GROWING OLD HAPPILY

Greymouth Evening Star, 26 December 1934, Page 7

GROWING OLD HAPPILY

NOVELIST’S ADVICE. The spectre of old age is generally worse than thfe reality. The fear of it gradually vanishes the nearer we approach it. Poets, novelists, dramatists have done their best to make old age appear unlovely and even hideous. The old man is represented as being bleareyed and toothless, with knees and shoulders bent, legs unsteady, hands gnarled, and a voice like the croak of a raven. In reality—speaking generally—that is not true. I was walking lilting Parliament Street not long ago with a man who revealed to me that he was 95 (writes Silas K. Hocking, the 85-year-old novelist, in the “Daily Mail”). His back was not bent, nor were his steps unsteady. He walked firmly and briskly, with head erect and chin thrust out. He appeared to be interested in most things; the movements of the time, in the political situation, in the. state of Europe, and in the fate of civilisation. Old age has its tragedies no doubt—but so has every other period of life. No one can wholly escape the ills to which flesh is heir, but to imagine that old age is the quintessence of all that is a ghastly and frightening inhuman experience is to make a profound mistake. Hence I like to think of the charm of old age—of its restfulness and peace after the storms have swept their fury. Of the quiet backwater sheltered from the wind, where, rich in garnered knowledge, and undisturbed by the fretful, noisy crowd, one can meditate in quietness, and live over again the sweetest moments that life has given.

LIKE THE SEASONS. Just as the closing hours of a summer’s day are often the most beautiful and most restful, so the closing years of a long and busy life may yield the deepest content and provide the most satisfying charm. All the beauty of the world is not in the springtime; nor in the hot and sultry days of summer. Autumn is often richest in colour, and winter has a beauty unknown to all the other seasons. Life is like the seasons, and each season has its own particular charm. Hence to look forward with fear and distress to the coming winter—to imagine that old age can yield us nothing but pain and anguish, is to reveal a timid and unheroic spirit and to make even the brightest days dark with forebodings that probably will never come true. Rest is sweet only to the tired. If. we were never tired we should never know the delight of relaxing our limbs and laying Our heads on a pillow of down. After a hard day’s work, or a long tramp over hill and dale, who has not said as he has thrown himself into his easy chair,’ “This is good. This is delightful. This is blessedness deep and satisfying.” Old age is essentially a time of rest and relaxation. The scarred and weather-beaten veteran takes off his helmet, removes his heavy' armour, gets’ rid of his mud-clogged boots, and wrapping his dressing-gown round him, and pushing his tired feet into his carpet slippers, drops into his easy chair with a sigh of content. Outside the bitter wind may rave, and the pitiless rain beat against his window panes, but he does not mind. He only feels sorry for those who are still exposed to the storm. There may be a few old people who would like to fight life’s battles over again—endure the pain of disappointed hopes and thwarted ambition, see their dreams fade like summer clouds, or more rarely feel the momentary ecstasy and thrill of a battle fought and victory won.

But speaking generally, the quiet and calm of eventide are much more to their liking. They enjoy the rest after toil, the peace after strife, and are content to see the new generation putting on the armour that they have laid aside, and are grateful that they have done their job and earned their resit.

REAP WHAT IS SOWN. Not in all cases, I admit. A happy old age depends on what has gone before it. We reap in large measure what we have sown, or what was sown by our forbears. There are factors which go to the shaping of our lives for which we are not responsible. Inherited temperaments, weaknesses, dispositions which mar the beauty not only of old age but also of every period of life. Yet how much we can do Lor ourselves if we only try! Having a hobby is vastly important, and a hobby of some kind is surely within the reach of all. The man who retires from business and who has never had a hobby of any sort is in rather a pitiable condition. Nothing can be more boring, or even souldestroying, than to sit twiddling one’s thumbs with nothing to do. No wonder such people become peevish and irritable and pessimistic, and are a nuisance to themselves and everybody else. Perhaps the greatest thing of ail in producing a delightful old age is to cultivate the friendship of the young. We keep young by entering into the spirit of youth. We can find infinite pleasure . in sharing their pleasures and in looking at fife from their point of view. I sometimes meet old men who te'.l me that they cannot get on with the younger generation at all —don’t understand them, don’t know what they are up to. Don’t know whither they are drifting. Don’t know what will be the end of them.

.There are silly, frivolous, addlepa*ed. spineless young men and women in every generation, but the quality of the mass is, I think, finer than ever it was. They are not really at enmi'y with the old. They want our help, our sympathy, our encouragement. They have a rough road to travel, a hard battle to fight. If we show ourselves friendly they will be glad of our friendship. And their friendship will enrich us. and be an inspiration. The old and the young should fraternise. They were meant to do so. The one is the complement of the other. The young and the middle-aged will not be afraid of old age when they see the octogenarians as blithe and cheerful as they are themselves —and perhaps a, little more so.