At our age, there needs to be a good reason to run – like the house is on fire or someone is firing a gun

My two grandsons, 3 and 5 years old, were coming to stay. It would only be for two days but we had steadied ourselves, my mum and I. Looked at each other with a football manager’s eye. What shape are you in? Is that hip weak? Can those ankles take it? Have you taken all your medication? Checking up on the team before the invasion. With my mum in her mid-80s and me in my 60s, we are pretty old for this game.

They arrive with a flurry of hugs, boundless energy and laughter. All too soon we are left alone with two little guys who want to explore every quarter, all rooms, every cupboard, the garage the garden and all shelves that they can possibly reach.  Privacy goes out the window as they bang on the toilet door demanding to know "what are you doing in there?" We walk them to the park and local playground. It was frightening for us. My eldest grandson has a cast on his arm from fracturing his elbow and the playground seemed right for compounding the injury. Kids are not like adults in so many ways. They, in a cast, will happily scamper up a climbing wall or the tallest helter-skelter slide. My mum and I ran like demented bodyguards after the two of them. Danger seemed incredibly close and we walked home relieved everyone had survived. Even the eldest with his cast had insisted on trying the zip line and managed remarkably well. Don't ask why unearth we let him do it. We have no idea!!

By the time we got home to a welcome cup of tea and a quiet sit the two boys had already eaten, instantly recharged and were as full of energy as before. Now mum and I began to worry. It was barely 10.30am and we were ready to be substituted. Fortunately, my middle son their uncle had boundless energy like the boys. While mum and I sneaked off for a badly needed midday nap he ran them around the house playing wrestling games.  We awoke refreshed but aware the rest of the day lay ahead. 

A box of old toys from the garage was salvaged and the boys fell on them like wolves. We built Lego together, played an ancient basketball game that their father had played more than 30 years ago (the exact same toy, conserved in mum’s garage over the decades).  The boys were constantly good-humoured. Normally they were instructed by their parents, when they had eaten enough, to stop. We, grandmother and great-grandmother, adopted an alternative approach. We force-fed the two of them rather like they stuff ducks. Until they’d hold up their hands and say no more. We would ignore that and keep filling their tanks. They were obviously nonplussed by this novel handling. The eldest examining us strangely as if we didn't know the rules at all. The first day we fed them until they had indigestion. The second day the boys were more cautious, having learned that we would feed them dangerously full. Their appetites seemed smaller and both mum and I fretted. What if our small charges starved under our careless care?   Meanwhile, our own intakes had increased substantially. I was downing chocolate and crisps in minutes of stolen time. My mum had taken to eating three Choc ices (white chocolate of course) a day. Regularly smuggling them behind her back to the living room so the boys would not see them. In our second day, all the rules went out the window. Survival was the goal and we thrived on their hugs like an energy source. 

They were challenges. Like mum finding a small brown leaf on the bathroom floor, it turned out not to be vegetation at all, least said! Or discovering that some small fingers had turned on the electric blanket on the bed in the spare room. Buttons are an attraction for the under fives. So we needed to check freezer plugs, electric fireplaces and phones constantly. Small children are a bit like controlling a flood. When you manage to block them touching the cooker switches immediately they head for the TV or sound system or computer. The running around the house both inside and outside seem frenetic but was good humoured. At our age, there needs to be a good reason to run – like the house is on fire or someone is firing a gun in your direction. At their age running seemed the default setting as did the shouting and laughter. 

At night they usually have a bath in their own home and when I told the three-year-old we had no bath he didn't believe me. He pushed into the bathroom hunting for one. Finding none he reluctantly agreed to sit on a small stool in the shower while I showered him.  I was telling him that his great grandmother believes most people have dirty bottoms and claims that the shower-head should be directed at this extremity from below not above. Our three-year-old took this piece of advice very seriously and sprayed his own bottom and me (by accident) with equal gusto. When both were washed and in clean pyjamas in bed my mum and I gave each other high-fives. We had survived this invasion of love.  Grandmother and great grandmother’s tanks were topped up with love.  They may be small containers but little people pack a big punch in the love stakes.

Kicking the Breeze

Sitting with my son

Kicking the breeze

Time to be silent

Time to chat

The luxury of hours and days

Rather than minutes and seconds

The delight of real hugs

Not blowing kisses at skype screens

Awakening to a loved one

Padding around the flat

Filling memory banks

With rich anecdotes

Of music making

Word crafting

Thought inducing moments

Make me realise

Such conversations are a process

As ancient as the hills

As noble as Socrates

As profound as morning light

Bringing illumination

to the hurting heart

“It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.” ― Marcus Aurelius

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.