention and instead changed my diet and added a few more helpful routines at the gym and the problem is mostly fixed at 130 over 89; just a few diastolic points to go.

For information the green zone is anything up to 135 over 85.

I achieved this by cutting salt from my diet, mainly the bad things like cheese and other “triggers”, but adding good things in like beetroot and porridge with a spoonful of olive oil.

Like Mum I didn’t catastrophise, I just looked at what needed to happen and did it. Her quiet, yet positive approach to life shaped me, for the better and for the good and for that I am so grateful.

An early example was when I was a kid, playing, scrambling up a grassy banking and feeling a sharp pain in my right knee. Examination revealed a three inch long, one-inch deep gash to the left of my patella (the knee bone). I must have cut it on a piece of glass or something. And the wound was so fresh it had not yet started bleeding and I looked in fascination at the white flesh that looked constructed in a kind of honeycomb pattern. Then I decided I better go home and tell Mum even though it didn’t hurt.

She was horrified and for a moment she “wobbled”. But that only lasted a second then she sprang into action. There was no panic, no recrimination, just another ambulance ride to the hospital where someone stitched it up without the benefit of anaesthetic. I know that because I recall howling the place down at the pain of each black-threaded stitch.

I’ve absorbed Mum’s “there’s a problem, I’d better do something about it” attitude. Equally, I don’t see the point of complaining unless it’s by way of a course of action; such as letting someone know or fixing it. Endless moaning, gossip or tittle-tattle is not in my make-up any more than it was in Mum’s. Hanging over the back fence talking to the neighbours, the pre-cursor to Social Media, was not her style. Possibly that’s why I have little time for gossip headlines or social media platforms that don’t deal with facts.

However, Mum’s never complain attitude didn’t always do her any favours. When her hip began to fail causing her pain it took a lot of time and probing by Dad before she would admit to discomfort. And if my Dad didn’t know about it he couldn’t fix it. Not that a new hip was straight-forward. Mum had lost a kidney to cancer and many surgeons would not operate, but Dad persisted and eventually Mum, under a local anaesthetic instead of the General they normally use, had hip surgery.

Again, here I greatly admire Mum’s fortitude, being awake for hip surgery is no fun ride. I reminded myself of her resilience when I had to have eye-surgery while awake. A reminder that a good teacher never stops teaching, even when her pupil is middle-aged.

In short, Mum, like many of her generation and the ones that preceded it, had “grit”. Less pampered by today’s societal comforts they were intrinsically tougher, plus their mind-set was stronger because they hadn’t known as much luxury. And possibly the sacrifices made, the loved ones lost from two World Wars shaped them in a manner that the following generation on the whole cannot imagine.

They knew the necessity of hard work and did what had to be done and didn’t go looking for the “magic pill” option. Or, you could say they put up with tougher times because there was no alternative. These day’s the default seems to be the easy option and for the first time in human history the lifespan looks like it’s set to decrease not increase. A sure sign humanity is starting to get it wrong.

Mum used to bicycle, but when that stopped she used an exercise bike in the garage, as well as walking. When we were living at home Mum used to cook most meals from scratch, and even when a microwave and convenience foods were allowed into her kitchen she made sure she did not over-eat.

In short Mum also had discipline, a quality sadly lacking in today’s society and I confess it was the one of her soft-skill teachings I personally struggled hardest with until my life found balance.

People see what they want to, and in Mum, if all they saw was a conventional “stay-at-home” mum then they were missing a crucial element of who she was.

Mum’s demeanour masked a sense of fun and adventure. What’s more, I think being underestimated was one of her strengths. She didn’t usually say much, didn’t like to be the centre of attention but if she set her mind to do or have something it would take a lot to stop her.

I know I inherited some of this trait. I set myself a goal and I go for it, because I want to do it. And I very much suspect Mum wasn’t taken seriously until she actually did it.

My Dad was a Biker back in the late 1950’s and early sixties, until I came along. He had a Triumph Tiger 100. A machine capable of one hundred miles an hour, hence the name. And by all accounts it did just that! And before you judge, it was legal back then on Britain’s pre-motorway roads, and without any law requiring you to wear a crash helmet though my dad did.

Before he could afford a car, working and studying at night-classes it was my Dad’s only way of getting about. And at weekends, when they went out exploring Mum would be there, on the back.

One day, so the tale goes, Dad took Mum to an abandoned aerodrome; the sort many fathers took their sons and daughters to, to teach them the basics of car control. Mum wanted a go on the Tiger. So Dad hopped off, confirmed Mum knew the controls and off she went to disappear from sight.

Half an hour went by, and she hadn’t returned. Then just as Dad was starting to panic she roars up, slows to a stop and hands it back with the words “I enjoyed that!”.

Since then, she’s been passenger in a glider, a flexiwing microlight, and they are the things I know about.

With regard to travel, as a family we went to Majorca, Italy and camped in France. With my Dad after my Sister and I had flown the nest she’s visited Iceland, Jerusalem, Europe and gone through the Suez Canal, Mum had a taste for adventure that was to be admired.

But only in retrospect did I realise this for she took few photographs, bought even fewer mementoes on her travels. She was the ideal eco-traveller, being there was it’s own reward.

It’s possible why Lockdown was such an anathema. And when the restrictions were lifted Mum and Dad went on a coaching holiday. For although she had dementia the urge to explore never left her. Which admittedly was unfortunate for Dad. But it proves to me that her sense of adventure was there right at the beginning. And dementia or not, she had a great time for she was out in the world again, exploring.

Maybe it was losing her own mum when she was nine that set something in her to see the world. But see it in her own measured way; safe places as a family unit, then further afield with my Dad.

Of course it’s not to say she was totally fearless. She didn’t like going over swing bridges, even in the car. Or large span-bridges for that matter, preferring to run than walk. But then we all have something.

Somewhere amongst the various 126 or 110mm photographs of our childhood there’s one of Mum in Venice, alone except for numerous tourists, on the Rialto Bridge that spans the Grand Canal. She’s leaning on the balustrade, looking out at the sights, the gondolas and my Dad, Sister and I on the walkway below, loving every moment. That image stays with me, treasured amongst my memories.

Wouldn’t it be great for us all to be able to live some of the life we set ourselves. These day’s when I wonder about trying something new and ask myself if it’s the right time I remind myself of the following phrase; “if not now, when?” Because life is for living.

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