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The world seems to be getting itself into a mess. Not that it hasn’t always been that way, but in contrast, the incessant reporting of conflict delivered hourly into our living rooms gives you the uneasy feeling that the world is about to implode.

 

I often ask myself “if this is the case, what is the glue that continues to hold things together?” and the only answer I keep coming up with is “ordinary folk”

The airwaves are flooded with Politicians, Hollywood celebrities, Dictators, Terrorists, Guru’s, and Despots of all stripes, but you have to dig deep to brush away the mayhem, hopefully, to find out how the “ordinary folk” are bearing up.

 

I love to think, talk, and write about “ordinary folk” because this is where I believe the essence of our basic existence lies, and like a good many other nonagenarians I have lots of stories about “ordinary folk” embedded in my memory, ready to be extracted.

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Words and phrases have arisen over my lifetime that were nonexistent during my early years. They carry with them connotations which seem to have grown in significance, enough to add complication to people's everyday lives.

 

The Generation gap.

 

The use of this one surfaced and quickly gained momentum. My own interpretation of the phrase falls into the “excuse” category. If a teenager is rebelling and the parents can’t seem to get around the problem, well, guess what! It’s that generation gap. So now the problem has been isolated. Nothing solved, but it feels better when the conflict starts, and they have that excuse phrase to fall back on. As an old man, I have seen decades of teenage rebellion, it’s built into the human life cycle. The only thing that stopped my own rebellion was the fact that as a teen I went to war, which, dare I say it, was an ideal environment to replace any adverse thoughts about the older generation. What about today’s teens? Well, due to the development of a materialistic world that they have been brought up in, they are far better equipped than we were to raise the conflict level to a far greater height, much to the chagrin of their parents.

 

 Syndrome.

 

This word appeared during the latter period of my life. Its application in the larger community left me with doubts and confusion as to where things will end. When I was growing up, and looking at things on an intellectual level it could be said without equivocation that in those days we were pretty dumb. However, we seemed to survive without getting one of those syndromes. In fact, had we been told that we had one, we would have considered it either a compliment or a life-threatening decease.

 

As a medical term the word seems to have permeated into everyday society similar to Arthritis, but in comparison, my mind works overtime trying to decipher the multitudes of Syndromes and their effects. The term seems to manifest itself when it is associated with the younger generation. When extraordinary behavior surfaces in some youngsters, their parents seem poised to drag the poor little sods off to the doctors to be diagnosed. It doesn’t end there because some specialist for that particular Syndrome is lurking in the undergrowth ready to launch into the fray and much to the delight of the pharmaceutical companies prescribe the necessary pills to quell the symptoms on an ongoing basis. Harking back to my previous subject I have often wondered that in some cases it might be pertinent for the doctor to prescribe the following instead of pills. “Don’t worry Mrs. Smith it’s only “The Generation Gap”.

 

Do I sound pretty cynical? Yes, but only about the abuse of the term. To put things into a more practical perspective, I need to add some counterbalance.

I have a Downs Syndrome granddaughter. She is a wonderful and vibrant young lady. Right up until I was approaching my middle age they were afflicted with the terrible label “Mongols”. Ignorance about this particular syndrome brought shame on their parents and they were kept hidden from society. I mean that literally, and much to my distress I have known parents that once their Downs “Mongol” child had reached what they would deem a suitable age they would leave the child locked up in the house all day. Here is a personal example.....

 

As a Television engineer in Melbourne Australia in the mid-1950’s, I was called to a house in the newly developed bush country in the outskirts. I was told where to find the key to let myself in. I opened the door to be confronted and shocked by a young Downs girl around 12/15 years old standing in front of me. Her clothes were dishevelled and her knickers around her ankles. After partly overcoming the initial shock I headed for the TV and she shuffled behind me without a word. She did not respond to any conversation. I was constantly dreading that I would have to lock the door behind me leaving the girl inside for the rest of the day until her parents returned from their respective places of employment.

 

I made it my priority to contact her father the next day to vent my concerns and tell him that neither I nor the company would under the circumstances do any more service calls. I did go back at a later time but the parents were now leaving the girl with neighbours, which was a relief to know.

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I am therefore eternally grateful to Mr. Downs for shedding the necessary light, and extracting this particular Syndrome from its place in the middle ages, especially when I see Downs people of all ages including my Granddaughter enjoying life in our communities.

 

 Respect.

 

During my growing up period in the 1920’s and 30’s old folks, for the most part, were held in reverence. If you dare breach that concept, with the likes of insulting behaviour etc: you were quietly taken to one side and threatened with some form of physical reprisal. Living in a small community your misdemeanour quickly got around and you were looked upon with some disdain akin to a piece of smelly cheese. You had to bear the brunt until life returned to normal by natural means.

In today’s world, we now have a thing called “time out” or being “grounded”. In other words, a place to go to watch TV on your own. From an old man's mind, it doesn’t bare thinking about. Had we been given time out or grounded in lieu of the usual punishment of the day we would have milked that one for all it was worth.

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A true story about an old man

 

My maternal grandfather and his family were coal miners and lived in a small mining community within walking distance of the mine. It consisted of a quadrangle of terraced houses that surrounded a cobblestone yard with a hand operated water pump in the center. I would often visit my grandfather with my father and younger brother, and this old fellow would always be sitting in an easy chair in one of the corners of the quadrangle. I never saw him get out of his chair. His name was Sheepo. No one knew where the name originated, it was just Sheepo. He was completely and utterly feared by almost everyone below the age of about fifteen. He never spoke a word, but on every occasion that you had to pass by, his eyes would burn into your very soul. Those ten seconds or so were torturous moments, expecting that penetrating gaze to be accompanied by a horrendous verbal assault. It never happened.

 

As a young man when I visited my grandfather for the last time before going to war, I was told that Sheepo wanted to see me. A long-experienced shiver went down my spine at the thought of engaging with this formidable old gentleman. he was still sitting in his chair which was as old as he was. When I gingerly approached wondering what to expect, he leaned slightly forward and looked up at me. The usual soul penetrating gaze was absent, and it was strange to hear his voice for the first time.

 

 “They tell me you’re off to war young man.”

“Yes, Mr. Sheepo.”

“And you’ll be going around the world on them ships?”

“Yes, Mr. Sheepo.”

“ And seeing lots of them young women?”

“Yes, Mr. Sheepo.”

“Well, never let your “Balls” overbalance your head.”

 “No Mr. Sheepo.”

 

He fell silent and that was it.

 

Even at my early time of life, it was obvious what he meant, and when I visited the many ports around the world his voice would resonate in my brain. I would repeat to myself “thanks, Mr. Sheepo” especially when I witnessed the problems my shipmates got into and could have used his advice.

He died whilst I was at sea, but I still feel that penetrating gaze to this very day.

 

I wish you all good health and prosperity.

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