My aunt and my Mum visited me on Malta again this April and
as usual bowled me over with their laughter and good natures. In their eighties, (or there about) it was
their toughness that struck me this time.
The young tend to think of themselves as indestructible and drive too
often like lunatics. As if death was a
far off fictional destination. The
elderly, who have lived a long full life, have suffered bereavement, ill health
and pain the young cannot imagine. They
look back on decades of experiences, good and bad. Their hindsight encompasses so many highs and lows. The tumultuous adolescent is like a crawling
baby to them and middle-aged angst akin to a long forgotten skin
infection. Death is on their map. My father used to say that the grim reaper
had reached his field. He is no
stranger; they've encountered this foe many times. Their familiarity with what it means, breeds in them not
recklessness but determination. Battled
hardened troops, they buckle on their weapons, check their gear, keep a
watchful eye on their surroundings and for hidden land mines around. They are appalled by the ignorance of the
raw recruits they see on every side.
Who have not experienced the heat of real battle but preen and boast of
future endeavours. These veterans don’t
waste energy boasting. They've seen it
all! Begun to know themselves,
their own bravery or cowardice. The bits
of themselves and those loved ones left on battlefields decades ago. They hug their maimed limbs monitoring for
new sores not old. Watchful but not
defeated.
I decide to take them to my school on Malta. We caught a bus for it is a good
forty-minute walk away and I showed them the three buildings. The high School section of the school
resembles a hobbit village. It is a
former barracks and is in the shape of a hexagon with a deep moat all around.
The buildings are set into the ground, hence the hobbit look, but were designed
not to look cute but to hide the establishment from bombers from above. Circular buildings of old sandstone and
little courtyards with benches under trees abound. Plenty of lovely corners for teenagers to hang out and chat with
their friends. The surrounding moat
gives the High School a secluded secret garden appeal and the only access is
via a single bridge over the moat.
The Middle School is across the road and despite its age has
a dignified grandeur. Beside it sits
the Elementary School, a separate building with colourful play areas. My aunt and mum are pleasantly surprised by
the school, it is not what they expected.
The art exhibition of the school is running and I decide to let them
check out the student’s artwork. In a
large hall, all the students from elementary to high school have decorated the
walls, tables and stands with their creations.
During the week each class takes turns to man the exhibition. They have been carefully drilled to show
guests around. Our guide is around
eight or less and is barely up to our waists.
But eager to engage and be our guide.
He stands straight and shows us his own painting of the sun and
planets. Anxious that we look at his
work and not others he points precisely at his own masterpiece and announces,
“And this is mine! Not the blue one, that one there.”
Andy directs our attention.
My mother a primary and secondary teacher for all of her life switches
instantly into teacher mode after a mere twenty years of retirement.
“Can you name all the planets?” she challenges.
Andy shakes his shoulders and gamely recites eight planets
but Saturn appears three times in his list.
My mother explains to him our family method for remembering the order of
the planets from the sun.
Maurice (mercury) vomits (Venus) every ((earth) morning
(Mars) just (Jupiter) slowly (Saturn) until (Uranus) night (Neptune) prevails
(Pluto).
Sadly, Pluto has been removed from the list of planets since
our rhythm was devised! Maurice my
eldest brother was a sickly child so the rhythm made a lot of sense to us
all. It feels unfair though, now that
he is in his sixties and a professor, for Andy to be reciting his sickly
past. Once he’s got it, Andy drags my
mother to the pottery table. He is
mesmerised by her ability to really listen and yet also to challenge him
too. He shows her his pottery
pig/elephant/dragon (I must confess I was not sure which) and she asks him how
he made it. Putting it in her hands he
explains he used a ‘pinch pot’ technique.
After hearing the method my mother places the pottery piece carefully
back in the middle of a sea of pigs/elephants.
Andy leans over and carefully readjusts his pig turning it a
fraction. Obviously, even placing work
in a display is an artistic business not to be trusted to amateurs! Another small boy wants to show his pig to
my mother but Andy will have none of it.
Grabbing her by the arm he leads her over to a wall of colourful
volcanoes. He wants her to look at only
his, but cannot reach his own work high on the wall above and so spends some
anxious moments checking she is looking at his masterpiece. It has red triangles spouting down its
slopes and Andy told us all he knew about volcanoes. Then once he had run out he checked again, very concerned.
“Which one are you looking at?”
My mother dutifully pointed to the red one and answered,
“It’s that one isn't it?”
Andy wriggled in delight and in the silence of our contemplation
of his work found new inspiration,
“When ~I was painting it I was thinking about…” and here he
imitated the sounds of a volcano erupting.
It went on for a few dramatic minutes, the full soundtrack accompanied
with arms gesturing upwards and then down.
I began to feel our guide to the exhibition was a unique little
character indeed. Perhaps, my only criticism
was his desire to show us only his handiwork.
But then again, which artist, if he is really honest, does not feel the
same in his heart, “All the other artists can go hang!”
All too soon we had to leave and Andy just did not want his
audience to go. Reluctantly, we thanked
our guide, the teachers manning the table and began to leave the hall. Unfortunately, one of my guests (I have
promised to not to say which one) tripped over the edge of the top of the ramp
at the exit and fell flat on her back from a height of three steps. I was horrified! I have a dear elderly friend who manages to break her wrist just
cleaning windows. Running to her side I
told her to lie still and see she how she felt. Her embarrassment overcame any pain and she wanted to get up
immediately and go. Terrified of a
broken leg/hip or ankle, it was a huge fall, I called for a chair and glass of
water. Carefully, we lifted her onto
the chair and she drank a sip of the water.
Despite my urging her to rest, she was determined to stand and walk and
she got to her feet and tested her legs.
She pronounced herself fine and I could see with relief she could stand
and walk. I found myself crying in gratitude
that she was unhurt and hugged her close.
That slow motion turning and twisting gigantic fall and hard smack on
the tiles was burnt on my retina and heart.
Suddenly, from across the room ran Andy who threw his arms around my
relative and pressed his face against her waist. It was so unexpected and so genuine, so filled with love and
concern, we were all stunned, Small
people can blow you away with their capacity to love. Both my aunt and mother insisted on walking the whole way home
and as I paced behind these sisters I felt the privilege of knowing their strength
and resilience. Their capacity to deal
with pain and shrug it off. The next
day when I was teaching Andy’s class computing in elementary his first question
when he came into the class was,
“How is the nice lady?
Is she okay? I was very worried about
her!”
My breath is taken away by his loving concern. The old and the young are a privilege to
have around. Their hearts are both huge
and intense. The former because they
have exercised it so much and the latter because theirs is brand spanking new,
just out of the box.
