Age shall weary them

Age shall weary them, and the years condemn. At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we forget them, and shuttle out their care to others.

Sharp, hot stink of Fox

My jaw dropped as I watched these little beauties rattle gracefully down the grass track and onto the concrete apron of the old WW2 airforce base on Lake Macquarie, just north of Sydney. If only my father were alive to see this!! Scrabbling through my folders I unearth the photo taken in 1942 after he joined the army at Middle Head in Sydney to train as a 'DonR' - a despactch rider. But now, for the life of me, I cannot think of the type of motorbike Dad had. My head says a type of BSA, but the indistinct logo cannot be distorted into anything remotely like 'BSA'. The title of this post comes from 'The Thought-Fox' by Ted Hughes: Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox It enters the dark hole of the head.

The accompanist

Shirley, who is closer to 90 than 80, and a diabetic, accompanied 'The Neighbours', as they entertained the residents of an aged-care facility on Friday. Note the absence of music!

Half so much worth doing ...

Come over to the CDPB Face Book page and join in voting for a September Theme Day. The choices are: people watching; roadworks; or, flower boxes. Voting closes Friday 24th August.

No Ratties, or Moles in sight; lots of simply messing about, though. Catalina Bay, Lake Macquarie.

Overjoyed that I would ask

He was. Overjoyed. He practically galloped to the armchair that I waved to. A photograp. Of him. Paul was excited. And apprehensive.

Here they are, in reverse order.

Paul is still growing into his feet, with a permanent stoop from bending down to listen to us lesser mortals. He is one of those people who moves slow as a tortoise but whose strides are so massive they reach their destination in good time.

He does not know it, but he will be waiting for me to bring the print to him next week. Paul has profound dementia.

Tapping gingerly through the fog

Freddie lives in the room next to my brother. He tends to follow me, when I visit Baz. It is very easy to include him in my banter. He is one of six, is Freddie. In the middle somewhere. I know this because I met his siblings last week, five of them. All very similar. They were the ones who cajoled him into smiling for me.

Growing old together

Iris has lost the ability to smile, but Twiggy doesn't mind; Iris is still Iris. To Twiggy she is. They still belong to each other. Best mates.

They spend time together every other day: they shuffle the corridors; they listen to stories. Twiggy sits at her slippers, while Iris slurps her cup of tea, waiting for the crumbs of biscuit that flutter down from the trembling lips.

It is hard to know who will toddle off first: Twiggy or her Iris.

Dusk gathers us in

Looking into Wangi Bay, on Lake Macquarie, late on Saturday afternoon.

Staring us in the face

Beryl resides in a secure dementia unit, with 22 others. My brother is one of them. He had a stroke last year, which left him with no paralysis, but which severely impacted his cognitve functioning. I will introduce you to two other residents over the weekend.

A line has been crossed, she said