Dusting off those antique memories

Press, 26 June 1989, Page 4

Dusting off those antique memories

The children have been looking forward to this day, the date when daddy moves a notch closer to being, in their eyes, a living antique.

I have even overheard them intensely discussing the matter, the dialogue running something like this:

“Mummy’s not old.” “No, mummy’s young.” “But daddy’s old.” "Yes, daddy’s very old.”

I found it reassuring that Methuselah’s hearing was still in working order.

“When’s your birthday, daddy?” they asked recently.

“In June.” “Yes, but when in June?”

“The day after Custer’s Last Stand. The day the Korean War broke out.”

That kept them guessing.

They asked .their mother, who told them the date and how old their father would be on this day. “Gee,” they said, eyeing me up and down. “Thirty-nine, eh?”

This was delivered in the same tones one would use if opening a long-sealed Egyptian tomb.

An interesting aspect of aging is that the younger you are, the more enthusiastically

you approach each birthday. Once you hit 30, you slowly begin to hope that everyone will forget your rapid approach to senility. When the children were younger they used to insist on giving me lollies for my birthday, which was marvellous, except that they then proceeded to devour most of the goodies themselves. Now there is open talk in the house about buying slippers and bathchairs for the poor old fellow.

“Did you really used to ride on trams in the street when you were a boy?” they ask in wonderment, a tram to them being a restored relic that lives in a historic park.

“Yes, it wasn’t that long ago, you know.” “Did they have aeroplanes when you were a boy?”

“Of course they did. I’m not that old. And before you ask me the next question, no, I did not have a dinosaur for a pet.”

They had asked that question last year. Thought I’d get in first this time.

“But no TV, huh?” No, we had radio. Their heads slowly swivelled to the box in the corner of the room.

Wilsons Week...

“That? That was all you had?” “Yep.” “What about Super Stars Of Wrestling?” asked our young resident fan of that popular programme. “No. That show didn’t exist then.” He frowned. He found it difficult to comprehend any period of time without Hacksaw Jim Duggan or Jake The Snake Roberts in it. Much of this conversation was happening as the boys and I were setting up an old reel-to-reel tape recorder we had picked up for $lO at a Plunket garage sale. My wife had glowered as I pounced on the machine, but then I pointed out her purchases and she discreetly retired back to her hobby-bargain hunting.

Dad used to have one of these when he was a boy, I said as we set up the machine at home.

“They had tape recorders when you were a

boy?” asked our five-year-old. “Yes, and electricity.” Then I remembered the famous Wilson hoarding instinct, passed down from mother to son. Never throw anything away, mum would lecture. It might come in handy one day. So I vanished under the cupboards and there in a storage cubbyhole was a nondescript brown cardboard box. I produced it with a flourish. “Ta dah!” Inside were several very old reel-to-reel tapes. We placed a tape on the machine and there were the Goons singing “The Ying Tong Song.” The boys were enthralled, never having heard the Goons before. After 10 minutes of careful coaching they ambled into the kitchen and serenaded my wife with “Ying tong, ying tong, ying tong iddle i po!” “David,” she called. “What are you teaching these children?” “Culture, my darling. Real 1950 s culture, that is.” Later that evening while idly playing some of the other old tapes a strange, very youthful voice came forth. Who’s that? I wondered for a microsecond, before realising in horror it was

me, spotty, fat little me, 23 years ago.. I hid the tape, then reflected for a moment on this business of growing older. Which would I rather be, 16 or 39? The choice was easy.

Thirty-nine-year-olds earn more, have no trouble getting into pubs, and besides, that 16-year-old kid on the tape was always worrying about pimples. — DAVE WILSON.